Somewhere in Time (The Crosse Harbor Time Travel Trilogy) (11 page)

No, this Emilie Crosse was a different type of woman and he found himself wondering what type of man would be a suitable companion.

#

Emilie swore silently as Andrew McVie followed her to the front door. She had to be more careful. Their rapid-fire banter had been delightful and she had come dangerously close to losing herself in the moment.

There was far too much at stake to take unnecessary chances.

It was bad enough that she was bringing a Revolutionary War hero inside to talk to a man who thought he was still back home in the 20th century.

She cast a glance over her shoulder at Andrew McVie. He was justly suspicious of her. The wonder of it was that he hadn't carted her off to the nearest representative of the law.

The minute Zane opened his mouth, McVie would something was amiss. She supposed she could explain Zane's "eccentricities" away by saying he'd suffered a blow to the head in their fictitious boating accident but McVie wasn't likely to buy that for long.

Let Zane be asleep,
she prayed silently as she reached for the doorknob. Maybe even a tad unconscious. She needed time to explain the situation--and he would need time to accept it.

What happened after that was anybody's guess.

#

Zane was paced the length of the front room, waiting for Emilie to return. His arm hurt like hell, he was sure he had the mother of all shiners over his right eye, and he was hungry enough to eat sand.

He'd looked all over for a telephone but to his surprise he couldn't find one anywhere. As a matter of fact, he hadn't been able to find a jack or wires or any other signs of human habitation. The place looked new. Rustic, but basically new. Emilie had mentioned something last night about renovations to the lighthouse. Maybe they just hadn't gotten around to rewiring the place.

He glanced at his watch. The damn thing must've taken as much of a beating as he had when the balloon collapsed on them. Too bad he hadn't bought a Timex. At least then he'd know if he had a prayer of getting to the airport on time.

Since Emilie had told him about the balloon accident, he'd racked his brain in an attempt to figure out what had gone wrong but all he could come up with was a cloudy memory of watching the earth coming at him like a runaway train, and then nothing. The relief he'd felt when he saw Emilie had weathered the accident with nothing worse than a few bumps and bruises was still enough to make him consider a return to religion.

She'd said no when he'd asked her to throw caution to the wind and join him on his trip to Tahiti, but that was before they'd faced the grim reaper together. She'd always wondered what he found so seductive about courting disaster. Now that she'd experienced the ultimate thrill, maybe she'd understand.

He'd learned a long time ago that you were never more alive than you were when death was staring you in the eye. That adrenaline pumping through your veins...the white hot certainty that you were running at top speed...the rush of pure elation when you met the challenge and emerged victorious.

Last night with Emilie in his arms he'd known the same sense of danger and renewal. He didn't believe in happy endings and never would, but he couldn't help wondering if maybe they should have fought harder to make it work.

Sara Jane used to say--

He stopped.

"That's it," he said out loud. That's what was different. For the past hour he'd been trying to figure out what had changed and now he knew.

He wasn't hearing Sara Jane's voice any longer.

At some point last night he'd stopped feeling as if his grandmother was inside his head, trying to tell him something.

And he knew when it was: when he took Emilie in his arms and--

No way was he about to pursue that thought. What he and Emilie had found last night had been both real and powerful. He'd be the last person to deny that. She'd stirred something in his soul, a sense of wonder and yearning that he'd forgotten was even possible.

But to read anything more into it than a wonderful case of chemical attraction was dangerous. She had made her position clear. Not that he was going to let that stop him, but it was something to consider.

The rasp of the doorknob being turned brought him up short. Maybe she'd reconsidered Tahiti....

#

"He might be sleeping," Emilie said to Andrew McVie as the door to the lighthouse swung open. "We should--"

No such luck.

"What took you so long?" Zane demanded as they entered the room. "If we're going to make that plane, we'd better--"

Poor Andrew stopped dead in his tracks and stared at Zane as if he'd encountered a hungry bear in his den. A hungry bear with a brightly-colored quilt knotted at his waist. Nervous laughter tugged at her but she swallowed hard in an attempt to control it.

"This is Andrew McVie," said Emilie, forcing a pleasant smile and praying Zane would see the plea in her eyes. "I am afraid this is his home in which we have sought refuge."

Andrew stepped forward. He seemed unconcerned at the difference in their heights and Emilie had the feeling that, appearances notwithstanding, the two men were more evenly matched than either might care to admit. "I have yet to learn your name, sir."

Emilie sensed rather than saw Zane's hesitation as he extended his left hand. Did he remember her stories about Andrew McVie's heroic exploits?
Please, God, let him forget....

"Zane Grey Rutledge."

"What manner of name is Zane Grey?" asked Andrew, obviously puzzled. "Are you German?"

Zane met Emilie's eyes. "Is this guy kidding?"

She could only shake her head miserably.

Zane turned back to McVie. "I'm named after Zane Grey."

Andrew looked at him blankly.

"The writer," Zane persisted, apparently enjoying the other man's confusion. "He wrote westerns. Cowboys...Indians...the last frontier."

McVie had yet to take Zane's outstretched hand. "Cowboys?"

"Okay, I give up." Zane backed away, shaking his head. He looked again toward Emilie. "What's going on here?"

McVie glared at the taller man. "I must ask you to refrain from such language in front of Mistress Emilie."

 
Zane's lips twitched as if he was about to laugh but apparently he thought better of it. "Isn't this carrying the whole Revolutionary War thing too far, McVie?"

Both men turned to Emilie who wished quite fervently that she had disappeared along with the crimson balloon and the basket.

"I do not know what you mean, Zane," she said demurely, then turned toward Andrew. "I am afraid Mr. Rutledge hit his head upon the rocks when we ran aground. He is still discombobulated."

Andrew visibly relaxed.

Zane, however, was beyond understanding. Discombobulated? What the hell kind of word was
discombobulated
? "I don't know what in hell's going on around here, but if somebody doesn't give me some answers soon, I--"

"Leave the room, Mistress Emilie," said Andrew, not taking his eyes from Zane. "Mr. Rutledge and I have a most pressing matter to discuss."

"The only thing I want to talk about is getting to the airport on time to make my plane."

"Air-port?" He looked toward Emilie. "His injury may be more grave than you feared. He speaks nonsense." Zane approached the smaller man, bristling with righteous male indignation. "Why don't you try saying that to my face?"

Emilie stepped between the two men. "Please! We forget why we're here, gentlemen. Zane's arm needs tending and the hour grows late even as we stand here."

Zane looked down at her, his handsome features creased in puzzlement. "You sound weird."

"It must be your imagination."

"The hell it is."

McVie stepped forward. "Rutledge, I fear your manner is insulting to Mistress Emilie."

Zane's mood slid from bad to worse. "If 'Mistress Emilie' has a problem with my manner, she'll tell me."

"Your arm," said Emilie. "Please...."

"Lie down on the bed," McVie ordered Zane. "Mistress Emilie, bring me a thick branch from the stack of kindling near the cellar door."

"That guy's not laying a hand on me," Zane snapped, barring Emilie's departure. "Don't you have an emergency room in this town?"

"We will have," said Emilie.

"Emergency room?" said McVie. "Is this a new language he speaks or is it the blow to his head?"

"I'm going to land a blow to your head, if you don't butt out," Zane said to McVie.

McVie reached for his knife, wrapping his fingers around the hilt in a threatening gesture. Zane grabbed an andiron from the hearth and stared menacingly at the other man.

Emilie, at the end of her rope, knew there was only one option left to her.

"Gentlemen," she said, stepping between them, "we have to talk."

Chapter Five

"I've got a plane to catch," Zane said. "The only thing I want to talk about is whether or not you're coming with me." It was time to move on and he wanted Emilie with him.

"Sit down," she said, gesturing toward the trundle bed. "This is going to take some time."

Andrew McVie, still clutching the knife, glanced from Zane to Emilie. At first glance he had mistaken Rutledge for his compatriot Josiah Blakelee and the similarity in size and physique still had him shaking his head in wonderment. It occurred to him that this could be part of an elaborately concocted scheme whose ultimate goal was the defeat of the thirteen united colonies.

"You can sit over there," said Emilie, pointing to the straight-back chair near the hearth.

He shook his head. "Nay, mistress. I think not." He took a position near the door. There was nothing about the situation that could be deemed normal and it was his intention to be prepared for any happenstance.

"Oh God...." Her words were exhaled on a sigh. She looked from one man to the other. "This is going to be tougher than I thought."

"Just spit it out," said Rutledge. "If we're going to make it to JFK, we'd better--"

"We're not going to JFK."

"You mean
you're
not going?"

She shook her head. "Nobody's going to JFK because there
is
no JFK." She laughed, but there was the sound of panic in her voice. "In fact, there are no airplanes, no automobiles, no computers. You name it and you won't find it here."

"What manner of object is a com-pu-turr?" asked Andrew.

Zane whirled toward the other man. "What's with you, McVie? You been living in a cave for the past twenty years?"
McVie...Andrew McVie...why does that name sound so damn familiar?

"Don't you understand?" Emilie's expression was as intense as her tone of voice. "This isn't Crosse Harbor and it isn't 1992. We've gone back in time."

Zane's gut twisted. It was worse than he thought. She'd obviously lost her mind. He stood. "Listen, it's been a lousy morning. Why don't you lie down on the bed and get some rest. McVie can take me into town to the doctor. A broken arm's no big deal. I'll be back before you wake up from your nap--"

"Listen to me, Zane!" Her voice filled the room. "Look around you! This isn't the world you knew." She gestured toward McVie who was standing, eyes watchful, near the door. "This is
his
world!"

Zane met McVie's eyes. "Do you know what she's talking about?"

McVie shook his head. He tapped the side of his head with his forefinger in a gesture Zane recognized.

Unfortunately so did Emilie and she let out a shriek of exasperation.

"Where are the electrical outlets?" she demanded, poking Zane in the chest. "The telephone? Refrigerator? Have you heard a car go by or seen an airplane or motorboat? Where's the bathroom, for God's sake, Zane?"

Sweat broke out on the back of his neck. "You told me last night that they were restoring the lighthouse," he said, evading the issue. "They just haven't gotten around to everything yet."