Somewhere in Time (The Crosse Harbor Time Travel Trilogy) (39 page)

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"I am sorry, Mr. Devane, but I fear we have not seen Abigail in weeks. Perhaps you did not know we have sent our dear Jonathan to his grandmother's in--"

"I regret the inconvenience, madam. I bid you good day." He inclined his head in the stiff and formal manner for which he was known, then turned sharply on his heel and headed for the door. The sun was dropping low in the sky and he intended to find the child before nightfall.

"Mr. Devane!" She stepped forward and placed a hand on his arm. "Have you spoken with Mistress Williams? Abigail oft spends time with Margaret's youngest...now what is her name? Lilly? Daisy? Rose! That is it. You must speak to Mistress Williams. I am sure that she--"

He neither slowed his pace nor met her eyes. "Thank you, madam."

With that he bounded down the porch stairs, mounted his chestnut stallion and was gone before the addlebrained woman could draw another breath.

It struck him how little he knew about the child's daily life, with whom she spent her time. He had assumed she passed her days alone, amusing herself either in the house or frolicking on the wide expanse of yard that was to have been Susannah's English garden. That she had companions was a revelation to him.

He was familiar with the Williams house, a ramshackle bedevilment of wood and brick, situated on the other side of town near the encampment. That the child had managed to find it amazed him. She would need to traverse not only considerable open fields, but a densely wooded area that many a learned man found challenging.

And there was the matter of twelve thousand troops, scattered from Morristown to Jockey Hollow to Franklin Ridge. They had felled trees, commandeered property, and generally brought bedlam to the area. The men were ill-fed, ill-clothed, and ill-tempered and he feared for the child's safety should she cross their path.

Still, she was a bright child with a talent for geography, unusual in one so young. He enjoyed a similar understanding of place, knowledge of terrain that had stood him in good stead during his brief alliance with the Continental Army. He wondered what other traits they shared then laughed bitterly as he remembered that a shared bloodline was most likely not among them.

#

Dakota lay face-down in a pile of leaves that smelled like wet squirrel. Not that she'd smelled many wet squirrels in her day but, like skunk, it was one of those things a woman never forgot. Her knee throbbed where she'd hit the ground and she was reasonably sure her ankle was either broken or badly sprained.

Lifting her head, she looked up at the darkening sky. Fat white snowflakes landed on her cheeks and lashes and, if possible, it was even colder than it had been a few minutes ago. If she hadn't been so foolhardy, she'd be with Shannon and Andrew right now, facing their combined destiny like three time-traveling musketeers. She refused to believe her own destiny was to be found nose-deep in dead leaves.

Her psychic antennae were still all out of whack. Somehow she'd picked up on that little girl's temper tantrum and twisted it around until it became a plea for help. Pretty easy to see which one of them needed help. At least the kid knew what century she was living in.

"Damn," she whispered. If only she could home in on Shannon and Andrew's whereabouts. For weeks she'd felt as if they were Siamese triplets, attached at the psyche. But now there wasn't so much as a blip on her internal radar screen. The balloon had been in trouble when she bailed out. Were they in the same century? The same country? Were Shannon and Andrew still alive?

She closed her eyes and emptied her mind of all but the image of her two friends. If they were anywhere nearby, certainly she'd pick up something. A vibration, a sound, a deep sense memory that could lead her to them.

The silence within was profound.

Her hands began to shake and she dragged them through her short, curly hair.
Calm down. This isn't the end of the world.
She'd just fallen out of a tree. That would be enough to shake up anybody's neurons. She'd try again in a few minutes. All she had to do was give her aura a chance to settle down and she'd be back in business.

Besides, she had more pressing problems to deal with. Survival, for one. If she laid there much longer she'd be a prime candidate for hypothermia. She had no intention of ending her days as a bear's Tastee-Freez.

She sat up, trying to pretend her ankle wasn't throbbing like crazy. Her immediate wish list wasn't that difficult. She needed shelter; she needed clothing; she needed to find a bathroom.

 
When she'd asked where the child lived, the girl had pointed beyond the clearing, toward the west. That was as good a place to start as any. She didn't know what she would say once she got there, but time was running out. Her ear lobes ached from the cold; her fingers and toes were numb from it. Her brain would be the next to go.

She tried to stand up but her ankle gave way. "Damn," she whispered. "Damn damn damn."
Are you going to let a little thing like a broken ankle slow you down?
The snow was beginning to stick, both to the ground and to her person.
Think past the pain. The pain doesn't exist. Just get moving!

She scrambled to her knees and was about to go for broke when she realized that wasn't a woodpecker she heard in the distance but a horse's hooves, and they were coming closer.

Dakota Wylie's First Rule of Survival: when in doubt, run for cover.

She dove into a huge pile of leaves and began to pray.

#

Patrick's chestnut hated the snow. The stallion was skittish in the best of times and the accumulating snow made him almost impossible to manage. Patrick breathed a sigh of relief when they left the town proper and plunged into the woods. The multitude of evergreens formed a natural shield from the worst of the storm and the nervous beast quickly calmed.

Moments later, to Patrick's dismay, a white-tailed deer leaped from the bushes and bounded across the path, directly in front of them.

The chestnut whinnied and reared; Patrick fell backward and landed in a huge pile of leaves.

The chestnut, unperturbed by his predicament, stood a few yards away, rooting through a mound of snow-frosted grass in search of something edible.

"Watch it!"

Patrick tilted his head. The voice sounded to be that of a female but there was something sharp about the tone that was most unattractive. A young man, perhaps. One too youthful to grow whiskers but too old for the nursery. The chestnut rooted more deeply into the leaves, tail twitching with interest.

"Cut that out!"

Spies abounded everywhere. They worshipped at the First Presbyterian Church; they lifted a glass to General Washington's health at Arnold's Tavern; more than one had dined at his own table.

And unless the chestnut had developed the power of speech, one was hiding in the leaves.

#

Dakota held her nose as warm equine breath gusted toward her.
Haven't you ever heard of dental hygiene?
And the breath was nothing compared with the thought of big yellow horse teeth poking at her ribs. Did horses bite? Except for the appendix, nature rarely gave creatures body parts they didn't need. Those teeth were probably huge for a reason and it wasn't just to eat carrots.

And that wasn't the worst of it. Unless she'd dropped down onto the Ponderosa, horses didn't wander around without riders and she'd bet her last jelly donut that this horse's rider was somewhere close by.

She lay there, scarcely breathing, listening to the sound of her heart beating in her ear...and footsteps crunching through the snow, heading straight toward her. A nervous laugh struggled to escape.

The footsteps sounded angry and male. Brimming with testosterone. She tried to focus in on those footsteps and conjure up a picture of the man responsible for them but her mind screen was still blank.

For the first time in her life, she was on her own.

#

Patrick Devane was no man's fool. These were dangerous times. A body did not hide himself in a pile of leaves unless he wished to escape notice. He cursed the fact that he'd left his pistol in his study. The Colony of New Jersey was a hotbed of infidels and opportunists and the best way to deal with any and all of them was from the right side of a weapon.

He stepped between the chestnut and the coward who lay quaking beneath a pile of brittle maple leaves.

"Show yourself, man!" His voice filled the clearing. No boy still wet behind the ears would best him, no matter the situation.

The leaves fluttered but there was no response. A wry smile twisted his lips. The sorry bastard was trembling, more likely than not. An unworthy opponent but he would see it through. He dug the toe of his riding boots beneath the leaves and nudged the coward.

"My patience grows thin," he warned, thinking of the encroaching darkness and the missing child.

He nudged harder.

"Once more and you lose the foot," came the voice from the leaf pile.

He watched, open-mouthed, as a person of indeterminate age and gender sat up in the fallen leaves and stared at him.

"Sweet Jesus!" He stepped back. His eyes darted from one indescribable part of the stranger's body to another. Black hair shorter than a newborn babe's. Round spectacles with light blue lenses. Trousers of a faded blue material. A thin shirt with the foreign-sounding words
Jurassic Park
embroidered across the breast. The stranger wore enormous silver earbobs that dangled on its shoulders, their lacy pattern looking for all the world like tracings of ice on a windowpane.

He narrowed his eyes. The breasts seemed too full to belong to a boy but not full enough to belong to a grown woman. Still he was reasonably sure the stranger was female.

"You're staring," the stranger said.

"I am," he said, not seeking to avoid the truth, "for I have not seen the likes of you in this or any other life."

~~end of excerpt of DESTINY'S CHILD~~

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

BARBARA BRETTON
is the USA Today bestselling, award-winning author of more than 50 books. She currently has over ten million copies in print around the world. Her works have been translated into twelve languages in over twenty countries and she has received starred reviews from both PUBLISHERS WEEKLY and BOOKLIST.

Barbara has been featured in articles in The New York Times, USA Today, Wall Street Journal, Romantic Times, Cleveland Plain Dealer, Herald News, Home News, Somerset Gazette,,among others, and has been interviewed by Independent Network News Television, appeared on the Susan Stamberg Show on NPR, and been featured in an interview with Charles Osgood of WCBS, among others.

Her awards include both Reviewer's Choice and Career Achievement Awards from Romantic Times; a RITA nomination from RWA, Gold and Silver certificates from Affaire de Coeur; the RWA Region 1 Golden Leaf; and several sales awards from Bookrak. Ms. Bretton was included in a recent edition of Contemporary Authors.

Barbara cooks, knits, and writes in New Jersey.

How to contact Barbara
:

Barbarabretton.com - Website

BarbaraBretton - Facebook -Twitter

Wickedsplitty - Ravelry

Barbarabretton AT gmail DOT com - E-mail

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