The Hour of Dreams (7 page)

My limbs felt like butter, but my nerves were as hard as ice. “I don’t understand. She was home.”

My mother gave me a shake. “They’ll find her. Now, I want you to go straight to your room and do not come out. Do you hear?”

“But—”

“Phoebe, do as I say.”

I nodded without even feeling it and made my way up the stairs like a zombie. Each step felt like an eternity as I tried to think. What was happening? Where in heaven’s name could she be?

And then it hit me. And just as it did, I reached the top of the narrow steps and ended up square to a chest. I started to back away, but the faint glow of the fire from below revealed William. Even still, I stiffened.

We stood, watching each other for a moment, frozen in time. When my gaze bounced from his to the door where he’d come from, he more than knew what I was thinking.

He shook his head.

“If—” I stuttered.

He shook his head again and took a step toward me.

“Don’t,” I said shakily, feeling entirely chilled.

“They’ll find her,” he said.

I leaned against the wall, afraid. “What if they don’t? What if—”

“He didn’t,” he said knowingly, confirming that he knew my thoughts. And not only knew them, but had them too.

“I swear,” I started, but I felt myself slide down the wall. He reached for me and turned me toward my room.

Inside, I restlessly paced back and forth and eventually gathered myself and dressed. Downstairs, my mother was watching a faint dawn through the window as I approached. I stood beside her, unable to form the right words. After a moment she turned and gave me a long, worry-filled hug. Our silent embrace was interrupted by Samuel stomping down the stairs with William following.

“Shall we have breakfast before we report for duty, then?”

My mother was forming an answer when we heard the racket of horses’ hooves outside. We both ran to the door, hoping for good news. Instead, we saw a wagon racing toward the town, with Charity’s father in the back, hovering over a blanket.

Following closely on horseback was my own father, who dismounted and ran straight for our front door. Before my mother and I could understand what was happening, Samuel quickly stood and grabbed his gun, which had a newly attached bayonet on the end. He stood with the long, sharp end of the weapon facing the ceiling, but certainly at the ready.

When my father burst through the door, his gaze quickly settled on Samuel.

“How could you?!”

“Now, settle yourself,” Samuel said, gripping the weapon. “I am entirely innocent.”

“Then how did she come to be beaten and violated and left alone in the forest!” he spat, charging after Samuel. Tackling him into the wall, my father managed to thrust his powerful fist into Samuel’s side before being pushed off.

My father quickly gathered himself and set his sights on Samuel again, only this time Samuel lifted his musket. My mother screamed, and William suddenly moved from the periphery and lunged at my father.

Before I could fathom what was happening, Samuel was pulling the long, shiny bayonet from William’s stomach. I fell to my knees beside him, trembling.

“You fools!” Samuel shouted.

“What have you done?” my mother pleaded, kneeling beside me. My mouth was frozen as we watched William reach for his side. His hand came away covered with blood, and then he looked at me with eyes full of confusion.

I instinctively reached for his shirt and began to urgently rip open the buttons, my hands shaky, not caring who was watching. By then a small crowd had gathered in our doorway and chatter erupted.

Once the shirt was pulled away, it was clear that there was a two-inch puncture wound that went all the way through his lower side. Blood spilled out in a trail, only stopping at the waist of his trousers.

“Clear the way!” a voice commanded, startling me even more.

I gave William one more concerned gaze before my mother pulled me up to make way for their captain. “What’s going on here?”

My father stepped forward, pointing after Samuel. “
Your
soldier violated a young girl last night and just stabbed his comrade. That’s what’s going on here.”

“That is a lie,” Samuel retorted. “I did no such thing. This man attacked me, and William tried to break it up. It was an accident.”

“You fool,” his captain said through gritted teeth. After a momentary assessment of the situation, he ordered Samuel to grab his things.

“That’s it?” my father asked. “He needs to pay for what he did!”

“We have no time for trials. We are on the march.” He looked down at William. “Get him to a doctor immediately. He’ll have to stay behind. It looks like it’s a clean wound. If he can avoid infection, he should recover. We’ll gather him on our march back. Hopefully he’ll be well enough to travel by then.”

By that point, Samuel had grabbed his belongings from upstairs, and had hurried out the door.

“You can’t do this,” my father said, standing tall.

“It’s already done,” the captain said before stomping out.

In the midst of it all, William tried to stand, but quickly keeled over. I lunged for his arm. He put his weight on me, and I immediately looked to my father for help. Frustrated, he rushed over and helped me guide William outside. No one else offered assistance as we walked him to a waiting wagon. I made a motion to hoist myself up, but my father held me still.

“Please,” I said, not even understanding why.

“No. Not with him.”

The crowd was still gathered, and everything about the moment felt forbidden, so I didn’t want to argue, but I was still worried. I thought of the only alternative that would at least make sure William got the care he deserved.

“Will you go with him?” I asked.

“No, I will not.”

“But he saved your life. Please. It’s only right.”

He looked at me for a long moment, then at the retreating army, and then to William, who was now losing color.

Father's nostrils flared and he exhaled strongly. “All right. I will, but you stay here with your mother and brother, and do not leave the house until I return. And keep a rifle with you at all times. Let no one, and I mean no one, into our home again.”

The urgency in his voice made me nod immediately, and with one last hard stare, he hopped into the wagon and pulled away, with William alone in the back.

C
alling out in frustration, a firm hand steadied my shoulders, but I jerked away, tossing and turning. “No,” I mumbled.

“Sophie. It’s okay. You’re dreaming again.”

I peeled my eyes open, trying to adjust to my surroundings. It was dark, but the bed felt soft and the sheets warm and gratifyingly familiar. It was my
own
bed. My real bed.

I quickly turned to find Wes lying alert beside me. At least I thought it was him. I had to check to be sure. “Wes?” I asked, peering at him sideways in the dim moonlight.

“Uh, yes. Who else would it be?”

“Um.” I started to explain and then realized the absurdity of the moment. “No one.”

“Are you okay?” he asked, sitting up on one elbow.

I focused on his familiar face in the moonlight. The proportions of his features still struck me as the most perfect I’d ever seen. Without a doubt, the same perfect face in my dream. It was strangely exciting and frightening at the same time. There was no way I could make sense of it on my own.

“I dreamed you were a boy named William.”

He bolted upright, his perfectly proportionate face no longer relaxed and inviting, but distorted and surprised.

“What?” I asked.

“William?”

“Do you know him?”

He huffed and raised his brow. “I’d say so…since I’ve been him, in my own dreams.”

“Your own?” He nodded. “So, that makes it a…”

“Memory,” he finished.

Part of me had already known what it was, but it took my groggy brain a minute to grasp it.

“And I was—”

“Phoebe?”

“Oh, my God,” I whispered.

He just stared at me in the darkness while I sat with my mouth surely sitting open.

“You see it now?” he asked quietly.

I nodded, still hesitant to believe it. A few silent moments passed before Wes unexpectedly leaned over me and kissed me hungrily.

The emotions from the dream lingered, making me feel for a moment that he was unfamiliar and forbidden. Or was it thoughts that he had been right about a past between us all along. I wasn’t sure, and there was no time to think, because soon the unfamiliar faded into the familiar and I melted into him, pulling him on top of me.

He shifted his arms beneath me and held me to him in a way I’d been missing for days. The whats and whens of our dreams didn’t matter then.

All we wanted was to be together, in a way only eternity could appreciate, and it was a moment that neither of us was willing to take for granted.

I made the first move to tug at his Henley so he'd know just how close I wanted the moment to be. He pulled away long enough to pull it over his head, revealing the firmness of his chest.

Wanting more, I slid off my tank and pulled him back to me, where the coolness of his chest calmed the soaring heat of mine. The dream had felt so real, but not nearly as real as this moment. He’d always thought we belonged together, but now we both were more convinced than ever, and it showed in the intensity of the moment.

After awhile, I lay there, thinking. Not many people find the person they’re really meant to be with. Most people grow impatient and force things without waiting for the right person. It’s those same people who probably don’t believe in soul mates.

I knew Wes was significant the very first time I saw him. Even though I had been horrified to crash into his car, there was something about his presence that swarmed its way into my very core. And I just knew. Knew that I would miss that feeling, whatever it was, the very moment he drove away.

And I still did. He made me feel so alive and complete every single time he was in the room. Without him there, I missed it. So much that I feared not having it. But now I understood that I shouldn’t spend all of my days worrying and hanging on to moments, because, somewhere, there truly was a forever.

Wes held me in his arms all night while I recounted my entire dream, which ended up being more than I expected to remember. He was fascinated by the details, but once the fascination wore off, I could sense disappointment, even lying there in the dark. It didn’t make sense, given that I was now very much on a big high, full of hope.

“What’s the matter?” I asked.

He paused for a moment, which made me sure he was going to avoid my question, but then he spared no punches.

“Well, I think it’s great that we know my dreams are actual memories. But I can’t forget what
I
saw.”

“Which was?”

“Which was me running toward your house burning.” I tensed a little, remembering he had mentioned that. “And I couldn’t find you,” he finished.

“So. We still knew each other. And that’s a good sign. Right?”

“Yes, but it still doesn’t show us past your twentieth birthday.”

I shifted against his side. “No, but you already told me you had a dream of us being old before. Maybe these memories will lead to that?”

“Maybe,” he said, doubtful.

Part of me wanted to argue with him, but one dream wasn’t enough to convince me of anything contrary to his worry, especially since, in the last image I saw, he was injured. I shuddered and nestled closer to him as we both lay there, him falling back to sleep and me pondering the last few hours.

The following day, I wrote it all down in my journal. Every detail, from William to Charity to Samuel to, of course, Phoebe, being sure to capture every detail. Writing the story was invigorating and hopeful in many ways. One, because I knew Wes was right about us. And two, because it bought me more time to uncover answers. He was still worried that we hadn’t seen Phoebe any older than nineteen, which meant he was not sure whether I was destined to have a short life, or if it was only a result of him not “setting nature back on course.” If Phoebe died at nineteen too, then Wes’ theory was out the window. That meant, even though he’d scurried off to the lab that morning, time was on my side, for now.

I went to work as usual and found myself compelled to read books we had on the American Revolution. But even though my fingers lingered along the spine of several that looked old and incredibly tempting, I held back, knowing I wanted my dreams and my memories to be my own.

There was something exhilarating about feeling and reliving the era for myself. I didn’t want someone else’s written words to taint or sway my own thoughts. No, I would remember on my own. I would find out everything I could about Phoebe. Including how old she was when she died. So I left the books alone.

Dawn arrived in the afternoon, looking tired and pale. Worried, I followed her into the back room and asked if she was okay.

“Um, I threw up two times this morning. I’d say, not okay.”

My face scrunched up in disgust and then distorted to shock when I realized she was directing her anger at me again. She faced me with a scowl. “It’s so not fair.”

“What? Life? Tell me about it.”

“I don’t get it,” she complained. “Boys have it so easy. They just do whatever they want, and we get stuck with everything. The stigma, the responsibility, the suffering. Ugh! I hate his guts so bad.”

And the full-blown anger was back. Wisely, I went along with it and then eased my way to the front, next to Mr. Healey for protection.

She was in a foul mood for the rest of the day, and nothing I attempted to do could pull her out of it anyway. Plus, I was itching to get off work and cook Wes a nice dinner, so I figured that if I crowded Mr. Healey, he would let me go early.

Just because this small window of time stunk at the moment, it didn’t mean a light wasn’t at the end of the tunnel, shining ever so faintly for both of us. Dawn would be just fine, and regardless of what happened to me and Wes now, we would be too, eventually. And that was something to celebrate.