by Chris Lange
Why did muggers always have to be skuzzy and horny, and why the hell did it have to be about her? She was going to die here, robbed of the chance to help her father and without seeing him one last time.
She suddenly caught a glimpse of whiteness from the corner of her eye. A sharp whistle stabbed the air and the white mass rushed into the struggle. It launched at Garrett’s attackers, full speed.
The sounds of skin ripping, bones crunching, and screams bouncing off the alley walls. The thing was so fast and vicious that she only made out a blur of bodies while blood and mud splashed in all directions.
Against her, the burly man faltered. He removed the hands stuck on her mouth and chest while taking a hasty step backward.
“Shit, I ain’t paid for that.”
Paid? Who rewarded him for assaulting her?
New hope filled her lungs. Surely someone must have heard their screams. She remained motionless as he deserted his bellowing compatriots without a backward glance and fled the slaughter. Yet nobody, not even the police, came to assess the situation.
Free and at last breathing fresh air, she witnessed the three attackers strewn across the ground, now silent and drenched in blood. Garrett leaned against the wall, getting his breath back while rubbing his left arm.
Beside him, a dog observed her. A thick, red liquid dripped from the chops that it licked with a sweep of its tongue. A dog or a wolf?
“Garrett, are you all right?”
The unfamiliar voice sprang from her left. A man with an engaging face stood a few feet away when she turned her head toward the sound.
As Garrett came up to him, the newcomer smiled at them both.
“Unlike you, old chap,” the man said, “it seems like I am right on time.”
“You definitely are, Weedon, and I’m grateful to you for not taking leave. I admit I wasn’t expecting a trap so soon.”
You don’t say. Tracy bristled. Garrett’s words confirmed he’d imagined some kind of ambush. Were the muggers tied to her mysterious caller as well as her father’s disappearance? The worst part was that she couldn’t interrogate them because they were all unconscious, half killed by a lethal animal.
Standing so close to the bleeding men and with her sneakers soaked in mud, 1899 San Francisco abruptly felt more threatening than exhilarating. Why did her dad have dealings with those people?
Garrett straightened gingerly. “Miss Richardson, please meet my good friend Weedon Welsh and his faithful companion, White Fur.”
A white-furred dog called White Fur? To say the least, Garrett’s friend displayed a weird sense of humor. Upon hearing its name, the wolfdog pricked its ears, but kept on staring at her. She could sense this animal had savage, predatory, deadly faculties and, coming out of nowhere, it had saved their lives.
The animal’s stance brought clear pictures to mind. A solitary beast, cruel and ferocious when threatened, but also intelligent, lithe of body with iron-like, powerful muscle. On impulse, she crouched before it and extended her hand.
“Don’t!”
Too late.
As Garrett and Weedon shouted in unison, the wolfdog padded to her, jaws still crimson. The animal had never met her before, yet didn’t attack. Instead, he licked his chops clean then sniffed her hand for a heartbeat then gently lowered its muzzle.
Smiling, she scratched its head all the way to the back of its ears. There, she stroked the thick fur before she glided her hands along firm ribs, feeling the soft, heavy texture of its coat under her fingers. When the wolfdog nuzzled up against her neck, both men let out a deep sigh.
Pleased to hear Garrett’s relieved sigh, she riveted her gaze to the icy blue eyes of the dog.
“Good boy. Thank you for saving my life. I’ll always be grateful to you, and I’m proud to be your friend.”
The way he cocked his head seemed as if he understood her, or sensed a connection between them. She straightened, but not before he licked her hand and padded back to his master with a wag of his tail.
“Blimey. I’ve never seen White Fur act this way with a total stranger. He’s put his trust in you, hasn’t he?”
“Rather unbelievable.” Garrett’s voice bordered on surprise, and her insides softened. She got him this time, didn’t she?
Weedon Welsh walked to her, hand outstretched, a huge grin on his friendly face. She took a liking to the newcomer at once.
“I’m very happy to make your acquaintance, Miss Richardson,” he said. “Sorry we had to meet in such dire circumstances.”
“I’m glad to meet you, too. Please, call me Tracy. Garrett insists on using my full name, but he’s pretty uptight, isn’t he?”
Startled for a second, Weedon roared with laughter while bobbing his head. A very comforting sound after what they’d been through. Peals of laughter bursting from him, he clapped Garrett on the back. “Dear Lord, this one is for you.”
Weedon continued to chortle, seemingly even more delighted by the nonplussed expression on his friend’s face.
Garrett frowned. “Er . . . Let’s leave here, shall we?”
“Sure, my friend.”
Tracy watched Garrett slightly shift on his legs and tilt his head. Was this a sign of embarrassment? Probably not. He studied the body-strewn alley with a cold expression.
“We ought to retreat to a safe place,” Garrett said. “Miss Richardson is in no condition to be remarked upon.”
Although he pointed at her splattered jeans and atypical sneakers, he carried on speaking to Weedon. “Moreover we cannot delay discussing our immediate options. Perhaps the Palace. What say you?”
“It sounds good to me. We shouldn’t wait around in any case. On my way to you, I passed two police officers. They’ll find these cutthroats soon enough. A pity White Fur didn’t finish them off.”
Determined to forget the last image of the three bloodied men in the alleyway, Tracy rubbed her arms. “What’s the dog’s real name?”
Garrett eyed her with a worried expression, as though she didn’t know the meaning of the word ‘sanity.’
“Well, now,” he said, “White Fur. I most certainly recall telling you.”
“You most certainly did. I just thought you were kidding.”
Without letting him comment on her sarcastic tone, she turned to the much friendlier Weedon. “He’s such an exceptional animal.”
“I thank you on his behalf,” Weedon said. “Don’t say that too much in front of him, though, it might get to his head.”
When Weedon winked at her, she realized he was playing with words. Her cheeks heated up at the idea that Garrett also got the joke and mulled over being called an exceptional animal. She dropped her gaze while they walked and counted up to a hundred until her surroundings began to make sense.
The large building across the road looked somewhat different, yet she’d gone past it often enough in her own time period to recognize the Palace Hotel. She stood on the corner of Market and New Montgomery Street.
Eyes peeled, she stared at the magnificent structure destroyed by the devastating 1906 earthquake then rebuilt on the same spot a few years later.
She’d been inside only twice in her life, her friends being unable to afford drinks there, let alone a meal. But this was the real deal, the original Palace that would house wealthy patrons for another six and a half years. Should she tell Garrett and Weedon about the upcoming disaster?
In science-fiction and time-travel movies, characters were always warned about the dramatic consequences of disrupting the course of natural events. Maybe she’d better keep her mouth shut.
“Are you coming, Tracy?”
Weedon’s question broke into her thoughts. With a nod, she followed her companions inside the Palace then gasped when they entered the lobby. Who stayed in this unbelievable h
otel and how much did a room cost?
“Miss Richardson?” Garrett said.
“Yeah.”
She wrenched her gaze away from the beautiful sight. Struck with the overwhelming need to visit this fabulous hotel, she winced as pins and needles danced along her calves.
“We ought to—” Garrett said.
“We don’t ‘ought’ anything because I want to see this place,” she said. “Come on, give me the grand tour.”
“Dallying may not be—” Garrett said.
“Oh, don’t be such a drag.” She motioned toward the building.
Weedon chuckled behind her. Probably spurred or pissed by his friend’s reaction, Garrett looked down at her, reminding her of her not-yet-in-fashion and splattered-in-mud garments. Surely she’d attract the wrong sort of attention.
“Sorry,” she mumbled, “I forgot about my clothes.”
With a super-irritating and confident air, Garrett offered his arm. “No one shall bother you in my company.”
Really? Did his ‘Lordy’ attitude shield him from respecting rules in such a sumptuous establishment? A shiver slid up her spine when she rolled her fingers around Garrett’s sleeve. His forearm muscle contracted instantly and his gaze darkened, but not in anger.
They stared at each other for an endless second, the noise and chattering around her being replaced by the loud hammering of her heart. Moistness touched her panties and she held her breath as his square jaw twitched.
Did Garrett feel it too? Was he fighting the same desire piercing her belly and drying her mouth? Pulse beating against her temples, she licked her lips right before he broke eye contact and cleared his throat.
“Shall we?” he asked.
“Absolutely,” she replied.
He then nodded at Weedon before leading her toward a wide opening. On the other side, she barely suppressed a boisterous “Wow” as she discovered what could only be called a carriage entrance.
“This is the Grand Court,” Garrett said.
Sunrays streamed through the sky-lit open center of the building, shards of brightness enhancing the beauty of the large patio overlooked by seven stories of white-columned balconies. Goose flesh rising over her arms, she marveled at the magnificence of this symbol of world-class elegance.
True to his word, Garrett showed her the white-and-gold American Dining Room located right off the main lobby, followed by the spacious ‘Grille Rooms,’ one for ‘Ladies’ and another for ‘Gentlemen.’
Even if she hadn’t studied art and history, the place was fantastic enough to fill anyone with wonder.
They moved on to the Maple Hall available for receptions, the Tapestry Room accommodating private dinners, the three ‘Louis Quinze’-style ‘Parlors,’ and the Colonial-style Billiards Room providing a place for gentlemen guests to relax, as did the magnificently appointed bar.
Like a fairytale princess escorted by her dark prince, she climbed the impressive staircase leading to the second story. She darted her gaze around, wanting to see everything, taking in the smoothness of colors, the richness hanging in the air and the feel of the handrail under her fingers.
When they reached the landing, a well-mannered attendant ushered them into a private dining room while pretending not to notice her dirty jeans and sneakers. Eccentricity must definitely be tolerated among rich patrons.
The same atmosphere of luxuriousness reigned inside the room. When Garrett released her arm to indicate the table, a cold sensation overran her.
Why did she feel abandoned? Doing her best to ignore the hole in her stomach, she glanced at the severe man she’d met a few hours ago and swallowed the lump in her throat as he suddenly brought his hands up to cup her face.
Chapter 4
Tracy froze, heart pounding. Stretched out toward her, Garrett’s fingers seemed to approach in slow motion as he brought them ever closer to her cheeks. What was he doing? Attempting to kiss her?
Heat burned inside her while she stayed rooted to the spot, the walls and furniture receding in the background, the tips of his thumbs invading her field of vision. She parted her lips, pulse vibrating, legs tensing as though braced against starting blocks before a hundred-yard dash.
“I’d love to leave you two alone but I’m famished.”
Weedon’s comment shattered the awkward moment. Her thighs turning to jelly, she took a step back as a weird expression crossed Garrett’s features. What the heck almost happened? He didn’t touch her face but tangled his fingers into the strands of hair framing her cheeks before gently pulling on them.
“Sprigs,” he explained.
Oh, really? He let her amble around the whole Palace with twigs in her hair but now that they stood in a private room the unseemly sight bothered him?
She didn’t need to glance at Weedon to see a grin stretching his mouth. A second later, he slumped onto the nearest armchair. “Sure, old chap. Did you take Tracy to a forest before meeting me? I want to know all about your little adventure in the woods.”
Brow furrowed, Garrett shot him a dark look but remained silent. Had Garrett truly meant to kiss her? Why now, in front of his friend and a waiter?
Her pulse slowed, yet the hunger in her belly didn’t abate. If she could just eat something, she might fill that emptiness gnawing at her guts.
The attendant drew back an armchair with an expecting air. Fingers twitching, Tracy sat down slowly before she smiled to thank him.
He then turned to Garrett still standing next to the table. “Sir?”
“The usual, please. For the three of us.”
“Right away.”
The waiter took off, the sound of his shoes hardly noticeable on the thick carpet, while Garrett sat down.
Beside her, Weedon poured water into her glass. “I never realized before how grand this hotel is. Thanks for initiating this very interesting tour, Tracy.”
“You’re welcome.”
His offhanded comment cleared the air despite the fact that her stomach hardened when Garrett chose the seat to her left. She needed to trust him, like her dad asked. If he did, so could she. Yet how was she supposed to do that when the man’s mere presence raised the fine hair on the nape of her neck? Why did she desire this snobbish stranger who didn’t appear to think a lot of her?
When her companions started a casual conversation, she stayed out of it, letting her gaze drift around the room, relishing the sensation of breathing in a supposedly inaccessible time and place.
She dug in as soon as the waiter came back to place three plates in front of them. Meat laden with a rich, brown sauce along with crispy, fresh greens and a spoonful of rice. Delicious meant little compared to the awesome quality of the food but when the three of them finally sighed with fulfillment, she couldn’t hold her questions any longer and tilted her head toward Weedon.
“How did you meet my dad?”
“Through my friend here, but I’m certain that’s not what you want to hear.”
Weedon raised his glass while jabbing his chin at Garrett, who took a deep breath before beginning his tale.
“I was born and raised in London, where my family still resides. I came into the company of your father five years ago, a few months before I graduated from Cambridge. During my last year in residence, William expressed his desire for a new assistant. He was exploiting the resources of the University, pursuing extensive scientific research.”
The muffled sound of a wailing siren outside interrupted his telling for an instant, but Garrett soon resumed.
“He dismissed his former assistant for incompetence. I studied mechanical sciences and physics, therefore this open position proved a splendid opportunity for me. I believe I was worthy of his trust for he quickly revealed to me he worked on the possibilities of time traveling.”
Th
at must have happened when her father went mystical for a while, and left on a religious retreat. He didn’t contact them with any news for almost a year, and her mother worried for weeks on end. He had dared lie to his wife and daughter. God had never been in his life, only work.
Since he obviously couldn’t keep in touch with his family from the nineteenth century, he didn’t have any choice but to cut himself off. And lie. Nevertheless, he’d distressed them for twelve long months without suffering from a guilty conscience. Damn, she could have wrung his neck.
“I can’t believe he was showing off in nineteenth-century England while we thought him locked in a cell in some drab monastery.” She shook her head in disgust.
Having folded his napkin in a neat square, Garrett inhaled sharply and fixed a stern gaze upon her. “I beg your pardon, Miss Richardson. A daughter has no authority to pass judgment on her father’s actions.”
“Hey, Mister Stuck-up is back,” she couldn’t help but bite back. Disregarding his cold eyes riveted to her, she winked at Weedon. “I kinda missed him for a while there.”
Weedon didn’t hide a smile while he signaled to Garrett to carry on with his story. Garrett scowled at him then continued.
“William spent fifteen years of his life attempting to create a time-travel machine, but he had been unsuccessful thus far.”
“Are you kidding me?” Although a little surprised at her own defensiveness, Tracy felt prompted to wave her hands at Garrett. “Hello! I’m living proof he made it, all right.”
“Would you please stop interrupting and heed my words?” Garrett frowned and tapped his fingers on the tablecloth.
Quick to the rescue, Weedon clapped his hands lightly. “All right, you two. If you want some privacy, just say the word and I’ll take White Fur for a walk.”