by Deb Stover
"Dizzy?" Dr. Wilson asked, still holding her arm.
She shook her head. "Just hungry, I think."
Father Salazar released her arm and stepped back, allowing Dr. Wilson to support her alone. For some reason, Sofie always felt lost when Father Salazar moved away. Perhaps because he'd saved her life this morning. If not for him, she'd still be buried in that pile of rubble. He was her only link to her past.
"I'd best get back to my post," Ab said, leaving so quickly the door slammed shut behind him.
"We have soup and bread in the back room." Dr. Wilson steadied Sofie. "Can you walk?"
"Yes." Sofie drew a deep breath, dreading going any farther into the building. It seemed like a tomb–dark and airless. But keeping patients somewhat cool made more sense. Didn't it? "It's so hot in here."
"Sweating the fevers." Dr. Wilson shrugged. "I'm afraid that's about all we can do at this point. It makes me feel so useless. If only..."
"How many cases do you have?" Father Salazar mopped his head with a handkerchief.
"Too many. Eleven have died and twenty-three more are in here. Dying." The doctor lowered his chin, then looked up at Sofie, his expression pleading. "Tell me, is there anything new about the treatment of smallpox that I should know?"
"I...I really don't remember." Sofie choked back a sob, wishing she could somehow resurrect her memory from the worthless black hole of her brain. "I'll try to help as best I can, but please–"
"I'm sorry. I forgot. Please forgive me." Dr. Wilson appeared resigned. "Well, at least you've both been inoculated, as have I."
Sofie looked at Father Salazar, noting he appeared as confused as she. Tilting his head to one side, he said, "Dr. Wilson, I don't understand any of this. Smallpox has been nonexistent for so long they don't even require immunization anymore."
"Nonexistent? Nonexistent?" Dr. Wilson's nostrils flared and he shoved his glasses back onto his nose. "Allow me to show you nonexistent, Father."
Before either of them could protest, Dr. Wilson started weaving his way through the building, leading Sofie by the elbow. She had no choice but to follow, though she looked back several times to assure herself that Father Salazar still followed.
The stench of disease and death permeated the air and Sofie's stomach lurched again. They stopped beside a low cot, where a young man lay dying. Oozing sores covered his body and he thrashed around in obvious agony.
"Dear God," Sofie whispered. Suddenly, she knew what she had to do. Maybe she didn't remember medical school, but something told her the stifling heat and foul air couldn't possibly be good for anyone. Without a word, she pulled her elbow from Dr. Wilson's grasp and marched to a nearby window. She released the latch and swung open the shutters partway.
"We must keep them warm," Dr. Wilson argued. "You'll kill them all."
Sofie put her fist on her hip, feeling stronger than she had all day. Maybe her medical training was surfacing at last, or it could be intuition or simple common sense. Either way, she knew without question that fresh air was better than foul. "No," she said quietly but firmly. "Every living thing needs fresh air to heal."
Dr. Wilson studied her in silence for a few minutes, then nodded in surrender. "Very well. At this point, I'm willing to try anything. We'll try it your way for a while and see if there's any change, either good or bad."
Sofie bit the inside of her lower lip and hoped she wasn't making a terrible mistake. Father Salazar's frantic look remained, and he looked toward the partly open window with a hunger that stunned her.
Still, he seemed to battle his internal demons and recognize her self-doubt. He came to her side, offering her his arm for support. His touch comforted her and she leaned against him, grateful for his continued presence.
"We'd better get some of that soup," he said quietly. "It looks like we have a lot of work here."
For the first time since this morning when she'd awakened battered and bruised, Father Salazar actually sounded like a priest. She met his gray gaze and blinked, wondering why that didn't exactly please her. His behavior throughout the day had been so unpriest-like, she'd forgotten for long stretches of time who and what he was.
Heat flooded her face as she also remembered the feel of his aroused male body pressing against her. Her pulse quickened and she struggled against the urge to throw her arms around him for support and comfort.
And something more?
Luke weighed his options. He could probably walk away while the doctor was busy talking to Sofie, but he couldn't bring himself to do it yet. Why?
Because he felt like hell? Because no matter what he'd thought earlier, he needed a hot meal and some cold water before he hit the road again? Because he was so exhausted from the longest day of his life he could crawl in a hole and sleep for a year?
Yes and no.
Sofie held him here as sure as Warden Graham had held him prisoner. For some stupid reason, he felt responsible for her. Hell, he'd brought her this far, it only made sense to ensure she'd be all right here before he left. Besides, he'd seen no evidence to indicate he was being hunted. Yet. Still, the thought of hanging around here didn't exactly give him a warm fuzzy.
And Sofie herself... Who was she? The way she'd rallied and thrown open those shutters had caught him by surprise. She had balls, so to speak. Dr. Sofie What's-Her-Name was a woman he would have liked to meet at another time and place.
In another life.
Regret slithered through him again, but he forcibly quelled it. No time for that. Of course, there would never be enough time for that in his life. The moment he'd decided to leave that execution chamber, his fate was determined.
Luke Nolan was a man on the run. A fugitive. A man on a life-or-death quest for freedom.
Focus. He drew a deep breath of the fresh mountain air wafting through the partially open window. Yeah, focus. He could play this game until dark–he had no choice. Then he would run fast and hard.
To freedom.
When Sofie leaned into him for support, the urge to wrap his arms around her and cradle her against his chest hit him like a two-by-four between the eyes.
Her softness melded against him and, despite his fatigue and worry, his body responded with intrepid–and infuriating– enthusiasm. He winced, his burned flesh tugging and stretching where nature demanded. But pain did little to suppress his rampant libido.
Eleven celibate years did that to a man.
Dr. Wilson's voice dragged Luke from his half-stupor. "Well, let's get you both something to eat before we put you to work."
Clearing his throat, Luke kept his arm around Sofie for support and followed the doctor through a door at the back of the building. The kitchen, at least, harbored no beds for the sick and dying.
The real Father Salazar wouldn't have thought such a thing. Guilt pressed down on Luke. That old man probably would have been out there praying over each and every patient before allowing himself a bite.
But I'm no priest.
Did it matter? Luke had been raised Catholic, and he knew the routine, so to speak. With Father Salazar's Bible and other paraphernalia, he could manage this gig until he disappeared into the night.
So what if he was a fraud? The people of Redemption needed a priest for comfort. It was the least Luke could do to repay them for a hot meal.
And the very least he could do for Father Salazar.
After a bowl of Irish stew as good as any Luke had ever tasted, he felt almost human again. The Widow Fleming he and Sofie'd already heard so much about looked like Betty Crocker, only older. Dressed in black from chin to foot, she was a tiny but imposing white-haired figure who ran the kitchen–and everyone in the makeshift hospital–with a firm hand.
Dr. Wilson returned to the kitchen with Zeke just as Luke finished the best piece of apple pie he'd had in exactly eleven years. His grandmother and Mrs. Fleming would've enjoyed exchanging recipes.
No, he mustn't think about his grandmother, because she wouldn't want to know her grandson was an
escaped convict, rather than an executed murderer.
When Luke saw the expression on Zeke's face, he knew the time had come for him to play priest for real. His captor's long face looked even longer now, and he kept his eyes lowered.
"We've lost Mrs. Judson," Dr. Wilson said quietly, placing his hand on Zeke's shoulder. "But Zeke was at her side when she left us." The doctor heaved a heavy sigh.
Luke pushed away from the table and stood, as did Sofie. She put her hand on Zeke's shoulder and said, "I'm so sorry."
What would Father Salazar say? Luke swallowed the lump of cold hard fear in his throat and imitated Sofie's behavior. Even with amnesia, her manners were considerably better than his. Of course, prison hadn't required manners.
"I'm sorry," Luke said, feeling his face grow hot; his words seemed so damned inadequate. Zeke had said he and his wife were Baptists, so maybe the new widower wouldn't find fault with Luke's shortcomings as a priest. I can't believe I'm doing this.
Zeke nodded, then met Luke's gaze. "Like I done told you, Padre, the missus ain't–weren't–Catholic, but I know she'd like for you to speak a few words over her."
"If...if you'll show me what you want me to do, and where we need to do it, I'll try my best," Luke said, and meant it. His memory of Father Salazar backing away from him in the execution chamber this morning returned, along with a flash of fire to Luke's gut.
"Go with God, my son," the priest had said.
So far, so good. Luke reached up to drag his fingers through his hair, surprised to find his bald scalp instead. He'd almost forgotten....
"Should I go with you?" Sofie asked quietly, meeting Luke's gaze.
They hadn't been separated all day, except for those few terrifying moments after she'd fallen during the storm. "If you want–"
"No, please," Dr. Wilson interrupted. "I'm sorry, but I really need Dr. Sofie here to help." He shot her a pleading look. "Please?"
"Dr. Sofie?" Her face reddened and she turned her gaze on Luke. "Of course, I'll do what I can. If only I could remember..."
"I understand." Dr. Wilson faced Zeke. "I'm sorry I can't go with you to the cemetery, but..."
"It's okay, Doc. I understand better'n most, I reckon."
Luke gave Sofie's hand a reassuring squeeze, hoping he could pull off this priest thing to Zeke's satisfaction. The old boy might have brought Luke and Sofie here against their will, but he was grieving and deserved whatever comfort any of them could offer.
Then Luke could run for his life.
He faced the grieving man, resigned to do whatever he could. "Let's go."
Without looking back at Sofie, he followed Zeke through the back door. "They took the missus over to the pastor's house for washin' and layin' out."
Luke's blood turned icy. "Zeke, if you have a pastor, and you aren't Catholic, then why do you want me to perform your wife's funeral?"
Zeke paused and shoved his hands into his pockets. Without looking at Luke, he gazed toward the mountains and said, "Pastor died last week, Padre, and his wife the next day."
What the hell kind of epidemic was this? Luke remained silent as they started walking again, angry with himself for not demanding more information before endangering Sofie and himself this way. If this was something other than smallpox, entering Redemption could prove as big a mistake as following that punk into a liquor store eleven years ago. Almost.
But Sofie...
Dammit, forget Sofie.
When Zeke started walking again, Luke followed in silence. This man's wife was dead, and all he wanted was a few moments of Father Salazar's time. So be it.
But once the funeral was over and darkness fell, all bets were off. Luke Nolan would hit the road again. Fast.
Determined, he kept pace with the lanky widower, until he stopped in front of a modest house built of stone. Zeke knocked once and removed his hat, then pushed open the door and stepped inside.
Candles burned on an upright piano across the room, and a small woman rushed toward them, tears trickling down her cheeks. Her red hair was piled high on her head, and like Mrs. Fleming, she wore an old-fashioned black dress that went to the tops of her shoes. Luke's earlier suspicions about Redemption being some sort of religious cult or retreat returned.
No electricity, no cars, old-fashioned clothes, so many non-immunized citizens... The evidence pointed toward something bizarre.
"I'm so sorry, Mr. Judson," the woman said. "Fanny was one of my favorite people."
"Thanks, Miss Dora." Zeke lowered his gaze as the woman patted his hand reassuringly. "Lots of folks set quite a store by my missus."
"A priest? How fortuitous." Dora turned her attention to Luke and held out her hand. "It was good of you to come, Father. I'm Dora Fleming." She wiped her tears away.
Like mother, like daughter? "I'm...I'm Father Salazar," Luke said, still cringing inside each time he uttered the words. He'd never forget the man whose name he'd stolen. Swallowing hard, he shook the woman's small hand. "Zeke asked me to...uh..."
"Oh, yes, Fanny would want that, Father. Thank you so much." Dora kept his hand and led him across the room. "Mr. Judson probably told you about the pastor and his wife." She paused and placed her hand over her heart with a sigh. "So much tragedy."
"Yes, I'm sorry to hear about the epidemic." And I'd sure as hell like to know what it really is.
Luke couldn't help but notice the body stretched out on boards across the room. Several women fussed over the dead woman, sniffling and sharing stories about the good things Fanny Judson had done in her life. Damn waste.
Dora opened a huge book on a desk near the front door. "This is where Reverend Bodine recorded deaths, marriages, baptisms and such," she explained. "If you'll enter her name here, and the dates of birth and death here, we'd be much obliged."
Luke looked down at the pages, where his predecessor had written in previous events for the citizens of Redemption. The entire page was filled with deaths–not a single birth or wedding.
All these senseless deaths...
Luke paused for a moment to consider the irony. Today, he was supposed to have died. Instead, here he stood trying to comfort the grieving by playing a role for which he was unworthy. More than unworthy.
His eyes focused on the most recent entry, just above where he would record the name of Fanny Judson.
Elizabeth Ann Morton, he read silently. Born August 19, '86.
Died September 11, 1891...
The date reverberated through Luke's head, then finally reached his lips.
"1891?"
Chapter 4
"Father?"
Luke winced when Dora touched his sleeve, but not from the sudden pressure against his sensitive burned skin.
A loud roar filled his head, rivaling even the explosions that had saved his miserable life this morning. The day's events replayed through his mind at warp speed.
1891. Bizarre. Unbelievable.
Impossible? After this morning, how could he consider anything impossible? By all rights, he was the one who should be dead. Very dead.
"Father, are you all right?" Dora slipped her arm beneath his and guided him toward a chair. "Perhaps you should sit a spell. Did you get caught in that storm we had earlier this afternoon?"
"Storm? Yes, the storm. Yes. Uh, we were caught in the storm."
"It came on so suddenly..." Dora's expression left no doubt she questioned his state of mind.
As did he.
1891? He looked around the room. Victorian furnishings. Long skirts and upswept hair. Either he'd really fallen back in time somehow, or Redemption was the Rocky Mountain equivalent to Brigadoon.
Of course, and smallpox. Yes, it all made sense now. Sick sense. But how?
"You must be exhausted." Dora nudged him, urging him to sit. "It may not be very Christian of me to say so, but I'm glad you came to us today. Fanny Judson was one of the kindest women I've ever known. She...she deserves a prop...proper funeral."
Luke looked up at the woman and saw
her lower lip quiver as tears rolled silently down her face. He should offer comfort, as the real Father Salazar certainly would have, but his mind was reeling from other matters.
Like time travel.
"I'm sorry, but if you'll just give me a minute...?" He patted Dora's hand and tried his damnedest to appear pious. Or at least something besides nuts.
"Of course, Father. Please forgive me." Dora dabbed at her tears with a pristine lace handkerchief, then hurried back to the grieving Zeke Judson and his wife's dead body.
Okay, Luke, think. He rubbed the back of his neck and glanced at the items on Reverend Bodine's desk. A calendar with several dates circled–all the Sundays–also proclaimed the year was 1891.
What was he looking for anyway? Another sign? Another miracle? An explanation for all this? He opened the drawer, feeling like a thief, though he had no intention of stealing anything. Escaping from prison would be the last crime Luke Nolan ever committed. And the first...
"I'm free," he whispered, perspiration popping from every one of his fried pores. Then a rush of joy swept through him and his heart did a fair imitation of what his grandmother would've called the Snoopy dance.
Could it be true? Hell, yes. If time travel was possible, then Luke Nolan–wrongfully convicted and condemned man–was finally free.
Free!
No more prison, no more running for his life, no more electric chair.
A shudder gripped him and he closed his eyes, willing the moment of remembered terror to pass. There was no electricity here, and no electric chair. More importantly, there was no criminal record for Luke Nolan. He could make a new life for himself. Maybe now he could even become a teacher, as he'd dreamed of in his time.
My time? No, this was his time now. Maybe he could teach Future History. He almost smiled as he closed the desk drawer, leaving its contents untouched.
He stared at his hands, flexing and spreading his reddened fingers against the desk's smooth surface, the open book only a few inches away. Why was he here in this time and place? With these suffering people?