by Deb Stover
He drew another deep breath of the rapidly cooling mountain air. The Nolans had lived in Colorado since his great-great-grandparents arrived from Ireland. Still looking at the stars, he wondered if he would meet his ancestors one day. Obviously, he couldn't tell them his true identity–not that they'd believe him–but just to meet them would be an incredible experience.
And Grandpa...would Luke live long enough to see him again?
His gut burned as if he'd swallowed battery acid.
"You killed your grandfather with shame, Luke," Grandma had said.
There was nothing he could do to change his past–or future, such as it was. Luke Nolan would follow Ricky-No-Name into that liquor store and be tried and convicted of murder.
Would or had? The paradox was almost comical, though Luke wasn't laughing now.
He mustn't dwell on his past...or future past. Whatever. He was alive and he was free. Nothing else mattered.
Struggling to his feet, Luke yawned and stretched, his body protesting the movement. Soon his skin would start to peel and his hair would grow back. Wouldn't it? Sofie would undoubtedly be surprised by his transformation, especially upon learning he wasn't a priest.
Definitely not a priest. Luke Nolan was a man with a man's needs and desires, compounded by more than a decade of total deprivation.
Banishing thoughts of unfulfilled desire, Luke stared through the darkness with narrowed eyes. A square of golden light spilled from a window at the back of the schoolhouse. Sofie was in there somewhere. Was she all right? That bruise on her head was pretty nasty. He should check on her before turning in for the night, assuming he could find a bed somewhere.
Slowly, he trudged toward the back door. He'd ask for a place to sleep, and if the people of Redemption wanted him to perform any other priest-like duties tomorrow, he would. Then he'd begin his new life as a free man.
Soon. Very soon.
Was that his decision? He couldn't be sure. Too much had happened today to permit him to make a rational decision about anything. He'd almost died and been thrown back in time. Enough excitement for one day.
The golden glow of the window next to the back door lured him, and Luke found himself peering between the ruffled lace curtains, even as he reached for the door handle.
Sofie.
Sleeping on her side, her dark hair made a dramatic contrast against the snowy sheet. She was so pale, nearly as white as the bedding. He'd noticed earlier how tiny she was, especially when he'd carried her through the raging storm to shelter.
The memory of how she'd felt in his arms then stole his breath now. He could almost feel her again, and he reached up to rub his palm against the rough door as if to remind himself he no longer held her softness in his lap.
But his body responded as hungrily to the memory as it had to the real thing. He wanted to hold her again. Hell, he wanted to do much, much more....
The heat of desire created a startling contrast with the brisk night air. Luke's breath came out in a white cloud as he stood there staring. And dreaming.
He swallowed hard and pressed his fist into his palm. Eleven years in prison without a woman, and she'd been an inexperienced teenager like himself. Of course he wanted a woman. Any woman.
No, not any woman. At least, not yet.
As he watched her sleep, he recognized an invisible bond or force reaching out from Sofie and extending toward him. He wanted to deny it–he should deny it.
But he couldn't.
In that moment, Luke knew his path. Part of it anyway. He wouldn't leave town until he knew for certain Sofie was safe. Never again would he have guilt as his relentless companion. At least, he told himself that was the only reason he felt responsible for Sofie.
She rolled onto her back and the quilt slipped from her shoulder.
Her bare shoulder.
His gaze drifted along the creamy curve of exposed skin to where the side of her breast rose. Tempting. The sheet draped over her nipple, catching and shielding that part of her from his hungry, all-consuming gaze.
Get a grip, man. He closed his eyes for a moment, reminding himself of his temporary role here in Redemption. Voyeur didn't fit his job description.
When he reopened his eyes, he frowned, noticing her bruised temple and the jagged gash that had bled so copiously this morning. She'd almost died.
He'd almost died.
Yet here they both were, alive and in another century. Together. Why?
Go with God, my son.
"Damn."
Chapter 5
Sofie didn't care what kind of clothes Mrs. Fleming brought her to wear this morning. All she wanted was to remain submerged in the tub of warm water in the small room where she'd spent the night.
Hiding from the big bad world.
"Hiding is not allowed, Dr. Sofie." She wrinkled her nose at the sound of her title and sighed, splashing warm water over her bare breasts and abdomen.
Despite the tiny metal tub, the warm water felt luxurious, even if filling it had been a real pain. Carrying hot water to the tub had seemed foreign to her. European maybe. Was it? Or was her loss of memory the only reason the chore seemed odd?
No, she remembered bathing, and showers, too. This was weird. She closed her eyes and pictured a large white tub, with shiny knobs that controlled the flow of water. In fact, as the water cooled, she had the urge to reach up and turn on the hot water with her toes, but there was nothing to turn.
Something she'd done many times in her life. Hadn't she?
Using an outhouse was the worst, though. She frowned, remembering the small building behind the schoolhouse, which Dora had pointed to when Sofie asked about the bathroom. A "two-holer." Luxury?
Everything was odd. She was odd, according to Mrs. Fleming's daughter Dora. Sofie leaned her head back against the smooth slope of copper that formed the tub's rim.
"Mother, where's she from? I can't believe you're going to let a stranger wear my clothes." Dora's shrill, nasal voice came through the closed door clearly. Unfortunately.
"She doesn't remember who she is, let alone where she's from," Mrs. Fleming answered, her tone strained and clipped. "She arrived with the priest yesterday afternoon. Besides, letting her borrow some of your clothes is the Christian thing to do."
"Well, if you ask me, that priest is every bit as strange as she is."
"Dora," Mrs. Fleming scolded, "you're being unkind. If he seems strange, it's because we're unaccustomed to their ways, child."
Their ways? Sofie sank deeper into the cooling water, immersing her shoulders as far as possible.
"That's true," Dora said.
What's true? Maybe Dora understood her mother's meaning, but Sofie was still baffled. She grabbed the huge bar of soap, which smelled and felt like anything but soap, and lathered herself all over, avoiding the tender wound on her temple.
"The Catholic Church has peculiar ways," Mrs. Fleming said. "Your daddy–God rest his soul–always said it was merely a different path to the same place."
"Sounds like a very wise man." Father Salazar's voice sounded just beyond the door.
"Oh, dear. Father, we meant no harm, I was merely explaining–"
"That's all right, Mrs. Fleming."
Sofie cocked her head to one side, listening to every syllable. The sound of his voice eased and reassured her, made her warm from within. Father Salazar sounded different this morning–more relaxed and cheerful. Younger. Perhaps he'd rested, too. She certainly felt younger and more cheerful today
–black and blue and rosy.
Grimacing, she dumped a pitcher of water over her soapy head. "Ow!" Soapy water and nasty cuts were not friends, and it didn't take a medical degree to know that. "Dummy." Pressing the corner of her towel against her wound, she waited for the stinging to stop.
"Are you all right, Sofie?" Father Salazar called through the closed door.
"Fine." Sofie bolted up, sloshing water onto the floor as she clutched the towel to her bare breasts. The sound of h
is voice, so comforting a moment ago, sent shivers through her now–shivers she couldn't even begin to blame on the water's temperature. "Just got soap in my eye."
My God, I just lied to a priest.
"All right, I'll see you at breakfast."
Her stomach grumbled in response. Right on cue. She giggled quietly.
"Who's taking care of the patients this morning, Mrs. Fleming?" Father Salazar asked.
A pang of guilt wormed its way through Sofie. She should hurry.
"It's the Browns' turn to nurse this morning," Mrs. Fleming said. "There are six of them–all girls. Luckily for them, their father insisted they all be inoculated for smallpox before they left Kansas City."
"That's good news."
"He learned the hard way," Mrs. Fleming continued. "Jedediah Brown lost his mother and brother to pox when he was a child."
"Definitely another wise man." Father Salazar's voice sounded distant and strained. "I wonder when they started requiring smallpox vaccinations."
"Required?" Dora echoed. "I didn't know that."
"I mean, when will they require them."
"Breakfast will be ready shortly, Father," Mrs. Fleming said. "Let me just take Sofie some decent clothes. These don't fit Dora anymore, but I do believe Sofie's a mite smaller in places."
"Mother." Dora groaned.
"Fine," Father Salazar said. "Where's Dr. Wilson this morning?"
"Oh, he's out at Zeke Judson's cabin near the creek," Dora explained quickly. "The vaccine arrived this morning."
"Vaccine?" Father Salazar echoed.
"For the inoculations," Mrs. Fleming said. "Dr. Wilson ordered it from back East right after the first miner come down with smallpox."
"Oh, of course."
"Too little, too late, I'm afraid. If only it had come sooner..." Mrs. Fleming gave a dramatic sigh. "As I recall, my brother the doctor said it takes weeks for the inoculation to protect a body even after it's been given."
"Oh, I see. Like a flu shot," Father Salazar said.
Sofie nodded. That made sense. "Oh." She brought her hand to her mouth, surprised by her own thoughts. Did this mean she'd finally remembered something from her medical background, or was it common knowledge that flu shots took a couple of weeks to become effective?
"Flu shot?" Dora asked. "I've never heard of such a thing. What is it? Mother?"
"I have no idea, dear."
Carefully, Sofie finished rinsing her hair and body, avoiding the wound at her temple. She climbed from the tub and dried herself quickly, then wrapped the sheet around her, securing it under one arm.
She went to the mirror to stare at her face again. The brusing at her temple had spread to include her eye this morning. Nothing she could do about that, but her hair was another matter. Damp curls hung in spirals to her shoulders. "Utter chaos," she whispered. Mrs. Fleming had called that one right.
How had Sofie worn her hair before yesterday? Up like the other ladies she'd seen here in Redemption, or down and in utter chaos? Cocking her head to the side, she studied her ebony locks. The utter chaos seemed right for some reason. It was her–whoever that was.
For now, she had to look at this as a new beginning, regardless of how she'd worn her hair or behaved two days ago, or whether or not she'd wanted or needed a fresh start. Of course, there were far more important issues she should take into consideration, like what kind of foods did she like or dislike? Was she allergic to anything? Where had she gone to medical school? What kind of doctor was she–a specialist? Had anybody loved her? Would anyone miss her?
"Who the hell am I?"
A soft knock made her whirl around just as the door opened. Her pulse leapt at the base of her throat as she waited to identify the visitor. Would Father Salazar walk in uninvited?
While she was undressed?
She clutched the towel more tightly across her breasts a moment before Mrs. Fleming peered around the corner. "Good, you're finished." She closed the door behind her and walked over to the bed, placing a stack of neatly folded clothing on the bed. She took the pale gray dress hanging over her arm and held it out in front of her. "What do you think?"
Relieved was the first word that popped into Sofie's mind, because the dress was simple and ruffle-free. Whew. And long, but at least it didn't have frills. "Thank you, it's lovely." She crossed the room and touched the soft fabric. "I'm sure this must belong to your daughter." Of course, she knew that only too well, after listening to Dora's whining on this very subject.
"Yes, it's Dora's, but she's gained a few inches through the middle these last couple years." Mrs. Fleming spread the dress out on the patchwork quilt. "Being a spinster hasn't agreed with her, I'm afraid." The woman sighed heavily.
Sofie had only seen Dora briefly yesterday. "A spinster? She doesn't even look twenty."
"Twenty come March." Mrs. Fleming cast Sofie a sober look. "By the way, I'll be speaking to Jenny about her mother right after I take Dr. Wilson his breakfast...."
Remembering why they were all here in this building in the first place, Sofie nodded. There were people sick and dying here–people who needed the medical expertise she supposedly possessed. "I'll hurry and get dressed."
"Dr. Wilson might send word for you to come help with the inoculations, if you aren't needed here today."
Give shots? With needles? Shuddering, Sofie made no response as she watched Mrs. Fleming walk toward the door. The woman looked poised and polished, completely together, despite the tragedy awaiting them in the other room.
"I'll do whatever I can to help," Sofie promised, and meant it. Though she knew none of these people, she'd seen enough suffering yesterday to know they needed any help she could offer, medical or otherwise.
"I know you will." Mrs. Fleming looked over her shoulder and smiled. "I'll help Dora finish breakfast, then I'll take a tray over to Dr. Wilson. The man won't even stop to eat if I don't practically spoon-feed him myself. Not only that, but he forgets for days on end that a body needs sleep."
"He's lucky to have you, Mrs. Fleming." Sofie watched a blush creep from Mrs. Fleming's collar and bloom in her cheeks. The woman was obviously in love with the aging physician. Did Dr. Wilson realize it? Probably not, but she hoped he would eventually, after the epidemic. After hell on earth.
"How many patients do we have this morning?" Sofie wasn't sure she wanted to hear the answer. "Any new cases?" Any more deaths?
"No new cases." Mrs. Fleming folded her hands beneath her chin. "And I pray to God there won't be any more new cases. As of this morning, we still have fifteen patients, plus the burned stranger."
"Fifteen?" Sofie swayed and sat on the edge of the bed. Hard. "There were twenty-two last night when I went to bed. Does that mean...?"
Mrs. Fleming blinked rapidly and looked down for a few moments, then met Sofie's gaze. "Seven more passed on during the night."
"Oh, God. Oh, no." Sofie brought her knuckle to her mouth and bit down. This was too horrible. Children, mothers, fathers... This relentless and insidious disease killed indiscriminately.
The older woman crossed the room again and placed her hand on Sofie's shoulder. "I know it's hard, but it was their time, child."
"No." Sofie shook her head and stared at Mrs. Fleming, who had known and cared about this people. "I can't–I won't–believe there's anything ordained about any of this."
"Don't you?" Mrs. Fleming sighed and turned back toward the door. "I can't imagine anything less powerful than God Himself could've brought you and Father Salazar to us through yesterday's storm."
Sofie stared in silence as Mrs. Fleming left the room, closing the door firmly behind her. Alone again, a shudder gripped her.
She didn't even known these people, yet their deaths touched her. Maybe because she was a doctor, death's impact was more powerful. On the other hand, didn't it make more sense for her to be somewhat accustomed to death? Fear, revulsion, and horror rippled through her.
"Enough."
She jumped to her feet an
d grabbed the underwear Mrs. Fleming had brought. One look at the only thing remotely resembling panties jerked Sofie from her maudlin thoughts. She held the garment out before her to examine, noting its length and bloomer-like shape. These were nothing like the skimpy panties she'd removed this morning.
But she had no choice. At least these clothes were clean. They'd do for now. After pulling on the bloomers and securing the drawstring at her waist–don't these people believe in elastic?–she slipped something that looked like a woven cotton tank top over her head. A chemise, she realized, tucking it into the bloomers.
Shaking her head, she went to the mirror to stare at herself. Maybe she couldn't remember what kind of panties were in her dresser drawer at home–wherever home was–but she knew they wouldn't even begin to resemble these.
Resigned, she returned for the slip and stepped into it, tying yet another drawstring at her waist. Glancing down, she found what she'd been dreading.
Rows of ruffles and flounces edged the cotton slip. A petticoat? Yes, that was the word.
"No way." She picked up the gray dress and held it up to the morning light spilling through the lace curtains. If she couldn't see through the dress, she didn't need a slip, let alone a petticoat.
Satisfied no one would be able to see through her dress–and even if they did, all they'd find would be her baggy bloomers–Sofie finished dressing. However, she was relieved to discover Mrs. Fleming had failed to bring shoes along with the black wool stockings. At least Sofie knew her hiking boots would fit, and they were comfortable, even if they probably weren't intended to be worn with a dress.
And no ruffles.
Luke watched Dora move around the kitchen preparing breakfast, her generous backside bumping into everything in her path of destruction. She placed thick slabs of bacon in an iron skillet, and the savory aroma soon filled the room.
He closed his eyes as a pang of remembrance stabbed through him. His grandmother had prepared bacon almost every morning, until Grandpa's doctor had put them on low fat diets. Luke's childhood memories were filled with the scents and sounds of his grandparents' old house near Capital Hill, and the shoe repair shop his grandfather had owned in an historic part of downtown Denver.