by Nora Roberts
How patient they must be, he mused, to sit cheerfully, shoulder to shoulder with hundreds of other people, hanging in the sky for hours just to get from one coast to another or from New York to Paris.
Then again, they didn’t know any better.
Switching his gaze from sky to earth, he began to walk.
It was fortunate that the sun was bright. His preparations hadn’t included a coat or any heavy outerwear. The snow beneath his boots was soft, but there was just enough of a wind to make the air uncomfortable until the hike warmed his muscles.
He was a scientist by vocation, and he could lose himself for hours, even days, in equations and experiments. But it wouldn’t have occurred to him to neglect his body, either—it was as well toned and as disciplined as his mind.
He used his wrist unit to give him the bearings. At least Cal’s report had been fairly specific as to where his ship had gone down and where the cabin he had stayed in when he had met this Libby was situated.
Nearly three hundred years in the future, Jacob had visited the spot and had excavated the time capsule that his brother and the woman had buried.
Jacob had left home in the year 2255. He had traveled through time and through space to find his brother. And to take him home.
As he walked he saw no signs of man, or of the posh resorts that would populate this area in another century or two. There was simply space, acres of it, untrampled and untouched. The sun cast blue shadows on the snow, and the trees towered, silent giants overhead.
Despite the logic of what he had done, the months of precise calculations, the careful working of theory into fact, he found himself chilled. The enormity of what he had achieved, where he had gone, struck him. He was standing on the ground, beneath the sky, of a planet that was more foreign to him than the moon. He was filling his lungs with air. He could watch it expel in white streams. He could feel the cold on his face and his ungloved hands. He could smell the pine and taste the crisp, clear air as it blew around him.
And he had yet to be born.
Had it been the same for his brother? No, Jacob thought, there would have been no elation, not at first. Cal had been lost, injured, confused. He hadn’t set out to come here, but had been a victim of fate and circumstance. Then, vulnerable and alone, he had been bewitched by a woman. Expression grim, Jacob continued to hike.
Pausing at the stream, he remembered. A little more than two years ago—and centuries in the future—he had stood here. It had been high summer, and though the stream had changed its course over time this spot had been very much the same.
There had been grass rather than snow under his feet. But the grass would grow again, year after year, summer after summer. He had proof of that. He was proof of that. The stream would run fast, where now it forced its way over rock and thick islands of ice.
A little dazed, he crouched down and took a handful of snow in his ungloved hand.
He had been alone then, too, though there had been the steady drone of air traffic overhead and a huddle of mountain hotels only a few kilometers to the east. When he had uncovered the box his brother had buried he had sat on the grass and wondered.
And now he stood and wondered. If he dug for it, he would come upon the same box. The box that he had left with his parents only days before. The box would exist here, beneath his feet, just as it existed in his own time. As he existed.
If he dug it up now and carried it back to his ship, it would not be there for him to find on that high summer day in the twenty-third century. And if that was true, how could he be here, in this time, to dig it up at all?
An interesting puzzle, Jacob mused. He left it to stew in his brain as he walked.
He saw the cabin and was fascinated. No matter how many pictures, how many films or simulations he had seen, this was real. There were patches of snow melting slowly on the roof. The wood was still dark, aged by mere decades. On the glass of the windows, sunlight sparkled as it streamed through the high trees. Smoke—he could see it, as well as smell it—puffed from the stone chimney and into the hard blue sky.
Amazing, he thought, and for the first time in many hours his lips curved. He felt like a child who had discovered a unique and wonderful present under the Christmas tree. It was his, for the moment, to explore, to analyze, to piece together and take apart until he understood it.
Shifting his bag, he walked up the snow-covered path to the steps. They creaked under his weight and turned his smile into a grin.
He didn’t bother to knock. Manners were easily lost in the haze of discovery. Pushing the door open, he stepped into the cabin.
“Incredible. Absolutely incredible.” His quiet voice hung in the air.
Wood, genuine and rich, gleamed around him. Stone, the kind that was chipped and dug out of the earth, merged with the wood in the form of a huge fireplace. There was a fire burning in it, crackling and hissing behind a mesh screen. The scent was wonderful. It was a small, cramped room, jammed with furniture, yet it was appealing in its cheeriness and its oddities.
Jacob could have spent hours in that room alone, examining every inch of it. But he wanted to see the rest. Muttering into his minirecorder, he started up the stairs.
***
Sunny yanked the wheel of the Land Rover and swore. How could she actually have believed she wanted to spend a couple of months in the cabin? Peace and quiet! Who needed it? She ground the gears as the Land Rover chugged up the hill. The idea that a few solitary weeks would give her the opportunity to sort out her life and finally decide what she wanted to do with it was ridiculous.
She knew what she wanted to do with it. Something big, something spectacular. Disgusted, she blew out a long breath that sent her blond bangs dancing. Just because she hadn’t decided exactly what that something was didn’t matter. She’d know it when she saw it.
Just as she always knew what it wasn’t when she saw it.
It wasn’t flying cargo planes—or jumping out of them. It wasn’t ballet, and it wasn’t touring with a rock band. It wasn’t driving a truck, and it wasn’t writing haiku.
Not everyone, at twenty-three, could be so specific about where his ambitions didn’t lie, Sunny reminded herself as she spun the Land Rover to a halt in front of the cabin. Using the process of elimination, she should be well on her way to fame and success in another ten or twenty years.
Fingers drumming against the steering wheel, she studied the cabin. It was squat, and just homely enough not to be ugly. An old rocker stood on the porch that skirted the front. It had sat there year after year, summer and winter, for as long as she could remember. There was, she discovered, something comforting in continuity.
And yet with the comfort came a restlessness for the new, for the untouched and the unseen.
With a sigh, she sat back, ignoring the cold. What was it that she wanted that wasn’t here, in this place? Or in any place she’d been? Still, when it had come time to question, when it had come time to think, she had come back here, to the cabin.
She had been born in it, had spent the first few years of her life inside it and running through the surrounding forest. Perhaps that was why she had come back when her life had seemed so pointless. Just to recapture some of that simplicity.
She loved it, really. Oh, not with the passion her sister, Libby, did. Not with the deep-rooted sentiment of their parents. But fondly, the way children often feel about an old, eccentric aunt.
Sunny couldn’t imagine living there again, the way Libby and her new husband were. Day after day, night after night, without seeing another soul. Perhaps Sunny’s roots were in the forest, but her heart belonged to the city, with its bright lights and its possibilities.
Just a vacation, she told herself, pulling off her woolen hat and running impatient fingers through her short hair. She was entitled to one. After all, she’d entered college at the tender age of sixteen. Too bright for her own good, her father had said more than once. After graduating just before her twentieth birthday, she had p
lunged into endeavor after endeavor, never finding satisfaction.
She tended to be good at whatever she did. Perhaps that was why she’d taken lessons in everything from tap dancing to tole painting. But being good at something didn’t make it the right something. So she moved on, perennially restless, feeling perennially guilty for leaving things half-done.
Now it was time to settle down. So she had come here, to think, to decide, to consider. That was all. It wasn’t as if she were hiding—just because she’d lost her last job. No, her last two jobs, she told herself viciously.
In any case, she had enough money to hold her for the rest of the winter—particularly since there was no place to spend any around here. If she went with her instincts and caught the next plane to Portland or Seattle—or anywhere something was happening—she’d be flat broke in a week. And she’d be damned if she’d go crawling back to her indulgent and exasperated parents.
“You said you were going to stay,” she muttered as she pushed the door of the car open. “And you’re going to stay until you figure out where Sunny Stone fits.”
Hauling out the two bags of groceries she’d just purchased in town, she trudged through the snow. At the very least, she thought, a couple of months in the cabin would prove her self-sufficiency. If she didn’t die of boredom first.
Inside, she glanced toward the fire first, satisfied that it was still burning well. Those few years in the Girl Scouts hadn’t been wasted. She dumped both bags on the kitchen counter. She knew Libby would have immediately set about putting everything in its place. Sunny figured it was a waste of time to store something when you were only going to have to get it out again sooner or later.
With the same disregard, she tossed her coat over the back of a chair, then kicked her boots into a corner. Digging a candy bar out of a bag, she unwrapped it and wandered back into the living room. What she needed was a long afternoon of research. Lately she’d been toying with the idea of going back to school and trying for a law degree. The idea of arguing for a living had a certain appeal. Along with her clothes, her camera, her sketch pad, her tape recorder and her dance shoes she had packed two boxes of books on an assortment of professions.
During her first week in the cabin she had researched and discarded screenwriting as too unstable, medicine as too terrifying and running a retro clothing store as too trendy.
But law had possibilities. She could see herself as either the cold, hard-edged D.A. or the dedicated, overworked public defender.
It was worth looking into, she decided as she mounted the stairs. And the sooner she had her focus the sooner she could get back to where there was something more exciting to do than watch the melting snow run off the gutters.
The candy bar was halfway to her mouth when she stepped into the doorway and saw him. He was standing by the bed—her bed—obviously engrossed in the fashion magazine she’d tossed on the floor the night before. It was in his hands now, and his fingers seemed to stroke the glossy paper as if it were some exotic fabric.
Though his back was to her, she could see that he was tall. He had two or three inches on her willowy five-ten. His dark hair was long enough to fall over the collar of the sweater he wore, and it looked as if he’d ridden fast in an open car. Hardly daring to breathe, she took his measure.
If he was a wayward hiker, he was dressed neatly, and sparely. The jeans showed no signs of wear. The boots he wore were unmarked, expensive and, unless she missed her guess, custom-made. No, she didn’t think he was a hiker, even a foolish one who would challenge the winter mountains.
He had a lean build, though she couldn’t be sure what the baggy sweater hid in the way of muscle. If he was a thief, he was a stupid one, passing the time with a magazine rather than bundling up what passed for valuables in the cabin.
Her gaze shot over to the dresser and her jewelry case. Her collection wasn’t extensive, but each piece had been selected with care and a disregard for expense. And it was hers, just as the cabin was hers, just as the room he’d invaded was hers.
Furious, she dropped the candy and snatched up the closest weapon, an empty pop bottle and, brandishing it, lunged forward.
Jacob heard the movement. Out of the corner of his eye he caught a red blur. Instinct had him turning, shifting, just as the bottle whizzed by his head and smashed against the nightstand. Glass exploded with a sound like a shot.
“What the—”
Before he could utter another word, his foot was kicked out from under him and he found himself flipped neatly and sprawled on his back. He stared up at a tall, slender woman with a shiny crop of blond hair and molten gray eyes. She was crouched, arms bent, hands flexed in an ancient fighting stance.
“Don’t even think about it,” she warned, in a voice as smoky as her eyes. “I don’t want to have to hurt you, so get up slow. Then get yourself downstairs and out. You’ve got thirty seconds.”
Keeping his eyes on hers, he braced himself on one elbow. When dealing with a member of a primitive culture it was wise to go slowly. “Excuse me?”
“You heard me, pal. I’m a fourth-degree black belt. Mess with me and I’ll crush your skull like a walnut.”
She smiled when she said it. Otherwise he might have offered her excuses and explanations then and there. But she smiled, and a challenge was a challenge.
Without a word, he sprang up to land lightly on the balls of his feet in a stance that mirrored hers. He saw surprise in her eyes—not panic, surprise. He blocked her first blow, but he still felt it reverberate from his forearm to his shoulder. He shifted enough to prevent a well-aimed kick from connecting with his chin.
She was fast, he noted, fast and agile. He parried her offensive moves, staying on the defensive as he judged her. Fearless, he thought with pure admiration. A warrior in a world that still required them. And if Jacob had a weakness he would admit to, it was the love of a good fight.
He didn’t toy with her. If he did, he knew, he’d end up on the floor with her foot on his throat. The kick that shot past his guard and into his rib cage was proof of that. It was an even match, he decided after five sweaty minutes, except for the fact that he had the advantage in reach and weight.
Deciding to put both to use, he feinted, blocked, then caught her in a throw that sent her flying onto the bed. Before she could recover, he spread himself over her, cautiously gripping her wrists over her head.
She was out of breath, but she wasn’t out of fuel. Her eyes burning into his, she put all her strength into one last move. Just in time, he shifted his weight and avoided the knee to the groin.
“Some things never change,” he muttered, and studied her while he waited for his labored breathing to slow.
She was stunning—or perhaps it was the fight that made her seem so. Her skin was flushed now, a rosy pink that enhanced the sunlight color of her hair. Its short, almost severe cut played up the elegance of her bone structure. She had sharp cheekbones. Warriorlike, he thought again. Like a Viking, or a Celt. Large, long-lidded gray eyes smoldered in frustration but not in defeat. Her nose was small and sharp, and her mouth was full, with the lower lip slightly prominent in a pout. She smelled like the forest—cool, exotic and foreign.
“You’re very good,” he said, and gave himself a moment to enjoy the way her body held firm and unyielding under his.
“Thanks.” She bit the word off, but she didn’t struggle. She knew when to fight and when to plot. He outweighed her and he had outfought her, but she wasn’t ready to discuss terms of surrender. “I’d appreciate it if you got the hell off me.”
“In a minute. Is it your custom to greet people by tossing them on the floor?”
She arched one pale brow. “Is it yours to break into people’s homes and poke around in their bedrooms?”
“The door was unlocked,” he pointed out. Then he frowned. He was certain he was in the right place, but this was not the woman called Libby. “This is your home?”
“That’s right. It’s called private
property.” She struggled not to fidget while he studied her as though she were a particularly interesting specimen in a petri dish. “I’ve already called the police,” she told him, though the closest telephone was ten miles away. “If I were you, I’d make tracks.”
“If I wanted to avoid the police, it would be stupid to make tracks.” He tilted his head, considering. “And you didn’t call them.”
“Maybe I did and maybe I didn’t.” The pout became more pronounced. “What do you want? There’s nothing worth stealing in this place.”
“I didn’t come to steal.”
A quick panic, purely feminine, fluttered just below her heart. Fury banked it. “I won’t make it easy for you.”
“All right.” He didn’t bother to ask her what she meant. “Who are you?”
“I think I’m entitled to ask you that question,” she countered. “And I’m not really interested.” Her heart was beginning to thud thickly, and she hoped he couldn’t feel it. They were sprawled across the unmade bed, thigh to thigh, as intimately as lovers. His eyes, green and intense, stared into hers until she was breathless all over again.
He saw the panic now, just a flicker of it, and eased his grip on her wrists. Her pulse was beating rapidly there, causing an unexpected reaction to race through him. He could feel it singing through his blood as he shifted his gaze to her mouth.
What would it be like? he wondered. Just a touch, an experiment. A mouth that soft, that full, was designed to tempt a man. Would she fight, or would she yield? Either would prove rewarding. Annoyed by the distraction, he looked into her eyes again. He had a purpose, one he didn’t intend to detour from.
“I’m sorry if I startled you, or if I interfered with your privacy. I was looking for someone.”
“There’s no one here but—” She caught herself and swore under her breath. “Who? Who are you looking for?”