Anywhere in Time (Magic of Time Book 2)

by Melissa Mayhue

Remember him? How could she do anything other than remember him? He was as the night to her day, as much a part of her as her own heart. She could scarcely forget her own heart, so certainly she couldn’t forget someone who…

  The void began to swirl around her, its inky black slowly giving way to a soft yellow glow.

  Once, twice, a third time she blinked, only then coming fully awake.

  Her shoulder cramped from the crumpled position in which she’d slept, and her feet tangled in the afghan she’d draped over them when she’d first lain down for her nap. Her pillow was uncomfortably damp and not until she sat up did she realize her whole face was wet.

  “That was one awful nightmare,” she said, pulling herself off the bed to make her way to the bathroom.

  Switching on the light, she glanced in the mirror to discover her makeup was smeared and her eyes were as red and swollen as her nose felt. One awful nightmare, indeed. So awful, it had brought her to tears, and yet all she could remember of it was an overwhelming sense of loss and something about a pair of blue eyes that had the power to bring her to her knees.

  Like everything else that had happened in her life prior to the night she came to this house, the dream was a memory she couldn’t recover.

  Chapter 11

  “It’ll take a lot of work, that’s sure enough. But I feel like this is the place where I’m supposed to be.” Clint Coryell ducked his head, a shy grin lifting one corner of his mouth. “Even though I’d be the first one to claim how silly that sounds.”

  “Not silly at all.”

  Rosella MacKeon felt a matching grin form on her face as the man beside her spoke, his gaze firmly fixed on the horizon. On the future. Their future.

  He reached down to clasp her hand in his, and the smile she wore spread through her whole body.

  With all her heart, she knew that Clint was her True Love, the one she would spend her life with. That he hadn’t actually popped the question yet was only a small technicality, to her way of thinking. And technicalities didn’t matter when you stood next to your SoulMate.

  At least, they shouldn’t matter.

  From the time of her first memories, Rosella had heard the stories of SoulMates. Both her mother and her grandmother had filled her head with their family legends of Magic and Faeries and, most important of all, True Love. She’d known even before she’d hit grade school that finding your SoulMate, your one True Love, was more rare than snow falling in July at the equator. Rare, but, for those lucky few among them, it happened. As it had happened for her.

  Knowing all that, believing all that, why was it that one small technicality like Clint’s not yet having proposed marriage—which shouldn’t matter at all—mattered so much?

  Maybe it mattered because there was a chance that those stories she’d been raised to believe were just that: stories. And even if they were true, after all the centuries that had passed, her bloodline would have to be diluted, making her as much Mortal as Faerie. Maybe even more Mortal than Fae.

  No wonder his lack of a proposal mattered.

  With each passing day, the doubt loomed larger, more real. It had reached a point where sometimes she caught herself wondering whether he even—

  “Rosie!”

  Startled, she jerked her attention back to Clint.

  “Sorry,” she mumbled, loath to think he might suspect what had been going through her thoughts.

  “Wherever you were, it sure wasn’t here,” he said, squeezing her hand.

  “Miles away, I guess,” she answered, her face heating with embarrassment.

  More like years than miles, actually. Years into the future, daydreaming about all the things they’d spoken of wanting one day. A home, a family, a life together.

  Or had the together part been something only she’d wanted?

  “Well, wherever you drifted off to, I need you back here with me. See that rise out there? The one with the tuft of trees lining it?” Without dropping her hand, he draped his other arm around her shoulders, hugging her close to his side. “That’s where I plan to build our home.”

  Her heart skipped a beat and her breath caught in her throat. “Our home?”

  “Yup,” he said quietly, taking an audibly deep breath before turning her in his arms to face him. “I’m no romantic, Rosella. I’ll be the first to admit that. You deserve a man who can come up with all the pretty words and do just the right thing to sweep you off your feet. But that sure isn’t me.”

  If she’d thought her heart had skipped a beat moments before, this time she felt as if it had stopped beating altogether.

  “Clint—”

  He stopped her with two fingers placed gently against her lips.

  “Hear me out. I can never be the kind of man that women dream about, Rosie. I’m just a plain ol’ cowboy at heart. I don’t imagine a future filled with fame and fortune. When I look into the future, I see a home right out there on that rise. A home filled with a loving wife and a brood of kids. I can’t offer more than that. But I can promise you that I will always love you more than anyone else ever could. I will always be there for you. I’m just hoping that’s good enough.”

  As he stopped speaking, he reached into his pocket, pulled out a small black box and popped open the lid.

  Nestled inside lay the most beautiful diamond ring Rosella had ever seen. It wasn’t a big stone by any stretch of the imagination. Its beauty lay in the fact that Clint had picked it out just for her.

  She wanted to say something perfect for the moment. Something about what a liar he was about not being a romantic. Something about how they both dreamed of the same future. But the tears clouding her eyes somehow seemed to clog up her throat, too. So, instead, she threw her arms around his neck and hugged him for all she was worth.

  “I sure hope that’s a yes,” he whispered into her ear as he held her against his big, warm chest.

  “It’s definitely a yes,” she said when she was finally able to speak.

  “Sweet!” Clint laughed, and stepped back, catching up both her hands to pull her along with him. “Come on. Let’s go have a look at the view from where I’m going to build our front porch.”

  The sun had started its descent, a big, fiery ball sinking behind the mountains, casting a warm orange glow over the landscape. As they drew closer to the rise where Clint planned to build their home, pockets of shadow formed and deepened around trees and the outcroppings of rock that dotted the land.

  It was as they passed one such outcropping that Clint suddenly stopped, tugging Rosella’s hand to pull her behind him.

  “Did you hear that?” he asked, his body tense and alert in a way she hadn’t seen before. “Listen!”

  Rosella stilled, straining to hear something beyond the birds and the rustle of the wind blowing through the tufts of weeds covering the land. Her mind quickly filed through everything Clint had told her on their way out here today. At the time, the idea of a ranch filled with everything from rattlers and elk to coyotes and bear had sounded exotic and wonderful.

  It sounded a whole lot less wonderful now, standing in the middle of that wilderness, so far from the safety of Clint’s old pickup.

  “There it is again,” Clint said, his voice hushed and urgent.

  This time she did hear the noise. A groan, low and unmistakably human.

  “That doesn’t sound like any animal I’ve ever heard,” she said, unconsciously matching Clint’s whisper.

  “No four-legged one, anyway,” he answered, moving toward the large outcropping. “You stay there. Anything but me comes out from behind those rocks, you run like hell, you understand?”

  She nodded her understanding, but followed him as soon as he turned his back. No way was she crossing all that open land by herself. Especially not wearing a miniskirt and heels.

  Rounding the stones, they spotted him. A large man lay on the ground as if he’d been tossed there by some giant hand. Clint hurried to him and knelt at his side, two fingers on the man’s neck.


  “Pulse and breathing are fine, but he’s out cold,” Clint said. “I’m going to go get the pickup. I think there’s enough clearance for me to make it out here without busting an axle. Carrying somebody his size isn’t something I’d particularly want to do.”

  “I’ll wait here with him,” Rosella said, dropping to her knees at his side.

  “You sure?” Clint asked, indecision painting his features.

  “I’m sure. Go on. It’s not like I can’t see you from here.” Even if he would appear the size of a pea by the time he got to the truck. “But hurry up, okay?”

  “No worries about that,” he said. “I’m not leaving you here alone with that guy one second longer than I have to.”

  With a quick kiss to her forehead, Clint was on his feet and off toward the pickup at a dead run.

  Only after she was alone did she have any time to wonder about the stranger. How badly was he hurt? How did he get here? Where had he come from? With his long black hair and his odd choice of clothing, he looked as if he were some strange mixture of the original people who had roamed this land and some wild highlander, both of them straight out of ancient history. And, more important, neither of them belonging here in this place and this time. The comb clutched tightly in his fist only added to the mystery.

  “If nothing else, you should have one heck of a story to tell when you wake up,” she muttered, standing up to track Clint’s progress toward the pickup.

  He was nearing the truck and still running at full speed.

  The man at her feet groaned, and Rosella dropped to her knees again to place a hand on his forehead. Her hand froze when, without opening his eyes, he spoke.

  “Remember me, Elesyria,” he whispered.

  Rosella’s life had been filled with coincidence on more occasions than most people would believe. It had happened to her so often, she’d learned to ignore them for the most part. But this stranger speaking Syrie’s name was simply too much of a coincidence for even her to ignore. The name was far too unusual. Maybe this man was the key to unlocking the mystery of their guest with no memory.

  As Rosella watched, the stranger opened his eyes.

  “Are you okay?” she asked, feeling foolish the moment the words were out of her mouth.

  Of course he wasn’t okay. If he was, he wouldn’t be lying out here unconscious, in the middle of nowhere, dressed like someone who belonged in one of the historical romance stories she loved so much.

  “Orabilis sent me,” he said, struggling to form the words as if his mouth wasn’t quite ready to be awake yet.

  Orabilis! It was a name she’d heard often enough on the lips of both her mother and grandmother, usually uttered in hushed tones of reverence. Rosella had always thought it the name of a creature straight out of a Faerie tale. But if that were true, then her Faerie tale had just come to life.

  * * *

  The young woman sitting on the ground next to Patrick flinched as if she’d been struck when he spoke the old witch’s name as Orabilis had insisted he must do. Quickly he ran through those final instructions in his memory, hoping he hadn’t made some horrible mistake.

  But no, he’d done as he was told. He’d spoken to the first woman he’d set eyes on in this time. He’d told her who sent him.

  “Yer the Sensor, are you no’?”

  Again she flinched, scrambling to put some distance between them.

  In truth, she seemed stranger to him than any Faerie who’d ever crossed his path. The clothing she wore covered so little of her body, he’d felt the need to sit up and search for the stream where she must have been bathing when he appeared.

  If he could control his muscles well enough to sit up straight, that is, a feat he doubted his ability to accomplish at the moment.

  “Am I in trouble?” she asked, one hand fluttering up protectively to her throat.

  Women. In any time, in any place, they were all the same.

  “It’s no’ about you.” He stopped and sighed, shaking his head in frustration. “I’ve a speech I’m supposed to give you. Something about there being turmoil and revolt in the home world. About how Orabilis is asking a boon of you to help me in finding one of her own who’s been sent to this place and time.”

  “Thank the Goddess,” the young woman murmured, the pink of her cheeks quickly fading.

  “Who are you?” a man asked as he rounded the outcropping of rock, taking a protective stance behind the woman. “And what are you doing out here?”

  “My name is Patrick MacDowylt. Before I can say more, I’m bid to warn you that by helping me, you risk the wrath of powerful Fae who won’t look kindly on yer interference in this matter.”

  “Powerful what?” the man exclaimed.

  “From the stories I’ve been told, I guess I’d have to expect something like that,” the woman responded, sitting up straighter, as if to indicate she’d not be intimidated by such threats. “My name is Rosella MacKeon and this is Clint Coryell. If Orabilis herself has sent you to my keeping, then whatever you need, I’ll do my best to help you with it. It won’t fall on my shoulders to be the one who lets Orabilis down. Now, what does she want me to do?”

  “Who is this Orabilis you’re talking about?” the one called Clint asked. “Do you actually know this guy, Rosie?”

  “No, I don’t. I’ll explain everything later,” she said, absently allowing him to help her to her feet. “Does this have something to do with Syrie?”

  In the process of pulling himself up to sit, hearing the name of the woman Patrick had come here to find wiped from his mind any thoughts of how weak he felt. “It does,” he said. “So, Orabilis was right. You do know her. Do you know where I can find her?”

  Rosella nodded slowly, her eyes narrowing before she spoke. “I do. But I should warn you, Syrie is my friend. Whatever it is you want with her, you need to understand one thing. Although I will do my best to help you, I won’t do anything that would bring harm to her in any way. I won’t let you hurt her, either, so maybe you better start by telling me exactly why you’re the one who’s come to find her.”

  “Nobody is hurting anybody around here. You better get that straight right from the start,” Clint growled, inserting himself in front of Rosella.

  Had the silly woman not been listening? Irritation warred with frustration in this odd place where women flaunted their bare legs and their men seemed not to notice. As he tried to move, Patrick felt as though each of his limbs weighed more than a full-grown horse, and his vision blurred just enough that he didn’t dare trust his legs to hold him if he stood. And on top of that, he’d found the one Sensor who couldn’t seem to understand what it was she needed to do for him. He’d told her why he was there. He’d told her who had sent him.

  “I already told you of my quest. I’ve been sent to this time to find Syrie, to take her home where she belongs,” he said, making little effort to keep the suffering he felt from coloring his voice. “Orabilis said you would help.”

  Across from him, Rosella shrugged. “I understand what you want to do. But none of that answers the question I just asked. Why is it that you are the one who’s come for her? And, equally important, is it possible she doesn’t want to go with you?”

  “She will go with me without hesitation once her memory is restored.”

  If he could restore her memory.

  “Did I hear him right?” Clint asked, his head turning as he looked from one of them to the other. “Did he say he’d been sent to this time? What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

  “In a minute,” Rosella said to Clint before turning her attention back to Patrick. “By what Magic do you propose to restore her memory?”

  “Magic?” Clint choked out. “What kind of crazy bullshit is this, anyway? What’s going on here, Rosie?”

  “Hush,” Rosella said absently, her gaze still focused on Patrick.

  “No Magic,” Patrick said. “I just need to make her fall in love with me again.”

  If he could make her f
all in love with him again. Assuming, of course, she’d ever been in love with him before.

  “I see,” Rosella said.

  “Well, I sure as hell don’t,” Clint protested. “None of this is making any sense at all to me.”

  “Will you help me?” Patrick asked.

  “I will,” Rosella said, before reaching out to clasp Clint’s hand in hers. “We will.”

  “Not without some kind of an explanation, we won’t,” Clint said, but he didn’t pull his hand from Rosella’s.

  “I come from a long line of people,” Rosella said, looking up at Clint as she placed her hand on his cheek. “A line that extends back to a time when one of our ancestors was Faerie.”

  As Clint began a sputtering response to Rosella’s disclosure, Patrick closed his eyes and leaned his head back against the big rock. He had no interest in the argument ongoing between the two people who had found him. All he cared about was that the Sensor had agreed to help him, bringing him one step closer to finding the woman he loved. Finding her and enticing her to fall in love with him all over again.

  Or, perhaps, for the first time.

  Chapter 12

  “Thank you so much, Ellen. I swear I’ll find a way to pay you back for this. This and everything else you’ve done for me. Clint will bring him when he comes to the party this afternoon.”

  “Bring who?” Syrie asked, entering the kitchen to looks of surprise from Rosella and Ellen.

  “I thought you’d still be sleeping,” Ellen said, rising from her chair to refill her coffee. “It’s not even seven yet.”

  “Nightmares,” Syrie answered, shuddering as she crossed to the cabinet to retrieve a cup and fill it with hot water from the kettle on the stove. With teabag in hand, she joined her friends at the table. “Who is Clint bringing?”

  “My cousin,” Rosella said, concentrating on the cup in front of her. “Patrick. He arrived last night. From Scotland.”

  A look Syrie couldn’t quite interpret passed between Ellen and Rosella before both of them once again turned their focus to the fascinating cups in front of them.