Our Time Is Now

by Chloe Douglas

  “May I say that whatever it is you are preparing, it smells delicious.”

  Taken off guard, Jessica spun on her heel, surprised to find Gideon standing in the kitchen doorway.

  “You shaved!” she unthinkingly blurted, nearly dropping the apple tart on the floor.

  Unable to stop staring, she stood motionless, the piping hot baking dish held in front of her. To her stunned amazement, beneath the bushy beard Gideon had been hiding a face of leonine male beauty: strong-jawed, lean cheeked, and bronze-skinned. But what really floored her was that he looked exactly like the clean-shaven man who’d been haunting her nightly dreams.

  Gideon rubbed a hand along his jaw. “I trust that it meets with your approval.”

  My approval? What woman wouldn’t approve of this big, oak tree of a man with thick, tawny brown hair and piercing blue eyes? If that wasn’t reason enough to gawk, the way he filled out his red flannel shirt and new jeans was—

  “Wow,” she murmured, too overwhelmed to think in full sentences.

  Gideon shot her a quizzical glance. “Is ‘wow’ good or bad?”

  “It’s good… Wow is good.” Flustered, Jessica abruptly turned toward the kitchen counter, putting the baking dish on a metal trivet.

  Wow is good. Did she really just say that? It made her sound like some pathetic, star-struck groupie. The man shaves off his beard and suddenly I’m reduced to monosyllabic baby talk.

  Rallying her defenses—not that a simpering mush pile had much to work with—Jessica turned back around. “Would you mind putting the wine and the salad bowl on the dining room table?”

  Gideon reached for the bottle of Chianti. “I’d be only too happy to oblige.” As he fingered the wrapped straw on the bottom half of the bottle, he said, “You honor me with such indulgence. I would have been content with another desiccated meal.”

  “A desiccated—Oh, you must be referring to those Hungry Man microwave dinners that I’ve been feeding you.” Belatedly it dawned on her that Gideon was making a concerted effort at small talk, a first for him. “As you astutely noticed, a microwave oven has the power to zap the life out of any meal. Lucky for you, the other day I got a promotion at work and… well, I was in the mood for a little celebration.” She self-consciously finished, well aware that she was nervously babbling.

  “Thus far, you’ve made no mention as to how you earn a living.”

  “Oh, haven’t I?” Jessica unwillingly recalled how Richard used to denigrate her journalistic aspirations. Bracing herself for a similar reaction, she said, “I’m a, um, news reporter for The Greenbrier Dispatch.”

  “A lady journalist… I am impressed.”

  To her surprise, Gideon appeared genuinely intrigued, which made her realize that there was something different about him. As if he’d somehow morphed into another man since she’d last set eyes upon him.

  “Well, it’s not like I’m Lois Lane. You know, Lois Lane, Superman’s main squeeze,” she elaborated at seeing Gideon bewildered expression. When it became evident that he still had no idea who she was talking about, she waved away the comment, refusing to indulge his time-travel fantasy.

  Courteously bowing his head, Gideon carried the Chianti and wooden salad bowl into the other room.

  Wanting to get the food on the table while everything was still hot, Jessica quickly heaped pasta noodles into two large bowls, topping each with a generous serving of sautéed vegetables.

  Bowls in hand, she made her way to the dining room. Gideon rose to his feet the instant she crossed the threshold. Taking both bowls from her, he set them on the table, then stepped behind her chair and politely waited for her to take her seat.

  “Thank you,” she murmured, feeling a heated tingle pulse up and down her spine.

  As Jessica placed her napkin on her lap, Gideon poured wine into each of their glasses. For all his bizarre claims of leapfrogging through time, he was, without a doubt, the most well-mannered man she’d ever met. And even though she was garbed in her usual around-the-house attire—yoga pants and a tunic top—the deferential treatment made her feel like the belle of the ball.

  “The aroma is deliciously pungent,” Gideon complimented, taking an appreciative sniff.

  “Oh, it’s just a simple pasta primavera. Although I should warn you that I tend to go a little heavy on the basil and garlic.”

  “ ‘Pasta primavera.’ A most melodic-sounding name.”

  “Yes, it is,” she agreed with a smile.

  As she gazed across the table at Gideon, for one charged instant, nighttime dreams and daytime reality collided, creating an unnerving sense of déjà vu.

  * * *

  Leaning against one of the front porch columns, Gideon slowly moved his knife blade across a small piece of maple, savoring the peacefulness of the moment. Mercifully, the pain in his head had ebbed; it was now little more than a dull throb.

  To his surprise, he’d greatly enjoyed dining with Jessica Reardon. It had been eleven months since he’d last shared a meal with a member of the fairer sex, that woman having been his wife.

  Eleven months. It seemed like an eternity.

  Gazing at the moonlit sky, Gideon tried to reckon the passage of time. As he did, it suddenly occurred to him that time might be similar to a railroad track on which trains traveled from one station to the next. The year 1864 was one of many stations along the route, the year 2014 yet another. If that was true, then it might be possible to travel in the opposite direction. Although, having no knowledge as to how he’d arrived at this future terminus in time, he had small prospect of returning to the past. And even if such a thing were possible, he would be returning to a brutal war that could not be won and should never have been waged.

  In the heady days after Fort Sumter’s fall, there’d been no question that he would take up arms to protect his home and loved ones from Northern invasion. A native-born Virginian, his sense of honor had compelled him to join the Confederate army. But his allegiance had blinded him, and his so-called honor had ultimately destroyed everyone and everything he’d ever held dear.

  Taking a deep breath, Gideon filled his lungs with the sweet night air as he gazed at the western horizon. While this century was unfamiliar to him, the mountains that saw-toothed across the evening sky were unaltered by time.

  Everything else, however, had changed dramatically.

  He’d always assumed that when he returned home from the war, he would pick up where he’d left off—managing his property. But with Highland House now owned by another, there was no hope of reviving his fortunes by working the land. Be that as it may, the twenty-first century was an uncharted wilderness, waiting to be explored. And though he felt like a blind wayfarer in this land of gadgetry and mechanical devices, he was determined to traverse the path set before him.

  For the time being, that path included the enigmatic Miss Jessica Reardon, a lady who was without a doubt the most unusual woman he’d ever encountered. At times, her manner was brash and her speech rather brazen. Nonetheless, there was a femininity about her, a gentleness that was wholly at odds with her masculine attire. Moreover, he suspected that her outward façade was a suit of armor that she donned to hide the loneliness that he occasionally glimpsed in her eyes. Suffering from the same ailment, he wondered why so beautiful a woman would live in a state of near-solitude.

  As he contemplated the conundrum, Gideon carefully slid his knife along the length of wood, shaving thin slices of maple with each pass of the blade. To take their minds off the homes they’d left behind, the men in General Lee’s ragtag army had invariably turned to gambling, drinking, praying, or whoring. Having lost his faith in God and not interested in pursuing vice, Gideon had turned to whittling to help calm his mind and to stave off the endemic boredom of camp life.

  “Mind if I join you?”

  Upon hearing Jessica’s voice, Gideon quickly rose to his feet. “I would greatly enjoy your company,” he said, ushering her to the porch stoop.

  Tilting
her head upward, Jessica peered at the sky. “It’s a perfect night for star gazing, isn’t it? And look, there’s a shooting star,” she exclaimed as she excitedly pointed toward a flash of celestial light. “Quick! Make a wish.”

  “I’ve always believed that it’s ‘not in the stars to hold our destinies, but in ourselves,’ ” Gideon said, tongue in cheek.

  “That’s from Shakespeare, isn’t it?”

  “Act One of Julius Caesar. Do you read the bard?” he inquired conversationally as he reseated himself.

  “Not lately,” Jessica replied. “Not since college, anyway.”

  “A lady reporter with a college education. I am doubly impressed.”

  “Don’t be. I mean, it’s not that big a deal,” Jessica demurred with a shrug.

  Detecting a measure of unease in her voice, Gideon thought a change of subject was in order. “When the white settlers first arrived in the valley of the Greenbrier, they referred to the Alleghenies as the Endless Mountains,” he told her as he gestured to the rugged expanse outlined against the night sky.

  The new topic clearly met with the lady’s approval because Jessica smiled at him as she said, “I once read that the word ‘Allegheny’ is an Indian word that means eternity. Nice to know that some things in this world last forever.”

  As Jessica continued to gaze at the peaked horizon, the enraptured expression on her face inexplicably put Gideon in mind of his wife. Although the two women bore no physical resemblance, he couldn’t help but notice—

  Suddenly realizing that he’d been comparing them, Gideon pushed the errant thought from his mind, considering it a betrayal of his vows. His wife’s death notwithstanding, his feelings for her were as strong this day as they had been the day they’d wed. Neither time nor death could diminish the love he bore for her; that love, like the mountains on the horizon, was eternal.

  Crossing her arms over her chest, Jessica leaned her back against a rounded column. “Since we’re playing the name game, why is it called Highland House?”

  The question surprised him. Although the lady had refused to countenance the fact that he’d traveled through time, evidently her curiosity had finally gotten the better of her.

  Gideon leaned against the opposite column, mimicking Jessica’s pose. “Since the house sits high atop a knoll, my grandfather, a practical man if ever there was, decided it should be called Highland House.”

  Jessica’s delicate features instantly scrunched into a disappointed pout. “And here all along I thought the name had to do with Scottish lords roaming the mist-covered Highlands.”

  “There is no reason why you shouldn’t continue to think thusly,” he told her. “Given that Archibald MacAllister was exceedingly proud of his Scottish forbears, I suspect those mist-covered Highlands held a more powerful sway over my grandfather than he cared to admit.”

  “Do you mind telling me what you did before the, um, Civil War broke out?” Jessica next inquired.

  Given the lady’s intent gaze, Gideon deduced that he was being tested as to the veracity of his time-traveling claim. And while he could offer no proof that he had traveled through time, Jessica could offer no proof that he had not.

  “I oversaw affairs at Highland House,” he informed her.

  Hearing that, a pucker materialized between Jessica’s brows. “What was there to oversee? The property is less than a hundred acres.”

  “Though you may find it difficult to believe, Highland House used to be one of the more sizeable properties in the county. In its day, the farm surveyed at roughly five thousand acres,” he stated, the words tinged with a hint of manly pride. For one profane moment, Gideon wished that he could pull back the curtain of time so that Jessica could see how grand Highland House had been before the last fifteen decades had taken their toll.

  “So I take it that you were some sort of gentleman farmer.”

  “While you could have called me that at one time, as you can plainly see, my current holdings are greatly diminished,” Gideon quipped, holding up his whittling knife for her inspection.

  “Jeez, I can’t win for losing,” Jessica muttered, clearly exasperated. “No matter the question, you’ve got a pat answer. Personally, I believe you sniffed too much gunpowder at the Civil War reenactment. And just so we’re clear, I don’t think that—” The lady stopped abruptly in mid-harangue, her gaze swiveling toward the ringing chimes that hung at the far end of the porch.

  Gideon also stared at those gently swinging pieces of metal.

  “There’s no wind blowing,” Jessica remarked, putting into words what Gideon had already observed.

  In the next instant, the lights inside the house began to flicker.

  Catching the whiff of a sulfurous odor, Gideon leapt to his feet, immediately recognizing the putrid smell. He’d first caught wind of the scent a week ago when he’d staggered through the woodlands that bordered Highland House.

  When, a few moments later, he heard a loud rustling noise, Gideon unceremoniously grabbed Jessica by the upper arm and hauled her to her feet.

  “What in the world is going on?” Jessica demanded.

  Suspecting that she would think him a lunatic if he answered truthfully, he gave no reply as he shoved Jessica behind him, shielding her as best he could with his much larger body. Holding his whittling knife like a dagger, he then braced himself to do battle.

  No more than a few seconds passed before Gideon glimpsed a bright discharge of reddish-gold flames through the trees. At that precise moment, he was struck with an agonizing burst of pain, radiating from his left temple.

  “Did you see the fiery blaze in the maple grove?” he hissed, barely able to speak through the pain.

  “I can’t see anything,” Jessica carped. “I’m standing behind you.”

  As though it had a life of its own, the torturous staccato inside his skull intensified, causing Gideon to totter unsteadily.

  Attempting to support him from behind, Jessica wrapped her arms around his waist. “Gideon, what’s the matter?”

  Hit with another painful salvo, he grabbed the porch railing with his free hand to prevent himself from toppling over like a felled tree.

  “Please, Gideon! Tell me what’s wrong,” Jessica pleaded.

  Gritting his teeth, he said, “The beast has returned.”

  Chapter 11

  Groaning loudly, Gideon wrapped both his arms around the porch column as he slumped against it.

  Terrified, Jessica immediately placed two fingers over the pulse point on his right wrist, alarmed to discover that his pulse was beating somewhere in the neighborhood of two hundred beats per minute.

  Oh, God.

  “Gideon, I need to know if you’re suffering any chest pains or—” frantically, she tried to recall the classic symptoms of a heart attack—“or radiating pain down your left arm?”

  “Evil will descend upon the land of the Greenbrier,” Gideon hissed, his face contorted in an agonized grimace. “The red man cometh. Those in high places will perish in the flames of hell. So sayeth the Beast.”

  “Cut the mumbo-jumbo! Are you having a heart attack?”

  “Evil will descend upon—”

  “Tell me where it hurts,” Jessica yelled over him.

  When Gideon suddenly clutched his head with both of his hands, Jessica had her answer.

  Trying to keep her voice as calm as possible, she cupped a hand around Gideon’s elbow. “I want you to sit down while I go inside and call the paramedics. Okay?”

  Evidently, it wasn’t, because Gideon suddenly pivoted toward her, grabbing her by the shoulders. “Evil will descend upon the land of the Greenbrier,” he rasped, shaking Jessica by the shoulders as he spoke. “The red man cometh. Those in high places—”

  Jessica put a hand over Gideon’s mouth to quiet him. “I know: the flames of hell. Now how about doing me a favor and sitting down? Please,” she implored.

  Mercifully, he complied, sinking onto the front stoop in an ungainly heap. Holding his
head in his hands, Gideon then brought his knees up to his chin as he began to rock back and forth. Torn between calling the paramedics and staying with him, Jessica decided to remain where she was, afraid that Gideon might get up and wander into the woods if she turned her back on him.

  Please, God, tell me what to do, Jessica silently begged as she plopped down beside Gideon. As though divinely inspired, she suddenly recalled what her mother used to do for her whenever she’d suffered from a headache.

  Pulling Gideon’s hands away from his head, she placed her own hands on either side of his skull. She then began to gently massage his scalp. Within seconds, Jessica could feel the tension leave Gideon’s body; his broad shoulders visibly slumped. Pleased by the efficacy of the cranial massage, she scooted behind him, hunkering against his bowed back so that she could more easily reach his brow and temples.

  “Are you feeling better?” she asked once Gideon’s breathing had returned to normal.

  “Yes, thank you. I am much improved.”

  At hearing that polite response, Jessica bit back a hysterical burst of laughter. Did the man have any idea what a fright he’d given her? She really and truly thought that he’d been in the throes of a full-fledged heart attack. Which begged the question: if not a heart attack, then what kind of attack had he just suffered?

  “I’m going to call Dr. Whitecastle first thing in the morning,” she said as she moved to a less compromising position, belatedly realizing that she’d been straddling his hips with her thighs. “Maybe you need another prescription or—”

  “I beseech you, Jessica. Please do not call the doctor.” Turning around to face her, Gideon took hold of her right hand and placed it over his heart—a heart that now beat strong and steady. “It was but a momentary spell.”