As they crossed the verdant pasture, everywhere that Gideon gazed, the hills were festooned in a patchwork of vibrant color: the flaming reds of sourwoods and maples, the golden yellows of hickories and poplars. Beauty of such magnitude took a man’s breath away. The roots that bound him to this place ran deep, going back to his great-grandfather Fergus MacAllister, one of the first white men to cross into what was then a forbidding wilderness. It had been a place fraught with danger, but also holding the promise of untold bounty for those bold enough to tame it.
Having reached his destination, Gideon dismounted and wrapped the horse’s reins around the wrought-iron fence that enclosed the small hilltop cemetery. From his saddle horn, he untied the bundle of yellow goldenrod and blue asters that he’d picked earlier. As he opened the gate, he winced at the loud, grinding creak that broke the peaceful silence.
While the fence was encrusted with the rust of several decades, Gideon was pleased to see that some kind soul had recently tended to the area. The brush and debris had been cleared, and save for a trailing vine of myrtle, the head- and footstones were all plainly visible. Here, guarded by a pair of ancient maples, were the mortal remains of three generations of MacAllisters.
And here it was that his beloved Sarah had been laid to rest.
Finding her grave, Gideon went down on bent knee. As he stared at the tombstone he lightly fingered the incised epitaph.
“ ‘So I turned to the Garden of Love that so many sweet flowers bore,’ ” he read aloud. To ensure that his wife had a proper burial and that the quotation from Blake was inscribed upon her tombstone, he’d forwarded every Confederate dollar and Union greenback that he’d had to his name.
“This is not how I envisioned our lives unfolding,” he whispered as he placed the bundle of wildflowers at the base of the weatherworn headstone. “I have so many regrets. There are so many things I could have done differently… should have done differently. It weighs heavy on my mind that I cannot atone for the grievous sin I committed against you, dear Sarah. I took a vow to always protect you. I broke that vow, and I shall spend the rest of my days living in the shadow of that broken promise.”
As he spoke, a cloud passed overhead, casting a dark shadow over the cemetery.
“I dare not ask your forgiveness, Sarah… I have not earned it. Indeed, I may never earn it.” As his eyes blurred with tears, Gideon stared at the headstone, at those damning words—Beloved Wife of Gideon. Shamefully, he bent his head, unable to gaze at the inscription. “You must believe me… If I could do over, if I could somehow pull back the curtain of time, I would do differently. If given a second chance, I would stay by your side, and no force under the heavens would be able to separate us.”
But as he knew all too well, he would never have that second chance. Time flits past on wings made of quicksilver, there but for an instant.
Inundated with self-recrimination, Gideon wiped the tears from his eyes. As he did, the sun broke through the clouds in a dappled burst.
Still on bended kneed, he raised his face heavenward. “Even though we are separated by death, once again I feel your presence, dear Sarah. When you died eleven months ago, it was as though that piece of you that had hovered ever near took flight. And try as I might to call it back to me, I could not. But now, once again, I—” He lowered his head and stared at the ground beneath him, unsure of what it was he wanted to say.
How could he explain to his beloved that once again he felt her presence—her beautiful, compassionate essence—but in the guise of another? He could not. He did not have the words at his command to articulate so mysterious a conundrum. Moreover, he had yet to sort through his feelings for Jessica Reardon. He only knew that the time had come to begin again.
Slowly, Gideon rose to his feet.” My darling Sarah, I shall never forget the love we shared… never.”
It is done, he acknowledged as he turned to leave, having made his peace as best he could. He’d deliberated long into the night, his heart torn between the woman who was lost to him forever and the woman who’d mended his broken body, even as she’d helped to heal his broken heart.
As the hour was late and he still had a great many preparations to make, he quickly mounted and headed back to Highland House.
Setting a brisk pace, Gideon reflected on the many changes he’d recently undergone. When he’d first arrived at Highland House, he’d been dispirited, his grief an unbearable crucible. He’d seen so much senseless carnage, been witness to so much human misery, that he’d wanted nothing more than to close his eyes one last time and put it all behind him. But then a courageous and steadfast woman had entered his life, ushering him back to the world of the living.
In so many ways, Jessica Reardon put him in mind of Sarah. Although, curiously enough, it was the differences between the two women that he found most appealing. At first, he’d been consumed with guilt whenever he made the comparison, but that guilt had now given way to a hope for the future.
In order to secure that future promise, he knew he must break free of his shackles and escape the beast that held him in its thrall.
Coming to a halt at the old corn crib that served as a stable, Gideon dismounted. Since he would later have need of the gelding, he put down a supper of hay, but left the horse saddled. That done, he strode toward the carriage house, opened the double doors, and stepped inside.
Once his eyes had adjusted to the dim lighting, he strode over to the workbench. There he retrieved the bullet mold that he’d earlier discovered hidden in the bottom of a box with other “junk,” as Jessica had referred to the miscellaneous collection of ancient odds and ends. While she’d deemed it worthless, the bullet mold was highly valuable to him. His great-grandfather had used this very mold to fashion his own bullets when he’d fought with Washington’s troops during the Revolutionary War.
Just as Gideon intended to fashion the silver bullet that he would use to kill Draygan.
To that end, he slipped a hand inside his coat pocket, removing the sterling silver cigar case that his father had given to him upon his graduation from the University of Virginia. As he removed the lid, he stared ruefully at the family crest that was engraved upon it. He was the last of his line. A lone twig on a venerable old tree. When he died, so, too, the name MacAllister in Greenbrier County.
So be it.
His future course set, Gideon cast a quick glance at the western horizon. The sun was low in the sky, and he had much work to do before he set out on his quest.
Chapter 17
Exhausted, Jessica pulled the Bronco up to the front of Highland House and cut the engine. Grabbing her purse and canvas tote, she opened the door and got out. There was a distinct chill in the air, the sun having already started its descent behind the western ridge.
Hearing the front door open, she turned and watched as Gideon stepped onto the porch and waved to her. Attired in his cleaned-up, gray uniform trousers, which were tucked into a pair of polished, knee-high boots, and a flowing, white linen shirt, he looked like he’d just walked out of her nightly dreams.
“You were gone so long that I’d begun to worry about you,” Gideon said as he held the front door open for her.
“My interviews took a bit longer than expected,” Jessica told him, managing to drum up a smile.
Depositing her things on the hall table, Jessica headed to the living room with Gideon tagging along. With a weary sigh, she plopped into one of the wingback chairs situated in front of the fireplace.
“And were you able to solve the Draygan mystery during the course of your interviews?” Gideon inquired, seating himself in the chair opposite hers.
Jessica plucked at a loose thread that protruded from the armrest. Then, having had her fill of Draygan for one day, she said, “There is no dragon. However, I am convinced that some very strange psychic phenomenon is happening throughout the county. For whatever reason, it’s only happening to people born between the hour of midnight and one a.m.”
Gideon ra
ised a questioning brow. “Should you not be affected by this strange phenomenon? As I recall, last night at McGuff’s, you acknowledged that you were also born during the witching hour.”
Uncertain if her nightly dreams could rightly be classified as psychic phenomenon, Jessica shrugged, faking a nonchalance she didn’t feel. “I guess some people are less susceptible than others.”
“Then you live a more charmed life than the rest of us doomed ghost seers.”
As she stared at Gideon Jessica’s gaze was suddenly drawn to the gray woolen fabric of his trousers and the welt of yellow that was sewn on the outer seam of each pant leg. “You have a closet full of new clothes. Why are you dressed like that?”
Gideon peered down at his uniform. “I don’t see anything wrong with my attire. Men in this day and age also wear shirts and trousers.”
“True. But unless it’s Halloween, or they’re extras on a Hollywood movie, or going to an historical reenactment, they don’t wear Confederate cavalry uniforms,” she snapped, making no attempt to curb her irritation.
“As much as the thought is objectionable to you, I did travel one hundred and fifty years into the future,” Gideon stubbornly maintained. “I cannot alter reality simply to suit your skepticism.”
Still reeling from the Draygan interviews, Jessica didn’t have the patience or wherewithal to deal with Gideon and his purported adventures in time travel. “Well, guess what? Your whole story smacks of altered realities, conspiracy theories, and alien abductions.”
“Might I point out that your argument is utterly nonsensical?”
“Oh, that’s rich,” she snickered. “What could be more nonsensical than you claiming that one moment it’s 1864, then all of a sudden, poof, it’s the twenty-first century? And don’t bother answering that. It was a rhetorical question,” she muttered disagreeably as she got up from the chair.
Also rising to his feet, Gideon said, “Why is it so difficult to believe that I hail from another century?”
“Maybe because I stopped believing in fairytales a long time ago,” she informed him, terrified that she might lose her claim to sanity if she acquiesced.
“This is no fairytale, Jessica. As well you know.” Bowing his head, Gideon added, “Please forgive me if I have distressed you in any way.”
Apology issued, Gideon strode across the room and retrieved the gray tunic hanging from the back of a ladder-back chair. Without uttering a word, he slipped it on. That done, he reached for the leather gun holster and sword belt which also hung from the chair.
“Wh-what are you d-doing?” Jessica stammered, hit with a potent sense of déjà vu. Last night in her dream, she’d watched Gideon perform this same ritual.
“I must leave now,” Gideon answered as he pulled on a pair of leather gauntlets.
Leave? Surely, he wasn’t intending to return to the nineteenth century via the same time portal that had brought him here? Which, of course, would be an impossible feat, given the fact that there was no time portal.
But what if I’m wrong? What if a time portal really does exist?
Panic-stricken, Jessica rushed across the room. “You can’t leave,” she cried, grabbing hold of his arm.
Gideon gently disengaged himself from her grasp. “But I must,” he insisted, a determined look in his eyes. “I shall not have a moment’s peace until I confront the beast known as Draygan.”
Flabbergasted, Jessica said, “That might not be such a good idea. Hunting a fire-breathing dragon could prove very dangerous.” Not to mention, it was an utterly quixotic venture, right up there with tipping windmills.
“And here I thought that you didn’t believe in the beast’s existence,” Gideon countered.
“While I don’t believe there’s a fire-breathing dragon on the loose, I am convinced that there is some force—some inexplicable phenomenon—happening here in Greenbrier County,” Jessica conceded, hoping to talk some sense into him. “But whatever it is, this mysterious force is beyond our comprehension.”
“I do not mean to comprehend the beast,” Gideon declared. “I mean to slay it.”
His resolute tone of voice caused Jessica’s panic to instantly transmute into acute fear. “But what if Draygan slays you instead?” she argued.
“That is always a possibility when one meets a deadly foe on the field of battle,” Gideon said matter-of-factly. “A battle is, by its very nature, a contest to the death.”
“This isn’t a game of Dungeons & Dragons,” she told him, disbelieving what she was hearing. If, on the outside chance, there really was a fire-breathing dragon, Gideon could very well walk out the front door, never to return. Wasn’t that what had happened to Christine Whitley? According to Joe Whitley, after catching sight of Draygan, his wife had vanished without a trace. “Please, Gideon. Don’t do this.”
“Ask anything of me but that.”
“Then take me with you!” she said impetuously, refusing to surrender. “It just stands to reason that two people can slay a dragon better than one.”
Her plea caused Gideon’s stoic expression to soften ever so slightly. “You, Jessica Reardon, are the most stout-hearted woman that I have ever known. But this is my fight, not yours.” Snatching his gray slouch hat from the table, Gideon set it on his head at an angle.
Because there was nothing she could do to stop him, Jessica stood silent as Gideon strode out of the room. Hearing the soft jangle of his scabbard as it bumped against his thigh, she experienced another burst of déjà vu.
Overcome with a dark premonition, she darted over to the window and watched as Gideon left the house. In that charged instant, Jessica couldn’t distinguish where her nightly dreams ended and reality began.
* * *
Telling herself for the umpteenth time that Gideon would safely return to Highland House, Jessica glanced at the stack of dragon lore and other related material that she’d printed off the Internet. Despite the lateness of the hour—a few minutes before midnight—she’d decided to put a dent in her research since she was too wired to go to bed.
Nearly five hours had passed since Gideon had departed, his foolhardy quest putting her in mind of one of King Arthur’s knights setting out to find the mythical Holy Grail. As anyone familiar with those legends knew, more than a few gallant knights had never made it back to Camelot. A fact that she preferred not to dwell upon.
Picking up the first page of the printed stack, Jessica quickly perused an article written by an accredited folklorist who explained that, in the Asian world, dragons represented wisdom and hidden knowledge; while in the West, winged serpents were considered evil and destructive. Which meant that Draygan could possibly embody both positive and negative aspects. Assuming, of course, that the mythical beast actually existed. Jessica was still highly skeptical.
After highlighting a few passages that she intended to cite in her article, Jessica put the printout aside and reached for the next sheet of paper, a list of documented dragon sightings over the last fifty years. To her surprise, there had been sightings of the mythical beast all over the globe—Bangkok, Helsinki, Rio de Janeiro, Cape Town. Moreover, all of the sightings coincided with periods of intense psychic phenomena, deadly disasters, and in one case—reported in Wiltshire, England in 1965—of time travel.
As she re-read the last entry, her jaw went slack.
“Oh my god,” she murmured. “What if it’s true? What if Gideon MacAllister somehow fell through a crack in time?”
And could that possibly be what had happened to Christine Whitley? Maybe Christine didn’t “vanish into thin air” so much as she vanished into another century. Every year thousands of people went missing. What if some of them were actually time travelers? Just ordinary people going about their daily lives when they were unexpectedly jettisoned to a different time period.
But how could such a thing happen? Jessica’s rational mind demanded. Time travel was a mind-boggling premise.
Suddenly envisioning a mad scientist standing at a chalk
board writing out a mathematical formula a mile-and-a-half long, she pivoted toward her laptop, pulled up an Internet search engine, and typed “Is time travel scientifically possible?” Clicking on a recent entry, she carefully read an extract written by a particle physicist—no dummy there—who claimed that, according to Einstein’s general theory of relativity, traveling into the future was scientifically possible!
If that was true, it meant that one hundred and fifty years ago Gideon MacAllister really did fight in the Civil War.
“It also means that Gideon once owned Highland House,” she murmured, shell-shocked.
In dire need of fresh air, Jessica got out of her chair and walked over to the French doors, pulling them wide open. Bombarded with more questions than answers, she gazed at the night sky. Spying Orion, the celestial hunter, she thought of Gideon. At that moment, he was out hunting for Draygan, the same beast who might very well have brought him forward in time.
That she was actually starting to believe such a preposterous notion prompted a burst of hysterical laughter. Jessica’s notion of reality had just taken a turn for the weird.
* * *
Standing beside a massive pine tree, Richard Bragg stared at Highland House, his estranged wife’s ramshackle abode.
“That she bought with my money,” he muttered. Anger was getting the better of him, and the list of Jessica’s sins seemed a long one indeed.
Be that as it may, he was still willing to show mercy and to forgive her willful behavior, provided that she not only return to him but also agreed to renew their marital vows. More than generous terms, given the hell that she’d put him through.
Having decided that the best course of action was to confront his wife directly, Richard had driven to Greenbrier County, West Virginia. Earlier in the evening, he’d checked into a local motel in Lewisburg, planning to pay Jessica a visit after he attended Sunday church service tomorrow.
Our Time Is Now Page 15