Faithfully Yours (The Forever Time Travel Romance Series, Book 1)

by Spradling, Carol A.

  Faith stumbled, dropping the spatula to the floor. Smoke flumed above the pan and filled the small room in a thick haze. The acidic smell burned her eyes and lungs. Tears streamed down her cheeks and she gasped for air, coughing until her chest ached. Without thinking, she grabbed the skillet bare-handed and pulled it away from the fire. Pain shot up her arm. Crying out, she held her aching hand in front of her face. She clutched her wrist, and moved it in a back and forth motion, blowing on her throbbing palm in short, quick bursts.

  Hank remained in the doorway. The only help he offered in way of comfort was to prop the entrance open with his back. Although he seemed unconcerned about her health, at least the smoke rose to the ceiling and crawled along the rafters to the outside world. The flour sack she had been using still sat on the table, waiting for her to make gravy. She grabbed it up and dumped half a bag of the powder onto the torched eggs.

  Hank crossed his arms over his chest. His lips curled with disgust. "So, there's no breakfast?" he sneered.

  Faith quickly pulled the bacon from the coals and sat the pan onto a towel. The eggs were lost but she had managed to salvage the meat. "You like it crispy, don't you?" she asked, and tried to smile in his direction.

  He left the doorway, walked to where she stood, and looked down at the pan. "That isn't fit to eat. You burned the bacon, too."

  He glanced around the room, and his neck grew crimson. This colorful trait of his always warned her of what was to come. Like waving a red cloth in front of a bull, things in his domain were not as he preferred. He would remove the irritant and reestablish his territorial control. The air and ground nearly rumbled around her.

  Faith lowered her hands and placed them behind her. She backed away, trying to move in a slight, yet fluid movement. The bedroom was behind her, but there were no locks on the door to prevent him from charging in. She glanced to the table. The butcher knife and bacon slab lay next to the dirty bowl and spoon she had used to make biscuits.

  "That's to be my breakfast?" he shouted, pointing at the smoking pan. "Burned bacon? You expect me to work all morning without food?"

  "No," Faith said, shaking her head. "I made biscuits. The biscuits!" she screamed and grabbed a cloth from the table, wadding it in her good hand. Hank stepped backward out of her way. She pulled the Dutch oven from the fire and lifted the lid. Golden brown balls of dough glowed in the pan. She sighed. At least she had salvaged something edible. "I can cook more eggs," she assured him. "They'll be ready by the time you've emptied the milk pail."

  He glanced down to the bucket he carried. It was half filled. Although she didn't dare ask, she wondered if he had stopped milking early or if Mabel was producing less than usual.

  "Get them ready," he snarled, and stormed from the house.

  Faith watched through the window as he headed to the ice house. She waited until he disappeared from view before she allowed herself to breathe. Exhaling, she slid the pan of biscuits onto the table. The bread needed to cool before it could be eaten. Limp and exhausted, she slumped into a chair and laid her hand in her lap. Even though she had promised Hank eggs, it could wait while she looked at her injury and tried to determine the extent of the damage.

  Red and warm, she flexed her fingers. She would be fine within a few days. If she had the luxury of letting the wound rest, it would be pink and healthy by nightfall. Hank would never allow her to stay home because of a burn. The best she could do to prevent the tenderness from tearing open and become inflamed was to wrap it with a cloth. She shrugged and pushed herself to her feet. There was no need to give him something else to complain about.

  To prepare a place for him to eat, she stacked the dirty dishes into a pile, clearing one half of the table, and then looked into the butter bowl. There was enough for breakfast, but later tonight she would have to churn the cream from today's milking. From the amount of milk she had seen in the bucket, there was only enough to make a heaping tablespoonful of butter.

  Perhaps the old woman who lived on the ridge behind the property would have a surplus. Her cows always produced well. If she was willing to share her cream, Faith could give her half of the butter she churned. It seemed a fair exchange. She glanced around the messy room. Dirty dishes were strewn everywhere. It wouldn't be difficult to convince Hank that she needed to clean the house before going to the field. Once everything was back in order, she would sneak off to the ridge and offer the trade.

  The dogs barked outside, and Faith jumped. Instinctively, she reached for the frying pan and moved to the hearth. "Aidan, I wish you were real."

  Chapter 3

  Located between Faith's childhood home and the house she and Hank now shared, Faith walked the short distance to the footpath she and her sisters had first trailed. The path might have never existed if it had not been for her sister Hope's wild imagination. She strongly believed an old crone lived on the ridge. That alone was nothing to pique their curiosity, but Hope had insisted that the ancient female was a witch who posed a threat to their lives with her abilities to perform outlandish feats. Faith shook her head as she recalled Hope's overly active thoughts.

  Branches and shrubs stretched across the passageway, blocking an easy walk. Faith pressed through, climbing the uneven path, determined to reach the top. She didn't remember the short trek taking so long to complete. There were just as many exposed tree roots now as there had been ten years ago. She climbed around the last boulder and leaned against it to steady herself. From where she stood, the ground ahead of her looked level. The trees swayed in front of her, and glimpses of a sod roof and a stone chimney came into view. It was too late to turn back now. She had reached the top of the knoll. Hopefully, Hank wouldn't notice her absence.

  Faint echoes from her childhood whispered in her ear, and she could hear Hope's voice daring her to peek through one of the covered windows. Faith shook her head at her sister's foolishness. The evil witch was no more of a threat now than she had been then.

  Faith scanned the house as it grew larger with each step. The manner in which the recluse chose to live her life could lead people to believe unimaginable things, there was no denying that. But what well respected person would live all alone on a secluded hilltop? Faith pushed childhood taunts from her mind, continued up the last of the path, and stepped from the thicket.

  A few chickens walked across the yard, and a rooster sat perched on top of a fencepost at the garden's edge. Weeds and dried cornstalks filled the marked off grounds. Garden stakes swung helplessly from frayed twine, seeming to have no purpose except for whatever the wind blew in their direction. From the looks of the scarecrow, dangling from a lopsided pole in the center of the field, the fallow dirt had most likely not been tilled in years.

  Faith hoped someone was nearby. Hank would expect her in the fields, and after this morning's breakfast disaster, she didn't dare keep him waiting much longer. She turned her gaze toward the pasture. Where was the cow? Had the owner died, and her passing gone unnoticed? Faith drew her attention back to the house. No smoke rose from the chimney, and a curtain hem laid on the edge of the sill. If Hope had accompanied her today, the girl's imagination would have been unstoppable at this point.

  "What do you want?" a voice rasped from the doorway.

  Faith jumped and clutched her hands to her chest. The elderly pitch was as polished as porcupine quills sliding over a tin roof. Faith wondered when the last time was that the harsh voice had engaged in conversation. Hopefully, her tones would be more bearable with a little use. Faith closed her eyes and caught her breath, wanting a moment to slow her heart rate to a more comfortable pace.

  "You startled me," she finally said, and stepped from the path.

  Leaning on her walking stick, the aged body hobbled from the darkened building. "Did I now? You still haven't answered my question."

  The dull thud that accompanied each step seemed to jar Faith's heart. She flexed her fingers, trying to work feeling back into the tips. It wasn't too late for her to change her mind. S
he could say a quick good bye and head back down the rise. Hank would look for her if she didn't arrive in the fields by meal time. Whichever choice she made, her morning would be uncomfortable. At least it would take Hank a few hours to have tobacco leaves ready for hanging.

  The woman on the porch pulled back her head, but narrowed her eyes at Faith's hands. The appendages still worked to lessen her anxiety.

  "You haven't outgrown that habit, I see."

  "Outgrown what?" Faith asked.

  "That." Bony fingers wrapped around the gnarled stick and pointed at Faith's hands.

  Faith looked down. Her knuckles still moved back and forth like she worked a ribbon around the joints. "No, I suppose I haven't." Forgetting her nervous tick, she stood ramrod straight. "Do you remember me?" Faith asked, wishing she could recall the lady's name.

  The woman adjusted her stance and leaned on her cane. "Is there a reason I should have forgotten you? You're the blonde one. Am I wrong?"

  Faith curled her lip to one side. Standing in the sunlight, her golden locks had to glitter to a blinding sheen. It didn't take a gypsy to notice her hair color.

  "Where're your three sisters?" the scratchy voice asked. She remained mid-section of her porch. The boards' edges were split and curled. Wide gaps separated their sides, but the woman stood secure in their support.

  "They live not far from here," Faith answered. There was no need to be rude. Was her name Wanda?

  "Even that black haired one?" She walked to the edge of the porch and spit on the ground.

  Faith didn't dare look down. If something burst into flame from the wet projectile, she would notice it soon enough. More disturbing than the possible visit to a witch's home, Faith hated to think that a lady would chew tobacco, even a wicked one.

  "That black haired one, she was nothing but trouble."

  Faith lifted an irritated brow at the condescending remark aimed at her sister. It was one thing for a blood relative to think this way about her sibling, but it was not acceptable for a virtual stranger to do so.

  "Hope," Faith answered, still a little ruffled by the conversation. "Yes, she lives nearby. But I wouldn't say she was trouble. She was adventurous."

  The woman huffed her breath. Her shoulders lifted with the obvious distaste of Faith's defense of her sister. "I say she was trouble, and you still haven't said what you want."

  Faith tilted her head, and her shoulders shuddered involuntarily. Delores? Faith wondered, still trying to remember her name. No, that wasn't it. Her second guess was no better than her first. "I came up here to borrow some milk," Faith said. "But I don't see your cow."

  "She's in the back pasture, and I don't see your bucket. What's your real reason for coming up here?"

  Faith partially turned and motioned with her thumb toward the path. "If I'm intruding," she said, half hoping she could be on her way. "I can come back when it's more convenient for you."

  Trina? No, that wasn't right, leaned over her cane and stared at Faith. Her mouth opened with an audible smacking sound. "Why don't you come up here and sit a while. You can tell me what brings you up this way. Or do you intend to make me stand while you find the courage to unburden yourself?"

  As if caught in a snowdrift, Faith bent forward and tried to propel her legs onward. There were no flowers to line a curved walkway, and the ground covering was more weeds than grass. She side stepped a cat, which refused to move from in front of the entryway, and climbed the porch stairs, surprised that the boards didn't collapse under her weight.

  "You sit there," the woman instructed, and then settled herself on a slatted swing near the end of the house. Faith glanced up at the ceiling. The wood above her head was as dilapidated as the rest of the residence, yet her hostess' trust for her safety never wavered. The frail looking body sat down with the confidence of a brawny logger with a sharp axe.

  She stared over at Faith, her grey eyes cloudy. She pushed back in the swing and set it in motion. Clearly, she intended to offer no more encouragement. If Faith planned to talk, she would have to initiate the conversation. It was just as well. Although the woman's voice had softened a bit, the sound of an axe pick splitting an icy creek was still annoying.

  Faith sat in a chair and folded her hands in her lap. She no longer tried to jar the forgotten name from her memory. "I have heard that you are familiar with dream walking," Faith said. She hadn't deliberately forgotten a milk pail, but since she had left the house without it, she might as well learn what she could about a more pressing matter. For once, she hoped her sister had been correct about her assumption of the old witch and her mysterious abilities. Not really sure how to explain her encounter with Aidan, she hoped the crone knew something about the matter. Perhaps the limited information Faith could provide would spark a response from her.

  Diagonally to where she sat, the woman stared straight ahead. Did she enjoy company or consider the social grace a nuisance? If anything registered in those old thoughts, her face failed to show it. Remaining silent, she pushed against the floor, either waiting for Faith to add more to her statement or interpret what she had heard. It was difficult to determine what opinions were forming under the gray hair and sallow skin. She pursed her lips and tapped her fingers together. For a person who took little care of her home, her nails were impeccably groomed.

  "I've heard the expression," the woman finally answered.

  Faith sighed as though a huge burden lifted from her chest, and she giggled with a nervous laughter. "I wasn't certain if there was such a thing, to be honest, but it is the only explanation I can come up with. When I was a child, my sister Hope believed you knew things that weren't easily explained." Faith scooted to the edge of her seat. She felt foolish to even be here, confiding her imaginings to a relative stranger. "Last night, I had a dream. It was so real. I can still see every detail vividly. But this morning, when I woke up, I was here with Hank."

  The woman glanced over at Faith, and her face pulled to one side in an annoyed snarl. She shook her head and turned her gaze in the direction of the garden. "We all have dreams," she said with a shrug.

  Faith's countenance drooped with her shoulders. It seemed doubtful that anything more than a bucket of milk would be shared between them. Faith glanced down at her feet and studied the uneven slats her soles rested upon. Her dream had been too real to be dismissed by a crotchety, old hag. Besides being curious to know more about her time with Aidan, Faith had not hiked all the way up the hill to be told the obvious.

  Her sister Hope may have been the master of wild tales, but Faith had been right about this person. She was not like anyone else they had ever met, but if anyone knew the answers to her questions, it was this old crone from the ridge.

  Frustrated, Faith looked around the yard. She had hoped to keep private some of the details concerning her night with Aidan. Her body tingled with the distant feel of his touch. These memories could not have been imagined. She shook her head and reached her decision. She would do whatever was necessary to convince the woman to share what she knew.

  Faith turned her head from side to side and scanned the grounds once more. No one was nearby. Reaching up her hands, she hurriedly unbuttoned the top of her blouse, pulled the fabric open, and leaned forward. She shoved her breasts in front of the old woman's aloof gaze, and demanded her full attention. "Dreams do not leave marks, especially like these."

  The gray-headed woman pressed both of her feet to the floor and stopped her swinging motion. The extra links in the chain swung free of the main line. Her eyes widened. She bent forward and inspected Faith's chest as though she looked for mites among cottonseeds. Her head began to nod and a slow smile spread across her lips. Faith nervously held the blouse open, not sure she had made a wise decision. In front of her, a wide-eyed gaze lifted from the mouth-sized abrasions on Faith's breasts, and up to her face. A morbid infatuation seemed to spring the soulless depths to life. "So you've met Mr. Valentine," the raspy voice said.

  Time and sound swirled around
Faith, seeming to catch her up in it. Her head wobbled and she tried to remain focused on the woman's leering face. She had hoped for some insight as to what had happened to her last night. But how did this recluse know Aidan's last name was Valentine and that he was responsible for her marks? She had spoken his name without hesitation.

  Motion slowed around Faith, and she pulled back as though she had been slapped in the face. Breathing hard, she stared over at the frail body. Weakened from what she had heard, she slumped fully in the chair. She didn't have the strength to run. What had the woman meant to gain from saying what she did? Faith thought back and tried to remember if her knowledge was a coincidence.

  When she had been a child, had she mentioned her desire to marry a man with that specific name? From what she remembered, there had been no such conversation with anyone, much less with a stranger. Regaining a small amount of strength, Faith lifted her arms and fastened her blouse. Her fingers fumbled with each closure. Once covered, she peered over at her companion.

  "You surprise me," Faith said, her mouth as dry as the cotton she had imagined the woman inspecting. "Why did you not assume those marks were from my husband?"

  The thin feet across from her set the swing back in motion. Slender legs lifted as the contraption glided forward. "My dear, I thought I did."

  Faith shook her head. "My husband's name is Hank."

  Weathered cheeks pursed worn lips, and the woman tilted her head to the side. "For now, yes," she said. "But not always." She stopped her swinging abruptly, stood to her feet, and walked past Faith. The hem of her skirt flowed against her shins. "You should leave now. Your husband, Hank, will wonder where you are. You do not want to anger him. Not yet, anyway."

  "You make no sense. Why would I ever want to anger anyone?" Faith's hand went protectively to her collarbone. "Besides, my husband needs little encouragement to lose his temper. I don't know how you know the name of the man in my dream and honestly, I don't care. What I do want to know is, how did I awaken with physical marks on my body? Will you at least tell me that much?"