She held him to her, wanting to devour him. Their breaths mingled as though they each tried to decide if their immediate plans could wait until later. She licked her lips, inadvertently touching her tongue to his mouth. Like steel being forged by a lightning strike, he held her tighter. He tilted his head, slanting his mouth over hers. Silently responding, she slid her hands behind his back, and pressed her body against him. Their forms neatly meshed together like the threads in a wool blanket. If she were to pull away from him now, she would unravel any chance she had for happiness.
He drew his head back, and Faith moaned in protest. "There is nothing I would like more than to finish this discussion in our bedroom," he said. His breath seemed as difficult to catch as her own. "But if I don't finish this harness, I will have to walk the crops to Charlotte."
Faith closed her eyes and dropped her head forward, resting her brow against his chest. Her forehead rose up and down with each breath he took. She pressed her nose into his shirt, inhaled, and tried to memorize everything about him. He smelled of sunshine and lemons. She smiled and hugged him tighter. Adding dried citrus rind to the wash was a laundry tip she had learned from her mother. Apparently, this secret was not exclusive to her family. It was too bad her parents had not been here to advise her on her latest conundrum.
"I should have taken care of this adjustment last night while you were sleeping," he said. "But I didn't want to disturb you."
She raised her gaze and stared up at him. "Disturb me?"
"You seemed out of sorts after dinner, and complained of your head hurting. Don't you remember? When I looked in on you a few hours after you went in to lie down, you were sleeping fitfully. I didn't want to make you more uncomfortable with the noise I would make with an awl and hammer."
Faith had no reason to doubt what he said, except that she had no memory to correspond with his statement. Was it possible that she would move from one world to the next while asleep? This was how she had described the incident to the woman on the ridge. She would take Aidan at his word and hope the missing pieces of her memory would return.
"While you take care of the tack," she said, "I thought I would go look for wild mushrooms. I could make a soup."
Aidan slid the basket under the worktable and then looked over at her. "Would you like company? I could go with you."
She placed her hands on her hips and tried to look the part of a dutiful wife. "You just told me how important it is that you work on that strap."
"It is," he conceded, nodding in agreement. "How long do you think you'll be?" he asked, and flipped the leather strip onto his shoulder.
Good heavens, he was gorgeous. "A few hours at the most," she said. She lifted her shawl from the back of the chair and draped it around her back.
Aidan gathered the woolen ends of the wrap in his hands and pulled her to him. "Hurry home," he said, and then whispered in her ear. "We need to finish what was started earlier."
The glimmer she had seen previously throughout the morning flickered in his eyes like a firestorm in a wind gust. She wanted more than anything to do just that, but she needed to know how she came to be Mrs. Aidan Valentine. Hopefully, this afternoon she would find more answers than mushrooms.
****
Faith walked the creek bank, nearing the halfway point to the house she had shared with Hank. She would tread cautiously as she made her way to the path that would take her to the top of the ridge. She didn't know what to expect when seeing him. One thing was certain, she wanted to solve one confused thought at a time.
The old woman was the only connection Faith had between her life with Hank and with Aidan. The gray headed woman had been selfish with her information when Faith spoke with her before falling from the cliff. She had mentioned Aidan by name, but when she had spied on them from across the creek bank, she had seemed more curious than nosey to see her there. Surprise had not covered her features, but interest, like a person who was anxious to see if things had turned out as she expected. If the old woman wanted to know the answer to that question, she would have to share more information with Faith than a man's name. At least Faith had something to bargain with this time.
Faith kicked a pinecone, shooting the seedpod to the water's edge. She would have to cross the river in order to reach the home she once shared with Hank and then continue on to the path that would lead her to the ridge and the old woman. She glanced up at the sky. With any luck, Hank would still be in the fields. She would cut a wide berth around the crops, and move as quickly as possible behind the house.
A rope bridge stretched across the narrow part of the waterway, connecting Aidan's property with Hank's. Faith stood at the mouth of the bridge. She grabbed the hemp rails for support and placed her foot on the first group of slats. Aidan had told her that he had bought his land from the old woman. He also said that the crone owned all of the property on the other side of the river. Faith remained stationary and considered the information. Before their fight, Hank had been sole owner of the property, except for the ridge.
Her hand tightened into a fist. She could feel the knife handle she had used on him in her grip. During her last encounter with Hank, she had fought for her life, stabbing the blade in his direction. From the way it had sunk to the hilt, she had not hit bone. Had he died from the wound? She added this question to her list of queries, and stepped onto the bridge. The slats bounced under her feet as she crossed to the other side of the water.
Faith climbed the short embankment and walked toward the tree line. From where she walked, the gray stones of the chimney showed behind the leafy foliage. She braced herself for the memories that would certainly come and then looked through the leaves at the stacked stones. Slowing her steps, she stopped at the property edge.
She stood rooted in place. Everything in front of her seemed familiar, yet foreign. Where were the crops and the tobacco fields? Nothing was the same as it had been before she left Hank.
Her world seemed to pull away from her and she considered turning around. Afraid that she would be thrown back to Hank if she stepped one foot on his property, she looked down, making sure the tips of her shoes remained within the thicket. She wiggled her toes. The crone was the only constant in this nightmarish dream, and to reach her, she had to cross through Hank's property.
Faith glanced from left to right, searching for Hank. He was nowhere to be seen. She took a deep breath and shot up a quick prayer. Stepping forward, an eerie qualm slipped over her. Everything within her urged her to turn around and run back to Aidan. What would happen if she confronted Hank? She might not be able to survive a second murder attempt.
Hurrying to the house, she stepped onto the porch and inched her way to the window. Her heart raced and her palms sweat. Before she sought out Trista, she had to know if Hank was still alive. If he was, she would no longer have anything to fear. She peered inside. Nothing seemed out of place, but more importantly, there was no sign of anyone being home.
With a quick glance toward the barn, she looked to see if she had time for a peek inside the dwelling. Nothing stirred nearby. Catching the cabin door handle, she pushed the entrance open, and stepped inside. The interior of the room had not changed. Dishes were stacked on the table, and an iron pot hanged from the hook in the fireplace.
Faith moved further inside the house, and made her way to the bedroom. There was nothing distinctive about the décor. A bed and dresser was the only furniture in the room. The air was thick and stifling. She waved her hand in front of her face. The room could use a good airing. She remained in the doorway and considered what she saw.
Men's clothes lay tossed over a corner chair, but there was nothing feminine in the space. No dresses, hair brushes, or even clean linens had any place in the room. While the clothes were visibly cut for a man, she did not recognize the garments as being anything Hank had worn. One thing was clear; none of her things were still in the house. Did a new owner live on the farm? If they did, she should exit their home immediately. There was
no need to cause trouble with new neighbors.
A gentle weight pressed down on her shoulder, preventing her from leaving the room. Faith's breath caught in her throat, and she turned her head to see what held her in place. Standing next to her, the gray haired woman from the ridge held a bony finger to her dull lips, cautioning Faith from speaking.
Chapter 9
"Wait!" Faith shouted and ran for the front door. Tearing out of the house, she turned the corner, and chased after the old woman. "I need to speak with you. Stop!"
Matching her step for step, Faith was amazed at the speed in which the woman moved. She maneuvered her way through the garden with agility and a quick stride. Continuing toward the tree line, Faith ran harder, hoping to catch up to her before she covered too much ground. If she could prevent a climb to the top of the ridge, Faith could keep the crone from locking herself in her house.
Daylight dimmed as Faith entered the dense woods. In a half-run, she jumped over an exposed tree root and ducked her head beneath a low hanging branch. She glanced up at the trail ahead of her and searched for any sign that the woman may be waiting for her to catch up. Leaves swung back in place offering the only evidence that anything had passed this way. Faith slowed her pace and pressed through the heavy shrubbery. A pebble rubbed against the outside of her foot. She would remove it later. As much as she hated the idea, she would have to follow the trail to the top of the ridge.
The rich blue and purple garments the woman wore should be easy to spot, but there was no sign of anything other than the green and brown colors of the forest. For an aged woman, she seemed to know how to dart through the wooded area like a deer trying to escape a hunter. Faith leaned her arm against a tree and tried to catch her breath. While deciding what to do next, she listened for the sound of diminishing footfalls.
Birds chirped above her head and there was slight movement in front of her. She jerked her attention forward, and prepared for an awkward confrontation. Instead of an intimidating woman, glaring down at her, a furry, brown bunny hopped across the path. From its diminutive size, this was possibly its maiden adventure from its burrow.
Faith rested her back against the trunk and raised her gaze up the hillside. She pursed her lips and blew her breath upward, attempting to cool her brow. A blue and purple splotch fluttered at the top of the ridge. The colorfully clad woman had made her way to the crest. Instead of disappearing from view, she gazed down over the slope. Faith cocked her head to the side and tried to determine if the woman hoped to be seen.
The woman's gray hair hung in front of her shoulders, reaching to her waist. The tips of it blew back and forth as though it beckoned Faith to follow her. The woman stood motionless, like a narrow beacon on a rocky coastline, seeming to wait for Faith to continue her pursuit.
Faith shook her head, trying to decide the reason for the woman's interest in her life. She hadn't seemed that concerned with anything she had said yesterday. The answer seemed to await her at the top of the hill. This time, Faith wouldn't be dismissed with a pointing finger and a closed door. She rucked up her skirt, tucked the hem of the material into the front of her waistband, and set her chin in a determined pitch. She would have the answers she needed before returning home to Aidan.
A possible path veered to the right of the main trail. Faith followed the hazelnut scent and pushed into the narrow clearing. With her mind set on the answers she wanted, she headed up the incline. Twigs and brambles pulled at her skirt, a possible foreshadow of what was to come. Unwilling to be dissuaded from her quest, she whipped loose foliage from in front of her legs, and started upward. The toe of her shoe dug into the ground as she climbed the bank. Leveraging her foot against an exposed rock, she grabbed a sapling near its root and pushed herself to a short plateau. The slope of the hillside was steeper than she had anticipated. Her lungs burned and she breathed hard, climbing the last steps to the top of the rise. How had an elderly woman made it to the top so much faster than her?
Faith regained her balance and peered out from under her damp bangs. The area in front of her spread out like a lush meadow. Standing straight, she wiped her hair away from her forehead and looked from one side of the property to the other. There were no fences or boundaries to section off the land as private property. When she had come to this home yesterday, she had taken a much easier path.
A chicken squawked at the front of the house. The bird flapped its wings and flew to the porch railing. Although Faith empathized with the animal's peril, she had wrung a few necks in her life. It was possible that dinner preparations were under way. Faith walked warily from the side of the clearing, hoping the biddy had been frightened by something other than an axe wielding, crazy woman.
A hawk screeched overhead, swooped low, and then soared away from the house. Faith wondered if the woman had transformed herself into the predator, and had left her to draw her own conclusions. Faith shielded her hand over her eyes and looked to see if a gray mane trailed behind the bird.
"Did you come all the way up here to look at the wildlife?" a voice asked from the front porch.
Faith shifted her gaze downward and lowered her hand. "No. I came up here to talk with you. Did you not hear me when I called to you in the cabin?"
The woman pulled a dishcloth from off of her shoulder and swatted the seat of a chair. She wasn't even winded. Dry leaves and dust swirled to the floorboards. She sat down and then stretched the towel across her skirt. Lifting a mixing bowl, she positioned it on her lap, tipped the chair backward, and rested her shoulders against the wall. With everything well balanced, she pulled a fistful of green beans from the dish and snapped off the ends.
"What do you and I have to discuss, Mrs. Valentine?" she asked and laid the broken stems in her lap.
Faith narrowed her eyes and tried to determine the woman's ploy. Apparently, her isolated existence had lent itself to an obsessive imagination. Faith stepped closer, searching the area on the porch. No weapons appeared to be within an easy reach.
"How do you know about Aidan?" Faith asked.
She barely raised her knees high enough to climb the stairs to the porch. The balls of her feet scraped the wood steps, but she pushed onward. Making it to the top of the last rise, she stood to the side of the woman, turned, and looked behind her. The porch swing no longer hung where it had yesterday. It was possible that it had been removed, but the woman didn't seem to be the type of person who would employ menial help, nor did she seem inclined to change her surroundings on a whim.
"Wasn't there a swing here yesterday?" Faith asked, pointing to the empty space.
The woman's brows rose and she scoffed. "Yesterday." She nodded her head as though confirming a suspicion. "Is that the question you want answered?"
"I have several, and I won't be limited," Faith snapped.
The woman's hands curled around a fresh batch of beans and snapped them in half. A few green seeds shot upward, arced, and then bounced to the floor. "For someone who needs answers, you might consider using a more pleasing tone of voice." She opened her hands and the broken bits plummeted into the bowl.
Faith stared over at her and tried to surmise her adversary. The woman's gray hair looked as though it had been dark in her younger years, and her eyes looked as though they may have been a shade of blue before turning gray and cloudy. Faith rubbed a spot high on her cheekbone. Just below, and to the left of her eye was a small mole, a trait all members of her family shared, all except for her sister Grace.
The woman in front of her sat in profile. The left side of her face was clearly in view. Faith squinted and focused on the area near the woman's eye. Although not a mole, a similarly shaped blemish marked her upper cheek. At least Faith could rest in knowing they weren't related. Faith lowered her gaze and took in the woman's overall appearance. It was odd how the elderly face appeared the same now as it had when Faith had seen her as a child. Was it possible that the woman had not aged throughout the years? A person isn't born old, surely she had enjoyed a you
thful life at some point in her past. The woman turned her head, ending Faith's uninvited inspection.
"If you plan to be here a while, perhaps you should sit." She pointed to a chair next to her.
"Thank you." Faith kept her eyes on the woman and positioned the seat at an angle to keep her within view. "What's your name?" She used her most congenial voice. She couldn't very well address her as 'the old woman from the ridge' or worse, 'the old witch from the ridge'.
The woman closed her eyes as though the idea of sharing her title caused discomfort. She cleared her throat. "You may call me, Trista."
"Trista," Faith repeated, listening to the sound of the syllables. Although she had never met anyone with that name, there was something familiar in the sound of it.
"I'm still waiting for an answer, Trista."
Trista raised her gaze and stared at Faith. Icy tentacles seemed to crystallize and wrap around Faith's soul, tugging at the core of her being. If she didn't do something to prevent the mental dissection, she feared she would never be whole again. She pulled back in her chair and crossed her arms over her chest.
"That's the oddity about receiving what you search for," Trista explained. "The response isn't always to your advantage." Her shoulders shrugged and she snapped off the end of another bean. "Well, my dear. I shall tell you what you ask. I know Mr. Valentine because I attended your wedding. Do you not remember your guests?"
An involuntary shiver ran down Faith's back, and she rubbed her hands over her forearms, hoping to remove the frosty enclosure that wrapped itself around her body. This answer did not tell her anything useful. "But yesterday," Faith mumbled and looked to the side of the house. She may have no memory of marrying Aidan, much less knowing who had witnessed the ceremony, but she was certain that this woman had asked her if she had met Aidan, and neither of them had mentioned anything about the wedding.
Faithfully Yours (The Forever Time Travel Romance Series, Book 1) Page 6