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

by Spradling, Carol A.

  She pulled her hair behind her ear, wanting Trista to see the seriousness of her next question. "Why didn't you help me when Hank dragged me to the edge? I saw you standing at your front window. You could have stopped him." Understanding dawned on Faith. Her eyes and her mouth opened accusingly. "You wanted him to kill me."

  Trista rolled her eyes and then looked to the window. "Obviously he is as inept at murder as he is at everything else."

  "But why?" Faith begged.

  "Because," Trista turned her attention to Faith, her brow drawn together as though angry. Faith pulled back, uncertain to whom Trista directed her angst. "You had met Mr. Valentine," Trista reminded her.

  Faith shook her head and tried to make sense of what she was hearing. "Were you angry that I had met him?"

  Trista rolled her eyes toward the ceiling. This time there was no denying who her temper grew short with. "Quite the contrary," she answered.

  "So, you would have helped me if Aidan and I had not met?" Faith asked.

  Trista adjusted her blouse, running her hand down the side of her ribs. Faith flashed on a memory of someone else doing a similar gesture. "A man would have to be fairly riled to throw his wife off a cliff, wouldn't you think?" Trista asked. "If not for Mr. Valentine, I doubt you would have had marks on your body to incite such a reaction from your husband."

  "You wanted Hank to kill me?" Faith asked, repulsed by the idea. Bile soured her stomach, and she swallowed several times to keep it from climbing up her throat.

  Trista shrugged. "It was the only way for you to be with Mr. Valentine."

  Faith stared at a spot on the floor. Trista was insane. There was no denying it. Still, the weeks Faith had spent with Aidan were not a dream. In some peculiar way, perhaps Trista had tried to help her. Faith had time traveled to Aidan after an impassioned encounter with Hank. Faith grimaced. She did not relish the idea of seeing Hank again, but to live with Aidan as a dream was an even greater torment. After spending weeks with him as his wife, a few nightly hours of fantasy would never be satisfying enough.

  Hope had taught her how to control her ability, but she had said it would take practice to travel with precision. Aidan's injury had misdirected Faith's attention. Not blaming him for her lack of study, she closed her eyes and shook her head. Trista was right. There was only one way for Faith to return to Aidan. Faith scooted to the edge of the bed.

  "Where do you plan to go?" Trista asked. She stepped away from the dresser. Faith wasn't sure if she planned to help her walk or prevent her from leaving.

  "There may only be one way for me to return to Aidan," Faith said. "But there are more ways to achieve it."

  Trista's mouth fell open, and she stared at her, wide-eyed. "Are you daft? It won't work."

  Faith glanced over at her and laughed aloud. The irony of Trista's statement was too hilarious for reason. "Again with the riddles. If I didn't know better, I'd think..."

  Trista's face turned serious. "You'd think what?"

  Faith glowered at her. If she planned to return to Aidan, she didn't have time for games. "You're the witch on the ridge," Faith shouted. "Don't you know my thoughts?"

  Trista's eyes narrowed into a penetrating glare. "The witch on the ridge, am I?" Light dimmed the room as though commanded to flee. She rounded slowly, stopping in front of Faith. "I know more than I care to acknowledge. And I'll tell you this. Ending your life at your own hand will not send you back to Aidan, but to the deepest pit of Hell where there is no escape."

  The air in the room intensified, but Faith leaned forward, accepting her challenge. "Then what do I do?" she asked, breathing the same air as Trista. "I will not return to Hank."

  Trista straightened her stance, smiling. An evil light flickered deep inside the gray mist of her eyes. "Ah, my dear, but you will. You have no choice in the matter." She took Faith by the arm and led her to the washstand. "But only when you're rested." Placing a washcloth in Faith's hands, she lifted the pail of water, tipped the bucket, and filled the basin. "And this time," she said. "Make sure he kills you good and proper."

  Chapter 21

  Faith pushed open the back door of Trista's house and stepped out onto the porch. She had to know how Aidan was. She had left him without a word. He would surely suspect she had returned to this time, but did he know the decision to do so was not of her own choosing? She would never leave him of her own accord, especially after the night of passion they had shared.

  She closed her eyes. It didn't take much imagination to feel his arms wrapped around her waist. Her skin tingled as she remembered the wet kisses he had covered her body with. Her lips pursed with the nearness of her memory. She could still smell him, clean and musky. His presence stayed with her. She stomped her foot, rattling the raised boards. She would find a way back to him. A life without Aidan was not how she wanted to live her remaining years.

  She opened her eyes determined to return to the man who had shown her nothing but kindness, compassion, and love. Trista had to help her. The woman was as at ease with time travel as she was with baking bread. But what Faith chose to do was not for someone else to decide. She alone would deal with her conscience and the consequences of her choice later.

  Across the yard, Trista bent at the waist and pulled a wet garment from her laundry basket. She shook it free of wrinkles and then tossed it over a stretched line. Faith pulled her blanket closer around her shoulders and walked down the steps. She didn't think Trista would mind that she took the covering off of the bed. She had not seen her dress and had nothing else to wear. Faith could only guess that keeping her without clothing was Trista's way of making sure Faith stayed in her house until allowed to leave.

  The thought of fleeing down the mountain in a borrowed nightgown had entered her thoughts. But in all honesty, while she was anxious to return to Aidan, she didn't know if she was ready to face Hank. She could only guess what his reaction would be to seeing his wife raised from the dead. Faith adjusted her covering. She wondered if time and Hank moved forward in a similar pace with her life with Aidan.

  She sipped from her cup and hoped Trista was wrong. She couldn't bear the thought of Hank harming her again. Faith rubbed her hand over her shoulder. Fond wishes had not prevented the many beatings she had suffered at his hands. It was too bad that severe pain could not return her to Aidan. If that had been the case, she would have been home with him several months ago.

  Intense passion had ironically brought her to, and taken her from, Aidan. She shook her head. No one should survive a fall from that cliff. Legends swirled like snow flurries in February about the people who had plummeted to their death by a variety of methods. The story of the forlorn lovers who had committed suicide had always caught Faith's attention. Regardless of what sent them over the edge, there was not one account of a person living to recant their tale, until now, and she wished she had not been the one to survive.

  Although Trista had given her an option, she still refused to share time traveling secrets with Faith. Her suggestion would return her to Aidan, and protect her from being beaten and murdered. She had no doubt that Hank would complete what he had failed to do the night he dragged her to the ridge. It might take a while, but he would be responsible for her death. Still, to coerce someone into committing such a deed was as wrong as the initial act itself.

  Faith pulled her covering closer over her shoulders. Which was a worse option, to live with a man who was cruel and would most likely end her life after prolonged violence, or to encourage him to bring her death to an expedient end, and return her to a man who loved her? Faith glanced to her left. Beyond the pasture, the earth fell away from the ridge. She needed to go there once more, but not today.

  Faith kicked her foot at a dandelion, sending the tiny particles on an upward journey. The fluffy seeds had no more of a chance to return to their origin than she did. She cast a quick glance to the path that would lead to her home with Hank. She needed a distraction from an inevitable future, and household chores offered a n
ice diversion.

  "Would you like some help?" Faith asked, moving closer to the clothesline.

  Trista glanced over her shoulder. It was odd the way she seemed to be more aware of her surroundings than she let on. "I think it would do you some good," she said.

  "What do you mean?" Faith asked.

  "Hard work is good for the soul." Trista grimaced and then shrugged. "At least, that's why I've been told."

  "When I return to Hank, I will have more than my share of hard work."

  "Yes, but you will be stronger by then."

  Faith reached her hand to the clothesline. She shook the seam of a skirt, separating the two layers of fabric. "It seems pointless to me. Why do I need to recover? I should just return to him."

  Trista shook her head, her lips pressed together.

  "There is no need to let him have the complete advantage."

  Faith rolled her eyes and squeezed excess water from the hem of a wet blouse. "You are a most befuddling woman."

  That mischievous light sparked in Trista's eyes again, another sign of a deep well of intrigue. In the length of time Faith had spent with the woman, she had learned that Trista's secrets were never far from her thoughts. The subtle glances and hidden smirks gave glimpses of a life that could be nothing short of fascinating. While Trista never shared the details of her past, she seemed interested in helping Faith with her future.

  Faith cut a sideways glance at the woman, whose face beamed with a wickedly compelling exuberance. Faith had become as comfortable in Trista's presence as with any member of her family. She smiled at the irony, and shook her head. Never would she have guessed that the old crone of the ridge would become her friend and ally. Perhaps a few days with Trista would be what she needed to face her future with Hank.

  One item was left in the laundry basket. Faith picked up the material, and held it between her outstretched hands. Even wet, the bold colors caught the sunlight, and glimmered up at her. Holding the cloth by the shoulders, Faith shook it, hoping a fold would open up and cover the low cut décolletage. Instead of adding modesty to the cinched front, the dress looked even more risqué than it first appeared. She lowered it several inches and looked over the ruffle to Trista.

  "Does this belong to you?" Faith asked.

  She lowered her gaze to the fabric once more. Holding the dress in front of Trista, it was easy to see that the garment may have fit her at one time, but it was unlikely that she would be able to cinch it up now. Faith tilted her head to the side and considered the material. While the dress would have to be altered to fit Trista, the color and fabric seemed to be relatively new. Why would anyone have a new dress that was not her size?

  Trista's eyes widened with obvious excitement. She took the dress, caressing it as though she welcomed an expensive gift. Holding it in front of her, she said, "It's rather fetching, wouldn't you agree?"

  Faith rubbed the fabric between her fingers. "This is very well made, and the material is quite dear."

  "You know fashion, do you?" Trista asked.

  "My sister, Hope, liked to dress nicely."

  Trista narrowed her eyes from across the top of the bodice. "Would your sister have approved of this dress?"

  Faith winced and then chuckled. "The cut is a little scandalous, but Hope would have loved the fabric and color."

  Trista shrugged. Her gaze turned inward as though remembering a time when she would have enjoyed wearing this dress. "I looked a little different then," she said absently. She raised her gaze to Faith, and smiled widely. "It's just as well. This dress isn't for me to wear anyway."

  Uncomfortable with the implied direction of the conversation, Faith grasped for an alternative explanation. "Do you take in wash from other people in the valley?"

  Trista laughed. "No."

  She turned the frock at the shoulders and pinned it to Faith's torso. "This dress is for you," she said with authority.

  Faith's mouth dropped open, and she blinked wildly. "Me?" she stammered. She peered down at the wet cloth, wanting to distance herself from any notion of her wearing it. "I could never wear something so revealing."

  "Not even for Mr. Valentine?"

  "Aidan would not like to see me in this dress."

  Trista looked at Faith. Her curled smirk conveyed her obvious disagreement. "How did you ever entice Mr. Valentine to fall in love with you?" she asked. She snapped her fingers as though remembering the answer to a difficult question, and then pointed at Faith. "You were naked. Weren't you?"

  Faith opened her mouth to speak, but as hard as she tried, no words rebutted Trista's statement.

  Wind blew between them. Trista leaned in and shook her head. Her gray hair swirled around her. "No man is saint enough to ignore a woman in a dress like this. Besides, Mr. Valentine will never see this dress. This is for you to wear when you see Hank."

  "What?" Faith asked, and watched as Trista spread the fabric on the line to dry.

  Trista held to the rope with one hand and placed her other hand on her hip. "You have been away from Hank for several weeks. How will you explain where you have been?"

  Faith brushed the hair away from her brow and bit on her lower lip. She had not considered how she would explain her absence.

  "When he sees you dressed in this," Trista offered. "You will need to say nothing. He will draw his own conclusions, become enraged, and before you know it, you will be back with Mr. Valentine." She summed up the last sentence as though she followed the directions for a Sunday meal.

  "Trista," Faith said. Although she had briefly considered this option, there was something very sobering to hearing the words aloud. She may have questioned what she would do when she returned to Hank, but she now knew that she would not be able to do what Trista suggested. She would find another way back to Aidan. "I'll not do this."

  "Do you know something that will work better than a dress like this?" Trista asked.

  "No," Faith admitted. "This dress will certainly make Hank think terrible things about my character. But I cannot do that. Don't you see, it is just as wrong for me to force him to kill me as it is for him to do it?"

  "Decided that last night, did you?" Trista lowered her chin and looked out from under narrowed brows. "Do you want to stay in this time with Hank? Do you!" she snapped.

  "No," Faith answered. "But I will not be part of a murder, even mine."

  A breeze blew against the hanged clothes, and a skirt fluttered upward. Faith's attention held to the fabric. This was the dress she had worn when she and Hank had fought. She walked to the dress and inspected the material. Several holes flayed the bulk of the garment. She poked her fingers through a slit, and then looked over her shoulder to Trista.

  "I'll wear this," she said. "Do you have a needle and thread I may borrow?"

  Trista picked up the basket and walked toward the house. "You can mend your garment if you want to, but the day will still come, when you will beg him to kill you. You should have listened to me then, but you didn't. You should listen to me now. My way may not be in keeping with your moral standard, but it is the most charitable."

  Faith watched her new friend disappear into the house. Trista compared charity with murder. Maybe it was better that the woman lived an isolated existence.

  Chapter 22

  Faith held her hand under a cluster of herbs, shaking the dirt loose from the roots as she carried them into the kitchen. Trista stood at the counter, stuffing an onion into the cavity of a plucked chicken. To her left, steam wafted from a nearby pot at the fireplace. She had promised Faith a dinner of chicken and dumplings, and from the way she worked, she seemed determined to make the dish hearty and delicious.

  Earlier this morning, while Trista chose the perfect hen, Faith had gone in search of wild mushrooms to enhance the gravy. There was a small patch of ground at the base of the mountain where fungus flourished. Halfway down the hill, a small plot of blue flowers had caught her attention. The blooms were not lavender as she initially thought, but the petals wer
e similar to a small jar of herbs in Trista's spice cabinet. A small sample of the plant layered the bottom of the container.

  Faith laid the bunch of flowers on the top of the cabinet and rooted through the variety of glass bottles, searching for the one she had seen earlier this morning.

  "What are you looking for?" Trista asked, sliding a stem of rosemary under the chicken skin. She patted the top of the breast and worked her thumb, moving the herb to the right side of the bone.

  "I found this," Faith pointed with her nose at the flower. "This morning, I noticed the bottle was almost empty." She lowered her head and reached to the back of the shelf.

  "You'll need to hang that to dry before bottling it," Trista reminded her.

  "I want to make sure it was the same herb before I bound it." Faith straightened a bottle she had knocked over. "You certainly have a lot of spices."

  Trista dropped the chicken into the pot of hot water. "I use every one of them, for one thing or another."

  A small jar sat in a dark corner of the cabinet. Faith stretched her arm, her fingertips barely touching the glass. She hooked her nail over the ridge and nudged the container closer. Finally gripping it, she pulled it past the other bottles and into the light. The vial was unlike anything she had seen before. While similar in shape to the rest of the collection, the stopper was different from the others. Holding tight, she worked it back and forth, wiggling it free. Faith tipped the bottle, and peered in. No smell rose from the interior, but a powdery substance covered the bottom of the basin. There could only be one place this substance could come from.

  Faith had traveled only forty years into the future. Trista had never shared details of her adventures. Only concerned with living a life with Aidan, Faith had not considered different apparatuses or herbs. She looked to the black kettle hanging from the end iron. Fire burned in the usual way, and steam rose above hot water. There was nothing unusual about Trista's cooking methods.