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

by Spradling, Carol A.

  Faith pulled a lock of hair behind her ear. Throughout her life, stories had terrified young children about the witch on the ridge. She could grow plants when other farmers couldn't. She, and her animals, never fell ill. And the most terrifying truth of all was the account about the woman being ageless. According to various tales, the crone had been the first resident in the area, which could be traced back one hundred and fifty hundred years.

  A euphoric sadness weighed heavily on Faith's chest. Like peeking behind the curtain and learning the gypsies' secrets, she now knew how all of the tales were possible. Her breath caught in her throat with an odd revelation. She and Trista were both capable of time travel. Other than being two different people, Faith was as much the old crone of the ridge as Trista was.

  "What do you use this for?" Faith asked, returning the top and looking at the contents from the outside.

  Trista wiped her hands on a towel and took the bottle from her. "You'll not need this for anything," she said, and lowered it into her pocket.

  Faith's gaze followed the direction of Trista's hand and then rose to her face. Faith turned her head slightly and looked at Trista from the corner of her eye. "I've never seen a stopper like that one before. It was very difficult to remove." She pursed her lips as though adding more thought to the item's origin. "I don't know of any wax that seals as tightly."

  "It isn't wax." Trista returned to the counter and pulled a bowl toward her. Carrots and onion poked over the lip of the dish. She didn't seem interested in sharing any details.

  "The powder looked finely ground," Faith said, pressing further.

  "It was."

  Trista laid the onion onto a cutting board and pulled a large knife out of a drawer. She pushed the vegetable under the blade, chopping the yellow bulb into uneven chunks. The way she rocked the handle back and forth, Faith wondered how many more questions she dare ask.

  Hidden in the back of the cabinet, behind an array of other bottles, Trista had not wanted the item found. There could only be one reason for that. Faith kept a careful eye on Trista's hands. She wanted to make sure her grip on the handle didn't change.

  "Did you get the powder while time traveling?" Faith asked.

  Trista grabbed a carrot and continued chopping. "Yes. But it was a long time ago, and there isn't much left." She paused her knife, and glanced over her shoulder. "Do you have an ache?"

  "I'm well," Faith answered. She stepped closer to Trista. This might be her only chance to find an alternative way to time travel. "How do you time travel?" she asked.

  Trista laid down the knife, and stared down at the cutting board. Faith followed her line of vision to the surface, checking for blood. Only vegetables covered the workspace. Trista whispered something unrecognizable, and the room filled with an uncomfortable sensation.

  Faith swallowed, and the hair on her arms stood at attention. "What did you say?" she asked.

  Trista turned and looked at Faith. Her hair fell around her face, and her eyes seemed to glow a bright shade of blue. If it was possible, her normally pale skin lightened to an off-white alabaster hue. "Could," she repeated. "I can't time travel anymore."

  The tone she used made it difficult to know if Trista was saddened by her loss or relieved by it. Faith took the board of chopped vegetables from her hands and added them to the chicken and water. They plopped in one after the other like they were jumping into a hot bath. She had not considered there being a limit on her traveling capabilities. After listening to Trista, she wondered if the gift was time related, or limited to a number of uses.

  "What happened to stop your ability?" Faith asked, paying close attention to Trista's answers. She no longer cared where her ability originated or any other details surrounding it.

  "Thank you for the herb you brought in," Trista said. "I'll hang those to dry after we eat."

  Faith ignored Trista's nonresponsive answer to her question and continued speaking as though they were both thoroughly engaged in the conversation. "I seem to only be capable of traveling between this life and the one with Aidan. Was yours this limited?"

  "No," Trista answered, and reached for an onion. "I had control. I could determine when and where I wanted to go."

  Faith handed her back the cutting board. "Not being limited must have given you an incredible sense of freedom."

  Trista shrugged. She slid the onion a slight distance away, and tried to keep her face out of the fumes. "Perhaps. At least I thought it was freeing in the beginning." She laid the knife on the board and wiped her eyes with a clean cloth. "Since you refuse to antagonize Hank, I assume you plan to stay with him in this time."

  Faith ruffled at the remark. She could almost feel Hank's breath on her skin, and his fists clamping around her arms. Her hand went instinctively to her collarbone, covering it protectively. "I refuse to force him to commit murder," she defended. "But I haven't thought much past that."

  Trista tucked the cloth inside the band of her apron. "There is something you should know." She spoke slowly, as though shifting the weight of her burden from her shoulders to Faith's. "Regardless of what you decide, when the time comes that you are capable of control, you will be faced with a choice. You will have to determine when and if you should stay in your present time, or if you should leave. Keep in mind, as simple as this decision sounds, there are consequences with every action." She bent her head forward and peered up at Faith from red-rimmed eyes. "I don't suppose I have to tell you about that."

  For the first time since she had known Trista, Faith felt a kinship to her. It wasn't a connection that she would have chosen, but although she hadn't openly admitted it, there was no denying that they had both known loss. Faith took a timid leap of faith. "Did you leave someone in another time?"

  Trista kept her head bowed and continued to work. "Like you did with Aidan, do you mean?" she asked.

  An uncomfortable feeling of distance returned, disrupting the intimacy of the kitchen. "If you'd rather not talk about it," Faith said. "I understand."

  "Do you?" Trista shoved the cutting board away from her and braced her hands on the counter. "You don't understand as much as you think you do." Her fists tightened into tight balls, and Faith stepped backward.

  Faith's head moved back and forth in a slow line. Had she disillusioned herself into thinking she and Trista had become friends? She glanced toward the door and made sure nothing blocked a speedy exit. Trista's head turned slowly, and Faith dipped a quick glance to the knife handle. Perhaps it was better she didn't cross any more lines with Trista.

  Chapter 23

  Faith sat across the table from Trista. The woman had barely spoken to her during meal preparation with anything more than a few passing questions and comments. It seemed her time on the ridge was nearing an end. She picked up a loaf of bread and broke it into chunks.

  "You told me to stop time traveling and now you want me to continue. Is that correct?"

  Trista pulled two bowls from the cupboard and set them on the table. "I told you to not time travel when you were with Mr. Valentine. And since your memory is faulty, do you remember me telling you to not return to Hank because he is a dangerous man?"

  Faith jutted her chin forward. "I remember. But I still returned."

  Trista returned to the fire, plunged her spoon deep in the kettle and stirred vigorously. Broth splashed over the rim and splattered the fire logs. The tiny droplets hissed and danced, draining life from their bubbly forms. "I warned you," she said. The metal spoon clanged against the lip of the iron pot.

  "I told you that extreme passion was the trigger," she said. Steam wafted from the utensil. Trista held it pointedly in Faith's direction as though it was an extension of the woman's hand. "All you had to do was wait. Do you have no self control?"

  "Self control? I thought I was dead. Why should I keep myself from my husband when there was no fear of leaving him? What did you want me to wait for?"

  Trista moved to the table, pulled a chair out from under it, and sat do
wn. "You can justify it all you want, but there's only one way to undo what you've done."

  Faith sat opposite of the woman. She didn't like the direction this conversation was taking now any more than she did yesterday. Had the impasse come to a battle of wills? Trista may have intimidation as a valuable tool, but Faith would not be swayed to go against her conscience.

  "I'll not incite Hank to murder," Faith said, trying to sound as formidable as possible.

  "After all he's done, you will not provoke him to attack you?" Trista stared at a spot on the table, and shook her head. "That moral, high ground you're perched on has a slope steeper than the one Hank threw you off of."

  Trista's accusation was as comfortable to hear as the thought of dodging a lightning storm in an open field. In Faith's mind, she could feel the wind whip past her face as she plummeted from her confined seat. Her childhood was rooted in staunch, Bible teachings. There was no option for her. Murder was murder, a sin. Faith glanced over at Trista. The woman didn't seem to share the same convictions. Trista appeared convinced that this commandment was not as straightforward as implied. Was there something more Faith needed to consider before standing so adamantly on her decision?

  Trista narrowed her eyes as though she looked down the arrow of a notched bow. "If you spare Hank's life, or your own, Mr. Valentine will die," she said. She spoke as though she was certain of a direct hit. From the way she studied Faith's reaction, all she had left to do was gut and hang the carcass.

  Faith swallowed, certain that her throat and stomach were no longer connected. "What do you mean, Aidan will die?"

  Trista shrugged and blinked in slow unison. She looked tired and haggard. "Forty years into the future, Mr. Valentine is alive. Is he not?"

  Faith nodded. "He was when I left." She would love to stop the conversation at this point, but Trista obviously knew something. The woman may be unable to time travel now, but she seemed to know something about Faith's future.

  Daylight seemed to narrow in on Trista. She leaned forward, placing her weight on her forearms. "Hank is alive as well," she said.

  Faith's heart dropped to her knees. She had searched Hank's cabin. There was nothing to indicate he still lived in the residence, leaving her to believe he had died or moved away from the property. She shivered, imagining the feel of his thick hands tightening around her upper arms, and his stale breath against her ear. Pulling to the side, she tried to escape the image.

  "If you do not return," Trista said, her voice ominous. "Who will be in the future to prevent Hank from killing Mr. Valentine? An older version of you?"

  The room began to swirl around Faith, and she held to the table to keep from losing her balance. Aidan was young and strong. Surely, a man who was more than three times his age would pose no threat.

  Trista steepled her hands and tapped her fingertips together. She looked as though she summoned a new source of energy into the room. "Perhaps there is another way," she said, her voice light and hopeful. Faith breathed a sigh of relief. Finally, she had swayed Trista's thinking.

  "Your Mr. Valentine owns a rich farmland that produces an extremely healthy crop." Trista's voice slowly coaxed Faith away from her thoughts and into her new plot.

  "Yes," Faith said in answer. While Trista's face beamed with her new idea, Faith felt an unwelcomed burden settle on her shoulders. "His property runs along the river's edge."

  Trista sat back in her chair, speaking as though she talked about this season's rainfall. "What lies under the ground is much more valuable than anything that could grow from the soil."

  Trista seemed to have the same ease about her as a hunter with a prize buck as his latest kill. "What do you think will happen when Aidan finds you missing?" she asked.

  There was no doubt in Faith's mind what Aidan would do. He had searched for her before they had married; he would certainly look for her now. After what she had told him about Hank, she knew he would not stop until he found her.

  "Aidan will look for me," Faith stated boldly.

  "And he will most likely go to Hank's farm at some point, angry and frustrated."

  Faith nodded.

  "Hank wants the property Mr. Valentine owns, and unlike you, he will do anything to get what he wants."

  Faith closed her eyes. There was no need for Trista to continue. A mental picture formed in her thoughts, the action restarting each time Aidan's body fell to the ground. Across from his lifeless remains, an older version of Hank stood facing him, smoke from a spent rifle clouding his face.

  "Why are you telling me this?" Faith asked. She sat motionless. A helpless feeling blindly tied her wrists. "There is nothing I can do to stop it, not in this time nor in the future."

  Trista leaned forward, her breath hot. "Yes, there is." She moved to the herbal case and lightly rubbed the side of a brown pot. "In order for your man to live, Hank must die. It's that simple. Saving something good by destroying the bad, is not an evil act. Wouldn't you shoot a rabid dog if it stalked your home or family? Of course you would."

  Faith winced at her logic. "You cannot compare the two."

  "Hank is a disease that will destroy everything. He cannot be controlled or contained. He must be removed." Trista slammed her balled fist on the herbal cabinet, rattling a cup and saucer left over from breakfast. "I would do it myself if it were possible, but I cannot. You are the only one who can prevent Mr. Valentine's death."

  Faith walked to the door and opened it. Leaning against the frame, she rubbed her temple. She would never risk Aidan's life, but there was no proof that Hank even lived forty years in the future. If she killed him in this time, how could his death be considered anything but murder?

  "Which is more soothing to your conscience?" Trista asked. "You allow Hank to live, a miserable man, who you know from firsthand experience, is capable of murder, or you end his life in order to save your honorable and upstanding husband. It surprises me that you have such reservations of knowing which the better choice is."

  Faith squeezed her eyes closed. She could not risk Aidan's life. As much as she fought against her principles, there was only one way to ensure his safety. She would have to stop Hank in this time.

  Trista stepped up behind her, her shadow extending into the yard. "When Hank is dead, you will return to your future and to Mr. Valentine. Stop him now and everything will be as it should have been from the start."

  Trista returned to the fireplace. She looked down into the pot as though she peered into the future. "Dinner is ready. You can leave as soon as you've eaten."

  Faith's stomach rolled, doubtful she would have much of an appetite for either.

  Chapter 24

  Faith made her way back down the mountain. She knew each turn, rise, and fall that lay ahead of her. Nearing the halfway point to the base, she didn't dare look behind her. She could feel Trista's gaze burning into her back as easily as she could feel the wind blowing against her skin. Of course, once a breeze had passed on by, it was easily forgotten. Trista and their earlier conversation, however, would not be so easily dismissed.

  She pulled a leaf from a cherry tree and chewed on the stem. Although she had barely touched the food Trista had placed in front of her, she wasn't hungry. She would need more than appetite to face Hank. He had tried to kill her, there was no denying that. If she lived to be as old as Trista, Faith would never understand what had spared her life. She wished fervently that she had not survived the fall.

  Hank had claimed jealousy over seeing the marks on her neck and breasts. While he did have reason to be upset, he seemed more than anxious to drag her up the hill. Without any pause or thought, he had pulled her along after him as though he merely followed a well thought out plan. She wondered what he would think when seeing her for the first time since leaving her at the base of the ravine. Regardless of his reaction, he would not harm Aidan, not now nor in the future.

  Heading across the field, she would be within view of the farm within a few minutes. At this time of day, Hank was m
ost likely in the barn. She would look for him there before going to the house. With any luck, she would be with Aidan by nightfall. Her next few hours were not going to be easy. She would focus on Aidan and nothing else.

  Chickens ran across the yard, scattering in all directions in front of her. The birds' coop was the closest out building near the barn. The peaked, two-story structure behind it looked the same as when she had last seen it. Hay poked out from the open loft. Her thumb absently rubbed the fading calluses on her palms. Sweeping the loft had always been one of her jobs. From what she could see, this duty still belonged to her.

  When she had worked with Aidan on their farm, he had taken upon himself the barn related chores, leaving her with the house and garden. Hank had insisted Faith match the amount of work he did in the fields while keeping up her household chores. She raised her hand to her throat and rubbed her neck. This time, she hoped to not only equal his skill, but to best him at it.

  Trista had found her at the bottom of the cliff. From the location of her home, she would know if Hank had come looking for Faith. According to Trista, there had not been one sign of him at any time since her fall. He had to think her dead. She glanced upward to the loft and shook her head at the ludicrous thinking of the man. Her work still awaited her attention even in death.

  The barn's shadow spread out before her like a rug. Before stepping closer, she took one last look around. The hinged door hung open, and the tobacco wagon sat under the eave. Bits of brown leaves still clung to the wood floor of the cart. Faith crossed her arms over her chest and balled her fists. She did not want to touch, even out of habit, any part of the plants. She refused to make contact with anything that would connect her to Hank. She had one last thing to sever, and she hoped she had the courage necessary to do it. Her legs stood stiff as though her joints were frozen soundly in place. Her heart sped up, heating her body. She pushed forward, breaking through the band of solid ice, and forced herself to enter the building.