“What?”
“You heard me.” She turned and put both of her hands against his broad chest and pushed. “Get away from me. You think I’m a whore.”
Annoyance flickered over his face, but he stepped back. “Fine, Red. I don’t force myself on any woman, even a working one. By the way, I don’t think of them as whores. But what else could you be, with what you were wearing this morning?”
Elizabeth could feel the tears welling up in her eyes. “I told you I was a teacher and I don’t know how I got here! All I want to do is get back to my own life and my own time!” She turned and ran for the door. “Why won’t you believe me?”
• ♥ •
Miguel rubbed his jaw thoughtfully as he watched her go. Confound it, but the woman was confusing. He knew she’d wanted him; she wasn’t trembling because she was cold. He’d felt her melt against him, enjoying his cock. So what was the problem? It wasn’t like she was some vestal virgin from one of his mother’s books—not with that tiny black see-through underwear.
But she did talk oddly. She seemed perfectly convinced at dinner that the South would free the slaves. As if plantation owners would actually pay their workers. She had also given the year Johnson Station would change its name. Most of the time, though, she didn’t sound crazy. But traveling through time?
He thought back to his conversation with Lily about the girl who thought she was Gwenevere. What he’d told Elizabeth tonight was true. His mother had loved the Arthurian legends and spoken of Merlin’s magic, too.
He’d heard a Buddhist monk once, at Harvard, talking about reincarnation. Could the kind of love Lancelot and Gwenevere had pass through time? If it could, was time-travel possible?
He shook his head and finished off the brandy. Lily was right. If he started thinking like that, then he was the one who was crazy.
One way or another, he would find out who Elizabeth O’Malley really was.
CHAPTER SIX—MISTLETOE AND HOLLY
Elizabeth opened one eye and squinted at the morning sun streaming through her window and across her face. Slowly, she turned her head. The porcelain chamber set stood on the hewn oak dresser along one wall, an empty wardrobe beside it. On the other side of the room were a small table and two chairs and a brazier. The coals had gone out during the night and the room was cold. She pulled the patchwork quilt under her chin and snuggled down into the big four poster bed.
This was the second morning she’d awakened here, still in 1849. This was no dream. By the time she’d gotten up yesterday morning, Miguel was already gone. A part of her felt relieved since her mind, not to mention her senses, went into total confusion when she was around him. Yet she really wanted to see him again. Could any man be that sexy? Maybe she had just out-fantasized herself. Her brain was probably addled with whatever had taken place when she time-traveled. Most likely, Miguel was just an ordinary looking man. She had to admit, he was also kind.
One person wasn’t a fantasy, though. Swift Hawk. She’d gone to the barn to look at the magnificent Andalusian stallion again yesterday and he had come up behind her, so stealthily she didn’t know he was there until he stroked her hair. If the foreman hadn’t come in right then, she didn’t know what would have happened. The Indian’s black eyes held a lust that promised his retreat was only temporary.
Again, she wondered how she’d gotten here. And how she’d get back. She picked up the fetish from the bedside table. Was there magic here? Could she use it?
A knock on her door interrupted her thoughts. Olga entered, accompanied by two of the housemaids. One carried coal for the brazier and the other a steaming pitcher of hot water for the basin.
“You’d better wash up and come downstairs,” Olga said. “Yesterday, we let you sleep in, but life on a ranch begins at dawn, and Miguel’s been waiting on you for an hour. He’s got the buckboard ready.”
Elizabeth laid the fetish down, sat up, and swung her legs over the edge of the bed. “Waiting? Why?”
“He’s taking you into Johnson Station for some ready-mades. I told him to let you pick out the material for some dresses. Lord knows what he’d come back with.” Elizabeth padded across the wooden floor to the basin of hot water and lifted the soap from its dish, surprised by its smooth texture. She’d read that soap in the 1800s was made with waste fat and lye, a product derived when rain seeped through the ashes that were deposited in a hopper outside. She sniffed appreciatively. No lye. “I didn’t know soaps were scented in the 1800s.”
Olga gave her an odd look and shooed the maids out. “Miguel told me you have odd ideas about where you came from. More than likely, it’s the knock on the head you took. Still, it’d be better not to talk like that.” She turned and moved to the door. “I’ll save you some deer sausage and biscuits with sawmill gravy.”
Elizabeth quickly washed her face and hands and donned the homespun she’d worn the past two days. Maybe she could get some jeans and work shirts at the store. She wasn’t used to wearing all these layers: hose and garters and bloomers, a chemise and then the dress. She held up a long narrow strip of linen. Cactus Flower had told her it was a binding cloth, used to hold her breasts up when she wasn't wearing a corset. She grimaced. Her lace bra may not be that practical, but it was a lot more comfortable. She tossed the material aside and hurried down the stairs.
Miguel sat by the kitchen table, drinking coffee from a clay mug, the fingers of one hand drumming the table. She caught her breath. No fantasy on her part, after all. This morning he wore a chambray work shirt, the pale blue setting off his tan even more. Could a sculptor have crafted a more perfectly chiseled face?
Elizabeth hesitated in the doorway, recalling the way those tapping fingers had slowly and sensually slid down her back last night and how she had felt in his muscular arms. Her knees turned wobbly, and then, she remembered. He thought she was a prostitute. It was the only reason he had taken such liberties with her. Better to remember she’d resolved to stay away from good-looking men, too. Thank goodness he’d been in Fort Worth all day yesterday on business and she hadn’t seen him until dinner. And then later, in his study—
“Time’s wastin’, Red. Are you going to come in?”
“I’m not really hungry. We can just go if you want. That way you can get back to your work.” She knew she sounded stiff, but what else was there to say?
He shrugged and stood. For the first time, she noticed he had a gun strapped to his thigh. She hadn’t noticed one the day before.
Miguel opened the door and they walked out to where the horses were harnessed to a real buckboard with long benches that ran the length of the wagon! At least seeing authentic items on this adventure was gratifying. Briefly, she wondered why they had not taken one of the buggies that stood near the barn. She raised her foot to the running board and promptly snagged her bloomers on the braking stick, causing her dress to slide up. Embarrassed, she tugged at the skirt and took hold of the back of the driver’s seat to scramble up.
“Ouch!” She slid back down, a splinter in her finger. She sucked the drop of blood off.
Miguel’s gaze lingered on her finger in her mouth before he reached for her hand. “Let me see.”
Gingerly, she rested her hand in his, trying not to notice the warmth already spreading up her arm from his touch.
He squinted and then gently applied pressure, working two of his fingers up toward the splinter. “Sorry. This may hurt,” he said and then with a final push, the splinter popped out.
It did hurt, but only a little. Elizabeth quickly pulled her hand from his as he began to raise it to his mouth. No way was she going to be able to stand his sucking at her finger without her knees buckling.
She turned and reached for the seat. Did the step have to be so high? Her skirt was hiking up again and this time Miguel laughed. No doubt he’d like to see her entire thigh, too! She blushed, remembering he’d seen a lot more than that.
“Allow me,” Miguel said as he put his hands around her waist and lifted
her into the driver’s seat. He climbed up beside her. “I do want to get you back and forth in one piece.” He looked up at the sky and frowned. “Cloud bank rolling in from the north.”
He lifted the reins and the wagon lurched down the road, causing her to fall against him. Did he have to feel so rock-solid hard? She had no idea these wagons were so unsteady, rolling from one side to the other. She bounced off him again. Miguel looked straight ahead, but a corner of his mouth twitched. He was probably laughing at her, well aware of what this wagon would do. She clung to the side of the seat, resolved not to lean into him. But God, he felt good.
• ♥ •
So this was Johnston Station. Arlington, in her day. Elizabeth craned her neck as Miguel stopped the horses in front of a sign that read: “General Store”. Across the street were the public stables and smithy. Farther down the road, leading out of town, were a sorghum mill and a gristmill. Beyond that, a cotton gin. She remembered that the colonel had said he owned a cotton plantation. She turned in her seat to look in the other direction. A saloon sat squarely on the corner and further out she could see rows of log cabins, neatly laid out along dirt streets.
“Where’s the mineral well?” she asked.
“What mineral well?”
“Arlington has a well in the middle of town.” She turned, sensing her directions and then pointed north. “That way. It was supposed to be a town well, but the mineral water was therapeutic.”
Miguel frowned. “Are you talking about the future again? That bump on your head must be worse than I thought.”
Elizabeth sighed. “I’m trying to make you see. Is there a cemetery?”
“Nope. There’s a Boot Hill near here at Marrow Bone Spring.”
“Well, there will be a cemetery at the corner of Cooper and Mayfield. It’s still standing in the twenty-first century.” She could tell by the look on his face he thought she had totally lost it, but she doggedly went on. “Do you know a woman named Elizabeth Robinson?”
He stared at her. “Yes. Do you? Is your memory coming back?”
She shook her head. “No. Mrs. Robinson's marker is the oldest one still standing. From 1863.”
Miguel pushed his hat back. “You tell fortunes? Is that what you did with some traveling show?”
“No! I’m telling you—”
“Don’t.” Miguel stepped down from the buckboard and turned back to her. “Your mental condition will only get worse if you continue to make up these stories.” He held out his hands. “Let me help you down.”
“I can do it myself.”
“Probably, but I’d rather not see you sprawled in the mud,” Miguel answered.
Before she could stop him, she felt his hands go around her waist again, lifting her as though she weighed nothing more than air. She slid down the length of him as he set her on the ground and he made no effort to release her. Sweet Mary! Here they were on a public street and he was making full body contact with her. And he was hard there. For just one second, she closed her eyes in bliss and then opened them and pushed away from him. “Behave yourself.”
He grinned. “What was I doing?”
Ignoring that, she turned from him and marched up the steps to the general store, leaving him to follow in her wake, chuckling.
She stopped inside the store, dazed. It was crammed full, from floor to ceiling, with only narrow walkways between the wares. Food goods, from blackstrap molasses to bins of pinto beans and barrels of pickles were to her right. Salt, sugar, spices, flour, tea, coffee. On her left were tools, everything from hemp rope to shovels and saws and axes. In one corner, inside a locked glass cabinet, guns were displayed and along the far wall were the dry goods. Bolts of materials and sewing supplies covered several tables. Behind them hung men’s working clothes and boots and the “ready-mades”.
The mingled smells were enticing. Tart vinegar from the pickles, spicy cinnamon and the heady scent of sage by the condiments and a delightful aroma near the coffee beans. A slightly acrid smell from near the rope and a more musty odor near the dry goods. A real “General Store”. It had everything.
The store lacked ventilation and dusty rays of sunlight danced through the door as Miguel followed her in.
“Okay, Red. Shop away. You’ll need enough material for several dresses and something for Sunday. Pick out a couple of ready-mades, too.”
“What I really want is some Levis, a work shirt, and a pair of boots.”
“You want what?”
“Pants,” Elizabeth said. “They’re so much easier to move in.”
“Ladies don’t wear pants in these parts,” Miguel answered.
“I’m not from—”
“Stop it. All right. Get the pants.” Miguel looked around as if to see if anyone had heard. “One pair. And you wear them only when I say you can.”
She rolled her eyes. “I’ll wear them when I want to. Like horseback riding.”
He sighed. “You’re telling me you ride astride like a man?”
“Yes.” Suddenly, Elizabeth smiled mischievously. “If I’m going to be stuck in this century, I want to learn to herd cattle, go on the round-ups, attend the branding—”
“No. Absolutely not.”
“Yes. Absolutely.”
He scowled at her and then turned and walked away. Elizabeth grinned to herself as she selected two dresses, some undergarments and fabrics. Maybe he was a softie under all that macho? Anyway, she loved horses. Why not make the most of living history?
The clerk was wrapping her items in brown paper and tying them with string when Miguel reappeared. He had a copy of Godey’s Lady’s Book with him. Opening it, he flipped it around for the clerk to see.
“Order this. In red.”
The young man’s eyes popped, and his cheeks turned color. She pulled the book toward her and gasped.
The woman in the drawing was wearing a satin evening gown, its bodice fitted to her, the waist nipped in, the skirt clinging to her hips. And it was cut low. Very low. More than half of her breasts were exposed as were most of her shoulders.
“I can’t wear that,” Elizabeth said. “It’s indecent.”
Miguel smiled, a glitter in his eyes. “The pants are indecent, too. Wear the pants, you’ll have to wear the dress, too. I get to say when.”
Elizabeth sighed. She had been wrong. Male chauvinism was alive and well in this century. But she was his guest, and it was his money. She needed those pants. Let him order it. He couldn’t force her to wear that dress. Could he? The idea of his stripping her, then dressing her himself left her almost gasping for air. She recovered.
“Two pairs of pants,” she said to the clerk.
Miguel grinned and flipped the book back. “Order another one of these in black.”
• ♥ •
When they returned from their trip, Raul was waiting for them, hopping from one foot to the other in excitement.
“I thought you’d never come home! Are we going to go and get the tree now?”
“Tree?” Elizabeth asked.
“It’s Christmas, remember?” Miguel said. “Family tradition. We all pile in the buckboard and go find a pine tree. There’s some piney woods east of here, about halfway to a little settlement called Dallas.”
“Little?” Elizabeth asked. “You should see it—”
He cut her off with a glance, then looked at the sky again. The horizon was an ominous charcoal. “Looks like we’re in for a blue norther. We’d best dress warm.”
They ate a hurried lunch and then everyone—Olga, Olaf, Raul, Cactus Flower—climbed into the wagon. Even Brina managed to jump in, her tail pounding enthusiastically on the floorboards. To Elizabeth’s dismay, Swift Hawk came too, managing to sit next to her on the long bench. For once, she wished Miguel had asked her to ride shotgun, but his son was in the seat next to him, bouncing happily.
The ride took nearly two hours, most of it over rough dirt and caliche roads. This time it was Swift Hawk who kept sliding against her and she wa
s pretty sure he was doing it on purpose, since she had seen how gracefully he could move when he wanted to.
Olga started singing Christmas carols, her voice a soothing alto. Olaf joined her and so did Raul. By the start of the second song, Miguel had added his rich baritone. Shyly, Elizabeth began to sing, hoping she would remember the words. Her own family didn’t ever do this. Her father usually worked the streets since crime was high during the holiday season, and her mother was too intellectually involved with whatever project she was working on. “Christmas is all about commercialism,” she’d said more than once.
Only Swift Hawk did not join in. He closed his eyes and began to rock to some silent rhythm of his own. Cactus Flower looked worriedly at him and then at Elizabeth, but Elizabeth ignored it. She was beginning to have fun.
When they arrived at the woods, Raul jumped down and ran excitedly to the trees, examining first one and then another. The adults climbed down more slowly, Olaf helping his wife down. Cactus Flower leapt nimbly to the ground—were all Indians so lithe and limber?—and Miguel held out his hand to Elizabeth, but before she could take it, she felt Swift Hawk’s arm encircle her waist and her legs dangled in the air as he stepped down with her. His arm was like iron, and she felt like a sack of flour. Furiously, she righted herself and planted her feet on the ground, but he didn’t release her.
“Fire Woman. You are mine.”
Miguel’s eyes glittered dangerously, and he took a step toward them, but she managed to push away from Swift Hawk. “I am not yours. You’re young enough to be one of my high school students.”
He looked puzzled. “What is high school?”
She opened her mouth to reply, but Miguel took her arm quickly. “Let’s go look for a tree.”
Just then, a whoop came from Raul. “I’ve found one, Papá! This is it!”
Everyone but Swift Hawk hurried over to him, Olaf bringing the ax and the incident was quickly forgotten in the excitement of examining the tree from every angle. Everyone gave their opinion on it before Miguel took the ax, felling it in three strokes.
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