Come Home to Me (Second Chances Time Travel Romance Book 1)

by Peggy L Henderson

  “You shouldn’t sneak up on people like that,” she said, hoping to sound composed. “Now I’ve lost my soap.”

  “Sorry,” he said, looking properly demure from beneath his eyelashes. His ever-widening grin belied his sincerity. She glanced at his hand that still held her arm.

  “Is there something I can do for you? I have a lot of work to do.” She lifted her chin.

  “Your work can wait. Take a walk with me.”

  The nerve of him! She pulled her arm free of his grasp and took a step back, smoothing down her skirt. “I most certainly will not,” she said more forceful than she had intended. A quick glance in all directions assured her that no one else was nearby. Luckily she’d wandered far enough along the creek from where most everyone else would do their washing.

  “Fine, Miss Parker, we can talk here then.”

  “Mr. Owens, I –”

  “No you don’t. Yesterday you called me Jake. We’re not going back to Mr. Owens now.”

  Rachel inhaled a deep breath. She closed her eyes for a split second and pressed her lips together. Maybe if she called him by his given name, he would leave.

  “All right. Jake. On behalf of Thomas and myself, I want to thank you for everything you did yesterday. Tommy might not be here if not for you.”

  His grin widened. He closed the distance between them in one step, and leaned forward, his cheek nearly touching hers. “Your secret’s safe with me, Rachel,” he whispered in her ear. His breath tickled her neck. She shuddered as chills ran down her spine. If she moved back any further, she’d join her soap in the creek.

  Refusing to cower, she pushed her hand against his chest to keep him at bay. “How did you know?” she asked quietly. His heart beat strong beneath her palm, and the warmth from his body radiated through her hand and up her limb.

  “I’m not revealing my source,” he said, and shook his head. “But I was wondering why a woman, especially one as pretty as you, would pretend to be married to her brother, and be a mother to her three nephews? I think I know, but I want to hear it from you.”

  He stepped back, and pulled her away from the creek’s edge. His hand lingered on her arm before he let go. His gaze intensified, as he waited for a reply.

  “Surely you know that an unmarried woman wouldn’t be allowed on a wagon train,” she said. “It was my brother’s idea. He’s a good man, when he’s not drinking. He lost his wife, and he hasn’t gotten over his grief. I’d hoped a new start in Oregon would allow him to forget and make a new life for himself.”

  Rachel ducked around him. His unwavering perusal left her weak and unsettled. Jake instantly fell in step beside her.

  “A new life for himself?” he echoed. “What about you?”

  She stopped, and faced him. “What about me? Of course I’d be making a new start as well.”

  “Raising his kids? Your sense of family obligation is admirable, Rachel.” That familiar bitter tone was back in his voice that she’d heard him use whenever talk had turned to family. Her forehead wrinkled in puzzlement.

  “Yes, I am indebted to my brother for taking me in, and providing for me when our parents died. I love my nephews. I don’t consider it a hardship to care for them and act as their mother.”

  Jake reached for her hand. His thumb caressed her palm. Rachel’s heart sped up in response, and her breath stuck in her throat. She wanted to pull away, and at the same time lean into his solid strength and ask him to hold her like he’d done yesterday. The gentle strokes of his thumb were like a match igniting a fire deep within her.

  “What about a boyfriend? A man of your own?” Jake’s deep voice was almost a whisper. He didn’t look at her when he spoke, but studied her hand in his.

  “I don’t think that –”

  Jake’s free arm snaked around her waist, cutting off what she wanted to say, and he pulled her flush against him. Heat shot through her, and her limbs went weak. Memories of the previous day, when she willingly wrapped her arms around him assaulted her. This was different. Intense. Forbidden. Jake Owens was slowly chiseling away all of her defenses. Rachel fought for a breath of air as her mind swirled out of control like the churning river behind her.

  “Please, don’t do this,” she whispered, her words in sharp contrast to what her mind screamed.

  He leaned forward, his breath tickling her ear and neck, and she shuddered. “Why, Rachel? Because I make you feel things? You’re shaking, and I don’t think it’s because you’re afraid, or cold. Tell me, has anyone ever kissed you, and made you tremble with need?” His lips grazed her neck.

  Intense waves of pleasure rippled through her as his lips trailed along the sensitive area of her neck, just below her ear. A soft moan escaped her throat, and she leaned into his touch.

  “I can’t stop thinking about you,” he rasped, and his arm tightened around her. “What the hell are you doing to me?” He sounded almost angry at his own question. He released her hand, and entwined his fingers in her hair at the back of her head. Giving it a gentle tug, he forced her to raise her head. He’s going to kiss you. And you want him to. Rachel held her breath, braced her trembling hands against his chest, and stared into his dark eyes. He lowered his head.

  A tree branch snapped like a whip behind her. Jake’s body tensed, and he released her. He pulled his revolver from his belt, and pulled her behind him. Startled, Rachel grasped his arm and turned toward the sound. A scream died in her throat. Not ten yards away from them stood four savage-looking Indians.

  Chapter Twelve

  Jake’s heart galloped like a herd of wild mustangs in his chest. A second ago, his mind and body burned for the girl who now cowered behind him. A new and different wave of adrenaline shot through his system when he noticed those four Indians. Where the hell had they come from? More importantly, were they friendly? Jake stared at them, every cell in his body aware of Rachel pressed against his back. He cocked his pistol, ready to shoot if needed. Years of practice back home had made him a pretty good shot, but pointing a gun at another person was something entirely different.

  One of the Indians held up his hand in what appeared to be a greeting, and Jake slowly lowered his weapon. These guys didn’t look like they were ready to attack him. None of them smiled, but their faces weren’t painted with war paint. They all wore fringed leather shirts that were adorned with intricate beadwork and animal teeth, fringed buckskin pants, and moccasins decorated with beads and porcupine quills. Their clothes weren’t nearly as fancy as the costumes he’d seen at some of the Native American powwows he’d been to in his time, where the modern natives put on colorful displays of their heritage. The man who raised his hand cradled an old rifle in his arm.

  Jake stepped forward tentatively, eyeing the bows these men carried in their hands. Acting like a coward was probably not a good idea. Rachel clamped down on his arm, and he half-turned his head over his shoulder.

  “Stay close,” he said. “It’ll be all right.”

  “Are they friendly?” she whispered. Even her soft voice couldn’t disguise the fear in her tone. Jake wanted to reach around her and pull her to him, but he decided against it. He might need both his hands free.

  “I’m about to find out.” Jake re-holstered his gun, and held up his own hand, imitating the man in front of him. “Howdy,” he said, hoping he sounded confident enough.

  “Wassichu wagons . . . turn back,” the Indian spoke in stilted English.

  Jake expelled a breath of air in relief. At least one of them spoke English. He had no idea how he would have talked his way out of this had the man spoken in his native language. Wilson and the emigrants assumed that he was proficient at conversing with the natives. So far, the things he had to do here in the past hadn’t been too much different than what he’d done in the twenty-first century. Even following the trail was easy enough. The wagon ruts of countless emigrants who had come before them were more visible than the well-worn cattle trails at home. He’d had a few slips of the tongue, or said some mo
dern phrases no one understood, but so far there didn’t seem to be any suspicions about him not being who he claimed to be. Or rather, who he’d been set up to be.

  “What do you mean, turn back? We can’t turn back. We’re just passing through.” Jake hoped there wasn’t going to be trouble after all. Images of Indians charging on horseback through the hills, attacking innocent wagon trains played out in his mind. He shrugged it off. Those images came from typical Hollywood movies he’d seen. The Indians weren’t hostile to the wagon trains, not until much later than 1848.

  “Turn back,” the Indian repeated, and pointed firmly with his hand toward the east. “Much wassichu sickness. Lakota come to warn white man.”

  Jake’s eyebrows contracted as he tried to make sense of what the Indian was telling him. Lakota. These guys were Sioux. Even the word wassichu was familiar to him. He’d worked alongside several Native American wranglers who had been employed on his parents’ ranch over the years, and he’d been called a wassichu – white man – many times by them.

  “What do you mean, sickness?” he asked. A memory sparked somewhere in the back of his mind. Disease and illness killed a lot of emigrants on their way to Oregon.

  “Wassichu bring sickness. Much death,” the Indian said. “Go back to where the sun rises, or die.”

  Jake closed the distance between him and the four Sioux. Rachel tugged on his arm when he moved forward before letting go of him. Jake glanced over his shoulder and offered a reassuring smile, then turned his attention back to the Indians.

  “We can’t go back. These people are searching for new homes in the west . . ah . . the place where the sun sets.” Jake pointed with his hand in a westerly direction.

  The Indian frowned, and shook his head. “Stay this side of Pankeska Wakpa. More sickness other side.”

  Jake ran a hand through his hair. He didn’t understand the man. It sounded like he was referring to a river. They were probably within a day of the river Platte. He knew that much from his map. Wilson had wanted to reach the river already, but the storm held them up.

  “The Platte River?” he asked.

  The Indian nodded. “Not good to cross. Much danger and sickness.”

  Jake was aware of the perils of crossing the Platte. The map the reverend had given him was irrefutably the best map Jake had ever seen. Without it, he wouldn’t be as competent. He’d silently thanked the old man on several occasions for not leaving him completely stranded in the past. The river was wide and sandy, and quicksand would be a constant problem. They wouldn’t need to cross the river in order to get to Fort Laramie, so he pushed that worry from his mind.

  “Thanks for the warning,” Jake said, and reached his hand out. The Sioux hesitated, then clasped his hand in a firm shake.

  “We bring warning, you give us food,” the Indian said. Jake’s eyes narrowed.

  “We don’t have a lot of food to spare. The families lost a lot of provisions in the storm yesterday.”

  “I made several loaves of bread this morning. We can spare some.” Rachel moved up beside him. Her eyes were round as saucers. She observed the Indians warily, and he could see the fear shining in their blue depths. Without thinking, Jake reached for her hand and pulled her up next to him. Her body stiffened, but she didn’t move away. His heart suddenly swelled, flooding his insides with a warmth that jolted him to the core. When he squeezed her hand, she offered him a tentative smile, and a fresh wave of heat coursed through him.

  “Wiwasteka, generous,” the Indian said, looking at Rachel. A knowing smile spread across his face.

  “Our camp is just above the rise.” Jake tore his eyes away from Rachel, and motioned with his chin to where the wagons were parked over the sandy hill. “Come and Rachel will give you . . . whatever it is she wants to spare.” He turned and led the way back to camp, pulling Rachel along with him.

  “Don’t be too generous with your provisions,” he said in a low tone. “I don’t think they need food. They just like to barter.”

  “We can spare a little,” she whispered. They reached the top of the sandy rise and the camp came in view. Rachel pulled her hand from his grasp. Jake reluctantly let go. A sudden possessiveness came over him, some primitive need to claim her as his. Before he had the chance to explore his thoughts any further, someone in camp shouted, “Injuns! Injuns!”

  “Damn,” Jake muttered under his breath. “Those fools better not start shooting.” He glanced over his shoulder at the four Sioux who followed several paces behind.

  Frank Wilson and several men headed toward them, rifles in hand. Jake held up his hands. “There’s no need for guns,” he shouted at the approaching men. Wilson strode up to him, anger written all over his face. His eyes darted behind Jake at the Indians, then back to him.

  “What the hell do you think you’re doing, Owens, bringing Injuns into camp?” Wilson barked. “The next thing we know, they’ll run off with our livestock. Injuns are notorious thieves.”

  Jake’s jaw twitched. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught Rachel scurrying toward her camp. She probably didn’t want to be seen with him. That primordial urge to stake some sort of claim on her surfaced again, and he clenched his jaw. He mentally shook his head to clear his mind. Why the hell was he even entertaining such thoughts? He was here to do a job, and would be leaving this century when his assignment was done. Anger at his predicament boiled in him, threatening to explode.

  “There’s no need for violence, Wilson,” he said as calmly as he could, directing his focus at the wagon master. His fingers tingled with the urge to wrap around the man’s neck. Jake itched for something, or someone, to vent his frustrations out on. Frank Wilson seemed to go out of his way to make Jake’s life miserable and to argue with him. That incident at the Missouri River obviously still grated on the man.

  “What do they want?” Marcus Powell called out from behind Wilson. “I’d much sooner shoot first, than be sorry later.” A collective murmur erupted from the men. Several more emigrants approached, each man with a rifle in his hand, ready to shoot. This was the first time they had encountered natives. After the torrential rains from the day before, nerves were already on edge in camp, and the Indians’ appearance only seemed to make it worse.

  “You kill these men, and there’ll probably be fifty or a hundred that will come and avenge their deaths. They came here to warn us. The least you can do is act civil and hear them out.” Jake’s voice rose in anger.

  “Warn us of what?” Wilson asked skeptically. Jake turned his head toward the Indians, who stood quietly and stoic behind him. Apparently he wasn’t going to get any help from them.

  “There’s something going around,” Jake said, his voice normal again.

  “What the hell does that mean?” Wilson spat, and raised his rifle, emphasizing his anger.

  “Some sort of sickness that’s spreading through the wagon companies up ahead.”

  “Probably something them Injuns brought with ‘em,” Powell sneered. “What the hell are they doin’ here in our camp? They’ll just spread their vile vermin an’ give it to us.” He rushed forward, his rifle pointed at the men.

  Jake lunged for the barrel, and jerked the weapon from Powell’s hand. In one lightning fast move, he grabbed the slighter man by the shirt collar just like he’d done that day when Powell made rude remarks about Rachel. Jake’s coiled nerves were ready to spring. He was primed for a fight. His face was inches from Marcus Powell, and he glared at him. Jake could smell the stench of fear emanating from Powell. It gave him a small measure of satisfaction.

  “Get back under the rock you crawled out from, or I swear I will knock you into next week.” Jake forcefully shoved Marcus back, and the man stumbled and fell to the ground. Jake tossed the rifle aside, and scanned the men standing before him. Frank Wilson sneered.

  “Let these Sioux pass through here in peace, Wilson,” Jake said slowly. “You’re only going to cause trouble for the rest of us if you provoke them.”

  Wils
on’s jaw visibly tightened, and he glowered at Jake. Seconds passed, and he nodded his head. “Have it your way,” he finally said. “Just tell them to leave, or I won’t be held responsible for any one of these guns going off accidentally.” He pulled his hat from his head, and swiped a grimy hand across his forehead. Repositioning the hat, he turned and walked away. Several of the men followed. Marcus Powell shot Jake a hate-filled look, and spit tobacco on the ground. He scooped his rifle out of the sand, then turned back toward camp.

  “You had better wait here.” Jake said to the Indians without looking at them, and headed for the Parker wagon.

  * * *

  Jake sat in silence, staring at the dancing orange flames from the fire a few feet away. He sat on an overturned water bucket, his elbows resting on his knees. In his hands, he clutched a tin coffee cup, the steam rising in swirly patterns to blend with the light from the fire. Darkness fell fast, and the hushed voices of the families settling down for the night mingled with the popping and hissing of a dozen campfires.

  Behind him, Rachel’s soft voice murmured from inside the wagon. Her lulling tone sent a wave of heat crashing through him. She spoke quietly to her nephews, settling them in for the night. Jake gripped the cup in his hands, and his jaw muscles tightened. Feelings unlike anything he’d ever experienced before threatened his sanity. He’d been attracted to her from the first day, the first moment he laid eyes on her. For the life of him, he couldn’t figure out the reason why. Sweet and proper girls had never held his interest before. He liked his women fast and loose. Yeah. Look what that got you. Images of Sandra swirled in his mind, then dissolved like the steam rising from his coffee. Her face was quickly replaced by the crystal clear vision of Rachel’s expectant eyes when he nearly kissed her earlier today.

  Jake raised the cup to his lips. The hot liquid rushing down his throat only intensified the heat in his body. Believing that Rachel was married had kept him at bay the last few weeks. Now that he knew the truth, it felt as if the corral door had been opened, and he’d been set free. There was no barrier to keep him away from her anymore.