by Meg Cabot
"No," I said, shaking my head. "My, um, family is far away." Really far away. "You can’t get them. I mean, thank you, but . . . you can’t get them."
"Then this man . . ." Jesse looked excited. And why not? It probably wasn’t every day the guy stumbled over a sixteen-year-old girl who’d been left bound and gagged in a hayloft. "Who is he? I’ll fetch the sheriff. He must pay for what he’s done."
Much as I would have liked to sic Jesse—Live Jesse—on Paul, it didn’t seem like the appropriate thing to do. Not when Jesse was going to have so many problems of his own to handle very soon. Paul was my problem, not his.
"No," I said. "No, that’s okay." Then, seeing his puzzled look, I said, "I mean, that’s all right. Don’t get the sheriff—"
"You needn’t fear him anymore, Susannah," Jesse said, gently. He clearly did not know he was speaking to a girl who had kicked a lot of butt in her day. Ghost butt, mostly, but whatever. "I won’t let him hurt you again."
"I’m not afraid of him, Jesse," I said.
"Then—" Jesse’s face clouded suddenly. "Wait. How did you know my name?"
Ah. Well, there was the rub, wasn’t it?
Jesse was looking at me curiously, that dark-eyed gaze raking my face. I’m sure I must have looked a picture. I mean, what girl wouldn’t after having been left for hours with her head in the straw and her mouth gagged?
It didn’t matter, of course. What Jesse thought of me. But I felt self-conscious just the same. I reached up and shoved some hair out of my eyes, trying to tuck it back behind an ear. Just my luck, the first time I meet my boyfriend—while he’s still living—and I look like a complete train wreck.
"Do I know you?" Jesse asked, his gaze searching. "Have we met? Are you . . . are you one of the Anderson girls?"
I had no idea who the Anderson girls might be, but I felt a stab of envy for them, whoever they were. Because they were girls who’d gotten to know Jesse—Live Jesse. I wondered if they knew how lucky they were.
"We haven’t met," I said. "Yet. But . . . I know you. I mean, I know . . . about you."
"You do?" Recognition dawned at last in his gaze. "Wait . . . yes! Now I know. You’re friends with one of my sisters From school? Mercedes? You know Mercedes?"
I shook my head, fumbling around in the pocket of my leather jacket.
"Josefina, then?" Jesse studied me some more. "You must be close to her age, fifteen, yes? You don’t know Josefina? You can’t know Marta, she’s too old—"
I shook my head again, then held out what I’d fished from my pocket.
He looked down at what I held in my hand.
"Nombre de dios," he said softly, and took it from me.
It was the miniature portrait of Jesse, the one I’d stolen from the Carmel Historical Society. I saw now how poor a portrait it actually was. Oh, the painter had gotten the shape of Jesse’s head right and his eye color and expression were close enough.
But he’d completely failed to capture what it was that made Jesse . . . well . . . Jesse. The keen intelligence in his dark brown eyes. The confident twist of his wide, sensuous mouth. The gentleness of his cool, strong hands. The power—just now leashed, but coiled so close to the surface, it might rise up at any moment—of those muscles, honed from years of working alongside his father’s ranch hands, beneath that soft linen shirt and black pants.
"Where did you get this?" Jesse demanded, his fist closing over the portrait. Sparks seem to fly from his dark eyes, he was that angry. "Only one person has a portrait like this."
"I know," I said. "Your fiancée, Maria. You’re here to marry her. Or at least, that’s the plan. You’re on your way to see her now, but her father’s ranch is still pretty far off, so you’re staying here for the night before you go on to her place in the morning."
Anger turned to bewilderment as Jesse lifted his free hand and raked his fingers through his thick dark hair—a gesture I had seen him perform so many times when he was completely frustrated with me, that tears actually sprang to my eyes, it was so familiar . . . and so adorable.
"How do you know all this?" he asked desperately. "You’re . . . you’re friends with Maria? Did she . . . give you this?"
"Not exactly," I said.
And took a deep breath.
"Jesse, my name is Susannah Simon," I said all in a rush, wanting to get it out before I changed my mind. "I’m what’s called a mediator. I’m from the future. And I’m here to keep you from being murdered tonight."
chapter sixteen
Because, in the end, I couldn’t do it.
I thought I could. I really did think I could sit back and let Jesse be murdered. I mean, if the alternative was never to meet him? Sure, I could do it. No problem.
But that had been before. Before I’d seen him. Before I’d spoken to him. Before he’d touched me. Before I’d known what he was, what he could have been, if he’d only lived.
I knew now I could no more stand by and let Jesse be killed than I could have . . . well, shoved my little stepbrother David out in front of a speeding car or fed my mother poison mushroom caps. I couldn’t let Jesse die, even if meant never seeing him again. I loved him too much.
It was as simple as that.
Oh, I knew I was going to hate myself later. I knew I was going to wake up and, if I even remembered what I’d done, hate myself for the rest of my natural life.
But what else could I do? I couldn’t stand idly by while someone I loved was walking into mortal danger. Father Dominic, my dad, all of them—even Paul—were right. I had to save Jesse, if I could.
It was the right thing to do.
But not, of course, the easy thing The easy thing would have been to point a finger in his face as he stared down at me, completely disbelieving, and gone, "Ha! Fooled ya! Just kidding."
Instead, I said, "Jesse. Did you hear me? I said I’m here from the future to save you from being—"
"I heard what you said." Jesse smiled at me gently. "Do you know what I think would be best? If you would let me get Mrs. O’Neil. She’ll take good care of you while I go to town to get the doctor. Because I think the man who did this to you—tied you like this—might also have hit you on the head—"
"Jesse," I said flatly. I couldn’t believe this. Here I was, making this tremendous sacrifice, saving the love of my life and knowing that I would never be with him again, and he was accusing me of being bonkers. "Paul didn’t hit me in the head. All right? I’m fine. A little thirsty still, but otherwise fine. I just need you to listen to me. Tonight Felix Diego is going to sneak into your room here at the boardinghouse and strangle you to death. Then he’s going to throw your body into a shallow grave, and no one is going to find it until a century and a half later, when my stepdad installs a hot tub on our deck."
Jesse just looked down at me. I couldn’t be sure, but I think I saw pity in his gaze.
"Jesse, I’m serious," I said. "You’ve got to go home. Okay? Just get back on your horse and turn around and go home, and don’t even think about marrying Maria de Silva."
"Maria did send you," Jesse said, finally. His face darkened with a sudden anger. "This is her way of trying to save face, is it? Well, you can go back to your mistress and tell her it won’t work. I won’t have her family thinking I wasn’t gentleman enough to break it off in person—no matter who she sends with strange tales to frighten me off. I’m going to see her tomorrow whether she likes it or not."
I blinked up at him, completely dumbfounded. What was he talking about?
Then, too late, I remembered the secret Jesse had once confided in me, the secret only I knew . . . that he had been on his way to the de Silva ranch all those years ago not to marry Maria, but to break things off with her . . .
. . . Which explained why all of her letters to him had been discovered alongside his remains last summer, when my stepbrother accidentally dug them up. Nineteenth-century manners demanded that couples breaking off their engagements returned the letters each had written the other. Diego
had murdered Jesse before such an exchange could take place in order to prevent Maria’s father from asking any uncomfortable questions concerning the breakup—like what Jesse had heard about his fiancée that had made him want to end their engagement.
"Wait," I said. "Hold on. Jesse, Maria didn’t send me. I don’t even know Maria. Well, I mean, we’ve met, but—"
"You have to know her." Jesse looked down at the framed portrait in his hand. "She gave this to you. She must have. How else could you have gotten it?"
"Um," I said, with a shrug. "Actually, I stole it." Then I saw his face change, and knew I’d made a mistake.
"Oh, no," I said, holding up both hands, palms toward him. "Down, boy. I didn’t steal it from your precious Maria, believe me. I stole it from the Carmel Historical Society, okay? A museum, where it had been sitting for God knows how long. In fact, I bet if you check with good old Maria, she still has hers. Her portrait of you, I mean."
"There were no duplicates made," Jesse said, in a hard voice.
"I know that." God, this was hard. "But look at the one you’re holding, Jesse. Look how old it looks, how cracked the paint is, how tarnished that frame’s gotten. That’s because it’s nearly two hundred years old. I stole it in the future, Jesse. I used it to help me get back here, to the past, so I could warn you . . ." This wasn’t strictly true, of course, but close enough. "You’ve got to believe me, Jesse. Paul—the guy who tied me up—will back me up on this. He’s out looking for Felix Diego right now to try to stop him before he can get to you—"
Jesse shook his head.
"I don’t know who you are," he said in a low, even tone unlike any he’d ever used with me before. "But I’m returning this—" He dangled his portrait in my face. "—to its rightful owner. Whatever game you’re playing, it ends now. Do you understand?
Game? I couldn’t believe this. Here I was, risking my neck for him, and he was mad at me for stealing a stupid portrait of him? "There’s no game, Jesse, okay? If this were just a game—if Maria really did send me—how would I know the stuff I know? How would I know that Maria and Diego are secretly in love? How would I know that your girlfriend—who is quite the skank, by the way—doesn’t want to marry you at all? And that her dad doesn’t approve of Diego and thinks if she marries you she’ll forget about him eventually? How do I know that the two of them have cooked up a scheme to kill you tonight and hide your body so it looks as though you skipped out on the engagement—"
"Nombre de dios." Jesse was on his feet and swearing. I couldn’t help noticing how the loft shook a little under his footsteps. This was not something that would have happened with Ghost Jesse, and was just more proof of how very far I’d come from the world I knew.
But that wasn’t the only thing that wouldn’t have happened with Ghost Jesse. I realized this a second later when Alive Jesse bent down and siezed me by my arms, and gave me a frustrated shake.
"You know all this because Maria told you!" he said, from between gritted teeth. "Admit it! She told you!" As quickly as he’d snatched me up, he let go and turned away. Uttering a groan of pent-up annoyance, Jesse dragged a hand through his hair.
My arms, where he’d touched me, tingled.
"Look, I’m sorry," I said, meaning it. I knew how he felt, after all. His wasn’t the only heart in that barn that was breaking. "I mean, about your girlfriend wanting to kill you and all. Even if you were going to, you know, break up and all. But if it’s any consolation, I do think you’re a lot better off without her. I mean, the only times I ever met her, she was trying to kill me, too, but still. Better you find out she’s a skank now, you know, and break it off cleanly, than find out after you’re married. Because I don’t even know if they let people get divorced in, you know, your time."
"Stop saying that!" Both of Jesse’s hands went to grasp his hair now.
"What? Skank?" Maybe I was being a little harsh. "Well, okay. But the girl seems like major bad news."
"No." Jesse turned around to stare down at me, and I was surprised at the intensity with which his gaze burned into mine. "Your time. The future. You . . . you . . . I’m sorry, Miss Susannah. But I’m afraid I’m going to have to get the sheriff after all. Because you are very clearly not right in the head."
"Miss Susannah!" To my utter horror, tears pricked at the corners of my eyes. But I couldn’t help it. It was just so . . . so . . .
Unfair.
"So it’s Miss Susannah, is it?" I asked him, ignoring my tears. "Oh, that’s just great. I come all the way back here, risking major brain cell burnout, and you don’t even believe me? I’m basically guaranteeing myself a lifetime of heartbreak, and all you have to say is that you think I’m not right in the head? Thanks a lot, Jesse. No, really. That’s just fine."
I broke off with a sob. Suddenly, it was all too much. I couldn’t even look at him, because every time I did, he dazzled my eyes, like he was the most glorious Christmas tree that had ever existed. I buried my face in my hands and wept.
Maybe I had done enough, I told myself. Maybe tipping him off about Maria and Diego’s plan would make him turn around tonight and go home. Even though the tip had come from what he obviously considered an unreliable source. I couldn’t do anything more, could I? I mean, how else could I get him to believe me?
Then I remembered.
I dropped my hands from my face and looked up at him, not caring if he saw my tears.
"Doctor," I said.
"Yes." Jesse had fished a handkerchief from somewhere and handed it to me, his anger apparently dissipated. "Let me get one for you. I really feel that, despite what you say, Miss Susannah, you are unwell—"
"No." I pushed the handkerchief away impatiently. "Not for me. You."
A small smile appeared at the corners of his lips. "I need a doctor? I assure you, Miss Susannah, I have never felt fitter in my life."
"No." I stumbled to my feet. It was the first time I’d tried to stand since he’d untied me, and I wasn’t exactly steady.
Still, I managed to get up without his help. Now I stood in front of him, breathing hard—but from emotion not exertion.
"A doctor," I said, looking up into his confident, concerned face. He was a good six inches taller than me, but I didn’t care. I kept my chin up.
"You secretly want to be a doctor," I said. "You haven’t asked him, but you know your father won’t let you. He needs you to run the ranch, because you’re the only boy. They couldn’t spare you long enough for you to get through medical school, anyway."
Something happened to Jesse’s face then. The glint of suspicion that I’d seen in his eye since I’d shown him the miniature portrait dropped away, and in its place came something else. . . .
Something like wonder.
"How . . . ?" Jesse stared down at me in utter incredulity. "How could you possibly have . . . ? I have never told anyone that."
I reached out and took one of his hands . . .
. . . and was shocked by how warm it felt in mine. All those times Jesse had held me . . . all those times he’d stroked my hair and I’d marveled at his heat . . . I knew now it hadn’t been real, that heat. It had all been in my head. This, this heat was real. This hand was real. The hard calluses I knew so well . . . they were real. Really Jesse.
"You told me," I said to him. "You told me in the future."
Jesse shook his head, but not hard. Just a little.
"That . . . that’s not possible," he said.
"Yes," I said. "Yes, it is. You see, what happens tonight is that Diego kills you. But only your body dies, Jesse. Your soul doesn’t go anywhere, because . . . well, because I think it wasn’t supposed to happen like that." I gazed up at him tenderly, still holding his hand. "I think you were supposed to live. But you didn’t. So your soul hung around until I came along, about a hundred and fifty years later. I’m someone who helps . . . well, people who’ve died. You told me you wanted to be a doctor, Jesse. You told me in the future. Do you believe me now? Will you please go away from
here and never come back?"
Jesse looked down at our entwined fingers, mine so pale against his sun-darkened skin, so soft against his calluses. He didn’t say anything. What could he have said, really?
But because he was Jesse, he thought of something to say . . . the exact right thing to say.
"If you know something like that about me," he said softly, "about my wanting to be a doctor—something I have never told Maria—or any living person—then I must . . . I suppose I must . . . believe you."
"So," I said. "Now you know. You’ve got to get out of here, Jesse. Just get on your horse and ride."
"I will," he said.
We were standing so close, all he’d have had to do was reach out, and he could have cupped my face in his hand.
He didn’t, of course.
But I could feel the warmth radiating from him, not just from the hand I held, but along the course of his entire body. He was so vibrant, so alive, that he made me feel aware of every hair on my head, every corpuscle in my skin. I loved him so much . . .
. . . and he’d never, ever know it.
But that was all right. Because at least he’d be able to go on living.
"But not," Jesse said, suddenly dropping my hand and turning away, "tonight."
I stood there, feeling as if I’d been kicked. Cool air rushed into all the places that, moments before, had been warmed by his body heat.
"W-what?" I stammered stupidly. "Not what?"
"Not tonight," Jesse said with a nod toward the barn doors, through which, I could see, the lengthening shadows were gone. The sun had set. There were no shadows anymore. "Tomorrow I will ride to the de Silvas’ ranch to speak with Maria and her father. But not tonight. It’s growing late. Too late to travel. I’ll stay here tonight, and leave in the morning."
"But you can’t!" The words were wrenched from the depths of my soul. "You’ve got to leave now, Jesse, tonight! You don’t understand, it’s too dangerous—"