by Tamara Gill
“Now, Elmo, let's have a look at you,” said Ryan, still softly but no longer in a whisper.
Kathryn was dismayed at what she saw by the light of the three-quarter moon. Elmo was certainly no larger than little Alma, perhaps not as large. But worse than that, the boy could scarcely stand, he was so weak. He leaned against Ryan's horse while his benefactors examined him.
“Ryan, he'll never make it on foot,” whispered Kathryn in urgent concern.
“But we daren't take him back. Even now, his absence might have been noticed. The hue and cry could begin any moment. Elmo, can you ride?” asked Ryan abruptly.
“Yes, Masah, I allus used to take the horses down for water when I worked up at the house.” He seemed to accept Ryan's presence without need of explanation—or perhaps he was simply too far gone to care.
“Good,” said Ryan. “You'll have to take my horse if you're to make it out of South Carolina. That will make it harder to set the dogs on your trail, as well.”
Ryan tossed the boy up into the saddle as if he were a sack of meal, and continued. “You must make your way to North Carolina, to the town of Goldsboro, and find the Quakers there. They will help you on the next stage of your journey. Here is a letter saying you are returning to your master in Goldsboro, which will allow you to ask directions without arousing suspicion.” He handed Elmo a folded paper. “There is food and a little bit of money in the saddlebags, which should sustain you that far. Good luck, lad, and be off!”
Elmo needed no further urging. He dug his bare heels into the huge gelding's flanks and headed north through the trees at a slow trot. As the sound of his retreat faded, Kathryn regarded Ryan accusingly. “You never said you were giving him your horse! It could be recognized.”
“That is a chance I'll have to take,” he replied. “It was obvious the boy hadn't a prayer on foot.” She opened her mouth to protest, but he stopped her with a deep, demanding kiss. “Were you not wondering why I let you come along?” he asked a moment later.
“I should have guessed,” she said with a throaty chuckle.
As before, the sense of danger and urgency heightened her arousal. When he lifted her skirts instead of undoing her dress, she fumbled with the fastening on his breeches. This time there was even less leisure for exploration but she didn't care. She only wanted to feel him inside her once again, before fate could tear them apart. They were both still partially clothed when he entered her and for a space of time their sighs mingled with the other night sounds.
“How long have you been involved with the Underground Railroad?” asked Kathryn languidly a while later as they walked hand in hand through the woods, Ryan leading her mare.
“The what?” His hand tightened on hers in surprise.
Oops. “The, ah, organization of people that helps slaves escape to the North.” Of course it wouldn't be called the Underground Railroad yet—there weren't even any railroads yet!
“It's hardly an organization,” replied Ryan, still looking at her strangely. “There are a few scattered individuals who are willing to take risks to help fugitives, some on principle and some for the sheer thrill of it.” Ryan's tone implied he was one of the latter, but she knew by now that he had the firmest principles of anyone she'd ever met.
Kathryn said nothing, still embarrassed by her blunder.
“Of course, some of these people know of others,” he continued. “There may well be many more than I'm aware of. But what did you call it?”
“Never mind,” said Kathryn quickly, wishing she hadn't brought up the subject.
“Underground Railroad, that's what you said, wasn't it?”
She nodded reluctantly.
“Strange,” he said slowly. “I was going to tell you later on, when I had more facts. Robert Mills has been trying to get me to invest in his canals here in South Carolina, but a man I correspond with in Pennsylvania has advised me to put my money instead into something new they're doing up there—something he called a railroad.” His gaze was penetrating. “But there is no way you could have known that, is there?”
“Of course not,” said Kathryn, fighting to keep from dropping her eyes. “I . . . I heard the term in England. They're experimenting with railroads there, too, you know.” She had no idea whether this was true, and could only hope that Ryan wouldn't know, either.
“Are they doing well?” he asked with interest.
“Much better than canals,” she improvised. “I think your money might be better invested in them.” As his future wife, surely it was her duty to help and advise him.
Ryan nodded slowly. “You may well be right. I'll look further into it.” It apparently did not occur to him to wonder how Kathryn might have found out about something so unladylike as railroads during a London Season.
You're going to have to tell him the truth, you know, said that small, persistent voice in the back of her mind. Why are you procrastinating? But she knew that it was fear that held her back—fear of losing his love. I'll tell him before the wedding, she promised the nagging little voice. Definitely before the wedding.
“Catherine, I've been thinking,” began Ryan after a brief silence. As she turned to him, a shot rang out in the near distance, deeper in the woods behind them.
“Elmo!” they both exclaimed, staring at each other in horror.
Before Kathryn could utter another word, Ryan was uncinching her mare's saddle strap.
“What . . . what are you doing?” she asked shakily.
“I'll do better bareback than sidesaddle.” His voice was calm, purposeful. “Can you find your way home alone from here?”
She grasped his arm. “What are you going to do?”
“I'll know when I see what has happened. Wait here for fifteen minutes. If I don't return by then, get yourself home. I'll call on you tomorrow if I can.” Pulling away from her, he turned to mount the mare.
“No, wait! I—” He stopped her with a stern glance and she subsided. Reluctantly, Kathryn realized that if she went along, she might very well place him—and Elmo—in even greater danger. “Be careful, Ryan!” she pleaded with sudden foreboding.
“Always,” he replied and kicked the mare into a canter.
The next few minutes felt like hours to Kathryn as she waited alone in the forest, straining to hear something, anything, over the nighttime woodland noises. Once she thought she heard distant shouting, but she couldn't be sure. How long had she been waiting? She had no intention of leaving until Ryan returned, even if it took him till dawn. Tom between frustration and boredom, she began walking in the direction Ryan had gone.
Before she had covered more than a few dozen yards, however, she heard hooves approaching. Slipping behind a tree, Kathryn peered fearfully into the darkness. Through the gloom, she could see the outline of two horses, one with a small figure slumped over the back, both being led by a larger figure that she was almost positive was . . .
“Ryan?” she whispered loudly as they drew near.
“Catherine! Thank God. I was afraid you'd gone back. Here, I need your help!” He reached up and slid Elmo's apparently inert form off of his chestnut gelding.
Kathryn hurried forward, nearly tripping over a tree root in her haste. “What happened? Was he shot?” She was on her knees now, pulling the ragged shirt gently away from the boy's body.
“Yes, in his left arm. One of Allerby's men saw him. Careful, there!” he cautioned her as she moved Elmo slightly to pillow his head on her saddlebag.
“Do you have a knife?” she asked Ryan worriedly. “This sleeve will have to be cut off.” Ryan silently proffered his blade and she slit the material over the boy's arm.
“Do . . . do you know anything about getting a bullet out?” she finally asked, hoping she would not disgrace herself by being sick. She'd never seen so much blood in her life. At least, in the tree-filtered moonlight, it appeared more black than red, which helped a little.
“I thought all women were natural nurses, but I guess I was wrong,” said Ryan t
easingly. Then, catching a glimpse of her strained face, he sobered. “You don't have to watch if you'd rather not, Catherine. I've taken out plenty of bullets in my time, and I can manage alone.”
Kathryn drew a deep breath and squared her shoulders. “I'll help. Tell me what to do.”
Ryan gave her another searching look, then nodded. “All right, then. Hold his arm still.”
She did, but asked, “Shouldn't we do something to stop the bleeding? How about a tourniquet?”
Ryan looked at her in surprise. “Is that some French technique? Did you hear of it in England?”
“Yes,” she said shortly, removing the sash from her dress and winding it around Elmo's arm, just below the shoulder. With a stick, she was able to twist it tightly enough to slow the bleeding.
“Impressive,” commented Ryan, watching her. Kathryn felt that she'd done the job very clumsily, working only from a general idea of how tourniquets functioned, but it seemed effective enough. She watched as Ryan took out his knife again and approached the blade to the wound just above Elmo's elbow.
“Wait!” she suddenly exclaimed. “Is that knife clean?” Ryan regarded the blade with some perplexity. “It looks all right to me,” he said.
“But it should be sterilized! The wound will get infected if it's not!”
“Steri . . . what?” Ryan asked, clearly startled.
Damn! They don't even know about germs yet! She thought furiously. “Could we build a fire? Just a small one?”
Ryan looked at her as though she were crazy. “And let everyone within miles know where we are? The fellow who shot Elmo should sleep for a few hours after the knock on the head I gave him, but I wouldn't want to gamble on it. That shot might have brought others out to look. And why in hell do we need a fire, anyway?”
Kathryn sighed. “Okay, no fire. How about alcohol? Do you have any kind of liquor in your saddlebags?”
“Yes, but—”
“Good. Get it out quickly!”
Ryan did as she asked, doubtfully handing her a small brown bottle. “It's pretty strong stuff. Are you sure this is the time—?”
“It's not for me.” She uncorked it and sniffed. Whatever it was, it smelled strong enough to kill germs. “Hand me your knife.” Ryan handed it over, looking dazed, and she poured some of the whiskey over the blade. Then, for good measure, she poured some into the wound.
“There,” she said. “I don't know how much it'll help, but it's better than nothing. Go on,” she prompted as he continued to stare at her. “Get that bullet out before he wakes up!”
Elmo began to groan just as Ryan finished his grisly task and held up the metal ball that had been lodged near the bone. “He'll have a chance now,” said Ryan. “Undo that fancy tourniquet of yours so the blood can clean out the wound and we'll bind it.”
“How will he ever make it North now?” asked Kathryn as she obeyed. “He won't be able to ride for days.” Now that the operation was over she was able to think again, and to recognize the problem they faced.
“I'll have to take him,” said Ryan simply.
Kathryn drew in her breath sharply, though deep down she had known what he would say.
“And no, you can't come,” he continued, intercepting her pleading look. “I know the country like the back of my hand, and it will be easier with just one horse. I'll get word to you as soon as I can, I promise. I love you, Catherine!”
Their lips met in a fierce parting kiss, and then she was helping to load the semiconscious Elmo onto Ryan's gelding in front of him, where he could support the boy in case he fainted again. She held up a hand as they rode slowly off, sudden tears stinging her eyes.
“God protect you both,” she whispered as the trees obscured them from her sight.
***
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
“I don't know,” said Annette worriedly the morning after the race. “I'm not sure this is such a great idea.”
“Why not?” asked Catherine. “I've already told him the truth. I simply want you to verify what I've said.”
“You told him? What . . . what did he say?” Annette sat down abruptly on Catherine's bed.
“At first he thought I was mad—or at least confused. But I think he may be beginning to believe me. I know you can convince him, Annette. He has no cause to doubt your motives.”
“And he has cause to doubt yours?”
“Kathryn's, at any rate. He told me last night that she still bears a grudge for his interference in her life two years ago. Though from what he told me, it sounded as though he had every reason to take her to task—drinking alcohol and encouraging the attentions of young men.”
“Yeah, Kathy was quite the party animal in school. But that's not so scandalous these days, Catherine, really. And she was an expert at letting a guy know when he'd gone too far—she could cut them down to an inch with two words when she wanted to.”
Catherine considered that for a moment, then suddenly chuckled.
“I was thinking about Ryan James,” she explained in answer to Annette's surprised look. “I was all but engaged to him before we exchanged places, and he rather frightened me. But I somehow suspect that Kathryn may be just the one to put him in his place.”
“She can do that if anyone can,” agreed Annette. “The more I think about this switch, the more I think there was some purpose in it.”
Catherine abruptly sobered. “I do hope you are right, Annette. But will you speak to Logan with me?”
“Okay. I just hope he doesn't try to have both of us committed!”
They went downstairs to breakfast and discovered that Logan had already left the house.
“He said something about an appointment,” Mr. Monroe told them with a shrug. “I don't think it has anything to do with that Lake Murray project, though, since we're not due out there until three. He said he'd be back before noon, so I didn't pry.”
Logan had doubtless gone to the doctor, as he had said he would, Catherine realized. She said nothing aloud, however, for she recalled that Logan had not wanted Mr. Monroe to learn of his accident.
Logan returned shortly after eleven and Catherine was pleased to see that he appeared completely recovered from his ordeal of the night before. As soon as he saw her, however, he frowned, and she knew he was remembering her revelation.
“Please, Logan, come sit down,” she said, beckoning him into the living room where Annette waited. Both of the Monroes had gone out a short time earlier but would be back for lunch. This was the perfect time. “Annette has agreed to discuss my, ah, situation with you.”
Logan rubbed a hand over his face. “I'd almost managed to convince myself that I dreamed that whole conversation last night. Guess not, huh?” He came in and spread himself across one of the little antique sofas. “Okay, Annette, fire away. Catherine said you were going to tell me about the diary?”
Just as Catherine herself had done last night, Annette recounted what had happened the night of the costume ball.
“I knew the minute she opened her mouth that something was wrong, but it wasn't until I saw Kathy's handwriting—and it definitely was her handwriting—in that diary, just as old and faded-looking as Catherine's writing from before, that I believed her,” she finished.
Logan looked up sharply. “Her handwriting, you say? Just a minute.”
He got up and went to the little writing desk in the corner of the room and pulled out a sheet of paper and a pen. “Catherine, write something for me. Anything.”
Puzzled, Catherine joined him at the desk and complied, copying a sentence or two from a letter that lay open there. “Like that?” she asked.
For a moment, Logan didn't reply but stared down at what she'd written. “That note you copied is one from Kathy to her mother.”
Catherine blinked and saw that it was true. The handwriting was the same as that in her diary.
“Your . . . your writing is completely different. I guess you could have done it on purpose, but . . .” He swallowed, then met her
eyes, glanced over at Annette and then back to her. “You really are from the past, aren't you?”
Catherine nodded, watching his face warily. Would he be pleased or angry?
He let out a long sigh. “This is pretty hard to absorb. I can't believe you managed to fool me and your parents, acting like Kathryn without knowing anything about her, or about this time.”
Catherine smiled tremulously, relief flooding through her like a sweet, warm tide. “Annette helped a lot, as I told you. And it is quite amazing how people tend to see what they expect to see.” She moved back to the sofa.
Annette excused herself with a wink, and Logan, barely seeming to notice, sat beside Catherine to listen raptly as she detailed what the past week had been like, omitting only her attraction to Logan himself.
“So,” said Logan as she finished her narrative, “you've enjoyed the twenty-first century so far?” She nodded. “I'm glad. But the question now is, what do we do about Kathryn? She may be enjoying 1825 as much as you're enjoying the present, but I'd feel better if I knew for sure. Even if she didn't ever appreciate it, I still feel sort of protective of her.”
“I understand,” said Catherine slowly, remembering her experience last night by the clock. She was being selfish, wanting to stay in this century, with Logan, at Kathryn's expense. If her counterpart wished to return, and if it were possible, then she would have to allow the exchange to take place.
“Still, I don't imagine you can just switch back for the wanting to,” he mused.
Catherine tensed. She would have to tell him. “I . . . I don't know. Perhaps—”
But he cut her off. “So I think the thing to do is to take advantage of whatever time you'll have here, however long it is,” he said decisively. She looked up hopefully. “How would you like to see my time, my way?”
He was grinning like a little boy, his hazel eyes twinkling, and Catherine thought he had never looked more handsome.