by Sarah Wynde
A Gift of Time
By Sarah Wynde
Natalya Latimer’s ability to see the future has been as much curse as gift. Knowing that she would someday find his dead body destroyed her relationship with her best friend and lover. But when it finally happens, nothing turns out the way she expected it to and suddenly she’s flying blind, with no gift to tell her where she’s going.
Copyright © 2013 Wendy Sharp
A Gift of Time is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or events is coincidental.
All rights reserved.
Prologue
“He’ll kill her. Please, can’t you help me?” The woman tried to tug on the doctor’s white-coated arm, but her hands passed through him as if he were as insubstantial as air. She stared at him and then backed away, turning to the nurse.
“Why won’t you listen to me?” she begged. “You have to find her.”
Rose wrinkled her nose. She shouldn’t have stopped in the emergency room. The noise and chaos had drawn her in, but she liked visiting the hospital to see the babies, not the people in pain.
And this poor woman seemed to be in agony. She hadn’t even realized she was dead yet.
Sirens in the distance grew louder. Another ambulance was arriving. Nearby voices sounded increasingly urgent, but the noise didn’t drown out the words of the begging woman. “I told her to run. I told her not to say a word. You have to look for her. Please, please, please listen to me.”
Rose stepped forward, her feet moving as if disconnected from her brain. Her brain was telling her to leave, to go upstairs where she could coo over the little ones in peace.
“They can’t hear you,” she said instead.
The woman spun, staring at Rose. She wasn’t old, but her eyes held the weary look of one of life’s punching bags and tired lines dragged down her mouth.
“He calls her the spawn of Satan,” the woman said, her hands clenched into fists. “Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live.”
“He sounds like a jerk,” Rose answered matter-of-factly. A man in green scrubs rushed through her and she stepped closer to the woman, moving out of the doorway and into the room where the medical staff labored over the woman’s body.
The woman choked out a surprised laugh. “Can you save her?” she asked, her frantic voice calming.
Rose opened her mouth to answer honestly. She was a ghost herself. As the woman would soon discover, ghosts were practically helpless in the world of matter. Nothing either of them could do would make a difference to anyone still living. “Yes,” she heard herself saying. “Yes, I can.”
“Oh, bless you.” The woman’s shoulders sagged in relief. “Thank you so much, thank you—I can’t tell you—it means so much—I’m so grateful.” Tears shone in her eyes, but didn’t spill over.
Oh, dear, Rose thought, feeling a tug in the center of her chest. What had she done?
*****
Much later, tromping her way through Ocala National Forest, Rose tried to be philosophical about the whole thing. The tug felt sort of like needing to pee. Not that she’d had to use a bathroom any time in the past several decades, but she remembered the sensation. First, a subtle message, a gentle push that said perhaps it was time to get up and go somewhere. Then a more insistent awareness. Now a sense of pressure, impossible to ignore.
She would have stayed far away from that emergency room if she’d had any idea what she was getting into. It was the holiday season and for the first time since her death, she wasn’t trapped in the house where she’d died. She’d had plans. She wanted to visit her childhood church and listen to carols, wander around town and admire the decorations, drop in on friends, ghostly and otherwise—not trudge through the woods.
If only that ghost had stuck around long enough to answer Rose’s questions. But she’d faded away in the midst of showering Rose in profuse thanks, leaving Rose with nothing but an increasing sense of urgency, a tug pulling her farther and farther into the middle of nowhere.
And then it stopped.
Rose stopped, too. She looked around her. Dappled light drifted down through trees draped in grey, wispy Spanish moss. The dense forest might have felt primeval to a stranger, but Rose had grown up in the days when visiting the cool springs made summer bearable. It felt as much like home to her as her own backyard. But what was she doing here?
The brush next to her stirred and Rose stepped quickly away. Black bear? Coyote? The moment of panic faded as she remembered she had nothing to fear from wildlife. Besides, the brown shape crawling out from the undergrowth didn’t look like any wildlife she’d ever seen.
“Oh, my,” Rose murmured. She took another step back and then a step closer. “Oh, dear.”
The girl lifted a dirty, tear-streaked face. Her pinched look and the shadows under her eyes made Rose think she hadn’t eaten in far too long, but the determined set of her chin said she wasn’t giving up. She wobbled as she pulled herself to her feet, staring directly at Rose, her eyes wide.
“Good morning,” Rose said brightly. “I’m here to rescue you.”
The little girl didn’t answer. She blinked a couple of times, but her expression didn’t change.
“Sadly, I don’t know how,” Rose admitted, opening her hands. Even as she said the words, though, the tug started again, pointing Rose deeper into the forest.
Rose touched her chest, feeling the softness of her pink sweater under her fingers. She wouldn’t have thought that was the right direction to go at all. But the pull didn’t feel like a sensation she wanted to ignore.
“All right,” Rose said. “Off we go then.”
She smiled at the girl and the girl stepped in her direction, her face awed, lips parted, eyes alight with wonder.
They were off to a good start, Rose thought with satisfaction.
Chapter One
Natalya Latimer hummed as she drove down the dark and winding road leading to her cottage. Good King Wenceslas looked out, on the feast of something. When the snow lay something-something.
She wasn’t sure why that song was stuck in her head. She hated Christmas. Worst holiday of the year. Except maybe for Valentine’s Day, but at least that was a one-day excuse to eat chocolate. Christmas was just a reminder of all she’d lost, all she’d never had, all she never would have.
Sometimes knowing the future sucked.
She could remember how magical the holiday used to be: the lights, the music, the anticipation, the excitement, the love that surrounded her, flowing like warm honey. She shouldn’t complain, she knew. She was lucky to have the family she did. But the magic didn’t exist without children to believe in it, and Natalya would never have children of her own.
Still, this year hadn’t been so bad. Her brother Zane was delighting in his role as father-to-be. Her brother Lucas seemed to be adapting to his unique family structure. Her father Max had glowed with the joy of having all his children home, and a grandchild on the way. And her sister Grace had planned the day to the dotted i’s and crossed t’s. The holiday hadn’t been special, not the way it ought to be, but it was pleasant enough.
Her eyes narrowed, and she put a hand up to shield them. Lights—and not the Christmas decoration kind—glared ahead of her on the road.
That was odd. This road, her road, wound along the edge of the Ocala National Forest and led to a dead end. Eight houses were tucked into the trees, bordering a small lake, one of the many that dotted the region. But she wouldn’t have expected any of her neighbors to be out this late on the evening of Christmas Day. The only light she should see ought to be her own car’s headlights separating the blackness.
>
And then her breath caught in her throat and her heart froze.
A sheriff’s car, door open, lights on, stood at the side of the narrow road. It was parked carelessly, half blocking her lane, half slanted into the grass.
Oh, hell.
Ten years ago, she’d foreseen this night.
She’d been waiting for it to arrive ever since.
She took her foot off the gas pedal and let her car glide to a halt behind the other. Dread flowed through her like acid, turning her muscles to jelly. For a moment, she dropped her head and let it rest against the steering wheel, fighting the urge to cry or scream.
Christmas Day? Seriously? The universe must really hate her.
Her fingers shook as she turned the key in the ignition and fumbled her seatbelt open, but her eyes were dry as she opened the car door and stepped out.
She knew exactly what would happen next.
She’d walk around to the side of the sheriff’s car. In the darkness, the overhead light bar’s swirling blue-and-white would cast a surreal aura over the road, the trees and grass no more than a blur of green and brown as she saw the dark-soled shoes and the long legs of Colin Rafferty, her ex-boyfriend, lying face-down in the dirt and grass.
She’d rush to him. His tawny hair would be curling at the nape of his neck, longer than usual, and she’d feel the soft tickle of it against her fingers as she slid them along his skin, searching for his heartbeat. She’d force his body over, struggling to shift him, already realizing it was too late.
There’d be no pulse. She’d feel the cool and waxy texture of death under her warm touch. His skin would be tinged with grey, his lips turning blue. She’d smell death in the air, waste in more senses than one.
Ten years ago, that was all she’d known.
The knowledge had destroyed her life.
Tonight, if she tried, she could probably capture more. When it came to the near future, her sight was as clear as the memories of her near past. If she let herself think about it, she would know everything that would happen next: the phone calls, the ambulance, the deputies showing up, the hushed voices, worried faces. The funeral, his grandmother’s grief.
Instead, she took a deep breath and tried not to think. Slow and steady. She’d get through this miserable night as she had so many others: one heartbeat at a time.
But as she rounded the front of her car and stepped onto the grassy verge of the road, her feet stopped moving. She blinked and then blinked again, trying to make sense of what she was seeing. The lights, the surreal colors, Colin down on the ground—all that was right. But a shadow crouched over him, too small to be human.
She gasped in uncertain horror and the shape turned toward her, revealing a face, pale and dirty, topped with disheveled dishwater blonde hair.
Human, definitely human, Natalya realized with relief. But young. What was a child doing here? As she paused, the child’s hands dropped off Colin’s chest and she—he? it?—scrambled away and into the darkness.
“Wait!” Natalya called, hurrying forward along the length of the car. “Come back.”
She should go after the child. It was too late to help Colin. But as she reached him, she dropped to her knees anyway, ignoring the sharp gravel pressing into her flesh as she felt for his throat. Under her fingers, the outer edge of the trachea was solid, resilient, and it took barely a moment for her to find the throbbing carotid artery next to it.
Throbbing.
He had a pulse.
His skin felt warm.
And he was stirring, lifting his head off the ground, his eyelids fluttering open and revealing his grey eyes.
“Nat?” He sounded dazed. But his words were clear, not slurred or faint or heavy with pain, nothing indicating a medical emergency. “You’re here. What happened?”
She rocked back onto her heels as he pushed himself to a sitting position. “You tell me. What is this, Colin?” Anger simmered in her tone. Was he playing a practical joke on her?
But there was no smirk and no “gotcha” in his voice as he repeated, “You’re here.”
He reached for her, wrapping his hand around the back of her neck and tugging her forward, drawing her closer until his firm lips took hers. Startled, Natalya opened her mouth to protest but he smothered her words with his kiss.
For a split second, Natalya resisted, and then she melted. She kissed him back, her lips hot under his, the taste and smell of him filling her senses, so familiar and yet so long denied. His lips explored, caressed, his hand twining into her long hair. She felt the warmth of his touch tingling along her scalp, the pressure of his arm against her back, the heat of desire stirring in her veins.
In some back corner of her mind, she knew she should stop him. This wasn’t who they were, not anymore, but he felt so good. So good, so warm… and so alive.
Through the thick fabric of her sweater, the touch of his hand on her back was lighting a fire, embers of passion sparking into life and flaring up with unforgotten heat. She let herself slide forward, let her hands slide up and over his shoulders, her body press against his, her soft curves touching his solid chest.
She wanted to be closer, to feel her skin against his, but he pulled away first, his lips leaving hers with what felt like reluctance. He let his hand drop from her neck and smooth its way down her back, resting his cheek against hers for a long silent moment.
Natalya took in a deep, shuddering breath, her lips burning, her heart racing. In a shaky whisper, she asked, “What the hell, Colin?”
“Not hell,” he murmured. “Definitely not hell.”
“And not heaven, either.” She pulled away, a flush of annoyance beginning to replace desire. What did he think he was doing? He was supposed to be dead, not kissing her.
“You sure?” His voice held a trace of humor.
“Positive.” She scrambled to her feet and looked down at him.
He looked—like himself. Brown hair, the color of the sandy dirt in the nearby pine scrub forest. Grey eyes, the shade of the 4PM sky on a Florida summer day. Even features, a straight nose, a touch of evening stubble scraping his cheeks, the mouth that fell into a natural smile. Only the faint laugh lines creasing the tops of his cheeks marked his face as any different from the last time she’d stared at it, years ago. He hadn’t changed. And he looked perfectly healthy.
“What was that about?” she snapped at him, anger covering up her hurt. If this was a practical joke, it was the cruelest trick he’d ever played.
He rubbed his chest, glancing around at the night. “I’m not sure.”
Her eyebrows arched. Her fury faded. He sounded authentically confused and the motion of his hand against his chest set off warning bells in the back of her head. “Are you in any pain?”
“No.” He shook his head, but then added, his tone doubtful, “Not now, anyway.”
“Was it your chest?” Natalya asked. “Did it feel like squeezing? Or fullness? Any difficulty breathing?”
“Hmm.” He didn’t answer her, his eyes on the trees and scrub lining the road.
“Were you lightheaded? Did you pass out?” Impatience was making her skin crawl. Maybe he’d had a heart attack. She needed to get him to a hospital.
“Quit being a doctor, Nat.”
She bit back the anger that wanted to spill out. Voice carefully controlled, she said, “I am a doctor, Colin. And as a doctor, I think you need medical attention. Immediate medical attention. We should call an ambulance.”
“I don’t need one,” he answered. “I’m fine.”
“You were lying by the side of the road, Colin. That’s not fine! Not to mention—” She let the sentence break off.
“Not to mention I ought to be dead?”
“Not to mention that,” she agreed, gritting the phrase out through clenched teeth.
“I’m not, though. I’m not.” He sounded thoughtful, more surprised than doubting.
Natalya reached for his hand. His warm fingers clasped hers and she helped him t
o his feet. He stood too close to her, looking down, their eyes and hands locked together until Natalya turned her head away and stepped back, breaking his grasp.
The overhead lights from his car were still flashing, lending the night the surreal glow she knew from her memories. The air felt right, the temperature cool and slightly humid, but not cold. She could smell the forest, pine trees and earthy decay. Everything fit her long-ago precognition—except that Colin was alive.
“What happened?” she asked him, not letting her voice wobble. “What are you doing here?”
He frowned. “It’s like a dream.”
Confusion, disorientation—those were symptoms. But of what? Drugs and alcohol were obvious, but she ruled them out immediately. She might have barely spoken to him in the past ten years, but he wouldn’t have changed that much. Head injury?
She scanned his head, searching for any sign of damage. No blood, no bruising, but not all dangerous head injuries were visible. She craned her neck trying to see the back of his head, and then brought her gaze back to his face, staring directly into his eyes. His lips parted and he began to step toward her. She put a hand up to stop him and said briskly, “Your pupils are evenly dilated. No sign of concussion.”
“I didn’t hit my head,” he said, pausing in his movement. “At least I don’t think I did.”
Infection? Dehydration? Shock? Stroke? But despite his confusion, he sounded much too coherent and clear-spoken for any of those conditions. She needed to know more.
“What’s the last thing you remember?” she asked.
He rubbed his chest again, and started slowly. “I was driving and—”
“Why here?” Natalya let frustration win and interrupted him. Ten years ago, she’d left Tassamara for medical school and residency. When she moved back, she thought she and Colin had had a tacit agreement to stay out of one another’s spaces. She spent as little time in town as she could get away with. What had he been doing on the road that dead-ended at her house?
He didn’t look at her. “I wasn’t paying attention. I was just driving around. Thinking.”