Twisted Time

by Amii Lorin

“Read it and reconsider your ridiculous claim, Mr. Wilder,” she said, with more than a hint of self-satisfaction. “My Pennsylvania state driver’s license, which you will note expires later this year, in November, 2014.”

  Jake looked stunned. Yet his obvious amazement only intensified Laura’s uneasiness.

  “Say something.”

  “I don’t know what to say,” he admitted, squinting as he peered down at the wallet. “Dammit, woman, I know what year it is, and it ain’t 2014.” He gave her a quizzical look. “What in hell is a driver’s license, anyway?”

  “A state-issued permit to operate a motor vehicle.”

  “And what in hell is a motor vehicle?”

  _”A car, an automobile,” she said, her hand flailing, as if to pluck the answer from thin air. “You know, anything that runs on a motor.”

  “No, I don’t know,” he said, looking again at the wallet. “If I’m reading this little card correctly, you were born in the year 2083 which makes you thirty-one if this is 2014. Is that right?”

  “Yes.”

  “Can’t be.”

  “Why not?”

  He snorted rudely, derisively. “Because you don’t look a day over twenty-two, that’s why.”

  As exhausted as she was, Laura blushed at the left-handed compliment, though in effect Jake had called her a liar.

  “Thank you... I guess. But I assure you I am thirty-one years old.”

  “Then you must have had a damned easy life up to now.” He still looked skeptical.

  “Easy! I’ll have you know I’ve worked hard for...” She broke off, struck by the pointlessness of the discussion. “What does my age have to do with anything?” she demanded, glaring down at him.

  He shoved back his chair and slowly stood to tower over her. “It proves to me that, if you’ll lie about one thing, you’ll lie about another.” He smirked. “And, lady, this ain’t 2014 it’s 1860, and I can prove it.”

  “How?” She jerked her head at the table. “With that paper? That doesn’t prove a thing. You can buy a reproduction of one of those at any souvenir shop.”

  “Maybe so,” he conceded. “But then, if the paper’s a fake, maybe so are your map and your guidebook and that thing you call a license.”

  Laura angled her chin and scowled at him. “Look, buster, you don’t have to prove a blasted thing to me. I’ll show you. I’ll take you for a spin in the Cherokee.” She hesitated, biting her lip in consternation. “I parked it on the outskirts of town. Is it far to Sage Flats?”

  “Not too far. Five miles, give or take.”

  “Okay, then. If you’ll take me into town, I’ll prove my case. Will you take me? Then we’ll see who’s right.”

  “Yes, we will. I was planning on taking you into Sage Flats.” His upper lip curled. “We’ll see what your friends have to say when they see you with me.”

  “I don’t have any friends there. How could I? The place is a ghost town.”

  “Yeah, full of ghosts of two-bit miners, whores, and crooks,” he retorted. “Which group of so-called spirits do you belong to, the soiled doves?”

  “Soiled doves! That’s a term used to describe prostitutes! How dare you? I’ll have you know I’m a respected botanist!”

  “Like I said, we’ll see when we get into town.”

  “Good. When can we go?”

  “In a week or so.”

  She started. “A week or so! Why not tomorrow morning?”

  Jake merely smiled—a smug, infuriating smile— before replying. “Because I want to wait and see if your friends come sniffing around while they think you’re keeping my mind on other things.” He didn’t need to elaborate on what those “other things” were; the look he raked over her body said it all. “Now,” he said, turning away, “I’ve got work to catch up on around here, and I have to be up at first light.”

  “When is that?” she asked wearily.

  He dipped his fingers into a small pocket near the waistband of his pants, drew out an old-fashioned timepiece, and glanced at it. “Coupla hours.”

  Automatically raising her arm, Laura looked at her watch. It read 3:18. No wonder she felt unequal to arguing in her own defense, she thought, lifting her hand to muffle a yawn. She had been up almost twenty-four hours, ever since her hotel wake-up call had roused her at four yesterday morning.

  Life was just not fair.

  “You look kinda funny.” Jake’s comment intruded into her thoughts. “Are you okay?”

  “No.” She blinked against a sudden sting in her eyes. “I’m tired. I need some sleep.”

  “Well, damn, you don’t have to cry about it.” He looked decidedly uncomfortable.

  “I’m not crying.”

  Eyeing her, Jake appeared indecisive for a moment before his strong features locked into lines of determination. Without a word he grabbed her hand.

  “Hey!” she cried. “What do you think you’re doing?”

  “I know what I’m doing.” He pulled her into the other room and crossed to the far corner.

  “Look, Jake, enough is en—” She broke off when he stopped beside a narrow, metal-frame bed. Real fear sprang into her mind, leaped in her stomach. Was he going to throw her onto that bed and attack her? She thought, inching away from him. “Er ... Jake, you wouldn’t do anything rash now ... would you?’’

  “What?” He looked at her as if she were insane. “What are you babbling about now? And where are you slithering away to?” He frowned. “I thought you said you needed sleep?”

  “Yes, but...

  “Well, there’s the bed. Sleep. I’ll get my bedroll and stretch out on the floor for a coupla hours.”

  “Okay,” she agreed, relieved. “If you insist. But... I have nothing to wear.”

  He didn’t respond, but sourly looked her up and down. As he turned away, she remembered a remark he’d made earlier.

  “And what’s wrong with my clothes, anyway?” she demanded, stopping him in mid-stride.

  He slanted a sardonic glance over his shoulder. “A lady don’t wear pants. Or loggers’ boots.”

  “Doesn’t,” she absently corrected his grammar. “A lady doesn’t wear pants.”

  “That’s what I said.”

  “No, you said don’t.” She couldn’t believe she was pursuing this line of discussion; weariness must have turned her mind to mush, she decided.

  “Lady, you’re loco,” Jake said, walking to a chest of drawers near the front door. “Plain loco.”

  “I am not,” Laura replied, dropping to the bed and bending to untie the boot laces. “And these aren’t loggers’ boots. They’re hiking boots. Ladies’ hiking boots.”

  “If you say so,” he muttered in a tone of patent disbelief, as he yanked opened a drawer and pulled out a shirt. “You can sleep in this,” he said, tossing it to her.

  It landed on the floor near her feet. “You’ll never make outfield for the Phillies,” she said under her breath, reaching for the shirt.

  “What?” He paused with his hand on the door and gave her a quizzical look. “What are you mumbling about?”

  “Nothing. Thanks for the shirt. But another thing,” she persisted. “Ladies do wear pants. At least in 2014 they do. All the time.”

  “Sure.” He pulled the door shut after him.

  “Smartass,” she grumbled, making a face at the door. Then, realizing he probably wouldn’t be gone long, she got up. She removed the bracelet and slipped it into the velvet bag, then stuffed the bag into the bottom of her pack. Within moments she was out of her clothes, into his shirt—the hem brushed her knees, and the sleeves hung below her hands—and beneath the bedcovers. And not a moment too soon. Jake entered the room as she was tugging the covers up around her throat.

  “I heard that last remark,” he drawled, crossing the room to drop his bedroll next to the opposite wall.

  His voice was so dry that she couldn’t keep from smiling.

  “Damned if you’re not even prettier when you smile,” he said.
/>
  She almost responded to his compliment, when a thought occurred to her. “We forgot to clear off the table.”

  “Stay put. I’ll do it.”

  “But...”

  “I said I’ll do it.” He headed for the other room. “You get some rest.”

  “Okay, but there’s one more thing I have to say.”

  “Yeah? What’s that?” He stopped in the doorway.

  “I’m not a soiled dove.”

  “I know. At least,” he qualified, “I know you’re not the run-of-the-mill, dirty-neck-and-feet kind.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “I’m a smartass.”

  Laura almost laughed, but her frustration at his assumption of her identity squelched it. “Yes, you are.”

  “Uh-huh.” He walked into the other room.

  “And it is 2014,” she called after him.

  “Go to sleep,” he ordered.

  She willingly closed her eyes.

  Chapter 5

  “Laura.”

  She came out of the depths of sleep to the soft sound of Jake’s voice calling her name, the gentle nudge of his hand on her shoulder, and the delicious aroma of coffee tantalizing her senses.

  “Is it first light?” she asked, blinking the cobwebs of forgotten dreams from her eyes.

  “Long past. It’s after ten.” He removed his hand in a slow, almost caressing glide down her arm.

  “After ten! I must have died!” Stifling a yawn, and a sensuous shiver in response to his touch, she sat up and stretched. “Why didn’t you call me sooner?”

  He turned abruptly and headed for the door. “You needed the rest,” he said tersely. “But you’d better roll out now. Breakfast is ready.”

  Wondering what she had done to annoy him—or was he always grumpy in the morning?— she tossed back the covers and crawled out of bed. She ached all over from her tumble into that hole.

  Pushing her fingers into her tangled hair, she turned to gaze out the small window above the bed. The unrelenting glare of the midmorning sun hurt her eyes and brought an old saying to mind: Things always look better in the light of day.

  Wrong.

  She shook her head, wincing as her fingers caught in her snarled hair. Things didn’t look better at all; in fact, the view through the window looked pretty darned depressing.

  Alternating sunlight and shadow played over the rock-strewn, craggy hills in the near distance. The terrain closer to the ranch house was somewhat level, with only an occasional series of rough-looking bumps. The landscape seemed dry, barren, and devoid of life, both animal and plant.

  But Laura knew better, having tramped over that arid earth, those craggy humpbacked hills. The evidence of tracks and animal droppings, and the variety of plant life, had not surprised her. She had read books and watched several TV documentaries on the Western deserts and had expected it to appear barren, lifeless, and desolate.

  No wonder Jake behaved a trifle off center, she mused. Living alone in such a remote place would have had her climbing the walls.

  “Rustle your rump, woman!” Jake shouted from the kitchen, ending her reverie. “Grub’s on the table!”

  Insufferable, arrogant. . . Breaking off the thought, she smiled and sauntered into the kitchen.

  Raising his gaze from the cup he was filling with coffee, Jake started, then stared at her in stark amazement. The coffee ran over the sides of the cup and onto the table.

  “Mr. Wilder, watch it!” Laura exclaimed, rushing forward.

  “Dammit! Your fault,” he growled. “What in hell do you think you’re doing, woman, coming to the table dressed like that?” He indicated her appearance with a sweep of his hand.

  She glanced down at herself, then back up at him. “It’s your shirt. What’s the problem?”

  “It’s indecent.”

  Laura’s back went up. “I do beg to differ, Mr. Wilder, but I consider myself adequately and decently covered.”

  “I can see most of your legs.”

  “No kidding. So what?” She gave him a haughty look. “I’ve been told I have very attractive legs.”

  Her statement seemed to throw him into confusion. “Well, you do,” he admitted grudgingly. “But dammit, woman, it’s unladylike to show your legs to a man. The only women who do are the kind you claim you’re not.”

  “Soiled doves?” She arched her brows.

  “Yes.”

  “Oh, brother,” she moaned, shaking her head in despair.

  He slammed the coffeepot onto the table. “Since the food’s ready, you might as well just sit down and eat. But as soon as you’re done, you get yourself decently dressed.”

  “All right, I’ll eat.” She seated herself opposite him. “But before I’ll even think about getting dressed, I need a shower.”

  “A shower,” he repeated, his face blank. “We don’t get much rain out here.”

  This was just too much. “I don’t mean a rain shower, you nit!” she yelled. “I’m talking about a bath.”

  He shook his head like a punchy prizefighter. “Well, hell, why didn’t you say so?”

  “You have a bathtub?” she asked eagerly.

  “No.” He shrugged. “But I have my ma’s old washtub. I can fill that for you.”

  ‘Wonderful,” she muttered, picking up her fork and spearing a mouthful of scrambled eggs. “I suppose beggars can’t be choosers. I’ll take it.”

  “Thought you might.” Jake scraped his chair back and got to his feet. “I’ll have to put the water on the stove to heat.”

  “Figures,” she said, heaving a sigh.

  * * * *

  Laura caught herself sighing often throughout the following days.

  She sighed in exasperation every time she prepared a simple meal for Jake on that impossible excuse for a stove. She sighed in frustration every time she had to drag the washtub into the kitchen and heat water for her bath.

  She sighed with confusion at the excitement she felt every time she made physical contact, no matter how slight and impersonal, with the solid masculine warmth of Jake’s body.

  And she sighed because he didn’t trust her, believing she was there to get information from him.

  For Laura, it was a long and harrowing week, fraught with moments of dizzying delight... and unmitigated torture.

  One evening as they dawdled over their after-supper coffee, Laura decided to try a little mining of her own, digging for personal information about her host.

  “Where were you born?” she asked, not even trying to hide her curiosity.

  ‘Here,” he murmured, jerking his head at the doorway. “Right there in the bedroom.”

  Laura was appalled at the very idea of a woman giving birth under such primitive conditions. “In there?” she exclaimed in disbelief. “The same room I’m sleeping in?”

  “In the same corner.” A smile twitched the edges of his lips. “Of course, there was a double bed then.”

  “How utterly primitive.”

  “Hey,” Jake objected. “The bed was handmade, and maybe a little crude, but it wasn’t primitive.”

  She shot him an impatient look. “I meant the overall conditions, not the bed.”

  “Oh.” He frowned. “I’m sure... I think my pa did wash his hands before helping to deliver me.”

  “Oh... well then...” Realizing it was useless to pursue the subject, Laura asked another question. “Then you’ve lived on this ranch all your life?”

  “Yes.” He nodded, then turned the tables on her.

  “How about you? You live in Pennsylvania all your life?”

  “Yes. I was born in Philadelphia... in a hospital.”

  “That’s nice.” Jake shrugged off her verbal jab. “I’ve heard of hospitals, but I’ve never been in one. Don’t want to, either. Heard they’re nasty places.”

  Never been in one! Nasty places! Laura thought in astonishment, feeling a feathering of unease along her spine. Could Jake honestly believe he was living in the nineteenth ce
ntury?

  Naw. She rejected the idea as too farfetched. Ignoring the unsettling sensation, she again changed the subject. “What was it like growing up out here? I mean, well, in comparison to Philadelphia, or almost any city this place is pretty deserted and remote.”

  “Remote ... maybe.” Jake smiled and turned his head to gaze through the one small kitchen window to the dusk-softened landscape beyond. “Deserted?” He turned back to her, his expression patient, tolerant. “No, ma’am. Ifs not at all deserted. It’s teeming with life, maybe not human life, but real, breathin’ life, sure enough.”

  “And you weren’t lonely growing up?” Laura asked, recalling his telling her he never got lonely.

  “No. I had my ma and pa, and the horses we ran.” He frowned. “That is, until Pa got sick, and we had to sell some of the horses to keep going. Ma and I did the best we could to hang onto all the horses until Pa got better, but...” He shrugged. “I was only ten, and Pa didn’t get better.” Painful memories darkened his eyes. “Then he died and, over the years, some of the horses had to go. Most of them were gone by the time I was grown enough to take over running the ranch.”

  Jake fell silent, except for the soft sigh that whispered through his lips; then he gave a shrug, as if shaking himself free from introspection.

  “You’ve had a hard life,” Laura murmured, silently deriding herself for all the times she had thought she’d had it tough. Though she had worked hard to achieve her degree and her associate professorship, she had had the support of a loving and encouraging upper-middle-class family.

  “No harder than most out here,” he said. “But, then, God never did promise that life would be easy.” He shrugged again. “Anyway, then I built the herd up again to what it had been when Pa got sick.” A cynical smile flickered across his face. “I even got betrothed to the daughter of our nearest neighbor, a good half-day’s ride east. Then Ma got sick and my girl didn’t want to be saddled with a sick mother-in-law. She wasn’t getting any younger, she said, and she broke the engagement. Two weeks later she married a dry-goods clerk she’d met during one of her family’s trips into Virginia City for supplies.”

  “Oh, Jake,” she murmured, impulsively reaching across the table to give his hand a sympathetic squeeze. A shock of awareness jolted through her, awareness of Jake as a man, of herself as a woman... alone together.