The miles between the border and home seemed a whole lot longer than they had when the surrey was headed in the other direction. Weary and discouraged Mac sat in silence while the other two discussed plans. Neither Betsy or Mrs. Myers seemed to have given up and she tried to take comfort in that while her mind continued to replay those short walks they’d taken, hand in hand, across the border. Each time they’d only seen the familiar expressway with its modern automobiles, turning back into Lavender to try again.
Betsy tried holding her breath, retaining mental images of the horse and buggy days in Lavender, and even singing an old song Mac had never heard before about true love left back in Texas. Nothing worked.
“Tomorrow’s another day,” Mrs. Myers said with determined cheerfulness.
“Seems like I’ve heard that before,” Betsy grumbled.
“Doesn’t make it any less true.”
Mac didn’t say what she was thinking. She just prayed Jerry would survive until another morning.
They dropped Betsy off at her farmhouse to the joy of her children and took Sylvie with them as they headed back into Lavender.
Chapter Sixteen
Jerry suffered from mixed emotions as he slipped the clothes he’d been wearing for days on over the underwear he’d slept in and climbed down from the loft to help Bud make breakfast.
Old Bud being one of those people who wake up cheery beyond belief and Jerry being of the opposite persuasion, he soon found himself placed in one of Bud’s two chairs and being served biscuits and gravy with crisp slices of salt pork and a cup of strong black coffee.
After a third cup of coffee and homemade blackberry jam on his second helping of biscuits, he began to feel more like himself. Still his feelings churned. He wished so much that he was in Lavender where he could run yelling to Betsy for help with the matter of getting Constantine Silver out of the past before he did any more damage. At the same time, he couldn’t help being grateful that neither he or Silver was in Lavender where everyone he loved would be so vulnerable.
“Reckon we’ll ever see that feller again?” Bud, who still lived on the optimistic side of morning, chirped up.
How much had the little man understood of what had happened yesterday? Not a whole lot apparently, Jerry thought glumly. He probably thought they could put together a posse of his neighbors and run Silver out of town. Or, if that didn’t work, they’d just have a little party under a live oak tree and get rid of him permanently.
Trouble was, in spite of the demonstration Silver had provided, the Korn man seemed to have little idea of the fire power the man possessed in that small weapon that looked nothing like the guns in his world.
“Oh, I think he’ll come back by. He said he’d give me time to think about his proposal.”
“And just what is that? Doesn’t seem too clear in my mind.”
Jerry wasn’t surprised. The whole thing must have appeared as confused to the man in the 1860s as replacing body parts or autos that drove themselves. Or understanding about cars of any kind. This was still a horsepower world, as he should well know, having spent so many vacations in Lavender.
Lavender. The thought of the little town and the community that surrounded him gripped him so hard his stomach hurt. Whatever else happened he must keep Lavender safe.
“He wants me to help him get back home.” This was certainly an extreme simplification of the demand.
“Looks able to get by on his own if you ask me.”
Jerry nodded. “You’d think so,” he said, barely taking in what either he or Bud was saying. Somehow he had to get word to Zan, send him a message as to where he was and that he needed help.
Abruptly he remembered the stories he’d heard from childhood about how Aunt Cynthia and Uncle Evan had met. He’d sent her a letter from early 20th century Lavender and she’d received it out at his family’s ranch in Oklahoma about a hundred years later.
“Bud, could you loan me some paper and a pen. An envelope too if you have one to spare.”
Bud stared at him as though he’d lost his mind. “Why ever would I have things like that, boy? No need.”
“But you might want to write a letter or pay a bill.”
“Never learned to read or write,”Bud said matter-of-factly. “Nobody to send letters to. All my kin is dead. And as for bills, I need something I barter for it. We’re a mite short of hard cash in this part of the country since the war.”
“But I need to send a letter and let my family know I’m all right.” He made up the excuse as he went along, coming accidentally close to the truth.
Bud scratched his head before gulping down the rest of his coffee. “Reckon Esther would’ve had writing paper and such. We could go look over at the Myers house.” He got to his feet. “Need to fix that broken door anyhow. Wouldn’t want her to come home and find mice and bugs and other varmints had got into her house.”
“We wouldn’t want that,” Jerry agreed, thinking that the poor woman would have a whole lot more than that to face. It was still hard for him to think of the young widow as the Mrs. Myers he knew. She could deal with most anything, he knew that, but he wasn’t sure what she’d been like when she was young.” For just a minute as he followed Bud, who picked up his hat and gun almost automatically, he allowed himself to think of Lavender and the people he knew there.
From Lavender his thoughts turned home to mom and dad and the ranch and then, of course, to McKinley. Damn, but he would give anything to see her and know she was safe.
Once again on horseback they galloped over to the neighboring farm. He half expected to see Silver or his goons over there, but the farm seemed empty of life other than that of the domestic animals. The cow came around from the pasture back of the barn and he remembered that she would have to be milked again and all the animals fed.
Bud put the two horses in the little corral and went to let the chickens out of the shed that housed them. Screeching and squawking, they ran and flew out into the open, protesting their late exit, then went busily to chasing whatever edibles they could find on the ground.
Leaving Bud to see to what needed doing, Jerry went into the house through the damaged door and began to search for writing materials. He wasn’t surprised to see that Mrs. Myers kept a tidy, organized household and in the larger of two bedrooms found a small desk where she’d left some plain lined writing paper, a few envelopes, pen and ink.
He sat down in a delicate little chair meant for the use of a woman or child, wondering if out here in the country Esther Myers hadn’t taught her little daughters herself. Dipping the pen in ink, he began, rather awkwardly to write:
“Zan:
Am trapped behind the lines with the enemy. Guy who says he’s Constantine Silver and an agent of an unidentified government. We’re in Korn, Texas somewhere in the late 1860s and neither of us know the way out.
He’s keeping me alive because he thinks I know how to escape and I’m trying to keep him from finding out I haven’t a clue.
Be careful, Zan. They’re on to us and they’ve got Lavender set as a target. Whatever you do, don’t let them find it.
Jerry
That was about it, brief and to the point. Zan would know how to read between the lines. He hesitated before adding a few more words.
Tell Mac I love her and didn’t mean to miss our date.
Knowing full well that this letter was probably a forlorn hope that would never reach Zan and Eddie, still he addressed it to them at the location where his parents lived in Oklahoma.
A miracle had once carried a letter from Lavender to the ranch. Maybe Korn a few decades before wasn’t an entire possibility. He was pleased to find that Esther Myers had also possessed two freshly minted looking stamps. He would borrow one of those as well since the chip installed in his body when he came of age that would register and cover any expenses he chose to assume wouldn’t serve to buy even a penny stamp at the nearest post office.
Bud refused to accompany him into town, saying h
e wanted to get the work done here and at his own farm, but he loaned Jerry the horse he’d been riding and gave directions into Korn.
It would have been a long walk, but time passed quickly enough on horseback as he took in the countryside through which he passed. As he neared town, the land became more fertile, settled with prosperous looking farms and workers in the fields who stared as he rode by. In Lavender they would have waved or called out a greeting. But in Lavender everybody knew him, while here he was a stranger riding a horse that they must know belonged to a neighbor. He was just surprised that nobody challenged him.
The post office turned out to be in the back of a little store and the woman who took his letter glanced at him with open curiosity. “Just passing through?” she asked.
He started to agree, but then thought he might better explain why he was riding one of Bud’s fine horses. “Visiting,” he said. “Out at Bud Henderson’s.
“Didn’t know Bud had any kin.”
“Just a friend,” he said, smiling. She didn’t return the smile.
“Heard there’s been some strangers roaming around out that way.”
“Bud and me, we kind of keep to ourselves.” He certainly didn’t want to be identified locally with Constantine Silver and his followers.
She nodded. “One of ‘em’s staying over at Mrs. Mercer’s boarding house.” She looked down at the letter he’d handed her, frowning. “This some kind of joke?” she asked. “Can’t send mail to a place that don’t exist.”
He stared blankly.
“Oklahoma,” she said pointedly.
He tapped his head with one finger. Of course. Oklahoma didn’t become a state until 1907. “Sorry,” he said. “Can’t imagine what I was thinking. Can I borrow a pen?”
She handed him the letter and, rather grudgingly, an ink-filled pen. He considered what to do about the address. He could write Indian Territory, the current address for what would become his home state, but wasn’t sure what federal mail services would be available to the territory.
Finally, conscious that she was watching him, he marked through the address and wrote Crockett Street, Lavender, Texas.
She took back her pen and read the address on the letter, looking satisfied. “I was to Lavender once. Pretty little town, though too fancy for my taste. Don’t hold with spending my coin on such when it could be earning by adding on acres and livestock. A big house it don’t add nothing to a family’s wealth.
Certainly nobody would call plain little Korn beautiful. The homes were well built and would probably last for centuries, but they were spare of adornment and more work was obviously spent growing vegetables than flowers, but he wasn’t about to argue.
“You got family in Lavender?”
This time his smile was genuine. “I do,” he said.
When he departed the store, he decided to take a quick look at the little town. Considering that the war had only ended a couple of years ago, it was relatively prosperous with another store that seemed to sell clothing. He wished he had money to buy a new outfit to replace the torn and dirty garments he wore and as he passed a pleasant smelling barber shop, he touched the thickening stubble on his chin and wished even more fervently that he had the price of a shave or even enough to purchase a razor. Though if he remembered accurately the shaving equipment of the day he’d probably cut his own throat if he attempted the operation himself.
He peered in what appeared to be a beer garden, its identity labeled by a colorful sign printed in German. As he strolled on, women and children brushed past him, their simple clothing less colorful and simpler in design than what he was used to seeing in Lavender. The women averted their eyes from the unkempt stranger in their midst and the children stared with open interest.
For the first time, he added Korn to his list of concerns. Lavender was halfway home and people he loved lived there, but he saw much to admire in the neat, industrious little town settled by German immigrants. He did not want to be the instrument bringing disaster to this community and its plain spoken people.
Chapter Seventeen
By the next day the entire household was aware of their efforts on the previous day. Mac didn’t know who had talked, whether it was Sylvie or Mrs. Myers, or perhaps an overheard conversation that had spread the news, but she was dismayed when the subject dominated the table during noon dinner, the biggest meal of the day.
Betsy was there, by either invitation or command, and her husband Caleb. The children were given their meal upstairs by Dottie while Sylvie and Mac brought the roast pork and sweet potatoes into the dining room. Bread, milk and tea, butter and fresh sliced tomatoes were already in place and bread pudding still waited in the kitchen to be brought in for dessert.
They waited until both young women were seated, an unusual silence setting on the room, before beginning the conversation. Of course Mac knew what was coming. Sylvie had whispered news of the disapproval to her as they picked up the platters and bowls of food from the kitchen. “We’re in hot water,” she whispered as though afraid that the sound of their voices would resound through the thick walls into the dining room. “Mama and Papa know.”
“Know what?” Mac whispered back, bewildered.
“They know what Betsy was trying to help us do and they’re mad at all of us and Betsy in particular.”
“But you didn’t even go. They can’t be angry with you.”
Delicately arched brows moved upward in Sylvie’s pretty face. “Guilt by association.”
Now Mac sat nervously in her chair as Grandpapa Forrest spoke the simple words of the grace and then looked up to begin carving the roast, sending plates containing thick juicy slices around the table while Sylvie’s dad served the vegetables. Forrest seemed unaware, but Dr. Evan’s usually benign countenance had turned into a threatening thundercloud.
Even when the food was served most of them didn’t begin eating, though Forrest cut into his meat and Mrs. Myers buttered her bread. Betsy met her step-father’s gaze with her most defiant stare and with some amusement, Mac decided her friend must have assumed this pose many times as a teen. Betsy could be the most agreeable of women, but she didn’t like to be told what to do by anybody.
Dr. Evan was forced to speak. “Cynthia,” he said, “talk to your daughter.”
Sylvie snorted with laughter. Her father transferred his forbidding look to his younger daughter. “Young lady, do you want to be asked to leave the table?”
Butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth. “Yes, Papa,” she said demurely. “I’d like that very much.”
Obviously stymied, he turned to his wife. “Cynthia?” It was a plea for help, not a demand.
“Girls,” their mother said. “You know your father doesn’t like to reprimand either of you. But he—we—are concerned about your safety. Something troubling is going on in the outer world that only Eddie and Zan understand. You surely know that we’re worried to death about Jerry and his parents and about them as well. Please don’t add to our burdens.”
“Mother,” Betsy said, “I am twenty nine years old and capable of determining my own actions. We think Jerry is nearby and I’m the only one who can help find him.”
“Yes, Dr. Cynthia, please understand,” Mac heard her own voice pleading. “Zan is on the wrong track. Jerry isn’t being held prisoner where he thinks. And Betsy has to help us.”
Everybody looked at her and she felt her face go hot. Who was she to speak up at this family gathering? “I care for Jerry,” she said, quietly defiant.
“We all do, dear,” Dr. Cynthia responded, her gentle face thoughtful. “But we don’t think you girls have any idea of the danger you’re going into. Betsy, these people are capable of more than you can imagine growing up here in Lavender.”
“I didn’t always live here, Mom,” Betsy said indignantly. “I haven’t exactly lived a protected life.” Mac saw Betsy’s husband reach over to pat her hand and she knew he must be thinking of the time when they’d met when the nation was torn apart by
civil war.
“I can imagine a lot, Mama,” Sylvie said indignantly.
“Food’s getting cold,” Grandpapa Forrest suggested mildly. “And the roast is real good.”
Mrs. Myers finally spoke up. “I hope you aren’t scolding me, Cynthia, Evan.” She always called them Dr. Cynthia and Dr. Evan so this manner of address had everyone at the table turning in her direction.
She did not seem uncomfortable at being the center of attention. She glanced fondly at Sylvie and Mac, then nodded to Betsy. “We need to tell your mother and father the whole thing. They have a right to be concerned.” She didn’t allow anyone else to interrupt before telling Dr. Evan, “We didn’t take Sylvie with us. She’s only seventeen and you certainly have a right to decide what’s safe for her.”
The implication being, as Mac clearly saw, that they had no such authority over a visitor in the house or their grown daughter.
Mac sat quietly while the other three briefly told mother, father and grandfather what had happened and what conclusions they’d drawn.
When they finished Dr. Evan nodded, Dr. Cynthia said, “Well done,” but Grandpapa Forrest frowned. “So you can’t do it, Betsy?” he queried. “You can’t get over to Korn at the right time.”
Betsy’s full mouth tightened. “Not so far, Grandpapa.”
“We’ll just have to work it out. If Jerry is over there, we’ve got to find him.” He looked past her to Mrs. Myers. “And the answer to what happened to Herman,” he told her.
Mac drew in a deep breath. At least they were with her.
It wasn’t until afternoon when the mail arrived that Grandpapa came into the kitchen where they were helping Dottie can tomatoes and talking over strategy at the same time. His eyes sparkled and he looked excited. “We got a letter,” he said. “From Jerry.”
Missing in Lavender: A Time Travel Romance (Lavender, Texas series Book 6) Page 11