Now and Forever: Time Travel Romance Superbundle

by Bobby Hutchinson

  She washed her face in cool water and brushed her hair. The heat had turned it into a mass of uncontrollable curls, and she pulled a braided headband down over her forehead to keep it off her face. She'd have to see about getting it cut when she got home—it was easiest to manage when it was only a few inches long.

  She stole down the stairs with her worn Nikes in her hand. Outside, the early morning air was cool and there wasn't a breath of wind. It was a perfect fall day. The sky was clear, a wide canopy of denim blue, and in the east tinges of pink and purple foreshadowed a spectacular sunrise. The air smelled of hay.

  The old dog, Amos, came trotting over and licked her face as she pulled her shoes on and tied them, and a rooster crowed from the chicken coop as she set off down the lane. Amos wagged his tail and followed for a few hundred yards, but soon he gave up and turned back.

  She glanced around at the house once, still dark and silent behind her. Maybe by the time she got back, Tony would be up and they could have a cup of coffee together.

  She hadn't changed her mind about leaving today. Tony and Sharon obviously needed privacy just now. She'd place a call to the clinic and then make up some story about an emergency that demanded her attention.

  At the end of the long lane, there was no hesitation as to which direction she'd take.

  She'd awakened knowing she had to see the crop circle again before Tony plowed it under, and she set off along the rutted road which they'd followed the evening before.

  It was probably four or five miles to the field, and Paige paced herself carefully, enjoying the freshness of the morning, the sound of birds all around, the sense of being alone in a vast and open space.

  It was further than she'd anticipated, and her shirt was stuck to her back with sweat by the time she came to the small hill above the field. She stopped there for a moment, puffing a little, staring down at the patterns in the wheat.

  A shiver ran down her spine, and she started running again, down the hill and along to where the flattened pathway led into the field of waist high grain. It was almost as though the circle were a magnet, pulling her toward itself.

  Paige's heart hammered as she reached the periphery. She stood just outside its boundaries for some time, studying the exact and baffling configuration before she stepped inside.

  She was immediately aware of the energy she'd felt the night before. This morning it was a deep, intense humming that seemed to resonate inside her body. It wasn't a sound, exactly. It was more a feeling, a sensation that intensified when she moved toward the center.

  She stood in the epicenter, and the peculiar sensation became more and more pronounced. Light began to pour over her, but the sun hadn't yet cleared the horizon, and she stared up at the sky, puzzled.

  Fear began to overcome curiosity, but by now she felt strangely lightheaded and dizzy. She sank to her knees, aware of the prickly straw stubble on the bare skin of her legs, unable to rise to her feet.

  Colors flashed in front of her eyes, brilliant red and purple and green hues that seemed to meld with the pervasive humming that was growing more and more intense.

  It must be sunrise.

  She really had to get up, get away, run…..

  She was drawn into a brilliant, blinding maelstrom of color and sound and energy, a force so powerful there was no way of resisting.

  She heard herself scream as the humming became unbearably loud, and then the world turned gray and formless.

  Now and Then: Chapter Three

  The summer of 1883 had been dry and hot in Saskatchewan, so dry that settlers' crops threatened to wither and die in the blistering prairie sun.

  It was now late August, and still there was no rain. Each day seemed hotter and dryer than the last.

  North West Mounted Police Sergeant Robert Bruce Cameron figured today would be no exception. The sun had barely cleared the horizon, and already he could feel its heat through the wool of his scarlet tunic. He wasn't sweating much yet, but he'd be soaked through long before noon. Military uniforms just weren't designed for comfort.

  He'd been sent out four days before by his commanding officer to meet the Fletchers and conduct them safely to the Battleford Fort. Theodore Fletcher was a nephew to one of the North West Mounted Police officers in Ottawa, and word had come via the telegraph that they were to be met and escorted safely to Battleford, where they planned to homestead.

  Rob had found them a gully the night before, a sheltered place to camp where a stream used to run. A few willows gave a semblance of cover, and they'd been comfortable there.

  This morning, he'd awakened them before dawn and helped Theodore harness the team, so they'd be on the trail as soon as they'd eaten. Rob wanted to get his charges to the fort at Battleford by evening, so they'd not have to spend another night on the trail. Clara Fletcher made him decidedly nervous.

  Even to his bachelor's eye, it was clear that she was with child. The young Scot had no idea when the bairn might decide to put in an appearance, and he didn't want to waste any time out here on the bare prairie finding out. When Rob joined the North West Mounted Police three years before, he'd taken an oath to "Maintein le Droit." He was quite prepared to put his life on the line maintaining the right; delivering babies was something else entirely.

  He rode beside the slow moving wagon, trying to appear both reassuring and relaxed, answering Clara's eager questions about the settlement at Battleford while he prayed that the bouncing of the wagon wouldn't shake the bairn loose. He kept a weathered eye on the landscape as well.

  There hadn't been any incidents lately with the Indians, but it paid to be alert.

  "And tell me, Sgt. Cameron, is there a newspaper in Battleford?"

  "Aye, there is, Mrs. Fletcher. Mr. Laurie publishes an issue of the Saskatchewan Herald every week. ..."

  From the corner of his eye, Rob caught a flash of bright red in the tall prairie grass off to his right. He reacted instantly, reigning Angus to a halt and putting himself and the horse between whatever he'd seen and Mrs. Fletcher.

  "Climb in the back of the wagon and lie down," he ordered in a low voice, and she obeyed without question. Theodore had caught the note of alarm in Rob's tone and he pulled the team to a halt. He jumped down, rifle in hand, and took shelter behind the covered wagon.

  There was no sound and no movement from the dry grass, and Rob was pretty certain no self respecting Indian would wear bright red if he were planning to ambush them. Nevertheless, he was not one for taking chances.

  Colt revolver in hand, keeping low on Angus's neck, he rode cautiously over to see what it was that had alerted him.

  As Angus drew near, Rob could hardly believe his eyes.

  Sprawled on the ground was a woman, a nearly naked woman.

  He stared down at her, shock and amazement mingling with admiration. She was well made.

  Then it came to him that perhaps she was being used as a decoy, and he was in danger of ambush. He swung Angus around in a full circle, eyes squinted against the rising sun, studying every detail of the surrounding prairie. An undulating grassland stretched peacefully as far as he could see in every direction, with nothing nearby to hide behind except sagebrush or buffalo grass, and no sign of life but for the wagon and its occupants.

  He slid to the ground and knelt down at her side, gingerly taking her wrist and searching for a pulse. It was there, slow and strong, and he breathed a sigh of relief.

  She was in a faint, her face pale and her eyes shut. She was a right bonny lass, he concluded. She had shockingly short hair, black as coal and curly as ever he'd seen. She had long, dark lashes and some sort of headband over her forehead, the kind he'd seen Indian women wear, but she wasn't Indian.

  It was her clothing—or rather, her lack of clothing—that kept drawing his attention away from her face.

  She wore brief red drawers that stopped high on shapely thighs, with a skimpy matching chemise that left her neck and arms bare. His gaze slid down her long naked legs to her feet, and h
e frowned.

  She had on the strangest pair of short, thick-soled boots he'd ever seen, white with bright colors in stripes down the side. The laces were fiery orange, and he didn't think the boots themselves were even leather. They had a soft appearance, and he moved a bit in order to study them closer. They looked like some sort of canvas.

  "Sgt. Cameron, are you all right? Do you need help?"

  Theodore Fletcher's bellow snapped Rob out of his reverie, and he stood up and waved a reassuring arm toward the wagon.

  "No danger," he called. "I'll be there in a wee while."

  His voice had disturbed her. She moved her arm and made a low sound in her throat, and Rob remembered his duty as a policeman. He knelt beside her again and conducted a quick examination, trying to be impersonal but all too aware of the softness of her skin and the rounded curves beneath the satin underwear.

  She didn't appear to be injured, no broken bones or visible wounds.

  In another moment or two she moved her head and opened her eyes, and Rob smiled down at her, hoping to reassure her as shock and puzzlement mingled in her expression and she struggled to sit up.

  "Easy lass, take it slowly now. You're in no danger here. I'm Sgt. Rob Cameron, Battleford division of the North West Mounted. Are ye dizzy? Would ye like some water?" He got to his feet and retrieved his canteen from the saddlebag, unstoppered it, and then knelt beside her, holding it out. She took it, sitting with one bare leg outstretched and the other tucked beneath her, totally unselfconscious of her state of undress. It was at that point that Rob concluded that she must be a whore. No decent woman would be that comfortable in her underwear, talking with a man in broad daylight.

  It saddened him; she was a bonny lass, she wore no rings, and attractive single women were a rare and precious commodity in the West.

  She gave him a tremulous smile.

  "Thanks. I guess I must have run too far. Gosh, I fainted there for a moment. I've never fainted before in my life." Her deep, husky voice had a bit of a tremor in it, and she sipped at his canteen, wrinkling her nose and shuddering as she swallowed the brackish water.

  "This stuff tastes god awful, but thank you, Mr…..what did you say your name was?"

  "Cameron. Sgt. Rob Cameron."

  She frowned at him. "Thanks, Sergeant. Rob. You're a policeman? A Mountie?"

  He nodded. Her easy manner convinced him that what he'd first decided must be true; she was a fallen angel, no doubt about it.

  "Are you from the Saskatoon detachment, Rob? Maybe you could give me a ride back to my brother's ranch. It's not far from here." She glanced around, puzzled. "At least, I don't think it is. I see you're on horseback, but could you maybe radio in for a car?"

  Her words made no sense to him. He knew every settler in the area, and there was no ranch of any kind out here, and certainly no railway car.

  He began to suspect that she was addled. He tried to sound as reassuring as possible, trying to keep her calm. The last thing he needed out here was a madwoman in hysterics. "I'm from Battleford, lass. I'm conducting that wagon over there, Mr. and Mrs. Fletcher's wagon"—He pointed over to where the Fletchers were waiting—"in to the fort. We'd be pleased to have you accompany us."

  She seemed to be recovering now from her faint, so he dared to question her a little.

  "Could ye tell me your name? And what were ye running from, lass? And how did ye come to be out here on the prairie all by yerself?"

  In your red satin drawers, he added mentally, still having a difficult time keeping his eyes on her face where they belonged.

  "I'm Paige Randolph." Her tone was confident. "I'm a doctor, a gynecologist, and I've been attending the midwifery conference in Saskatoon."

  Rob managed to keep his expression neutral, but it was plain she was mad as a loon and gibbering.

  "It ended on Saturday," she went on, "and I came out to visit my brother. Then I went for a jog early this morning, and I must have ended up with heat exhaustion or something. I got really dizzy, and ..."

  She stared around again, frowning. "What the heck happened to the crop circle? I was in the middle of it when I passed out, and now it's gone."

  "Crop? Circle? I'm sure I can't say." Lord, but she was daft. She wasn't dangerous, as far as he could determine, but it was perfectly obvious that her mind was unhinged. Most of what she said made absolutely no sense. He got to his feet and reached a hand down to help her up.

  She was a bit unsteady, but she managed to stand. He was disappointed to find that she towered over him. She was a big lass, no mistake. She was thin, but all of five or six inches taller than his own five feet, four and a half inches. And standing, it seemed that even more of her was bare than before. Looking at her caused uncomfortable reactions in his lower regions that could prove embarrassing.

  "Perhaps Mrs. Fletcher has some clothing ye could borrow, Miss Randolph. I'll ask her if ye like." He took Amos's reins in one hand and supported her elbow with the other as he led her toward the wagon. "We ought to be on our way soon. I'm keen to reach the fort by sunset today."

  And when he got there, Senior Surgeon Baldwin wasn't going to be one bit pleased at having to deal with a lunatic, Rob concluded, not when he already had half the detachment and some of the townspeople down with fever. He was a fine doctor, was Baldwin, if a wee bit short on patience.

  But what was Rob to do with this poor lass except take her back to the post and turn her over to the doctor? He couldn't leave her out here on the bald prairie, that was certain, all alone and unclothed as she was.

  Where the devil had she come from? Puzzled, he looked around once again, searching for any sign of a wagon, or a horse, or even trampled grass that would indicate how she'd been transported to this spot.

  There was nothing. Rob shook his head, confounded by the strangeness of it all. It was as if she'd dropped out of the sky.

  He had to stifle a grin at his fancy. Falling from the sky would make her truly a fallen angel, would it not?

  Paige was disoriented and more than a little frightened. When Rob hauled her to her feet, she was shocked to see that instead of miles of cultivated fields sown to grain, she was in the middle of an undulating prairie with no sign of roads—and a hundred yards away stood a covered wagon, of all things, pulled by two horses. She closed her eyes and reopened them, in case she was hallucinating. The canvas covered wagon was still there.

  This young policeman was a mystery as well. He was much shorter than any Mountie she'd ever met. His head came just to her shoulder. He was gentle with her and courteous, but there were things about him that just weren't right.

  He'd never heard of deodorant, for one thing. He had a pungent smell about him of sweat and dust and wood smoke. And he was wearing red serge in this dreadful heat; the Mounties in British Columbia only wore red serge for formal occasions, certainly not for everyday. And there was the horse. What was a Mountie doing out here alone on a horse? Apart from posing for postcards, she didn't think they really used horses anymore.

  Were they making a movie? Surely he'd have said so. And there weren't any sound trucks or other movie paraphernalia anywhere in sight.

  Paige's head ached and she couldn't seem to get her thoughts in order.

  Well, maybe the Mounties were different in Saskatchewan, she told herself. Lord knew she was no expert on Mounties, but the cut of his uniform seemed peculiar, the jacket much too tight and short. He wore a very large, clumsy looking handgun in an open holster strapped to his hip. And he wasn't wearing a Stetson, either; instead, he had a queer little pillbox thing cocked at a jaunty angle on his head, with a wide strap holding it on under his chin.

  He caught her looking at him and turned as red as his uniform. He wasn't handsome, but he had a wide, likable, sunburned face marred by a huge, rust colored, swashbuckling mustache that didn't suit him at all. He was covered in freckles, with puppy dog friendly hazel eyes and a mop of sandy hair several shades lighter than the hair on his face. He also had a pronounced Scots a
ccent; she had to listen closely to decipher every word.

  "Are you new to Canada, Rob?" Paige thought that must be it.

  But he shook his head. "I've been here three years now. I joined the North West Mounted the moment I landed."

  The North West Mounted? "But I thought you were all called RCMP now, Royal Canadian Mounted Police?"

  He gave her that look again, that guarded, pitying look that annoyed her.

  The puzzle of the Mountie faded to the back of her mind as they reached the canvas covered wagon and he introduced her to the quaint man and woman standing beside it.

  Paige smiled and extended her hand to each of them. They were extraordinarily formal, both calling her "Miss Randolph."

  Paige realized they must be members of some strict religious clan, traveling by wagon this way; they looked to be in their mid thirties or thereabouts, but they were dressed in the most old fashioned clothing Paige had ever seen outside of a museum. The woman even wore a bonnet. Paige had never seen anyone but a baby wearing a bonnet before.

  She tried to remember whether Tony had mentioned a Hutterite colony nearby, or a settlement of Amish people.

  The woman, Clara, was pregnant, probably third trimester, and she could certainly have used a pair of maternity leggings and a spacious T-shirt. Her dress was long and it looked hot and tight.

  She had a plain face, a shy, easy smile, straight, straw colored hair peeping out from underneath the hat, and small round granny glasses perched on her upturned nose. Her husband, Theodore, was big, both tall and wide, with gray streaked brown hair down to his shoulders. He, like Rob, had a lavish mustache and a full beard. He also wore clothing that looked unsuitable for the occasion, a dark suit jacket that had seen better days, matching, worn pants and some kind of dress shirt. He swept off his battered brown felt hat when Rob introduced her, and then clamped it back on his head.