Now and Forever: Time Travel Romance Superbundle

by Bobby Hutchinson

  Rob Cameron climbed down from his horse with a flourish.

  "Welcome to Fort Battleford," he said with a wide grin, reaching up an arm to help Paige down from the wagon.

  She clutched at him, certain that without his support she wouldn't be able to stand. Her knees felt weak and rubbery, and she clung to his strong arm, barely remembering to turn and thank the Fletchers for having her along. She could hardly get the words out.

  "It was our pleasure, Miss Paige," Clara declared. "It was lovely having another woman for company," she added with a warm smile. "Perhaps we'll meet before Mr. Fletcher and I venture off to look for land. If not, I do hope you'll come and visit me when we set up a homestead."

  "Thank you," Paige managed again through the dryness in her throat. "I'll return your blouse and skirt as soon as I—as soon as I can locate my brother and get my suitcase."

  "Gracious no, I wouldn't hear of it." Clara shook her head. "You keep them. They're of no use to me just now anyway. Please, Miss Paige, consider them your own."

  Paige reached up and silently gripped Clara's hand. She was unable to say anything. The surrounding scene was frightening her more and more the longer she observed it.

  There was something terribly wrong here. She'd known it all day, even though she'd struggled against admitting it to herself.

  The scene before her was utterly incongruous, but all the pieces fit, as if she were looking at a carefully constructed historical jigsaw puzzle, a puzzle in which she was the only piece that didn't belong.

  "Are you all right, Miss Randolph?" Cameron's solicitous voice seemed to come from a long way off. "This way, if you please."

  She stumbled along beside him, gripping his arm as if it were her only connection to reality. He conducted her into a long, low building, so dimly lit that she could hardly see at first.

  As her eyes adjusted, she realized it was some sort of hospital, that there were rows of occupied beds down each outer wall, as well as one in the middle. There was a strong smell of sickness and some sort of disinfectant and not enough fresh air, and she could hear several men coughing. There wasn't a single nurse in sight, but several policemen in uniform were moving along the rows, collecting bowls and cups from a recent meal.

  She was aware of a tall, lean figure coming toward them, a wide shouldered man who moved with peculiar grace despite his size.

  "Rob Cameron, I do hope you're not going to tell me that the settlers you just brought in have fever, because I don't have even one more bed to put them in." He spoke in a deep, weary voice, his pronounced southern drawl making the words slow and musical.

  Paige wasn't aware of Sgt. Cameron's answer. She'd caught sight of a calendar on the wall, and she found herself standing in front of it, staring at the date, frozen with horror.

  August was the month displayed, and that was fine; she knew it was August.

  What she couldn't believe was the year.

  In large, bold numerals it read 1883.

  Now and Then: Chapter Four

  "That—that calendar," she heard herself stammer. She pointed a shaking finger toward it. "The date, the—the year. It's—it's preposterous." She scowled at the two men, now both studying her.

  "This is all a joke, right? You're playing some kind of elaborate joke on me, aren't you?" She couldn't control the tremor in her voice, and it angered her. "I don't find this at all amusing, you know. It's childish, and—and outright ridiculous."

  Sgt. Cameron cleared his throat and his ears turned as scarlet as his uniform. "Surgeon Baldwin, this is Miss Randolph," he began in an apologetic tone. "I found Miss Randolph unconscious in the middle of the prairie early this morning," he added, looking up at Baldwin, who towered over him. "I think perhaps the lass might have struck her head or had a wee bit too much sun, sir," he went on, obviously striving for diplomacy. He lowered his voice and leaned in close to the other man. "As you can hear for yourself, the poor thing seems just a wee bit addled," he said in a whisper. "She's no made a whole lot of sense in her speech all day, and she was most improperly dressed when I found her, sir." His face now matched his ears for color. "These wee bits of underwear were about all she had on."

  Paige felt ridiculously betrayed as Rob pulled her nylon singlet and shorts out and handed them to the other man, who took the garments gingerly and studied them as if they were court exhibits.

  "Those are mine, thank you." Paige snatched them from Baldwin's fingers and held them bunched in her fist as she glared at the two men. "These are standard jogging issue where I come from, not erotic devices," she snapped.

  Baldwin moved closer to her and gave her a long, assessing stare, allowing his keen gray gaze to study with cool detachment first her face and then her figure. He paid special attention to her running shoes, evident beneath the ankle length skirt, and it was a full minute before his eyes once again returned to her face.

  Paige drew herself to her full height and stared back at him, giving him the same sort of arrogant appraisal he was giving her.

  So he thought he'd intimidate her, did he? Well, she'd been subjected to just this sort of chauvinistic pomposity in medical school, and she'd learned to counter it with a challenging attitude of her own.

  Insolently, she allowed her gaze to rove in slow motion over his face and physique. She hated to admit it, but he was an exceptionally good-looking man, fit and very muscular, probably a few years older than she. His thick, unruly hair was tawny gold and it curled a bit around his ears. Unlike most of the men she'd seen that day, he was clean-shaven except for long sideburns that seemed to emphasize the sculpted quality of his jaw and strong cleft chin. The expression in his intelligent gray eyes was somber, his aristocratic features classically handsome, his tanned skin pulled taut over elegant cheekbones. There were fine wrinkles at the corners of both mouth and eyes that added character. His lips were narrow, tilted in a cynical half smile as she met his gaze and held it, chin tilted high.

  He smelled of cigars and some sort of strong carbolic soap.

  "Are you able to recall your full name and where you're from, miss?"

  "Oh, for God's sake. Spare me the psychological assessment, would you?" She blew out an exasperated breath.

  He ignored her outburst. "Perhaps you can explain to me how you came to be unconscious, out in the middle of the prairie, dressed"—he waved a finger at the garments she held—"dressed only in those bits of satin?" His deep, slow voice was tinged with annoyance, his tone indicating to her that he was a busy man with no time or energy to coddle some woman.

  Paige gave him a contemptuous look. "Of course I know who I am, you idiot. I'm a medical doctor just as you are, Mr. Baldwin, so you can stop speaking to me in that condescending manner. I live in Vancouver, in British Columbia; I'm sure even here you must have heard of it. I flew out to attend a conference on midwifery in Saskatoon. When it was over, I visited my brother's farm and got curious about"—her voice became less certain. "About an— ummm, a crop circle. Have you heard of crop circles?"

  Apparently he hadn't. He shook his head, a look of exaggerated patience on his face.

  She felt like smacking him one. "They're a bit difficult to explain. They're large circles that appear in farmer's fields for no known reason. Anyhow, I walked to the center of this thing, and there was this incredible energy and then—then I passed out. I've never passed out before."

  He was frowning at her, giving her an assessing look that told her more clearly than words that he considered her quite batty.

  Her temper flared. "You can stop looking at me that way, Doctor. There's not a thing wrong with my memory, my intellect, or my reasoning ability. Or my sanity, for that matter. What's wrong is"—against her will her eyes flicked once again to the calendar on the wall and then surveyed the primitive conditions in the room.

  She frowned and shook her head, confused and puzzled and deeply disturbed all over again. "There's a problem with the date," she finished in a voice much less assured than she'd have liked. "You
see, yesterday it was August fourteen of two thousand fourteen. And yet that calendar indicates ..." Her voice trailed off and she swallowed hard. "It simply can't be right," she insisted, more to herself than to Baldwin. "There's some mistake, something here I'm missing."

  "Did you suffer a blow to the head, Miss Randolph?" Paige started to deny it, but then she stopped and thought about it. Could she have suffered a concussion? Was she having some kind of weird hallucinations? She could remember the peculiar sensations she'd experienced in the center of the crop circle, the energy and sound and color. Had someone—something—struck her on the head?

  "I don't think anything hit my head, but I'm not entirely certain," she finally admitted. "I did lose consciousness; I'm not sure for how long."

  Baldwin sighed, as if all this was a major inconvenience. "Well, you'd better come in here and let me have a look at you."

  He took her forearm in an impatient grip and guided her into a small cubbyhole of an office, motioning her to sit on a straight-backed wooden chair while he donned the most outdated stethoscope Paige had ever seen.

  She was acutely uneasy as his long fingered hands deftly searched her scalp for signs of injury, and even more ill at ease when he used the ridiculous stethoscope to listen to her back and chest, even though to her profound relief he did so through the heavy cotton blouse she'd borrowed from Clara.

  Doctor or not, she had no intention of taking off her clothing so that this man could examine her. He made her uncomfortable even fully clothed—more than fully clothed, she sighed to herself.

  To her great relief, he didn't suggest it. After a cursory look at the pupils of her eyes, he stepped back and shrugged his shoulders. "As you said, you seem to be in perfect physical health, Miss Randolph."

  The ever so slight emphasis on "physical" brought her to her feet. The last of her self-control was gone. She was exhausted, mentally and physically.

  "I've had just about enough of this," she exploded. "I don't know what kind of stupid game you're all playing here, but I don't find any of this the least bit amusing." She was aware that she was shouting at him, and she didn't give a damn. He was blocking the only exit from the tiny room, and all of a sudden she was desperate to leave.

  "Get out of my way, you—you quack." She pushed him hard, wanting only to escape to somewhere sane. "Move, will you? I'm leaving, you can't keep me here, I'm not under arrest, I'm not one of your patients or prisoners."

  It was like pushing a brick wall. His leanness gave no indication of how fit and strong he really was. He reached out and put restraining hands on each of her shoulders, his fingers like steel. His gray eyes were cold, his gentle southern accent at odds with his harsh words. "Get hold of yourself, woman. I have a hospital out there filled with sick men, and I'd suggest you lower your voice. I warn you, if you can't control your temper, madam, if you insist on continuing with this irrational behavior, I'll give you an injection and confine you to a cell." His speech became even slower, deliberate and menacing. "I will then have you transported to the Manitoba Asylum for the Insane at the earliest opportunity. I have neither the time nor the inclination to coddle a demented female."

  Something in his tone convinced her he was in earnest, that he had the power and authority to do exactly what he threatened, and, given what she'd seen of this hospital, the concept of some medieval mental institution was horrible.

  Trembling, heart thundering as though she'd just run up a steep hill, she made an effort to control herself. Wherever— whenever—this place was, it was the only reality she had at the moment, and she was going to have to find a way of dealing with it.

  She forced herself to sit back down on the hard chair and held up both hands, palms out. "Sorry. Sorry, I apologize, I'm normally anything but a hysterical woman. I'll try to be as rational as possible from now on. I'll tell you what's bothering me, and perhaps you'll agree to answer some questions?"

  He inclined his head, watching her carefully, folding his arms across his chest, and towering over her.

  "Can you tell me what the date is, please? The real date? No playacting, no joking around?"

  "August fifteenth. The year is eighteen hundred and eighty three."

  Paige had to struggle with the icy fear his statement created. She swallowed hard, and groped for words that would make him understand, make him believe she was telling the truth, no matter how incongruous it sounded.

  "Dr. Baldwin, something absolutely weird has happened to me today and I'm having trouble dealing with it," she began, staring into his eyes, willing him to believe her. "I seem to have somehow hit a time warp and ended up here, more than a hundred years in the past."

  Verbalizing it didn't help, and panic began to build all over again. "For God's sake, I wasn't even born until nineteen eighty."

  Her voice was high and thin. "I have a medical clinic and a busy obstetrical practice in Vancouver, I need to get back home. I don't want to be here...."

  She heard her voice rising even more and noticed the wary look in his eye, the tensing in his posture. Once again, Paige struggled for control.

  Be practical, she cautioned herself. Maybe he'll understand practical. "Doctor, I have no money with me, no clothing of my own except these." She held out the jogging gear crumbled in her hand, and the enormity of her predicament hit her.

  She had no credit cards. No shampoo, no toothpaste, no tampons, she listed silently. No medical bag, not even so much as an aspirin, and if ever she needed aspirin, it was right now.

  "What you need, Miss Randolph, is some supper and a good night's rest. Things will undoubtedly look different in the morning."

  He was humoring her, damn him.

  She gave him a saccharine sweet smile. "Why, thank you so much for those kind words, Doctor. I can't tell you how good they make me feel. Your bedside manner is so reassuring." Irony dripped from her voice.

  Color rose in his face, and now it was he who seemed in danger of losing his temper. "What the hell do you expect from me, madam? You have no visible injuries, and as to your delusions, I am not equipped to deal with them. There's nothing more I can do for you. I'm a busy man and this fort is not the place for you to be. You can stay here overnight, but I shall instruct Sgt. Cameron to conduct you to the town of Battleford in the morning and help you find other, more suitable accommodation. As long as you manage to control yourself," he continued in a stem tone, "and not give in again to dementia."

  Dementia, for God's sake. The term was about as antiquated as his stethoscope. Paige stood up and looked him squarely in the eye. "No problem, Doctor, I'll behave. I don't really fancy the idea of being drugged with God knows what dangerous concoction and hauled off at your discretion to some primitive loony bin."

  His mouth tightened, but he didn't answer. He opened the door for her in silence and then led the way along a narrow corridor and up a steep, narrow staircase. At the top was another door. He took a key ring from his belt and located a key that opened the lock. He swept the door open, standing aside so she could enter.

  It was dark inside the room, and Paige hesitated on the threshold. He brushed past her and lit a candle, setting its holder on a rickety table set against one wall.

  Paige peered around in the flickering half-light, appalled at what she saw. The room was obviously being used for storage. Saddles were piled in one corner, and a stack of wooden crates filled the other. Various boxes and bags were slung here and there across the dusty board floor. A narrow unmade bed with an unappetizing mattress was wedged under the single small window, which was shuttered tight. It was hot, and the air smelled stale and musty. She could see cobwebs in the corners.

  She wrinkled her nose in disgust. "It's filthy in here. You can't possibly expect me to sleep here." "Because of the fever, the fort is seriously overcrowded. I'm afraid this is the only room available. I apologize for the dust. I'll send someone up with the necessities and some food."

  "Where's the bathroom?"

  He gave her one of the looks
she was becoming all too familiar with, as if her perfectly natural questions were outrageous. "I'll make sure you get a basin and towels. Now, if you'll excuse me."

  A basin and towels weren't exactly what she'd meant, but he was already closing the door behind him. To her utter horror, she heard the key turn in the lock once again— locking her inside.

  Paige reached the door in two wild leaps, and the candle guttered dangerously from the wind her long skirt stirred up.

  "You can't do this to me," she hollered. "Open this door! You can't lock me in here like—like some kind of animal." She heard his boots clatter down the bare wooden stairs, and she began to shriek at the top of her lungs and pummel the sturdy planks.

  "Open the door, don't lock me in here, please don't lock me in here. ..

  "Miss Randolph." The exasperated voice penetrated easily through both the planks and her shrieks. He must have come back up again, because he was just on the other side of the door. "Listen to me. This fort is full of men, both Indian and white, most of whom are eager at any time for a woman. I have my hands full with dozens of victims of mountain fever. I have no intention of dealing with the type of fever you would instill in the rest of the men. I'm not about to have a riot on my hands. This door is locked as much for your safety as my peace of mind."

  "Then at least give me the key, damn you. I can lock it just as well from inside. It's inhuman to lock me in like this."

  There was a small silence, and then he said in his deep, soft voice, "Miss Randolph, in light of what Sgt. Cameron considered your profession, combined with what you were wearing when he found you, I consider it much safer for me to retain the key."

  She'd never before considered murder a logical solution to anything, but she did now. "You—you miserable, stupid idiot of a man. I have to use the toilet." Her throat was sore from hollering at him.

  "I said I'd supply the necessities, Miss Randolph. I intend to do so, the moment you stop wasting my time." Could there possibly be a hint of laughter in his voice? Was he finding all this amusing? Blood pounded in her temples, red dots danced in front of her eyes, and Paige wondered if she might have a seizure just from anger.