Now and Forever: Time Travel Romance Superbundle

by Bobby Hutchinson

  His boots thumped back down the stairs and she slumped against the door. Impotent rage washed over her in waves. She stood where she was for several minutes more, her head resting on the rough wood, her entire body trembling. She'd never thought of herself as anything but the most reasonable of women, and she couldn't remember a time when she'd lost her temper this completely at anyone. But neither had she ever been in a situation as strange and frustrating and outright frightening as this.

  She made her way over to the bed and sat down— there was nowhere else to sit. Dust billowed up from the mattress.

  She got up again and struggled with the thick shutters on the narrow window, but she couldn't get them to open.

  She was a prisoner. In one short day, she'd gone from being a professional woman, highly respected in her field, to this. She made an effort to logically trace the path that had led her to where she was, going back to the moment when she'd walked to the center of the crop circle. It all came down to the incredible fact that she'd lost consciousness in one world, and awakened in another, much more than a hundred years in the past.

  It seemed a long time before she again heard boots climbing the stairs. The key turned in the lock and Baldwin came in, his arms laden with sheets, blankets, towels. He had a lighted lantern slung over one arm, and the comparatively brighter light made the room marginally more cheerful.

  A bearded, white haired old man with a wrinkled face and mischievous black eyes puffed into the room behind Baldwin. He limped quite badly, and he was dressed in shiny black pants, a soiled white shirt, and a vest stretched so tight over his paunch it seemed the buttons would pop at any moment. He wore a bright red sash around his waist, and he carried a pitcher, an enamel washbasin, and an object with a lid that Paige recognized as a chamber pot.

  "Bonjour, Madame." He gave her a friendly nod, a grin, and a benevolent wink as he set the basin and pitcher on the table where Baldwin had placed the lantern. He then discreetly put the chamber pot in the far corner behind the stacked saddles.

  "Armand LeClerc, this is Miss Randolph." Baldwin's introduction was brief. "Armand will be back with your dinner in half an hour. I think you have everything you need for now."

  The doctor had given her only a cursory glance when he first came in, and he was already turning toward the door again as he spoke, ushering Armand out ahead of him.

  "Wait, wait just a minute, please." Paige jumped to her feet. "Can you open that window at least? I'm going to smother in here unless I get some fresh air." Baldwin went over to the window, unhooked the bars that held the shutters in place, and pulled them back. It was dark outside, but fresh, cool air seemed to pour in, dispelling the dusty closeness of the room. She heaved a huge sigh of relief, feeling that at least she could breathe.

  The men left without another word, and Paige shoved the table against the door. She wasn't having them walk in on her, she told herself.

  She first made use of the chamber pot. Then she stripped off her blouse and skirt and underwear, poured the lukewarm water from the pitcher into the basin, and gave herself an awkward but satisfying scrub from top to bottom. She ran her fingers through her tangled hair, wishing she had a brush. Back in Clara's clothing again but feeling refreshed, she tried to beat some dust out of the mattress before she made up the bed with the homespun sheets and rough wool blankets.

  Tucked between the bedding was a long, quaint white nightshirt, hand-stitched and made of cotton so fine it felt like silk when she stroked it. Finely made, it was still distinctly masculine in style, and Paige marveled at the delicate handwork—the entire garment was hand sewn, the stitches even and tiny. She held it against her and decided by the hem and the length of the sleeves that it probably belonged to Dr. Baldwin.

  Well, that was a first; she'd never known a man who wore a nightshirt before.

  She found herself wondering who'd made it, concluding that a man as undeniably good looking as the good doctor probably had any number of women eager to sew their fingers into shreds for him.

  A discreet tap at the door accompanied by the sound of the key turning announced the arrival of her dinner. Paige moved the table away to open the door, and Armand LeClerc handed her a tray and set a steaming coffeepot on the table.

  "Bon appétit, Madame."

  Paige had to smile. She'd heard the salutation in expensive Vancouver restaurants. To hear it here, in these circumstances, seemed the height of irony.

  "Thanks, Armand." He grinned at her, and she tried to smile back. "Are you French? From Quebec?"

  He laughed, a deep belly laugh that was good to hear. "No, no, I am Métis. You know what is Métis?"

  History hadn't been her strongest area. "French and Indian heritage?" she suggested, her voice hesitant.

  He nodded, pleased with her reply. "We call ourselves Bois Brulees, the free people." He cackled at that, as if it were a joke. "Not so free anymore, since the government takes away our land and our buffalo."

  "Do you live here at the fort, Armand?" She was dreading the moment when the key turned again in the lock, leaving her alone. Talking to Armand would delay it, at least for a while.

  He shrugged, an eloquent gesture. "My horse, she falls on me one day when I am hunting. The docteur, he fix my old bones so I can walk again, and sometimes ride even. Then the fever comes and the docteur, he run all the day long, many people sick. So I stay a little while, help him maybe. When spring comes, I go back to my farm." He hesitated, and then moved closer to her, his brow furrowed, his black eyes curious. "I could not help but hear, before, when you and the good docteur speak to one another. You 'ave come from far away, yes, Madame?"

  Paige thought of the calendar and nodded, the fear rising in her once again. "Yes. From far away." She swallowed the lump that rose in her throat. "From—from another time." Armand crossed himself. "It is a miracle, no? That you come here?"

  Paige didn't know whether to laugh or cry. "No. More like a major accident, I'd say."

  "But you are a docteur, also? This I heard you say."

  "Yes. I am a doctor, a woman's specialist. I deliver babies, and help women when they have difficulties."

  "But not men? You could not, say, fix the bones like the docteur did for me?"

  "Of course I could. I mean, I'm no orthopedic specialist, but I could certainly set a broken arm. I studied general medicine before I specialized."

  "Ahhhh." He looked at her with awe.

  "Armand. Where the hell are those clean dressings that Doc needs for the morning?" The frantic male bellow echoed up the stairs and through the open door.

  "I must go. And you must eat your dinner before it grows cold." He gave her a courtly little bow and hurried out.

  He was careful to lock the door when he left, Paige noted.

  Well, so much for polite dinner conversation.

  There was no chair, so she dragged the small table over beside the bed and sat there to eat her dinner. The food was plain but plentiful: a lump of tough steak, boiled potatoes and gravy, turnips, a dollop of pickle, and a thick slab of brown bread with pale butter slathered across it. It was served on a tin plate with a rim. There was a smaller plate with an immense slab of black currant pie, and an entire enamel pot full of coffee.

  Paige hadn't realized how hungry she was. She demolished most of the dinner and a fair portion of the pie, finishing her lonely meal with cup after cup of the hot, bitterly strong coffee. Caffeine had never kept her awake— in fact, it seemed to have the exact opposite effect. The lamp cast shadows in the corners, but the soft light was soothing and warm. By the time she'd emptied her third cup of coffee, Paige could barely keep her eyes open. She had no idea what time it was, but the muffled sounds of male voices and trampling boots from downstairs had quieted, and there were stars in the sky when she peered out her window.

  She moved the table back, stripped off her clothes, and tugged the nightshirt down over her head. It felt soft and welcoming against her skin.

  A bit of experimenting taugh
t her that by turning a knob on the side of the lamp, the light could be dimmed until it emitted only a faint glow.

  Would Armand come back for the dishes tonight, or leave them till morning? She really didn't give a damn, she decided. She was far too tired to care.

  Crawling between the sheets, she pulled the blankets up in a cocoon around her and closed her eyes.

  Sleep was instantaneous, like a black and bottomless pit.

  "Madame? Madame, it is morning, wake up."

  The sound of Armand's cheerful voice and his loud rap on the door, followed by the click of the key in the lock, awakened her. Bitter disappointment brought tears to her eyes; some part of her had believed that she'd awaken back in the bedroom in her brother's house, back in her own place and time.

  Instead, light and bird song spilled in through the open window, and on the table, the lantern sat beside the remains of her dinner. It must have burned up all its fuel and gone out at some time during the night.

  Paige felt as though her limbs had turned to lead when she tried to move, a heavy lethargy that made sitting up an effort of will. The long trip across the prairie, the heat and dust and bouncing around on that cursed wagon had taken its toll, as well as the stress of finding out where and when she was.

  "Come in," she croaked, although she felt more like snarling "Go away."

  Armand had a pitcher of hot water in one hand and a fresh pot of coffee in the other.

  "What time is it?"

  "Six, Madame," Armand informed her. He wished her a cheerful good morning, gathered up the dishes from the night before, and maneuvered out the door, balancing last night's tray. "I will bring food right away," he promised with a grin.

  Like an old, arthritic woman, she dragged herself out of bed. The basin still held the water from the night before, so she carried it to the window and tipped it out. Just too bad for anyone standing underneath.

  By the time she was washed and dressed, she felt marginally better, although she longed for a hot shower, a bottle of shampoo, a toothbrush, and a tube of Crest. Having to put on the same underwear and skirt and blouse again made her shudder. There was no mirror in the room, which was probably just as well. She could imagine what her mop of hair, unruly at the best of times, must look like by now.

  She was going to have to do something about clothing and personal hygiene items and a spare set of underwear right away, that was certain. But how?

  A bump at her door signaled breakfast. It wasn't Armand who brought it, however.

  Dr. Baldwin shouldered the door open and set the tray on the table. He turned without a word and gave her his now familiar assessing look, and Paige had to stop herself from nervously running her fingers through her uncombed hair.

  For some reason, she hated having him see her creased and tousled looking. It put her at a disadvantage, she told herself, meeting his gaze with defiance and drawing herself up to her full height despite the fact that her feet were still bare.

  "Good morning, Miss Randolph. I trust you slept well, and that you have everything you need?" His tone was brisk and impersonal.

  "No, I don't have everything I need, thank you. Along with dozens of other basic necessities, I really need a hairbrush," she replied, and even to herself she sounded petulant.

  He studied her hair for a long moment. "I do agree," he remarked without even a trace of a smile.

  Her face burned and she gave him what she hoped was a scathing look.

  "I'll send Armand up with one directly. And by the way, that nightshirt is yours if you want it. It won't fulfill your wardrobe requirements, but it's a beginning."

  She opened her mouth to refuse, and then thought better of it. Galling as it was, she needed the damn thing. "Thank you."

  He ignored her grudging response. "When you've finished your breakfast, come down and I'll have Sgt. Cameron escort you into town." He strode toward the door, and her temper got the better of her.

  "I can't believe you intend to turn me loose on the unsuspecting citizens of Battleford, demented and immoral as I am," she snapped. "And with hair like this."

  He stopped and turned to face her. This time his mouth tilted in the faintest semblance of a smile. "They'll just have to take their chances, won't they, Miss Randolph?"

  Less than an hour later, Paige trudged along the main street of the town with Rob Cameron at her side and the small bundle that contained all she owned in the world under her arm. Billows of dust puffed up around her ankles with every step, and early as it was, the heat seemed already to penetrate her very skull. At least her hair was brushed; just as he'd promised, Dr. Baldwin had sent Armand up with a hairbrush and a comb as well.

  When she'd come downstairs a short time later, it was to find Rob Cameron, in a well brushed scarlet tunic and newly polished high boots, eagerly waiting for her. The doctor was nowhere in sight.

  Paige told herself that was a blessing. If she never laid eyes on Baldwin again, it would suit her just fine.

  The shock she'd experienced the previous day when she first caught sight of the frontier town wasn't as overwhelming this morning. Instead, she felt weary and rather numb as Rob chatted on about the various crude log buildings they were passing.

  To Paige, the entire town of Battleford was nothing more than a cluster of the most primitive structures she'd ever seen, but Rob was vocal in his pride of the fledgling town.

  "Yonder's our telegraph office," Rob announced, pointing to an unimposing log building. "John Little's superintendent and operator; he lives in the back. That's the Hudson's Bay Company store," he explained, motioning toward a large log building in the distance, close to the river, where several men were hitching horses to a rail in front, and a number of people, both native and white, were coming and going. "They stock a grand supply of almost everything a person could need."

  Paige had a distinct feeling that her needs and those of the general populace of Battleford had nothing in common. What she needed this morning were her old cutoff Levi's, a cotton halter, a pair of strappy sandals. ...

  A woman in a long dark dress, neck to wrist to ankles, was entering the store, and she turned and gave Paige a curious stare.

  Rob gave her a polite salute. "Ye'll find everyone's wondering about ye, Miss Paige. It's a small town and when someone new arrives it's an event. There's a lot of talking goes on, but in the main, ye'll find the people friendly."

  With any luck, Paige thought, she wouldn't be around long enough to find out whether people were friendly or not. Surely, somehow, there was a way to go back where she belonged, if she could only find it.

  Rob was enjoying giving her a tour of the town. "Down this street's another general store kept by Mahoney and Macdonald. There's the mail station on the left, next to it's the printing office. Battleford has its own paper, the Saskatchewan Herald. That's the school, along there's still another store, kept by Peter Ballendine. And here's the boardinghouse I told you of. We'll just go in and have a wee talk with Lulu. Mrs. Leiberman."

  Rob had generously offered to loan Paige some money, an amount he judged enough for a week's lodging and the toilet essentials she needed. She'd opened her mouth to ask for 50 just as he handed her six dollars. Speechless, she'd tucked the strange looking money in the pocket of her skirt, grateful for his kindness, but six dollars? In Vancouver, it would hardly buy lunch, much less room and board and necessities.

  The boardinghouse Rob indicated was two stories high and more substantial than most of the houses they'd passed. It was impressive compared to the smaller dwellings nearby. The woman who came to the door at Rob's knock was younger than Paige expected; for some reason, she'd imagined a landlady to be matronly.

  Instead, Lulu Leiberman was frankly sensual, short, plump, and young; Paige guessed her to be not much older than she was, maybe 34 or 35. She had big china-doll blue eyes, rosy cheeks, and thick masses of yellow blonde hair wound around her head in braids like a coronet. Her breasts were spectacular, her waist minuscule, her hips impressive.
Her lips had a pouty fullness, and when she saw who it was she beamed at Rob and swung the front door wide. Her rather shrill voice was both flirtatious and lilting.

  "Why, Rob Cameron, you handsome thing, come on in, come right through into the kitchen and sit down. I've got fresh coffee cake just out of the oven." It was obvious she preferred men to women—beyond one dismissive glance, she ignored Paige.

  They stepped inside and Rob removed his pillbox hat and introduced the two women.

  "Miss Paige Randolph arrived in Battleford last night and she's in dire need of board and room, Lulu. I've told her this is the finest boardinghouse in all of Battleford," he said, smiling at the landlady.

  Paige was sure he'd also said it was the only boardinghouse, but she kept quiet as Lulu led the way down a hallway and into a spacious kitchen, where various kettles and pots bubbled and simmered on a gigantic iron cook stove that crouched in one corner.

  A skinny young girl with red braids was peeling a mountain of potatoes over a granite sink, and a long wooden table and numerous chairs occupied the middle of the room. The floor was bare boards, scrubbed almost white.

  No modern conveniences here, Paige thought despairingly, envisioning refrigerators and microwaves and wall ovens and tiles.

  "Sit down, Rob. You, Margaret," Lulu ordered in a bossy tone. "Leave that for now and go do the upstairs. And get a move on."

  "Yes'm." The girl shot Lulu a frightened glance, dried her hands, and scuttled out.

  Lulu set out thick china cups and cut delicious looking slabs of cinnamon topped cake. She poured Rob's coffee first and then turned to Paige.

  "So you're looking for board and room?"

  Her shrill voice was polite enough, but her cold blue eyes went over Paige inch by inch, paying special attention to the bare legs and ankles visible between the bottom of Clara's skirt and the Nikes Paige wore on her feet. Her contemptuous gaze flicked to the folded up nightgown Paige had placed on the chair beside her. Inside it was her comb, brush, and running strip—all her worldly goods.