by Dani Harper
“You’ll want to take care there, son,” said Leo drily. “You get your dangling bits caught in that and you’ll be singing soprano.”
Rhys didn’t understand all the words, but the inference was plain. He’d definitely be careful.
The final fastener on the jeans was also metal—Leo called it a button. There had been no buttons in his previous life. And although he’d seen them in use since about the thirteenth century, he’d never had cause to touch one. After a moment, Rhys realized that it operated somewhat like the bone toggle on a leather pouch he’d once had. He pressed it through the fabric loop and was pleased when it stayed. The buttons on the overshirt, however, were an entirely different matter. They were tiny and flimsy, mocking his big fingers.
“You’re doing it up wrong,” said Leo. “Get over here and let me show you.”
Rhys stood near the bars and frowned as the old man undid the two fasteners he’d just managed to put together.
“Start here, son. You have to line up the bottom-most hole with the bottom-most button. Otherwise everyone will notice that your shirt’s crooked.” Leo did up the first button and waved at Rhys to continue.
“My thanks,” he said and struggled to do the rest himself. Despite the annoyance of the fasteners, he liked the shirt and its fine bold check. His people had favored woven checks and stripes, and a couple of the women in the village—his mother included—could create even more complicated patterns on their looms but none as bright as this. It was blue, the sacred color, and purest black. The material was thick and soft. Still not wool, but heavy enough to remind him of it.
“Stop there,” Leo said as Rhys fastened a button at chest level. “You can’t button it all the way up to your chin or you’ll look like an idiot. Or an old man and even I’m not that old yet. You gotta let the T-shirt show through.”
The shoes were odd, not leather at all. They had long strings hanging from them, which he ended up simply tucking inside. There was a packet of strange white mittens in the bag, but the weather was warm and he left them on the bench at first—until he recalled that they were not mittens at all, but something called socks. People of his clan had stuffed shoes with dried grass for warmth. No one had ever thought to weave coverings for their feet at the time. He put them on, but they felt strange.
“Heel’s on backward,” commented Leo. When Rhys looked puzzled, the old man called for him to toss a sock his way. “It fits this way,” he said and laid the sock along his own foot, puffing a little with the exertion of bending so far.
Rhys turned his socks around and found that they now conformed to his feet. “Better,” he said. “I feel like a child, to be needing so much help to put on my own garments. Truly, you have been kind.”
Leo shrugged. “No big deal. My brother, Ed, was in an accident. It left him so he couldn’t recall how to do anything for himself—he was perfectly capable, mind you, just couldn’t remember from day to day. Short-term memory loss is what they call it now. We all had to help him with little things like that, just remind him how stuff was done. From the looks of your hide, I figure you’ve had your own troubles.”
It was a moment before realization dawned. The man was referring to Rhys’s scars. He’d all but forgotten he had them. “They do not come to mind often. It was a very long time ago.”
“Good plan. Always best to go forward if you can. I used to say that to one of my buddies when we served together, but some of the shit we saw during the war just ate away at him. Shot himself a few years after.”
“The burden of battle is greater for some.”
“It surely is. But there wasn’t much help for someone like him in those days. Me, I had nightmares for years, still get a few, but I don’t dare let myself dwell on it. Drink more than I should sometimes if I get to remembering too much. Got out of the war with most of my hide intact and my brains unscrambled, so I just keep moving forward. Settled here and built a pretty good life.
“Say, mind if I ask where you’re from? You got an accent that’s kind of familiar.”
Rhys remembered Morgan’s incredulous reaction when he’d tried to tell her the truth about his origins. Officer Richards’s eyebrows had nearly met his hairline when Rhys repeated his story—and one of Richards’s fellows had overheard and made circular motions with his finger to his head. The gesture might be modern, but Rhys had no trouble translating it. And he’d come to the realization that his current imprisonment had as much to do with his claims as it did with his state of undress. In order to exist in this time and culture, especially in order to protect Morgan as he had sworn to do, he would have to adopt a new tactic: truth, but not all of it.
“Wales. I was born in Wales,” answered Rhys. And never mind that his country hadn’t been called that at the time or that his nativity had occurred two millennia ago.
Leo nodded. “I thought it was something like that. During the war, our unit was temporarily stationed with some British troops. Good guys, every one of them, in spite of that damn tea they drank, but two of them spoke the most complicated language I ever heard. When they spoke English, they had an accent kind of like yours, and the captain said they were—er—from Wales.” He put up his hands in a gesture of peace. “Damn it, I nearly used the nickname there. Sorry. Nowadays you have to be careful of what you say, especially what you go around calling people. What used to be okay when I was a kid is politically incorrect now—and it should be, no doubt about that. But I forget sometimes, especially if I’ve had a couple beers.”
This country had a lot of rules, thought Rhys. In fact, modern-day Wales probably had a lot of new laws as well, but as a grim, he’d had no need to pay any attention to them. He’d better pay attention now, though, if he expected to stay out of prison.
“So, where are you going when you get out of here?” asked Leo.
“I don’t know.” He hadn’t anticipated his freedom, never mind how he was going to use it. More than anything he wanted to return to Morgan, but perhaps she needed more time. She wasn’t accustomed to having a man around for one thing, and for another, he’d given her a fright. Not that she remained frightened for long. His mouth quirked as he recalled her determined expression while she threatened him with the garden hoe. No, Morgan was a very brave woman—who else would have attempted to pull a great savage dog from a man’s throat? And as for himself, what other voice would have broken through his killing rage?
Truth be told, he didn’t know what to do now. He had never feared battle, yet now he was at a loss as to how to approach this woman. He didn’t want her to send him away again. Somehow he had to prove himself useful. She had a farm that had gone fallow, its once-fine buildings and fences in disrepair. Perhaps he could work for her, set the place to rights?
But not yet. He had to repay her for the clothing when he saw her again—and at present, he had no coin with which to do so. “I have no destination,” he said to Leo. “Your advice would be most welcome.”
“Well, I don’t have much in the way of advice, but I do have an empty house. You can stay with me till you figure out where you’re going. You look like you know how to work, and I got chores that need doing. You could earn your keep, right enough.”
Rhys nodded. “That I’d be pleased to do.”
SEVEN
Leo Waterson had a very large home. He insisted that it wasn’t all that big, but the place was enormous compared with the thatch-roofed roundhouse Rhys had grown up in. Rhys didn’t mention that, however. Instead, he ran a hand over the wide wood frame around a window—so smooth and even, everything straight and squared. “The workmanship is fine,” he said, and meant it.
“Quarter-sawn oak, classic Craftsman house. Built in 1914 and we bought it in 1966. I wanted something newer, of course, but Tina loved it, and it fit our budget at the time. It’s always been a bugger to heat, though,” said Leo. “In the winter now, I just close off the upstairs altogether. Since Tina passed on, I’ve taken over the bedroom behind the kitchen. I think you’l
l do well in the north bedroom, on the right at the top of the front stairs. That was my son’s room. Could be a mite dusty now because my knees don’t enjoy the trip to the second floor, but that room usually stays cool in the summer heat. Though I expect we won’t get much more of that now that it’s September.”
“Grateful I am for your hospitality. Have you some work that I can do?”
Leo waved a hand at him. “No shortage of it. I’m behind on just about everything you can name. I’ll show you the yard if you’re curious, but for God’s sake, don’t feel like you have to jump right into it. You’ll make me feel guilty.”
Just then, a small spotted terrier entered the room. Age had whitened his entire face and his eyes had a blind bluish cast to them. “That’s ol’ Spike. He’s gone completely deaf now, so it takes him a while to realize I’ve come home,” explained Leo. “Usually I have him locked up if someone’s coming over.”
“Why?”
“He’ll bark at you for sure, but lately the little bugger bites. Just stand still, okay?”
Spike’s gait was unsteady but determined as he sniffed his way to his master’s side. Despite his small stature, when the dog laid his head against Leo’s leg and closed his eyes in bliss, he reminded Rhys of his father’s loyal old wolfhound. Suddenly Spike’s body stiffened as he belatedly realized there was a stranger in the room. Piercing staccato barks exploded from the small dog, underscored with snarls and growls.
“Damn it, Spike.” Leo made a grab for the terrier but was far too slow. Spike had already launched himself in Rhys’s direction.
Instead of trying to avoid the attack, Rhys simply waited. The snarling snapping teeth came within an inch of his leg—and then the dog abruptly quieted. The fur along his spine still standing up, Spike’s nostrils flared. Rhys lowered himself until he was kneeling on the floor, and the dog didn’t react except to sniff at his hands. Apparently satisfied, Spike climbed into Rhys’s lap, curled up, and began snoring almost immediately.
“I’ll be double damned,” said Leo, his eyes wide. “He must like you—I’ve never seen him do anything like that before. In fact, I’ve never seen him take a liking to anyone much, not even when family visits. What did you do, put a spell on him?”
“No magic.” Rhys stroked the spotted fur as the dog slept on. “My father taught me about animals. I like them and maybe I have a bit of a knack.”
“A knack he says.” Leo shook his head. “They say that animals are good judges of character. If that’s true, you just got a helluva reference from Spike.”
Rhyswr was nowhere to be found. Morgan spent hours searching the woods and the fields around her home, but there was no sign of the great black mastiff. She called her neighbors, put an ad in the paper, phoned the pound, but no one had seen the animal. Although she hadn’t known the dog for long, losing him hurt more than she’d expected.
Even less expected was her concern for the man who had claimed to be the dog. She didn’t believe for a minute that his name was really Rhys. That was just too much of a coincidence. But she found herself thinking about him a great deal, wondering if he was all right. Bill—Officer Richards—had assured her that Rhys’s fingerprints weren’t on file. She had breathed an enormous sigh of relief over that point. The man might be crazy but at least he wasn’t a criminal. Probably.
And he hadn’t been charged with indecent exposure, thank God, since he’d been on private property, and she didn’t wish to complain. Ha. Rhys was hot enough to bake cookies on. Tough to complain about eye candy like that! Yet according to Bill, no one had filed a missing persons report on anyone with his description. No one had showed up to identify or claim him. Not only did he have no idea where he belonged, he remembered no other name but his first one. And that was questionable.
In the end, since he couldn’t provide ID or even an address, Rhys had simply been written up for vagrancy and placed in a cell overnight. That surprised her. She thought the authorities would have sent Rhys to a psychiatrist or even a social worker, but the man hadn’t committed any real crime. His mental condition would therefore be his own business. And as Bill had pointed out, plenty of people were wandering the streets these days with far worse problems than Rhys.
Where he was now, though, was anyone’s guess. All she knew was that the man had simply left upon release. According to Bill, there had been no incidents of Rhys turning up naked in the streets.
If only Morgan could say the same about her dreams.
“Hold it this way. That’s it, you got it now,” said Leo. “We’ll make a handyman out of you yet.”
Rhys drilled a hole through the plywood and admired the perfection of the circle when he finished. He’d seen electrical tools before, of course, but had never touched them to see how they worked. His people had been adept with ironwork, and he himself was skilled with many hand tools—but even the most basic of tools looked and worked differently in this time and place. So many new things to learn…It was exhilarating to have so much to think about, and by all the gods, it felt good to use his hands again.
Best of all, Leo was unfailingly patient as a teacher. Rhys was truly thankful that the old man had been placed in his path, because he definitely needed a guide in this strange new world.
“I think I’ll take a break now,” said Leo. “Never used to need one, but now I find I gotta shut my eyes for a little while in the afternoon. Recharges the batteries.” He sniffed and chuckled. “Although they don’t seem to hold a charge for long these days.”
As the old man headed for the house, Rhys made his way to the garden. He’d built a wide and sturdy bench for Leo and placed it in a sunny spot near some enormous purple and white flowers called dahlias. It was a good spot for Rhys’s latest project too. He pulled out a large block of dark wood from under the bench and a handful of slender cutting tools from his pocket. Studying the piece, he began shaving away thin curls of wood and enjoyed the sun-warmed smell of them. Initially he’d begun carving the piece with a simple knife, but Leo had borrowed some very fine implements from a neighbor who made lifelike wooden ducks.
What Rhys held in his hands was not a bird. It would be a gift for Morgan one day, perhaps even a peace offering, if she would accept it. Just as he’d swapped one tool for the next, however, a flicker of movement in his peripheral vision caught his attention. Rhys stilled, casting his gaze about for the source. There was movement in the middle of the garden, and yet he could see nothing but the rich brown earth he had spaded over earlier in the week. Some bits of straw, the dried yellowed stems of a few leftover garden plants poked up here and there—
Suddenly a strange brown bird stood up from the midst of the dirt and shook out its feathers. Rhys thought it was a grouse—until it turned bright-blue eyes on him. In a heartbeat, the bird became a tiny man with a wizened, coppery face. Brown leaves stuck out in all directions from braided brown hair and covered his strange little body. He frowned at Rhys, planting long twiglike hands on scrawny hips.
Then disappeared in a puff of dust.
An ellyll, thought Rhys. A stranger to this side of the waters and probably spying for the Tylwyth Teg. But then, had he truly expected the Fair Ones to leave him alone? Reason said they’d be watching, one way or another.
Waiting.
EIGHT
It was her turn to be on call, and Morgan felt she’d missed enough shifts. Jay and Grady had argued with her for most of the week in favor of continuing to cover for her. They’d both been overprotective after the attack, and doubly so after what was now referred to as the Naked Man Incident. Their concern was sweet and supportive, but it was time to get on with her regular responsibilities. Normal—she wanted lots and lots of just plain normal. Morgan left her car in the parking lot and took one of the clinic pickups home for the night. The cargo box was equipped with everything she was likely to need for most emergencies.
Pager on her hip, Morgan picked up a few badly needed groceries and then made a quick house call on her way out of
town. She wanted to check on Berkley, a sweet-natured basset hound and unrepentant escape artist. On his most recent yard break, he’d stumbled into a hole where a construction crew was working on a sewer project. Berkley now sported a cast on his left front leg—and an enormous plastic cone around his head to keep him from chewing on the cast. All dogs looked ridiculous wearing a cone, but Berkley’s ears were so long that they draped over the edges and dragged on the floor like twin mud flaps. Morgan struggled not to laugh as she made a careful inspection of the leg and assured the anxious owner that there were no swelling or circulation problems. Once back in the truck, however, she let loose the laughter she’d been holding until tears ran down her cheeks.
Despite the long day, the silly basset had done her a world of good. Morgan felt herself relax, looking forward to the peace and sanctuary of her country home and feeling more in control of her life. Normal is good. But as she pulled into the treed driveway of her property, she spotted a blue sedan parked in the yard and an old man sitting on her front step.
“Leo! Is Spike all right?” she called from the window as she parked the pickup next to the car.
The old man heaved himself to his feet as she pulled her grocery bags from the truck.
“Ol’ Spike’s at home holding the couch down,” he said with a broad grin, automatically taking a bag from her. “I was thinking of helping him with the job, but I volunteered to give my friend a ride out here instead. He’s just taken a walk around the farm—” he glanced around for his companion but apparently didn’t see him “—so I thought I’d enjoy the shade for a while. I remember back when Earl Hornsby used to run this farm. ’Course that was long before your time.”