Samuel saw the lift of her shoulders and her chin and he felt a sudden admiration for the woman who stood in front of him, the cat now shielded by her arms. But for all of her courage, she was also very foolish.
“I thought a woman who managed a farm as well as you would have more common sense.” He waited for his words to sink in, and when she didn’t respond he stepped closer. “If the cat is found on your property, dead or alive, it could bring serious trouble down on your head.”
“And you’d be just the man to bring it to my door, wouldn’t you?” Abigail couldn’t contain the sudden anger that made her cheeks flame with color. Samuel Truesdale had been sent from Boston to make sure the rights of the people accused of witchcraft were protected. A fine job he’d done, too. One innocent woman hanged and another fighting for her life while with each passing day the dungeons of Salem Village filled faster and faster with the accused.
“I bring no charges against anyone.” He spoke softly in contrast to her angry tone. His thoughts were distracted by the tiny pulse that he could clearly see at the base of her neck where the cloak had come untied and her collar was slightly askew. He could almost feel that pulse, so warm against his fingers…. He looked up at her, startled that he had not heard her response.
“And you bring no defense for the innocent, either.” She spoke boldly, even though the cat made an attempt to struggle free of her arms. She dodged his paw as it aimed, claws sheathed, to cover her mouth.
“There is little I can do to protect those charged with witchcraft, whether they be innocent or guilty. The village is mad with fear. Those young girls have stirred the people to acts…”
“Of savagery.” Abigail shut her mouth then, knowing that it was too late. But instead of anger, she saw something else in the dark gray eyes of the man who stood on the road in front of her property. Exactly what, she couldn’t say. The sense of tragedy touched her again, a chilling sweep that moved down her back.
“Guard your tongue, Mistress West.”
The sympathy she thought she’d seen had disappeared. In its place was a cool exterior of stormy gray eyes and a generous mouth hardened into a thin line.
“Or what? You’ll charge me with speaking the truth?”
Samuel felt a sudden impulse to step across the half-destroyed fence and grab the woman by the shoulders. She spoke too boldly, and too often. And it mattered not if she spoke the truth. No one in Salem Village was safe saying such things. And Abigail West least of all. Her name had already come up twice in the recent trial of a witch.
“I would charge you with nothing except reckless disregard for your own safety, Mistress West.” He spoke softly, but there was a hard edge of warning beneath his words. “It is not I who brings the charges of witchcraft, though. It is the young girls of the village, and now some of the men. As you know, it is my duty to try to defend those who are accused.” He pointed to the cat. “If you’re caught with a cat, you will be accused. It will not matter how I defend you. You will hang.”
Beneath the ugliness of his words she saw something flicker in his eyes. Was it sorrow? Regret? She couldn’t be certain. But she’d suddenly lost her desire to argue with him.
“I can’t leave the cat out here. Someone will kill him.” She looked around. A feral animal might have a chance, but the cat she held in her arms was used to being fed and petted. He’d never survive in the woods.
Samuel stepped closer to the fence.
“Meow.” Familiar spoke directly to him.
“You know your business better than I do, but I urge you to use caution. Protect yourself from accusations, Mistress West. Once the charges are made, there is little you can do to save yourself, or the cat. Good day.” He turned away from her before she could see the mounting horror that he felt. He’d sat through the trial of one woman who’d been accused by several young girls of sending spirits to pinch and torment them.
In the span of a week a roomful of grown men and women had decreed that the accused woman should die of hanging. Samuel still didn’t believe that such a thing had happened. And was going to happen again unless he thought of a way to stop it.
He had walked a hundred yards down the road before he turned back to look. With a shake of his head he continued down the road. Abigail West had disappeared, along with the cat.
“God protect her,” he whispered as he increased his pace, but he knew without a doubt that if the villagers found the black cat in her home, not even God would be able to do a single thing to save her.
WHAT’S THE DEAL HERE? I get a little bump on the old noggin and I wake up in “The Twilight Zone” in the company of this ravishing creature with the mismatched eyes. I mean, where’s Rod and the gang? How come there’s no theme music? And what’s Madame Mysterious doing all dressed up like a pilgrim and talking with the driver of the car that hit me, who’s also dressed up as though Halloween is just around the corner.
And where the heck am I? What happened to Pennsylvania Avenue and the parade of babes? I was celebrating the first day of summer and, bam! I’m in some kind of time warp.
Trouble is, I’m not sure anyone else recognizes the fact that we’re living in the past. And somehow I get the feeling that I’m not going to like this time period—not after that brief conversation I heard about witches and trials. Being a rather handsome black cat, with the name Familiar, no less, I don’t think this is going to be a very good trip.
The question is, how do we get back to Kansas? Or Washington? Or anywhere in the year of our Lord, 1995. At this particular moment in time, though, life could be worse. I’m nestled securely against the swelling breasts of one of the most extraordinary women I’ve ever seen. A nice moment, but I sense it isn’t going to last. Why is it that I think I’m at Salem Village—home of the infamous witch trials? And what the heck am I doing here?
Ah, here’s home sweet home. We’re inside, and I’m impressed with the size of the fireplace. There’s some serious cooking done on that hearth. But…no! I can’t believe it. There’s no refrigerator. There’s not even any electricity. What am I going to do for food?
And, brother, am I famished. This time travel business has given me a ravenous appetite. I hope there’s something good for dinner tonight. And I hope Mistress West, as the gentleman called her, understands the needs of a very finicky familiar—hey, hey, no pun intended.
Well, first things first. Some chow and then a little look-see around so that I can figure out how I got here and, more important, how I’m going to get home!
ABIGAIL SAT by the hearth watching the cat devour the lobster she’d placed in front of him. Lobster was one of the most plentiful foods in Salem Village, with the community so close to the water and Salem Town. She’d heard that the prisoners awaiting trial were served lobster three meals a day—if they had money to pay for food. Those who did not, starved.
The thought drove her from her seat and she went to the window to look out upon the fading summer day. How had she come to live in this house in this village? She had no answers to those questions, and truth be told, she was afraid to ask anyone for fear they’d take it as some type of omen that she was bewitched. She ran her fingers down the thick glass that distorted her view. Had she shared this house with a husband? She didn’t think so. There was no memory of a man, or a family. No lingering sensations of time shared around the kitchen table with a loved one. What had happened to those moments in time that should have been part of the fabric of her life?
A sharp knock on her door made her bite back an exclamation of surprise. Her nerves were frayed. Knowing that whatever else she did, she had to show a strong front, she gathered up the bowls of food for the cat, hid them, and then opened the door. A tall woman dressed in the gray and white of the day stood with a tentative smile on her face. Even the layers of clothing could not completely cover her attractive figure. Though her face showed a few lines and crow’s-feet, she was young and attractive.
“Abigail, I’ve just come from town to warn y
ou. The village is abuzz with talk about you.” She wrung her hands. “I fear for you.”
“Thank you, Georgianna. Please, come in.” Abigail recognized the woman as her nearest neighbor, though her farm was a distance of half a mile away.
Georgianna March shook her head. “Nay, I’ll not visit. I’ve been to the merchants in town and my chores remain at home. Since we are both women alone, you know better than anyone how much there is to do.” She reached out and touched Abigail’s cheek. “Be careful, lovely one. The talk is vague, but it has a tendency to grow in Salem Village.”
Abigail nodded, her dread increasing twofold. “Thank you.” She was careful to lock and bolt the door as soon as her neighbor left.
Abigail returned to the table. Her legs were weak with the jolt of anxiety that struck her. She was in a place she didn’t know and two people had told her that she was being talked about—with the clear implication that the talk involved accusations of witchcraft. Unable to sit still, she got up and went to the window.
A long sigh escaped her and she pressed her forehead against the cool glass. The meeting with Samuel Truesdale had unnerved her. She’d spoken too boldly to the man. What if he repeated her words or her actions? Nervously she glanced out the window to the darkening road. She could almost imagine the mob coming for her, dragging her to the dungeons to await a trial, or the mockery of a trial. She had not left her small farm in the past three days—the last days she clearly remembered. Yet the panic of the town was tangible.
A movement in the stand of plane trees on the far side of the road caught her attention and she froze at the window. Shifting ever so casually, she tried to get a better look. Day was fading into night, but there was still an afterglow, enough to highlight the difference between the trees and the road. The movement came again, the gentle swaying of branches revealing a flash of white.
Someone was watching her!
Beside her the cat inched to the window. A low growl slipped from his throat as he, too, stared out the window.
With a quick movement she pushed him away, removing him from sight. “Stay down,” she admonished him.
Her shawl had fallen from the chair where she’d thrown it upon entering the house, and she didn’t bother to reach for it as she opened the door and stepped into the gray of twilight.
The idea that she was being spied upon sent a jolt of fury through her and she started running toward the road. Ahead, the trees shimmered and there was the distinct sound of branches snapping underfoot.
“Halt!” She called the command knowing that it would not be heeded. Whoever was watching her did not intend to be caught. She could hear the person crashing through the underbrush now, heedless of noise in their flight.
“Halt!” She raced after them.
When she reached the edge of the woods she stopped. Her heart was pounding with anger and fear. “Damn them to hell,” she whispered. As she turned to go home, accepting defeat, her heart nearly burst.
Standing at the edge of the road was the black cat, and he was staring at the woods where the watcher had been secluded. Every hair on his body was bristled out. His golden eyes glowed in the light of the newly risen moon.
Chapter Two
Samuel Truesdale sat on the hard wooden bench, his elbows propped on a roughly hewn table. He watched Goodwife Sarah Grayson maneuver her long skirt with admirable dexterity around the three fires that burned in her hearth. But his thoughts were not on her domestic finesse nor the bubbling kettles where she made supper for him and her family.
Instead his mind wandered back to his encounter with the striking woman, Abigail West, and the strange black cat. As he thought her name he had the strongest memory of the tiny pulse of life at her throat. He’d never before felt such desire to touch a woman.
Was it possible that she’d bewitched him?
“Your thoughts are grave, Samuel Truesdale. Can you speak of what troubles you?”
Sarah’s question startled him, and he looked away before her sharp eyes could detect his guilt.
“The trials of those accused of witchcraft trouble me, Goodwife Grayson.”
“That they will not admit their guilt is a sign of how deeply the Dark One holds them in the palm of his hand.”
He bit back his sharp reply. He was a stranger in Salem Village, and a guest in the Grayson home. Sarah Grayson was cut from the same cloth as most of the villagers—so afraid of the idea of the devil among them that she wouldn’t willingly say his name out loud. And that fear pushed her to demand harsh punishment for those accused. In his three days in Salem, Samuel had determined that many of the accused also happened to be those who had a measure of common sense.
“The job you’ve been sent to do is not a pleasant one. It would be so much better for the guilty to confess and save themselves the torture of the examinations.”
“Indeed. At least death would be final. Their torment goes on endlessly.” He couldn’t help the sharpness in his tone. There were times, when he’d be in the middle of a sentence, when he found his tongue knotted by the strange syntax that was so appropriate to everyone around him.
“As do the torments of those they afflict. I’ve heard those children screaming and writhing on the floor. The good reverend has prayed over his daughter, but the witches hold that girl tight.”
“I believe it is her imag—” He cut himself off, aware that he was about to accuse one of the star witnesses of making up tales, or insanity.
He rose from the table, unable to share the room any longer with Sarah Grayson. She was generous to take a stranger into her home, even though he was paying for his room and board, but he didn’t have to sit in her kitchen and listen to her narrow, fearful views.
“I had thought to send a message to Boston. I think I’ll look into it.”
“If you can find a messenger. The woods are treacherous with the bloody red savages.”
He looked at Sarah and saw the hardness lined in her face. She was not an old woman, but she looked it. Life was hard for the settlers. If the Indians were not a threat, then the weather or disease did their worst.
“I think I’ll walk toward the township and see if there’s any news of ships arriving. Perhaps I can find one that will go down the coast to Boston Harbor from here.”
“That’s the only way you’ll get a message to the magistrate there.” Sarah’s smile was calculating and slightly angry. It only heightened the harshness of her features.
He left the house immediately and began to walk, his feet unerringly finding the narrow lane of the road even though the light continued to fade from the sky. His anger followed close behind him, and he walked fast, hoping to clear his emotions.
It struck him suddenly that it was no wonder Abigail West’s name had been linked more than once with witchcraft. He had no way of knowing her age. He’d heard it rumored, though, that she was thirty. A crone by most standards. Yet he’d seen her, and her beauty was impossible to ignore. Her dark hair, an astonishing shade of deepest auburn tucked modestly beneath her cap, still caught and trapped the light of the sun. And her eyes. No one could miss that odd combination of one gray and one green. That in itself was enough to mark her. Add a milky complexion that showed no traces of the wear of time or bad disposition, and it was no wonder she stirred talk. Many of the women of Salem Village would delight in a witch trial for a woman whose only apparent sin was her beauty.
And many of the men would gladly see her tried—for different reasons. Covetousness and greed among them. He’d heard the whispered remarks. Abigail’s farm prospered while theirs did not. Her land was better. None of the fools considered that the way she cared for her animals, just as she’d displayed concern for the injured cat, was the possible reason for her success.
At the thought of the cat, he felt a knot of anxiety. There was something about the animal, a look in its eyes. If Samuel was not mistaken, the creature had made a move to put its paw on Abigail’s lips, as if to stop her from talking. Almost as if it w
anted to restrain her tongue—a tongue that needed some discipline.
At the oddity of his thoughts he felt a smile creep to his lips. It had been so long since he’d smiled that his facial muscles actually felt strange. He’d been in Salem three days—an eternity. He’d come to take over a position from Jonathan Guise, after he’d taken ill with the pox. Samuel suspected that his predecessor had been sick during most of the previous trial, but it had not stopped the speedy process of what passed for justice in Salem Village.
He, Samuel Truesdale, was fit and healthy, yet his questions and doubts about the charges of witchcraft provoked only suspicions about his character when he attempted to raise the flag of reason. As short as his stay in Salem was, he found it impossible to recollect his life before. He’d gone to school in England and returned to the New World and lived in Boston for several months. He had documents to prove it, but no strong memories. Strange that he had no real friends or…
He was drawing close to Abigail’s house, and he realized suddenly that if his mind was not interested in recalling his past, it was very interested in providing him an opportunity to see the woman again. He slowed, moving off the road to stand beneath a magnificent old oak at the edge of her front yard. The deep shade cast by the tree, his dark clothing and the fading light combined to make him impossible to see from the road. He had no wish to startle the woman. He only wanted to look at her.
Because?
Because in a place where nothing gave him comfort or pleasure, the sight of her did. There was also a niggling worry for her safety.
The paned windows of her house, another flagrant sign of her prosperity, did not give a clear view inside, but he saw movement. A slender form passed by the front window. It would be the kitchen, he knew. All of the houses of Salem Village were similar in design. The front door opened into a small hallway that divided the family room and the kitchen. There were two bedrooms behind those rooms, and more small bedrooms upstairs for those who could afford the upper addition. The steep slope of the roof made the upstairs difficult for a tall man—he knew from personal experience. The Grayson home had an upper story, where he was staying. So did Abigail’s home.
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