“Mother,” it read, “I’m marrying at last, so stop telling your friends I’m an old maid. His name is Farley Haynes, and I adore him. Love, Rue.”
The message to Rue’s father, who might have been anywhere in the world, but could be counted on to check with his answering service in New York on occasion, was even more succinct. “Dad. By the time you get this, I’ll be married. Rue.”
With those two tasks out of the way, Rue turned all her concentration to the upcoming wedding. She hadn’t brought anything suitable for the ceremony—in fact, she didn’t own anything suitable. But she remembered the line of trunks in the attic, filled with things from all phases of her grandmother’s life. When she was younger, she’d worn those lovely, antique garments to play solitary games of dress-up during long visits.
Naturally, the room at the top of the house was dusty, and the thin winter sunlight barely found its way through the dirty panes of glass in the only window. Rue flipped the light switch and the single bulb dangling in the middle of the ceiling flared to life.
This was a friendly place, though cold and a little musty smelling, and Rue smiled as she entered. If there were ghosts here, they were merry ones come to wish the bride well on her wedding day.
After a few moments of standing still, feeling a reverence for the old times and wondering if her grandmother might not be here after all, young and pretty and just beyond the reach of Rue’s senses, she approached the row of trunks.
The sturdy old chests had metal trim, tarnished to a dead-brass dullness by the passing of time, and the stickers plastered to their sides were peeling and colorless. Still, Rue could make out the names of a few places—Istanbul, Prague, Bora Bora.
She smiled. Grammie had been quite the traveler in her youth. What had it been like for such an adventurous woman to settle on a remote ranch in Montana?
Rue knelt in front of the first trunk and laid her palms on its dusty lid. She didn’t remember her grandmother, though Gramps and Rue’s own mother had spoken of her in only the most glowing terms.
She lifted the lid and right on top, wrapped tightly in yellowed tissue paper, was a beautiful pink satin dress. Rue took a few minutes to admire it, to hold the gown to her front and speculate as to whether or not it would fit, then carefully rewrapped it and returned it to the chest.
Time blew past like the wind flying low over the prairies, and Rue was barely aware of its passing. Going through the things her grandmother had so carefully packed away, she found a lovely calf-length dress of ecru lace, with a modest but enticing neckline, a pearl choker, pale satin slippers that were only slightly too small and a lovely, sweeping straw picture hat with a wide rose-colored ribbon for a band and a nosegay of pink and blue flowers for decoration.
Because the chests were lined with camphor, the fragile old clothes smelled only faintly musty. Totally charmed, the threat of Aunt Verity’s necklace held at bay for just a little while, Rue carried the treasures down from the attic and hung the dress on the screen porch to air.
Upstairs again, she gave herself a facial, washed her hair and then took a long, hot bath. She was back in the kitchen sipping from a cup of noodle soup, a towel wrapped around her head turban-fashion, when Farley came in.
“Are you hungry?” Rue asked, lowering her eyes. She’d said and done outrageous things in this man’s arms, and it wasn’t as if he hadn’t seen her in considerably less than a bathrobe, but suddenly she felt shy.
“Yes,” he answered with a smile in his voice. “But I’m still planning to wait until after some preacher has said the words that make it all right.”
Rue blushed. “I was talking about food.”
“I wasn’t,” Farley replied. “Are we getting hitched here, or do we have to go into town?”
She felt another stream of color rush into her cheeks, but since the previous flood probably hadn’t subsided yet, it wouldn’t be so obvious. She hoped.
“I arranged for a justice of the peace to come out. It was the same day we got our license.”
“Where was I?” Farley hung up his hat and coat, then crossed to the refrigerator and opened the door. It was an ordinary thing, and yet Rue pressed the image into her mind like a cherished photograph. Just in case.
She smiled. “You were playing with the drinking fountain,” she said.
Farley took the milk carton out, opened it and started to raise it to his mouth. He went to the cupboard for a glass when he saw Rue’s warning glare. “I don’t have a ring,” he said worriedly, “or a fancy suit.”
“You’re still going to be the best-looking groom who ever said ‘I do,’” Rue retorted, taking the carton from his hand.
He squeezed her bottom through the thick terry cloth of her robe when she bent over to return the milk to the fridge. “And after I’ve said ‘I do,’” he teased huskily, “you can bet that I will.”
The justice of the peace, who ran a little bait shop at Ponderosa Lake in the summertime, arrived an hour later.
By then, Farley had showered and changed into clean clothes, and Rue had put on makeup, arranged her hair in a loose Gibson-girl style and donned the lovely, gauzy lace dress and the pearl choker.
A couple of the ranch hands came in to serve as witnesses, wearing shiny, ill-fitting suits that had probably been in and out of style several times. One of the old-timers, Charlie, brought along his relic of a camera, which had a flash attachment the size of a satellite dish, fully prepared to record the event.
Rue didn’t allow herself to think beyond the now; she wanted to cherish every second for its own sake.
Being a civil ceremony, the wedding itself was short. Even though Rue was trying to measure out the moments and make them last, the whole thing didn’t take more than five minutes. When Farley kissed her, the hat tumbled off her head and the flash of Charlie’s camera glowed red through her closed eyelids.
Rue would have been content to go right on kissing her husband, but, of course, they weren’t alone, so that was impossible. Hope overflowed her heart as she looked up into Farley’s tender eyes, and in those golden moments, she found it impossible to believe that time or trouble or even death could ever separate them.
The justice of the peace left as soon as he’d been paid, but the ranch hands stayed for refreshments, since festive occasions were such a rare treat. Sara Lee provided the wedding cake, which had to be thawed out in the microwave, and coffee and soda completed the menu.
When Charlie wasn’t eating, he was taking pictures.
Finally, however, one of the other hands elbowed him in the ribs, then cleared his throat pointedly and suggested that they get back to the bunkhouse and change into their working duds. Some of the cowboys started to protest, then caught on and pushed back their chairs, beaming.
Time was more precious now than ever, so Rue didn’t urge the hands to stay. Despite her insistence that Farley take her with him when he went back to 1892, she hadn’t forgotten that his letter said he’d gone alone—on their wedding day. She was glad when she and her new husband were finally by themselves.
She unbuttoned the top two buttons of Farley’s shirt. “No more virginal protests, Farley,” she said, sliding her hand under the soft chambray to find and caress a taut masculine nipple. “You’re my husband now, and I demand my rights as a wife.”
He chuckled, but the sound was raw with other emotions besides amusement. No doubt he, too, was wondering how much of their destiny could be changed, if any. He swept Rue up into his arms and mastered her with a thorough kiss, then carried her to the bedroom.
“You look so beautiful in that dress,” he said after setting her on her feet at the foot of the massive bed. “I almost hate to take it off you.”
For Rue time no longer stretched into the past and the future, forming a tapestry with no beginning and no end. Nothing and no one existed beyond the walls of that room, and their union would be eternal.
She didn’t speak, but simply began unfastening the pearl buttons at the front
of her gown, her chin at a high, proud angle, her eyes locked with Farley’s, challenging him to resist her.
He couldn’t; sweet defeat was plain in his face, and the knowledge made her jubilant.
The dress fell over her hips, and Rue hung it over the back of a chair, then kicked off the tight slippers. She kept stripping until all that was left was the wide, pearl choker at her throat.
Farley’s throat worked visibly as he swallowed, looking at her as if he’d never seen a naked woman before. When Rue lifted her arms to unclasp the choker, Farley rasped, “No. Leave it,” and she obeyed him.
He began taking off his own clothes, starting with his boots, setting them aside with a neatness that made Rue impatient. She watched with brazen desire as he removed his shirt, unfastened his belt, stepped out of his jeans.
Finally, Farley stood before her wearing only his skin, and he was as incorrigibly, magnificently male as a wild stallion.
He held out a hand to Rue. “Come here, Mrs. Haynes,” he said.
It wasn’t the time to say she meant to hyphenate both surnames into one; in that bedroom, alone with her mate, no title suited her better than Mrs. Haynes. Rue yearned to give herself to Farley totally.
She went to him and he drew her upward into his kiss, a tall shaman working his treacherous magic. Rue trembled as she felt his hand cup her breast, and she moaned into his mouth as his fingers lightly shaped the nipple.
As Rue’s body was pleasured, so was her soul. There was a joy in the depths of her being that overruled all her fears and doubts and furies. She was, while Farley loved her, in step with a dancing universe.
He continued to worship her with words and kisses and caresses while she stood with her head back, lost in glorious surrender. When he knelt to pay the most intimate homage, she gave a soft, throaty sob and burrowed her fingers in his thick hair, holding him close, stroking the back of his head.
Their lovemaking was woven of silver linings plucked from dark clouds, golden ribbons of sunset and lengths of braided rainbow, formed at once of eternity itself and the most fleeting of moments. Farley’s and Rue’s souls became one spirit and did not exist apart from each other, and this joining sanctified their marriage in a way an official’s words could never have done.
There was no room in Rue for any emotions other than soaring happiness and the most intense pleasure, not while she and Farley were still celebrating their wedding. Finally, however, she dropped off to sleep, exhausted, perspiration cooling on her warm flesh.
Farley held Rue for a long time. He’d heard other men talk about love, but he’d never imagined it could be the way it was for him with this woman.
He kissed the top of her head, even though he knew she wasn’t awake to feel the touch of his lips, and his eyes stung. Returning to 1892 wasn’t really his choice, as he’d implied to Rue earlier, but it was his fate—he knew that in his bones. The letter, penned in his own handwriting, was irrefutable proof of that.
Farley grew restless. If he managed to circumvent destiny, somehow, and stay in the twentieth century with Rue, would the letter stop existing? Would his fate, or anyone’s, be altered?
The room was filling with gray twilight, and Farley felt a chill. He eased himself apart from Rue and went into the bathroom, where he took a shower. Then he put on the same clothes he’d worn earlier, because he’d been married in them and because they’d borne a vague hint of Rue’s scent. He stood beside the bed for a long time, memorizing the shape of her face, the meter of her breathing, knowing his heart was beating in rhythm with hers, even though he could hear neither.
“I love you,” he whispered raggedly. He knew he should wake her, since any parting could be a permanent one, but he turned away. If he looked into her eyes, he would see the reflection of his own despair, and the pain would be beyond bearing.
Downstairs, Farley put on his coat, took the necklace from the safe, left the house and strode toward the barn. Most of the men were in the bunkhouse, since the day’s work was over, but he found Charlie puttering around in the barn.
Farley touched the brim of his hat as he passed the man, but he didn’t trust himself to speak. He needed to ride, cold as it was, and let the fresh air clear his mind. Maybe then he could figure out some way to change things.
He entered the separate part of the barn where Lobo was stabled, led the big stallion out of his stall and saddled him. The animal nickered and tossed his head, as eager for the open spaces as Farley was, and it was then that a profound, almost mystical bond took shape between the man and the horse.
Farley led Lobo outside, under a full but icy moon, and swung up into the saddle.
“Everything all right, boss?” Charlie inquired. He was leaning against the paddock fence, Soldier at his side, both of them lonely for Wilbur.
Farley looked around him at the land, the kind of land that could soak up a man’s blood and sweat and still make him happy. In his mind the ranch would always be Rue’s, even if he managed to keep himself from getting shot back in 1892 and found his way home to her. One day, though, the land on either side of Ribbon Creek would belong to their child, if he’d been fortunate enough to sire one, and Farley wanted to guard the place and make it grow almost as much as he wanted to stay with Rue.
He looked toward the big house, adjusted his hat and finally answered the ranch hand’s question. In a way. “You’ll look out for her if something happens to me?”
“Exactly what is it you’re expectin’ to happen to you, Mr. Haynes?”
Farley lifted a shoulder. “Maybe nothing.” He reined an impatient Lobo toward the south, where the moon spread silver over the snow.
He rode until neither he nor the horse could travel any farther, until he wasn’t even sure he was still within the borders of the ranch. He pulled off his gloves and reached into his coat pocket for the thin cigars he loved, but instead of the package, he felt a cold, fragile chain between his fingers.
He’d tried to forget he was carrying the necklace.
“Go on,” he muttered hoarsely, glad nobody was there to hear him talking to a trinket. “Do your worst and get it over with!”
Farley held the pendant up, watched the moonlight do a twinkling dance along the length of the chain. He considered flinging it aside into the snow, but he knew now that that would do no good. A force he did not begin to understand had brought the necklace into his life, for good or evil, and that force would not be denied. He had to tie up the loose ends of his old life so that he could live the new one to the fullest.
“Rue.” Her name was a ragged, broken whisper on his lips. Once again, his vision blurred, and he wasn’t sure whether the necklace was working its bitter magic or if he was finally giving way to the grief dammed up inside him.
Five minutes passed, then ten, while the stallion rested and Farley waited.
When the transition occurred just as the sun came up, it was a subtle one. There was a roaring in Farley’s ears, and Lobo fretted and sidestepped beneath him. The power lines and the distant gray ribbon of the highway dissolved into nothingness.
Farley knew without consulting a calendar that he and the horse were back in his own century, and it was a long way back to Pine River from the Big Sky Country.
Still, he dropped the necklace into his pocket and rode back to the place where the house should have been, where Rue should have been drinking coffee in a warm kitchen and Soldier should have been barking. There was nothing except for an abandoned cabin and a single grave marked with a wooden cross.
Farley took off his hat for a moment, his throat thick with misery, his heart full of the kind of loneliness that can drive a person to do stupid, reckless things. He lowered his head for a few moments, struggling with his emotions, and then turned Lobo west, toward his destiny.
Rue stirred in her marriage bed, dreaming. She saw Farley riding alone through a winter dawn, his horse’s gleaming onyx coat contrasting starkly with the pristine snow. Knowing she could never catch up with her husban
d, she struggled to awaken instead.
The instant Rue opened her eyes, however, she knew the nightmare was real and she hadn’t escaped it. She and Farley had said their vows and consummated them, and now he was gone.
A frantic sob tore itself from her throat and she covered her face with both hands, trying hard to get a grip on her emotions. Farley was probably downstairs, reading one of his how-to books with one eye and watching his favorite TV program with the other.
She jumped out of bed, found her robe, pulled it on and dashed downstairs.
“Farley?”
The parlor fire was out, and the TV screen was blank.
Rue hurried into the study, but she knew before she reached it that Farley wouldn’t be there. His presence had a substance, an impact all its own, and she felt nothing except a rising numbness.
“Oh, God,” she prayed, unable to go farther, stumbling through the darkening house to the kitchen.
No fire in the cookstove, no coffee brewing, no Farley reading at the table.
Rue was still in shock, but she could feel her emotions moving underneath the hard layer of control. Soon they would break through and panic would reign.
She continued to entreat heaven as she ran back up the stairs to shower quickly and dress. Her hair was still damp when she followed Farley’s boot prints along the path that led to the barn. She nearly collided with Charlie at the gate.
“He’s gone,” she choked out miserably when the aging man gripped her shoulders to steady her.
“He took Lobo out hours ago,” Charlie said, his craggy, ancient face looking worried in the light of the moon. “I’m going to wake the other men so we can saddle up and start lookin’ for him soon as the sun’s up.”
“I’m going with you,” Rue insisted, as if anyone had given her cause to argue. “I think we should start right now.”
“Mr. Haynes made me swear to look after you,” Charlie said stubbornly. “And lettin’ you ride out in the dark of night over dangerous ground ain’t my idea of keepin’ my promise.”
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