Chapter 2
December 24, 1998
John
The river still rushed by in a swish of swirling water. Cows still stood silhouetted against the dark sky. The ground still rose and fell in gentle swells under his feet and stars bright and brittle still hung in the deep Texas dark.
But a road made of some dark surface appeared about half a mile from where they stood and little boxes holding people inside flew by. First they hurtled toward him with two lights so bright he lifted his hand to shield his eyes. In the time it would take to snap his fingers, the little boxes passed, leaving behind the glow of two red lights attached to the back. No sooner had one box zipped by, but it was replaced by another and another. The speed made him feel a little sick to his stomach. He turned away.
The horizon was broken. The long, open distances were no more. Instead tall poles stood like giant sentinels as far as he could see. Wire draped from pole to pole and a faint crackling noise vibrated the air.
“Cars,” Marcie explained. “I told you about them.” She followed his gaze as it swept the distance. “Power poles. They carry electricity.”
“What’s that glowing over yonder?” He tipped his head toward the illumination in question.
“San Miguel.” Marcie took his hand. “It’s the lights from San Miguel. Let’s move away from the river. The meteor storm isn’t over, and I don’t want to slip back before we have the medicine.”
He followed his wife away from the water. “What now?”
“Tom’s ranch passed down through the generations, and when I slipped through time looking for my sister, I left instructions with my lawyers to deed the ranch to my cousin, Brett.” She paused and took a deep breath. “That’s where we need to start. Tom’s ranch was about three miles from here, and now it belongs to Brett. We need to borrow a car, and we’ll need modern money.” She looked him over. “Your clothes are old-fashioned, but traditional. I think we can get away with it, but you can’t go to town with your gun. Why don’t you leave it here, and we’ll pick it up on the way back?”
“What if there’s trouble? What if I need to protect you?” Being unarmed in an unfamiliar place gave him a prickly feeling at the back of his neck.
“Disputes aren’t settled with guns any more. The west is civilized now, laws, police, churches, schools. All of it is civilized. You won’t need the gun, I promise.” She nodded her head and pointed at his gun. “Trust me.”
He unbuckled his holster and laid it on the ground.
“Let’s get to Brett’s.” They moved through the night while the meteor shower continued to flare over their heads.
“Well, lookey there.” John stopped to admire the modern ranch. “Tom would be right proud to see this.” A two-story house with a wraparound veranda replaced the more modest home of 1898. A large barn stood close by and lights blazed from the bunkhouse.
Marcie tugged on his arm. “Let’s go see Brett. I’m going to tell him the truth about Amanda and me. He needs to know.” They mounted the steps and knocked on the sturdy door. When no one answered, she picked up the doormat and retrieved a key. She chuckled. “Some things never change.”
“Brett?” Marcie called as they entered the house. Placing her hand on the wall, she flipped a switch and light flooded the room.
“How did you do that?” John studied the wall.
“This is a wall switch. See?” She turned the lights on and off, on and off.
John followed her and did the same. “Well, I never.” He placed his hands on his hips and glared at the little plastic switch. “I need to use the outhouse.” John headed for the door.
“Wait, follow me.” Marcie led him down the hall and flipped another switch. “This is the bathroom. You use the toilet and flush when you’re done.” She pressed a little handle and water swirled away to be replaced by more.
“I heard tell that some cities have indoor plumbing, but I’ve never seen it for myself. No wonder you hate the outhouse. This is a far sight easier,” he laughed.
Marcie pointed at the sink and turned a little handle. “Hot water,” she stated. “I’ll meet you in the kitchen.”
Marcie was writing a note when John joined her. “I don’t want Brett to think he’s been robbed.” She dangled a set of keys from one hand. “There’s a car parked behind the house, and I found some money in his desk.”
John opened the refrigerator. “Look here, Marcie. Milk in a jug and cheese. Every square has its own little envelope. That seems mighty wasteful.” He pulled a rectangular box from the shelf and opened it. “Eggs.” He held them toward Marcie.
“We need to go to San Miguel. Are you ready?” she asked. She opened the back door and moved toward the car. “It’s a Volkswagen bug.”
“I’d rather saddle a horse.” John stared with wide eyes at the small blue vehicle.
“We can be in town in twenty minutes if we take the car,” Marcie explained. “Please, for Ava.”
That was turning into a mantra, and one he couldn’t argue with. Marcie held open the passenger door, and John folded his long body into the little seat.
She pulled a strip of fabric across his chest and locked him into the seat.
“Whoa, there. What’s that for?”
“In case we get in an accident. It will hold you in place.” She headed to the other side, slid in and snapped her own buckle shut. “It’s called a seat belt.”
Marcie turned the key, and John felt the machine vibrate. He reached out and took a firm hold of the little wall in front of him. Next thing he knew, the car moved backwards. Marcie fussed with a little lever, and they shot forward.
The car swallowed ground. The poles lined up beside the road flew by in a blur. John closed his eyes, but the sensation of movement was unsettling. He opened his eyes, but flinched every time the headlights of oncoming traffic hit the car. Better to keep his eyes open, he decided. What kind of man dies with his eyes shut?
Marcie slowed the car as they entered town. “The place has changed in the last ten years.”
John snorted, “None of this was here one hundred years ago.” He pointed at a cluster of large buildings. A glowing sign was affixed to the front of each one. “Macys, Sears, Toys R Us,” he read. “I think they misspelled that last one.”
“It’s a mall. A lot of businesses build next to each other. Makes it easier for shoppers.” She pulled to the side of the road and pointed at a large, gray building. The sign at the beginning of a long drive read San Miguel Hospital. “That’s where I used to work. My room at the house is the way I left it, so I have a lab coat and my identification tag. I also found a prescription pad, but it’s old. It’s risky to use it. I don’t know what kind of changes have been made at the hospital or if anyone would remember me. I think I can write a prescription without any trouble. I’d like to get liquid penicillin, but tablets would be better than nothing.” She frowned and heaved a sigh. “Some vaccines for childhood illnesses would sure come in handy.”
“Marcie.” John placed a long finger under her chin and turned her head toward him. “Don’t get carried away. Don’t get in trouble. Don’t take any risks you don’t have to. I wouldn’t know how to help you here, and I left my gun at the river. I’m lost without you in any century, sweetheart. Remember, for Ava.”
“For Ava,” she repeated. “I need to do the next part on my own. I can blend in, but the two of us together will draw too much interest.” She peered up and down the street. “See that bar over there? The sign says Wander Inn.”
He followed her gaze. A blue sign that said Budweiser blinked on and off, and another sign that did not blink, but was lit, proclaimed the name of the place. “I do. What is Budweiser?”
“It’s a beer,” she laughed.
He loved that laugh. It twinkled all the way down his body and landed like a blow in his manhood. He shifted in his seat and tried to think of saving Ava.
“The Wander Inn is a bar. I’ll give you some of the money I found at Brett’s. Order
a beer and try to be inconspicuous. Don’t go anywhere, please, don’t leave for any reason. I won’t be able to find you if you do.” Her brow was wrinkled; her eyes pleaded. She held a twenty-dollar bill in her hand.
“Lord have mercy.” John gawked at the bill. “Why does Brett have that kind of money laying around?”
“It’s not that much in 1998. A beer will cost around three dollars. Will you wait for me?” she asked.
“Three dollars,” he harrumphed. “I’ll wait.” He leaned over and placed a gentle kiss on her mouth. “For Ava.” He fiddled with the seatbelt until Marcie gave it a push and the strap flew free. Unrolling his long body from the tiny car took a mite of doing, but he managed.
John started across the street, but a horn blared and a hand pulled him back by the elbow.
“Better wait for the walk signal,” a man’s voice cautioned.
He looked at the glowing sign on the opposite corner that had everyone mesmerized. A light turned green, and a little walking figure of a person appeared. When the other people stepped forward, John followed.
He shook his head. Even crossing the street was a danger. John pulled on the door to the bar and stepped into the darkened room.
Saloons in San Miguel of 1898 were rowdy. Beer, whisky, poker and not enough women to go around brought out the worst in a fella. This place was calm. Men sat drinking beer with eyes fixed on a square box with people inside, music drifted through the air although he didn’t see any musicians and a few women sat together at a table, but they didn’t look to be plying their trade. Strange, mighty strange.
He sidled up to the long counter and took a seat.
Chapter 3
December 24, 1998
Marcie
Her emotions ran the gamut from distress to queasy fear. It was a short race. She squeezed her eyes shut and expelled a long breath while forcing her shoulders to lower from her ears. John would be all right. He was smart and resourceful, but, she uttered a silent prayer for her confident cowboy, unprepared for the late twentieth century. She held her breath as he managed to cross the street without being killed and disappeared into the bar.
Marcie retrieved her lab coat from the back seat of the blue bug and pulled it on. She buttoned the front and ran her hand down the crisp cotton blend. This wonderful, wrinkle free fabric didn’t exist where she’d traveled from. The memory of heating an iron on the black wood-burning stove to press clothes rose like a picture from a history book. Look how hard women worked. Her teacher had waved her arms for emphasis. They were at the beck and call of their husbands and children. They couldn’t even vote. This was delivered in anguished tones and accompanied by the wringing of hands.
All true, but the teacher hadn’t reckoned on the joy of caring for a family, tending to their bodies and their spirits, being the very center of the home around which all others revolved. She did have a point about the vote. And, Marcie winced, not all women had a kind, protective, supportive husband like John who allowed her a family and a career. A man before his times without a doubt.
She hoped he’d survive her times, but she had to get moving. Time was a wasting. She dropped the car keys and Brett’s money into her pocket, squared her shoulders and marched up the long drive to the hospital entrance.
Approaching with long, confident strides, she took a stance in front of the information desk. A young woman with a blonde ponytail scanned her jacket. Her eyes paused at the nametag pinned to her chest. “Dr. Wyld, how are you this evening?” The girl talked on without waiting for a response. “Are you on staff here? I don’t recall seeing you before.”
Good for you, Marcie thought. Doing your job and keeping unwanted, unqualified people out. “No, I’m in private practice,” Marcie stated. It was, after all, the truth. “I’m in town for a brief visit, and I hoped to catch up with an old friend. Is Anthony Costino in hospital tonight?”
A stab of guilt flashed like a brush fire through her body. She hadn’t told John about this part of the plan. The part where she contacted her one and only lover before him and asked for help. She and Anthony had been interns, and their relationship had been more about stress reduction than love, but she knew her husband wouldn’t like it. She’d confess later, and he’d probably spank her into next week for lying, by omission, but lying all the same. She clenched her bottom in anticipation of this event. If she secured the drugs, and they returned tonight to their children, she would throw herself over his thighs with a happy heart and let him “see to her” as he called it.
“You’re lucky. Dr. Costino only works here two nights a week. This is one of them. Would you like me to page him?” The receptionist was already reaching for the phone. The young woman punched buttons and placed the receiver to her ear holding it in place with a raised shoulder. Marcie studied the instrument with cautious interest. Telephones would be in wide use by 1901. She would anticipate the introduction of this invention with some joy and some sorrow. Life would be easier, quicker, communication improved. But a way of life, a calming slowness of daily activity, would be lost. The receptionist raised one eyebrow in question.
“Yes, thank you. I’ll sit over there and wait.” She pointed to a padded bench near the door. She used the minutes to survey the room. Hospitals were still cold, clean and smelled of antiseptic. Marcie inhaled and held the air in her lungs as a child might relish the smell of fresh bread emerging from the oven. Once this smell had been her life’s blood. Now she wanted nothing more than the aroma of good Texas dirt and her husband’s odor of half horse, half sweat.
“Dr. Costino, please come to the reception desk. Dr. Costino, please come to the reception desk.” The words vibrated through the clinical air. If he was involved with a patient, it could be a while. She whispered a little prayer that he would arrive soon.
As if she’s conjured him from thin air, Anthony appeared. He had matured. His body had filled out. His shoulders were wider. He’d lost the long, stringy look of young manhood and replaced it with sturdy strength. The ponytailed receptionist pointed in her direction, and Anthony turned.
“Marcie!” He was across the lobby and pulling her into an embrace in an instant. “My God, where have you been? I’ve been so worried. It was like you dropped off the face of the earth.” He put her at arm’s length and studied her face before dragging her in for another hug.
“Is there somewhere we could talk privately?” she asked.
“I am finished here for the night. How about Betty’s Café?”
“All right. That would be great.” Betty’s Café had been their place. The two of them had spent hours sitting on the same side of the booth holding hands under the table while they discussed treatments and patients and unforgiving attending physicians.
“I’ll be right back,” he promised. She watched him disappear down the wide corridor, a corridor she had once walked with purpose and pride.
Marcie shivered as they made their way to the café. The night was cold, and her nerves were stretched thin.
Anthony held the door, and directed her toward a booth with a hand at the small of her back. John would definitely not be happy about that. She took a seat opposite from her ex-boyfriend.
A waitress of middle years approached the table. “What can I get you?” she asked.
Marcie looked at the laminated menu. Food from the future – her mouth watered. “I’ll have a bacon cheeseburger, fries, a diet Coke with lots of ice.”
Anthony lifted his eyebrows and viewed her with surprise. “Chef salad with dressing on the side.” He handed the woman their menus.
He made a strangled sound. Somewhere between a choke and a laugh. “You wouldn’t eat fried food when I knew you.”
“I haven’t had a real hamburger in ages,” she sighed. “Anthony, it is nice to see you, but I have to admit I came for a favor.”
He pulled his eyebrows into one long line. “All right.” He drew the two words into a lengthy sentence. “First, tell me where you’ve been.”
“I�
��ve been living off the grid. Gone native.” She shrugged her shoulders. This was the story she had planned, and she would stick to it. Marcie removed her lab coat and laid it on the seat.
“Gone native,” he repeated. He studied her white blouse with the touch of lace at the collar and let his eyes wander to the calico skirt gathered into pleats at her waist. “Are you some kind of sister-wife?”
“Heavens no,” she spluttered. “But we live simply. When I decided to lead a more unconventional life, I took medicine with me – antibiotics, ether, vaccines. I used them only when necessary, but I have run out.” She twisted her gold wedding band around on her finger. “I’m married. I have three children. Twins who are eight, and a daughter who is three. Ava, one of the twins, has pneumonia. I’ve tried every natural remedy I could, but she will die without antibiotics. I need your help to get them.”
“Can’t you write a prescription?” he enquired.
“I believe my license is still in force, but if the pharmacist questions it and calls for verification I would lose precious time. You are well known. A prescription from you would be filled without question.” She paused while the waitress delivered their food. “In my most optimistic moment, I hoped you would find a way to resupply my medicines. Penicillin, ether, morphine… I know this is asking a lot. The prescription for an antibiotic will save Ava, and if that is all you are comfortable doing, I understand.” She sank her teeth into the hamburger and tried not to moan as her mouth flooded with flavor.
He stabbed a chunk of lettuce and brought it to his mouth. “Your enjoyment of that hamburger verges on the obscene,” he laughed. “When I saw you on that bench, I thought you might have come back to me.” He raised a hand to stop the objection he saw building in her eyes. “I loved you, Marcie, but I always knew you didn’t feel the same.” Reaching over he placed a warm hand over hers. “You love your husband?”
“Very much,” she answered.
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