As she turned on the light near the bed, she glanced up at the framed photograph on the wall. It depicted a family standing in front of a riverboat, but the family wasn't what had caught her attention. “The dog. It can’t be.” It was uncanny how similar the markings were: Short eared, squat basset hound appearance. She leaned closer looking for something, which might identify the date of the black and white print, but she could detect nothing. Judging by the clothing the family wore it had to be about the mid to late 1800’s. Obviously, the dog in the photo couldn't possibly be her mutt. She stared at the photo a moment longer. An inkling of recognition hit her. “I know this picture.” She couldn’t place why. She’d have Samantha take a look at it and see if she had any ideas.
Gillian grabbed her room key and purse before she opened the door to her cabin. She took a step only to jump back in surprise. “What in the world.” She stood face to snout with the mutt who’d been following her. It sat there on its haunches as if it had been waiting for her. Gillian’s gaze riveted to the photo half expecting the mutt to be missing from the picture.
The mutt stood and barked, drawing her attention. It wagged its reddish-brown tail before turning and trotting down the corridor. She took a step to follow, but then the unbelievable happened. The mutt disappeared, simply vanished as if some invisible force had swallowed it whole. She stood frozen in disbelief. The little hairs on the back of her neck rose and she started to hyperventilate. The temperature plummeted, making her breath look like small puffs of smoke. She stumbled back into her room. The lights dimmed and crackled. She closed her eyes. “The cocktail sure did a number on me.” Her eyes snapped open when the stateroom door slammed shut.
The bark behind her made her whirl around. The dog stood there, tilting its head to the side. A scream choked in her throat, making it impossible for any sound to escape. She made a dash for the door, desperate to get out, but her feet tangled beneath her and she fell hard to the floor. The mutt leaned close and sniffed her. She lifted her hand to cover her face but not before the mutt’s slobbery tongue licked her cheek. “What do you want? What are you?” She didn’t anticipate an answer, but the questions slipped out anyway. She jumped when the dog barked at her. It turned and ran toward the cabin door and disappeared right through it. “Omigod, this is not happening.” Her vision blurred and darkened. She blinked rapidly. “Oh, please don’t pass out,” she commanded herself, but her body didn’t listen.
***
Gillian fell into a deep sleep, allowing the dream to resurface and take her back. She was on a ship, but not the Queen Mary. Before her stood a fog-like hallway. It looked eerie with the lamplights hanging on the walls. She forced her herself not to be afraid. The man she loved was waiting for her. She felt him near and she had to go to him before it was too late.
The dog was there, too. The mutt looked up at her before it turned and headed down the corridor at a trot. Gillian followed.
CHAPTER TWO
June 1870
Zachary Creighton finished his third game of poker aboard the riverboat, Ida Belle. He had won over two thousand dollars, and to his pleasure, most of it was from his rival, Cyrus Locke. He pushed back his chair and stood. “Well gentleman, I believe I shall call it a night.”
“Now!” Cyrus bellowed and pounded the table. He narrowed his eyes and his chubby face turned bright red. Zachary always waited to see if steam would explode from his ears, but the man always disappointed him.
“Yes, now. It’s late…” He pulled out his pocket watch and glanced at the time. “Or should I say early.” He snapped the watch closed again, returning it to his pocket. “I for one would like a few hours sleep before we dock.” He placed his hat on his head with a nod of farewell. “Until we meet again.”
“Why you—” Cyrus stormed to his feet, but the other men held him back.
Zachary turned away with a smile. He loved to get under the man’s skin and he had succeeded tonight.
He whistled all the way to his room. He locked the door behind him and put the key in his trouser pocket. He took off his boots throwing them down where he stood. Next, he peeled off his clothes and neatly arranged them over the back of the chair by the door. He then placed his colt on the nightstand and his trusty knife under his pillow. Gambling had become a dangerous business. He found a man lived longer if he was well armed. He never knew when he would come up against a sore loser. It was best to be well prepared at all times.
He pulled back the covers and plopped himself into bed, falling asleep as soon as his head hit the pill.
***
Gillian grabbed her head as she came out of her drugged-like sleep. The veins at her temples pounded in time with her heartbeat. She forced her eyes open and stared at the ceiling. For a moment, she couldn’t understand why the ceiling didn’t resemble the smooth plaster one in her bedroom, or why she felt like she was swaying back and forth, when she knew she hadn’t moved. Turning her head to the right of her, her vision latched onto a hairy arm dangling over, what she assumed was the edge of her bed. Why was Jerry in her bed and why was she lying on the floor? She frowned. Hadn’t she broken up with Jerry? For one awful, horrible moment, she thought maybe she had really gone through with the wedding after all. She rubbed her eyes as her muddled thoughts began to organize. Then she remembered: Her conversation with Samantha, the Queen Mary, and then the vanishing mutt. “I passed out. I dreamt the dog led me …” It was a dream, wasn’t it? Where was she? She sat up abruptly, more confused than ever. Again, she felt the swaying. If she didn’t know better, she’d think the ship was afloat, but that was impossible since the Queen Mary lacked the capability of going out to sea.
The person on the bed stirred, bringing her attention back to him. She crawled to her feet. She looked down at the man's face, which was turned toward her in slumber. Gillian swallowed with some difficulty as her gaze locked onto the most gorgeous man she had ever seen. He had jet-black hair, a strong chiseled face with a slight cleft in his chin. He looked like he hadn’t shaved for a few days, making him look a little scruffy, but this did nothing to sway her opinion. Her eyes took in the rest of him. Long limbed, his feet hung over the edge of the bed. He wore faded red colored … she supposed they were long johns. She frowned. Strange attire, but she had to say he filled them out rather nicely. But, who was he? How in the world did she end up in a room with him? She didn’t condone casual flings. She glanced down at herself relieved she still wore what she had on last night. Perhaps this meant nothing happened. Maybe they were simply two fools who had too much to drink. She scratched her head. She only remembered the one cocktail. And where was Samantha?
She needed to go back to her room and now, before the guy woke up. She had no intentions of making this awkward situation even worse.
She grabbed her purse off the floor and tiptoed toward the door. She glanced back to see if the man stirred. She tripped and cursed as she stumbled and fell to the floor with a thud. At the same moment, she felt something whiz by her ear, slamming into the door above her head. She slid her gaze up, her eyes widened in alarm when she saw the end of a knife sticking out of the wood. The gorgeous man had tried to kill her! She whipped around to see him jump out of the bed. She picked up the boot she had tripped over and threw it. A perfect shot, the boot slammed into the side of his head. She scrambled to her feet and lunged for the door. The doorknob didn’t budge. It appeared to be locked from the inside and she needed a key to open it.
This couldn’t be happening.
She whirled around to face her attacker, praying the boot had somehow miraculously knocked him out. Her shoulders sagged when she found him standing there. His shockingly blue eyes narrowed, pinning her down. She swallowed the lump in the back of her throat.
Zachary’s mouth dropped open and he stared at the woman before him. If it hadn’t been for the boot slamming against his skull, he might have thought he dreamt up this alluringly beautiful image before him. Her hair was long and deep auburn, almost the color
of autumn leaves with all its gold, brown, and orange blending to perfection. She had it pulled high above her head with some kind of bow that constricted it from falling down. His gaze lingered over her face, mesmerized by her clear sun-kissed skin with just a hint of freckles sprinkled across her nose. Features of an angel, but her attire would tempt a saint to do wicked things. His eyes rested on her dark garment, which hugged her in all the right places. He felt his body respond to every luscious curve revealed to him.
Where did this intriguing woman come from and how did she happen to be in his room? He’d locked the door before he went to bed last night, and he must still have the key in his possession, or else the woman would have fled by now. “Who are you?”
“Who am I?” she sputtered. “Who are you?”
She was a defiant little chit. Under other circumstances he would have admired her spunk. He crossed his arms against his chest. “Since this is my room and I hold the key to your freedom, I suggest—”
The woman let out a deafening scream and charged toward him. “Hell and damnation.” Before he could react, she grabbed his arm and flipped him, slamming him to the floor in one fluid move. His six feet, one hundred and eighty pound frame lay there like a rag doll. He stared up at the ceiling with what he knew could only be a stunned expression plastered to his face. How in the world did this little slip of a woman flip him over her shoulder?
“It really worked! The self-defense class really paid off.” The woman spoke, her voice laced with amazement over her accomplishment.
He turned and stared at her. “Who are you?”
She didn’t have a chance to answer. The cabin door burst open and two men carrying revolvers rushed in. They ran over to him and hauled him off the floor.
“Unhand me.” He struggled to be free.
The woman stepped back. She looked as if she wanted to fade into the woodwork. “Too late for that now,” Zachary mumbled under his breath. If things couldn’t be any worse, Cyrus Locke walked in looking like the pompous ass that he was dressed in his finery, pocket watch and all. His overweight wife, Josephine, who stuck her nose in everyone’s affairs, came in behind him.
Josephine’s expression changed from fright to pity as her eyes rested on the woman, who had thrown him over her shoulder. Josephine bustled over to her with a motherly, protective stance as if the woman needed protecting with the moves she possessed.
“You poor, poor dear,” Josephine cooed as she put her arms around the woman’s shoulders. She then turned and glared at him. “Zachary Creighton, you should be ashamed of yourself for taking advantage of this poor young lady.”
“I assure you, Madame Locke, she is no lady!” Zachary seethed between clenched teeth. “That woman nearly killed me!” The room fell silent as a tomb. Their gazes riveting to Gillian then back to Zachary in disbelief.
“Own up to your mistakes, Zachary,” Cyrus spoke up. “How in the world could this petite young woman hurt you?”
“She…she… Well, she…” He pursed his lips together refusing to say more.
Cyrus’s thin-lipped mouth slid into a smile. Zachary knew he was enjoying his discomfort.
This situation didn’t bode well for him. He didn’t know how, but he had a hunch Cyrus Locke was somehow responsible. This must be his idea of revenge for all the money he’d lost last night, and for the many other nights before this. Cyrus would like nothing more than to get even with him, and this unfortunate situation handed him the opportunity. Cyrus had the upper hand here. He knew Zachary tried very hard to make people believe he wasn’t like his father. The drunken fool had gambled away the family estate, and the manor, which now belonged to Cyrus. Zachary's father had not only lost his home, he’d also lost his self-respect. He ended up taking his last breath as a lonely and broken man.
Zachary had been a child then, but he still paid for the damage his father had done to the Creighton name. Respect and an unblemished reputation was all Zachary had until he could win back Creighton Manor.
Cyrus’ grin widened.
Zachary had a hunch the smile meant his life was about to change and he would bet it wouldn’t be for the better.
“Well, the only way to rectify this little misunderstanding is to find the captain and have him perform the ceremony,” Cyrus smugly stated. “This young lady cannot leave this establishment without being properly married.”
“Married!” Zachary and Gillian both shouted at the same time. Zachary glared at her and she glared back. Brazen wench. “Now listen, Cyrus,” Zachary continued in a calm voice. “I have no intentions of marrying this woman. I don’t even know who she is, or how she managed to find her way into my cabin.”
Cyrus wouldn’t let this go. “We cannot help that you had too much to drink last night, and decided to kidnap this poor girl. You have to be held accountable for ravishing a young, defenseless woman.”
“I haven’t touched her!” Zachary tried to wiggle his way free from the two men who held him captive, but he couldn’t shake free.
“You expect us to believe you. Look how she’s dressed.” Cyrus pointed to Gillian. Zachary didn’t have to look. He knew the woman wore next to nothing. Cyrus’ grin widened. “And look how you are dressed.”
“Now wait one cotton-picking minute.” Zachary looked at Gillian, beseeching her to help with the situation. “Tell them. Tell them now that I did not touch you.” One look at the way she stared as if in shock, he wished he hadn’t asked her to speak up … too late.
“He threw a knife at me,” she told them.
Damn the woman for making this worse.
Josephine gasped in horror. “A knife! Oh dear. How could you?” She pointed her finger at Zachary.
“She startled me out of my slumber,” he stammered. “I thought she was a man trying to steal my winnings from last night.” As those words tumbled out of his mouth, he knew he had made a terrible mistake.
Cyrus chuckled. “Now, now, do you really expect us to believe you thought this beautiful creature was a man? Either you are blind, or you think we are all incredibly stupid.”
Zachary didn’t answer. What was the point? Cyrus had won this hand and he knew it.
As if the room wasn’t crowded enough, Ellery waltzed in, tall regal with his light brown hair slicked back in place. He glanced around the room, finally resting his blue-gray eyes on Gillian. His eyes widened in surprise as his gaze traveled down the length of her body and up again.
You’d think everyone here thought she stood there naked. Zachary looked at her and sighed. She might as well have been with how the strange attire clung to her.
“What is going on Zachary?” Ellery spoke with just a hint of amusement. “Who is this incredibly gorgeous creature?” He sauntered over to Gillian. He cupped her chin. “What has my friend, Zachary done to you?” he teased.
“Ellery Livingston, so help me…” Zachary said between clenched teeth.
Ellery turned toward him chuckling. “Zachary, you do find yourself in the most outlandish situations.”
“This is not funny, so wipe that silly grin off your face,” Zachary hissed.
“Okay, you don’t have to get huffy about it.” Still amused, Ellery looked at Cyrus for an explanation.
“Your friend has taken advantage of this poor woman and feels he has no need to resolve the situation.”
Ellery burst out laughing. “You must be joking. Zachary? Me maybe, but not Zachary. He is so much the gentleman, he makes gentlemen look like heels. No, there must be some mistake.”
“Oh there’s been a mistake all right. Your friend pulled a knife on this young woman demanding favors she was not willing to give. We're going to rectify this oversight, don't you worry.” Cyrus looked to his wife. “Josephine, go and fetch Captain Pike, before the rest of the ship knows of this man’s sordid deeds.”
Ellery looked at Zachary and shrugged. “I’d bet my life that what old Cyrus claims isn’t even remotely true. However, my friend you do have a scantily clothed woman in yo
ur cabin. So I presume there is to be a wedding. Do you want me to be your best man?”
If Zachary could have gotten one hand free, he would have punched Ellery in the face.
***
Gillian didn’t understand any of this and she didn’t want to. Even in the horrifying chaos, Gillian couldn’t help but notice everyone wore some form of costume or other. The older man, who she learned was Cyrus Locke, looked to be in his early fifties. He was dressed in slacks and vest with a chain looped to one pocket. His brown hair was thinning at the top, which over exaggerated his plump round face. His wife, Josephine, who accompanied him, was also round. She wore a long, blue dress with an extremely high collar that looked like it was about to choke her.
Josephine had escorted her to their cabin and left her so she could change into her wedding attire, which happened to be a frilly dress three sizes too big. The shoes she’d given her were at least an inch too small and she had to cram her foot into them.
She reluctantly faced the fact she wasn’t aboard the Queen Mary in Long Beach, California, but on the Ida Belle, a riverboat that was traveling down the muddy Mississippi. If this wasn’t dreadful enough, Mrs. Locke informed her of the date.
Either she’d lost her mind, or everyone on the riverboat suffered from some sort of sick delusion. Neither prospect thrilled her. It just couldn’t be 1870 and yet she had a dreadful feeling Josephine told her the truth. “The vortex.” She had somehow stumbled through the vortex on the Queen Mary and traveled back in time. That had to be the explanation. She knew it sounded insane, but her choices were limited and she had to deal with what she had available.
For goodness sakes, forget she’d traveled back in time. They were forcing her to marry a total stranger and she didn’t see a way out of this mess. There was no way they’d let her waltz right out of here. They had a moral agenda they would stick by and she had no doubt that they would force her to adhere to it as well. Oh why, oh why did she have to trip over that man’s boot? If she had stayed on her own two feet, he would have met his mark, and would have done her a big favor in the process by ending this hellish nightmare.
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