by Nora Roberts
“Here, lean on me.” She draped his arm over her shoulder, then slipped her own around his waist. “Steady?”
“Almost.” When they started forward, he found that he was only slightly dizzy. He was almost sure he could have made it on his own, but he liked the idea of starting up the stairs with his arm wrapped around her. “I’ve never been in a place like this before.”
Her heart was beating a little too quickly. Since he was putting almost none of his weight on her, she couldn’t blame it on exertion. Proximity, however, was a different matter. “I suppose it’s rustic by most standards, but I’ve always loved it.”
Rustic was a mild word for it, he mused, but he didn’t want to offend her. “Always?”
“Yes, I was born here.”
He started to speak again, but when he turned his head he caught a whiff of her hair. When his body tightened, he became aware of his bruises.
“Right in here. Sit at the foot of the bed while I turn it down.” He did as she asked, then ran his hand over one of the bedposts, amazed. It was wood, he was certain it was wood, but it didn’t seem to be more than twenty or thirty years old. And that was ridiculous.
“This bed . . .”
“It’s comfortable, really. Dad made it, so it’s a little wobbly, but the mattress is good.”
Cal’s fingers tightened on the post. “Your father made this? It’s wood?”
“Solid oak, and heavy as a truck. Believe it or not, I was born in it, since at that time my parents didn’t believe in doctors for something as basic and personal as childbirth. I still find it hard to picture my father with his hair in a ponytail and wearing love beads.” She straightened and caught Cal staring at her. “Is something wrong?”
He just shook his head. He must need rest—a lot more rest. “Was this—” He made a weak gesture to indicate the cabin. “Was this some kind of experiment?”
Her eyes softened, showing a combination of amusement and affection. “You could call it that.” She went to a rickety bureau her father had built. After rummaging through it, she came up with a pair of sweatpants. “You can wear these. Dad always leaves some clothes out here, and you’re pretty much the same size.”
“Sure.” He took her hand before she could leave the room. “Where did you say we were?”
He looked so concerned that she covered his hand with hers. “Oregon, southwest Oregon, just over the California border in the Klamath mountains.”
“Oregon.” The tension in his fingers relaxed slightly. “U.S.A.?”
“The last time I looked.” Concerned, she checked for fever again.
He took her wrist, concentrating on keeping his grip light. “What planet?”
Her eyes flew to his. If she hadn’t known better, she would have sworn the man was serious. “Earth. You know, the third from the sun,” she said, humoring him. “Get some rest, Hornblower. You’re just rattled.”
“Yeah.” He let out a long breath. “I guess you’re right.”
“Just yell if you need something.”
He sat where he was when she left him. He had a feeling, a bad one. But she was probably right—he was rattled. If he was in Oregon, in the northern hemisphere of his own planet, he wasn’t that far off course. Off course, he repeated as his head began to pound. What course had he been on?
He looked down at the watch on his wrist and frowned at the dials. In a gesture that came from instinct rather than thought, he pressed the small stem on the side. The dials faded, and a series of red numbers blinked on the black face.
Los Angeles. A wave of relief washed over him as he recognized the coordinates. He’d been returning to base in L.A. after . . . after what, damn it?
He lay down slowly and discovered that Libby had been right. The bed was surprisingly comfortable. Maybe if he just went to sleep, clocked out for a few hours, he would remember the rest. Because it seemed important to her, Cal tugged on the sweats.
***
What had she gotten herself into? Libby wondered. She sat in front of her computer and stared at the blank screen. She had a sick man on her hands—an incredibly good-looking sick man. One with a concussion, partial amnesia . . . and eyes to die for. She sighed and propped her chin on her hands. The concussion she could handle. She’d considered learning extensive first aid as important as studying the tribal habits of Western man. Fieldwork often took scientists to remote places where doctors and hospitals didn’t exist.
But her training didn’t help her with the amnesia. And it certainly didn’t help her with his eyes. Her knowledge of man came straight out of books and usually dealt with his cultural and sociopolitical habits. Any one-on-one had been purely scientific research.
She could put up a good front when it was necessary. Her battle with a crushing shyness had been long and hard. Ambition had pushed her through, driving her to ask questions when she would have preferred to have melded with the background and been ignored. It had given her the strength to travel, to work with strangers, to make a select few trusted friends.
But when it came to a personal man-woman relationship . . .
For the most part, the men she saw socially were easily dissuaded. The majority of them were intimidated by her mind, which she admitted was usually one-track. Then there was her family. Thinking of them made her smile. Her mother was still the dreamy artist who had once woven blankets on a handmade loom. And her father . . . Libby shook her head as she thought of him. William Stone might have made a fortune with Herbal Delights, but he would never be a three-piece-suit executive.
Bob Dylan music and board meetings. Lost causes and profit margins.
The one man she’d brought home to a family dinner had left confused and unnerved—and undoubtedly hungry, Libby remembered with a laugh. He hadn’t been able to do more than stare at her mother’s zucchini-and-soybean soufflé.
Libby was a combination of her parents’ idealism, scientific practicality and dreamy romanticism. She believed in causes, in mathematical equations and in fairy tales. A quick mind and a thirst for knowledge had locked her far too tightly to her work to leave room for real romance. And the truth was that real romance, when applied to her, scared the devil out of her.
So she sought it in the past, in the study of human relationships.
She was twenty-three and, as Caleb Hornblower had put it, unmatched.
She liked the phrase, found it accurate and concise on the one hand and highly romantic on the other. To be matched, she mused, was the perfect way to describe a relationship. She corrected herself. A true relationship, like her parents’. Perhaps the reason she was more at ease with her studies than with men was that she had yet to meet her match.
Satisfied with her analysis, she slipped on her glasses and went to work.
Chapter 2
The rain had slowed when he woke. It was only a hiss and patter against the windows. It was as soothing as a sleep tape. Cal lay still for a moment, reminding himself where he was and struggling to remember why.
He’d dreamed . . . something about flashing lights and a huge black void. The dreams had brought a clammy sweat to his skin and had accelerated his heartbeat. He made a conscious effort to level it.
Pilots had to have a strong and thorough control over their bodies and their emotions. Decisions often had to be made instantly, even instinctively. And the rigors of flight required a disciplined, healthy body.
He was a pilot. He kept his eyes closed and concentrated on that. He’d always wanted to fly. He’d been trained. His mouth went dry as he fought to remember . . . anything, any small piece.
The ISF. He closed his hands into fists until his pulse leveled again. He’d been with the ISF and earned a captaincy. Captain Hornblower. That was right, he was sure of it. Captain Caleb Hornblower. Cal. Everyone called him Cal except his mother. A tall, striking w
oman with a quick temper and an easy laugh.
A new flood of emotion struck him. He could see her. Somehow that, more than anything else, gave him a sense of identity. He had family—not a mate, of that he was sure, but parents and a brother. His father was a quiet man, steady, dependable. His brother . . . Jacob. Cal let out a quiet breath as the name and the image formed in his mind. Jacob was brilliant, impulsive, stubborn.
Because his head was pounding again, he let it go. It was enough.
His eyes opened slowly and he thought of Libby. Who was she? Not just a beautiful woman with warm brown hair and eyes like a cat. Being beautiful was easy, even ordinary. She didn’t strike him as ordinary. Perhaps it was the place. He frowned at the log walls and the gleaming glass windows. Nothing was ordinary here. And certainly no woman he had ever known would have chosen to live here, like this. Alone.
Had she really been born in the bed he was now in, or had she been joking? It occurred to Cal that a great deal of her behavior was odd, and perhaps there was a joke somewhere, and he’d missed the punch line.
A cultural anthropologist, he mused. That might explain it. It was possible he’d dropped down in the middle of some kind of field experiment, a simulation. For her own reasons, Liberty Stone was living in the fashion of the era she studied. It was odd, certainly, but as far as he was concerned most scientists were a bit odd. He could certainly understand looking toward the future, but why anyone would want to dig back into the past was beyond him. The past was done and couldn’t be changed or fixed, so why study it?
Her business, he supposed.
He owed her. From what he could piece together, he might well have died if she hadn’t come along. He’d have to pay her back as soon as he was working on all thrusters again. It pleased him to know that he was a man who settled debts.
Liberty Stone. Libby. He turned her name over in his mind and smiled. He liked the sound of her name, the soft sound of it. Soft, like her eyes. It was one thing to be beautiful; it was another to have gorgeous velvet eyes. You could change the color of them, the shape, but never the expression. Maybe it was that that made her so appealing. Everything she felt seemed to leap right into her eyes.
He’d managed to stir a variety of feelings in her, Cal thought as he pushed himself up in bed. Concern, fear, humor, desire. And she had stirred him. Even through his confusion he’d felt a strong, healthy response, a man-woman response.
He dropped his head into his hands as the room spun. His system might be churning for Libby Stone, but he was far from ready to do anything about it. More than a little disgusted, he settled back on the pillows. A little more rest, he decided. A day or two of letting his body heal should snap his mind and his memory back. He knew who he was and where he was. The rest would come.
A book on the table beside the bed caught his eye. He’d always liked to read, almost as much as he’d liked to fly. He preferred the written word to tapes or disks. That was another good and solid memory. Pleased with it, Cal picked up the book.
The title puzzled him. Journey to Andromeda seemed a particularly foolish name for a book, especially when it was touted as science fiction. Anyone with a free weekend could journey to Andromeda—if he liked being bored into a coma. With a small frown, he started to leaf through the book. Then his eyes fell on the copyright page.
That was wrong. The clammy sweat was back. That was ridiculous. The book he was holding was new. The back hadn’t been broken, and the pages looked as though they’d never been turned. Some stupid clerical error, he told himself, but his mouth was bone-dry. It had to be an error. How else could he be holding a book that had been published nearly three centuries ago?
***
Absorbed in her work, Libby ignored the small circle of pain at the center of her back. She knew very well that posture was important when she was writing for several hours at a stretch, but once she lost herself in ancient or primitive civilizations she always forgot everything else.
She hadn’t eaten since breakfast, and the tea she’d carried up with her was stone-cold. Her notes and reference books were scattered everywhere, along with clothes she hadn’t yet put away and the stack of newspapers she’d picked up at the store. She’d toed off her shoes and had her stockinged feet curled around the legs of her chair. Occasionally she stopped hammering at the keyboard to push her round, black framed glasses back on her nose.
It cannot be argued that the addition of modern implements has a strong and not always positive effect on an isolated culture such as the Kolbari. The islanders have remained, in the latter years of the twentieth century, at a folk level and do not, as has been implied in the human relations area files, seek integration with the modern industrial societies. What may be seen by certain factions as offering the convenience of progress, medically, industrially, educationally, is most often—
“Libby.”
“What?” The word came out in a hiss of annoyance before she turned. “Oh.” She spotted Cal, pale and shaky, with one hand braced on the doorframe and the other wrapped around a paperback. “What are you doing up, Hornblower? I told you to call if you needed anything.” Annoyed with him and with the interruption, she rose to help him to a chair. The moment she touched his arm, he jerked away.
“What are you wearing on your face?”
The tone of his voice had her moistening her lips. It was fury, with a touch of fear. A dangerous combination. “Glasses. Reading glasses.”
“I know what they are, damn it. Why are you wearing them?”
Go slow, she warned herself. She took his arm gently and spoke as if she were soothing a wounded lion. “I need them to work.”
“Why haven’t you had them fixed?”
“My glasses?”
He gritted his teeth. “Your eyes. Why haven’t you had your eyes fixed?”
Cautious, she took the glasses off and held them behind her back. “Why don’t you sit down?”
He only shook his head. “I want to know the meaning of this.”
Libby looked at the book in his hand, the one he was shaking in her face. She cleared her throat. “I don’t know the meaning, since I haven’t read it. I imagine my father left it here. He’s into science fiction.”
“That’s not what I—” Patience, he told himself. He had never had an abundance of it, and now was the time to use all he could find. “Open it up to the copyright page.”
“All right. I will if you’ll sit. You’re not looking well.”
He reached the chair in two rocky strides. “Open it. Read the date.”
Head injuries could often cause erratic behavior, Libby thought. She didn’t believe he was dangerous, but all the same she decided it was best to humor him and read the year out loud, then she tried an easy smile. “Hot off the presses,” she added.
“Is that supposed to be a joke?”
“I’m not sure.” He was furious, she realized. And terrified. “Caleb.” She said his name quietly as she crouched beside him.
“Does that book have something to do with your work?”
“My work?” The question threw her off enough to have her frowning at him, then at the computer behind her. “I’m an anthropologist. That means I study—”
“I know what it means.” Patience be damned, he thought. Incensed, he snatched the book from her. “I want to know what this means.”
“It’s just a book. If I know my father, it’s second-rate science fiction about invasions from the planet Kriswold. You know, mutants and ray guns and space warriors. That kind of thing.” She eased it from his hand. “Let me get you back to bed. I’ll make you some soup.”
He looked at her, saw the soft eyes overflowing with concern, the encouraging half smile. And the nerves. His gaze shifted to where her hand lay almost protectively over his, despite the fact that he had obviously frightened her. There was a link th
ere. It was absurd to believe that, almost as absurd as it was to believe the date in the book.
“Maybe I’m losing my mind.”
“No.” Her fear forgotten, she lifted her free hand to his face, soothing him as she would have anyone who seemed so utterly lost. “You’re hurt.”
He closed surprisingly strong fingers over her wrist. “Jolted the memory banks? Yeah, maybe. Libby . . .” His eyes were suddenly intense, almost desperate. “What’s the date today?”
“It’s May the 24th or 25th. I lose track.”
“No, the whole thing.” He fought to keep the urgency out of his voice. “Please.”
“Okay, it’s probably Tuesday, the 25th.” Then she repeated the year. “How’s that?”
“Fine.” He pulled out every ounce of control and managed to smile at her. One of them was crazy, and he dearly hoped it was Libby. “You got anything to drink around here besides that tea?”
She frowned for a moment. Then her face cleared. “Brandy. There’s always some downstairs. Hold on a minute.”
“Yeah, thanks.”
He waited until he heard her moving down the stairs. Then, cautiously, he rose and pulled open the first drawer that came to hand. There had to be something in this ridiculous place to tell him what was going on.
He found lingerie, neatly stacked despite the chaos of the rest of the room. He frowned a moment over the styles and materials. She’d said she wasn’t matched, yet it was obvious that she wore things to please a man. Apparently she preferred the romance of past eras even when it came to her underwear. Far from comfortable with the ease with which he could picture Libby in this little chocolate-brown swatch with the white lace, he shoved the drawer shut again.
The next drawer was just as tidy and held jeans and sturdy hiking pants. He puzzled for a moment over a zipper, ran it slowly up and down, then shoved the jeans back into place. Annoyed, he turned, and started toward her desk, where her computer continued to hum. He had time to think it was a noisy, archaic machine before he stumbled over the pile of newspapers. He didn’t scan the headlines or study the picture. His eyes were drawn to the date.