Jolt

by Jodi Bowersox

  Tate nodded. "I've given her another draft of medicine even though it's early to do so. I believe tonight is the turning point, so there's really nothing to lose by giving her more than the recommended dose."

  Max looked up with hope in his eyes. "She sounds less rattly when she breathes, doesn't she, Doc?"

  Tate didn't really think she sounded much better, but he swept up his stethoscope and listened to her lungs as she slept. He could still hear crackles indicative of the infection. Do I dare give them false hope? He looked up at the two young men who would obviously be crushed if their mother died. Hope is always a good thing. "I believe you're right, Max." He reached across the bed and patted his hand. "Keep those prayers coming."

  ***

  "Where are we going?" Lalita asked as she and Augusta walked swiftly under one umbrella in the lightly falling rain.

  Augusta lifted her lantern. "Toward the storm. Right now we're only on the edge."

  Lalita shivered and pulled the wool shawl around her. "So higher up in the mountains? That seems to be where the lightning is flashing."

  They walked in silence, and Lalita breathed in the wet pine scent that filled the air, thinking about Tate and Nellie and wondering if she would ever see them again—wondering if she would just start over in a different time. She tried to focus every thought on 1892, picturing the Cavanaughs she had come to know and love in that time.

  Her thoughts were interrupted by a whimper from Augusta. Lalita moved the umbrella to her other hand and put an arm around her. "Are you all right? Are you having second thoughts?"

  "It's… it's just a shame this storm didn't align with my depression. It would make leaving so much easier."

  Lalita was a bit surprised. "Really? You're not depressed? You haven't exactly been cheery since I've been here."

  "Oh, my dear Lalita, it can get much, much worse."

  Personally, Lalita didn't know how the woman could leave her own daughter, depressed or not, but she also didn't want to jump back to 1892 and still find Augusta there. "Well, I'm sorry, but if you want this to work, you need to focus on your own time and the man you left behind."

  Augusta nodded, wiping her eyes with a handkerchief. "His name is Randolf, and he is the Vice Principia of the United Nations of North America."

  "And what is your title?" Lalita asked, jumping over a puddle in the road.

  "I was the Royal Vicerine of Scandia."

  "Wow, that sounds impressive. I'm just curious… why did you hate the social scene here so much? Seems all those rich folks would be right up your alley."

  "Tate thought I was scared of them, but by not participating, I was being judicious. A tasty rumor about Mrs. Ellinwood today could easily be a scandalous rumor about Mrs. Cavanaugh tomorrow. They believed that money gave them importance, and therefore, earned them friends. But it's really knowledge, ideas, invention, and most of all, caring for each other that propel people into meaningful relationships. It's something the rich rarely understand, unless they've spent some time being poor."

  The rain started to fall harder, the wind was picking up, and the thunder was growing louder. Lalita counted three seconds from the flash of lightning until the accompanying boom. "So did you spend time being poor?"

  "It's required of every Duke and Duchess in Scandia to work a minimum of one year in factories or farms, earning a modest wage, before accepting the title of Viceroy or Vicerine. Some can't make it a month and are therefore disqualified."

  Thunder rolled, and Lalita's heart jumped. A part of her wanted to turn back. If this isn't the right time for Tate and me to get together, I could just stay out of his way for a year. "Augusta…" She heard fear in her own voice.

  Augusta put a hand to her back. "Hush, you are not the type to give up and be disqualified. Stay focused."

  Lalita started to slow her steps. "I don't really need to do this. I can just wait a year for Tate. In fact, I can spend that time learning how to fit in, so I won't cause the kind of ostracism he was facing when—"

  Augusta stopped and turned to her as the wind whipped at their skirts, nearly pulling the umbrella out of Lalita's hands. "That is the very reason you mustn't stay. You would be changed in a year, and whether Tate realized it or not, it was your uniqueness that he was attracted to."

  The crackle started, and Lalita knew it was too late to turn back. She closed her eyes tight, and the umbrella was wrenched from her hands. Her mind shouted, August 12, 1892! as she was blinded by a flash so bright she thought she would be disintegrated on the spot. What followed was a darkness so deep, it swallowed her whole.

  Chapter 37

  Tate, carrying Lita, kicked his back door hard until Fischer opened it, his expression telling him that they both looked a fright. "What happened? Is she all right?"

  Tate walked through the kitchen, not caring that he was tracking mud through the house. "I don't know. She's breathing, but she's unconscious and soaked." He felt a strong déjà vu. "I need to get her warmed up." He stopped at the bottom of the stairs. "How's Mrs. Emory?"

  "She woke, and we gave her the pain medication. She's sleeping now."

  Tate started up. "I can't thank you enough for taking care of her."

  "So why was she out in the rain?"

  Tate faltered, feeling suddenly disoriented. "I don't know. Hopefully she'll be able to tell us when she comes to." He carried her up the stairs and into the bathroom, laid her gently on the floor, and started to run a hot tub of water before sloughing off his mud-covered jacket.

  Fischer spoke from the doorway. "You lost your hat."

  Tate squatted down and began to unlace Lita's boots. "Lita hated that bowler anyway."

  Fischer smiled as he reached for the doorknob. "Holler if you need anything. I'll go check on Mrs. Emory again."

  Tate nodded, slipped off her boots, and moved up to her torso, pulling a jackknife out of his pocket. The dress is probably ruined anyway. He made a slit through the hem of the shirtwaist, and grabbing both sides, tore it up the center. All those little buttons would have taken forever. As he struggled to get the wet sleeves off her arms, he considered employing the knife again, when her eyes fluttered and a sigh escaped her lips.

  "Lita, can you hear me?"

  Pulling a washcloth from a cupboard, he held it under the warm spray filling the tub, and kneeling beside her, wiped the mud splatters off her face. Her eyes blinked open. For a moment, she seemed frozen, then she focused on his face and started to cry. "Oh, Tate, I made it back to you. I made it back!"

  He pulled her to sitting and wrapped his arms around her, rubbing his hands up and down her cold arms and whispering words of comfort. "Shh, it's all right. Why were you out, darling? I was so worried. I know you had talked about going to see how Max was doing, but the middle of the night is hardly the time for a visit."

  When the sobbing slowed, he shut off the bathtub faucet and went back to work getting her undressed. "And that lightning scared the dickens out of me. I thought I had my eye on you, then I lost you in the dark." He finally got the sleeves worked off her arms then helped her slip out of the sodden skirt, leaving her in a wet, clinging chemise with her pink underclothes showing through, and he smiled. "I've never been so glad to trip over someone and land face down in the mud."

  She half-smiled as she trembled; then her expression changed again to one of horror, and she gripped his hand. "Oh, Tate, Augusta…"

  Tate's brow furrowed as he pulled her up off the floor. "Augusta? Why—"

  She clung to him. "Oh, Tate, did she leave you a letter when she left?"

  "Yes." He paused, looking puzzled. "But I've told you this, sweetheart. I even let you read it, remember? She told me you were coming back, but I had completely dismissed the idea as the ramblings of a madwoman and forgotten it by the time you were delivered to me by the Hill brothers. Once I got a good look at you"—he kissed her temple—"and realized you were a woman, I knew you were the one who had disappeared with her."

  "So… did Mrs. D
ickson live?"

  Tate nodded, still looking concerned. "Thanks to you."

  She pulled back and looked into his eyes. "If I didn't have to convince you of the truth about time travel, and Seth Dickson wasn't harassing me to get back at you, what have we been doing the last three weeks?"

  He smiled, wiped the mud off her nose, and kissed it. "Falling in love, darling."

  Epilogue

  Sunday evening found Tate settled next to Lalita on the settee in the parlor with his arm thrown around her, her head on his chest. It had been a very long weekend.

  Dr. Fischer left the day before with his wife, Bess, and Lalita learned that the couple had been merely vacationing in Manitou Springs—not investigating her mental state.

  The time line changes were coming back to her in a series of dreams until she could hardly keep the differences straight. She wrote down her "original" three weeks with Tate before they disappeared altogether.

  The tale of Josephine Emory's appendicitis had flown around town with amazing speed, and people dropped in most of the weekend to offer their well wishes. When they saw the way that Lalita cared for Mrs. Emory, and with Mrs. Pilson gushing over her assistance with her baby delivery, her presence in Tate's home was no longer questioned. With or without training, she had become Tate's nurse.

  Now that they were all gone, and Nellie was in bed, Lalita was listening to the silence of the house and the beating of Tate's heart under her ear. She knew she should be able to relax. Mrs. Dickson was alive, Augusta had returned home, she wasn't heading to jail, and most importantly, she was in the arms of the man she loved. But something was still eating at her. "Tate, why didn't you tell me that you're as much Native American as I am?"

  She felt him tense. "How did you…? Fischer!"

  She shook her head against his chest. "I found pictures in your desk drawer. Why didn't you tell me? Are you… ashamed?"

  He rubbed a hand up and down her arm. "No. Absolutely not." He paused, and she waited. Finally he spoke. "Maybe a hundred years from now, Indians—Native Americans—are accepted as a vital part of the population, but in this time, we haven't gotten there yet."

  Lalita puffed out a breath. "You'd think so, wouldn't you? Oh, I know acceptance isn't nearly as difficult in the 21st century, but there's still room for improvement."

  Tate took her hand laying on his thigh. "My grandmother was a healer and used the old ways passed down through her tribe. She trained my father, but he wanted to also incorporate new medical knowledge. There weren't very many white men who would let him treat them, however. He soon found that he could only treat the Native Americans, and they were frightened of what they called 'white man's medicine.' "

  He paused and rested his lips against the top of her head. "So," she prodded, "because you looked like your mother, you had more opportunities."

  He nodded. "My brother was jealous and thought I'd abandoned them when I left home. He thought, like you, that I was ashamed of them, but I just knew my… my… destiny lay in a different direction."

  "I guess I can understand that. But why didn't you tell me?"

  He held her tighter and sighed. "Habit, I guess. I truly didn't intend to hide it from you." He encouraged her to sit, so he could look in her eyes. "It may have been just my good luck that you had my time in your head when you were struck by lightning, but I think there was something more at work when you were brought to me. Your heritage was of no concern to me. You are everything I want; everything I need."

  With a finger under her chin, he placed his lips against hers, and Lalita felt the same. When she had first thought herself "stuck" in this time, she had been devastated. She soon realized, however, that every century had its own set of joys and sorrows, trouble and triumph. With someone you love to share your time, any time will do.

  "So when are we getting hitched?" Lalita asked when their lips finally parted.

  Tate grinned. "If I wasn't so bone weary, I'd take you to the judge right now."

  Lalita smiled, rose, and pulled Tate up from the sofa and out into the hall. "To bed with you then, sweet prince. You're going to need your strength tomorrow."

  "Oh?"

  "I have a big day planned."

  He stopped her at the bottom of the stairs and pulled her into his arms. "Just what do you have in mind?"

  "Taking Maisy out for a drive, shopping, wedding bells, and…"

  He leaned his forehead against hers. "And…"

  "I don't know, I thought maybe we should stay in the Antlers Hotel at least once before it burns down. You know, for purely historical reasons."

  "Historical. Just as long as you don't write about it in your book."

  "Of course not." She turned and ran up the stairs with a sudden burst of energy. "Things of that nature go in my diary," she flung back over her shoulder.

  And somehow, Tate found the energy to chase her.

  Thank you for reading JOLT. I hope you enjoyed it! If you liked this book, please consider reviewing it at Amazon. Your reviews help other readers find new favorites. Thanks for your support!

  About the Author

  I live with my husband and three spoiled cats in beautiful Colorado Springs where we get to look at Pikes Peak every day!

  I've worn many hats in my life, but I spend most of my creative talents these days on writing and art. You can read more about what I do at jodibowersox.com (be sure to check out my blog). You can also find me on Goodreads, Linked-In, Pinterest, Etsy (JB Artistry 1015) and Facebook (jodibowersoxartistry).

  In addition to romance, I have written two children's stories, A Tale of Two Kitties and The Stubborn Princess under the name J.B. Stockings, and a short commentary on the Biblical book of Ephesians. I'm available for school presentations on art and writing.

  Read on for a sample from the second book in the lightning rider series, Jump:

  Prologue

  1907 Manitou Springs, Colorado

  "Papa, do something!" Nellie paced the small dining room with squalling baby Sadie at her shoulder, tears coursing her cheeks.

  Tate was doing all he knew to do. His teen-age son, Jackson, was standing wide-eyed in the doorway with Tate's medical bag in hand, but he knew there was nothing in it that could help.

  Nellie had been preoccupied with a crying baby in the parlor when Tate's son-in-law had risen from the dinner table to retrieve their apple pie dessert from the kitchen and collapsed before he reached the door. Not detecting a pulse, Tate had begun chest compressions, but after over ten minutes of cardiac stimulation, the man wasn't coming back to them. Dear God, don't take Nellie's husband. Please.

  Lita, on her knees beside him, put a hand to his shoulder. He paused merely a moment to wipe the sweat from his brow, then began again. Nellie's sobs pushed him on, even though in his heart, he knew this was over. Paul was gone.

  "Tate," Lita whispered, "it's been too long."

  The catch in her voice told him she was crying too. He stopped and sat back on his heels with an anguished sigh.

  Nellie stepped toward them, screaming, "No, Papa, don't stop! You're a doctor; you can't… you can't just let him die!"

  Lita rose and went around the fallen man, taking the wailing baby from her distraught daughter's arms. Nellie fell to her knees, placing her hands on her still husband's chest, franticly trying to continue what Tate had ceased to do. "Is this right, Papa? How hard do I push?"

  He gently stroked her head as he fought tears. "Nellie, Paul's gone."

  She tossed her head defiantly, loosening several wavy strands of blond hair from her upswept hairdo. "No. We have to just keep working."

  Tate noticed that the small lightning-shaped mark below her ear had turned a bright red. He started to rise, trying to pull Nellie up with him. "No!" she protested. "We can't give up!"

  Stepping over the body, he turned Nellie away and wrapped her in his arms. "Nellie, dear, we knew this could happen. We knew that Paul's heart wasn't strong." Even in this new twentieth century, medical advances c
ould do little to repair the ravages of rheumatic fever.

  Nellie's sobs shook her petite frame. "But I thought we'd have more time than this! Oh, God, I need more time!"

  Tate met Lita's sorrowful gaze. Ever since she had come into his life, the subject of "time" had held special significance. And for the first time, he wished he could do for Nellie what Lita had done for him: go back in time and change the past. Turn sorrow into joy.

  Lita had bounced little Sadie into a slightly better mood. Nellie's grief wouldn't be so easily assuaged.

  Chapter 1

  Nellie startled awake and felt acutely the night she had spent sitting in the upholstered chair by the open window. It was the early morning birdsong that had brought her out of her grim dreams. Dreams of a frantic search for Paul. Dreams that usually ended in a funeral.

  The last one had been different. She had been watching the Paul that she knew as a child in school. She was a transcendent observer to his rambunctious boyhood pranks and energetic games where he always seemed to be sprinting. This dream ended with the boy in bed, a red flush to his cheeks and hushed voices whispering concern.

  She'd never actually seen this, as she was only five when the love of her life had fought for his own, taken to the brink by rheumatic fever. She pondered the two types of dreams and concluded that they were basically the same. The fever at ten had led to the funeral at twenty-five.

  She shivered and clutched her shawl tighter around her nightgown. Wanting to divert her mind from the dreams, she looked around the room she had grown up in. It had been months since she sold the house that she and Paul had called home—months since she had returned to live with her father and Lita as a widow, although she'd be hard pressed to say how many. The days all seemed to run together now.

  She heard Sadie crying across the hall, but it was as one detached. Sadie's bassinet no longer resided in Nellie's room. The baby's colicky nature had been hard to deal with before her husband's death. After, Nellie simply couldn't cope. Sadie looked too much like her dark-haired, dark-eyed Paul.