by Lisa Norato
Her RAV4 no longer sported the spare, but its original tire, which showed no signs of being flat.
She'd returned, not only to the twenty-first century, but to the exact location and in the same condition as when she’d left.
Shelby ducked her head inside her SUV and gazed questioningly at Jorge, who stared curiously back at her.
Her gaze fell to her rucksack on the front passenger seat. Shelby grabbed it and rummaged for her cell, digging past a bundle of Laramie Plains Museum brochures, her bottle of ibuprofen, the plastic freezer bag of Jorge’s treats and her cosmetic case, until her fingers touched the smooth exterior of her cell.
As she fished it out, a folded sheet of paper floated from her bag down to the pavement. Shelby switched on her phone, unconcerned. A strong signal came through, and she quickly scrolled through her programmed numbers till she found the one she was searching for.
After two rings, her call was picked up. “Flying Eagle Guest Ranch. Historic vacation resort of Laramie, Wyoming. Michael Ketchum, owner, speaking.”
Michael. The upbeat baritone sounded identical to Hugh’s, and her throat grew thick with unshed tears as she thought of the St. Clouds.
“Michael. Oh, Michael. Hi. It’s me. Shelby,” she moaned in a shaky, watery voice like the reconnecting, long-lost relation she was. “I’m on Highway One-Thirty just outside the ranch.”
“Sounds like you’ve got a cold. Tell me you’re not sick. We’ve been advertising gourmet western cuisine. All we need is to open our dining room with a hostess who can’t stop sneezing her brains out. I’ll get your sister. She’ll know what to do. She’s in the kitchen fixing you lunch as we speak.”
“No, wait! Michael, how . . . how did you all know I’d be arriving today?”
A weary sigh echoed through the line. “Uh, like, duh, because Caitlin spoke to you a couple of hours ago, and you told her you were getting ready to leave your townhouse. Because we’ve been expecting you for weeks, and your sister has prepared you a room. She wants everything to be perfect for your stay and is, at this very moment, turning a tuna sandwich into haute cuisine.”
“Okay, Michael, this is going to sound like a stupid question, but what day is today?”
“What day is it? Oh man, that’s some head cold you’ve got. Or hey, maybe it’s age. They say the mind is the first to go. Today is June fourth. You mean they actually pay you to teach our future leaders of tomorrow?”
Shelby had developed an immunity to Michael’s wisecracks over time. Though in this instance, her thoughts were busy elsewhere. June fourth. The same day she’d supposedly traveled back in time to the nineteenth century. The very date she’d been expected to arrive at the guest ranch. Caitlin had promised her tuna melts for lunch. Tuna melts Caitlin was preparing at this very moment.
Shelby hadn’t been missed. It was as though she’d never been gone. She glanced at the dashboard, and the digital clock indicated it was now 11:12. In fact, virtually no time had elapsed since she’d pulled over to the shoulder of the highway with a flat tire. What flat tire? There was no longer any indication she’d ever had a flat tire. And what about those three weeks she’d spent with Ruckert? Had any of it been real?
Was she losing her mind?
“Michael, who’s on the phone?”
Shelby heard her sister’s voice in the background.
“It’s Shelby,” Michael hollered back.
Into the receiver, he told Shelby, “I’m going to hand the phone over to Cat now.”
“No, no, Michael, don’t,” Shelby pleaded. She was barely holding it together. If she spoke to Caitlin now, she’d totally lose it. “I’m hanging up. Tell Cat I’ll be there in a few minutes.”
Shelby disconnected before Michael could react.
As she stared at the silent cell phone in her hand, she began to tremble. Her heart thumped wildly. Her chest heaved, and yet it felt like she couldn’t catch her breath. She was going crazy.
Suddenly, she noticed the folded note that had fallen from her purse. Shelby picked it up off the ground. She opened the page to reveal the poem she’d written that morning . . . er, this morning, apparently.
Like the beautiful mountains on the plains,
So strong and tall, I see you standing there.
Like the soft wind that blows past,
I hear you whisper in my ear.
Ruckert had promised, “I will always be there to take care of you.” But had he been merely a dream?
No, he was much more than a dream.
He was like cold water to her thirsty soul.
Even now, Shelby could sense his presence. She could hear his voice.
A great sob built around her heart. Her eyes filled, a single tear escaping to trickle down her cheek.
She didn’t know what to think, so Shelby got inside her car, closed the door and broke down. She reached for a small box of tissues from the glove compartment, and while Jorge looked on quietly, she let the sorrow drain from her body with racking sobs until she had no tears left.
Sometime later, she drew one, final shaky breath and blotted her eyes. There was only one thing for her to do, only one place for her to go. The Flying Eagle. Caitlin would be there, even if Ruckert were not, and she needed to be with people who loved her.
She wiped her face, applied lipstick, started the engine and drove.
Less than a quarter of a mile off the highway, she swung a right onto the ranch road, trying desperately to ward off the memories by focusing on the dirt trail ahead and not the familiar landscape. She traveled numbly over the Little Laramie River, across a wooden bridge, then through the barnyard to the Flying Eagle Guest Lodge, where she pulled into a cleared area and parked.
Caitlin had stepped out on the front porch as she drove past and was already flying across the lawn as Shelby climbed down from her vehicle.
She hurried towards Shelby, arms outstretched, long hair blowing behind her. Caitlin was a lovely, slim, honey blonde with a style that combined country-girl sweet with bohemian hippy-child. She wore a long-sleeved, ivory tunic over skinny jeans and cowboy boots of chocolate leather with cutouts and pointed toes. As usual, she was adorned in silver jewelry, her signature, that today included a peace sign pendant on a leather cord.
The next Shelby knew, they were embracing in a hug.
Her broken heart gave a flutter. Her insides warmed to the feeling of coming home, and she wondered if, given the chance, would she return to Ruckert and the nineteenth century? How could she choose between the man she loved and her own people? Luckily or not, it was a choice beyond her control, and Shelby decided instead to be grateful for this reunion with a sister she’d thought she might never see again.
She gave Caitlin an extra squeeze before letting go.
“Welcome to the Flying Eagle,” Cat squealed, pulling away for a peek inside the sports utility vehicle. Shelby couldn’t tell who bounced with more excitement, Jorge or Caitlin.
“Hiya, boy,” Cat greeted through the window while Jorge wagged his plume tail.
“Grab Jorge, but don’t bother with the bags,” she told Shelby. “Give me your car keys and I’ll have someone fetch them for you later. Ooh, I’m just so happy you’re here!”
“Me, too.” Shelby smiled despite the thickness in her throat. “It’s good to be here.” She handed Caitlin her keys.
“Hey, Michael said something about you not feeling well. What’s wrong?”
“Just a mild case of the sniffles. I’ll be fine.”
Cat nodded. “C’mon inside and check out the final renovations to the lodge. Then I’ll show you to your room, and you can grab a quick nap before lunch.”
“Lunch,” Shelby reflected. “The tuna melts.”
A spark lit Catlin’s eyes. “With celery and tarragon mayonnaise, Harvati cheese, grilled on homemade honey-wheat bread.”
“Wow, sounds incredible, Cat.” Even without an appetite, there was something comforting about being offered a sandwich that had been her chil
dhood favorite. Nobody was a better comfort-food chef than her sister. Already, a trickle of healing had seeped into Shelby’s soul.
As she collected Jorge from the back seat, a large wagon pulled by a pair of draft horses and driven by two young cowgirls clattered nosily past, continuing down the ranch drive.
Shelby rejoined her sister, and they headed for the lodge, gravel crunching beneath their boots as they crossed the parking lot.
“We’ve hired college students to work as wranglers over the summer,” Cat explained. “I’ve asked them to give the hay-ride trail a run-through, double-checking that the wagon and team are all in sync. I thought it might be fun for all of us to go on a ride after supper.”
Shelby felt she’d already traveled her quota of wagon rides for one lifetime. But not wanting to disappoint Cat, who’d obviously put a lot of thought into this visit, Shelby dug deep and came back with an enthusiastic smile. “Yeah, sounds great.”
She strode with Caitlin across the lawn and up the porch steps. Hand-hewn pine posts supported an overhang that shaded the entire front porch. Long gone was the St. Cloud’s split Dutch door. In its stead, behind a wide screen door, stood a wooden door with a hand-crafted facade patterned from twigs.
Inside, the raised foyer opened to a spacious dining parlor full of western touches and historical memorabilia. An antique, gold-weighing scale here. An artisan-crafted, child’s rocking horse there. Flea markets were to Cat what shopping malls were to other women. Rustic dining tables ranged from intimate to family-sized and were interspersed with love seats and side chairs of upholstered, aged leather.
Sunshine streamed through the tall, multi-paned windows, casting the room in warm, radiant light. It reflected off the rich wood and muted colors. It illuminated every nook and cranny, from the rounded timbers of the twelve-foot, raftered ceiling to the polished, hard-wood floor.
Shelby thought it a splendid room, inviting and entirely western, and praised it to Caitlin. Yet beneath her sister’s decorating touches, additions through the years, and the current reconstruction, she could still see the St. Cloud homestead. For instance, that table for two before the front window was where Grandmother Mary’s upright piano once stood.
The memories were so fresh. Shelby tried to keep them at bay, but the nostalgia grew so intense she felt she had only to close her eyes to be back again.
You’re so close I can touch you, but when I reach out to you, you vanish as an illusion.
Needing a distraction, and quick, she stepped down into the dining hall and lowered Jorge to the floor. He scampered off to investigate, while Caitlin followed her across the room to the massive, fieldstone hearth. Flat boulders formed a hearth seat at its base. The mantel was a squared timber that shelved a collection of framed, antique photos.
The first to catch Shelby’s eye was a head-and-shoulders portrait of a young woman with gentle eyes and a soft, round face. She reached for the vintage silver frame and took a closer look.
Caitlin smiled appreciatively at her side. “Can you believe it? I unearthed that photo from a moldy storage bin in Mom’s basement. I don’t know how it survived five generations, but the moment I saw her picture, I knew she was someone special. That’s our great-great-great maternal grandmother, Nana Tinkler.”
“Nana Tinkler.” Her pulse quickened and Shelby nearly dropped the frame. “This is Nana Tinkler?”
Behind them, Jorge exploded into an excited yipping fit, and Cat turned away before Shelby could learn more.
Michael was entering the dining hall from the back of the lodge, and when he spotted them, he burst into a big, playful grin.
“I see you made it here okay.” His smiling brown eyes crinkled at their corners. His face was tanned, his cheeks glowing and his sandy hair tousled. He removed his western hat and wiped his sweaty brow on his sleeve as he strode forward. Jorge padded after him, his tongue hanging out.
“So, how ya’ doing, Sis?” He leaned forward to kiss Shelby on the cheek.
“Good,” she croaked. “I’m good.”
He glanced down at the likeness in her hands. “Nana T.,” he drawled. “Cat loves that dead old lady, don’t you, honey?” He gave Shelby a nudge and lowered his voice. “Has she told you how she likes to talk to the picture? I think it’s weird.”
And with that, he squatted down and finally gave Jorge the scratch behind the ears he’d been panting for.
“Praying is not weird, Michael,” Cat balked, then immediately pressed her lips together, averting her eyes as though she’d revealed more than intended.
Praying? Shelby felt adrenalin kick in and wasn’t sure why. “You . . . pray to Nana Tinkler, Cat?”
“No,” Cat was quick to deny with a shake of her head. Just as quickly she turned remorseful and bit her lower lip. “Well . . . maybe . . . a little . . . this morning. Michael and I were up at dawn.”
Stepping closer, she rained an adoring gaze down on the photograph in Shelby’s hand. “I mean, I realize only God can answer prayer, but those eyes. Nana’s eyes just seem to transcend time, as though she’s alive on the other side. Watching, listening, waiting—like an angel.”
Michael rolled his eyes.
“What exactly did you pray, Cat?”
“Huh?” Cat’s blissful expression turned to embarrassment. “Er, nothing.”
“C’mon, tell me what you said, Cat. It’s important.”
“It’s important?” Michael balked sarcastically. Rising to his feet, he whistled, long and low. “Have you two been dipping into some local moonshine I don’t know about?”
Shelby’s gaze remained steadily focused on her sister’s face. “Please, Cat.”
“Go on, Cat, tell her. She’ll find out soon enough.”
“Find what out?”
After a thoughtful moment, Cat blew out a breath and relented. “Since you turned forty, I feel like you’re beginning to give up hope on finding love. Circumstance presented an opportunity of which I wholeheartedly approve, but I knew you’d resist,” she complained, pinning Shelby with a look of annoyance. “A little help from beyond couldn’t hurt, I thought. Grandmothers are angels, after all.”
She huffed impatiently as she folded her arms across her chest. “I can’t believe I’m even telling you this. Thank you, Michael, for opening your big mouth!” Her gaze darted back to Shelby. “And so, I stared at Nana Tinkler’s photo and asked if there were any way she could . . . possibly . . . intervene—”
“Intervene?” Oh, Nana Tinkler had intervened all right. Yeah, it was incredible, unreal, miraculous. And whether the experience had been imagined or real, this conversation proved one thing. Shelby wasn’t crazy. Well, no more crazy than her crazy sister. She didn’t understand how, but Caitlin’s prayer had worked.
Almost.
Ruckert. Her chest felt like it was being crushed beneath a huge weight of regret.
Why couldn’t it have been the real deal?
Caitlin spoke into the silence of Shelby’s self-pitying funk. “I’m your sister, and I’m concerned for you,” she argued. “It’s like . . . well, sometimes I get the impression that deep inside you’re really . . . brokenhearted. I think something’s grieving you even now.”
Shelby had been trying to keep it together, but tears burned behind her eyes, and her connection to Ruckert still felt so strong, so real and so recent, she choked on a sob.
“Oh-no,” Michael muttered.
Caitlin stood at her side, rubbing her back, offering an encouraging smile. “Hey, I know. How about a glass of homemade Mojito iced tea?”
Shelby nodded, smiling through her unshed tears, and allowed herself to be led back through the dining hall and up a step to the main hallway. Nestled in an alcove to the left of the staircase was a cozy, vintage-style dining nook. Painted in white high gloss with red trim, it had a 1930s feel. Yet in some eclectic way, it blended with the western decor. It had been set before a window overlooking the Little Laramie River, and the lodge was quiet enough to hear the
water ripple.
Shelby felt a genuine smile coming on. “I love it. Cat, it’s charming.”
“We found it in an antique shop. Michael refinished the pieces. Have a seat while I get the tea.”
Caitlin crossed the hallway and disappeared into the kitchen at the back of the lodge, while Shelby ran a hand appreciatively over the red-and-white striped seat cushion. The prospect of sharing a quiet moment with her sister had calmed her tears, but not her heartache. She was going to tell Cat about Ruckert, though just how much Shelby still hadn’t decided. But now was the time. She needed to unravel, and next week when the guest ranch opened to visitors, quiet moments would be few and far between.
She tucked herself into one side of the booth. While Jorge wandered off to explore, Michael settled into the seat opposite her, crossing his arms on the glossy white tabletop.
O-kay, Shelby thought, trying not to look too disappointed.
Michael stared uncomfortably at her. Shelby smiled just as uncomfortably, when Michael suddenly averted his eyes, grinning like he knew a secret the rest of the world didn’t.
“What?”
He shook his head. “Nothing.”
Shelby eyed him shrewdly, letting it be known she was not in the mood for his games. One thing occupied her thoughts at present, one person, who was lost to her forever.
“Michael, in digging through the background of the Flying Eagle, did you stumble across a horseman who once lived on this ranch by the name of Ruckert St. Cloud?”
Michael lowered his arms and sat straight against the back of the booth. The grin was gone and he appeared more uncomfortable than ever. He eyed her cautiously, then slowly allowed one corner of his mouth to curl upwards. “Oh, I see. You’re playing me, right?” Pressing closer, he rested a forearm against the table’s edge. “Just so you know, I had no part in this. The blind date, fix-up thing was all Cat’s arranging. I don’t know how you found out, though. She wanted it to be a surprise.”
“A surprise blind date? Oh, it’s a surprise, all right!” The very thought produced a sick feeling in the pit of her stomach.