Faster…faster…deeper…deeper.
She slung mud until she glimpsed the amber brooch. Relieved, she sagged against the wall, breathing heavily. When her heart rate returned to normal, she marched over to a horse trough and washed the brooch in icy water. To get mud out of the crevices, she needed her tools. The dental pick and brush must not have made it through the…whatever.
The brooch was her ticket home and she couldn’t lose it again. She shoved it down deep into the pocket of her jeans. And for the first time thought of home. How was she going to get there? The brooch was cold now, icy as the water in the trough.
It had heated when she opened it earlier. The magic was gone. The wormhole, or whatever it was, had closed and she was stuck here. Or was she? Maybe all she had to do was open the stone and say the odd words. Why wonder about it? Just recite the words and go.
But…
Did she have to go yet? The man with the rare rhodochrosite had offered the gemstone to her for only two bits. Just think of that. Two bits. Twenty-five cents. What a treasure for a rock hound like herself. But where was she going to get the money? She had nothing to sell, nothing but the clothes on her back. And as cold as it was, selling her clothes wasn’t an option.
She returned to the sidewalk wondering about that quarter. Where could she get an afternoon job? She doubted anyone would want legal advice, but she could cook. What year was it, anyway? Did women work anywhere other than saloons and brothels?
Needing to catch her breath, she leaned against the side of a building and breathed in and out slowly. She’d grown up around Leadville, and the high altitude had never bothered her before today. Must be the wormhole’s fault and would wear off soon enough.
The constant hammering all around her was driving her nuts, making it hard to think clearly. How could one town have so much building going on? And then it hit like a claw hammer to her pounding head. It had to be the early days of the silver boom, when the city mushroomed from a few hundred citizens to several thousand.
Massaging her forehead, she stepped to the top of a set of rickety stairs leading down to the next section of boardwalk and stretched, looking down the street toward the landmark Tabor Opera House—the finest theatre west of the Missouri—if you believed the old ads. And there it was on the corner of 2nd Street and Harrison Avenue, a three-story building constructed of stone, brick, and iron.
Her mind drifted back to the last performance she’d seen there. What was the date mentioned in the building’s history printed on the first page of the playbill? Maybe in the late 1800s. But she was pretty sure that a few years prior to Horace Tabor building his opera house, bank, and hotel, the owners of Hughes Store built theirs. She glanced down the street in the opposite direction of the theatre and there it was…her seven-times great-grandparents’ general store.
The claw hammer pounded her head again. The magic brooch had given her the chance to meet her ancestors. How could she go home without saying hello? She couldn’t. Maybe she could work at their store, spend some quality time with Grandfather Craig and Grandmother Lindsey, and earn some money to buy the gemstone from the miner.
Then she remembered what else happened around this same time. It was as if the stone knew the precise moment to kick her out of the wormhole. Now she knew she couldn’t leave yet.
If she stayed for a few days, she could be part of the discovery and naming of the first Stegosaurus. And, she could nosedive into the Royal Gorge War and possibly save her ancestors thousands of dollars. Okay, that would take more than a few days. More like several weeks, maybe months, but her head was swimming now with possibilities instead of throbbing with pain. But what about her family? Well, her parents were on a safari and wouldn’t miss her for a while, but Olivia would be going berserk.
Would she really?
If it was the late nineteenth century, her immediate family wasn’t even born yet. Amber could get into a debate over parallel universes, but frankly, that was a waste of time. She was here now, and Olivia was in the future. If Amber could keep that concept separate from what was transpiring here, she’d be fine and so would Olivia.
The thought of being in the thick of the early days of paleontology tickled every inch of her from eyebrows to toes. This was a once in a lifetime opportunity. Her hand slid into her pocket and fondled the brooch. It was still icy cold. Even if she wanted to go home, she doubted the portal would open. Maybe she was here for a cosmic reason. She let the symphony of Leadville’s sights and sounds settle over her while she considered her situation further.
How about taking her analysis indoors before she froze to death? If she froze, whatever purpose she had for being here would be laid to rest in a pine box in Leadville Cemetery’s free section known as pauper’s field.
Before she could do anything, she had to line up food and lodging. The starving-street-person-thing wasn’t a good fit for her. She needed a grubstake. Fortunately, she knew someone, or rather she knew of someone, with a reputation for grubstaking prospectors and entrepreneurs.
She didn’t intend to prospect, although with her knowledge she could. That left entrepreneurship. She could put up a shingle and practice mining law, but she needed a license for that. Passing a bar exam in the nineteenth century wouldn’t be hard, but would they give a woman a chance?
There was another problem she had to deal with. Although it didn’t rank at the top with food and lodging, it was up there close. There was no hiding the fact that she was a woman dressed in men’s clothing, especially with a braid trailing down her back, but jeans, flannel shirt, and canvas jacket weren’t acceptable attire for a woman in the 1800s. She could get away with wearing trousers for a day, maybe two, but if she wanted to fit in and get along, she had to dress the part. Since she didn’t particularly care what she wore, a plain cotton skirt to fit over her jeans would work fine.
There was one other thing she needed—a believable backstory. Who was she and where did she come from? The emerging city was a transient place that attracted nomadic adventurers daily. She was just one more. Her story didn’t have to be elaborate. A simple, believable lie that wouldn’t raise eyebrows would work, and it was likely no one would care enough to ask.
She could barely forge a path from one block to the next on the crowded walkway. Some pedestrians found it easier to get where they were going by walking in the disgusting street. The thick layer of mud, horse manure, and decaying vegetable matter kept her on the sidewalk. She checked out the windows of every store, looking for help wanted signs. It was a matter of matching her skills—cook, performer, lawyer—with the needs of a respectable business.
She wove her way down the boardwalk until she spotted a sign that brought her to a sudden stop, which caused a rear-end collision. Someone fell into her and pitched her forward. She hit the glass pane window of the Hughes Store, Purveyor of Fine Goods, Firearms, and General Merchandise. The glass rattled but didn’t shatter. A man standing behind a long counter adjusted his wire-rim glasses and turned his full attention to her. She quickly regained her balance and pushed away from the window in a heat-rising panic. Was that Grandfather Craig? She’d never seen a picture of him or his wife Lindsey. If it was him, what would she say? “Hi, Gramps. I’m your granddaughter from the twenty-first century. Did you know there was a magical brooch hidden in your loom?”
Instead of going in to speak to him, she scampered away. Panicking was not in her nature. In her everyday life, she adjusted to situations. She had honed those character traits through years of working on digs around the world and meeting clients deep inside mines. Disagreements and misunderstandings were handled with aplomb. So why was she running away from a man she’d heard lovely stories about her entire life?
Because having a conversation with him would make this crazy adventure—real. It would make having no money, no home, no job—real. But it would also make the possibility of naming the first Stegosaurus, of meeting the famous Drs. Lakes, Marsh, or Cope—real. And it also meant the poss
ibility of being involved in the Royal Gorge War litigation—real!
Those possibilities far outweighed having no money, no home, no job.
For a moment, hurrying along the weather-warped boards, jostled on all sides by passersby, she wasn’t sure which direction to go. The oompahs and blats from a brass band competed with the constant hammering and jingling harnesses.
The boardwalk ended, and for the second time today, she was struck with indecision. She almost laughed. Wondering what to do about her job back in the twenty-first century was inconsequential now. Why had she given it so much power over her? She scratched her head, unable to answer. What should she do now? Go right, left, or straight ahead?
A man—tall and strikingly handsome—swept past her. “Excuse me,” he said in a strong Scottish accent. He jumped over stacked crates and bounded into the street, dodging wagons, carriages, and pedestrians, running a five-second obstacle course in under two seconds. He leapt to the opposite boardwalk and in two strides entered Tabor’s Bank of Leadville. Except for the lingering scent of sweet tobacco, she never would have known he passed by.
A large dog with a sandwich board sign attached to her—advertising an upcoming production at the Tabor Opera House—ran out into the street and startled a team of horses pulling a wagon. The spooked horses reared and jostled the members of the five-piece band riding in the back playing “Camptown Races.” The jerking motion sent the drummer boy flying. He and his drum landed in the street, directly in the path of a freight wagon.
Fear clogged her throat. She couldn’t wave. She couldn’t move. She could barely breathe. Then she found her voice.
“Stop!”
She rocketed off the uneven boardwalk and sprinted toward the child. Her eyes darted between the boy and the approaching wagon.
“Stop!”
Could she get to him in time? Her arms pumped. Her lungs gasped. She ran full out. From the driver’s viewpoint, he couldn’t see the boy crawling toward the drum. From her viewpoint, she could see everything, even the clock ticking down the seconds…
Five—Her arms pumped faster than her legs.
Four—Every footfall landed in the thick spongy earth.
Three—Terror played out in vivid color—blood red.
Two—Her field of vision narrowed to only the boy in the street, his arms outstretched.
One—She ran with a single purpose. The wagons and the powerful beasts that pulled them no longer existed. She ran with her eyes and mind focused on one helpless child.
Mud from the horses’ hooves splattered in her face as she reached down and grabbed the little drummer boy by the sleeve of his jacket and slung him backwards, mere moments before the freight wagon rumbled by.
“My drum!”
Amber pressed the boy’s head against her shaking body, so he couldn’t watch the wagon wheels smash his treasured instrument. The pressure was so heavy in her chest, she thought the wheel had run over her too. It took a moment for the death-cheating scene to penetrate her numbed senses, and she struggled to catch her breath. The crack and splintering of the wood had the boy pushing away from her, but she held him tightly, afraid of what he might do, afraid he might try to collect the pieces of the smashed instrument—the head and shell and leather strap.
“My drum!” he cried, flailing his arms.
She shivered with a deep convulsive shudder. “I’m so sorry.” She didn’t let go of him, although her superwoman moment was fading, and she wouldn’t be able to control him much longer. Never in her life had she tried to comfort a child. She was acting on memory alone, hearing her mom and her granny quieting her little girl cries.
“Shh. You’re okay now,” Amber said.
“No. I’m not.” His shoulders slumped beneath her hands. “My drum’s broken.”
She kissed the boy’s head, covered now in muddied blond curls. “But you’re alive.”
“I want my…drum.”
“Noah!” a man yelled.
Amber’s glance lifted to see a man bounding across the street. His long legs cut the distance to only a few strides. It was the same man who had passed her earlier smelling of sweet tobacco. His chiseled face was clenched tight in fear and mirrored the ghostly look of terror that spread and deepened around his dark blue eyes. His lowered to one knee and reached for the boy. She released her hold and Noah fell into his arms.
“Are ye hurt, lad?”
The shaking boy twisted around and pointed into the street. “No, but my drum’s busted, Pa.”
He rubbed Noah’s head, arms, chest to confirm the truth of his son’s statement. “Thankfully, ye’re not.” His gaze shifted to Amber. “Thank ye for what ye did.”
“I was afraid…” Her breathing was still heavy and erratic, and the words puffed out with her breath. “I couldn’t get to him.”
“I saw him fall…” His voice broke. “But I couldn’t get to him in time. He would have died—”
“He’s safe now.” She laid her hand on the man’s muscular shoulder that trembled beneath his black duster. He held Noah tightly to his chest. She looked away, not wanting to intrude on the life-affirming moment. Calmness washed over her with every deep breath she took.
It took several minutes before Noah wiped his face, saying, “I’ll miss my drum, Pa, but I can get on without it.”
Noah’s maturity surprised her. If she’d had any money, she would have taken him that very minute to the music store and bought every instrument he fancied. It was rare to see that level of maturity in adults. Coming from someone Noah’s age said a lot about his character and even more about his parents. She wanted to give Noah a fierce hug and tell him everything would be all right.
“I’m sorry I couldn’t save the drum.” The mix of sadness and disappointment in her own voice rivalled the unnatural acceptance in Noah’s.
Noah’s father’s eyes slowly came into focus. But something remained in the tightness of his jaw and the set of his shoulders that reflected deep sadness or regret. He touched two fingers to the corner of his cowboy hat, offering a brief salute.
“I’m Daniel Grant. Thank ye for what ye did.”
His voice rolled over her, warm, almost sensual. She straightened, shaking off the spell of his voice, and mirrored his salute with two fingers together at the corner of her eyebrow like her cousin Trey had taught her.
“Amber Kelly.”
There was more she wanted to say, but the pain in her chest was holding her breath hostage. Damn the altitude. Her feet came unstuck from the mud, and she splashed back a step to grab a hitching post for support and lowered herself to the raised boardwalk. Noah and his father joined her there, holding tightly to each other.
When she finally caught her breath she asked, “Did you see what happened?”
“I saw Noah fall. I didn’t know the band was playing today, or I would have been there watching.”
“It was only planned about an hour ago, Pa. I didn’t have time to tell you.”
Daniel kissed the top of Noah’s head. “That’s okay, lad.”
“A dog wearing a sandwich board sign ran out into the street and scared the horses. The wagon jerked, and Noah was pitched out,” Amber said.
“It was Mr. Tabor’s dog, Ripley. I hope she’s not hurt,” Noah said.
The scene played out in Amber’s mind again. She closed her eyes and reran the reel for the third time, searching for the dog. “She ran away,” Amber said. “She wasn’t hurt.”
“I’m glad,” Noah said, his breath hitching. “Ripley’s my friend.”
“Mr. Tabor should take better care of his dog. Matter of fact, since he’s the owner, he’s responsible for damages and should buy you a replacement drum.”
“I doubt Mr. Tabor will do that since it was an accident.”
To Amber those were fighting words. “Mr. Tabor can be held liable for injuries caused by his dog, whether the dog bites someone, causes personal injury, or damages property.”
Daniel pushed to his feet—co
ming to his full height—and so did she, but he was a good foot taller. There was a hint of rawhide toughness in the broad, strong shoulders tapering to narrow hips and long powerful legs. He was dressed in a long black duster, black suit over a white shirt, and a gray vest.
“Mr. Tabor is a businessman, but I doubt he’ll accept responsibility.”
She brushed off what mud she could and flipped her braid back over her shoulder. “I know the law, Mr. Grant, and Mr. Tabor can be sued.”
Noah moved to stand in front of his father, and the resemblance between the two, sans mud and beard, was striking. Noah was his father’s mini-me. He had the same set to his jaw, high cheekbones, and strikingly blue, almost navy eyes, set apart by the bridge of a princely nose. If she had truly stepped onto a movie set, Noah’s father, in his middle- to late-thirties, would be the sexy star of the film, regardless of whether it needed an astronaut for a space odyssey, a cowboy for a western, or a blood thirsty warrior for a Viking adventure. He had that timeless look.
“If he’s sued,” Daniel said, “no jury in this town will hold him legally responsible.”
“Maybe not. But the law is on your side.”
Daniel’s handsome face took on a frown. “If I had a lawyer with yer conviction, I’d have a suit filed today.”
“If I had a law license to practice here, I’d offer to do it for you.”
Noah picked up his drumsticks and wiped them on his pants. Drumsticks and no drum was like a boy without a dog. Her mind replayed the sequence of events. Was there something she missed? If she had jumped off the sidewalk a second earlier or sprinted faster, could she have saved Noah and his drum? If she had kicked it, the drum would have been damaged but not busted.
On reflection, her ifs didn’t match the evidence. She’d jumped off the sidewalk as soon as she identified the problem. She didn’t delay, and she ran as fast as she was capable. And if she had kicked the drum, she would have lost the split second she needed to jerk Noah out of the way. She had taken the correct steps, but she would see the loss in Noah’s beautiful blue eyes in her dreams.
The Amber Brooch: Time Travel Romance (The Celtic Brooch Book 8) Page 7