The Way Back Read online

  Praise for Abbie Williams

  “Williams populates her historical fiction with people nearly broken by their experiences.”

  —Foreword Reviews INDIES Finalist (Soul of a Crow)

  * Gold Medalist - 2015

  —Independent Publishers Awards (Heart of a Dove)

  “Perfect for romantic mystery lovers…a sweet, clever quickstep with characters who feel like longtime friends.”—Foreword Reviews (Wild Flower)

  “Set just after the U.S. Civil War, this passionate opening volume of a projected series successfully melds historical narrative, women’s issues, and breathless romance with horsewomanship, trailside deer-gutting, and alluring smidgeons of Celtic ESP.”

  —Publishers Weekly (Heart of a Dove)

  “There is a lot I liked about this book. It didn’t pull punches, it feels period, it was filled with memorable characters and at times lovely descriptions and language. Even though there is a sequel coming, this book feels complete.”

  —Dear Author (Heart of a Dove)

  “With a sweet romance, good natured camaraderie, and a very real element of danger, this book is hard to put down.”

  —San Francisco Book Review (Heart of a Dove)

  ALSO BY ABBIE WILLIAMS

  THE SHORE LEAVE CAFE SERIES

  SUMMER AT THE SHORE LEAVE CAFE

  SECOND CHANCES

  A NOTION OF LOVE

  WINTER AT THE WHITE OAKS LODGE

  WILD FLOWER

  THE FIRST LAW OF LOVE

  UNTIL TOMORROW

  THE WAY BACK

  RETURN TO YESTERDAY

  FORBIDDEN

  THE DOVE SERIES

  HEART OF A DOVE

  SOUL OF A CROW

  GRACE OF A HAWK

  Copyright © 2018 Abbie Williams

  Cover and internal design © 2018 Central Avenue Marketing Ltd.

  Cover Design: Michelle Halket

  Cover Image: Courtesy & Copyright: iStock: Sandra Kavas

  Interior Image: Courtesy & Copyright: Abbie Willliams

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission from the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Published by Central Avenue Publishing, an imprint of Central Avenue Marketing Ltd. www.centralavenuepublishing.com

  THE WAY BACK

  978-1-77168-127-8 (pbk)

  978-1-77168-128-5 (epub)

  978-1-77168-129-2 (mobi)

  Published in Canada

  Printed in United States of America

  1. FICTION / Romance 2. FICTION / Family Life

  TO THOSE OF YOU WHO HAVE FOUND THE WAY BACK, AND THOSE OF YOU WHO CONTINUE TO SEARCH…

  Prologue

  Jalesville, Montana - February, 2014

  THE IMAGE OF HER IN MY HEAD WAS SO CLEAR I BATTLED the urge to reach outward, even as my hands were frantic with motion, saddling my horse, stowing gear. I breathed clouds of exertion into the cold night air inside the barn, pausing only to lean my forehead against Arrow’s familiar hide, trying desperately to keep level. I would help no one if I lost all control right now; deep inside, my heart shrieked at me to hurry.

  I would tear myself inside out to have her returned to me. To see Ruthann enter the barn from the freezing winter’s night and tell me I had been worried for no reason. I gritted my teeth at the pain of this thought, at the longing for her that spiked in my blood. My father’s barn, the barn in which I’d spent thousands of hours learning the way of horses, cleaning tack, shoveling shit and forking hay, was dark with nightfall, bitter with cold. My mind stalled, rebelling against the absolute fucking agony of being separated from her, pulling me from the hell of this February night and tossing me backward to the first time I’d taught her to saddle a horse.

  As though echoing my thoughts, Banjo, her mare, gave a low-pitched whinny from her stall, stamping her hooves. Arrow whickered in response; the two of them were accustomed to riding together and attuned to one another’s moods. The sun had been setting as I showed Ruthann the steps that summer evening, bathing her in its radiance, and the familiar process (which I could have performed blindfolded since age five) were all but lost as I studied the woman who owned me, heart and soul. Did she know how much I loved her, how that love filled me every single moment, day or night, waking or sleeping; filled me whole.

  I am coming for you, angel. I will not give up until I find you, this I swear on my life.

  “Goddammit,” I muttered, throat raw. I bumped my forehead against Arrow’s neck, despising myself for provoking the fight that led to Ruthann leaving our apartment only yesterday.

  Don’t think about that. If you fucking think about that, you’ll only panic and lose precious time.

  The memory of the way her eyes looked when I told her to go was a blade jammed in my heart. Arrow nickered and stamped his hooves, and I pressed my palms to the warmth of my horse’s hide, gaining strength. The lyrics to “Yesterday,” the beautiful old Beatles song I had drummed countless times while my brothers played guitars, flooded unbidden through my brain and a sharp jab of fear caught me off guard, fear as primal as any instinct. I longed for the impossible; I longed for yesterday. If I could only go back to that moment when I told Ruthann to go and bite back the jealous, angry words.

  The sickness of regret threatened to cave my chest.

  Oh God, let me find her. Don’t let it be too late.

  “I need you, old friend,” I told Arrow. He was saddled, the leather gear bags at his haunches bursting with the supplies I’d had time to gather from my childhood home. I could not consider what I would do if it didn’t work – if what I was riding toward this early morning, an hour before sunrise, was not possible. It had to be possible; I would will it so. I whispered to Arrow, low and insistent, “I need you more than ever right now. Don’t let me down. You hear me? Don’t let me down now.”

  I thought for only seconds of what would happen here, in Jalesville, in the aftermath of my sudden disappearance in the wake of Ruthann’s. Tish and Case knew where I was going; they had agreed to explain things to Dad and my brothers, and to Ruthann’s family back in Minnesota, if we hadn’t reappeared within a week. Good fortune willing, we would be back even before then. I turned up the collar of my down jacket, settled my hat lower over my head, and mounted my horse. Within seconds we’d cleared the yard, headed due west, toward the site of my family’s old homestead, founded well over a century ago by my many-times-great grandfather, Grant Rawley.

  I used my teeth to free my right hand from its thick leather glove and reached inside my pocket to touch the folded papers I’d placed there. A chill made my spine jerk and Arrow sidestepped, neighing in irritation. I closed my eyes and saw Ruthann’s face, her golden-green eyes that saw to the deepest part of me and from which I could hide nothing. I pictured the fullness of her mouth, her thick, dark curls in which I had buried my face and hands so many times now, the soft silkiness of her belly, her graceful arms and legs, and the strength with which they wrapped around me. The sweet scent of her freckled skin, the way she fit so exactly against my body, how I fit so exactly within her, made for her alone.

  Longing for her clenched me so hard in its grip that I groaned, the sound lost in the accelerating wind. Arrow’s hooves crunched the thickly-packed snow. Determination overrode the icy numbness of my hands and feet.

  “I’m coming, Ruthie, I promise you,” I vowed to the snowy dawn, concentrating on the thousands of images of her I held sacred in my heart. “I love you more than I could ever love anyone in this world and I am coming for you.”

  I knew she had disappeared into the past.

  I would find her, or I would die trying.

  Chapter One

  Smothering.

  Unable to breathe, I floundered, ripping at my face to tear away the blanket covering it, only to encounter nothing but emptiness. I screamed so hard my throat was shredded, I tasted blood, but no sound met my ears. There was only a pulsing pressure that threatened to shatter the curved boundaries of my skull, the sound of an unforgiving January wind streaking across the frozen surface of a shrouded lake.

  Though the words were incomplete in my mind, the sense of them hovered somewhere near –

  Help me!

  I was insubstantial, not so much a physical body as a rush of air. I hurtled motionlessly through open space, the way you would feel as a stationary passenger in a fast-moving airplane, a soap bubble, a husk, as fragile as an eggshell emptied of its liquid contents.

  Dear God, help me!

  I clung to the one name that had brought me back twice before, had pulled me from the brink of this empty, echoing terror. Need for him was stronger than my fear; need inundated my hollow body.

  Marshall! Please hear me, Marshall!

  But this time, I was not returned.

  I became conscious in splintered fragments. Sharp points of light darted into my mind and then away, carrying bits of awareness. For a time I fought full consciousness. At last I could no longer resist and squinted at the blinding brilliance. Sunlight stuck fingers down my eye sockets.

  Pain.

  I attempted to sit; it didn’t take long to understand I was incapable.

  “Help…please
, help me…”

  The words rasped against my paper-dry throat. My tongue felt three times its usual size, a flopping cartoon tongue. Instinct led me to curl around the pain in an attempt to center it; this motion sent agony exploding like small, powerful firecrackers attached to my nerves. Tears stung the rims of my eyes. My shaking hands encountered the source before my brain stumbled to the same conclusion – broken ribs. I whimpered, unable to help it.

  I let my eyelids sink, not caring in that moment if I died.

  Night was a cloak anchoring my body to the earth. I lay with shoulder blades flat against the ground, unable to shift to another position. For an unknown reason – or maybe many unknown reasons, I couldn’t begin to guess, not just now – I was outside and all sensory evidence suggested it was not in fact wintertime, even though the last memory I was able to conjure through the vice grip of physical pain involved heaping snow, and ice, and sadness –

  “No,” I begged, shying away from whatever the memory contained.

  I was an unchained prisoner, trapped on the ground, surrounded by empty land and chilly night air, hearing what seemed like every cricket within fifty miles sawing a tuneless, repetitive chorus. My skin rippled with goosebumps and was blistered by mosquito bites, my limbs jittering with cold. I had no idea where I was. My body hurt so much I was certain I would be dead before morning and still it didn’t come close to rivaling the gouging ache in my heart.

  Just go, I begged the memory. Please, just go…

  A deep, gruff voice demanded, “What in God’s name?”

  Heavy rumbling and the clinking of metal links invaded my ears, sounds I could not place into context. But then there was the unmistakable whoosh of a horse exhaling through its nostrils. Seconds after that I heard stomping hooves.

  It was daylight once again.

  A second voice, younger than the first, exclaimed, “Why, it’s a woman!”

  “Jump down, boy, quick!”

  “A woman, lying right here in the grass!”

  “Quit flapping your jaws and get to her. Is the poor thing dead?”

  Running footsteps approached and I sensed someone kneeling near my head. I heard the dry crackle of grass stalks and a shadow fell over my face, at once blocking the hammer of midday sun. The smell of an unwashed body hit my nose with enough force that I cringed away, groaning. The man connected to the voice and the smell placed his fingertips on my neck, gently probing for a pulse. He called, “She’s alive!”

  His voice was immediately closer to my face. “Miss? Can you hear me?” When I couldn’t manage to respond or open my eyes, he persisted, “Miss! You’re hurt. Can you hear me?”

  My head rolled weakly to one side and I felt a hard-textured palm cup my forehead; the touch was light and gentle but brought the strong odor of him closer to my nose. I gagged.

  Another person knelt on the ground, with considerable grunting, and addressed me. “Here now, little lady, you’ll be right as the rain.” This second voice, though low and rough, was reassuring.

  My eyelids cracked to a slit and I saw the two shapes silhouetted against a fiery-blue sky. One was an enormous, hulking figure, the second a much leaner man; both wore hats with wide brims. Had either meant me harm, there wasn’t a thing I could have done in my present state. My eyelids sank; I was too exhausted to keep them open.

  “Miss, I’ll help you take water,” the younger voice instructed. He cradled the back of my head and brought the rim of something to my mouth; even though I couldn’t see him, his gentle touch conveyed sincere concern. Water dribbled between my lips, wetting my swollen tongue. I was so grateful that tears burned my closed eyes. I coughed and choked, but a trickle of lukewarm liquid slid down my throat.

  “There now,” he murmured. “Take a little more, if you can.”

  He waited until I had swallowed another mouthful before lowering my head; he kept his hand beneath it as a buffer against the hard ground.

  The other man, the one with the gruff voice, spoke up. “You don’t feel fevered, little lady, but your forehead’s been struck bloody and you’re bruised something terrible. I won’t hurt you, I’m just gonna feel along your side.”

  I groaned, even though his touch along my ribs was lighter than powder. Pleading sounds rolled from my ragged throat.

  “She’s hurt real bad,” he muttered to the younger man. “Miss, me and the boy’ll lift you into our wagon and get you somewheres safe. Will you let us do that?”

  I managed one jerking bob of my chin as affirmation. Together they lifted me from the ground and if I hadn’t been so dehydrated I would have sobbed; as it was, I could only manage pitiful little huffs of breath. They carried me with great care, I was aware of this, but it was still almost unbearable; finally they deposited me in the open back of a wagon, onto rough wooden boards that scraped against my torn clothes and elbows.

  “You rest, miss,” the younger one said, climbing in the wagon, careful not to jostle the cramped space. He situated himself on my left side, settling beside my prone body. “You’re a bit sunburnt but I’ll make sure you don’t get no more sun.”

  I wanted to thank him, I really did. But I could not make my tongue work.

  “My name is Axton Douglas, miss, and that there is my uncle, Branch Douglas, right over there.” He spoke companionably, as if we were old friends. “We’ll take care of you, don’t you worry.” He shifted, wagon boards creaking. “Here, you need more water.”

  He helped me again to drink and his touch was tender. He smelled terrible; I could only guess that he hadn’t bathed in weeks, but he and his uncle had saved me from the likelihood of a slow, painful death on the ground, and therefore I was in no position to complain. The wagon jerked and clanked as the uncle climbed aboard in order to drive the horses. I groaned, aware of things in spotty patches. We lurched forward.

  Axton said, “There’s lots of bumps on the trail, miss, I’m sorry,” and so saying he edged closer, aligning his leg with my left side, resting one hand on my forehead in order to keep it as still as possible.

  “Gidd-up,” the man named Branch commanded and the wagon began rolling along.

  “Careful,” Axton cautioned.

  “I can’t smooth the way none,” Branch said, with clear apology.

  “I know,” Axton allowed. I sensed a natural curiosity mingling with his concern. He asked quietly, “What’s your name?”

  But I slipped beneath a blanket of unconsciousness.

  “Wake up, miss, you need more water,” someone murmured.

  His body odor was smothering and I could not move away from it – though, oddly, his breath, which I could feel on my eyelids as he bent near, wasn’t unpleasant. Even so, I tried to breathe through my mouth rather than my nose so his lack of deodorant and soap wasn’t so potent. My torso ached and my temples were squeezed by a throbbing headband, but I was not as thirsty. My tongue felt normal-sized again. I remained flat on my spine.

  It was sunset and we were rumbling over bumps along uneven ground. As I opened my eyes I beheld a wide expanse of sky, all the blue heat of earlier washed away and now tinted a creamy violet. The air felt dry and cool. The younger man riding in the back of the wagon with me – he had told me his name but I could not remember it – was still bracing my body with an outstretched leg, studying me in the gathering dusk. I guessed him to be somewhere in his late teens. His hair was shaggy against the backdrop of the sky; he’d shed his hat.

  “How’re you feeling?” he asked, bending toward me. “You been asleep all afternoon. We’ll be into town in less than an hour, now.”

  “A little better,” I mumbled. “What’s your name again? I don’t remember…”

  “Axton Douglas.” He sounded cheerful; his teeth flashed in a grin. “And that’s my uncle, Branch Douglas.”

  “Thank you,” I whispered.

  “What’s your name?” He was clearly eager to learn. “What happened to you? How’d you come to be alone by the trail, with no wagon or horses about? I been wondering about you all this long afternoon.”

  “Boy, let her be!” his uncle commanded; from my supine position I couldn’t see anything but the older man’s head and bulky shoulders. Branch sounded affectionately irritated, a tone I knew well. A tone I had heard many, many times before. Wasn’t that how…