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  The nonexistence of Blythe, Matthew, and Nathaniel; in this life, Blythe’s step-grandfather, Rich Mayes, a longtime employee at Shore Leave, had no grandchildren, nor had Rich worked at the cafe since before Grandma and Aunt Ellen died.

  Even Shore Leave itself was altered, a deserted shell of the warm, bustling heart of the little town we remembered.

  Mom and Aunt Jilly refused to stop asking questions, begging for every detail.

  And Camille and I had questions of our own. We learned that the Carter family, headed by Bull and Diana, continued to own and operate White Oaks Lodge, as they had for the past century-plus. Their children still numbered four, three daughters and a son; the daughters remained in Landon while Mathias resided in a suburb of Minneapolis. In this life, he had never returned home after college, instead remaining in the city to work a corporate job. Mom and Aunt Jilly didn’t know his wife’s name but the fact remained that Mathias was not only married, he was a father.

  “Of course he is.” Camille bore the expression of someone being eviscerated; I could hardly bear to look at her. “He’s wanted babies of his own since he was a little boy.”

  Even held in my tightest grasp later that night, she could not stop shaking. I feared her bones would break.

  While unable to sleep at night, Camille and I were all but unconscious for most of the daylight hours of Monday and Tuesday. Steeped in pain, we had yet to form any sort of attack plan and temporarily relented to exhaustion. Working together, Mom and Aunt Jilly hauled boxes and trunks from the attic and from Gran’s closet – dear Gran had passed away around the same time as we remembered, late in the summer of 2003. They proceeded to unearth family photographs, legal documents, letters; anything to provide some scrap of a clue about the past. None of us had any idea what we expected to find but the act of searching provided a welcome sensation of accomplishing something, alleviating a fraction of the vulnerability.

  Just before midnight last night, Camille had slipped from our twin bed and crept downstairs, wraithlike in a pale nightshirt with her hair hanging loose. When she failed to return I followed, finding her sitting on her heels alongside a small trunk. I realized her intent just before she found the photograph she sought – the old, black and white image of Malcolm Carter and his horse, Aces. The photo, taken in 1876, and which she’d truly discovered many years ago, while pregnant with Millie Jo, had set off a series of events leading her to Mathias. Poised on the staircase above I kept a respectful distance, not wanting to disturb her, watching as she brought the photograph to her face in the dimness of the living room, bending over it like a flower stalk caught in a harsh wind.

  At last I could bear her sadness no longer and joined her on the living room carpet, crouching beside her in front of the sagging couch that hadn’t been moved since the mid-1950s.

  “I have to be stronger than this, I know.” Camille’s face was wet, swollen from weeping. She had removed the picture from its frame and held it cupped against her breasts, a talisman to ward off fear. “Or I’m no good to anybody.”

  “Hey. Fuck being strong,” I whispered, hoping to coax a smile. “You don’t have to be strong in front of me, not ever.”

  A weak specter of humor flitted across her lips. “Thanks, Tish.”

  I nodded toward the photograph. Thinking aloud, I mused, “If only you could slip back in time, like Ruthie, and warn him.”

  “Warn Malcolm?”

  The idea gained in both appeal and prospect. “According to Derrick, Ruthann is in 1882. And based on Una Spicer’s letters, we know Malcolm was in contact with the Spicers and the Rawleys during that time. If you could show up there and warn him…” I paused, considering. “I would if I could, but I’ve never felt the pull of time the same way Ruthie does. I’m not capable of moving through it.”

  “But what makes you think I am? I’ve never felt it, either, Tish, and I’ve held Malcolm’s picture, I’ve read and touched letters and telegrams he wrote, I used to wear the ring I believe belonged to Cora. For the love of God, I was Cora in that life. I’ve held her skull in my hands and nothing ever pulled me backward.”

  I refused to be swayed by negativity, at least for the moment. “Go with me here. Suppose we could find a way to communicate with them. If you and I aren’t capable of traveling through time, could we somehow send a message?”

  Frustration overtook Camille’s delicate features. “But what would we warn them about? We don’t know what happened back then to cause this. We have no clue what Fallon did to one of the Rawleys, or possibly to one of Blythe’s ancestors.”

  We had searched online for any and all Tilsons residing in Oklahoma without finding a hint of Blythe; broadening the search to include the rest of the country proved just as useless.

  “But we know that Fallon did something,” I argued, determination welling. “What if we could get a message to Malcolm or Ruthie or Marshall to be careful, to be observant? Derrick said that Fallon knows who Ruthie is so chances are she knows who he is, too. It would provide them with information and any information at this point could prove helpful.”

  Camille closed her eyes, bringing Malcolm’s picture near her nose and inhaling, as if imbibing the essence of the man she believed had been Mathias in an earlier life. “What if it’s our destiny to be separated from each other? If what I believe is true, Malcolm spent the rest of his life searching for Cora. And she was already long gone. They lost each other then and I’ve lost Mathias now. Maybe that’s just our fate and I’m a fool to fight it. Oh Jesus, Tish…”

  “No. Stop it. I don’t believe that. If that’s our fate, why would we remember what used to be?” I battled the memory of Fallon’s recorded message to Derrick – fate is with me, brother, as you’ll soon see.

  Not if I can help it, you arrogant fucker, I thought to counteract the panic. I suddenly remembered something else. “When we were driving home from Montana on Sunday, Dad told me Franklin was expected at a benefit dinner this weekend. I can’t just sit here in Landon doing nothing, I’ll go nuts. What if I head to Chicago and find out what I can about the Yancys? I work for Ron in this timeline, it’s so fucked up, but it gives me another way in, a way to get information.”

  Camille studied me closely; she knew me too well. “You can’t confront this Franklin by yourself, it’s way too dangerous. What if he actually shows up there? What would you possibly do?”

  “Tell everyone what I know about him, for one thing. Whether he’s there or not, it’s a perfect opportunity to reveal all the Yancys’ dirty secrets.”

  “What makes you think anyone would believe what you said about him? And you were the one who said Franklin was armed, Tish, you told me that yourself! What’s to prevent him from killing you on the spot? I won’t let you do this.”

  “I’ll be there with Dad and Lanny, and probably Robbie, not to mention about a hundred other guests. It’s a benefit dinner, for Christ’s sake, a total dog-and-pony show, like Dad would say. No one is actually there because they give a shit about whatever the proceeds are going toward, they’re attending to see and be seen. What better occasion to let loose with big news like that?” My thoughts stormed, arcing like lightning to another point. “Besides, Derrick said Franklin is obsessed with causing pain. It would be a kindness in his eyes to kill me now, when he’s robbed me of the life I was supposed to live. And I want to get a read on Derrick. He doesn’t remember the real timeline but I’d bet damn good money he has the exact same chip on his shoulder in this one. I bet I can crack him.”

  Camille chewed her lower lip, considering the likelihood of my theories proving true; I was heartened to see her coming around to my idea. “What should I do here, in the meantime?”

  “Research. Keep looking for any information we could use. I won’t stay in Chicago any longer than the weekend,” I promised.

  “Maybe we really can figure out a way to send a message. I’ll talk to Aunt Jilly tomorrow. Maybe it’s possible. I have to believe it’s possible. You’re right,
dying would be a kindness right now, wouldn’t it?” She drew a shuddering breath. “My body is so different, Tish, it’s totally untouched. In this life I’ve never been pregnant. I’ve never nursed my babies. I’d rather die than live the rest of my life without Mathias and our children. They are my everything.”

  “I love you,” I gulped, choked by sudden emotion; I hated this talk of dying. “I couldn’t have made it through the past few days without you.”

  Camille threw her arms around me and we rocked sideways as we hugged. Her soft hair bracketed my right cheek, overwhelming me with her floral scent. Against my temple she whispered, “I couldn’t have made it through any of this without you, little sister.”

  After speaking briefly over the phone with Dad, I called for a plane ticket and scheduled a flight for late the next morning, March twentieth. Camille would drive me to the airport in Minneapolis.

  “Don’t look for him here,” I insisted as I settled my purse strap over my shoulder at the gate, leaning back into the car to address her. Stupid, inconsequential things flitted across my mind, like a wardrobe and accessories I did not remember purchasing, as if to allay the tension in my head. She didn’t at once respond and I infused my tone with severity, fixing her with my best lawyer look. “Promise me, Milla. Don’t do that to yourself. He won’t be the man you remember.”

  At last she nodded, hands hanging lax from the steering wheel, eyes steady on mine. “Have a safe trip and call when you get there. Say hi to Dad.” Her gaze sharpened, becoming all at once exacting. “Be safe, Tish, I mean it. Don’t take any chances. Please. I can’t lose you, too.”

  “I’ll be careful.” And then, more softly, “Don’t do it.”

  “I won’t,” she whispered. “I promise.”

  I didn’t believe her for an instant.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Landon, MN -March, 2014

  I WATCHED UNTIL TISH DISAPPEARED INTO THE SWIRLING crowd of fellow travelers, then lowered my forehead to my knuckles, momentarily overwhelmed. I battled the urge to fish from my jeans pocket the notes I’d scribbled on the back of an order pad at Shore Leave, those of Mathias’s current work and home addresses. It had been easy – a quick search through an online phone directory revealed Mathias and Suzanne Carter, of Minnetonka, a suburb no more than twenty-five minutes west of the airport. My best guess was that this Suzanne was the person I remembered as ‘Suzy,’ someone he’d dated in college, a girl Bull had often referred to as a high-maintenance poodle; Mathias had later laughed over the description, agreeing that it was apt, if impolite.

  Memories clustered, demanding attention, so thick I could have used both hands to bat them away. I recalled the first winter I met Mathias James Carter, when he was fresh home from Minneapolis, having reached the conclusion that he was not cut out for long-term life in the city; he missed his family and the north woods. In the alternate timeline in which I now existed, Landon had never been my permanent home until the last few weeks. Apparently I’d earned an education degree and had been recently hired to replace an elderly, ailing teacher. Noah Utley, Millie’s father, had no obvious connections to me in this life. Because we hadn’t stuck around Landon back in the summer of 2003, I’d never dated Noah, which meant no Millie Jo. And no Millie Jo meant I’d never lived with Grandma and Aunt Ellen, and had never worked at White Oaks Lodge and met the Carters.

  An irritated driver laid on his horn in the car behind mine, startling me to attention.

  There was little choice but to drive forward. I stared once more in the direction Tish had vanished, willing her to stay safe, gripping the steering wheel so tightly its pattern was imprinted on my palms. I hated to let her go but Tish would not be moved from her decision to search for information in Chicago. She was rabid with the desire to confront Franklin Yancy and I understood this conviction, I truly did, but right now the thought of such a confrontation proved too excruciating; I couldn’t bear to consider what could go wrong and so I aimed my thoughts toward something I could accomplish in the next few days – collecting information about the past.

  And I intended to seek out Bull and Diana Carter for help.

  I loved my in-laws dearly. I’d been acquainted with them long before I met Mathias and it was my interest in history, my deep desire to find answers about Malcolm Carter’s photograph, which led me to White Oaks in the first place. Fate, I’d believed ever since. At least, until now. Was fate a fixed entity? Or something malleable, a river flowing without stopping, the way Quinn Rawley had described time? It had to be the latter, something pliable enough that a single action retained the power to alter countless future events. What had Franklin done? How had he known where to strike? And what sort of unhinged mind took such a chance? Had he even considered the ways his own future could be rendered different?

  Mathias, my heart wept. I swallowed a sob, exhausted from too many bouts of brutal weeping. Furthermore, it seemed unproductive. I was a mother, despite my missing children, and a mother did whatever was required to make things right for her offspring. I had never taken them for granted – had I? Fear and sleeplessness punctured holes in my conviction. The life Mathias and I had created together was a gift, a blessing beyond comprehension. I would have argued until out of breath that I had never taken it for granted; the sweet, dear, unhurried life in our cabin a few hundred yards beyond White Oaks Lodge. The beautiful homesteader’s cabin in which Malcolm Carter once lived and my husband and his father had since refurbished, creating a home for our family of seven.

  No matter how many times I’ve watched our babies nurse, I still love it more than about anything, Mathias whispered in my memory, shifting closer to trace a gentle fingertip over James’s plump cheek.

  I shuddered, pain clogging the dark hollow behind my breastbone, but refusing to allow that particular evening to play out in my mind was beyond my ability.

  Thias, I heard myself murmur, lazy contentment ripe in my voice; no one other than me called him that particular nickname. Thunder grumbled in the distance, a muted sound only slightly louder than the steady rain at our bedroom window. Insulated in our cozy bed, I slipped one leg between both of his and he smoothed his warm, broad palm along my thigh, bare beneath the old maternity t-shirt I wore. On that rainy November twilight our newest son was only two weeks old.

  This is what I longed for all my life, Mathias murmured, stroking hair from my forehead. His voice was husky with sweetness and love. My woman, our babies. Honey, I love you so much that my heart almost hurts. He grinned before whispering, I need a kiss.

  Come here, I murmured in response, reaching to cup my hand around the back of his head. He leaned over our nursing son, with great care, and our mouths met with a soft suckling sound. I opened my lips and he swirled his tongue in voluptuous circles, tasting me from the inside out.

  Lingering close, he whispered, This is my dream, honey. This is it, right here, right now. Thank you for that.

  Mine too, love. You made it come true.

  Just below our faces, the baby detached from my nipple with a soft popping sound and Mathias smiled, leaning to kiss his downy forehead.

  He smells so good, he whispered. You think I’d be used to it by now, their sweet baby smell. But it gets me every time.

  We lay in our room tinted by the ashy light of a stormy evening, kissing softly, snuggling James between us, while rain continued to streak the windowpane. When a wall-rattling burst of thunder exploded above our cabin we both startled, then laughed as James’s blue eyes sprang wide; immediately he let loose with the chuffing, breathy cries so common to newborns. Seconds later we heard the sudden thumping of little feet down the hallway.

  Mathias grinned. Brace yourself, honey. Incoming!

  Brantley was the first to bolt into our room, hooking his elbows on the mattress and diving for his father’s chest, where he was cuddled instantly close. Henry was on his brother’s heels, leaping from the end of the bed. I cautioned, Careful, sweetheart, as Henry crawled toward me, intent on cla
iming the spot that James had, out of necessity, overtaken.

  C’mere, little one, Mama’s nursing the baby, Mathias said, and I heard the amusement in his voice as he caught Henry around the torso and hauled him close, one twin curled in each arm. He resettled the boys against his powerful chest. Now we just have to wait for the girls.

  Millie Jo isn’t scared, Brantley said, hiding his face against Mathias as the next round of thunder detonated.

  Don’t be too sure, I murmured as she appeared in the room a moment later, holding Lorie by the hand. Lorie began fussing, reaching for me with both plump toddler arms; she had been the youngest for the past three years and was struggling to relinquish the role to her newest brother. Millie lifted Lorie to the bed and climbed up after her, elbowing Henry. He whined while Lorie wiggled as close to me as she was able, wishing to reclaim the spot which had recently been all hers.

  I cupped my youngest daughter’s head, ruffling her soft curls and staving off her tears, then placed a protective forearm around James, who had latched hold and energetically resumed nursing. Thunder crashed and lightning sizzled blue-white at the windows; the kids all shrieked, simultaneously fighting to get under the covers. Mathias was laughing.

  As he did so often, he began to sing one of his favorite songs, feeling this occasion required the John Denver tune about a crowded feather bed. I giggled as he took up the chorus with characteristic gusto. The kids joined in, with merry exuberance, forgetting their fear of the thunderstorm. They knew all the words; Mathias and I had sung to them from birth. There seemed to be about twice as many pointy elbows and knobby knees than actually accounted for. Parenting was all about elbows and knees in your bed. I smiled at my husband, whose lips were pursed as he sang, getting into the song, as always.

  Later, after the kids trundled back to their own beds, baby James asleep in his crib no more than arm’s length away, I snuggled happily against Mathias’s chest, curling my fingers through the thick hair there, burying my nose and inhaling. He kissed my temple, rubbing my shoulder blades, whispering sleepily, Good-night, honey.