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  Marshall disappeared because Jacob died in the fire, the baby I came to the past to save.

  Jacob is gone.

  The Rawleys are gone.

  My baby is gone.

  OhGodohGodohGodohGod…

  I wished I was able to forget the journey on horseback to Howardsville and the subsequent endless train ride, with its multiple connections, to St. Paul, Minnesota. Hollow and iced-over, my insides echoing with despair, I was aware of little but clinging to Axton, the only security left to me in this world. I slept most of the way as the train cars rolled east. When he whispered, “We’re here,” I refused to open my eyes and behold the depot of the St. Paul railroad station, where Malcolm Carter awaited our arrival. Midmorning sunshine glared on my eyelids and I hated its brilliant light; I wanted to scream the sun out of the sky, to watch it plummet toward the horizon in a fiery plume of destruction.

  “C’mon, Ruthie, we can’t stay here.” Axton spoke gently and I marveled at the depth of courage he had shown, the resolve and determination, the refusal to bow beneath the weight of despair.

  By contrast I was a coward of immense proportions, unable to tell him Patricia was lost for good. Axton would never get close enough to find her; Dredd Yancy had found her first. Dredd had killed his own father, Thomas Yancy, the same day that Fallon had ordered the Rawleys’ homestead burned, and had blamed Cole for the murder. Cole was now in jail in Iowa City, awaiting trial. Malcolm had witnessed the entire spectacle as it played out on the prairie; a man named Blythe Tilson had also been killed in the ambush. Only hours before Marshall disappeared for good, he and Axton had received the telegram Malcolm sent to Howardsville, instructing them to pass the word of Cole’s arrest on to the Spicers.

  Blythe Tilson.

  The familiar name rotated around the inside of my head. He couldn’t possibly be the Blythe Tilson wed to my mother in the twenty-first century. An ancestor, then? A connection forged between my family and the Tilsons long before 2003?

  Dredd killed Blythe’s ancestor.

  Dredd killed Thomas Yancy, his own father.

  And he took Patricia and the baby.

  Patricia, my sweet, dear friend.

  I couldn’t bear to imagine in what condition she and Monty currently existed. I tried to find comfort in the fact that Dredd had shown us compassion last year, when Patricia and I lived in the Yancy estate.

  We should never have parted ways. You could never know how sorry I am, Patricia…

  Axton supported me down the clanging metal steps and through a noisy, bustling crowd. I squinted at the brightness, overwhelmed, tucked to Axton’s warm side. He kissed the top of my head and murmured, “Come on, we gotta find Malcolm.”

  I moved obediently along with Ax, flinching when I heard someone call, “Axton! Ruthann!” I spied Malcolm Carter standing in bright sun on a dusty boardwalk flanking the depot, waving his arms in wide arcs, hat in his left hand. He hollered, “Over here!”

  It took only seconds to observe that others waited with Malcolm, two women and three men, and the urge to shy away, to retreat and avoid all contact, swept over me. But then one of the women stepped forward to meet us and my heart – dead in my chest cavity these hundreds of miles – issued a small, unexpected thump. She hurried to us, letting her bonnet tumble down her back, and a whimper choked my throat as she appropriated me from Axton’s arms.

  “My dear, dear girl,” she whispered, stroking my loose hair. “I am Lorie Davis.”

  “Axton Douglas,” Ax was saying to those who crowded near but I saw none of them, holding fast to the woman who so closely resembled my mother. Introductions flew and danced in the air above my head.

  Sawyer and Lorie Davis, Boyd and Rebecca Carter, Edward Tilson.

  “You two look like you just seen a ghost,” Malcolm was saying as Lorie released her embrace, taking care to keep me close. I huddled against her side, seeing for the first time the others standing with Malcolm. Simply because of the obvious surprise on their faces, I focused on two of the men – one of whom wore a patch over his left eye – each studying Axton with unblinking gazes. With almost comical unison the men looked at one another, wearing identical expressions of stun, before returning their amazement to Axton.

  “Boyd, honey, you’ve confused this young man in addition to the rest of us,” commented a lovely woman with a glossy topknot of dark hair, nudging his ribs with her elbow.

  “I apologize, young fella, it’s just that I can’t quite believe my eyes,” said the man named Boyd, whose strong resemblance to Malcolm suggested an older brother. “You are the goddamn spittin’ image of –”

  “My brother, Ethan.” The man named Sawyer completed the sentence in a hoarse whisper, peering at Axton with a feature I suddenly realized I knew. Despite one being hidden beneath a patch, I knew his eyes; I staggered slowly to awareness.

  The Davis family eyes. This man is my ancestor.

  “I know this ain’t seemly and for that I do apologize,” Boyd Carter continued. “But what was your father’s name, young Douglas?”

  Axton stammered, “My pa was killed before I was born. His name was Aaron Douglas.”

  “You were born in Cumberland County?” Sawyer leaned closer, forehead knitted. Tall, wide-shouldered, solid with muscle and missing an eye, he was altogether imposing, focused intently on Axton. “Near the town of Suttonville, is that correct?”

  “And your pa died in the War Between the States?” Boyd persisted.

  “Was your mama named Mary?” Sawyer asked.

  “Boys!” commanded the oldest of the bunch, a man with silver, shoulder-length hair and skin like wrinkled leather. “Cough up what you-all mean before we bust apart with curiosity!”

  Axton held his hat to his chest. Perplexed but too polite to deny information, he addressed Sawyer as he confirmed, “Yessir, my mama’s name was Mary.”

  Sawyer gripped the lower half of his face and his throat bobbed as he swallowed hard.

  Boyd clapped a hand around Axton’s bicep. “I’ll explain for my oldest friend, as he is overcome just now. Long ago I had me some tact, but I’ve lived too long and seen too much to beat around the bush.” He paused, sympathetic dark eyes fixed on Axton. “Young man, I do believe your real daddy was Sawyer’s brother, Ethan. I know it’s a goddamn shock but I promise to tell the whole story first chance we get.”

  In the morning another train would take us as far north as a city called Fairfield. From there it seemed we would complete the last five miles of the journey to Landon by wagon; in the meantime we were booked for the night at a hotel near the train station. Axton relinquished me to Lorie and Rebecca with promises to return to say good-bye before he collected Ranger from the stock cars, resupplied for the journey south, and subsequently rode out; Malcolm intended to accompany him to Iowa, in order to do whatever they could to help Cole.

  Ax held me close and hard for a long moment in the steep shadow of the sharply-pitched depot roof. The strength of his need to continue moving radiated like lightning from his lean, tense body; remaining stationary when Patricia was in danger gouged deeply into his already-wounded heart.

  “Be careful,” I begged, burying my face against his sweat-stained shirt, gulping with restrained sobs. “Please, Ax.”

  “I’ll keep in touch as best I can, I swear to you, Ruthie. I got you here but now I have to go.” He drew away, lifting my chin so I could no longer hide my eyes. “They will care for you. These are good and decent people. I would never leave you here if I thought otherwise.”

  “I pray you’ll find Patricia,” I whispered. He never would; he had no chance. I knew I would never see Axton Douglas again after today and my only comfort was the notion that soon I would be dead. Lorie said we would reach Landon by tomorrow evening; once there, I intended to slip away and take a midnight swim in Flickertail Lake. What I did not intend was to come out alive. The promise of drowning was all that kept the pain at bay moment to moment. I knew Marshall and our unborn son would be wait
ing for me on the other side.

  “I’ll find her,” Axton vowed, looking south. He didn’t have to say, Or I’ll die trying.

  “Your middle name is Ethan,” I whispered; the fact had just occurred to me. “Like the man they believe is your real father.”

  Axton returned his gaze to mine, slowly shaking his head as a meditative expression replaced a fraction of his stress. “Ain’t that something else? Boyd promised to tell me the whole story when we get supplies.” A hint of a smile graced his mouth. “It would mean I still have kin, Ruthie, imagine that. I never would have guessed such in a hundred years.”

  “Remember that day I washed your hair for you? Branch said neither of your parents was redheaded, remember? Maybe your mother named you for your real father, after all.” Inundated by tenderness and love I stretched on tiptoe to kiss his cheek, gripping his head with both hands, my palms bracketing his ears. “I don’t care who your parents were, I love them for making you. You are more special to me than you could know, Axton Douglas. I love you.” Tears jammed my nose and throat, gliding in hot trickles down my cheeks; I was glad he could not read my mind, and was therefore unaware of my intent to die. “Never forget me, okay? Promise me.”

  Tears swept his cheeks. Unashamed, he let them fall. “I love you too, Ruthie. And you won’t have time to forget me. I’ll be back with Patricia before you know it.”

  I nodded, pretending I believed him.

  The noon hour came and went, and along with it Axton and Malcolm. The St. Paul streets were noisy, crowded with wagons, buggies, horses, mules, and foot traffic; I watched them until I could see nothing of Axton but his hat, before that too was gobbled from view. We had gathered on the hotel steps to bid them farewell and I meant to retain my composure, failing utterly as Axton disappeared from my life; the universe had already swallowed whole my reason for living. Vision blurring, I would have gone to my knees if not for Lorie’s quick movement, catching me around the waist. Despite her delicate build her arms were strong, holding me secure.

  “It seems Malcolm is always riding away from us,” she said softly. “I hate it so.”

  I locked my knees, praying I could stave off the shaking until I was alone. I found a measure of comfort in Lorie’s presence, touched that she would confide in me.

  She drew a fortifying breath, patting me twice as she gently ordered, “Come, Ruthann, I promised Axton I would see to it that you ate a proper dinner.”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Landon, MN - March, 2014

  THE FIRST NIGHT, TISH WOULD ONLY ALLOW CLINT AND me near her. We lay on either side, bracketing her body, holding fast, but our strength was not enough to overpower the shaking. I spoke not a word, nor did Clint after his first attempt to offer comfort. Mom and Aunt Jilly stayed near in case we called for something. Tish’s friend, Robbie Benson, had flown home with her from Chicago and was stationed in the living room; I heard the quiet murmur of his deeper male voice conversing with the womenfolk when Tish wasn’t weeping or vomiting. There was nothing to say to change what had happened; I refused to pacify her with promises that everything would be all right.

  Nothing was all right.

  Case had died in my sister’s arms.

  Force had been required to remove her from the crime scene in Chicago; she wouldn’t let the police take his body away.

  I only allowed my thoughts to stray a few minutes ahead at a time; to consider any farther into the future of our current reality was too terrifying. I had to believe, now more than ever, that we could change things.

  “Thank you for being here,” Tish whispered near dawn, startling me from a light, troubled doze.

  “I’m not going anywhere.” I brushed hair from her wet, tear-sticky face, relieved to hear her voice. She lay facing me with knees bent to her chest and hadn’t spoken since yesterday evening. Flat on his back on her far side, Clint rumbled with snores. A grayish tint lent the bedroom an eerie, otherworldly feeling; Tish’s features seemed shaded by pencil strokes. I drew the quilt higher over her shoulders.

  “Is Robbie still here?” she croaked.

  “He’s sleeping downstairs. Dad called twice last night but I didn’t talk to him.”

  “Camille,” she moaned and I curved around her at once, bracing for another onslaught of anguish. Her words were self-inflicted punishment. “I thought nothing could be worse than seeing Case with Lynnette… but this…this…oh God…”

  Clint released a loud, grunting snore and rolled toward us without waking up, slinging an arm and inadvertently striking my cheekbone.

  “Ow!”

  “Sorry,” he mumbled.

  Tish shoved aside the blankets and tumbled over me, falling to the carpet. She rose and dashed for the bathroom while I braced on one elbow and slogged a hand through my tangled hair.

  “Shit,” muttered Clint, both forearms crossed over his eyes as we listened to Tish throw up for probably the tenth time since midnight.

  Resolve – or desperate foolishness – propelled me to my feet. “I can’t take this anymore. It’s time to fucking fix this.”

  “Ruthie needs to know everything we know.” Aunt Jilly curled her fingers around mine as she spoke; seven of us crowded around table three. “We have to find a way to reach her.”

  The more we talked about Ruthann, the more Mom and Aunt Jilly remembered her; as with Mathias’s sister, Tina, there was ample evidence to suggest the real timeline existed just beyond reach, there and very much alive, but shrouded as though behind heavy cloud cover. Determination burned anew in my veins; I would tap into the sunshine that would pierce and annihilate those clouds. I would accomplish this if it was the last thing I ever did. Shore Leave smelled of perking coffee; we were closed to customers but the interior lights created a warm glow to counteract the sobbing, steel-gray sky. It seemed only natural to gather here in times of stress, as we’d always done.

  “But if Fallon already killed the Rawleys and Blythe’s ancestor in the nineteenth century, if those things already happened then, how could Ruthie hope to change anything?” Possibilities swam in endless circles around my head; one problem seemed barely solved when another five rose to take its place. Frustration struggled to gain the upper hand.

  “What if we could get a message to her before those things happened?” Aunt Jilly sat with both hands wrapped around her coffee mug to keep from wringing them, I knew. “We have a tentative idea, after all. We could warn her.”

  “If we could reach her before 1882, you mean,” Mom said.

  “We’re assuming more time has passed there than here,” I explained to Robbie, who sat to Clint’s right, an untouched cup of coffee on the tabletop before him. Robbie wore an old Shore Leave sweatshirt Mom had lent him and a serious, troubled expression. “Derrick Yancy told Tish that time moves differently in the past, faster somehow.”

  “You’re referring to Derrick from the correct timeline, right?” Robbie asked the question with an air of deferential politeness I sensed was somewhat foreign to him.

  “Yes.”

  “What if…” Robbie pursed his lips, frowning at the ceiling as he considered. “What if your sister could return here? Like this very minute, I mean. She can travel through time, right? What’s the possibility that she could then travel backward far enough to prevent the deviation from the original timeline?”

  It was an angle I hadn’t yet considered. “You know, that’s close to what we were talking about at the Rawleys’ before everything changed. Bringing Marshall and Ruthann back by force, so to speak.”

  Mom shook her head. “How could I let Ruthie go if she showed up here?”

  Before anyone could respond, Clint’s face registered sudden concern; he sat facing the windows and I looked over my shoulder to see Tish shuffling across the porch. She wore a tattered bathrobe over jeans and a sweatshirt, her hair hanging in tangled loops; she made no attempt to shield her head from the downpour, as though sleepwalking.

  Mom leaped from her chair, overturn
ing it, and raced outside. She hurried Tish inside and wrapped her in a coat from the rack near the door,

  “You should be resting,” Mom admonished, helping her to a chair.

  The skin around Tish’s eyes appeared painfully fragile, bruised beyond repair. She made an X of her forearms atop the table and rested her head on her wrists.

  “Let her stay,” Aunt Jilly said softly.

  “Are you warm enough?” Mom hovered near her chair. “Oh, sweetheart, I’m so sorry…”

  “Don’t call me that,” Tish begged, barely audible. “Please, don’t call me that…”

  I knew ‘sweetheart’ was Case’s favorite endearment for her.

  Robbie leaned forward, pinning Mom with an earnest expression. “Not all that long ago Fallon Yancy had me killed. Tish attended my funeral. Even though I don’t remember any life but this one, I trust what your daughter has told me in the past week. I feel like I’ve been given a second chance here, to reverse what happened. I’m willing to risk my life to get back to the real timeline, that’s how goddamn serious I am.”

  I took up the gauntlet, intuiting what he meant. “Robbie’s right, Mom. Ruthie would be willing to do whatever was required, just like any of us. Whatever events changed things now, in the twenty-first century, happened to Ruthie in the nineteenth. Fallon said she ‘remembered’ and that he hoped Tish would, too. If I could, I would go back. I wouldn’t think twice.” Tears wet my eyes but I blinked them away, too impatient to cry.

  “Camille, tell us what you talked about with the Rawleys,” Aunt Jilly requested. “How did you plan to bring Marshall and Ruthann back?”

  “One of the places where the past seemed strongest was the foundation of the Rawleys’ original homestead. Ruthie and Marsh both felt the pull of time there. Marshall called it a ‘force field.’ We intended to gather there, all of us, and will them back. There was no reason to assume it would work, we just hoped. We decided this the Saturday we were last in Jalesville. Clark said there would be a full moon the next night, Sunday, and we’d try then.”