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CHAPTER II
 Keefe stepped quickly into the cabin and to
the right, his back against the chinked log wall. Nothing disturbed the
quiet except his harsh, shallow breathing, and the slow hiss of expiring
embers in the fireplace. The cabin odor, a blend of wood smoke, cooked
food and stale clothing, also suggested the owners hadn't been gone long.
As his eyes adjusted to the scant moonlight spilling through the windows
and doorway, he made out a cook stove, table, chairs and a narrow bed.
The only other door led to a room behind the fireplace. On cautious feet
he approached, then waited five seconds before taking a fast look into
an alcove crowded by a bed, chest, wash stand and trunk.
He picked up an oil lamp from the wash stand
and called Tara inside. While he lit the lamp, using a kindling twig and
fireplace embers, Tara barred the door with a stout board and closed the
muslin curtains. As the homely room sprang to life, Keefe heaved a sigh
of relief. For the moment, they were safe.
He started to say, "I'll bet the owners are
down at the corner pub," when Tara's gasp of dismay wheeled him around.
Rigid as marble, she stood staring into a small mirror over the dry sink.
Keefe moved up behind her, and ducking his head over her shoulder peered
at the dusky images in the mirror. A blonde, teenage girl and a strange,
dark haired young man stared back at them with stupefied expressions.
"My God." He stroked the thick hair back from
his forehead, observing the reflected action in the mirror. "If this is
a dream, don't wake me."
"How can you say that?" Tara demanded, her
tone sharp and rising. "You aren't you anymore, and I'm not me!"
"Sure we are," Keefe said, hoping in her distraught
state she wouldn’t pick up on his phony heartiness. "Only better!"
"I don't want to be better," she cried. "I
want to be me!" In the mirror, her eyes skated wildly from side to side,
showing an alarming amount of white. "Who are we, Keefe? Who the hell are
we?"
"Easy, honey. You're still Tara in here,"
he tapped her temple with his finger—"where it counts." He put both hands
on her quaking shoulders and turned her toward him. "We'll get ourselves
sorted out. In the meantime, we have to take first things first."
Tara bobbed her head and a couple of sparkling
droplets flew off her lashes. "You mean like survival." Then, verging on
a hysterical giggle, she said, "Oh, it's probably just another time warp.
Something to tell our grandchildren."
Keefe's tightened his fingers on her shoulders.
Tara might not be used to dealing with emergencies, but she’d better learn,
because if ever there was an emergency, this was it.
She slipped from under his hands to move silently
about the cabin, investigating everything with her eyes. Keefe dumped a
thick log on the dwindling fireplace embers, then picked up the lamp and
followed her.
The two-room cabin lacked electricity, plumbing
and upholstery. Small rag rugs covered a token portion of the plank flooring.
Judging by the clothing hanging on wall pegs, at least one man and one
woman lived here. In the main room, three cupboards with curtained shelves
held dishes, home canned jars of food, cooking and cleaning equipment.
A fourth, closed cupboard occupied one corner. A footed cast iron utensil--
Keefe recalled seeing one in an antique shop-- waited on the hearth for
a batch of all-day beans. A long rifle-- a relic of the Revolutionary War?--hung
above the fireplace.
Tara pointed at the large black trunk crouched
at the foot of the bed in the kitchen-living-bedroom. "A tole painter's
dream--in a nightmare. Stephen King would love this place."
"I'd say everything in here would have flea
marketers drooling," Keefe said lightly. Then his erratic personal alarm
went off, a brief buzzing in his head alerting him that something wasn't
right. Hell, he already knew that, but at least the sometime-system worked
in his new body.
He prowled about the room, lifting the curtains
of the three cabin windows to check the area around it. Nothing moved in
the moonlit farmyard, nor as far as he could tell in the shadows. Which
meant-- Hell, he didn't know what it meant. The driver’s killer, crossbow
reloaded, could be watching, waiting for them to step outside.
Tara stood watching him, tense as a starched
figurine. A damn pretty one too. In her old-fashioned clothing she looked
right at home in the primitive cabin. He glanced down at his own clothes--
jeans, plaid shirt, dark jacket and coarse, high top shoes. Suitable for
the rustic setting, though he preferred an L. L. Bean fit.
A few hours ago rustic had seemed like a good
background for a first date; a woman who’d fuss about hay in her hair wasn't
his type. However it turned out to be first time he’d dated two women in
the same evening. The only physical similarity he'd noticed between the
brunette and blonde Taras was the way each had slanted a speculative look
up at him. Not quite a come-hither glance, but intriguing.
Reminding himself that the situation didn’t
lend itself to romance, he glanced over at Tara, now studying the row of
books on a shelf above the bed. What perverse trick of fate had gotten
them into this mess? More important, how were they going to get out of
it?
Restless and feeling the encroaching chill,
Keefe busied himself with the remnants of fire in the cast iron cook stove.
"I don't suppose the owner will mind if I build this up," he said.
Tara lifted her shawl to cover the back of
her neck. "I'd rather be warm and take my chances. They must be environmentalists--
no power, phone or plastic." She paused, worrying her lower lip in her
teeth. "Keefe...do you think we could’ve stepped back in time?"
"Right now I’m not ruling out anything." Poor
Tara. Making a woman’s way in life a long time ago had to be a lot tougher
than for a man. Especially a man with two good legs!
On her knees Tara climbed onto the bed. "Let's
see what these folks read when the cable TV goes out. Maybe we’ll get a
clue." She took the books from the shelf and carried them over to the table.
Keefe joined the investigation. "The Lady's
Book-- copyright 1878?" he said, riffling through pages of nineteenth
century fashions and domestic advice.
"This one is about bulls, boars and breeding.
The copyright is 1875, but I suppose the procedures haven't changed much."
The rest of the tiny library consisted of
one volume of Shakespeare, another of poetry, , two more on agricultural
subjects, one encyclopedia, a children's story book, and the most recent,
The
Farmers' Almanac, 1884.
"What, no family Bible?" Tara’s voice sounded
forced, tinny.
Gooseflesh prickled Keefe’s backside. "Granted,
the library could use updating, but I've slept in worse places." Even so,
he’d always known what year it was.
Tara shivered and her teeth chattered. "If
the owners don't come back tonight, we could be murdered in these beds.
M-maybe we ought to stay in the barn."
Keefe gathered up the books and got to his
feet, the draft from his quick movement sending a stream of sparks hissing
up the chimney. "We're not going anywhere tonight. And stay away from the
windows." Instantly he regretted his abrupt tone. Tara was already frightened;
now her face took on a haunted expression, aging her wide blue eyes and
fine, fair skin.
To his astonishment he felt a surge of desire
to soothe the woman concealed in the body of this white-lipped girl. He
wasn’t sure which was which, but at least one of them had gotten to him
so fast it was scary. If only he’d taken Tara to a restaurant and then
for a walk in the Batesville moonlight. But, no, Keefe Schuyler had to
get creative and take her on a hayride to Hell!
"We'll be okay here tonight. Don't worry,
I'm a light sleeper, and I've got the fireplace poker."
"What about the mules? We can't just leave
them hitched to the wagon."
Shit! He'd forgotten all about the
mules. "Right. I'll see to them."
"I'll go with you," Tara said, clutching her
shawl in one hand and her torn skirt in the other.
Keefe shook his head. "I'll do it." Tara was
depending on him to keep his cool and handle things. Looking after her
would help keep him focused. Admitting that he knew less about unharnessing
mules than he knew about dressing chickens wouldn’t help, but if he kept
her busy, she'd have less time to fret. "You can hunt up another lamp or
some candles while I’m outside."
Tara's attention had wandered to the sleeping
accommodations. The bigger bed was scarcely large enough for two persons.
"I wonder if the owners are a parent and an older child, or if they’re
married and one of them snores."
"Maybe they get enough togetherness during
the day." Or maybe the sexy bloom had worn off and that's all there ever
was. Keefe gave himself a mental shake and switched his mind from dysfunctional
marriages to the local crossbow killer. "I'll take a look around on my
way to the barn. Be sure to bar the door after me."
"No!" Tara grabbed at his arm, her eyes glassy
with unshed tears. "We're in this together, and I'm going with you."
Again something sweet and plaintive in her
touched a long dormant cord in Keefe’s nature. In another time and place
he’d have responded differently. Now, however, he took hold of her arms
and moved them to her sides. Her torn skirt drooped, exposing a white undergarment.
He smiled down at her. "I've had more experience in skulking, and I skulk
faster alone. Even the owls won't see me."
Tara bit her lip, then nodded and watched
him go, poker in hand. When she’d barred the door she hurried from one
small window to the next, too late to follow his movements. Nothing moved
except dappled moonlight in the shadow of pines swaying in a light wind.
Giving up, she fastened her gaze on the large dark blob within the shadow
of the barn--the mules and hay wagon.
The minutes lengthened. Silence picked at
her nerves. She gripped the rough window frame until her fingers ached,
straining to see into the dense shadow...until finally the mules moved,
freed of harness and wagon. Releasing a tremendous sigh, she turned to
her assigned chore.
As she lit the oil lamp she’d found in the
cabinet, she thought about the owners. From the low level of the fires,
and the lack of any trace of an evening meal, they must have left several
hours ago. Where were they now? And why was the wagon driver killed? Were
she and Keefe in danger? And how-- oh God, what had caused their change
in appearance? The questions clawed at her insides, piling fear on top
of uncertainty on top of more fear, until she jumped at every creak in
the cabin and pop of an ember.
Enough of this! Keefe was right --they had
to attend to first things first, then look for answers. She knelt on the
stone hearth and prodded Keefe's cold log with a stick. As a heat source,
the fireplace was the pits, but at least the rekindled fire in the cook
stove was beginning to take the chill off the room.
The growing warmth recalled her sensations
when Keefe, a virtual stranger and certainly looking like one, had pinned
her in the pasture. Luckily he seemed a decent, competent sort, as well
as smart and good looking...in both bodies. Then a shudder wracked her
as black-and-white images of Spencer Tracy’s Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde flickered
in her mind
"Stop woolgathering and make fire," she ordered
crossly. "Someday I’ll laugh about the weirdest blind date in history."
Sure she would, if she’d been moonstruck just for the night. Grandma may’ve
been right about the harvest moon being dangerous to a woman; but what
about Keefe and the wagon driver?
Concentrating, she propped thin sticks around
Keefe’s log, and as they caught fire, added larger ones. Ages later a tiny
blue blaze wicked up around the edges of the log. She smiled in grim satisfaction,
and then rubbed her arms, longing for real warmth. The kind no fireplace,
stove or furnace could provide.
As she was placing the lamp on the table,
a scratchy, rustling sound came from behind the cabin. Her blood iced,
freezing her grip on the lamp. Keefe? A bear? Or a killer with a crossbow?
She started counting. Ten heart slamming seconds
later she dashed to the side of the window in the rear of the cabin. She
lifted the curtain and peeked out, at the reflection of her own frightened
face surrounded by black. Flattened against the wall, she scanned the room
for a weapon, and noticed the long gun above the fireplace. She made a
grab for it, missed by a good two inches and tripped on her skirt. "What
the devil--?" she cried, clutching at the mantle for balance. "I've shrunk!"
She was still stuffing most of the blasted
skirt into the hole at her waistline when Keefe called out to her to open
the door.
She’d never been so glad to see anyone in
her life! As soon as Keefe had rebarred the door, she stepped up to him
and touched his chest with the edge of her hand at eye level, comparing
their heights.
"What's this?" he asked. "Karate practice?"
"Bears be damned," Tara muttered, glaring
at his second shirt button. "Besides turning into a blonde, I've shrunk
two inches. And so have you!"
Confused, Keefe caught her by the elbows.
"Bears? You saw a bear?"
"Well, I don't know it was a bear," she said,
pointing at the back wall, "but maybe it was." With a sob she tilted her
forehead to his chest. "It isn't fair! I liked being taller!"
More mystified than ever, Keefe skipped the
bear business and wrapped his arms around her. His cheek brushed the top
of her head. Her hair, smooth at the crown, tumbled in unruly curls about
her young face to a froth on her shoulders. It smelled fresh and outdoorsy,
with a hint of wood smoke and hay. The sort of hair he'd loved burrowing
in during high school and college days.
Her sobbing shudders, a kind of friction dance
against his body, stirred him even more. Holding her, savoring the sensations
and his swift response, he waited to see what she'd do when she noticed.
And then the faint buzzing in his head came
again, like a subtle alarm clock. Another warning? No...this time it was
more of an idea...or knowledge. Before he could arrange his thoughts, Tara
moved out of his arms. He wished she'd stayed; it would be easier to tell
her about his new suspicion.
"I'm all right," she said, drying her eyes
on the torn waist of her skirt. "Except for looking like an After Clearance
Sale."
Keefe grinned at her exposed lingerie. "And
I had you pegged as red satin and lace under a grey pinstripe."
Tara sniffed. "Did Alan warn you I come apart
at the seams over the slightest deviation from normal?"
Sobering, Keefe decided he might as well say
it; they weren’t getting any younger. "He also didn’t tell me we might
switch bodies with a couple of kids half our age."
Tara's eyes widened, making her look distressingly
young to Keefe, considering the rate his hormones were pumping. "Of course
I'm not sure," he admitted. "I suppose we could just have skipped back
in time. Say to a previous life together."
"Just skipped back in time?" Tara's high-pitched
laughter bordered on hysteria. "Of course, that's it. Why didn't I think
of it. It's so logical."
Ignoring her sarcasm, Keefe plugged on with
his theory. "But if we'd known each other back then, shouldn't we, uh,
recognize ourselves? And I don't, Tara. All I know about you I’ve learned
tonight."
Her eyes were hazier than when she'd greeted
him at the door, and he paused, studying the tiny upward curve at the corners
of her mouth. Sort of a Mona Lisa smile, except that she wasn't smiling.
More like barely holding on. Then, stroking her soft cheek with one finger,
he offered the most shocking part of his theory. "I have a hunch that a
psychic would say we were walk-ins."
Tara seemed to grow smaller, her saucy features
distorting, the color draining away. Keefe didn't know which terrified
her more-- the idea that they'd swapped bodies with other persons, or him
for suggesting it. She was as pale as moonlight, yet there was nothing
ethereal about her. On the contrary, she seemed pulsating with life...and
drew him like a magnet.
"I've heard the term," she whispered through
bloodless lips. "You think we somehow traded bodies--with people from another
time?" Her voice rose. "That right now somebody is walking around in my
body, living my life?"
Keefe shifted his feet and wished he'd kept
his mouth shut. Not everyone was open to far-out theories. "Well, maybe,"
he grunted. "Unless we come up with something better."
Despite Tara's waxy color, she surprised him
by leaning against him, as if she was too weary to stand. Her lashes fluttered,
and he put his arms around her and flexed his knees, ready to catch her.
Then he bent his head and covered her mouth with his. It had worked before,
in the pasture. If he wasn’t too late...
At first touch her lips were cool, formless
and unresponsive. But as he persisted, molding and coaxing, they yielded...moving,
parting, opening to take him in. She stirred, and he pulled her closer,
senses swirling as he delved into sweetness. Heat rose between them as
his fingertips explored the tight little nub of her breast through her
dress--
Good Lord! Struck by a thunderclap of reality,
Keefe yanked himself away, then grabbed Tara by the elbows, supporting
her. "Uhhh...I just wanted comfort you, honey. I didn't mean to go so far."
He waited, hoping she'd recognize the purity of his intent. The pupils
of her eyes had expanded, crowding out the blue, and her breathing was
erratic. "Tara? Look at me, honey."
Seconds later her eyes focused on his face.
Then her gaze dropped and she edged backward. "It looks like we both got
carried away. I've heard it can happen under stress, and God knows I'm
stressed."
"Me, too," Keefe replied, relieved by her
degree of sophistication. Under the circumstances, especially if they were
being stalked by a killer, he didn't need additional enmity. "Let's see
if we can find something to eat."
They located a partial loaf of homemade bread
and a jar of berry preserves, and soon devoured them.
"It isn't barbecue," commented Tara with a
rime of a smile, "but let me get this hungry and I'm a cheap date."
Keefe cocked his head as if in sober appraisal.
"Not so cheap. You look like a girl who'd order smoked salmon, stuffed
mushrooms with almond sauce and cherry-chocolate cheesecake."
"Wrong," she scoffed. "I don’t like almonds
and I'm not pregnant."
Yet, whispered the alarm inside his
head.
Before he recovered, she asked, "Where are
the mules?"
"They're pretty smart. I opened the barn door
and they ambled in. I think they expected dinner, but they can wait till
daylight."
"Yes." Tara rinsed her jam-sticky fingers
in the enamel bowl in the dry sink and dried them on a thin towel. "Keefe—"
"I noticed a privy out back," he said, and
picked up the fireplace poker. "I'll escort you if you like."
A relieved look passed over her face. "I like.
Oh, did you look for my bag?"
Keefe had been dreading that question. "I'm
almost sure it isn't on the wagon. I guess it's wherever my wallet is."
Tara sighed. "I didn't expect to find it.
After all, she'll need my I.D. to drive and write checks. And my lipst--"
As her voice snagged Keefe blurted the first
thing that came to his mind. "You're pretty enough without lipstick." Her
wan answering smile twisted his heart. She was--looked--young enough to
be his daughter!
"I suppose we should be grateful we didn't
land in bodies twice our ages," she said.
Later they sat by the dwindling fire and talked,
mostly about their pasts, by mutual consent holding the future at bay.
Keefe sat in a chair with a wicker seat, Tara in a small rocker opposite
him with her hands clasped quaintly in her lap. He told her he'd been divorced
since a year after leaving the Army hospital in 1974. She asked if he had
children.
"Two." He considered a moment, and then decided
not to edit the sordid details. There wasn't anybody around here to be
hurt by the truth. "My daughter, Erin, was born after I was drafted. Eight
months after I got home, my wife had a boy. At first she tried to pass
him off as mine, even though she insisted on naming him Cherokee." Keefe
shrugged, relieved that over the years he'd managed to wean the bitterness
from his tone. "I told her I'd treat him the same as Erin, but that I wouldn't
live with his mother." He stared at the embers, marveling at the way they
breathed, fading to grey, then infused by a passing draft, glowing red
again.
Tara’s quiet voice reached out from a place
far away, "There's more."
Keefe snapped alert. Ms Wolcott didn't seem
like your average snoop, but he’d noticed the Miss Marple type also came
in younger versions.
It had been a long time since he'd opened
up this far, but with no TV to entertain them, he'd give her a real life
soap opera. "It didn't take Betty Fay long to turn the kids against me.
They got a stepdad, and before long I was just the guy to call when they
wanted an expensive toy. After a while I quit remembering birthdays, and
just sent checks at Christmas. On top of the child support and education
funds." He flicked his hand in dismissal. "Eventually we just wrote each
other off."
A shocking thought chilled him to the marrow.
Did Erin and Cherokee even exist, now that he was someone else?
Tara said, "You make parenthood sound pretty
bleak." She squirmed in the rocker, making it creak. "I decided it wasn't
for me either. Ronnie, my ex-husband, was child enough for one family."
"You took a long time getting shed of him,"
Keefe said tactlessly. His connection with Tara had leaped way past mere
social exchanges. "Jo said you were divorced just last year."
As he’d done earlier, Tara looked away, into
the fire. "We were married fourteen years. I admit to being afraid of the
unknown. It was easier to just drift along."
Keefe didn't think twice about probing, "What
made you see the light?"
Her lips twisted in a wry smile. "The first
wrinkle that didn't mellow after a good sleep. Shallow, huh?"
"No. It made you aware of time slipping away.
I know the feeling."
"You're very perceptive--" Tara broke off
and dropped her gaze to her interlaced hands.
"For a man?"
She laughed a little at that. "I'm not used
to being around someone who can finish my sentences. It's-- different."
She rocked to her feet without meeting his eyes. "I think I'll go to bed
now. Maybe by morning this will just have been a bad dream. Or somebody
will come home and direct us to the nearest freeway."
Keefe had a hunch that Tara's tension reflected
not only her fear, but also a strong need for inner control. All things
considered, she was holding together pretty well. Most women in her situation
would be incoherent and driving him up the wall. It was different for a
man who’d survived a bailout over Nam, and tonight unhitched his first
team of mules without getting stomped senseless.
Thinking aloud, he said, "I wonder what’ll
happen tomorrow."
Tara clutched her shawl with one hand and
covered a yawn with the other. "While you figure that out, I'm going to
try for a few hours of oblivion." A flicker of fear passed over her unlined
features. "Don't leave without me, Keefe. Promise?"
The sight of her standing there, modeled by
calico and firelight, affected Keefe in his gut. Not far from tears, her
young face revealing none of the experience and maturity of the real Tara,
she made an enchanting picture. Recognizing his own vulnerability-- make
that emotional pain threshold-- he gripped his knees to keep from springing
up and going to her. He'd learned the hard way that following such an impulse
usually left somebody disappointed, hurt or manipulated. Better not to
fall into the trap, however innocent the temptation. He said, "As long
as you promise not to climb out your bedroom window and leave me."
She produced a strained smile. "Our swapped
selves are worse off, you know."
"How?"
"Older bodies and no Frequent Flyer Miles."
"Miss Cabin America," he murmured. As a blonde
or a brunette, Tara Wolcott Whoever turned him on, way on. "Take the lamp.
I can see enough by the fire. Leave the door open if you want."
Inside the tiny bedroom, however, Tara closed
the door and leaned against it, resisting tears of despair. What in the
name of God had happened to them? And what would happen tomorrow...murder
by crossbow, ending the insanity? Had she somehow been zapped to another
time and place in an instant, unlike her father. It had taken years for
Alzheimer's to destroy his mind. Stifling sobs pained her chest, but she'd
grown up in a family that seldom displayed excessive emotion. It would
worry Keefe if he knew the depth of her terror.
No! She straightened as tall as her shortened
frame permitted and set the lamp on the bureau. While she wasn’t especially
brave or adventurous, it wasn't in her nature to give up easily. Ronnie
claimed she had a stubborn streak. There had to be a rational reason for
this-- mess, to use a couth word. Maybe she'd experienced some trauma,
say struck by the odd lightning in the hayfield. Right now she could be
lying in a hospital in a coma, with Keefe pacing outside the door!
Now what? She scanned the contents of the
room, including the female clothing hanging on wall pegs. The little mirror
hanging over the bureau wasn’t much help, but by holding a rosy print cotton
dress against her body-- her ripe, young body-- she could tell it suited
her present build, the waist two or three inches smaller than that of her
'own' body.
Oh, God! She almost broke down again.
On top of the bureau lay a wide-toothed comb,
a wood-backed hair brush clutching a few blonde hairs, and some large hair
pins in a tin tray. She hated invading the owner’s privacy. Nevertheless
she checked the contents of the bureau. It held neatly folded and ironed
white cotton petticoats, camisoles, knee length drawers with a built-in
'split' like those she was wearing, nightgowns and long sleeve blouses,
plus dark knit stockings, hair ribbons and certain necessities. None of
the items were new, and some had been skillfully mended.
When she’d stripped off the garments "acquired"
in the hayfield, Tara peered into the little mirror at her naked body,
one section at a time. She appeared to be a girl on the verge of womanhood,
with a small waist, flat stomach, pert full breasts and rounded hips. It
was almost embarrassing, touching her smooth skin. However temporarily,
she was once more nubile and flushed with promise, awaiting a lover's claim.
Like the main one, this room was tidy and
appeared clean, including the patchwork quilt, coarse muslin sheets and
crunchy husk mattress on the rope spring bed. Tara felt her cheeks warm.
The bed was wide enough for two compatible people. After a year of celibacy,
she grew tense, tightening at the thought of the virile young Keefe in
the next room.
From the time he’d picked her up tonight she'd
been impressed by his self-confidence, entranced by his rich voice. Keefe’s
practical, take-charge attitude was her only anchor in this crazy, pseudo-reality.
And when he kissed and aroused her, every nerve ending in her body had
cried out for him.
Finally, wearing another woman’s nightgown,
she eased their tired body onto the hard, crackling mattress. Keefe might
not be perfect, but if she had to be marooned with a man young enough to
be her son...
Tara didn't know how long she'd slept in the
womb-like darkness when a man's voice startled her awake. Hazy and disoriented,
she clamped the unfamiliar bed covers in her fingers and opened her mouth
to scream.
"Tara," Keefe said quickly, "it's dawn. I'm
going outside to look around. I didn't want you to wake up and think I'd
left."
Awareness flooded through her as she sat up,
her eyes adjusting to the grey light sifting through the curtain. For the
moment she was safe; the man-size shadow at the foot of the bed was Keefe.
Then her hands flew to her hair, and discovered a tangled mass in place
of the usual sleek bob that fell into place with a shake of her head. Her
heart sank.
"I left the lamp burning," she said, swinging
her feet to the small rag rug beside the bed. "It must be out of oil. I'll
be ready in a few minutes."
"No hurry. I'll come back for you." The door
latch clicked, she felt a slight, chill draft, and Keefe was gone.
Shivering and wondering what she’d have done
if he’d awakened her with a kiss, Tara groped about the bed, collecting
underclothes and pulling a dress from the nearest wall peg. As she struggled
into the unfamiliar clothes, she checked the fit. Nothing had changed.
She was still working the tiny round bodice
buttons into their loops as she hurried into the chilly kitchen. Neither
the stove nor fireplace held fire. She sat down on Keefe’s unmade bed to
tackle the tedious lacing of her worn high top shoes. He returned before
she finished, poker in hand.
"Sorry I let the fires go out." He squatted
in front of the fireplace and thrust the poker at a charred hunk. "I didn't
expect to sleep like a stone."
"Neither did I." Tara splashed cold water
from the pitcher into the basin, washed, and dried her face on the coarse
towel. Both cabin mirrors confirmed that she was still a blonde, although
it was too dark to tell much else. Her stomach rumbled, and she scowled.
Facing the dark morning in someone else’s body and century was bad enough;
deprived of coffee, it was inhuman.
Keefe tinkered with kindling and the matches
they'd found in a cupboard, and fired a small blaze. The stronger daylight
showed dark stubble on his face and neck, giving his features a strong,
more mature cast than last night. Tara was eager to get a good look at
him in full daylight, even if it was idiotic, checking out a near-stranger
on their way to look for a dead man whose killer might be waiting for them!
Still, she did have a new young set of hormones to handle. She smoothed
the front of her rumpled dress.
Keefe took off his jacket, revealing shirt
sleeves that were a little short and tanned, knobby wrists with dark hairs.
"You’d better put this on."
Tara shook her head and tied her shawl in
front. "This is enough," she said, wondering how the cabin owners kept
from freezing in winter.
Shouldering the fireplace poker, Keefe said,
"I checked the musket. It's a powder horn antique. I wouldn't know what
to do with it even if I had the gear." The first barb of morning sunshine
flashed into the cabin as he opened the door. "Stay close, and run a fast
zigzag if anything happens."
Tara lifted her long, encumbering dress and
petticoat skirts in disgust. An overfed duck could outrun her. Then she
swept up the sides of the skirts and knotted them over her stomach, exposing
drawers, bare knees and the twisted tops of her stockings. "Fashion be
damned," she muttered, thinking that if she had scissors, she could cut
off the skirts and gallop through the pasture like Heidi.
They made their way past the barn and along
a line of trees edging the pasture in a flamboyant rose and gold dawn.
At first Tara watched for poison ivy and snakes. To keep up with Keefe’s
longer stride, though, she was soon tromping heedlessly through high, wet
grass and weeds.
At the crest of the hill where they'd first
spotted the barn, they halted. From here, Harry's Stable and parking lot,
along with a glimpse of the freeway and a dead man should be visible. Instead
a pastoral panorama stretched benignly to the hilly horizon. Silently Tara
and Keefe reached for each other's hand.
After a moment she said, "I'm just surprised
the driver's body is gone." Her voice sounded small, yet subconsciously
she seemed to have accepted they were trapped in a bizarre time warp.
Keefe stepped onto a nearby boulder, and from
there climbed an oak tree for a longer view. A couple of minutes later
he climbed down and sat on the boulder. Tara remained standing, ready to
flee at a sign of movement anywhere on the landscape.
"As far as I can see," he said, "it's one
hundred per cent rural countryside. A few small farms like ours--"
"Ours?"
"For now, anyway." Keefe's thick-lashed blue-grey
eyes took on a faraway expression. "The grass has sprung up where the wagon
mashed it down. I can't tell exactly where it happened, but there's no
body in this pasture."
"Someone must have found it and taken it to
a farmhouse." Tara did her best to control a shiver. "Let's get back to
the cabin. I feel so exposed out here."
"No wonder." He reached out and thrust one
of her bodice buttons through its loop. "This is what happens when you
dress in the dark." His fingers dropped to adjust another button, and the
corners of his mouth quirked upward. "Maybe you'll do the same for me sometime."
"Don't hold your breath," she said,
and set off for home. "You have mules to feed!"
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