Timeless Healing (Timeless Hearts Book 4) Read online

  It was a good, warm day for laundry, but she’d been at it for several hours already, and there was still a basket filled with clothes at her feet. The water in the tub had turned brown, and she’d changed her rinse water once already.

  Frannie dipped the shirt in the rinse bucket several times, then wrung it out, squeezing as much water from the fabric as possible. She tossed the shirt into the basket of clothes she’d already washed, then reached for a pair of Lester’s dirty trousers.

  By the time the last of the clothes was washed and hung on the clothesline, her back ached as if it was on fire, and her sore, swollen feet throbbed inside her shoes. The tub of wash water was too heavy to carry, so she emptied it using a smaller bucket, making repeated trips to her vegetable garden.

  A gentle breeze cooled the damp skin on her face. She held her hands to her hips while lifting her face to the sun. Frannie let out a sigh and closed her eyes. The fragrance of summer grass hung in the air. Clothing fluttered on the line, and her chickens cackled in the yard while they scraped through shrubs in search of food. Down by the barn, a horse whinnied.

  Frannie opened her eyes. Time to stop lingering. The porch swing beckoned, but there was still plenty of work to do. If she allowed herself time to rest now, she might not have the strength to get up again.

  One of the three horses in the small field behind the barn whinnied again and trotted along the fence.

  “Miss your mama, do you?” Frannie called. She smiled and walked down from the yard to the enclosure. Weeds along the path grew in abundance. It was one more thing that made this place look run down and neglected. Right now, she didn’t have the energy to pull them all, but she grabbed for a few on her way to see the horses.

  Holding the weeds up to the fence, she offered them to the animal who’d stuck his head over the top rail. He eagerly reached for the treat, then shook his head with the long grasses sticking from his mouth. Frannie laughed at the young colt’s playful antics. He was a beautiful animal, not that she knew a lot about horses. Her smile faltered.

  The one thing she did know was that this colt was getting to be old enough to be broke to ride. Lester would ruin this proud young horse like he ruined everything else. Her hand went to her protruding belly. The child she carried kicked a limb up under Frannie’s ribs at that moment. She drew in a quick breath.

  She caressed her stomach in an effort to settle the baby. “Not too much longer.”

  Glancing toward the field to watch the exuberant colt one more time, she headed back to the house. Time to start supper. Hopefully she could take the clothes off the line before Lester returned home.

  Frannie grabbed the porch rail as she dragged herself up the three steps. She might as well strap lead anchors to her feet. Her gaze fell on the porch swing, but she shook her head. No. The last time she’d taken a short rest on the swing a few weeks ago, she’d fallen asleep. Lester hadn’t been happy that his supper wasn’t ready. The resulting bruise on her cheek had barely healed.

  The door squeaked on its hinges when Frannie entered. She set to work peeling potatoes and carrots, and cutting up some rabbit meat, then tossed it all together in a pot for a stew. The bread dough she’d left sitting on the counter earlier had risen to double its size.

  She punched it down on the wooden counter, her blows with her fist becoming stronger each time. Frannie gritted her teeth, imagining Lester’s face. Her vision blurred, and she hastily blinked away the tears. This was not the time to fall apart.

  Glancing at her belly, she rubbed her hands along the sides of her bulge. This baby needed her. He always sensed when she was upset and kicked more vigorously.

  “You and me are gonna be just fine,” she whispered. “I’ll make sure nothing happens to you.”

  She divided the dough and formed it into two round loaves, then slid them into the oven. The muffled sound of hoofbeats reached her ear, and Frannie straightened. Her heart began to beat faster. Lester was back sooner than expected.

  After wiping her clammy palms on her apron, she smoothed back the strands of hair that had come loose from her braid. Her eyes fell on the whiskey jug on the shelf. Maybe he would drink enough to pass out like he’d done a couple of nights ago.

  Frannie glanced out the window. Her husband rode into the yard, yanking hard on the reins of poor Brownie. The colt in the field let out a shrill greeting. Clearly, he’d seen his mother return. Brownie breathed heavily, her nostrils flaring and her flanks rising and sinking in quick succession.

  Frannie shook her head. By the looks of her, Lester had galloped the mare all the way from town. He dismounted, and she dropped her head, clearly exhausted. Froth clung to her chest and neck, and between her hind legs. Sweat dripped to the ground from her belly as if she’d taken a bath.

  What sorry excuse of a man ran his horse nearly to death, and on such a warm day? Frannie shook her head. The same kind of man who beat his wife.

  Lester yanked on the reins when Brownie didn’t move forward the instant he tugged. The mare raised her head, the harsh bit she wore no doubt cutting her mouth. Lester yanked harder, his loud curse words drifting into the house. He looped the reins around the porch rail, then stumbled up the stairs.

  Dreadful man. He was simply going to leave a hot and sweaty horse tied without even loosening the cinch on the saddle. Brownie needed to be cooled down properly and then given some water.

  Frannie eyed the laundry basket she’d left sitting by the door. Perhaps she could slip out of the house to take the laundry down from the line, and properly take care of the horse first. For now, she scurried to the workbench and wiped some flour from the counter.

  The door swung open behind her and Lester shuffled in. Frannie squeezed her eyes shut for a moment and held her breath.

  “Bring me my jug, woman,” came the raspy order.

  Frannie wiped her hands and turned around. She plastered a smile on her face. “I’m surprised you’re home already. Supper will be a little while.”

  Lester grunted. He limped to the table in the center of the kitchen and pulled out a chair. With a loud groan, he took a seat. Frannie reached for the whiskey jug on the shelf. Her hands trembled from the weight. He must have recently filled it again. She carried it to him and set it down.

  Lester eyed her as if he was looking at something that had only now caught his interest. He pulled the cork off the jug and held the stoneware to his lips, drinking noisily. Some of the whiskey dripped out of his mouth and ran down the side of his unshaven face.

  He might have been a handsome man if he’d simply taken care of himself a bit more, but he only cared about drinking and playing cards. And whoring around, no doubt. He was nearly twice her age, and his dark hair wasn’t as full as it had probably been twenty – or even ten – years ago, and there were quite a few grey streaks. While he wasn’t overly heavy, he was solid and brawny, and she was no match for him. She’d learned that the day they’d met.

  Frannie mentally shook her head and moved to turn back to the stove when his large hand snaked out and grabbed her by the wrist. With a forceful jerk, he pulled her to him. She nearly lost her balance and stumbled. Her hand shot out to steady herself at the table.

  “Come here, Frannie,” he demanded in his gruff voice.

  She was forced to step closer, inhaling the smell of whiskey, sweat, and tobacco.

  “Lester, I have supper on the stove, and laundry outside,” she stammered. The hungry look in his eyes could only mean one thing.

  His response was another yank on her arm, pulling her fully onto his lap. With his free hand, he grabbed the braid that hung down her back and pulled roughly, forcing her head to tilt back. He brought his mouth down forcibly on hers, the whiskers of his unshaven face scratching like sandpaper across her cheeks.

  Frannie stiffened when the baby kicked, jabbing her in the ribs. She didn’t dare move, or Lester would think she wasn’t cooperative. His hand released her wrist, and groped at her dress, fumbling with her buttons. His slo
bbery kiss became more insistent, and his other hand pushed her dress up.

  “Straddle me, woman,” he ordered. His hands went to pull his suspenders down, then fumbled with the buttons on his pants.

  The baby kicked harder, eliciting a gasp from Frannie.

  “Please, Lester. Not now. I’m feeling a bit poorly. Can’t it wait until after supper?”

  Anger blazed in his eyes. “You’re always feeling poorly. I don’t cotton to havin’ you deny me all the time.”

  “I would never deny you, Lester,” she said to appease him. It wasn’t wise to make him angry. He’d do far worse than demand his husbandly rights if his temper got the better of him.

  “I was hoping we could wait until after supper.” She smiled and pressed her lips to his for a quick kiss. Maybe she could coax him to drink more whiskey, and he would pass out.

  Lester pushed her off his lap and stood. Frannie stumbled and fell. She braced her fall with her hands before her stomach touched the ground. She squeezed her eyes shut. Nothing could happen to her baby. Even though this child was Lester’s – her husband not by her choice, a man she detested – it was also her baby, and it would be hers to love and care for. She’d be a good mother and protect her child from her husband’s volatile temper.

  “You’re an ungrateful little harlot, you know that?” Lester’s loud voice roared above her. “I’m your husband and you’d best remember your place and do your duty to me.” His words were slurred. His feet shuffled on the wooden floor, limping on his bad leg. “My leg’s hurtin’. Get your lazy body off the ground and bring me some liniment.”

  Frannie whispered a prayer of thanks. She’d avoided a beating, for the moment. Perhaps she could buy the time she needed to get him drunk enough to fall asleep, and then she’d avoid his unwanted advances tonight as well.

  She reached for the table to pull herself to her feet, then rummaged through one of the kitchen drawers for the ointment that soothed the old injury to his leg. Lester grunted a curse, taking another swig from his jug.

  “When are you gonna drop that young’un so you’ll stop your constant complainin’ that it hurts?”

  Frannie lowered her head and placed a hand over her stomach.

  “I don’t know,” she murmured. “I’m sure the baby will come when he’s ready.”

  She had at least another month to go before her child was born, enough time to figure out what she would do then. Running away would be the best thing to do to protect her child, but where would she go? She had no money and no one she could confide in. Lester had made sure to keep her on this farm and out of town as much as possible when he’d brought her here nearly a year ago.

  “You’re so purty, Frannie, some young buck’ll steal you away if I parade you in town. Gotta keep my eye on you, ‘cause you’re mine, and don’t you forget it.”

  She’d never liked him whenever he had stopped at her father’s farm out in the hills, several counties over. The day Lester had asked Papa if he could marry her had been one of the worst days ever. No matter how much she’d begged and pleaded with her father, he’d given his consent.

  What would Mama say if she knew she was going to be a grandmother? Frannie shook her head. She couldn’t run home. Papa had sold her off to Lester, and he’d bring her right back to him if she went to her childhood home.

  Papa had told her it was her duty as the oldest daughter to marry someone who was willing to give some money to the rest of the family. How much Lester had paid for her remained a mystery, but it had been enough to please her father.

  Folks in town were suspicious of her because they’d barely ever seen her, and she’d never been allowed to speak when Lester brought her with him on those few occasions.

  No, she’d have to figure out something else. One thing was certain, however. She was not going to let her husband, or anyone else, harm her child.

  Chapter 3

  “Who did you send me this time, Moira?”

  Chris forced his eyes open at the sound of a woman’s voice hovering somewhere above him. He blinked to bring her image into focus. His head pounded like hell, and his stomach hurt like he might be sick at any second.

  He braced against the couch cushions to sit up. The woman leaning over him continued to scrutinize him, then straightened. She looked vaguely familiar. Her auburn hair was no longer in a ponytail, but piled on top of her head in some intricate style that looked simple and attractive at the same time.

  “How long was I asleep?” he rasped.

  He raked his fingers through his hair, then pressed his palms against his temples, squeezing his skull. His head was about to split open.

  “I have no idea how long you’ve been asleep, but it’s taking you a lot longer to come to than the others.”

  Chris raised his eyes to her. He scrunched his forehead. “Others?”

  The woman pressed her lips together as she frowned. “She didn’t tell you, did she?” She smiled, then mumbled, “I have to figure out a way to get a message to her that she needs to prepare people like you better before sending them to me.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  Chris stood, wobbled on his feet, and nearly fell over. He swayed, his shin connecting with the hard corner of the couch. He gritted his teeth and cursed. Moira had seemed a bit wacky earlier, too. He should have never accepted her offer to crash on her couch. He should have gotten in his truck and driven away.

  He raised his head and glanced around the dim room. He squinted at the ribbon of sunlight that shone in through the window, and blinked again. The room looked different. It was . . . it reminded him of an old tool shed on his parents’ ranch in Montana. On the opposite side of the room, a bowl and pitcher sat on some old-fashioned wooden furniture.

  Chris glanced over his shoulder. The entire couch looked different than when he’d crashed on it earlier. Now it had wooden legs and some flowery upholstery.

  “What the hell’s going on here?” he stared at Moira, who stood quietly to the side, studying him. He swayed on his legs again.

  “Are you drunk?” she asked, her eyes narrowing. “You don’t look so good.”

  She glanced from him to something hanging around her neck. It was the same watch she’d worn earlier. The hands still whirled around the face like before. She took a step closer, her long skirts rustling as she moved.

  Skirts? Why had she changed clothes?

  Chris stared. She’d worn jeans and a simple blouse earlier. Now she wore a form-fitting dark dress that widened in the back from her waist down, and reached to the ground. The top part contoured her upper body, giving her an hour-glass shape. She looked like she was going to a costume party.

  “What’s your name?” she asked.

  Chris scrunched his forehead. Hadn’t he introduced himself to her in the parking lot? He blinked and shook his head. If only he could think more clearly, but this headache was making it impossible.

  “Chris Hawley. I already told you.”

  She stepped up to him and held out her hand. “It’s nice to meet you, Mr. Hawley. I’m Cissie Durham.”

  Chris stared from her hand to her face. “Earlier you said your name was Moira Lockhart.”

  She offered an indulgent smile. “Moira is my counterpart in the future. She sent you to me.”

  Chris cursed under his breath. He really shouldn’t have taken both those pills at the same time. The medication dulled his senses and made him sleepy, which he’d always welcomed in the past, but he might have taken too much this time. Moira had known he’d taken the pills. Was she trying to mess with his head? And if so, what motive did she have? He’d never met her before.

  “Moira let me crash on her couch,” he said slowly, weighing his words. “In fact, she insisted on it. Are you two some kind of con artists? I’m telling you, I don’t have anything you’re gonna want.”

  “There’s nothing I want, Mr. Hawley. I’m simply going to tell you where you are, and give you some advice.”

  Chris laug
hed. “Advice? Lady, I thought I was going nuts, but I think you’re the one who’s lost your mind.”

  He stepped around her to the door. Time to get out of here and get to where he needed to be. Maybe if he took another pill or two after getting his new prescription, he could crash in the privacy of a motel room and his headache would go away.

  “I think you’d best sober up before you go outside, Mr. Hawley. And perhaps I can find you some proper clothes to wear, so you’ll fit in better.”

  Her words stopped him from opening the door of this small room. He turned to face her. She stood ramrod straight, her hands clasped in front of her, looking like some old-fashioned school teacher.

  “I think you’ll listen better once you’re sober, Mr. Hawley. May I advise that you sleep some more, and then we can talk? Quite truthfully, you don’t look like you’ve got the mental capacity at the moment to hear what I need to tell you. I don’t know what Moira was thinking, sending me a drunk, but she must have had a good reason.”

  “I’m not drunk,” Chris slurred, raising his voice. “I haven’t touched a drop since the accident.”

  The words were out before he could hold them back. The guilt and regret would haunt him for the rest of his life. Unlike Eric, he’d never been into drinking and partying, but he’d had a damn good reason to drown himself in a bottle that day. At least he’d thought so at the time.

  “You look unwell,” Moira . . . or Cissie, or whatever her name was, reached out and placed her hand on his arm. “You really should lie down again, and we can talk in a little while. Would you like some water? Or coffee?”

  Chris scoffed. “No thanks. The last time you asked me that, I ended up passing out on your couch. I really need to be going.” He stepped around her and opened the door. He frowned. The corridor looked different, too. The large kitchen with the metal prep area, ovens, stove, and grill tops, was no longer there. Instead, a small, old-fashioned stove that looked to be cast iron was the only visible cooktop.