Timeless Healing (Timeless Hearts Book 4) Read online

  Chris rushed past the area to the front of the diner, and stopped in his tracks. It too, looked completely different. Round tables covered in frilly tablecloths were placed around the empty room. The windows were covered in lacy curtains, and the neon Open sign by the door was missing. In fact, the entire front door looked different.

  He spun around, nearly losing his balance as another wave of dizziness overtook him, this time accompanied by nausea. He stared down the corridor to where the woman in the hour-glass dress stood, watching him.

  “Please come back into the room, Mr. Hawley,” she called. “I will explain everything.”

  Chris hesitated. His eyes roamed around the dining room again. Everything seemed surreal, as if he’d landed in some foreign world. This couldn’t be an elaborate hallucination.

  “Start explaining,” he grumbled without following her suggestion. He’d listen to her for another minute, then he was out of here.

  Cissie walked toward him. “Moira has sent you to the past, Mr. Hawley. This is the year 1880. I’m sure nothing looks the way you remember from your time, and that is the reason.”

  Chris stared. There was no other appropriate reaction. Nothing to say. He broke out in laughter. “And here I thought I was losing my mind,” he mocked. “Looks like you’re the one who needs her head examined instead. I have a good shrink I can recommend.”

  Probably not good enough.

  His psychiatrist hadn’t been able to get him to forget and move past the pain of not only losing his best friend, but something that was a part of him as well, all in the same night. Or how to get past the anger and betrayal.

  “I assure you I am perfectly sane, Mr. Hawley, and I believe you are, too,” the woman continued in her even voice. “It’s going to take some time to get used to the idea, and I’m here to help you make sense of it.”

  Chris shook his head. “I’m done here. I should have never stopped in this place.”

  He clenched his jaw, then headed for the door, yanking it open. He stepped outside. His truck was no longer parked out front. The parking lot was gone, as was the road. Everything appeared and even sounded different.

  The humming of cars was replaced by the jingling of harness, the creaking of wagons, and a horse whinnying somewhere in the distance. In fact, several stood tied to a hitching rail in front of a building across the street. Several buildings down, more horses stood in front of a structure with the word Saloon in large lettering on the wooden façade. Directly across the street, a wagon pulled up in front of Drayson’s Mercantile.

  Chris stepped outside, the wooden boards beneath him creaking. A man walked past him at that moment, looking at him with an odd expression as his eyes traveled over him.

  “Please come back inside, Mr. Hawley,” Cissie pleaded from behind.

  Chris turned his head to meet her gaze, then quickly looked down the street – if it could even be called a street – and rushed forward. He wasn’t staying here. Once the effects of his meds wore off, he’d be able to think clearly again. He’d simply have to deal with the pain in his knee until he found a way to get to the next town and find that doctor who’d promised him more meds.

  He limped up the road in the direction he’d been heading earlier. Somewhere there had to be a car and he could ask for a ride. Since his truck had clearly been stolen, he’d also lost his phone. He glanced over his shoulder one more time. The diner no longer had a sign saying Heartsbridge Diner. Now it was called Cissie’s Boarding House.

  Chris’s heart sped up. Whatever was happening to him and his mind would wear off soon.

  “Mr. Hawley, please come back,” the woman, Cissie, called from somewhere behind him.

  Chris increased his pace. He stepped off the wooden boardwalk and limped across the street. A rider stopped to let him pass. Laughter came from the saloon, and faint piano music played. When a woman’s voice called to him again, more frantic and insistent this time, Chris gritted his teeth and broke into a run. The pain he’d anticipated in his knee didn’t come, so he ran faster, colliding with someone stepping out of the saloon at that moment.

  Chris nearly lost his balance from the impact with a man about his own size, but a bit bulkier.

  “What the hell?” The man’s dark face glowered at him.

  “Sorry,” Chris mumbled, skirting around the man who stank of cheap cigars and booze, among a few other unidentifiable smells, none of which were pleasant.

  “You’re gonna be sorry all right.” The man grabbed his t-shirt from behind, which made a loud tearing sound.

  “What’s your problem, man? I said I was sorry.” Chris spun around to face the man, yanking away from his grip. The watery, blood-shot eyes facing him indicated the guy was drunk. He even staggered slightly.

  The older man grumbled something unintelligible, his eyes looking at Chris from top to bottom. He wore a sweat-stained flannel shirt, his tan pants held up by suspenders. His unshaven face was smeared with dirt.

  The guy bared his teeth, then swung back with his arm, then forward. Chris moved to the side, but not quick enough. The action appeared almost in slow motion, then a hard fist connected with Chris’s jaw. The impact sent him stumbling backward, crashing into the wall of the building. He scrambled to stand as more pain seared through his head.

  Men gathered around him and the crazy guy who’d attacked him, some shouting for Chris to fight back, others making bets. A familiar woman’s voice called for everyone to stop their nonsense.

  Chris straightened, his eyes meeting the hostile glare of the other man.

  “Come and take a swing at me,” he challenged, spitting tobacco juice on the ground. He laughed, then advanced on Chris.

  Chris blinked as anger rose in him. This lunatic wanted a fight, and wouldn’t simply let him walk away. He waited for the man to advance on him again, then ducked to the side when the irate man threw another punch. He stumbled forward, and Chris took his chance. He rammed into the guy with his head low, sending his opponent into a wooden post. Seconds later, someone grabbed for him and pulled him away, while a couple other men held the lunatic back.

  “Let it be, Lester. You’re drunk. Go on and get yourself home,” someone ordered.

  Chris heaved to catch his breath, pulling away from the man holding him back. He shook his head and blinked again. His temper was usually under better wraps, but something about this guy brought out the fight in him, regardless of his pounding head.

  “Best let it be, son,” someone spoke in his ear. “Lester can get ornery when he’s drunk. Nothing personal.”

  “Next time you cross my path, you’d better watch it,” Chris called to the man named Lester, who was being held back by two other men. He shot Chris another hate-filled glance, then strode to one of the horses and yanked the reins from the hitching post. Mounting up, he spurred the animal into a gallop.

  “Mr. Hawley, please come back to the boarding house,” Cissie Durham pleaded. She’d obviously worked her way through the small gathering of men in front of the saloon.

  Chris turned on her. “You stay away from me.” He shot her a warning glare, then pushed his way through the men, and continued up the street.

  He had to get out of this crazy town. The pain meds were wearing off, and his agitation grew. That always happened when he didn’t have his meds. It was one of the reasons he needed them. He made his way through town, not looking at anyone or anything. If he kept walking in the direction he’d been heading, he could hitchhike his way to the next town.

  When he reached what appeared to be the last buildings of town, he stopped. The sun beat down on him, but there were dark clouds in the distance. One thing that was absent was a real road. Only ruts were present in the ground, made by horse-drawn wagons.

  Chris continued walking, leaning forward and pressing his hand against his stomach. Soon, this nightmare would be over. His head pounded, his knee throbbed, and his stomach twisted into painful knots. He had put some distance between himself and the town, foll
owing the ruts, when a wagon came up behind him and stopped.

  “Can I give ya a ride?”

  Chris nodded at the old man pulling his team up alongside him. It wasn’t the kind of ride he’d hoped for, but it was better than nothing. He scrunched his forehead. This was a rural area. Maybe some of these people lived like the Amish, and that’s why there were no cars.

  “Where ya headed, son?”

  Chris looked up into the weathered face of the old man.

  “Next town,” he said. The man nodded.

  “I ain’t goin’ quite that far, but I’ll give ya a ride for now. Hop in the back.”

  “Thanks.” Chris pulled himself over the wagon’s tailgate, and settled among some of the sacks stacked in the bed.

  Later, after his head cleared, he’d worry about finding out what had happened to his truck, and why there were no roads.

  The ride was anything but comfortable. Chris gazed out at the vast land. There was nothing around him. Nothing but endless prairieland and hills. No roads, no sounds of cars or motors of any kind. What if that woman had told him the truth? He shook his head. Ridiculous. There was no way he was in 1880.

  “I’m getting off here,” he called, making a hasty decision when the ruts split, and veered off in two different directions.

  “Suit yoreself,” the old man called, slowing the team of mules.

  Chris climbed from the wagon and started walking. Thunder rumbled in the distance, and soon, it started to pour. He gritted his teeth and cursed, hugging his arms around his middle. He ducked his head and kept moving forward into the rain. If this was how he was going to die, then so be it. There was no one else around, which was how he’d want it to end.

  The sky turned dark as dusk settled in, and seeing where he was going became more difficult by the minute. He was cold, wet, and miserable on top of his headache and the nausea. When a faint light flickered in the distance, he headed toward it. He passed what seemed to be a pasture. The single light came from a lone house a short distance away. Maybe they’d have a phone he could use.

  Chris changed course when he walked past a structure that looked to be a barn. The rain still came down in a steady stream, and he was soaked to the bone. The house was still a good distance further ahead. He’d take up shelter in the barn for now and wait it out.

  Slipping through the door, he fumbled his way in the dark. Something rustled in the straw in one of the stalls. There was a large pile of hay in the far corner, and Chris fell into it. He curled up, and shivered. Just a few minutes of rest, then he’d go to the house and ask to use the phone.

  He’d barely made himself comfortable when something jabbed him in the arm. A rooster crowed somewhere in the distance. Chris startled fully awake. He squinted into the stream of sunlight hitting him in the face. Hadn’t it been evening not more than a minute ago?

  He blinked to focus his eyes, and looked up. Immediately, he scrambled backward on his rear, hay and straw covering him in his effort. When he tried to move his arms, they wouldn’t budge.

  “What the hell?” Chris glanced at his hands, which were tied together at the wrists in front of him. The end of the rope that held his hands immobile was secured to a metal ring in the wall.

  His head snapped up. What looked like the business end of a shotgun was pointed directly at him. His eyes raised higher. Pointing the gun at him was a girl.

  Her blonde hair hung in a long braid down her shoulder. He frowned, groaned at the pounding in his head, and shifted his weight, making the straw rustle some more. Somewhere nearby, a cow mooed loudly.

  Chris stared up into the girl’s scared face before his eyes dropped lower to her very pregnant belly. He groaned again and cursed, then fell backward into the straw. Someone had clearly come up with an elaborate scheme to mess with his sanity.

  Chapter 4

  Frannie held the old shotgun in her trembling hands, pointing it at the man lying in the pile of hay. Had he truly passed out again? If not for the sun that shone into the barn this early in the morning, she might not have seen him sleeping in the hay when she’d come to milk the cow. Not knowing what to do, she’d rushed back to the house on weak and trembling legs. For the first time in nearly a year, she’d almost wished that Lester was here. Almost.

  Her husband hadn’t come home yesterday. Lester had ridden off into town first thing in the morning without telling her where he’d gone or when he’d be back. There’d been nothing unusual about that. He’d been gone overnight or for several days before, which had always suited her just fine.

  The problem was, she’d never had any time to let her guard down during his absence. She’d always been too anxious, wondering when her time of solitude would end, since he never gave her details about his whereabouts or when he’d return. If he’d planned to come home yesterday, the rain no doubt had made him change his mind and he’d spent the night in town or with one of the men with whom he liked to drink and play cards.

  After seeing the man in the barn, Frannie had taken a few minutes to compose herself before looking for Lester’s old shotgun. The thing was ancient, it probably didn’t work anymore, and there was no ammunition for it. Lester would never have left a weapon she could easily access in the house otherwise.

  Unsure of what to do, she’d decided it would be best to chase the man off the property. He wouldn’t know the gun wasn’t loaded. More than likely, she’d be doing the squatter a favor. When Lester returned home, he’d be furious to find a man here.

  She’d gone back to the barn to find him still asleep. He hadn’t moved an inch, curled up in the hay. His clothes were still damp, judging by the way the shirt he wore molded to his chiseled upper body and arms. He must have gotten caught in the rain last night, and had sought shelter in the barn.

  Blanche had mooed again. The cow was anxious to be milked and fed. If she kept up the noise, the stranger would wake up. Making a hasty decision, Frannie had grabbed some rope. If she tied the man up before he came to, it would give her time to think about what to do about him. She’d be no match for him once he was awake, and she was all alone.

  She’d never done anything like this before in her life. What if he woke up while she was tying him? Reaching for his hands, she’d quickly wrapped the rope around his wrists and then tied one end to the hitching ring in the wall above his head, then nudged him with the gun.

  A twinge of guilt gnawed at her. What if she’d tied his hands too tight? The rope was long enough that he’d still be able to move to be comfortable.

  Stop thinking so much, Frannie. It’s best to be careful now so you won’t be sorry later.

  Frannie now studied the man as he lay back into the hay. His trousers looked a bit odd, and so did the white shirt. Despite being damp, it was smudged with dirt and had a tear. It looked more like an undershirt, rather than something a man should be wearing without a proper button-down shirt over it. Perhaps he’d lost his, but what did she know about men’s clothes other than what Lester wore?

  She’d lived in the country all her life, where nothing ever changed and fashion was always far behind the times. Folks dressed for practical purposes, not like the people in the city, who liked frilly things. The few times she’d been in town since her marriage to Lester, many of the garments people were wearing had looked strange.

  The man groaned and stirred in the hay. Her heart sped up again. What if he was a murderer, or some other no-good drifter? For the first time, being alone on this farm gave her a distinct feeling of vulnerability. Papa had always been suspicious of strangers, and so had Lester, although she could count on one hand how many visitors had stopped at the farm since she’d come here.

  Blanche’s moos became louder, and she moved around in her stall. Frannie glanced over her shoulder at the cow. She had to milk the insistent bovine. Besides, she couldn’t stand over this man with a gun all day.

  “Mister, are you awake?”

  She nudged him again with the end of the gun. He stirred and mumbled somet
hing incoherent before he opened his eyes. He moved his arms, but came up against the rope.

  “Why the hell am I tied up? Whose idea of a joke is this?” He moved to sit up, and squinted when the beam of sunlight coming from the open barn door fell directly on his face.

  “I’m sorry, but I had to tie you up.”

  Frannie backed away several steps when he began to struggle. He’d managed to sit on his haunches and move slightly away from the light. Now he glared at her, clearly not happy about what she’d done. His eyes still looked rather unfocused, and his speech was a bit slurred, much like Lester when he woke from a drunken stupor.

  A jab of anger rushed through her. Why were men so dependent on alcohol, and why did the toxic drink turn them into such vile creatures? Even though her father never drank as much as Lester, and wasn’t a violent man, he did become more agitated after a night of drinking. The after-effects of a binge couldn’t be worth the small amount of pleasure they derived from the stuff.

  “If you’re sorry, then untie me,” the man grumbled. “I’ll get out of your hair.”

  Frannie frowned. What an odd thing to say. She fought the urge to touch her hand to her hair by clutching the gun tighter.

  “I have to milk the cow. Please, move aside so I can feed her.”

  Frannie set the weapon against the wall a safe distance from the hay pile, and reached for the pitchfork. The man stared at her as if she was daft.

  “I need to get some of the hay you’re lying on, and I don’t want to stab you with the fork,” she explained.

  Frowning, the man pulled himself to a standing position with the help of the rope, and stepped out of her way. Frannie stuck the fork into the hay and tossed it into Blanche’s stall.

  “I could have done that for you,” he said when their eyes met. “If I wasn’t tied.”

  Frannie tilted her head to look up at him. He was bigger than she’d assumed while he was lying on the ground, but still slightly shorter than Lester, who wasn’t an overly tall man, either. He raised his brows when she didn’t answer, then held his hands out, pointing with his fingers at her belly.