The Cowboy Encounter Read online

Even though she knew he had his back to her and couldn’t see her, she nodded, afraid that if she spoke her voice would wobble.

  “I’ll pay your ticket.”

  “You will? Why?” Did he want to get rid of her so badly?

  “I owe you.”

  “You paid me a bag of gold!”

  “It’s hardly a fair compensation for my life. A train ticket seems like a pretty small thing in comparison.”

  “I…can’t go home again. Everyone I love isn’t there anymore.” Or yet.

  “I know how that feels,” Warwick said. “When Mary Kate died, I wanted nothing more than to follow her to the other side.”

  “I’m glad you didn’t.”

  “I guess I will in time.”

  “But not too soon, right?”

  He rolled over and Becca opened her eyes to see him prop his head up in his hand. He studied her. She closed her eyes so that she wouldn’t squirm beneath his steady gaze.

  “Because I need you to help me free Joseph Connelly,” she added.

  He fell back against his pillows. “When I die, I hope to go peacefully. Outrunning the law isn’t the peaceful end I’m imagining.”

  “Who shot you?”

  “What?”

  “When I found you in the alley, you’d been shot. I want to know who did it and why.”

  “I don’t need to satisfy your curiosity.”

  “No, you don’t, but I wish you would.”

  Warwick sighed, leaned back and stared at the ceiling. “The man that killed Mary Kate tried to do the same to me. Satisfied?”

  “No, not really. That just leads to a whole, long series of questions.” She propped up on her elbow so she could watch his expression. With his eyes closed, he looked relaxed. Why did he look so at ease? Was sharing his bed with a woman so common place? Lying next to him, her nerves were pinging and zipping.

  Warwick took so long to respond that Becca thought he might have fallen asleep.

  After a while he said, “During the war, I was taken prisoner along with about two hundred others. Our guard was a mean, vicious man. Daily, he whipped men just for the pleasure of it. I watched him kill a young black boy—not a soldier, not a prisoner—but some slave-owner’s kid—just because he didn’t like the way the boy talked to him.” He swallowed and paused. “So, I escaped, and I brought everyone with me.”

  Becca knew he had intentionally left out a huge chunk of the story.

  “Yes, but how?”

  “I watched, waited, and when the time was right, when he was taking a bath, I set his tent on fire. Burned everything he had, including all of his clothes.”

  Becca smiled, although she knew that she shouldn’t have. “It couldn’t have been that easy.”

  “Oh, but it was. The war was almost over. The south didn’t know what to do with us, couldn’t afford to feed and house us. The only person who wanted us there was Chet Brownlow.

  “The guard?”

  Warwick nodded. “He wasn’t just a guard. He was an officer in the Confederate Army.” He let out a long sigh. “I should have killed him then.”

  “Why would you say that?”

  “Because he killed Mary Kate.”

  “Oh. I’m so sorry.” Becca shivered, even though she was warm beneath the quilts with Warwick.

  “I’d known her my whole life. We’d grown up together. My brother and I used to hide in the fields when she and her sisters were out playing, Bub and I would howl like coyotes just to watch the girls run and scream.”

  “Were you the same age?”

  “No, I was ten months older, which doesn’t seem like much now, but it did then. She was a little thing—like you. I always watched out for her. Until the end—” His voice caught. “When I didn’t.”

  “You couldn’t have known.”

  “But I should have. Leaving her alone on that homestead…There was a herd of wild horses. I was going to catch and train them to lead.”

  “Like you do now.”

  “I was just starting out then.”

  “You couldn’t have stayed with her twenty-four hours a day. I’m sure she wouldn’t have liked that.”

  “I should have taken her with me, but she was with child…sick. Maybe I should have stayed with her.”

  “Of course you would have, if you had known.”

  “Brownlow left his hat beside Mary Kate’s battered body.” He paused and swallowed. “I’ve been chasing him ever since.”

  “Oh, Warwick, I’m so sorry.” She reached out and touched his chest. “Is he the one that shot you?”

  He tried to smile, but she could tell it was forced.

  “I shot him first,” he said.

  “Is he…dead?”

  Warwick shook his head. “I don’t think so. That man has more lives than a mangy cat.”

  “What happened?”

  “Sheriff Lawson broke it up, locked us both in jail.”

  “So, he’s around here?”

  Warwick didn’t reply. After a moment, he said, “I told you my secret. Now you can tell me yours.”

  “I don’t have a secret.”

  “Oh come, Dr. Warwick. As I just proved, we all have secrets, and I’m guessing yours is a whale of a tale.”

  “Yes. A whale’s tale is one way to describe it.”

  “Let’s hear it.”

  “No. You wouldn’t believe me anyway.”

  “If you want to get to Denver, you need to tell your secret.”

  “Really? You’re going to blackmail me?”

  His eyes were still closed, but he grinned in the moonlight.

  “Fine. But remember, you won’t believe me.” She took a deep breath. “There’s a legend surrounding a well in my hometown. It’s called a Witching Well. Supposedly, drinking from the well causes hallucinations and delusion.”

  “And you drank from this well?”

  “I did…although, not intentionally. I fell in.”

  “Huh.”

  “What does that mean?”

  He chuckled. “Nothing. I just think it’s remarkable that you, this amazingly brave, strong, and smart person, could make such a big mistake.”

  His compliment warmed her. “Yeah, well I did, and now I’m here.”

  “Instead of Connecticut?”

  “Instead of the twenty-first century Connecticut.”

  He hooted with laughter. “You think you belong in the twenty-first century?”

  “I knew you wouldn’t believe me.”

  “Where’s this well?”

  “Outside Woodinville, Connecticut. Why?”

  “If it causes time-travel, maybe I can save Mary Kate.”

  She rolled over and touched his arm. “I wish it could, but I just think it will make you crazy, like me.”

  He blinked. “Not any crazier than I already am.”

  She smiled at him. “We’re all a little crazy. Just some of us more than others.”

  “You really think you’re from the twenty-first century?”

  She nodded. “I really do.”

  “What’s it like?”

  She told him about airplanes, computers, Televisions, satellites, and astronauts. She told him about the first and second world wars, and about how cities would dot the country. Sometime before she could tell him about skyscrapers and elevators, he fell asleep.

  She watched his eyelids flutter and close before she crawled from the bed and tiptoed to the tub. The water had grown tepid, but after another glance at Warwick, she slipped out of her underwear and in.

  Holding her breath and closing her eyes, she submerged. Her sore muscles relaxed, the tension in her spine eased, and Becca remembered something that she learned a long time ago—a tenet of mental well-being—love the moment. Celebrate this instance in time—even if this instance in time happens to be about hundred and fifty years off. Let go of the past, don’t worry about the future, and be grateful for the here and now. Even if the here and now included lukewarm bath water, and a bed occupied by a co
wboy.

  She knew that dreams and delusions could be controlled by the mind. Every dream had the potential to be a nightmare or a fantasy. She promised herself that she would stop waiting to wake, but make her time in 1870 a wonderful gift to herself—a time to prove her resilience, her strength, and the depth of her love and commitment to Joel.

  After another quick look at the bed to make sure Warwick was still asleep, she stepped from the tub, briskly rubbed herself dry, and put on her underwear. Cold, she slipped back into the bed.

  Warwick generated a lot of heat. Eventually, when she was warm and relaxed, she drifted off to sleep.

  #

  Warwick rolled over onto his back. Bone tired, but not sleepy, he wiggled his toes and ran his fingers through his hair. The air on the right side of the bed, Becca’s side of the bed, sparked and crackled. The woman radiated energy, and it tugged and pulled at him.

  He tried to remember Mary Kate, but the images and memories were fading like the moon at sunrise. A new day. Did he really want to share his days—and his nights—with a bossy crazy woman doctor?

  By nightfall, they could be in Denver. It would mean another hard day of riding, and just a few brief hours catching up with Leo and Hilda. He closed his eyes, trying to envision the long ride, but all he saw was Becca in the bath.

  Damn.

  He rolled onto his side and studied the wall he had made back in happier times. He had hewn every log and hammered every nail. Mary Kate had sat beside him, chattering neighborhood gossip as he worked. If he closed his eyes, he felt her velvety brown gaze.

  How would she feel about him sharing her bed with this stranger?

  She would laugh. She would poke him in the ribs and tell him to be happy.

  But would Becca make him happy? And more importantly, could he make her happy? His life had been a stretch of angry gray ever since he’d come home to find Mary Kate’s heart cut out of her chest and wrapped up in her favorite blue checked apron.

  Would he always be haunted? Sitting up, he scanned the floor for the tell-tale blood stains. How had Hilda cleaned the wide planks? What magic formula had she used to scrub away the evidence of a love that ended way too soon?

  If he could, he would use some of that magic formula to scrub away the memories.

  #

  Becca woke before dawn to find Warwick gone and his side of the bed cold. Sitting up, she glanced out the window at the sun rising over the eastern hills. It would be another bright and sunny day. She wondered how long it would take to get to Denver.

  The smell of bacon drifted from the kitchen. Becca rolled her shoulders and flexed her feet. Every muscle ached. The thought of climbing back into the saddle made her ill.

  Outside in the pasture, the horses galloped and played. She looked for Alice and the baby colt, but didn’t see them. She hoped they were well, and made a mental promise that she’d look for them as soon as she was dressed.

  Hilda’s words floated back to her. “This really is your house and land. Maybe with the help of the neighbors, we could raise another house for me and Leo before the snowfalls.”

  Maybe this was Warwick’s house and land, but none of it—including Warwick—belonged to her. Even if she wanted to, she couldn’t stay until snowfall. She didn’t know if she’d last another hour or day. Any minute she might wake, and Warwick, Hilda and Leo would fade into the dark recesses of her mind.

  She didn’t know why she thought freeing Joseph was her ticket home, but she did. She was pretty sure that if she proved her love and devotion to Joel/Joseph that she’d wake, having accomplished what she needed to do and having learned what she needed to learn.

  Becca climbed from the bed, and the shock of the cold floor met her feet and traveled up her sore and tired legs. Stretching, she told herself that she didn’t need to ache in dreams. Thinking back, she tried to recall other dreams where her body had been achy or tired, and although she remembered many of her past vivid dreams, she couldn’t think of one with muscle pain—or any pain, for that matter.

  Glancing out the window, she saw Warwick crossing the yard with an axe in his hand. He wore jeans, a button down, gray-green chambray shirt. Although she couldn’t see it from here, she knew the shirt would perfectly match his eyes.

  He’s the most beautiful man I’ve ever seen, she thought in a detached, clinical sort of way. Then she reminded herself that he wasn’t real—he was merely a figment of her imagination—so of course the man masquerading as her husband and sharing her bed would be handsome, witty, and kind.

  She watched him place a log on the ground and raise his axe. The sound of splintering wood echoed through the window. He paused after a couple of swings, wiped his forehead with his sleeve, and then, as if he felt her gaze, looked her way.

  She stepped back from the window so he wouldn’t catch her spying on him. Knowing she couldn’t be attracted to Warwick, she dragged her thoughts back to Joel.

  Joel was real. She had known him most of her life. She remembered when he first started shaving, when his voice transitioned from tenor to bass, and when he had his first girlfriend.

  That had hurt.

  Why think about Kari the cheerleader now? Kari was married and had two babies. But what about Marley and the others?

  None of those other girls mattered. They hadn’t lasted. They were just like this delusion—a moment in time.

  Becca went to the pillowcase and pulled out a dress. She couldn’t wear the bloody pants and shirt she wore yesterday. The dress was blue cotton, dotted with yellow buttercups. The clerk in the dry goods store had told her that the blue would match her eyes and the yellow her hair, but Becca didn’t care. She didn’t need to dress up for Warwick. Still, she brushed her hair, tied it up in a knot, and glanced at herself in the mirror.

  In the past few weeks, she’d grown used to her reflection. At first, she’d felt naked without makeup, and smelly without perfume and deodorant, but eventually, she’d grown to love just being herself.

  With her new resolve to love the 1870 here and now, Becca pushed open the door. She found Hilda in the kitchen, frying bacon and eggs on the surface of a big black stove.

  “Good morning!” Hilda said over her shoulder. “I hope you slept well.”

  “Yes, thanks.” Becca glanced out the window at the rising sun and tried to guess the time.

  “Could you be a love and go and tell the boys that breakfast is about on?”

  Becca nodded and headed for the door. The cool morning air hit her like a slap on the face. She followed the ringing of the axe and found Warwick where she’d seen him earlier.

  Sweat dotted his forehead, and when he saw her, he paused and used his shirt sleeve to wipe his face. Sawdust clung to his shirt and jeans and even dusted his hair. She grinned at him, loving the way he fit so perfectly into life on this ranch.

  “Hilda says it’s time for breakfast,” she told him.

  He nodded.

  “Do you want me to find Leo?”

  “I can do it.”

  Becca nodded and turned toward the barn.

  “Where you going?” Warwick asked.

  “I want to see Alice and the baby colt,” she told him.

  “They’re not here,” Warwick said. “Leo took them to the back pasture.”

  “Already?” A sense of loss filled her.

  Warwick gave her an appraising look. “Why do you care?”

  “Well…” Becca stammered for an explanation, and after a moment, picked one. “I’ll need to remove Alice’s stitches.”

  “Today?”

  “No, not today—but probably in a couple of weeks.”

  Warwick shouldered the axe the same way he must have carried a rifle in the war. “You know we won’t be here in a couple of weeks, right?”

  Becca swallowed. “Okay, I get why I won’t be, but what about you? Why would you leave?”

  Warwick lifted his shoulder. “My staying…it makes Hilda and Leo a mark.”

  “A what?”

/>   “My being here puts them in danger.”

  She started to ask from who, but then she remembered the man who had killed Mary Kate and had nearly done the same to him. “Oh. Can’t you have him arrested, or something?”

  “Well, that would be a lot easier if he wasn’t the son of the governor of Tennessee.”

  “That shouldn’t matter.”

  “Well, it might not in the twenty-fourth century, but it certainly does in the nineteenth.”

  “Are you going to run from him your whole life?”

  An emotion she couldn’t read flickered across his expression, making Becca worry that she’d offended him.

  “Right now, I’m not seeing a lot of alternatives. It seems like the only way to get him to stop chasing me is for one of us to die.”

  “Violence is never the answer.”

  Warwick came to stand in front of her, his toes inches from hers. “It is when the question is do you want to live or die.”

  She took a step back. “Gandhi said, ‘I object to violence because when it appears to do good, the good is only temporary; the evil it does is permanent.’"

  “Gandha-who?”

  “He lived in twentieth century.”

  “Is he dead?”

  Becca nodded.

  Warwick closed the space between them. “Being dead is pretty permanent.”

  Becca put her hand on his chest and felt the thrum of his heart. “You are very much alive.”

  “For the moment.” He captured her hand and pulled her to him. “But I’ll be dead for certain in the twenty-first century.”

  “Maybe, maybe not,” Becca said.

  “I think we better live while we can,” he said, right before he kissed her.

  CHAPTER 8

  This, she thought, this is exactly how a kiss should taste and feel. But as Warwick deepened the kiss, the more scrambled her thoughts became. Her rational voice tried to whisper warnings. She didn’t believe in casual sex, or even casual kissing. The romantic side of her had always told her that a kiss should symbolize emotional commitment. And she couldn’t commit to Warwick—a man of the 1870s.

  But today, her rational voice and her romantic side were being completely drowned out by Warwick as he pushed her against the wall, ran his hand through her hair, removing all the pins so it tumbled loosely around her shoulders. Becca’s knees buckled, and she would have fallen if Warwick hadn’t held her so tightly.