

## Out of the Past

Heritage Time Travel Romance Series, Book #1

All Iowa Edition, PG-13

### By Dana Roquet

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2013 Dana Roquet

Updated 2018

All rights reserved

ISBN-13 978-0988503540

ISBN-10 09880503549

Edited by Todd Barselow

Cover art: Judy Bullard

Contact Information: www.danaroquets.com

dana@danaroquets.com

This is a work of fiction. The main characters and incidents are a product of the author's imagination and are used fictitiously. Certain individuals, businesses and locations have been fabricated, fictionalized or dramatized by the author for effect. Those characters that are based on living individuals are used with their written permission.

This is a PG-13 version of the original novel with minimal sexual content, some adult situations, language and violence.

Dedication

For my family, past and present,

And for Johnnie Baitsell, Octavius Waltman, Dr. Jacob Krout, Samuel McFall and so many others who now belong to the ages, but who will forever have a place in my heart.

Acknowledgement

I would like to acknowledge the following individuals for their support of my story

Carol, Kiya, Jennifer, Joy and Jessica for reading scenes and letting me bounce ideas off of them.

Bill the barber

Keo-Mah Genealogical Society

Paul and Julie DeMuesy

DreamCatchers Equine Rescue

Gina Miller

Jimmy Thomas, businessman, entrepreneur and romance cover model extraordinaire.

## Prologue

The dreams began my first night in my new, _very old_ home on a secluded acreage in Mahaska County, Iowa, just a mile south of the tiny town of Fremont. It was within a very short time of moving in that I had to stop calling them dreams, though, because they were much, much more than dreams. I didn't know why it was happening, and I didn't know how it was happening but it was like time traveling or warping into a different dimension.

The time travels were a blast, at first. It was as if I were an Improv actor and each night I had a brand new role to perform. I enjoyed the challenge of traveling into the past and navigating my way through old Fremont and I also cherished the chance to meet so many loved ones whom I had never known but would forever remember.

Yes, my travels had begun as an amazing and interesting phenomenon—a harmless and victimless experiment. They were my own private and wonderful escape, which soon became my secret obsession.

Until finally I realized, much too late, that there was also evil in the past; evil that would have been better left alone...

## Chapter 1

Six months earlier...

March 1, 2012

When I pulled my SUV off of the gravel road and into the driveway for my afternoon appointment with the contractor I'd hired (sight unseen), I found him waiting for me on the ancient and battered front porch. He was leaning casually against a porch post in a well-fitting white T-shirt, with his hands in the pockets of his blue jeans, which I noted with my keen appreciation of the male physique, set perfectly at his lean waist. If there were any lingering doubt in my mind as to whom he might be, it was dispelled when I noticed a shiny orange tube of construction blueprints tucked neatly under one arm. My first thought was, _Oh yeah, I can handle spending three months working with this man_.

David Cameron was absolutely gorgeous, in a rugged outdoorsy kind of way. I guessed that he was probably in his mid-to late thirties; tall, tan, and toned, he had dark-brown hair that he wore layered and just the right length as far as I'm concerned—a clean-cut style but not too short. I couldn't see his eyes just yet, but his face was lean and his jawline, chiseled. That I was so flagrantly checking him out made me more than a little disappointed in myself because I'm in a relationship, long-term, with my boyfriend, Derek. _But, hey, what healthy all-American girl wouldn't admire a fine-lookin' man like this_?

I lifted my sunglasses and took a moment to glance into the rearview mirror, checking my makeup and making sure that I didn't have lipstick on my teeth before dropping my shades back into place and grabbing up my day planner and an album of old photos.

"Dave?" I asked, closing my car door.

"At your service, Torie. Good to finally meet you in person. What about this warm weather?" he asked in a casual way that immediately put me at ease.

"I know—seventy-one degrees according to the radio. The record-breaking continues."

"So are you ready for this?" he asked with a flash of a grin as I approached.

Wow, dimples and light crystal-blue eyes!

"You have no idea! I can't wait to get started and I'm excited to see what you've done up to now."

I started to step up to join him and found that I had to straddle a rather large gap in the porch boards as I did so, so instead of stumbling like a newborn calf or worse, falling flat on my face at his feet, I accepted his offer of assistance and slipped my hand into his warm, work-rough palm.

"That's going to be next on my agenda," he assured me, pointing to the hazard that I had narrowly avoided, arriving unscathed at his side.

"In fact," he said, looking around and then walking across the porch and retrieving a small piece of plywood, he returned with it and laid it over the spot.

"I think that's a good call," I agreed. "Okay now, Dave, are you ready to be wowed?"

"You bet," he said. "Wow me."

"Okay, check this out," I said as I laid my planner and album on a handy makeshift workbench that he had improvised, composed of a sheet of plywood set atop two sawhorses.

I flipped open the album and removing my sunglasses, tucked them into the neck of my tee while Dave set aside his tube of drawings on the workbench and looked on with interest at what I had brought.

I splayed my hand over the first page of the album and looked up into his eyes, slightly embarrassed, knowing that this guy was about to realize that his newest client is a total nutcase. He had no idea of the extent of my obsession with this house or my family's history; but he was about to find out.

"First of all, I want you to know that I have hounded every poor unsuspecting relative living within a five-hundred-mile radius of here to gather these," I admitted with a short laugh. "And I do feel more than a little guilty about that and I'm pretty sure that I've been disowned by at least a few of them, but look at all this!" I said excitedly, ruffling through the pages.

"I have any and every photograph that I could find of the house as it had looked in the late eighteen hundreds; at the turn of the century, and during the early nineteen hundreds when, somehow, my grandfather's family came into possession of an early Kodak Brownie and they took shots of the barn, yard, porch, front room, and the kitchen when it had been complete with an old cook stove, farm sink, and indoor water pump."

"Oh wow! That's perfect. It shows every detail!" Dave burst out excitedly when I flipped to the first photo behind the tab labeled, 'Front Porch'.

I grinned up at him; a little surprised but very pleased by his reaction which was much as mine had been when I'd first seen some of these. It was easy to tell that his excitement was genuine.

"I know. Isn't it great?" I turned the album so that he could get a better look.

The photograph was one of those from around 1910. The shot was taken from out in the front yard, looking toward the house. Seated along the porch were my grandpa Arlan, when he had been approximately twelve-years-old and sitting between his knees, was his favorite dog that he seemed to always have with him in many of the photos from that time period. Also in the photo were two of Arlan's older brothers, Robert and Albert; my great-grandparents, Henry Mills and Alice Wyman Mills; and Alice's mother, Rose Simpson Wyman who was my great-great-grandmother and the original owner of the house that I now own. She passed away at the ripe old age of ninety-seven back in the year 1927. Finishing out the photo was Great-Grandfather Henry's older brother, Peter Mills, who is a bit of a mystery and was standing almost out of the shot to the far right side of the front porch.

"It's so amazing to think that this is exactly where they were all sitting, right here, a hundred years ago," I marveled, glancing around the expanse of the old covered porch.

"These are great. They'll help a lot," Dave said enthusiastically. He was practically salivating and I realized that he really _is_ as big a history buff as I am. I'd hoped that these would blow him away.

"Great shot of the porch brackets," he said absently as he touched the photo lightly with an index finger. He then turned to look at the porch supports, which no longer show any traces of the former adornment as seen in the picture.

"I should be able to duplicate those," he said softly and stood contemplating the porch post closest to him for a long moment before seeming to shake himself mentally, letting the thoughts go for now.

"Okay," he said turning to grin down at me and rubbing his hands together in excited anticipation which, I couldn't help but notice, caused his impressive biceps to bulge. "Are you gonna let me give you the grand tour?" he asked with a voice full of pure unadulterated glee.

I relinquished control of the proceedings immediately and swept my hand in the direction of the front door.

"Please do. Lead on," I said with a slight bow.

As I enjoyed the obvious excitement on my contractor's face at the prospect of sharing the renovations with me, I thought to myself, _Now this is the proper reaction to my project. This guy understands completely_!

My boyfriend Derek doesn't understand _at all_ how I can be content to live in Fremont, Iowa, population 762, because to him, success means living flashy and living large; you know, keeping up with the Jones' and all that. My sister Sarah can understand what I am after because she lives a similar slow-paced, low key life out in Colorado but my sister Margo, _she_ is of the same opinion as Derek.

Having two books on the _New York Times_ best-seller list is not a walk in the park, though. It's hard work! And the last two years of promoting my books and everything that it entails, from interviews for radio and TV spots, to book signing events, to meetings with my agent and with publishing house executives on a regular basis, has been enough to make me want to find a secluded island somewhere, park my butt underneath the nearest palm tree and never look back.

This project of buying my great-great-grandparents' home along with the rolling five acres of pastureland that the house sits on the edge of, just a mile south of the wonderfully tiny town of Fremont, and working to restore the property to its glory days when it had been built back in 1870, is close enough to that deserted island. To me—it's paradise.

Quitting my job and never _needing_ to work again is a luxury that I'd never expected to experience in my lifetime, especially not at the ripe old age of thirty-six, but it's a reality now, and I know exactly what I want to do: brainstorm for my next novel and work on my family history. What better place to do that, than in the little hamlet where it all began for my Mills family, back in 1852?

"All right then," Dave said, assisting me by picking up the album and I followed him, heading through the front door.

"First of all," he began. "Electricians are going to be here in the morning. Heating and cooling will be here Monday and expect to finish in one day. Once that's a done deal, things will move pretty fast—at least the basics. All new plumbing is in, as we discussed last week, and the downstairs bathroom is done and the toilet and sink are now functional. I used the big old pantry off of the kitchen that we decided on. I can't wait for you to see it."

We walked into the large airy front foyer and I looked up at the currently deconstructed Victorian staircase that was in the process of being restored and would eventually lead up to the second story. It was already beginning to show the promise of what would soon be an impressive, eye-popping first impression of the home.

"Work in progress," Dave said indicating the stairs with a dismissive wave. "I'll have it finished in a few days," he assured me as we continued on and took a right, passing underneath a lovely archway.

"Wow!" I exclaimed as I entered my grandma's large living room, called _front room_ back in the day. Dave had already been doing some prep work in here and he couldn't hold back the smile when I gaped at him, open-mouthed. I reached out to reverently touch the wall where he had removed layers upon layers of paint and at least several different wallpaper reincarnations.

"Oh my God, Dave, that's the original wallpaper! How can it be in such good shape?" I squealed.

I accepted the album from his outstretched hand and found the tab marked, 'Front Room' and held the album up against the wall. The flowers, which were varying shades of flat gray in the photograph, were in vivid detail before my eyes—large powder and royal-blue peonies blossoms, delicate butter-yellow roses, silver cattails, and so many different shades of green leaves and stems, from bright, to Olive, to Forest, all with subtle silvery highlights and lowlights that added life; just a riot of color, depth and motion.

"I would have never guessed," I breathed, completely awestruck. "Do you think that it all looks as good as this small area?"

When I turned to look at him, I found that Dave was standing with his arms folded across his chest, watching my reaction with a broad grin on his face.

"I wouldn't count on it, Torie, especially around the windows and the fireplace there," he said pointing at the soot-blackened hearth. "I expect to find some damage in those areas but at least we have the pattern and colors so that we can order it custom. I'm hoping to find little remnants like this elsewhere in the house to help with the authenticity of the finished look. Wouldn't that be awesome?"

"It would sure make our lives easier," I agreed, nodding.

I held the photo album out in front of me and moved around the room until I was lined up exactly with the windows and fireplace visible in the tintype photograph. This was an older photo, taken around 1883. My grandfather had told me once that early photographers would travel around entire regions, making their living by charging for tintypes and leaving behind these little gems that were glimpses back in time and would ultimately become family heirlooms.

The time frame fit with the subjects of the photo. My great-great-grandma Rose and her husband Judson were seated in matching bent cane rocking chairs. Rose was posed as though she had just looked up from reading a book that was open upon her lap; Grandpa Judson was clutching the arms of his rocking chair and staring the camera down, very stoic and proud.

There was a beautiful flowered oil lamp with a glass shade and dangling fonts sitting on the table between them. The table also held a framed tintype of my great-grandmother Alice Wyman Mills at about nineteen years of age and her sisters, two-year-old Emily Wyman and infant Ivy Wyman McFall, circa 1869. The fourth Wyman daughter, Mahala, would not be born until 1870. Between Alice, the oldest, and the other girls at the bottom of the pecking order, were three Wyman brothers, not pictured.

I turned my attention to the room's ceiling which, in the photo, was papered also, with a completely different pattern of flowers than that of the walls. I wondered aloud if the original pattern could still be up there, hidden under layers and layers of tawny and peeling white paint.

"I'll be finding out in the next week or so," Dave answered. "You'll want it reproduced as well?"

"Hmmm," I pondered. "That might be just a bit too busy for my taste but if it isn't too crazy, yes I think so. I guess we can discuss that when we see it."

"Sure," Dave agreed with a nod.

I scuffed the toe of my tennis shoe along the hardwood floor that, in the photo, was covered with a large area rug that featured Iowa wildlife scenes but which is now just barren and gnarled old wood. Dave bent down beside me, smoothing his hand along the defect that my shoe had discovered.

"That'll be fine," he assured me. "The original makings of a great hardwood floor are in there, it just needs a good sanding and fresh stain to bring it back to life."

"I'll take your word on that," I said a little unbelievingly, turning my attention back to the album and the tintype.

A framed photograph of people unknown to me hung on the far wall back behind Rose and Judson. I'd gone so far as to have this photograph professionally restored and analyzed, but the family portrait hanging on the wall in the background is, at best, just a fuzzy image of my long-gone relatives, lost to time.

"Okay. Moving on," Dave announced, walking backward as he motioned me to follow and ushered me back across the entry and through another arched doorway on the far side of the front foyer.

"Dining room," he announced unnecessarily.

"Check," I said, flipping to the corresponding tab in my album. I paused to look up at the ceiling where a gas lamp had once hung over a long fancy dining room table. There was not a trace of where the lamp had once been.

"Gigantic kitchen..." Dave's echoing voice continued as he entered that large room. I held the photo album out before me flipping from photo to photo making comparisons. Swinging door from dining room to kitchen—gone. Kitchen—barren; no wooden cupboards—no pie safe—no work table—no water pump.

"I love this!" I exclaimed and touched the faucet and farm sink which are modern and new but perfectly fit the large room with the flavor of the original sink circa 1880. I can already imagine how the room will look when the rest of my new cupboards, center island, and appliances, including a _really_ fancy old oven hood I'd found, are put in place. There will be plenty of room for my antique kitchen table set to sit cozily against the large windows that will provide a great view of the big old barn out back and the seemingly endless acres of pastureland beyond.

"Mudroom," Dave was gesturing. "Backstairs that lead up to the second floor, and last but not least, the bathroom."

"It's perfect!" I squealed, entering the half bathroom which had not existed in the original house. It was designed circa 1900 with a lovely cream pedestal sink, sand-and-cream colored hexagon floor tile and wonderful old-style fixtures and cabinets. I'd had to take some liberties regarding the bathrooms; forfeiting historical accuracy for convenience because frankly, an outhouse is _not_ on the list of things that I want to restore, although it would have been the original arrangement for the home back in 1870. Besides, plumbing and indoor facilities upstairs had been added back in 1915, so really it wasn't too far off the mark.

Next we headed upstairs where most of the five bedrooms were stripped clean of all adornment, but one room did have some of the original woodwork still intact and the closet door and old crystal doorknob were original to the house. I entered that room, which must have been the master bedroom—I was assuming that it was by the size, but I could only guess.

I glanced out the front windows to see our trucks parked below. The view from this level is of empty fields stretching out to the horizon, ready to receive this year's crops. I don't have any photographs of the upper rooms, just one taken from a window of the second floor and facing the barn. My grandfather Arlan had probably been the one who had taken the picture because he'd spent a lot of time here when he was young.

I walked across the hall and through the rooms facing the backyard and barn until I found the correct angle. Yep, this had been the exact spot where he had stood when he'd snapped the shot. I could see the door of the barn and to the left of it would have been the subject of the photo: my three Wyman great-granduncles and their brother-in-law, my great-grandfather Henry Mills, with his team of draft horses, coming back from a day in the fields. I had been told by older family members that Henry had helped Rose's sons with the planting for many seasons after Grandpa Judson had passed away. This shot would have been one of those days—one hundred-plus years ago. Absolutely mind-blowing!

Dave Cameron came up behind me and looked over my shoulder. I held the album up so that he could get a good look and he pointed to the barn door in the photograph.

"I found some of the original paint on the back of that door. What color do you think it was?" he asked.

"Barn red?" I guessed, glancing over my shoulder and up into his eyes.

"Barn red," he affirmed, nodding. "I've already ordered the paint. It's being manufactured as we speak."

We continued our tour, and Dave pointed out where he had been working to enlarge the original bathroom by using a small portion of two of the bedrooms at the end of the hall. The new plumbing had already been run and the bare pipes were just waiting for the fixtures to arrive.

"Everything will be delivered in just a few days," Dave explained.

I nodded, trying to imagine in my mind's eye how it was all going to look. I'd opted for a more modern glass shower and separate antique claw-foot bathtub. The shower will have a Victorian feel by adding a custom subway-tile design and all of the faucets will have the flavor that I want to recreate.

I entered the small space that will soon be a complete linen closet, turning about in it to judge the size.

"I've got the shelves and door out in one of my trailers," Dave assured me. "Are you ready to move on to the outbuildings?"

I nodded my agreement and we headed back downstairs, exiting through the mudroom and out back to take a look at the barn and other outbuildings as well as the area that had once contained a flower and vegetable garden.

I turned to a photo of my great-grandfather Henry Mills sitting on a white-washed wooden bench in the midst of abundant flowers. Two of his daughters, my grandaunts Joanna and Lucy Mills, were standing just behind him. My grandfather Arlan and his trusty dog were seated on the ground near Henry's feet. The photo had been taken the same day as a group shot of the entire family which had included three generations of Wyman and Mills relatives, all standing out in front of the house and surrounding a tiny and frail looking Grandma Rose as she had sat in a bent-cane rocking chair in the foreground.

***

As the afternoon was wearing on and the tour was coming to an end, I had to make a pit stop and christen my new bathroom facilities and then I joined Dave out front, and waited while he locked up the house.

"You have plans for dinner tonight?" he asked casually, walking me toward my waiting vehicle, with his hands in his pockets and kicking at the loose gravel drive with the toe of his work boot. "I was going to head into Oskaloosa and get a bite to eat. You're more than welcome to join me, if you'd like and we can talk more about our game plan. I'll show you some of my sketches for the bathroom." He hitched his shoulder, indicating the cylinder that he held under his right arm.

Arriving at my truck, I paused, considering. I am staying at a small motel in Oskaloosa for the next week until the furnished house that I am renting in Fremont opens up. The previous occupants were now gone but the owner was still in the process of cleaning the carpets and upholstery for me.

"Well sure but I want to make a stop at the cemetery first. Can we meet somewhere in Oskaloosa a little later on?"

His mouth opened in surprise before he rearranged his features to a warm smile. "I thought that _I_ was the only weirdo who enjoys the cemetery. I'd like to go with you, if you don't mind."

I had to laugh at that. "Another weirdo here," I admitted, raising my hand. "I always stop in when I'm in town just to say hey," I confessed. "Why don't you jump in and I'll drive."

***

Cedar Township Cemetery is the resting place for three generations of my dad's side of the family. The Mills plot is just to the left of the main gate and stretches in a long row from north to south. First is my great-great-grandfather Francis Mills, the patriarch of the Mills clan, who shares a headstone and resting place with his son Peter. Beside them are my great-grandfather Henry Mills and his wife Alice Wyman Mills and next to them are some of their eight children starting with the youngest, my grandpa Arlan and my grandma Virginia; she died long before I was born and actually; Grandpa and Grandma had moved to Des Moines in 1917, where they'd lived and died but per their final wishes, had been brought back to Fremont for burial. On down the long row were some of my grandpa's seven siblings; Wyatt, Albert, Robert, Lucy, Molly and many of their children and grandchildren.

Patriarch of the Wyman clan, my great-great-grandfather Judson and his wife Rose are buried near many of their Wyman children and grandchildren in a different section on the other side of the cemetery. In fact, nearly every single Wyman and Mills great-grand and granduncle and aunt inhabit this old cemetery, making it hallowed ground to me.

A couple of years ago, before my historical romance novels exploded onto the scene, I'd spent months coming here on weekends and photographing the headstones of every single person buried in the cemetery for their Findagrave memorials. The family ties here are so intricate and complex that even Dave and I share several ancestors, and many mutual cousins. Using my family tree program, I'd added his line in and had discovered that my great-grandaunt Ivy Wyman McFall had married Dave's great-granduncle Joshua McFall back in 1889. He'd died young in 1891, and Ivy had gone on to marry again. She died out in Washington State where she had relocated after husband number-two had passed on. She is buried out there with her sister Emily's family whose home she had shared until her death, but husband number-two, like her first husband Joshua McFall, are both buried right here in Cedar Township Cemetery.

We pulled into the gated main entrance and parked along the line of tall imposing cedar trees that are the defining feature of the place. The canopy of mammoth wind and weather sculpted sentries that guard those at their eternal rest, are even visible from the highway as you come into town.

Interestingly, the cemetery land had actually belonged to Dave Cameron's ancestors at one time. The McFall family and specifically Dave's great-great-great-grandfather Samuel McFall had deeded the grounds to the town of Fremont shortly after the first burial had occurred here back in 1843. Little two-year-old Lucinda Koontz was the first death of the new community of Fremont and her headstone is still plainly legible today.

Samuel stipulated that no one should ever be charged for the cemetery space. If you lived in the town, you were given a plot, but no more space is available these days. The new Cedar Township Memorial Cemetery across town has been used for decades—except for my grandpa and some other original settler family members who are still allowed places beneath the tall cedars. This is the old-timers' cemetery.

We jumped out and started making a tour around the grounds and I let Dave show me all of his family and give me the basics of who was who and I was impressed by his amount of knowledge regarding his ancestors, but, to be honest, I know every bit as much about his family as he does. I'm a total and I mean _total_ , genealogy geek!

Next we strolled through my family's plots and I showed him all of my people and we had a great time talking family history until a pesky swarm of midges and then the voracious and blood-thirsty mosquitoes came out in full force and chased us out of there; the price paid for the mild winter that we'd enjoyed.

We went back to the house to get Dave's truck and I followed him the twelve miles to Oskaloosa for dinner at the Oskaloosa Family Restaurant. Then after we'd had a great home-style meal including crispy fried chicken and fluffy mashed potatoes and gravy, we ordered some coffee and spread Dave's blueprints out on the table and we got into a heavy discussion about our mutual goals for Rose's house. I was so pleased to find out that we are totally on the same page; he understands exactly what I want to accomplish and I can tell already that we're going to make a great renovation team.

***

It wasn't until about 9:00 p.m. that I finally bid Dave good night and while he headed back down the highway toward Fremont, I drove along 'A' Avenue and made my way to my home sweet home for the next week, the Budget Inn.

I had just gotten settled into my bed when my cell phone rang and I grabbed it and looked for the name of the caller.

"Hey, sexy."

"Hey, beautiful, how goes life in the sticks?" Derek joked.

"Ha Ha," I replied drolly. "Actually, it's going great! I met with the contractor today and talked to the rental owner also and in just one week from today, I'll be officially living in the town proper of Fremont. When are you coming over?"

"I'll be there next Friday in time for dinner and stay for the weekend if that's okay?"

"Of course it's okay. Hey, I wanted to tell you that Nancy added two more cities to the book tour today, Rochester and Minneapolis. I leave on the first of May. Have you decided if you're coming with me?"

"If you don't mind, I think I'll forgo this leg," he said carefully. "I feel like a third wheel on those things, Torie," he confessed.

Derek doesn't like the book-tour scene at all and actually, I hate to admit it, but it is easier without him because he is often bored and I feel like I need to entertain him and really, I don't have the time because my publicist Nancy and I are busy every minute. She has arranged for twelve stops now and more than two weeks on the road so it is going to be a non-stop marathon.

"That's okay, sweetie, I understand," I said magnanimously. "Hey, it's a ways off yet. Maybe you'll change your mind by then but if not, I'll spend a few days at your place after I get back," I offered conciliatorily.

"That sounds like a good plan," he agreed. "Jesus, Torie, you've only been out there for two days and I'm missing you already. I wish you were in my arms right now," he said suggestively.

"We knew that we'd have some adjustment time with the distance," I reminded him. "I guess I'll have to give you plenty of attention next weekend to hold you over until I see you again, huh?"

"Promise?" he whispered softly.

"Promise. Well, honey, I'm gonna get some sleep," I said and couldn't hold back a jaw-cracking yawn. "I'll see you next Friday. Do you remember the address of the rental house?"

"Madison Street—I have it in my GPS."

"Okay. Love you, Der."

"Love you too, babe. Good night."

I hung up the phone and set it aside on the nightstand; grabbing up the TV remote and settling in to watch some mindless reruns, to help me drop off to sleep.

## Chapter 2

While waiting to get into my rental house in Fremont, I had time on my hands and not much to do with it in Oskaloosa, so I decided to pay a visit to the Keo-Mah Genealogical Society. I am already a yearly member and had spent a lot of time here during those years when I was working on my memorials; gathering obituaries for my family and such. They have an amazing library of microfilmed newspapers for Oskaloosa but also the _Fremont Gazette_.

Keo-Mah, which stands for Keokuk and Mahaska Counties, is situated on the main street of town and was formerly a small private residence that has been converted. It is such an unassuming building that most people go right past it the first time that they approach and usually have to take a left and go around the block to get another shot at the short and narrow drive.

I parked in the lot back behind the building and came up the ramped walkway and into what was once a screened in sun porch. The smell of old books is the first thing that I always notice upon entering the place. I _love_ the smell of old books. There is nothing on earth quite like it.

An older man, whom I know quite well, was seated at the front desk with stacks of books piled high, all around him, hemming him in on three sides. His gray, wispy hair looked as though he might have been scrubbing a hand through it as he tended to do when concentrating or when agitated. His thick glasses were seated low on his nose which was causing him to need to lift his head to make use of his bifocals. He was deeply occupied with something on his computer screen until he heard the storm door latch behind me.

"Welcome. What can I do..." he began pleasantly and then recognized me after a brief pause.

"Torie?" he asked, pushing his glasses up higher on his nose with a forefinger to get a better look at me. "I haven't seen you in ages! Where on earth have you been keeping yourself?" he asked rhetorically. "Busy signing books, I suppose," he decided as he rose from the desk and made his way around another pile of books near his feet. He approached me with outstretched arms. "I'll tell you what, little lady, I am just so darn proud of your accomplishments."

"John, thank you so much. It's _so_ good to see you," I said, accepting his warm hug. "Yes, I've been busier than I'd like to be," I admitted. "Gosh, the place hasn't changed a bit."

He released me and stepped back as I pointed to the sign-in tablet, in illustration of my remark and that still lay upon the same small pedestal as it had when last I'd visited.

I tucked my hair behind my ears as I leaned over to sign in and excitedly announced to him, "Oh hey, I think that you'll be surprised to know that I'm a local now."

"No! Really? Are you living here in Oskie?"

"Well, for this week I am. I actually bought the old Wyman family home in Fremont and it's in the process of being renovated right now. I should be moving in, probably starting a few months from now. I'm renting a little house in Fremont until my house is ready."

"That's wonderful. I'm sure that you have a lot of plans for the place," he said with a wide grin.

John is very aware of how much the previous generations of my family mean to me, in fact, I can recall fondly, he and I spending one rainy Sunday afternoon years ago, talking for hours, specifically about old homesteads that were still around. He and I had even discussed as a whimsical idea, the restoring of the Wyman house someday, years before I'd written my first book or had acquired enough money to even consider such a huge undertaking.

"Oh yeah, you'd better believe it, it's going to be something special," I assured him. "I thought that I'd spend some time with you here this next week and do some more research. I'm sure that there are a lot of tidbits about my family that I have yet to find. Plus, I wanted to become a lifetime member."

"Woohoo! I'll be happy to take your check," he said with a laugh. "We're always happy to add a lifetime member to the newsletter and a local celebrity, well..."

"John, no—no reference to celebrity, please, I beg you. Promise me!" I cringed at the thought of being made to stand out at all. I currently have total anonymity and I am bound and determined to hold on to it. I pointed a stern index finger in his direction menacingly.

"Okay, okay, I promise," he said and made a gesture with a forefinger crossing his heart.

"Oh, hey! You'll be interested in this," he seemed to remember all at once. "Just the other day we got in a few new reels of the _Fremont_ _Gazette_. Let me see..." he said absently, starting off in the direction of the microfilm room and I followed after him, squealing with delight and clapping my hands like an excited kid on Christmas morning.

"Oh my gosh, John. Did you happen to get any of the elusive eighteen nineties?" I asked hopefully.

"Yes, we got one reel with part of 1896 _and_ a few months of the missing 1904 and 1907," he said excitedly.

_Another of my peeps,_ I thought to myself with affection as I watched his eyes light up with delight as he anticipated sharing it all with me, _Another total genealogy geek_!

## Chapter 3

Dave Cameron turned off the lights and pulled the door of the old farmhouse closed, locking up for the night. He was satisfied with the progress and it had been a productive last few days. He had finished determining the layout of the upstairs bathroom cabinets and those, plus all of the fixtures including the antique tub and the new shower would be delivered and installed tomorrow.

He had also finished replacing all of the rotted wood out on the front porch and had completed the formal staircase to the second story of the house, just today. He had found a fancy Victorian-Rose ball capped newel post, with turned spindles and intricately detailed tread end moldings. All the oaken case needed now was a classic mahogany stain to become a breathtaking focal point in the front foyer. He was stoked that his own instincts, research and the clues that he had been able to uncover from the much-abused original set of stairs had proved to be a very close match to the detail in the photographs of the ornate staircase that Torie had provided him with.

He had paused often during the last couple of days to send cell-phone photos to Torie, getting brief text messages back from her with her approval, and having her close by was proving to be a big help. Over the last two months, while he had been working on the house before her arrival, it had been difficult to completely visualize her ideas. Now that she had provided him with the photographs and talked about her goals, he had a much clearer understanding of what she hoped to achieve.

He had found Torie Mills to be not only passionate about the house and the restoration, but as they had shared dinner that first night in Oskaloosa, he had been struck hard by just how completely drop-dead gorgeous the woman is. She had effortlessly lit up the room for him like a sunny day. He had found himself so preoccupied with gazing at her that he would not have been surprised to learn that his mouth had been hanging open and tongue lulling out like a simpleton, had he not consciously kept his mouth and tongue firmly in check.

She possessed the most expressive large blue-gray eyes, which had shined with excitement as she had warmed to the subject of her new home. She had also had a wonderful blush come up in her cheeks when she had become embarrassed for being so 'over-the-top' with what she had called her 'chatter' but that had been her opinion, not his. He hadn't said anything, but he could have listened to her talk all night and he'd been mesmerized by simply watching her mouth as she spoke.

Then as the evening hours had raced by until they were two of only a few patrons still occupying the large restaurant, their intense discussion of strategy had mellowed to a quiet, companionable ease and he'd been unable to keep his mind from wandering down some _non-work-related_ and rather steamy paths as they had enjoyed a cup of after-dinner coffee and then another.

His marriage had been over for almost two years now, and he had been feeling, just in the last six months or so, that he was ready to get back out there in the dating world again, except for the fact that he had found that Fremont, being such a tiny community, presented a daunting challenge for him to find someone who, one, interested him and two, whom he hadn't known on a friend level for his entire life.

His relationship with his ex-wife Laura had begun as a blind date, arranged by well-intending friends and the attraction between them had been immediate. They had fallen in love quickly, married and he had brought her home to join his life here and live out their happily ever after. But she had been a city girl all of her life—from Des Moines, born and raised and he knew now that their marriage had been doomed to fail from the very beginning.

At first, she had seemed to be perfectly suited to him and for living in the small town that he intends never to leave. But after three years with him, she had called it quits and without much fanfare, had packed up and moved out and on. The divorce had been amicable because with no kids and her not wanting the house, there wasn't much to fight over. He had simply bought her out of her share of their mutual possessions and they had parted company as friends. He is pretty laid-back in that way, even Laura had said that he was the most accepting and loyal man that she could have ever hoped to find. It was the small-town life that she couldn't tolerate and Dave knows that there are a lot of people who feel that way about small-town life.

David Cameron's roots are deeply entrenched in Fremont and Mahaska County. The land that he lives on a mile north of town just past the cemetery is part of the same land that his mother's family has owned since the early 1840's when the McFall's had become one of the earliest settler families, quite literally by accident, when an injured ox had forced the family to stop at a spring just north of the cemetery land while it was being nursed back to health.

Dave's third great-grandfather Samuel McFall had left his wife and children there, including a couple of older boys to mind their possessions and had also left them in the company of a family group of friendly Indians who were also camped along the creek; while he had traveled on by foot, out west until he had reached their original goal some fifty miles away which had been Des Moines. After taking a look around and finding nothing there but a small fort and a single dwelling, Samuel had decided to return to the fertile lands of what would become Fremont and stake his claim.

Dave's farm, a portion of that original claim, had been passed down from his great-great-grandfather William McFall to his son—Dave's great-grandfather Jacob McFall, who had left it to Dave's grandfather Joseph McFall, and finally, it had been passed down to his mother, Anna McFall Cameron. His grandpa Joe had lived with Dave's family until his death in 1991.

Direct descendants had lived in the same house continuously for the last 130 years and Dave had been the only one of his family of four siblings who'd had any desire to keep the homestead after his parents had retired from farming and moved to Arizona to enjoy their golden years away from the cold Iowa winters. He had purchased the property outright from his parents about six years ago now and he had spent the last five years working on restoring the place. He still owns a total of 910 acres of land—the ten acres that the house and outbuildings sit on; and nine-hundred acres in crops. He rents the cropland out to his neighboring farmers for the actual farming operation and he takes a share of the profits at the end of each growing season as the rental payment. His passion is and always has been carpentry, woodworking, and restoration.

Torie, it seems, is as stoked about restoration as he is and he was thinking that it will be great when she gets moved into Fremont, into the rented house and can spend some time with him helping out. She seems very determined to get her hands dirty, and he was looking forward to her company more than he cared to examine too closely.

He had always worked alone on his projects except for occasionally taking on a promising student or two from the Indian Hills Community College at Oskaloosa as interns; in order to mentor them and nurture their interest in the profession of historic restoration. He hadn't had any such opportunities since the fall-winter semester of last year, so having Torie's company while working on her place—he was looking forward to that. That she is a wealthy, successful, beautiful woman with long auburn hair that hangs down her back in sleek layers, huge blue-gray eyes that are framed by dark flirty long lashes that can melt a man, and a sexy, slim figure that happens to end with a pair of legs that seem to go on forever didn't hurt matters either, Dave had to admit to himself.

Just as he had climbed into his pickup truck and closed the door, his cell phone rang and his face brightened when he saw the caller's phone number and he answered with a cheerful, "Hello."

"Dave. Hey, it's Torie. I was wondering what you're up to tonight and kinda hoping that you don't have any plans, reason being, that if you don't, I thought that maybe I'd see if you'd like to meet me for dinner? I was thinking that I might come into town and grab something to eat at the Finish Line. _My treat_ ," she added quickly.

"I just closed up the house. I'll run home and shower and should be able to meet you there by, say, six fifteen?"

"Perfect. By the time I clean up and drive in from Oskie, we should arrive at just about the same time."

"Okay, see you in a bit," he said, as the call ended, unable to help the smile that spread across his lips. He could feel that old feeling starting and he already knew that he was heading for trouble because she is taken but he was going to lose his heart to Torie Mills, he could tell it already.

He clicked on the radio and cranked it up as John Cougar Mellencamp sang about "Little Pink Houses" as he turned onto the gravel road toward home.

***

The Finish Line Diner is one of the few remaining establishments that hug the edge of Highway 23 which cuts through town and runs perpendicular to the old downtown business district. The building has been around since 1892 and although it had gone through many changes in name and ownership, it had always managed to continue to be an eatery. It was currently outfitted as a retro fifties' style diner with a black-and-white checked racing theme. It had red vinyl bench-style booths situated along the picturesque wall of plate-glass windows facing the parking lot, café-style tables and chairs scattered about, and a black-and-white checked main counter with a dozen swivel stools.

Dave was the first to arrive and he parked in the gravel lot, deciding to wait outside for Torie. He leaned against the side of his truck watching down the highway until he saw her silver Nissan Pathfinder come into view and he pushed off, coming to his full height as Torie arrived, parking next to him. He reached out a hand to help her open her car door and as he did, she smiled up at him warmly. _Yeah, I'm a goner_ , he thought fatalistically. _God, her smile is irresistible_.

"Hey!" he said casually.

"Have you been waiting long?" she asked with concern as she stepped out.

"No. Just a few minutes," he assured her and couldn't help but give her an appraising look up and down. She wore a simple turquoise-blue long-sleeved dress that ended about halfway up her thighs and casual flats. From what he could see without ogling her like some kind of letch, she appeared to possess about a mile of silky smooth, well-toned legs.

"Wow!" he said. He couldn't help himself, it just sort of popped right out of his mouth and he immediately felt like a fool.

Torie didn't seem to mind. She looked down at her dress and then reached into the vehicle to retrieve her purse and a jacket from the seat.

"Well, thank you. I haven't gotten a _wow_ in a while. Not overdressed, am I?" she asked self-consciously, tucking her long auburn hair behind her ears.

He watched as her bangs fell over her forehead and into her eyes and she swept them away from her face gracefully with her fingers and he swallowed—hard. _Damn,_ he thought. _She's absolutely beautiful_.

"Um—no," he stammered as he attempted to recover his equilibrium. "I think I'm underdressed." He looked down at his own navy button-down shirt, blue jeans, and brown-leather Rockport's appraisingly while he waited for her to close and lock her car door and then she turned to him.

"Shall we?" she asked flashing a brilliant smile.

He swept his hand toward the diner gallantly with a slight bow, "After you."

"I'm absolutely starving!" Torie growled with feeling, walking before him and Dave hurried to intercept her before she could reach for the handle and opened the diner door, allowing her to precede him.

***

As we sat across from each other in a booth against the windows enjoying our dinner, I told Dave a little bit about my relatively dull life growing up on the west side of Des Moines and then I sat enthralled, listening as he described his experience of growing up in Fremont, which was much more interesting to me, by far.

By the time that he was of school age, the last classes of the independent Fremont High School were graduating. When it was his turn to attend high school, he and his classmates had been bussed to Eddyville as Fremont had merged with other districts to save and pool their tax dollars. The unused and dilapidated old high school building had been demolished around 1997 to make way for a new grade school.

My grandfather had graduated from one of the earlier Fremont high schools back in the year 1914. That early school had been built in the year 1890 and was referred to today as simply 'the 1890' by virtually everyone as a way of distinguishing it from earlier and later schools. It had been demolished shortly after my grandpa's graduation but I possess several photographs of the interior of the schoolrooms and my grandpa Arlan seated with his classmates in several rows of wooden-topped desks complete with inkwell ports and scrolled cast iron legs, so I do have _some_ idea of what it might have been like to attend there. It's hard to comprehend in this day and age that his graduating class had been a whopping six students.

"It's too bad that all of those old buildings are gone. I don't even know where the 1890 high school sat. Do you?"

"It was just out west of here," he pointed out the window and then across the street to the buildings and a park with swings and play equipment on the other side of Main Street along North Pine. "All along there used to be the old town square."

"Really? I didn't realize that," I marveled. "I must've driven past there a hundred times and had no idea."

"I doubt most people living in town know either. It's all been gone for nearly a century," Dave said.

You know," I continued. "I have a family history that describes where the old one-room schoolhouse was located—one of them anyway, Olive Branch, I think it was. In 1978, when the history was written by my grandfather, it still sat out east of town. Do you know where it would be?"

"No, but we could maybe try and find it. If it simply deteriorated and collapsed, we may be able to find something. Might be something that we could tackle on a weekend day," he offered.

"I'll dig out my history," I said. "That'd be great."

The waitress arrived just then to clear the dishes and as she did so, we both sat back in our seats, not realizing that we'd been hunched over the booth toward each other, engrossed in our conversation.

"Can I get you folks anything else, Dave?" she asked and moved her eyes to me, conveying the same question.

"No, Char," Dave spoke up. "I think we're good to go unless you'd like some dessert?" he looked at me. "Char makes a really great apple pie," he said with a charming smile while raising his brows enticingly.

"I couldn't eat another thing, really," I declined and looked up at Char, a pleasantly attractive woman, probably in her mid-fifties and possessed of a mass of golden-blonde curls that she wore pulled up into a puff of a bun at the crown of her head. She wore a crisp white uniform with a black-checked apron and her name tag was decorated with a checkered finish line flag and her name, Charlotte, in black lettering, appeared to have been typed up with an old-fashioned label maker.

"Thank you, though. Everything was wonderful," I said honestly.

She nodded with an added friendly wink and ripped the receipt slip from her tablet, placing it face down on the table.

"Whenever you're ready," she said, balancing a load of our dirty dishes in the crook of her arm as she left us.

Dave reached for the bill just as I did, and we both ended up covering half of it with our hands.

"I told you this was my treat," I reminded him while trying to slide the paper out from under his fingers.

"Well, only under one condition." He kept his hand over it, holding on firmly.

"What condition?" I asked suspiciously, but I couldn't help but smile at this silly tug-of-war we were engaged in.

"We go downtown and you let me buy you a drink," he demanded with a no-nonsense tone in his voice that made it clear that this condition was non-negotiable.

"Downtown? Downtown Fremont?" I sputtered with a laugh. "I thought that we were downtown right now."

"Technically, you gotta go around the corner and down South Pine to Stevie's," he informed me and continued. "Did you know that Stevie's just happens to be one of only two bars in town and just happens to be directly across the street from its only competition?"

"No I didn't but..." I began but he interrupted, forestalling what he'd anticipated was going to be a decline.

"And did you know," he continued enticingly, obviously intending to prey on my unhealthy interest in all things Fremont. "That Stevie has had a good-natured feud with Tim, the owner of the dueling establishment, Tim's Time Out, for many years now?"

He asked this rhetorically because he went on before I could even open my mouth to respond. "What I am offering to do for you, Miss Mills is to give you a personal introduction to _both_ of these iconic pillars of the community. You just can't pass up a chance like this," he said, trying again to wriggle the tab out from under my grasp while giving me a grin and a flash of his irresistible dimples and straight white teeth.

Unable to lift or turn my left hand enough to be able to view the face of my wristwatch without possibly losing my hold on the bill, I looked up at the clock on the wall above the counter and saw that it was still early, not quite 7:30.

"Oh, what the hell," I said giving up with a sigh. "I'm in."

So I won the bill and paid it, and we headed out to bar-hop in Fremont, Iowa.

***

We started out at Stevie's where we sat at the bar and Dave made good on the aforementioned promise of an introduction to the famed proprietor; Stevie. That conversation turned out to be brief because he was pretty busy with customers and couldn't spare a lot of time to talk. So this left Dave and I to ourselves, enjoying our icy cold beers and getting better acquainted by swapping back-stories and delving a little deeper into our respective personal lives. I told him the basics about my relationship with Derek, and he told me a little bit about his one and only failed marriage to his ex-wife, Laura.

The place was pretty crowded, and we ended up with our bar stools close together and facing each other with our feet sharing one other's footrests as we found it necessary to lean in close to be able to be heard over the noise of the country music blaring from an ancient jukebox that a table of three women across the bar kept feeding quarters to, and the sports play by play absolutely _blaring_ from a big-screen television hanging directly above us. I gotta say that I found Dave Cameron to be extremely charming, very funny, pretty damn handsome _and_ he smelled like Cool Water, one of my favorite men's colognes.

After we had finished our drinks and were preparing to leave, Stevie suddenly took notice as he turned from closing the cash register drawer and he laughingly coerced Dave into a hilarious rapid-fire game of twenty questions as to his intentions regarding our next stop and we were both assailed with some good-natured ribbing from Stevie all the way out the door, about how we were two-timing him with that dive across the street and calling us fickle with a deplorable lack of loyalty to his bar.

***

Once we had made our break, we did indeed head across the street to have another drink at Tim's Time Out and we had a good time talking family with the proprietor, Tim Dinsmore. He is descended from the William Dinsmore clan which is another of the original settler families of Fremont.

"The newer Cedar Township Memorial Cemetery in town is on, what was once, Dinsmore land," Dave informed me.

"Yeah, back in the fifties the town bought fifteen acres," Tim agreed with a nod. "My dad's family actually helped get it into shape..." he paused and then said, "Oh shit," as he looked over our shoulders at something that had caught his eye outside the smoky-glass of the front windows.

We both looked around to see that a huge chartered bus had just pulled up along the curb and within moments the bar was inundated by its couple of dozen occupants out celebrating, _what,_ it wasn't quite clear, but they were boisterous and they were thirsty.

As Tim quickly got busy with the rowdy crowd from the wayward party bus, Dave and I took our drinks to a booth and continued our getting to know one another. We discovered that we have in common the fact that we are the only members of our immediate families still living in Iowa. His brother Adam had moved to Birmingham, Alabama to go to college; had fallen in love with the south and a southern belle named Jill and had never returned. The other two brothers Mike and Kyle and their families were in Tampa, Florida, making a living by running deep sea fishing excursions for tourists, and his dad and mom, Mike and Anna, had retired permanently to Phoenix, Arizona several years ago.

I then provided him with my immediate family tree beginning with my sister Sarah who lives on a horse ranch out in Fountain, Colorado and is married to Jerry. My other sister Margo is married to Sean, who is career military and they currently live in San Antonio, Texas; my dad and his third wife Sandy live on Marco Island, Florida and my mother Grace, my dad's first wife, passed away suddenly six years ago last January.

"This is going to sound silly," I said, feeling extremely comfortable with him by now. "But I was always the one who loved all of those cozy holiday traditions, you know, big Thanksgiving gatherings, making Christmas cookies with my mom and sisters, and the entire family driving around the city to see the best light displays on Christmas Eve—but then," I shrugged, tipping my drink to my lips.

"But then," he urged with a smile that was gentle and held a look of such genuine interest that the truth just spilled out of me easily.

"Then it all ended. My dad left when I was five and my parents divorced by the time I was seven, my sisters' are both older than me and were up and out of the house before I was raised and then it was just me and my mom and then I lost Mom so," I paused again and he lowered his brows and narrowed his eyes, willing me to continue.

"So _me_ —the one who has always wanted nothing more than family and all those cozy traditions that go with it; I spend most of my holidays alone and my hope—as silly as it may sound—is that by moving here to Fremont—even though I have nothing more than a bunch of old scrap books full of memories that aren't even mine, a big old empty farmhouse, and a cemetery full of dead people that I never knew—I'm hoping to find my home here, you know, roots. Crazy notion, I know."

"Oh—not so crazy," he said with a sigh, tossing a couple of dollar bills on the table while raising his hand to get Tim's attention and when he had it, he ordered us each another drink by holding up two fingers. I turned just in time to see Tim give him a nod of understanding before Dave continued.

"I've lived my entire life in this town," he said. "And my family tree has shriveled away to where I have no one left—just me and a stray distant cousin or two around who wouldn't know me if they saw me. But I have my old home place, my community, a lot of good friends. There's a lot to be said for living someplace where everybody knows your name and has your back and besides—there's never any guarantee that you're gonna end up with a Hallmark card or a Walton's Family Christmas at the end of the day—no matter where you live, but I think that this is as good a place as any to try for it."

"I think so too," I agreed excitedly, heartened by his understanding. "And besides I do have one cousin just east of town so I'm not starting out exactly from scratch."

Tim arrived and switched out our empty glasses and Dave lifted his fresh drink toward mine and we touched our glasses briefly.

"Well, there ya go," he agreed with a nod as he toasted me with a warm smile. "Here's to your new home and your new hometown."

***

By the time we walked out the door to head home with nearly six hours and three drinks under our belts, the still night air of early March had turned crisp. As we walked, talking quietly, our breath mingled into a misty white cloud between us, caught in the bright light of a nearly full moon. I paused briefly to pull my jacket on, and Dave had a ready hand, reaching out to assist and guiding my sleeve toward my arm.

"Thank you, kind sir," I said.

"You are most welcome," he said gallantly with a slow smile and slight bow as we started off again, strolling along toward our trucks which we'd left parked outside the diner.

"I move into my rental day after tomorrow on Thursday or I guess it would just be _tomorrow,_ " I decided after taking a look at my wristwatch and squinting to make out the time.

"Is it really one a.m.?" I asked. I lifted my wrist toward him and he held it for a moment as he also squinted to make out the dial.

"Yep," Dave confirmed.

"Anyway," I continued. "I'll be able to come to the house and help you some if you would allow me."

"Hey, it's your party. I'd appreciate anything that you want to take on," he said, and I got the feeling that he was being sincere about that.

In just a couple of minutes, we arrived at our vehicles and he walked me to mine, standing with his hands in his jeans pockets to ward off the chill as I fumbled for the car keys in my purse, found them and pressed the button. The lights flashed as the locks clicked open.

"Well, good night, Dave," I said. "Or good morning, I should say. I had a great time."

"Me too. Drive careful, and will you give me a call when you get to the motel to let me know that you're there and safe?"

I dug into my purse for my phone and waved it toward him.

"Gotcha on speed dial," I said with a laugh. "Good night."

I buckled myself in and watched as Dave climbed into his truck, waving at me one last time as he pulled out of the parking lot heading east.

I pulled out onto the highway heading west and turned on the radio to keep me company and to occupy my mind as I was interestingly and inconveniently overwhelmed by a wave of homesickness, or maybe just longing and wistfully thinking about how nice it would be if I had someone who was waiting for me at home tonight. Friday and Derek seemed awfully—awfully far away.

***

Dave Cameron had just gotten inside the front door and was immediately greeted by his German Shepherd, Shadow. He leaned down to give him a good scratch behind the ears and then flipped on the lights and with Shadow, living up to his name and right on his heels, he headed into the kitchen to belatedly fill his food bowl.

"Sorry for the late dinner, buddy but here ya go." He patted his leg, urging him to come and the dog obediently trotted to him but then eyed the food bowl, took a less than enthusiastic sniff of its contents, sat down, and looked up at him.

"What? That's all you're getting, old boy so save the pouting. You're on a diet, remember? Ten more pounds."

Shadow looked once more at the dry food and then lay down on the rug and rested his head on his front paws with a heavy sigh.

"Whatever, dude. I'm going to bed."

When his cell phone rang a moment later, Dave pulled it from his pocket and looked at the lighted display. Surprised, he answered quickly.

"Torie, you can't be home already..." he began.

"Hey—hey take it easy. Calm down. Where are you?" he asked gently. "Don't move. I'll be right there."

He snapped his phone closed, heading at a jog down the hallway toward his den and returned with his combination over/under, breaking it open to check the chambers out of habit, as he hurried to the family room, reached up above the entertainment center and rooted around until he found the box of ammo. He opened the box of bullets as he placed it on the center island in the kitchen, loaded the gun quickly, and then he was out the door.

## Chapter 4

My headlights and flashers further illuminated the moonlit highway but it was an eerie, otherworldly feeling, being the only vehicle for miles around. Whoever the person was who had caused this, was long gone and I couldn't, _could not_ understand how anyone could just hit an animal and drive off. I had my truck angled in such a way as to protect the deer that struggled helplessly on the pavement before me. It was halfway in the travel portion of the road, halfway on the gravel shoulder and it was lying with its head up, and the front legs appeared to be able to support its weight; but the back legs—God they were completely mangled, and there was a large gash in the hindquarters that was bleeding profusely. The deer kept looking back over its shoulder toward me, unable to do anything but lie there and I was unable to do anything but sit in my car and sob in empathy for the poor creature. I knew that it would be best to stay inside my car and wait for Dave because it would only frighten the deer further to see a human and add to its useless struggles to flee. Besides, it was after one o'clock in the morning on a deserted two-lane highway which is not the safest place for a lone woman to be.

I was only about three miles outside of Fremont, and it didn't take long before I saw headlights coming up the flat stretch of highway behind me. Dave left his truck idling and gently closed his door coming up slowly and soft-footed to my driver's side. I pushed the button and lowered my window.

"Are you okay?" he asked softly.

"I'm fine," I assured him.

"Did you hit it?" he whispered, as he looked toward the front of my vehicle, trying to determine if he could detect any damage to my Pathfinder.

"No, I came up on it and there was no one around. They must have driven off," I said and my voice trembled.

"Hey, are you crying?" he asked gently and touched my shoulder with a comforting squeeze. "I'll take care of this. Don't worry."

I looked at the gun that gleamed in the moonlight, held cradled in the crook of his right arm.

"You're going to shoot it?" I croaked while wiping the tears from my cheeks with the backs of my hands.

"It'll be a long wait if we call the sheriff's office in Oskaloosa to come out. They're not very quick to this kind of call and it looks like both of his back legs are broken," he observed sadly. "He's suffering so let me go handle this and I don't want you to watch, so will you do me a favor and close your eyes?"

I nodded without hesitation because I have never seen anything die or be killed in my lifetime and didn't want the memory of it to haunt me now, so as he started to move quietly toward the front of my truck and I watched the deer begin to thrash desperately, trying in vain to escape, I did as he'd asked and I squeezed my eyes tightly shut. It felt like an electric shock ran straight up my spine and the hairs on the back of my neck stood up as I heard the blast of the shot ring out, even with the heels of hands pressed firmly over my ears to drown out the noise.

When I finally got up the courage to open my eyes and look, the deer was lying flat on the road, all of its struggles and agony at an end. Dave was illuminated by my headlights as I watched him move it off of the travel portion of the highway by its front legs. He bent down to pick up his gun and then came back to my door.

"Are you going to be okay to drive?" he asked with concern.

I nodded my head. "I think I'll be fine. Thank you so much for coming to help me, Dave."

"Not a problem. Listen, I'm gonna follow you to Oskaloosa to be sure that you get home okay."

"That isn't necessary, Dave. Really, it isn't. I'll be fine."

"No argument—I'll be right behind you," he stated with authority and headed off before I could add anything further.

Without any other choice, I rolled up my window and waited until he was in his truck before starting my engine, turning off my emergency flashers and driving around the deer and back out onto the highway. I glanced into my rearview mirror every so often to find Dave Cameron, my knight in shining armor, gallantly escorting me to my castle home—well, room number nine of the Budget Inn Motel anyway.

As I pulled into the parking lot of the bungalow-style motel and parked directly before my room, Dave came up alongside and parked beside me. He jumped out and hurried over to open my car door for me.

"What a night," I said lamely, unable to think of anything better to say. I think I was still a bit in shock.

"It wasn't the best ending I'll not deny that but up until just a few minutes ago it had been the most enjoyable evening that I've shared with a woman in a very long time," he admitted with a quirk of a smile and I noted, a shy duck of his head at this admission.

"Hmmm..." I replied skeptically, not quite believing that it could possibly be true.

"What? I'm serious!" he said and laughed. "Well, I'm gonna get out of here and let you get some sleep. Besides, I have a long day at work coming up in just a few short hours and my boss is a..."

"Hey now—watch it," I warned jokingly and turned around from unlocking my door to find him grinning broadly at me.

"Thank you, Dave—I really don't know what I would have done without your help tonight."

"No problem, boss. Maybe I'll see you on Thursday after you get settled in. Please feel free to stop by the house if you decide that you want to get your hands dirty."

"I might just do that. Good night, Dave."

## Chapter 5

Thursday got away from me before I knew it, and I didn't get a chance to go over to the house to assist Dave. The day started out with a trip into West Des Moines for an appointment at Roslin's Salon & Day Spa to get my bangs trimmed, have a mani-pedi, and indulge in waxing, including a modified Brazilian because, after all, Derek _will_ be spending the weekend. Next was grocery shopping in Oskaloosa to buy the necessities to stock my cupboards, and of course, there was the twelve-mile drive to the rental house in Fremont. When I had driven into town I'd found my eyes moving up and down along the shoulder of the highway, scanning for the deer from the other night, but it must have been removed because there was absolutely no trace testifying as to where it had been.

I had left the majority of my personal possessions in a mini-storage unit in Des Moines, which I will have loaded up and brought to Fremont when I am ready to move into Rose's house. My immediate needs I had been keeping packed in the back end of my SUV and I hadn't anticipated it taking too long to unload everything into my rental house, but by the time I had unpacked and hung up all of my clothes, made up my bed, arranged my bathroom things, put away my towels and other linens, unpacked all of my kitchen small appliances like my coffeemaker and other utensils—my flat screen TV's, computers and etcetera, it had been ten o'clock at night before I'd even had a chance to sit down.

I had gratefully sank onto the living room sofa to watch the late local news and unwind, with my hot tired bare feet hiked up on the coffee table before me and my laptop open in my lap. I had been checking my email and found that I'd received two requests for blog interviews about my books, so I had worked on those and when I had answered all of the questions and had sent them on their way, another hour had passed. Totally exhausted, I had locked up the house, stumbled down the hallway to my bedroom and without preamble, grabbed up a thick ultra-soft throw from the back of a bedside chair where I had earlier placed it and fell face first and fully clothed into my still made up bed and was asleep practically before my head had even hit the pillow.

***

Friday morning, I was up early and dressed in a sweatshirt underneath an old hoodie, worn-out blue jeans, and utilitarian sneakers, and with a steaming cup of coffee in hand, I was sitting on Grandma Rose's front porch when Dave Cameron pulled into the gravel driveway at 8:00 a.m.

He sat a stainless-steel cup on the top of his truck while he pulled on a heavy flannel shirt over his dark-blue tee and he grinned at me quizzically as he adjusted his collar and then closed the truck door.

"Hey there, boss, am I late or something?" he asked and reached into the bed of his truck for his tool belt. Resting the well-worn leather over his shoulder, he lifted his cup and made his way toward the house, setting his tool belt on the porch and taking a seat at my side.

"No," I said with an answering grin. "I'm early. I'm sorry, but I had zero free time to get over here yesterday, so I wanted to be sure to get some assisting in today. Derek will be coming for the weekend and he'll probably be here about five but I'm all yours until three-ish."

"Ahhhh. I see," Dave nodded. "Well, I think that I can find plenty for you to do, that's for sure."

"I noticed that the deer was gone when I came into town yesterday," I said quizzically.

"Oh, I called the sheriff's office and let them know what had happened. After all, I fired off a gun in the dead of the night so I wanted to be sure that they knew about it, in case they got any reports about the noise. The sheriff probably had it removed."

"You know," I said conversationally, looking at him sidelong while nudging his shoulder playfully with my own. "You're a good man to have around in the case of an emergency, Mr. Cameron."

He gave me a light answering nudge with his shoulder and chuckled but didn't look over at me; instead, he blew across his cup to cool his steaming coffee.

"I have my moments," he admitted self-deprecatingly, taking a sip from his cup.

He looked over at me then and we smiled at each other before each turning our attention to the unencumbered vistas of open land before us. We were both quiet, taking a few more minutes to enjoy our coffee and just listening to the myriad of Iowa songbirds, none distinct but rather an orchestra of varying voices raised in the springtime gleeful joy of life renewed, coming from a large copse of trees a quarter mile away and amplified by the otherwise stillness of the countryside around us.

A few minutes later I sensed Dave's regard on me and looked over and up into his warm blue eyes that were reflecting the brilliant blue of the sky above and I could feel my face warm with a sudden flush, feeling like a giddy school girl who has somehow miraculously caught the eye of the most popular boy in her class. I must admit that after everything that he and I had shared over the last few days, I was becoming a little smitten with Dave Cameron, I think, and had the thought occur to me that I just might need to base a character on him in my next novel if he were to keep up his chivalrous tendencies.

He smiled at me again and then his expression changed as he seemed to remember something.

"Oh, hey, since you're here..." he said and leaned back slightly, reaching into the front pocket of his blue jeans and pulling something out. "I had this made for you the other day. No sense in you being locked out of your own house."

He dangled a silver key on a matching chain out toward me and dropped it into my upturned palm. The chain had a sterling silver charm on the end, which was in the shape of a stack of four books. The top book had been engraved with my first name across it at an angle in teeny, tiny, ornate scrolled lettering.

"You know, you just keep racking up those brownie points, Mr. Cameron," I informed him with a shake of my head. "Thank you."

He chuckled, lifted an index finger and made a hash mark in the air.

"I guess I'm on a roll," he said, coming to his feet.

"All right, time to work," he ordered with a grin, reaching down to take my hand and pulling me up to stand before him.

"Oh and kinda bossy too, I think," I teased, turning for the front door.

***

I spent the rest of the day with Dave at the house doing what I could to help out. I scrubbed the front-room fireplace with a nylon bristled brush and some soot remover until it looked almost like new. I swept the floors on all levels, including the small basement area that had been added sometime during the 1940's and which had been deemed sound by the inspectors but was not at all fancy and would never be more than a laundry room and storage area. I wiped down all of the new and beautiful fixtures and cabinets in my upstairs bathroom and washed the grout dust off of the freshly laid black-and-white daisy-patterned tile floor. I shined all of the new, old antique crystal doorknobs on the newly hung vintage doors throughout the entire house, and spent some time exploring the other buildings on the property to see exactly what all was there. I want to eventually get all of those outbuildings into good order as well.

After we stopped for some lunch at the Finish Line Diner, we headed back to the house and Dave broke out a couple of pairs of goggles and face masks and revved up a power sander to start stripping the hardwood floors on the lower level. There had been a lot of abuse to the old floors over the last 142 years including several early and varying shades of stain, more recent polyurethane lacquers, telltale signs of vinyl flooring in the kitchen and mudroom and some areas in the front room where glue had been used for wall to wall carpeting. By the snags of carpet fibers still clinging to some of the glued areas, it appeared to have been an interesting shade of pea green that dated it as likely from the nineteen-sixties Dave told me.

At 3:00 p.m., I decided that I'd better call it a day because I needed to get home and cleaned up before Derek was due to arrive. I am going to barbeque out on the gas grill out back of the house that had been included as part of the rental. I am planning to serve him a nice steak and baked potato dinner and I'd left the steaks marinating in the fridge all day in a glaze of red wine, garlic, and olive oil.

Dave paused in the stripping of the kitchen floor and turned off the sander, moving his mask and goggles up so that they were sitting on top of his head and he walked with me into the dining room as I prepared to go.

"Thanks for all of your help today, Torie. I really appreciate it."

"It was my pleasure," I said, laying my goggles and mask aside on his large rolling tool cabinet just inside the dining room and grabbing up my hoodie. "I may bring Derek over to take a look when he gets here. Maybe you two can meet?"

"Sure," he said with a nod. "I'll be here until about six."

"Okay. Hey, if I don't end up seeing you, you have a good weekend, Dave."

"You too," he said with a warm smile, watching me as I walked under the ornate dining room archway and on through to the foyer. I turned back to see him still observing me and waved with a final call of farewell as I headed out the front door.

## Chapter 6

The red Porsche 911 Carrera arriving in the driveway of a home in Fremont, Iowa, was an oddity, to say the least. In a town of pickup trucks, horse trailers, and hay wagons, the extravagant and flashy sports car looked very much out of place.

I watched through the picture window as Derek Bonner opened his car door and gracefully stepped out, revealing his six-foot, muscular and well-toned forty-year-old frame. He was still dressed in his work clothes, complete with a power tie and tailored suit coat. He is an insurance broker who also personally dabbles in the markets and some day trading and has been very successful at it. We met in Chicago when I had been out to dinner with my agent, Tom Rhoads, shortly after my second novel had been launched. Tom and Derek had happened to have an investment club in common and when Derek had recognized Tom and had stopped at our table to say a few words, Tom had introduced us. That'd been eight months ago now.

Derek, I observed now, was looking as if he had just stepped out of _GQ_ magazine. His sandy-blond hair was its usual one-hundred-dollar-a-cut, styled perfection and his handsome face—nearly flawless. My best relatable imagery I can offer as a close proximity, which I'd decided on some time ago, would have to be Brad Pitt. Okay—okay, so no one comes close to Brad but, in my opinion, Derek was giving him a good run for the money, in the looks department.

My best friend Mindy had disagreed with me vehemently regarding this comparison when I'd made it one night while she and I were having a girl's night out. She had been in the middle of her second margarita in as many hours and in no uncertain terms, except for the slight slur that had accompanied the derision which had dripped from every word, had argued that he looks more like the three times removed ugly adopted child of a distant step-cousin of Brad Pitt. My dear sweet friend Mindy is definitely _no_ t a fan of Derek.

Derek surveyed the neighborhood while he slipped off his suit coat, folding it carefully across his forearm before popping his rear lid and pulling out his luggage. I opened the screen door and stood on the front porch waiting for him. I didn't feel the need to rush to him and leap into his arms like I would have if this were a scene from one of my novels, because we just don't have that _passionate_ type of relationship. Oh, it's good enough behind closed doors, but he doesn't like PDA in the least, and after eight months I have come to the realization that he never will.

I had bathed and was dressed in a revealing black slip blouse that is one of the sexier items that I own. I was wearing my skinny jeans, with moderate-high heels and underneath it all was a new lacy black bra and matching G-string.

"Hey, stranger," I greeted him as he mounted the steps.

I reached out to help relieve him of some of his burden by taking his laptop and suit coat from his hands.

"How was the drive?" I asked.

"Not bad. You look beautiful," he complimented me as his eyes looked me over from head to toe.

"Why, thank you. You're looking pretty good yourself. Are you hungry?"

"I could eat. I think that I need a shower first and maybe a beer?"

"I've got some _Heineken_ all chilled for you."

He grabbed hold of the screen door and followed me in and once inside, he immediately put his bag down, and before he'd even glanced around at the place, he took his computer and suit coat from my hands, dropping them onto the nearby sofa, and then he pulled me into his arms, engulfing me in a passionate kiss as his hands moved over my blouse, squeezing my breasts gently.

"God, I've missed you. I'm about to burst," he whispered.

"I thought that you wanted to shower first?" I reminded him, amused. "I was also hoping that maybe you'd want to take a drive to get a look at the house and meet the contractor that I hired while the baked potatoes finish up."

"You want me to drive my hundred-thousand-dollar car out on gravel? Are you kidding me, Torie?" he asked dumbfounded, as though he couldn't even believe that I would say such a ridiculous thing.

"We could take my truck," I offered.

Derek was already preoccupied with kissing me again and he wasn't listening to me at all. I know that I should feel happy that he desires me, and I am but I would like to, at least, have some conversation and maybe a drink first, like civilized people.

"Not tonight, babe, okay? I'm really fried. I had a hell of a week at work. Can we see about that shower now?"

"Let me, at least, give you a tour of this house," I insisted, as we grabbed up his things. "It will take half a minute. Okay, so this is the living room."

"Nice," he gushed, acting as if he were impressed but I knew that he was messing with me.

"And here we have the combo kitchen slash dining room," I said flapping my free hand in that direction as I started down the hall. "Hallway—bedroom number one, bathroom, and my bedroom."

"Ooh—aah," he sighed in an overly enthusiastic display of awe. He was grinning at me when I rounded on him, irritated.

"You ass," I hissed but felt myself smiling in return and leaned in to accept the conciliatory kiss that he offered.

Entering the bedroom, I grabbed him a couple of hangers for his work clothes, and while I hung up his suit coat, he stripped out of everything else and pulled out his shower supplies. I finished up hanging his suit pants on a hanger and headed to the kitchen to get him a beer, while he sauntered after me, buck-naked and proud of it. He gave my butt a playful swat as he turned to enter the bathroom and I squeaked, scampering quickly out of his reach.

***

While Derek showered, I brought him a beer and sat it on the vanity next to him.

"Beer is at three o'clock!" I called over the sound of the water.

"Thank you. Sure you don't want to join me, babe?" he asked, pulling back the curtain to reveal himself to me in all of his naked glory.

It is obvious that he spends two hours a day, six days a week in the gym because no man gets those kind of rippling abs sitting at a desk job pushing paper all day. My eyes skimmed down the entire length of his perfectly sculpted and meticulously manscaped body and I leaned in to give him a kiss to appease him until he teasingly tried to pull me into the shower with him.

"Bonner, you get my clothes wet, and you'll be in big trouble," I warned him with menace.

He just smiled his seductive, bad boy smile that usually has a way of winning me over, but I resisted and turning, headed out.

"Shower, Derek! Dinner is almost ready."

***

It didn't take long after the dinner dishes were cleared and in the dishwasher before Derek was calling out for me to come join him on the sofa in front of the television. It wasn't long after I'd joined him on the sofa that he had managed to have me seated snuggly in his lap, keeping my mouth busy with ardent kisses, while his hands were exploring what was underneath my top. His kisses came to a smacking pause as he became occupied and engaged in trying to pull the edge of my blouse out so that he could peek underneath, hoping to get a glimpse of what he had perceived by touch to be a very daring plunge cut bra. I couldn't help but snort a laugh at him and his single-minded tenacity. Derek Bonner is a man who is a connoisseur of many things, not the least of which is a love of women's breasts and seeing them displayed in sexy lingerie.

He hushed my jocularity with another ardent kiss as he attempted to get me prone and his hand dove down the front of my jeans. However, he couldn't get comfortable on the small living room sofa and soon we were both struggling and laughing like loons before he finally gave up and with an animalistic growl, jumped up, scooping me off of the sofa as if I were as light as a feather, and carrying me off to the bedroom.

***

It was sometime later I lay staring up at the ceiling, feeling a little melancholy and unsatisfied with the just completed activities while I listened to the water running in the bathroom.

"Your turn," Derek said as he returned a few minutes later, turning off the stereo, slipping on his boxers and climbing into bed. He gave me a light kiss, and I could tell that he'd brushed his teeth again and had used mouthwash which about sums up sex between Derek and me, very antiseptic and sterile, not a sharing of one's self with another person really at all. It's more like two solitary, individual occurrences that we are each there to witness but that we never truly share.

I rose and grabbed a pair of boxers and a T-shirt out of my dresser and went into the bathroom to get ready for bed. Afterward, I went out to the living room to turn off the TV and lights and logged on to check my email for a few minutes before returning to the bedroom to find _my man_ , eyes closed and breathing deep and regular, sated and sleeping by 9:00 p.m. on a Friday night.

I wasn't near ready to sleep, so with an outward sigh of resignation directed at my peacefully slumbering boyfriend, I turned off the bedside lamp and closed the door behind me so that the light from the living room wouldn't disturb him, thinking uncharitably as I did so that, _No way will this night of lovemaking ever be reenacted in one of my romance novels_.

I turned on a reading lamp at the side table in my perfectly constructed and wonderfully cozy reading nook that I had created in one corner of the living room and after grabbing my own novel, _Passion's Fury_ , off of the built-in bookshelves and atop a small stack of reading materials that I had brought with me; I curled up in the overstuffed easy chair near the lamp, opened the book to page 132 and read the scorching hot, wet, messy, and romantic sex between my handsome leading man Beau Gardner and his sexy siren of a heroine Melody Turner. Now _that's_ lovemaking!

Derek and I, well, I can't blame Derek for my lack of ability to explode in ecstasy like the women in my novels or _normal_ women apparently do during the actual act of lovemaking. Maybe I'm just not built that way but whatever the reason, it's my issue and always has been, even before Derek. I sure can write about great lovemaking, though. The sex romps in my novels were described by romance critic Janelle Landry as quote, "Hot enough to cause the pages to spontaneously combust!"

_Yes, Ms. Landry,_ I thought sullenly. _But little do you know that it doesn't come from any firsthand experience. It's probably come from nearly twenty years of reading other women's romance novels and absorbing the details through osmosis. In the area of romance, I, Torie Mills—am a total fraud_.

## Chapter 7

And so I began my acclimation to life in Fremont, Iowa, now with a total population of _763_. Most of the next two months, I spent all of my days helping out at the house with Dave. We became a pretty good team, he and I. I came to sense exactly when he needed a tool and would have it ready for him even before he had to ask. I was like a top-notch surgical nurse, assisting Dr. Dave as he painstakingly renovated and restored Rose's house to circa 1870.

We spent quite a few days roaming around Des Moines browsing at the Brass Armadillo Antique Mall, West End Architectural Salvage, and other antique and salvage shops in search of hidden treasures and it seemed that we had Dave's pickup truck bed loaded to the brim at the end of each excursion.

We went on a couple of fun day trips to Omaha and we scoured store after store for vintage supplies; Dave insisted on vintage as much as possible. We hit three different estate sales out in Keokuk County, and Dave managed to salvage quite a bit of hardware that he needed for the outbuildings of my homestead and we found an awesome antique door to replace the nearly deteriorated one at the entrance to my storm cellar.

By mid-April, the house was coming together nicely. I'd been so successful at my gathering of vintage furniture that I'd ended up renting a PODS and I'd had it delivered to Rose's house so that I'd have someplace to keep everything safe and dry. It was sitting out back in the yard between the house and barn and it was beginning to bulge by the time that I was ready to leave for my book signing tour on May 1st.

***

It was such a mix of emotions that assailed me at the end of my last day of working with Dave on the house before going on my trip. He and I were sitting out on the front porch, each enjoying a cold bottle of beer at the end of the long day, celebrating our having finally wrestled the antique oven hood into place which had taken us nearly five hours and had cost Dave a broken drill bit and a nasty little cut across the back of his right hand near three of the metacarpal knuckles.

Without a thought about it, I took his hand in mine now and pulled it onto my knee, turning it gently, this way and that as I inspected it.

"It's not as bad as I thought," I said, examining the injury which had stopped bleeding and was now a clean dark line of clotted blood.

He'd bled like a stuck pig when it had happened but after rinsing it and applying some pressure with a paper towel until the bleeding had stopped, he'd been able to continue working but not without his unleashing a colorful string of expletives every so often when it would scrape against the ceiling or the wall as he worked to install the oven hood in the tight quarters above the kitchen range. I was, by turns, cringing in empathy for the pain that I knew he was feeling and bursting out in fits of snorting laughter while being entertained by his most colorful use of the English language.

"I think I'll live," he assured me, looking on now as I prodded the swollen flesh near the cut.

"This time maybe, but I won't be around to play nurse for you come tomorrow," I reminded him with a laugh. "You'll have to fend for yourself," I teased.

"I'm afraid so," he said and the honest desolation in his voice caused me to look up into his eyes and I found that he was already looking down at me with a warmth that spoke of more than could be attributed to the late afternoon sun shining upon his face and sparking light across his amazing eyes. They were alight with such a brilliant blue that it was impossible for me to look away.

He held my gaze for a long, long moment until there wasn't enough air in the entire outdoors for me to catch my breath and I released his hand feeling giddy by the strength of emotion reflected in those eyes. He didn't look away though but continued to hold my eyes captive and opened his mouth to say something more but seemed to think better of it and closed it again. I was fighting my own emotions and to break the tension that was like a red hot wire strung tight between us, I spoke up.

"What _will_ you do without me," I said jokingly but my heart was in my throat and it was almost painful to get the words out around the lump.

"I guess we shall see," he replied philosophically and gave me a smile of such surpassing sweetness that it simply melted my heart. I wanted nothing more than to stay home and to _continue_ this daily journey with him, day by day. I felt like I was leaving my best friend behind and God I didn't want to go.

***

I returned from my book tour on May 16th and had only one day at home to do laundry and clean house before I drove to Des Moines to stay with Derek for the weekend and to schmooze with some of his clients for dinner and drinks both Friday and Saturday night.

So on Saturday night, I found myself sitting in downtown Des Moines at the lovely Cosmopolitan Lounge, stirring my very apropos Cosmo drink and nodding on cue to the stylish, dripping-with-expensive jewelry, and _very_ young wife of Derek's client, who I refer to privately as, Mr. Middle-Aged Moneybags. I listened to her describe how she had lived enough to fill ten novels with her exploits into the fast-paced world of the rich and famous.

"You should do it. You should write a novel," I urged her with as much sincerity as I could muster.

"Oh, I just couldn't!" she hooted followed by a ringing high-pitched cackle of a laugh that sounded a bit like a deranged hyena. Derek glanced over briefly, likely as surprised as I was that a sound like that could come out of a human being, but he went back to his conversation without missing a beat. My companion placed a hand over her mouth briefly with a self-conscious flush coming up in her cheeks, floored by the notion.

"Oh no, not me but if you ever run out of ideas, I would be more than happy to share," she offered magnanimously.

"I'll definitely keep that in mind—can't have too many good ideas," I said distractedly as I reached for my black clutch that was vibrating on the oversized-leather chair beside me. I pulled out my cell phone and swiped open the face to read a text message. It was from Dave.

" _Wow, that little black dress is killer!"_

In shock, I looked up and around the room, finally finding him seated at the bar halfway between me and the stage at the far end. He was relaxed, seated on a bar stool, drink in hand. He raised his glass to me in salute and grinned.

_Oh_ , I thought seeing his smiling face, _I had missed Mr. Cameron_. I hadn't had a chance to see him in Fremont before I'd left to come to Des Moines for the weekend and having _not_ seen him for over two weeks, it felt as if it had been ages.

"Would you please excuse me?" I said absently to the table in general, and then I scooted my chair out and on my little black stiletto heels, made my way across the room.

Dave watched me approach with a friendly enough smile on his lips but those eyes of his; they roamed over every inch of my body, from the tips of my high heeled shoes to the very top of my head and back down again, ending with a ' _have mercy_ ' roll to them as if to swoon, as I arrived.

"Would you mind going back and doing that one more time? I want to be sure to commit that strut to memory for my future private use," he requested dreamily.

I shook my head and rolled my own eyes at his rather bawdy remark.

"How's the hand?" I asked to change the subject.

He immediately lifted it for my inspection and I held it in my two hands, smoothing an index finger over the back of his hand and along what was now no more than a thin pink line marring the golden brown of his tanned skin.

"Looks good," I said approvingly. "Glad to see that you're still in possession of all five of your fingers," I observed and released his hand from my grasp.

I crossed my arms over my waist and gave him a look up and down not unlike he had just given me, from the top of his head to the tips of his very expensive looking black dress shoes.

"No missing extremities," I observed. "All body parts appear to be present and accounted for. I'm very happy the see that you survived my absence unscathed."

"Very funny," he said dryly.

"So now my next question must be what on earth are you doing in Des Moines? And how is it that you just happen to be in the same bar as me?" I asked flabbergasted. "Taken up stalking me, have you?"

"I'm not saying that wouldn't likely be an _extremely_ entertaining endeavor, all things considered but—no," he said playfully. "I knew Max Eubank was playing here tonight, and my date lives downtown at the Plaza, within walking distance so..."

"Your date?" I interrupted, goggling at him open-mouthed. I don't know why that should surprise me so much but it did.

"She's in the restroom just now," he said easily with a grin, obviously amused by my reaction. He reached out an index finger and lightly touched my chin.

I promptly closed my open mouth.

"Hmmm," I murmured as I tried to digest this new development.

I was a little shocked by the incalculable coincidence of seeing him in this place and seeing this other side to Dave Cameron that I'd never really considered. He was meticulously groomed and dressed in a great looking dark-blue dress shirt and tie with some nice gray trousers, and those dress shoes—something _other_ than the work boots that were his usual daily wear, at least in my experience. Not that I don't appreciate the way that he looks on a day to day basis. I can honestly say that I've never seen him looking anything but perfect to my discerning eye but _this_ —he looked amazing. I couldn't _even think_ of any eloquent adjectives fitting enough to describe his sexy hotness, and I'm a _freakin_ ' writer!

"Hey, you clean up nice, buddy," I finally managed to say nonplussed.

He sat up a little taller in his seat, lifting his chin which showcased a knife sharp jawline and with a wry twist of a half-smile, straightened his tie and gave me his famous one-liner.

"I have my moments."

Just then, a very beautiful and _very_ young woman, blonde and stylishly dressed in an expensive designer outfit that flattered her numerous curvaceous attributes, arrived and stood next to me and I belatedly got the hint and moved to provide her access to what was apparently _her seat_ next to my employee.

Dave rose from his bar stool and kept standing briefly until she had seated herself with, I noted, effortless grace and fluidity. She swiveled on her stool toward me and I couldn't help but notice her reach out to lay a familiar hand on Dave's upper thigh to steady herself while she crossed her impossibly shapely legs and joined our conversation.

"Sharon Johnson, I'd like you to meet, Torie Mills. Torie this is Sharon," Dave gestured between us, making the introductions and Sharon and I shook hands and made small talk about how nice it was to meet each other, how much we were both looking forward to hearing the singer tonight, blah, blah, blah—while Dave sat placidly sipping at his drink and looking on with his head tilted to one side and a slight smile upon his lips, seeming to be enjoying this little _tête-à-tête_ immensely.

"Well," I finally said extricating myself when our conversation had quickly stumbled to an awkward pause. "It was very nice to meet you, Sharon."

"Nice to meet you, Torie," she reciprocated with another shake of my hand.

I moved my attention back to Dave, finding his eyes were on me and a soft smile upon his lips.

"Dave," I said. "I need to get back to Derek, but I'll be able to help with the house part of next week."

"I'll be there, bright and early," he assured me, nodding and took my hand in his for a cordial shake and said softly. "Really great to see you."

It was just then that the lights dimmed, bringing any further conversation to an end as Max Eubank took his place on stage to a round of enthusiastic applause and began strumming the intro to "I Won't Make You Feel Romantic."

Sharon wiggled her manicured fingers toward me in a final friendly farewell and swiveled her chair around to face the stage while I quickly retreated to my table at the back of the room but I couldn't help my eyes drifting again and again, across the room to watch Dave and his date as they sat cozily together, enjoying the music and quiet conversation with each other. Dave had his arm along the back of her chair, leaning in to whisper over her shoulder and she was leaning back against his chest, tilting her head so that he could speak directly into her ear and doubtless his lips were lightly touching there, his breath probably tickling and warm against her neck. I had to admit to myself that they appeared to be sharing a very romantic and intimate connection with each other as they listened to the singer and his acoustic guitar.

Me? Oh, I was treated to listening to Derek drone on and on about market conditions and equity index funds while, at the same time, shamelessly stroking his client's already inflated ego like a two-bit car salesman and expecting _me_ to do the same for the guy's gold-digging trophy wife.

***

I felt Derek's hand reach down between us to ensure that the condom stayed secure. He gave me a quick peck on the cheek and bounced out of bed, heading to the bathroom while I lay staring blankly up at the ceiling until, with a heavy sigh; I rolled out of bed and picked up my dress from the floor.

I strolled unhurriedly across the room and placed it on its hanger that was dangling from a hook on the inside of the open closet door and then I entered the large walk-in closet that was filled to overflowing with Derek's designer suits, shirts, ties, and more pairs of expensive high-end shoes than even the most _ardent_ female _fashionista_ owns. Even his workout clothes were designer chic and I wondered briefly just _how_ he had managed to amass such an impressive collection?

I grabbed a very expensive and decadently plush white terry robe from a nearby hook, slipping it on and grudgingly enjoying the feeling if it against my naked skin. It cost more than I would ever think to pay for such an item and was a spare that was designated as mine for when I visit.

I lifted the lid of my suitcase, resting on a low stand, and removed my night clothes, then padding across the plush beige carpeting, I dropped my night things onto the bed before I bent down to pick up my black bra, G-string, and heels and returned to add them to my overnight bag. As I placed the heels into a shoe sleeve inside the lid, I smiled, remembering Dave's remark tonight about my strut. I had been a little surprised that he would have noticed such a thing about me because we don't have that kind of a relationship but then again, I'd noticed _every_ detail about him tonight as well.

I had a thought strike me and walked back out of the closet and found my clutch in an overstuffed accent chair near the windows where Derek had tossed it before he had quickly stripped me naked upon our arrival at his elite residence in the gated community of Copper Creek in West Des Moines. I sat down in the chair and reached into my clutch to find my phone and opened my message screen to recent texts.

" _Wow, that little black dress is killer!"_

I smiled as I read it again and thought about when I had looked up to see Dave's eyes on me from across the room. His gaze had felt like a long awaited homecoming; warm and welcoming.

The bathroom door opened, and I quickly turned off my phone and placed it back into my purse, setting my purse aside as if I'd been caught doing something to feel guilty about.

"All yours, babe," Derek smiled at me as he sat on the edge of his bed in his boxers and reached for the TV remote.

I closed the bathroom door behind me, hanging my robe up on a hook on the back of the door and listlessly slipped into my night clothes. I looked into the mirror as I removed my makeup and stared into my large eyes reflected in the vanity, considering critically my thirty-six-year-old visage; comparing and contrasting it with the memory of the lovely, flawless, unlined, youthful and fresh as a daisy face of Sharon Johnson; while having some rather uncharitable thoughts about her niggle me as I considered what she and Dave Cameron were likely doing together at this very moment. I found that I could imagine it only too well and I didn't like the idea of that image in my head one little bit.

" _Damn it,_ " I muttered to myself softly as I blotted my face dry on a clean towel and with stubborn determination to clear all thoughts of those possible carnal proceedings from my head, I quickly moisturized, brushed my teeth, pulled off my scrunchie and hurried to join Derek in bed for some late-night TV.

## Chapter 8

Dave Cameron walked along Walnut Street in downtown Des Moines holding the hand of Sharon Johnson who was his ideal woman ' _on paper'_. She had even said that she would like living out in the country if it was with the right man. _Oh he'd heard that before_ , he thought cynically. _Laura had said the very same thing to him, once upon a tim_ e.

"When I finished school, I just ended up staying in Ames and eventually found a job down here in Des Moines with Markus, Hanson and Hayes and since their firm is located here in downtown, I bought the condo. It's been about three years now."

"You enjoy downtown living?" Dave asked, not really interested in what her answer might be. In truth, he was no longer interested _at all_ in the woman whose hand he held, strolling casually back toward her condo on the twenty-third floor of The Plaza.

"I enjoy being in the center of it all. Of course, when I marry and definitely when I have kids, I want to be out in the burbs or somewhere."

Dave simply nodded with a low grunt of acknowledgement.

"You seem kind of preoccupied now, Dave. What's changed from earlier tonight?" she asked looking up into his eyes. She was so blown away by his good looks because she had never _dreamed_ in a million years that he would have actually turned out to look like his profile pic. They'd met for one lunch earlier in the week, and this was their first official date, but she had already decided that this was going to be their first overnight as well.

"Oh, just a little tired, I think. It was a rough week at work," Dave admitted, looking down into her dark eyes and appreciating how the glow of the street lanterns set her hair and its blonde highlights off attractively.

_She_ is _a_ very _lovely young woman_ , he admitted to himself but her being only twenty-seven, made her a bit young for him and he couldn't figure out what her interest in him could possibly be, a man eleven years her senior. They really didn't have much life experience in common but when he had logged onto his computer and signed up for the free dating site, Sharon had been one of those who had matched him on several basic levels.

If he was being honest with himself though, it wasn't her age or his that was the problem, he knew that, because he had been pleased with her when he had come to Des Moines to meet her for lunch a few days ago and he had been _very_ hopeful earlier when they had started off, heading out into the warm spring night that had seemed to be brimming with possibilities. While walking the pleasant five blocks to the lounge, amid the imposing downtown buildings with the bustle of the city all around them—talking and laughing together as they had strolled, he had begun to believe that this night just _might_ hold the promise of a romantic beginning—until he had seen Torie.

This entire thing with Sharon—he was kidding himself, he knew that now and it wasn't anything that Sharon had done or hadn't done, it had nothing to do with Sharon. This date and even his signing up for the dating site in the first place, had been all about Torie Mills. He had signed up the second evening after she had left for her book tour. That is, after he had worked alone on her remodel the day after she'd gone—without her for the first time in two months. Her being gone had left him feeling very lonely which was something that he hadn't experienced for years now and he wasn't sure which was worse, the numbness of feeling nothing or the pain of emotions and desires coming alive in him once more and absolutely _nothing_ to do with them. He had spent the first evening after she had left town, sitting out on his back deck staring out into the soybean fields, missing her and berating himself for doing so.

"You're pathetic," he had said out loud with disgust, sailing his words out over the endless sea of his land sprawled before him, where they had been swallowed up and carried away out into the silence as he'd watched the dark night spreading across his domain. "You're missing someone who doesn't even belong to you, whom you've never even kissed or held. Hell, you're missing a woman who belongs _to another man_ , you ass," he had chided himself angrily.

Seeing her tonight and getting a look at the mysterious Derek had made him realize that Torie Mills is way the hell out of his league and he needs to face that fact and get over it. But she didn't seem to be out of his league—when she was in her blue jeans and tennis shoes strolling through the yard of an estate sale with him while scavenging for little treasures, or shopping with him at the hardware store, or laughing with him at the diner as she would try to tell him some silly joke and invariably would goof up the punch line. She was a _terrible_ joke teller which made it all the more endearing. She was the most down-to-earth woman that he had ever met in his lifetime, in spite of her fame and millions. She always seemed like just an everyday person and simply put—he thought that she was amazing.

_That bastard Derek sure is a good-looking son of a bitch_ , he thought with jealous ire. He had been dressed in what must have been at least a thousand-dollar suit and had been perfectly matched with the elegance that Torie had exuded in her understated but breathtaking, above the knee, sleeveless black cocktail dress. Her beautiful long, layered hair had fallen perfectly down her back and over her shoulders. As always, her sexy bangs had helped to frame her delicately featured face.

He had taken a couple of minutes to study Derek and Torie before he had texted from the bar, wanting to watch their chemistry together. In his opinion, the guy hadn't seemed appropriately attentive to Torie and in fact, he had been across the table from her and engrossed in conversation with some man. Dave couldn't fathom _any man_ not doing whatever it might take to keep Torie by his side. Wasting even one moment of an opportunity to look into the deep ocean of those beautiful blue-gray eyes was beyond his ability to comprehend. He would have given anything to have been escorting Torie out of that bar tonight with a sheltering hand on her lower back. Derek had left her to follow along behind him without even so much as a backward glance, but it _had_ allowed Dave another look at those silky-smooth looking long legs emphasized by stiletto heels walking away.

"Well, here we are," Sharon said, bringing him back from his thoughts. "Would you like to come upstairs?"

Dave stood there on the sidewalk beside the plush high-rise condo and looked up at the lighted building with its distinctive royal blue roof and then down into Sharon's eyes. It was decision time and there was only one decision for him.

"I had a good time, Sharon..."

"But?" she said, sensing a rejection coming.

"Maybe we can do this again. I really need to head home to Fremont tonight. I have a dog and..."

"I understand," she said and nodded.

He felt relieved that she was going to make this easy for him but as she looked up at him with her sultry dark eyes, he knew that he was the biggest fool on earth to be giving up a chance at what would have likely provided some very pleasurable relief for his baser needs and the crew down south of his belt-buckle were all for taking refuge in the comfort of a beautiful woman's warm bed for the night. But a one night stand just wasn't who he was and it would be just that, nothing more.

He bent to give her a customary good night kiss and she stretched up on her tiptoes and deepened the kiss, placing her hands around the back of this neck and giving it her all—likely to give him no doubt as to exactly what he was passing up. He put his arms around her and kissed her back, giving it his best effort to feel— _something_ —but there simply was no spark and he knew that there wouldn't be because Sharon Johnson was not Torie Mills and _goddamn it all to hell_ , he wanted Torie Mills!

After seeing Sharon up the steps to the lobby and elevators, where they parted company, Dave hurried back out the door and out into the night. He climbed into his truck and pulled away from the curb, slipping a CD into his player and cueing up his favorite track. Matt Nathanson's "Come On Get Higher" soon filled the cab with lyrics that fed the loneliness he felt tonight.

## Chapter 9

June 2, 2012

Finally—moving day! Three months ago, it had seemed as if this day would never arrive and now—here it is. The restoration of the house itself is now complete, down to the barn-red barn and the reproduced front-room wallpaper. With the details from the photographs as a guide, many of the original features, such as the fancy Acanthus leaf crown molding and window casings, and the windows themselves, which are modern and energy efficient, are painstakingly accurate in styling to the Victorian era. The roof, narrow clapboard siding, porch brackets, and picket fencing around the front yard, had all been completed while I had been on tour. The last task to be finished up had been the painting of the exterior of the house which Dave had contracted out to other professionals to complete and it had come down to the wire but everything is now done and the house is lovely, painted a nice eggshell with cornflower blue trim. So all I have to do now is to start filling the place up with my own things and all of the treasures that I currently have squirreled away out back in the PODS, where they are just waiting for me and my moving assistants to unload them into my new home.

I answered a knock on the front door to find Dave Cameron, looking all sexy and smoldering in his white T-shirt and blue jeans, leaning against the open screen door with one shoulder. Actually, he was just standing there, like an everyday guy but he is smoldering in my book, from the stray wisps of straight, dark hair spilling over his forehead, to the hypnotizing light crystal-blue eyes, to the dimpled grin that I now know so well. He was looking hot today—hotter than he should be to a woman in a committed relationship but it had been the middle of May since I'd spent that weekend in Des Moines with Derek and had seen Dave and Sharon at the bar, who, I had learned a couple of days later, is no longer in the picture. Apparently they hadn't hit it off as well as I'd thought that they had and that night at the bar had been their last date. This news, let me just say, hadn't broken my heart, although I am not examining too closely exactly _why_ I should have any opinion on Dave's private life, one way or the other.

Regarding my man Derek, it is going to be at least another two weeks until he will be coming here to stay over and he just happened to be unavailable to help me move over this weekend because he _just happened_ to have some clients come into town who he needs to wine and dine.

_Oh well,_ _that's what long distance is all about, Torie old girl,_ I thought philosophically. After all, the relationship with Derek has been this way since the beginning. It is what I'd signed on for and honestly, except for the dry spells sex-wise, it is a good fit for me and my rather limited emotional abilities. I don't do full-on relationships well and I never have.

"Mov—ing—day! Mov—ing—day!" Dave chanted enthusiastically like a cheerleader cheering on the home team. Let's—go—team!

I reached out to grab his forearm and give it an excited shake.

"I can't believe it's finally here!" I squealed with a laugh and then glanced beyond him to the men standing with their arms crossed over their broad chests, looking as though they didn't get the joke. Behind Dave, on the porch of my rented house, stood two capable looking and burly men, dressed in matching slate-gray tees, and behind them in the drive was their large truck with the famous logo _Two Men and a Truck_ emblazed across its side. They had already stopped in Des Moines and emptied my storage unit first which Dave had graciously offered to assist with and he had accompanied them there earlier today. What a guy.

"I'm all packed up, guys. Come on in," I stepped back and allowed them to enter as I instructed them. "Only the furniture I have marked with little white tags goes with me, but everything else, the TV's and all of the boxes in each room are mine."

I looked at Dave who was surveying the mountain of boxes I had assembled in my living room.

"I can't believe that I have so much stuff!" I said in amazement. "I think that I must have doubled my possessions since I've been here."

" _I'm_ not surprised," Dave said teasingly with a grin. "You bought a truckload of crap every single trip we made," he reminded me.

" _Crap_?" I feigned offense at such blasphemy. "Just wait until you see how great everything is gonna look in Rose's house. It'll be beautiful."

Dave crossed his arms over his chest with a warm smile.

"I have no doubt," he assured me with a wink and a playful nudge of my shoulder as he sauntered off toward the back of the house to assist the movers.

***

At 9:00 p.m., I _finally_ dropped into a chair at the kitchen table of my new house and slowly stirred a steaming bowl of minestrone soup as I blew across the surface to cool it. I took a handful of crackers and crushed them in my hands before sprinkling them over the bowl. I am so dead tired from the day of hard labor that this is all that I could manage to prepare. I flipped open my laptop and logged onto the Internet to check my email and catch up with family and friends on Facebook while I ate.

With a sigh of irritation at myself for forgetting, I struggled to my feet again and grabbed a diet pop from the fridge. Plopping soundly back onto my chair with a groan, I kicked off my tennis shoes and rubbed my aching, tired feet one atop the other, whimpering with the pain and the relief that the motion caused, relief uppermost I decided. Finishing up these ministrations, I glanced at my computer and saw that I had a Facebook chat message from Dave.

Dave Cameron: How goes your first night so far?

Torie Mills: Great, just sat down to some warm soup.

Dave Cameron: Spaghetti O's for me.

Torie Mills: I win.

Dave Cameron: Ha ha. I'll talk to you again soon?

Torie Mills: Definitely! We gotta do lunch sometime.

Dave Cameron: I'll give you a call.

Torie Mills: Anytime!

Dave Cameron: Good night.

Torie Mills: Night, Dave!

As Dave went off into the Facebook cosmos, I finished up a message to my sister Sarah in Colorado, checked my book sales on Amazon, logged off and closed my computer. Then after I'd finished my soup, I rinsed my dishes, wiped off the table, and flipping off light switches as I went, I headed upstairs to spend my very first night in the master bedroom of Grandma Rose's house.

## Chapter 10

I awoke with a start. I had been asleep, and then _boom_ , I was awake. I sat up quickly and looked about the room, feeling that something must have happened to jolt me awake so abruptly, like maybe a ten-ton semi had driven right through the side of my house or a freak earthquake had just occurred in the middle of Eastern Iowa. But the room was peacefully quiet; the sun, however, was streaming through the sheers at the window, and I glanced beside me to my nightstand and the digital alarm clock and gasped: 10:00 a.m. _No way! I never sleep past six._ _Oh boy, I gotta go_! I realized and kicked the covers off of myself haphazardly, hurrying to the bathroom at the end of the hall.

As I reentered my bedroom a few minutes later, I kept having a thought that was niggling at the edge of my brain, not really a thought but more of a sense of unease and upset that I couldn't quite put my finger on but that came into clearer view as I rolled it around in my head. It was as if I was overdue for an important appointment that I'd forgotten about, but there was nowhere that I needed to be today. I tried to consider exactly what was bothering me and finally came to the realization that what it was, had to do with a rather vivid dream that I'd had in the night and that I was beginning to recall now in detail, but it wasn't only that.

I clicked on my desktop computer as I began to seriously ponder what had happened in the dream and for some unexplainable reason that I chose not to question, I opened my family tree program because there was a certain date that kept running through my head over and over again, almost like a chant.

In the dream, which I had seemed to have been a part of, I can recall seeing a room full of people. In my head, _I can actually still see it_ ; it had been in the front room downstairs and I was able to recall now that many of those present were crying—maybe a funeral or some other sad occurrence? Everyone had been in dark clothing and everyone had been hovering around me, comforting me, but it couldn't have been me, because it had been nothing that I had ever been a part of, I feel certain of that. It had been as if there was a period piece stage performance going on all around me. The people had all been dressed in old-fashioned clothing and the front room had been furnished exactly as it had been a hundred years ago or more, not my feeble attempt at recreating the front room.

I brought up the combined list of my family members in the family tree and scanned down through all of the dates displayed for each person, birth and death dates. The date that kept running through my head again and again was December 12, 1885.

My family tree includes over twenty-seven thousand relatives and I realized that scanning for the date could take me all day so I decided instead to do some deductive reasoning. In the dream, it had been this same house—so it had to of been some of my dad's side of the family here in Fremont. Okay—so of my Fremont relatives, thinking in my mind's eye about the room full of people around me in the dream and using my extensive genealogy knowledge, I considered those whose faces I could recall clearly from the dream and those who would have been living back in 1885. The people could have been Rose Wyman's family members or quite possibly some of my Mills family as well.

I scrolled down the Wyman family tree; Rose, her children, aunts, uncles, then—wait, I'd almost overlooked it. My great-great-grandfather Judson Wyman, husband of Rose, had _died_ on December 12, 1885.

"Oh my God," I whispered aloud in surprise.

I sat pondering then, really thinking about all of those people that I had seen about me in the room and I flipped to the tree and started looking at the photographs of all of the children of Rose and Judson and photographs of their grandchildren including many of my Mills relatives and I felt a cold chill run up my spine and goose bumps rise on my arms. I _recognized_ many of them from my dream. They had been alive, moving and walking in my dream—talking to one another and to _me_.

I can remember that I had been sitting in a chair in the front room downstairs. They must have all just come back from the cemetery because I can recall that people were removing their scarves and coats. I remember the front door opening and a blast of chill air coming in with a man in a heavy overcoat and top hat before the door had been hastily closed again.

I can recall looking into the dining room and seeing several men placing chairs around a dining room table. The men were Rose's sons—George, Norman, and John and I can clearly recall seeing that John had a white boutineer in his lapel. Thinking about myself in the dream, I remember that I also had held a white flower in my hands which were resting in my lap, but they weren't my hands, they were weathered and spotted from age and blue veins had stood out stark beneath my white paper-thin skin and had been in marked contrast to the skirt of the long-sleeved black woolen dress that I had worn. The two young women who had been kneeling on the floor before me and patting my forearms consolingly were my great-grandmother Alice Wyman Mills and her youngest sister Mahala Wyman.

"Mother, you should rest," Mahala had said, looking up into my eyes. "You've had a trying day. Let us take you upstairs to lie down, would you?"

"Can I get you a nice cup of Oolong?" Alice had offered with a warm smile as she had squeezed my arm gently.

I hadn't answered her, I know that I hadn't because I remember that in my head I had been frantic, thinking, _Oh my God, they think that I am_ my _great-great-grandmother Rose Wyman!_ The two girls had taken my lack of an answer to either of their questions as my refusal of both offers because they had resumed their gentle ministrations, stroking my hands and forearms while murmuring soothing words to me and talking about God's will.

It had been a dream, but it hadn't been a dream. How could I have possibly dreamed in such detail, something that I have never even thought about? I have never considered the actual event of Judson Wyman's death even during all of my years of doing genealogy research. I hadn't ever gone to such depths as to consider what people would have been wearing, or the fact that he had died in December and _everything_ that that fact would have meant, such as the cold bite of the winter air or whether coats would have been worn the day that he had been buried. I had never entertained any thoughts of Judson being laid out in the dining room, but in the dream, as I had watched the men arranging the dining room chairs, I had known, viscerally, that Judson had been laid out there just hours before.

I left my bedroom now barefoot and padded downstairs in my comfy tee and boxers to the front room and stopped in the center of the room. Closing my eyes, I put my fingers to my temples to assist in my concentration and I thought of the dream and I tried to envision exactly where I had been sitting. I decided that I had been just to the right of the front door and so I opened my eyes, looking around and then picking up and carrying a small antique parlor chair that I had acquired from a shop in Oskaloosa, settling it in the correct position and taking a seat there.

I glanced to the left, past the foyer and staircase that leads to the second story, through the archway of the dining room, and noted that in my dream the table had been almost exactly where it is positioned now but with ten chairs around it. I could clearly envision the men placing the chairs, one by one.

I stood up and made my way to the dining room and to the swinging door that would have been directly behind Norman as he had worked to place a chair. I could see the top of the swinging door just behind him as he stood there in my dream and I now looked to the same spot where he would have come up to on the door and I had a thought.

I dashed into the mudroom, retrieved a measuring tape from my utility cart, and ran back to the dining room, running the tape out and holding it up to the door where I could envision him standing, and it measured six feet three inches. Not definitive, by any means, but my grandpa _had_ told me once that Norman was one of the tallest of the Wyman men and that _both_ he and his brother John were well over six feet tall.

I looked at my antique dining room set and the eight chairs that I had arranged around the Early American-style table, realizing that I know now exactly what style and size table I need to find for this room. The table should be Victorian-style and have a fluted top with intricate scrollwork around and down the legs and I know, without doubt, that the chairs should have dark-brown leather seat cushions with dozens of shiny brass rivets. The backs of the chairs should have florets of flowers with scrolling vines and both the table _and_ chairs need to be covered in the same warm dark reddish mahogany stain that the rest of the oak woodwork and floors throughout the house had been finished in during the restoration.

I also now know, decisively, that mahogany-stained oak wainscot should be added to the four walls of the dining room although there had been no wainscoting on the walls in any of the photographs of the dining room that I have in my collection. Those photos, however, are all from 1910 and later. In 1885, there had definitely been wainscoting on the lower half of the dining room walls, with raised battens forming rectangle recesses about every two feet on center and wallpaper with thick, forest-green vertical stripes covering the walls above it. I know all of this as surely as if I had been there and seen it with my own eyes.

## Chapter 11

The dreams came again my second night in my new home, and the next night and the next. It was always a different dream, different people, different circumstances, but it soon became obvious to me that these were not your average _run of the mill_ dreams. At first I tried to dismiss them as the likely product of an over-active imagination but the more dreams that I experience, the less I am able to simply dismiss them. So I have had to come to the unreasonable and ridiculous conclusion that everything I am experiencing has to be real because the only other explanation that I am able to come up with, is that I am losing my mind and I don't seem to be any more deranged in the light of day than I ever _have_ been, but at night...

Whatever it is that I have been experiencing at night doesn't seem to add up to any of the possible conditions that I'd found by Googling mental health issues. Nothing adds up anywhere, well, not to put _too_ fine a point on it but I do think that I might possibly have a touch of neurosis but not related to this issue and, thank God, I haven't exhibited any of the frightening symptoms associated with schizophrenia, or a full blown psychosis.

Am I preoccupied?—definitely. Obsessed?—okay yes, I am possibly on my way to an unhealthy obsession but I can still function at a high level in spite of this one; albeit _rather huge_ problem, which is that I seem to be time traveling while I sleep at night. Yes it sounds like a crazy person talking but I swear it is _real!_ Most, if not all, of what I am experiencing in my dreams I have been able to find concrete evidence of by researching the occurrences afterward.

So for whatever reason, I truly was having some serious shit going on down at the ol' Wyman homestead during the overnights and after each travel, I began keeping a detailed log of the occurrences, making notes, changing my facts, and updating biographies for my family and the people of Fremont as I have learned all about them, firsthand. And as the days have progressed, I have found that my real world has started changing as well.

I realized early on that I could manipulate things and not _big_ manipulations. I mean I can't seem to alter the course of history or anything drastic or even alter the course of a _single day_ , come to that. It is just little things, for example, during one time travel or warp, as I have come to refer to them, I happened to be at Rose's house when a family photo had been snapped in 1914. I had already known all about the photograph that was being created because I have the original in my possession. It is a photo of about twenty-five relatives standing in three rows on the back steps of my house, like standing up on risers. It had been surreal to actually watch the staging of the photograph, as the family had gathered together, with all of the confused hubbub that goes along with arranging such a large group of people into some semblance of a structured pose. A neighbor man who had happened to be visiting that day had been the one who'd done the honors and had snapped the shot for posterity.

I had spent most of that day at the Wyman house with the entire family for one of their many frequent family get-togethers. I had been Sarah, wife of my granduncle Albert Mills and he had presented me with a gentle kiss and a small clump of wildflowers from the garden during a walk about the lawn. I had still been holding those flowers in my hand when the photograph had been taken but the thing is—the flowers were not in the original photograph. However, when I woke up in the present and pulled out my albums of photographs, there was the photo—complete with flowers! The original photograph had been permanently altered. To confirm, I had gone to my computer and brought up my genealogy program and looked at my family tree documents, finding the same photograph—no flowers. The digital image had not been altered, only the original.

Many of the photographs that I had gathered from other family members are digital copies that I had taken with my camera when I had met with them, but my own private collection is all original photographs, so after that experience with the flowers, I had used my digital camera to make sure that I have new digital photos of every old original photograph and tintype in my possession, and I am keeping them in a file within my family tree program on my computer. That way I am able to compare them side by side with the originals and see any differences that might occur. _Really freaky but really interesting_!

***

The weekend with Derek that I'd planned for in the middle of June didn't come to pass because he was too busy to make it over. I hadn't seen him for over a month now and I don't know that much about relationships because, to be honest, Derek is my longest and most successful; but it seems odd to me that we could go for a month with just the occasional phone call. Is that even considered a relationship? I was beginning to wonder about that, but I was so busy with the freaky goings-on in my new house that _not_ needing to deal with Derek or the possible complications that his staying overnight might present _did_ make my life easier.

***

Dave Cameron thought that I was crazy when I called him later in June and asked him to fit me into his schedule for some additional work at my place, to add wainscoting to my dining room and another little special project that I had planned for Rose's bedroom. He was free right away, which had surprised me because I had assumed that I would be put on some kind of a waiting list because Dave's skills are always in demand, but he came over the very next day.

I'd already purchased what would be needed for the projects and had everything ready for him when he arrived. The dining room was a pretty cut and dried concept which he had accomplished in just a few hours' time and he had thought that the finished effect was a great addition to the look of the room, but he had listened quizzically as I had showed him my master bedroom and explained to him that I also wanted him to make me a special closet, below the chair rail and in the wainscoting that I was having him add to that room as well.

It was Grandma Rose's bedroom, circa 1878 and the small cubby would fit between two wall studs and would be two feet high but use only the four inches of depth between the plaster and lath and the outside sheathing behind the clapboard siding. He didn't ask me what it was for, but I had a story all ready and went ahead and mentioned that I was thinking about adding a custom made wall safe for valuables and wanted it hidden for that reason. He had shrugged and scratched his head for a few seconds, eyeing me speculatively but in the end he had seemed to buy into the story without any further question.

It is now complete and ready for my use and to anyone looking, it appears to be a plain wall, but it is a door with concealed hinges mounted on the inside and a special press point in one of the raised panels in the wainscoting that pops the door open. It had to have a complicated latch because it needs to be both secure and undetectable in 1878 which is 134 years ago, as well as today. To get it open, I have to push at the very lowest right corner and at the same time, push in the center of the door, halfway down and when I perform this maneuver just so, a metal band flexes and releases the secret door and— _presto_! It opens, just like magic or, at least, that is my hope. I still haven't had a warp occurring at Rose's house, in order to test it and I don't know for sure if it will really work or if it will have existed back then but I had to try something.

My plan is, to use it to hide things back then and bring them forward and vice versa. It seems to me that it will work because during one travel I had been able to find a little hidden snug spot in a back corner of the cavernous second story hayloft of the barn and I had gathered up a few test items of no consequence; a horse shoe, a twist of hay and a couple of coins, wrapping them in a linen cloth. I had then placed the packet inside a wooden box and the box, in turn, had been placed in the hiding spot, back behind an unfinished part of the loft wall on a horizontal two by four and behind some shiplap, totally hidden from view and I had found the box the next day, in the present, with its undisturbed contents exactly where I had left it, back in 1890.

The main reason for the wall cubby in the bedroom is that I need some other means of hiding things because depending on who I inhabit in my travels, I don't always have the freedom or opportunity, when at this particular homestead, to go to the barn or other likely hiding place whenever I want to. Plus, I really don't want to risk someone in the past finding things that I have brought with me from the future, mainly my digital camera, or worse, having a stash of things discovered that I might be borrowing from the past to take temporarily into the future and then find myself accused of stealing or of being a crazy kleptomaniac.

## Chapter 12

The closet worked! In fact, it worked so well that my house was beginning to look like a time capsule. A larger twenty-four by sixteen inch digital reproduction of the small tintype, of my great-great-great-grandmother Jane Johnston Simpson and her twelve children, including a younger Grandma Rose is now hanging exactly where it had been on the wall behind Judson and Rose in the tintype of the front room that I'd had professionally restored and analyzed. They had been blurry, unknown people in that picture but now, their faces were crisp and clear, and thanks to my wonderful, funny, and sweetest-ever Great-Great-Grandma Rose, who had pointed out to me on the original tintype, just who was who, I now know exactly who every one of her siblings were and have been able to add digital close-ups of their individual faces to each of their family tree profiles. That tintype had been made shortly before Rose and Judson had left Ohio to immigrate to Iowa.

During one warp, I was my great-grandmother Alice Wyman Mills and my husband Henry and I were heading to the Emporium in Fremont to have a tintype made, and I had managed to convince Henry to hitch up the larger horse and buggy rig so that we could also take his father, stepmother, and their children with us. He'd agreed and we had bought and paid for a small tintype of their family.

I had managed to take that tintype, during subsequent time travels, spirit it away to Grandma Rose's place where I'd placed it in my secret cubby, brought it into the future and returned it again to Francis Mills' home after having it copied, with no one the wiser. Not as easy as it might sound considering the sheer logistics of the maneuver, which had involved two separate and random time travels when I had just happened to find myself in the right place and time; spanned two different time warp years and had included, among other things, two different carriage rides, hiding it first inside the restrictive bodice of a nineteenth-century gown and the next time returning it to Francis' house hidden in a large bag of a spun yarn that Alice had been providing for the knitting of new winter stockings for the family. It had been totally worth it because, I now have in my possession in 2012, an enlarged but otherwise exact replica of the original tintype which had never existed before—of my great-great-grandfather Francis Mills, his second wife Esther and their children. This has been the most significant manipulation of events that I have been responsible for, to date.

My great-great-grandfather Francis had come to this country with the name of Franz Millar and with his first wife Greta and sons Peter and Heinrich had emigrated directly from Germany in 1850 and had settled first, in Indiana. My great-great-grandmother Greta died in Indiana shortly after their arrival, leaving Francis alone in a strange country where he didn't understand the language and with two boys to raise. He had married Esther, who had been thirty years younger than himself, shortly after Greta's death and soon thereafter, the newly formed family had joined a wagon train in 1852 and had headed out for what they'd hoped would be a better life in Iowa.

Although their names had been altered and Americanized, and children Henry Mills and brother Peter had quickly learned to become fluent in English, Francis Mills had never learned more of the language than was absolutely necessary to get by and perhaps consequently, had never done more than scrape out a meager existence at the original tiny log cabin homestead where he had continued to live with his wife and children, after Henry and Peter had filed a homestead claim of their own and moved out. Francis had been employed, in his later years, by the railroad as a switchman at the Oskaloosa Station, which had moved tons of coal by rail, taken from mines all over Mahaska County. This required Francis to be gone during the week, coming home only on weekends, right up until the time of his death.

Second wife Esther and their children, four girls who were my great-grandaunts and half-sisters to Great-Grandpa Henry, had been a near total mystery to me. I'd been unable to find any photos of them and no real proof of their existence except for their dates of birth and names, Katie, Mary, Susanna and Lizzie, (and all, often misspelled), on old U.S. Census documents _and_ the nameless derisive references to them in the family history written by my grandpa and composed of stories that he had heard directly from his father Henry Mills.

I had always envisioned Henry's stepmother Esther and the girls, as being like the evil women in the story of _Cinderella_ because the history stated that Esther had no interest in Francis's two sons and I had formed a flawed opinion of them as likely hideous, nasty creatures. In truth, Esther, a mousey plain woman with a face as sallow as old cream and no more than a half dozen teeth in her head, poor thing, had simply been illiterate, and the girls, although very poor, had managed to attend some school and had made the most of their lot in life—at least that has been my impression of them. Thanks to my travels, I was getting brief glimpses of the people that they had been and honestly, I was enjoying getting to know them.

My great-grandfather Henry truly did not like his stepmother Esther and he treated her and his half-sisters as if strangers. Not in any of my time travels with Henry did he ever have a kind word for them. He did love his father very much, that was obvious to me and he appeared to have helped the family while his father was still alive but after Francis' death in 1892, Esther and the girls had ended up living at the Keokuk County Poor Farm until at least 1915, which would have been a desperate last resort to simply try to survive. During my genealogy research, years ago, I'd lost track of them there, in 1915. They had all simply disappeared from the census documents and from history and I still have no idea what ever became of the five women. Henry, although very prosperous, had apparently never lifted a finger to assist them and I haven't experienced any warps regarding that situation and have no way of knowing if I ever will.

***

The hard truth regarding my time travels is the fact that there doesn't seem to be any rhyme or reason for them, at all. To begin with, I never get back to the _exact_ same time or place again. I might be in 1872 one night and the next night be in 1920 but as I have kept my log of each occurrence, I have begun to see certain truths or possible _rules_ regarding the travels, if something as fluid as water through a sieve can ever be ruled.

First, I never have more than one experience in an overnight cycle of sleep and most often the scenarios are long and elaborate, but sometimes short and sweet and I will wake up early in the morning. However, those short time travels are rare. Most are long and last, at least, a full eight hours.

Second, I am always a female when I warp, varying in age from small girls to very old women. I am often a relative of some sort to the Mills or Wyman families—but there are times when I am a completely unrelated woman with no apparent family tie. Sometimes I can determine what the common link might be though, usually a family member of an in-law or along those lines.

Then there is the third rule about these experiences which seems to be that I never stray very far outside of Fremont's borders but the travels can take me literally anywhere within the vicinity and about 150 years into the past—at least so far. My total knowledge of Fremont and of every single person buried in the old Cedar Township Cemetery is helping me tremendously as far as being able to navigate through the centuries of time and space, but to further strengthen my skills, I have started using my time in the _real world_ to research even deeper into Fremont's past so that I can feel comfortable in nearly anyone's skin. I have spent quite a few days kicking around the Keo-Mah Genealogical Society with John and his wife Margaret, who is the society's librarian as well as one of the editors of the quarterly newsletter—just hanging out with them and reading the _Fremont Gazette_ on microfilm for hours on end.

Time traveling is very quickly becoming my obsession and a game in a weird way. It's a challenge to figure it all out and succeed in the warps by fitting in—like being an actor and having a new part to play each night. It is totally addictive and has become a wonderful, amazing escape.

## Chapter 13

Historic Fremont Days is a three-day festival and a 130 year-old tradition and is always celebrated on the last weekend in the month of June. The city park was filled with brightly colored midway rides, and the town was full of the disreputable looking carnies that ran them, as people from all over the entire county and beyond descended upon the little community of Fremont. I had really been looking forward excitedly to this particular event.

I didn't come into town for the rides, but I did stand along Main Street on Saturday morning in the Finish Line parking lot, next to the waitresses including Char and the potbellied, middle-aged cook named Tom, as we all chatted and watched the parade pass by. It was your typical small-town extravaganza of pickup trucks carrying Little League baseball teams, a couple of antique tractors, a Thoroughbred horse or two decked out in fancy saddle gear. These were followed by several _miniature_ horses in halters, with their manes and tails ribbon-bedazzled and shepherded along the route by several miniature sized handlers. All little boys, who looked to be about five-years-old and as cute as could be. After a couple of convertibles passed by carrying the mayor and the elected county level house and senate officials, then came a beautiful, _huge_ pair of matched dapple-grey Belgium draft horses in full harness pulling an open carriage carrying the reigning but soon to be outgoing, 2011 Mahaska County Fair King and his Queen.

Bringing up the rear of the procession and a good distance back from the horses at the front of the parade, came the firemen on their engine and paramedics in their rescue vehicle who tossed a decadent shower of wrapped hard candy and mini candy bars to the kids who were standing along the route. They also blasted their sirens intermittently to the delight of the children and the applause of the enthusiastic crowd. Good times were had by all and perhaps by none, more so, than yours truly.

***

Saturday night, Toaster, one of my favorite regional cover bands from Des Moines was slated to play at the street dance on South Pine Street. They're a phenomenal band and are known for spot-on covers of everything from some AC/DC and Aerosmith, to Def Leppard and REO Speedwagon, to Uriah Heep, Queen and everything in between.

As the sun sank slowly in the west over the grain elevator, the guys from the volunteer fire department took to the street and blocked off South Pine by putting out orange-striped sawhorse style barriers with flashing strobe lights atop them; closing the street off to all thru traffic for one block on either end of Stevie's and Tim's Time Out.

I parked my Pathfinder back behind Tim's Time Out in the grain elevator parking lot and walked up the alley to the festivities. There were likely more than 150 adults milling about and half again as many children, all scurrying like ants back and forth between the two bars, or visiting a couple of vender stands that were set up. One selling guinea grinders and hotdogs and the other offering a variety of frozen ice cream novelties on a stick, which was a very popular destination as people tried to offset the considerable heat that was still radiating off of the brick of the downtown buildings and the pavement under foot. The air was still hot from a pretty steamy and humid Iowa day, but dressed in short blue jean shorts and a color-splashed spaghetti-strap top and flip-flops I was pretty comfortable, even with my heavy hair hanging down my back.

Many people had already staked out their spots at the picnic tables that had been arranged in neat rows and were spread across the entire street and as I juggled just for a spot where I could stand along the sidewalk, I took note that the Fremont Community School District had loaned a big yellow school bus to the cause, which was creating a colorful backdrop for the band, at the far side of their stage. The equipment manager appeared to be using the interior of the bus to set up his console of sound mixers and lighting-effect boards. The stage, the mobile type, was about three feet off of the street level and was supported underneath by metal girders which were camouflaged by red, white, and blue crepe banners. Little kids were playing _ring-around-the-rosy_ and doing cartwheels in the open area in front of the stage that would be used as a dance floor later in the night.

I spotted my only local cousins, Herald and Linda Mills and spent a few minutes talking with them. They're the cutest old couple, both in their late sixties and they live outside of town on one of the other original homesteads of our family. Herald's grandfather Robert was my grandpa Arlan's oldest brother, making Herald my first cousin one times removed, and I had gotten to know Herald and Linda casually during my years of researching my family and I'd accepted their hospitality, joining them for dinner at their place a couple of times since I moved here. He still farms about 160 acres of corn, and Linda is the Fremont Clerk of Court and cemetery administrator. We talked together now about the weather, crops, about my house and my plans for my future in Fremont—just general chitchat.

I also happened to see John Sweeney and his wife Margaret, from the Keo-Mah Genealogical Society, and excused myself from Herald to go and catch up with John on all of his _doin's_. I realized as I spoke with him and waved at the cook Tom Morris, from the Finish Line Diner strolling by with his wife Martha, that _Hey!_ _I'm starting to make some connections. I'm becoming a local!_ _I love small-town living!_

After that, I went into Tim's Time Out and grabbed a nice cool Miller Light in a plastic cup and chatted with Tim for a few minutes about his cousin and my friend Keith Dinsmore. Keith had been a pretty famous regional author and newspaper publisher who had passed away a couple of months ago. He and I had collaborated about a year ago on a book that he had been working on which he'd titled _Forever Fremont Iowa._ It will be a book about Fremont, its many high schools and their noteworthy alumni. I'd met with him a couple of times last year, in Des Moines, and had provided him with some of my old photos for the project. Even though Keith had now passed away, the project is still being pushed forward by a group of dedicated Fremont alum, determined to make the last project of Keith's a reality. He'd had many ideas for other projects that he'd liked to have accomplished, I know, because he had told me about some of them during several late night back and forth email conversations that we had shared.

When Tim got busy, I headed back outside to stand along the side of the street with the other poor _table-less_ rabble, to wait for the band to start playing. It would be soon because they were now tuning up their instruments and doing final sound checks.

I spotted Dave Cameron across the street as he sauntered out of Stevie's, and with him being over six feet and taller than most of the crowd before him, I was able to follow him with my eyes as he moved behind the line of people opposite from me, walking slowly along the sidewalk and I noted that he appeared to be by himself. He hadn't seen me, so I reached into the back pocket of my shorts for my phone and held my half-empty beer cup between my teeth while I typed out a message and pressed send.

" _That's some tight burgundy tee u r rockin, Mr. C."_

" _Where r u?"_ came the lightning fast reply _._

Before I had a chance to respond, he saw me and he kept me in his sights as he tapped people on the shoulders, excusing himself as he made his way through the crowd, finally stepping off of the curb into the street and crossing to join me.

"Hey, lady," he said, taking a look around at the people in my general vicinity. "Derek inside?"

I reached around to place my phone into my back pocket and shook my head.

"Nah, Derek had more important things to do."

"Hmmm, fancy that," he nodded, interested. "So you're here all alone?"

"Just me, myself, and I—what about you?"

"Same," he said and gave me a smile, rocking back on his heels for effect as he observed. "Soooo—here we are, just two people out on our own in downtown Fremont on a Saturday night. Been a long time, Miss Mills—interesting," he joked and kept smiling his most beautiful, dimpled smile.

"Very interesting," I agreed. "So have you been seeing anyone since Sharon?"

"No," he snorted a laugh and took a sip of his beer before he continued conversationally. "You know, you may find this hard to believe but there just aren't that many ladies out there that have _any_ interest in spending time in Fremont, Iowa, if you can imagine such a thing," he said wryly.

"To be honest, I can't imagine that in a million years," I drawled matching his wryness before I laughed and lifted both shoulders in a shrug. "Who _couldn't_ love this town?"

"My thought exactly," Dave agreed.

I raised the palm of my free hand out toward him and he gave me a companionable high-five and then laced his fingers with mine for a brief moment with a squeeze before letting go, just as the lights came up and we both turned toward the stage, adding our whoops of approval with the rest of the crowd and everyone, including Dave and I, began singing along as the band started their first set with the Rick Springfield classic, "Jessie's Girl". People _poured_ out of the bars and into the street to watch and others took to the concrete dance floor as the dark night was lit up with the rockin' sounds of Toaster.

***

It was about forty minutes later that the band announced that they would be taking a break and they finished their set with one of my favorites, "How's It Gonna Be" by Third Eye Blind.

Dave took my fresh beer from my grasp and set it down with his on a nearby building window ledge and reached for my hand.

"Come on, boss, dance with me."

I let him lead me to the middle of the street as the guitar intro played and then he pulled me close and held my hand in his while his other hand settled at the curve of my hip. I reached up to drape my arm about his shoulder, and we glided around the concrete street, in front of the stage and the big yellow school bus with little kids and other couples all around us, but oddly, it seemed like we were the only two people in the world.

After a minute, he took both of my hands, lifting them to encircle his neck, and his arms came around my back and I fit perfectly, up tight against his powerful frame. The amazing presence of him and the feel of his body against my own was a rush of tantalizing new sensations, as I felt his arms about me, strong, solid and warm. I would be lying if I said that I wasn't affected, in fact, every nerve ending in my body seemed to be awake and taking notice of his proximity.

We moved slowly in circles, and I could feel his breath near my ear as he softly sang to me along with the band, and his breath smelled faintly of peppermint and beer, while his shirtfront and the tanned skin of his neck was a mixture of sun-warmed skin, clean sweat, fabric softener and his cologne which combined to create his own indefinable scent. My senses were completely filled with him and I felt goose bumps shiver up my arms although I wasn't at all cold and the light breeze of hot summer night air felt refreshingly cool, brushing over my own sweat-dampened skin. I closed my eyes, listening to his deep, rich voice and realized that he was a very good singer. The entire experience was simply magical.

The song ended to a chorus of applause for the band and the dance floor began to clear as the crowds headed back to their tables or into the bars for fresh drinks but Dave didn't let me go, only looked down into my eyes with a soft smile and just as he decided that he'd better relinquish his hold on me and began to step back, a radio channel started playing from the loud speakers and one of my favorite Bon Jovi tunes, "Never Say Goodbye" started up. With unspoken consent, we continued on—just we two—slow dancing while Dave serenaded me, holding me close. He knew every word and it was the perfect slow dance song, but it could've been "Chopsticks" and I wouldn't have cared—he and I were having a moment.

When a commercial blared from the radio at the end of the song, we didn't have any other excuse and we slowly stopped dancing. I looked up into his eyes and swallowed hard. His mouth was a mere inch from mine, poised as if on the verge of a kiss. Surprised and disconcerted, I broke first, abruptly stepping back, and he allowed me to move away, not seeming to notice my quick retreat or if he did, he didn't act like anything had happened but still—the spell was broken.

During that break in the music, we went into Stevie's and grabbed a slice of pizza and came back out to the street. We found a seat at an empty picnic table and sat side by side talking quietly together about anything and everything, catching up on anything that we may have missed since seeing each other last. It seemed that he and I never ran out of things to talk about.

***

The dance officially ended at 12:30, but Dave and I continued to sit at our table until two of Fremont's finest volunteer firemen approached and wouldn't take no for an answer.

"Come on, Dave, please! We gotta get these tables out of here," Fireman Smith whined dramatically. I knew that he was fireman Smith because it said so on a patch over the left breast of his very official fireman's blue pin-striped short-sleeved dress shirt.

"Dude! Please!" Fireman Norton added pleadingly.

We finally relented, as we really were given no option in the matter when Fire Chief Matlin showed up, peering over the shoulders of his two stymied employees to see what was hampering their progress. He parted a path between the two men and his eyes narrowed as he stood before us with his fists on the hips of his impeccably pleated blue serge trousers, looking hot and not in the mood for foolery.

"Move it inside, Cameron," he suggested rather sternly to Dave before bowing his head ever so politely toward me. "Miss."

His eyes cut back to Dave again as he pointed with his two index fingers, one toward each of the two bars, giving us our choices while lifting a brow menacingly at Dave.

" _Now_ , Mr. Cameron, if you please," he said politely.

Thus dismissed and after having relinquished our table, we had to then decide if we were going to continue our talk and join the rest of the partiers in the bars or call it a night and although I felt as if I'd like to stay with him for about another ten hours and likely _still_ wouldn't have run out of things to talk about, I decided instead that it would probably be best for me to just head home. He looked disappointed but nodded his acceptance of my decision and offered to walk me to my truck, which was still parked behind the bar in the grain elevator parking lot. Always the most gallant of men, he wanted to be sure that I was safely in my vehicle and on my way.

***

As I fumbled in my pants pocket for the car keys, Dave waited quietly, and when I had finally located them, I turned to him.

"Thank you for hanging out with me tonight, Dave. I had a great time."

"Anytime, Torie, and once again, one of the best nights with a woman I've had in a very long time," he said seriously.

"Me too," I said and felt a flush of embarrassment coming up in my face like a silly teenager and I rolled my eyes.

"With a man, I mean," I clarified as a joke and realized too late that this really didn't speak well of my relationship with my current boyfriend. But it was the truth; I'd never enjoyed a night of dancing and engaging conversation like this with Derek.

Dave nodded with a soft smile and I wasn't sure that he hadn't read my thoughts regarding Derek but the smile faded slowly and I could see that there was no smile in the eyes that watched me, looking shadowed and serious, caught in the dim glow of the few lights that sliced through the dark. Mounted atop some of the tall, spidery looking grain spouts of the complex, they illuminated parts of the drive while casting deep shadows amid the many eerily quiet silos and barns all around us.

A flash of movement caught my eye and I saw a black and white cat dart between buildings, likely out hunting for a midnight snack in the long grasses and discarded wooden pallets that littered the place and provided refuge for the hapless rodents it was likely in search of. The cat was there and then gone in complete silence, like an apparition, and I looked back to find that Dave was still watching me, as silent as the deep, sultry summer night air swirling like warm waves around us and ruffling through my hair.

Before I said anything else that sounded moronic or caused me any more flushing embarrassment, I thought that I'd better just get into my truck and go, but I really couldn't seem to move, my eyes were held captive by his, while my responsible, logical side was giving me clear directives in my head, _Just_ g _et in the car, Torie! Torie, get—in—the—car_!

But it was too late. All at once the decision was taken out of my hands as Dave reached out, took me by my hips, and pulled me forward and against him while my hand came up to rest against his chest, steadying myself in a world suddenly gone off kilter. Then whisper soft, his big hands came up to lightly hold my face, his eyes searching mine and his thumbs lightly tracing the curve of my chin before he bent and tested my lips once, twice; unbelievably soft lips, moist and brief, then deeper, more insistent, his mouth gently covering mine; as if asking a question and my mouth answering as it opened and his tongue pushed in to be met by my own.

The sudden sexual charge in the air was as palpable as if a bolt of lightning had just struck close by. This was a level of true passion that I'd _never_ experienced in a man's arms. I've been kissed before, many times but this was something else. I felt that this wasn't just about a kiss as he possessed my mouth while his arms came around me and I reciprocated without conscience choice, only feeling that I must. I stood on tiptoes and draped my arms around his neck and then, all at once, the truck door was behind me and we were against the side of my SUV, his body pressed against mine, along the length of mine, and I could feel the strength of his desire and I found myself eagerly responding to and sharing the heat of his explosive passion. We shared another kiss and another; deep, penetrating, and powerful, so much so that my knees felt weak and I would have collapsed if not for the truck and Dave's strong arms holding me up. My heart thrummed like a runaway horse in my chest and I felt surely that he must be able to feel its crazed pounding as it pulsed between us, roaring through my ears, galloping through my veins.

I was shocked by everything that his kiss spoke of to me, of longing and a need that was raw, potent, exposed and directed toward me. I was overwhelmed by the intensity of those same emotions he was stirring in me and it was by a sheer force of will that I finally came to my senses and recognized that this was not right; I needed to stop this _now_ because I had to remember that I am in an exclusive relationship with Derek and whatever else that meant, it required my loyalty and fidelity.

As I came crashing back down to earth and reason, I gently pushed against Dave's powerful chest and his kiss ceased but he didn't withdraw, not completely. His mouth hovered close to mine as if fighting against his desire to kiss me again, as if he wasn't _able_ to withdraw, until finally, breathing as heavily as I was, he opened his eyes and looked down into mine. His eyes were painfully honest before they cleared; his usual cordial amiability coming back to him and the Dave that I'd known before, gazed down at me.

He took a step back and straightened, seeming to realize as I had, the impropriety of what we had just shared and his mouth opened as if to speak but words seemed to fail him and his hands that had been holding me so close moments before, balled into loose fists at his sides as he stepped back further still.

"Jesus, Torie, I'm sorry—I—I," he stammered, shaking his head as though to clear it.

"No I'm sorry. I—I have to go," I stammered in return, with my world reeling because I had glimpsed a profound depth of emotion in him that is far, far beyond my own meager ability or experience and that knowledge affected me more than I would like to admit. I quickly got into my truck and started it as Dave stood there and watched me drive away.

***

Dave watched as Torie sped away onto the main highway, kicking up a cloud of gravel and dust in her wake and he kept watching until she was out of sight before he turned, heading back down the alleyway and arriving on Pine Street just as the firemen were putting the last table onto a city truck and grabbing up the caution light barriers from the street. He found himself standing all alone on the very spot that had been a dance floor a short time before, remembering the dance that he and Torie had shared.

Her long auburn hair had spilled down her back and over his hands as he'd held her in his arms, enjoying every detail, from the fragrance of her perfume which was soft, light and clean, to the feel of her slim body that had felt as though it was made to be under his hands. Her large blue eyes had looked up into his; her full lips seeming to beckon him as the dance had ended and he had almost kissed her then. If he would have, he had no doubt now that it would have ruined everything and he would have missed out on the rest of their wonderful evening together.

It had taken all of his willpower to strike down his need and force his retreat from the passionate kisses that they had just shared—that he hadn't wanted to let end. He could have held her in his arms and spent the rest of the night until dawn simply exploring the mysterious secrets of kissing her soft, soft mouth. Her response to him had been unexpected and stunning and his need had proved to be even greater than he had realized—he was absolutely starved for the intoxicating intimacy of a woman's touch but not just any woman—it was Torie that he craved and his passion for her was maddening and ravenous. He needed to somehow find a way to curb his desire for her or he would lose her completely, even as a friend.

He could hear laughter and conversation coming from the open doors of Stevie's and Tim's Time Out, but he wasn't in the mood. He crossed the street, heading for his truck which was parked behind Stevie's, but as he passed the doorway, he heard a familiar voice.

"Cameron, get your ass in here!" Jeff Allman ordered loudly. "I need to buy you a drink, buddy. I got that roofing job, thanks to you."

Dave stuck his head inside to see that the place was overflowing with rowdy partiers continuing where the street dance had left off.

"Just one," Dave agreed, joining his best friend on a stool next to him at the bar.

"Deal! Steve, a Miller Light for Mr. Cameron, if you please. Okay, so I need to hear all about Torie Mills and you're welcome for me leaving you two alone tonight. She's a knock-out, huh?"

"Jeff, you have no idea," Dave said with a derisive snort.

"Sounds like you've been bitten by love, old boy. About time you got back into the game. I was getting a little worried about you."

Dave gave him a slow shake of his head. "Nah, she's taken, but I'm more than bitten I'm afraid and I'm a glutton for punishment because I can't seem to stay away from her."

"Shit, ain't that the way it always is?" Jeff clapped him on the shoulder affectionately and then turned, as he felt the brush of a newcomer arriving at the empty bar stool next to his own.

"Well, if it ain't my prom date! Tammy, honey, how you been?"

"Jeffey, Dave, it's like a high school reunion around here tonight, isn't it?" she said with a laugh before calling loudly to be overheard over the roar of the other patrons. "Hey Steve, can I get a beer over here? So tell me, all y'all, what's new?"

## Chapter 14

July began with another short Midwestern book signing tour, beginning in Chicago. I was starting to sense a pattern here, and I wasn't sure if Nancy just didn't think that I would catch on, but I had! This was the second time in the last three months that I was spending at least part of my time on the road promoting my books and I wasn't enjoying it, one bit. I got back home on July 8th late in the day.

When I landed at the airport in Des Moines and picked up my truck from the long-term parking lot, I then needed to make a stop in Oskie for some basic groceries to stock my cupboards and by the time I finally got home it was almost 9:00 p.m. I put away the milk and other perishables, leaving the rest of the groceries unceremoniously dumped on the kitchen island to deal with in the morning and without even unpacking my luggage I got ready for bed and climbed gratefully between the fresh cool linen sheets.

I was in such a desperate mood for a time warp that I didn't care what or where it would happen to be; just somewhere pleasant was all that I was hoping for. It is always a total crapshoot when I time travel, as far as what I might experience but tonight I didn't care if it meant something as mundane as a day of house cleaning with Grandma Alice or even darning socks with Grandma Rose in front of a cozy fire in the front room on a cold winter's day (both of which I'd lived during previous warps). That would be fine by me—bring it on!

As I lay in my bed in the dark waiting to drift off and listening to the quiet of the house all around me, I suddenly realized that I hadn't heard from Derek for three days now and I'd had no text messages from him tonight, not even just to see that I'd arrived home safely. Lately, I'd begun feeling very unsatisfied with my relationship with Derek when before now I'd felt as though he and I share the perfect casual yet exclusive relationship and it had lasted for more than eleven months now which is so far beyond a record for me that—well, longer than _ever_ before, that's all.

I had felt that the relationship suited me perfectly because Derek is happy with things the way that they are, as far as keeping our own places, without the usually expected and always stifling, every night sleepovers. No shelf set aside in our medicine cabinets for each other's articles, no prerequisite dresser drawer for the keeping of my things at his place or vice versa. These unspoken rules had allowed me to keep from feeling overwhelmed by too much together time and feeling like I am being smothered with a commitment pillow, like I'd always felt in my other, _too few to mention,_ previous relationships. So now all at once I am starting to think and feel like the neglected little woman?

"Yes damn it!" I said out loud to the silent confessor of the dark room around me and to whatever ghosts of my ancestors might be listening in on my thoughts from the great beyond. "I have relationship issues— _big time_! There—I said it. Are you happy now?"

Silence and the movement of the whisper soft blades of the ceiling fan swirling the air-conditioned breeze across my face was the only answer that I received. I wasn't at all sure but had the thought occur to me that my dissatisfaction with my relationship with Derek might possibly be partly the fault of my deceased loved ones, who have been demonstrating to me on a nightly basis, lessons about how good relationships are done. I had seen a lot of what it can look like while observing the gentle courtesies, the comfortable and sometimes romantic gestures of the true loves between Rose and Judson, Henry and Alice, Arlan's siblings and their spouses, usually while inhabiting one of the children of the Wyman or Mills families or other close relatives.

Completely unbidden, thoughts of Dave Cameron come to mind like a special delivery letter has been suddenly dropped into the palm of my hand and I left the thoughts of my relationship issues and Derek behind me and instead I savored and turned the memory over and over in my head, of the last time that I'd seen Dave. It had been that night we had enjoyed together at the street dance and those few electrifyingly sex-charged minutes that we had shared as he had pressed me firmly up against the side of my truck and had taken my mouth so forcefully and so, _so_ passionately. I could feel a throbbing need as I remembered his perfect, sweet mouth and those amazing kisses, and I reached down to press against the ache, contemplating as I did so that it had been _too_ long and Derek wouldn't be here until next weekend!

_What?,_ I immediately thought in amusement, replaying my own moronic internal dialogue. _What the hell are you thinking, 'too long'?_ _It's only been a few weeks for Christ's sake. You can go weeks, you've gone months, no 'actually' you've gone 'years'_ _without it and have done so more than once in your lifetime if you would care to recall._

"You need a reality check, Mills," I said aloud with a derisive snort of laughter at myself and then determinedly putting all thought of those stimulating memories of Dave Cameron completely out of my mind, I flopped over onto my stomach, closed my eyes and waited for a time travel to take me away.

***

The next morning, it was cooler than usual for a mid-July day, so about mid-morning, I decided to get myself cleaned up and drive into Fremont to go on a little investigative tour, to check out some of the old buildings that occupy downtown, clustered around either side of the two bars.

The one-story structures, built at the turn of the century, had all been through many facelifts and modernizations, however, the brick façade of the current Stevie's is still intact with "State Bank" and the year 1900 engraved upon a long rectangular piece of granite imbedded in the brick and centered in the lintel just above the door. The long defunct bank had been rebuilt after at least a couple of fires had destroyed it and most of the other old wooden structures along South Pine Street. Looking it over with a critical eye, I thought that this brick version of the bank building was still in pretty good shape.

Next along the street was the tiny telephone relay station and beside that, the adorable little Fremont post office; _if_ a building can be called adorable. It is a tiny little structure set back from the street and with a small lawn of green grass that measures about ten by twelve and is edged with a tiny little concrete sidewalk that leads to the tiny little door—yeah, pretty darned adorable.

I was strolling on, enjoying the little details of the architecture from another era, when the next building caught my eye and held my interest because of the covered plate-glass window and lack of a name of business anywhere to testify as to what sort of commerce might be being conducted inside. I used my hand to shield my eyes from the glare of the sun reflecting off of the glass and peeked through the sagging edge of an old rattan rolling shade that hung off-kilter and allowed me to get a look inside the room.

It had obviously been closed up for a number of years and it looked as though the occupants had simply closed the door one day and never returned. A thick layer of undisturbed dust blanketed the wooden cabinets of two ornately carved, turn-of-the-century, upright pianos in varying states of disrepair. There were tools scattered about on both of the closed wooden keyboard guards and strewn upon the floor.

I shifted my position to look to the left side of the room as far as the broken shade would allow and could see that just inside the door was a reception area. On the edge of an old black metal desk that was covered by a leather blotter holding a large inset calendar, sat a black, chunky old-fashioned dial telephone with a cup of pens and pencils and a small note-taking pad close at hand. If not for the ancient telephone from likely the 1950's and the thick layer of dust over everything which looked as if a vacuum cleaner bag had exploded, spewing its contents over the entire scene, I could almost believe that a secretary might have just stepped out for a bite of lunch.

"Hey, lady."

So preoccupied was I with the old office that I jumped as if I'd been stuck by a pin and turned with my heart racing to find that Dave's black truck had pulled up along the curb behind me without my realizing.

"Hey, Mr. Cameron," I croaked with my hand over my chest as my heart restarted after the shock. "You startled me."

"Sorry about that," he apologized with a chuckle.

I approached the passenger side of the vehicle and saw that Dave was not alone and his passenger grinned at me amiably. He was probably in his mid-thirties with short light brown hair, warm nutmeg-brown eyes and was equally as tanned and toned as Dave, however his muscular arm that was draped along the truck window edge was covered by a full sleeve of black tattoos in a variety of geometrical and tribal themes.

I looked beyond him to the driver's seat and eyed Dave, waiting for him to make the introductions. I noted as I looked upon Dave's familiar face that he didn't resemble the sex god of my imaginings last night in bed. He was just the Dave that I'd always known, handsome and sexy—yes, but my friend and clearly, by the easy smile that he gave me now, we weren't going to have any lingering awkwardness about that night at the street dance.

"Jeff, this is Torie Mills. Torie, this is my best friend Jeff Allman and a fellow Fremont alum."

"Yes, of course. I recognize your name. It's very nice to meet you, Jeff," I said with true pleasure in my voice, as I extended my hand to shake his. His face altered to surprise, as he shook and continued to hold my hand, pumping it as he spoke.

"You recognize my name?" he said in shock.

"Oh, no," I said with a laugh. "I mean your surname. Your family is in the cemetery with Dave's and mine," I explained.

"Oh, I see," he said remembering himself and releasing my hand from his grasp. "Yes, we're part of an elite group, aren't we?"

"Are you descended from Jacob or Gottfried Allman?"

"Wow, I'm impressed—very good," Jeff said with a nod of approval. "Gottfried."

I nodded, tucking this bit of information away for my future use.

"Hey, maybe you guys know the answer to this," I pointed over my shoulder to the building behind me. "What's with this closed-up building? It looks to have been a piano repair shop or something. Have any idea?"

"To be honest that's been closed since we were little kids," Dave said, looking to Jeff for his confirmation.

"No idea on the story," Jeff agreed with a shake of his head but then paused.

"But, hey," he said turning his attention back to Dave. "What about Bill? I'll bet he knows," Jeff said and regarded me again. "You should stop in at the barbershop and ask him because Bill Ward knows _everything_ about Fremont. He's the old sage, you know—keeper of the stories."

"Really?" I said with interest while pondering silently, thinking about all of the questions that my time travels were adding to my genealogy records. Maybe this Bill fellow held some of the answers to those questions.

Dave pointed over his shoulder and down the street toward the last small brick building on the west side of the business district. Just beyond that point was a gravel road and beyond that, a farm and pastureland that was full of a herd of cattle, contentedly grazing.

"Thanks. I'll stop over there and see if he knows. So what are you guys up to today?"

"We're just taking advantage of this cool weather." Dave said. "We're tackling a reroof job, or I should say that Jeff is. I signed on to assist."

"It's a great day to be outside," I agreed. "I'm just piddling around here. I think I'll see if Bill knows anything about the old Olive Branch schoolhouse that we'd talked about finding, while I'm at it. He might know where it was located."

"Oh shoot," Dave said, his face falling. "I totally forget that I was going to help you find that some weekend."

"No biggie," I assured him casually.

"If anyone will know for sure it's Bill. Let me know what he says and I'll help you find it. Just name the day," Dave offered.

"I will," I agreed with a nod.

"Well, we'd better be getting back at it." Dave said apologetically.

"No problem, Dave. It was good to meet you, Jeff," I said.

"You too, Torie; I'm sure we'll meet again."

***

As Dave's truck pulled out onto Highway 23 and he honked a final farewell, I stepped off of the curb and crossed deserted Pine Street, heading down to the shop with the old-style, red-striped barber pole out front. I noticed as I approached, the bold red and blue soap lettering across the front window in sort of a horseshoe-shaped banner that read: "Fremont Hair Styling for Men" and below in italics and between apostrophes in red lettering, 'Bill's Barber Shop.'

The tinkling chime on the door that sounded as I entered was hardly necessary because the moment that I crossed the threshold, I was standing smack dab in the center of the shop. No one inside could possibly miss me suddenly standing in their midst.

The shop held only one barber chair, bolted to the floor against the far wall and if I wasn't mistaken, Bill the barber was seated in his barber chair with the _Des Moines Register_ newspaper open before his face. He quickly closed the paper and folded it in half as he came to his feet.

"Hello. May I help you?" he asked with a friendly smile. He was in a crisp white jacket with a red embroidered emblem over the left breast pocket that held a narrow black comb and an ink pen. The emblem provided his name in cursive writing and below his name was the slogan "Fremont Perfect Cut". He had a head full of winter white hair, wire-rimmed glasses and my guess, if I had to make one, was that he was probably in his mid-seventies. He really didn't look old enough to be the keeper of the wisdom of the town.

"Hi, my name is Torie Mills and I just moved to town a couple of months ago and I have it on good authority that you might just be the keeper of the knowledge about Fremont," I said with a smile.

He tucked his newspaper under his arm as he reached out to shake my hand briefly.

"I seem to have gotten that reputation," he said with a chuckle. "What might I help you with?" he asked and then paused, eyeing me speculatively.

"Mills," he said. "You must be related to Herald and Linda?"

I nodded. "Yes, Herald is my cousin."

"Your people were?" he asked and I understood immediately why he had likely earned his reputation and how he acquired his knowledge because he was zeroed in on me and my story with absorption before I could even ask him a single question.

"My great-grandfather was Henry Mills, also related to the Wyman's in the cemetery—Judson and Rose."

"Ahhh—okay, yes. I see now," he said absently with a nod as he seemed to be sifting through information in his head and making the connections. "And your grandfather was...?"

"Arlan Mills."

"Oh, I see, I see, yes, I remember when Arlan was brought back for burial. That must have been," he paused with his beetled white brows lowering as he frowned in concentration. "That must have been 1989."

My mouth opened in surprise because he had it exactly right.

"That's pretty impressive," I marveled. "I think that you may be just the man to shed some light on the mysterious building across the street. It looks to have been some sort of a piano repair shop?"

"Oh sure, that was John Patterson's place. He had a stroke and died back in about 1970, if I'm not mistaken and his widow closed up the shop and it has sat idle ever since then. He used to buy old pianos at auctions or from estates and then would refurbish them and sell them to collectors. He was a master craftsman and had a great eye for antique pianos. I think his son must own it by now," he speculated and then shrugged. "Someone must because the property taxes get paid every year."

"Oh," I said with a sigh. "It just seems very mysterious when you peek through the window."

"Yes, but not as mysterious as it looks," he said with a shake of his head. "It was a shame. John was a nice fella."

"Well, I have another question for you," I said, deciding to move on to my other mysteries. "I have an old family history that was written by my grandfather Arlan and it mentions an old schoolhouse east of town."

"Olive Branch, yes. Northeast corner off East Main, just as you come off of the pavement onto the gravel," he pointed a finger at me. "Actually, it sets just east of your grandfather Henry's ' _in town'_ house, you know, at the fork of Main and Twenty-Three."

I was absolutely amazed. Great-Grandfather Henry Mills had moved into town in about 1917 after he'd quit farming and had passed his farm down to his children. Henry has been _dead_ since 1940 but the house still exists today and is right at the juncture of Main and Highway 23, exactly as Bill had just described. Bill continued as I gaped open-mouthed at him.

"The schoolhouse is just on the other side of the road and on the edge of Tom Marshall's cornfield about a quarter mile out on the gravel. If you get to 110th Street, you've gone too far. I think that you can still see a pile of rubble there but it was small, probably a building of about twelve by sixteen feet."

Bill gestured behind me and I noticed then that about four feet straight across from the barber chair, were two waiting room chairs, the backs pushed up against the picture window facing the street. I took a seat on one of these chairs while Bill took his seat again in his barber chair and I raised a finger indicating, 'give me a second _'_ while I reached into my purse to grab a pen and notepad, quickly jotting down the information about the school as he repeated it for me once more.

Then with that—we were off—as he opened a floodgate and spilled forth tons of new information, almost faster than I could keep up, scribbling frantically and filling sheet after sheet of note paper. Not only was he able to answer some of my questions that had been plaguing me regarding some of the time travels that I have experienced but also giving me a lot of completely new information, adding a huge amount to my total knowledge of the town of Fremont—information that I would have likely spent _months_ researching on my own.

Two hours later, with a tablet _full_ of names, dates and old stories, I bid barber Bill a fond farewell, promising to stop again and headed back to my farmhouse to grab my digital camera before going in search of the old one-room school house named Olive Branch.

***

It was after a very short search, it would have been shorter but I, at first, drove too far as Bill had cautioned me against, which had required me to make a U turn in the middle of 110th street, before I finally found the remains of the schoolhouse, just as Bill had described. I parked along the gravel road and climbed down into the deep drainage ditch and up to the fence line at the edge of the corn field that was way more than the traditional _knee high by the fourth of July_. I carefully crawled between the strands of barbed wire and took several pictures of the site, which still had wood from the walls, some of the old split wood shingles and remnants of a field stone foundation.

At home, I have a photograph of my grandpa Arlan taken out in front of this very building. He had been six-years-old in the photo and was standing with his classmates, all of them clustered around the skirts of their young looking teacher; like a brood of little chicks. At the time that the photograph had been taken, the school had been located on the far outskirts of town. The town has grown considerably since then because near Great-Grandpa Henry's ' _in town'_ house, is a new residential neighborhood and a mobile home park these days.

***

I arrived home to find a voicemail on my house phone from my sister Sarah who lives in Fountain, Colorado. She'd moved out west about fifteen years ago and had only returned to Iowa for two visits since then, one of which was to attend our mother's funeral.

Sarah is a partner in a nonprofit organization called _DreamCatchers Equine Rescue_ , and it takes all of her time and attention. She is on their board of directors, but she does much more than that. She helps with desperate and often media-worthy horse rescues, drives tractors, bales hay, feeds and waters horses daily, breaks and trains all new arrivals to the rescue, gives shots and assists with horseshoeing and floating teeth. In general, she is a real-life cowgirl and is living the life that we'd always dreamed about, during our growing-up years when we had both been horse-crazy kids.

The rescue has three houses, and she and her husband Jerry live in one. Another small cottage near Sarah's house is used for overnight volunteers on the weekends or visitors to the ranch. On the other side of the compound, the founders of the rescue, Paul and Julie DeMuesy and their family live in a large, rambling ranch house. The Double J Ranch is 850 acres of beautiful hay fields and lush pastureland, generously provided to the rescue as their home by a wealthy Colorado philanthropist.

" _Torie, call me. You need to come out for a visit. We just had three rescues give birth so we got baby horses,_ " she crooned enticingly.

Sarah knows my weakness and I called her at once, making a spur of the moment plan while we were on the phone together. I went online and booked myself a flight that would leave at 10:00 a.m. in the morning and I would return home on Thursday night.

Because I couldn't afford to get stuck in a time warp and oversleep, I decided to pack my bag and make the drive into Des Moines to get a hotel room for the night near the airport where I could take the courtesy shuttle that would deliver me right to the front door of the terminal. I gave Derek a call and let him know my plans and that I would be back in time for his first official visit to my home in Fremont on Friday night.

## Chapter 15

The Southwest Airlines jet touched down at the Colorado Springs airport at about 1:00 p.m. With no baggage, other than my carry-on, I was able to breeze through the airport in minutes and I easily spotted Sarah and her husband Jerry waiting for me just beyond the security check point.

My beautiful thirty-eight-year-old sister Sarah is a few inches shorter than me and a tad slimmer, but we both share our similarly long deep-auburn hair. She currently had hers pulled into a ponytail that hung down her back and beneath a cowboy hat that was sitting stylishly atop her head. She was dressed in a worn blue cotton work shirt and brown leather cowboy boots tucked under the cuffs of her boot-cut skinny jeans. She looked as if she had just stepped off of a horse, which she likely had right before coming out to get me.

Jerry was in a white wife-beater that clung to his lean hard body, low-slung jeans, and dusty cowboy boots. His dark blond hair with striking sun-kissed streaks of naturally occurring light-blond highlights, that many women pay salons a lot of money to emulate without succeeding nearly so well, hung almost to his shoulders. I'd decided long ago that he looks a lot like Josh Holloway who played Sawyer from _Lost_ , you know, that TV show from a few years back; right down to the bad boy dark shadow of scruff on his face and some killer dimples. Jerry is a man who looks like trouble and oozes sexual magnetism but who seems totally oblivious to his effect on women. Even now I spotted a couple of ladies sneaking a peek in his direction as I approached, but he has eyes for no one but Sarah. He's totally head over heels, crazy in love and devoted to her and has wholeheartedly embraced the life that she has chosen to live. He truly _is_ her knight in shining armor.

"Hey," I greeted them, reaching out to give each of them a brief but thorough hug. "You guys look great."

"You too, sis, it's been too long," Sarah said giving me another squeeze as she put an arm around my shoulders while Jerry reached down to relieve me of my duffle and we headed out into the sun-drenched Colorado day.

***

Sarah had first come to Colorado with her high school graduating class for a senior snow skiing trip and at her very first glimpse of the majestic Rocky Mountains, had fallen hopelessly in love—but actually it had been even more than that. She had told me when she got back to Iowa that she had experienced an almost religious awakening. She said that from the first moment that she had stepped off of the bus and into the fresh clean mountain air that it was as if she had returned to a long-lost home although she had never set foot there before in her entire life. She was desperately homesick for the place, though, from then on and hell bent and determined that the Rockies would be her home one day. Within four years' time, she had made that dream come true and she had never looked back. For me, Fremont and Grandma Rose's house are the realization of my own dream—it had just taken me a little longer to find a place that made me feel like I was finally coming home.

***

After we turned off of the highway and passed beneath the roadway through a low and narrow underpass, we crossed a couple of sets of railroad tracks and then the official gate to the Double J ranch loomed ahead. The name of the ranch, spelled out in chunky wooden lettering, stretched across the gravel driveway entrance before us, a driveway that is _literally,_ about a mile long. The hay fields out in the far distance on either side of us as we drove, were lush and green, sparkling like winking diamonds in the sunshine, the result of immense center pivot irrigation sprinklers that stretched out across the fields as far as the eye could see, adding a gentle shower of moisture to the thirsty grasses.

The near fields up against the drive were pasturelands full of horses that came running upon recognizing the sound of Jerry's truck. They turned and ran beside our vehicle on both sides of the driveway, separated from us by fencing; galloping headlong in an unofficial race to be the first to arrive. They outdistanced us pretty quickly as Jerry had to maneuver carefully along the loose and rutted gravel road.

First stop after we dropped my things off at the little guest house, was the long red pole barn where I got my fix of some newborn baby horse time. The mares were all docile and willing to share their babies with me, two sorrel colts and one bay filly that were all about ten days old and already full of themselves and exuberant with the joy of life.

We led the mothers and their trailing babies to the inside arena and spent probably an hour just watching all of the little ones romp and play with each other. It was comical. They wanted to nibble at everything with velvety grasping lips and newly erupting baby teeth and without yet having learned any manners, they were more than eager to try out their kicking abilities. They bounced across the arena showing off their skills to each other, bucking, snorting, _farting_ and occasionally stopping to investigate Sarah and me before taking off again. You could receive a pretty good thump if you didn't, at all times, keep an eye on their rear ends and flailing hooves but although they acted so cocky and self-assured, none of them ever strayed too far from their ever watchful mommas.

***

That evening, the entire staff of the rescue joined us as we all had a barbecue with the DeMuesy's at their home after all of the horses had been fed and the pigmy goats and the two sheep that they had recently acquired were brought into the barn for the night to protect them from the ever lurking predators just waiting for an opportunity to strike.

As we sat out on the deck drinking a few beers, talking and catching up, it was soothing and restful to have such stillness envelope the scene, being miles from any city or road noise. When the sun slipped closer to the horizon, we could hear the call of the coyote packs congregating along the river which is about a mile beyond the property's boundary line, as they prepared for a night of hunting.

Our hosts for the evening, Julie DeMuesy and her husband Paul are gregarious and always warm and welcoming to all visitors at their ranch. Julie was also born and raised in Iowa and was transplanted to Colorado when she moved out west with her first husband who had been originally from Denver. After a few short years, the marriage had soured and as she likes to say now, "She dumped the husband but kept Colorado."

Julie is petite, blonde, and lovely with bright-blue eyes and absolutely perfect bone structure in her face. Partly due to her good looks but more so because of her ability to articulate her position, along with her being an expert horsewoman and champion for all horses, Julie has become the regular ' _go to_ ' person for the Colorado media. Because of her passion for all things animal and her tireless fight for their welfare, Julie and usually Paul also, are always involved in high-profile and dramatic seize and rescue situations.

Paul DeMuesy is tall, dark, handsome and passionate about the horses but not nearly as passionate as he is about his wife Julie. If I had to guess I would say that the couple is likely in their late forties since they have several grown children between the two of them, a few of which joined us for dinner this night. It's interesting to note that although I have come out to the ranch two other times in the last year, Derek has never met my sister; or any of these people and neither have I ever met his relatives because we always go alone on our excursions to visit with family and to be honest, I like keeping it this way.

***

The next morning, at 6:00 a.m., I was on my way out the door, still tucking in my tank top and pulling on my cotton work shirt as I waded through the scruffy weeds that separate Sarah's residence from the guesthouse. When I stepped on a hidden fresh pile of horse crap I was glad that I'd remembered to bring my well-worn cowboy boots that can stand up to cockle burs, tumble weeds, horse shit and various other hazards, better than the new pair that I'd recently bought that are 'more for show' than to actually do any kind of ranch related activities.

Sarah was waiting on the deck of her house with a carafe of fresh brewed coffee and a tray containing condiments as well as bagels and cream cheese. She poured me a cup of coffee and set it before me as I took a seat at the small table across from her.

"Ah, thanks, sis," I said sighing gratefully while adding some sweetener and cream from the tray. After taking my first sip, I added. "Always tastes so much better at the ranch for some reason."

Sarah lifted a cowboy hat from the chair next to her, stood up, and plopped it onto my head.

"Now you look like my Torie," she said with a grin.

I removed the new tightly woven straw cowboy hat, admiring the flair of colored feathers in teals and black that decorated the front of the hat band.

"You shouldn't have but I love it," I squealed, adjusting my ponytail a little lower so as not to interfere with the set and putting the hat back squarely onto my head to find that it was a perfect fit.

It didn't take long for our conversation to settle into the companionable ease that sisters or close family, in general, can flow back into as though no time has passed since their last meeting.

"How's the new book coming along?" Sarah asked, smiling at me from over the rim of her coffee cup.

"Oh, it's coming along—slowly," I grimaced. "Not nearly fast enough to satisfy my agent or my editor. I've just been so busy with other things that attempting to immerse myself in a Civil War romance just doesn't seem to fit my current frame of mind. The house has taken all of my attention lately."

I shrugged while thinking silently that the book and the house are only the tip of the iceberg, regarding the current state of my life and well down on the list of concerns behind the fact that I have been time traveling hundreds of years into the past every night in my dreams.

"How _is_ the house coming along then? I love the photos that you sent, by the way," Sarah said. "It looks beautiful."

"It is but it's still a work in progress. I keep coming up with ideas and searching for little accents to add so I don't know that it will _ever_ be officially _done_."

Sarah nodded but I knew that she didn't have any true appreciation or interest in decorating. Her style of living is simple and minimalistic compared to mine and I am, by no means, high maintenance myself.

And then—she got around to asking about Derek.

"Okay then, so how about romance? How's Derek doing?" she asked taking an overly exaggerated speculative glance at my hand with a raised brow.

I lifted my left hand to give her a bird's eye view of the naked expanse of my ring finger.

"No wedding bells are in my future, Sarah. Sorry to disappoint you," I drawled. "But Derek is doing fine. He isn't one hundred percent sold on Fremont but he doesn't need to be. I'm happy with the arrangement and we see each other every so often. He'll be coming over to visit me next weekend."

"Every so often?" she said quizzically with a derisive snort. "A visit, huh?"

"Derek is no Jerry, Sarah. He'll never decide that I'm important enough to change his lifestyle for me. We're very different people," I explained carefully.

"I don't think that you want him to change his lifestyle and he doesn't strike me as being a man that would be there for the long haul," she said a tad snidely but added conciliatorily. "Of course, I haven't met him or seen you two together, so I guess I don't have room to have an opinion about him."

"Mindy has, and she is of the same opinion," I said with a slight smile, taking a sip of my coffee.

"If I were to guess," she continued more hesitantly. "I believe that you're counting on him _not_ being in it for the long haul and my wish for you is that you will deal with your issues and find a real relationship because life goes by so fast, sis, and I feel like you're still waiting for it to begin while it's passing you by."

"Sarah," I groaned. "Please don't start. I _am_ living my life and having a man in my life twenty-four seven isn't necessary." But even as I said it I thought of all of my grandparents who I have experienced lately and I know that finding someone to love had been pretty high up on their lists of the best parts of life.

"I'm not starting anything, Torie. I just want you to be happy and you can, if you would just let someone in, _the right someone_ and I don't mean _Derek_ ," she said derisively, spitting his name out like it was a bad word.

I took a piece of soft bagel bread from the tray between us and began to slather it with a dollop of strawberry cream cheese, keeping my eyes determinedly on what I was doing and not meeting hers while I reined in my irritation about my relationship being put under the microscope again.

"Don't get pissed at me, Torie, but you know what I'm talking about. You have a threshold of about two months in and you bail. You've sabotaged every good relationship that you've ever had a chance at—your entire adult life."

"I think that's a little broad brush to paint it with, Sarah," I cut in a bit snarky but she ignored me as she continued.

"I'd hoped that you would meet someone when your books took off and you met so many new and interesting people."

"I did and his name is Derek," I reminded her.

"I was the same as you are, you know," she reflected quietly, maintaining her calm demeanor. "You know that I was, until I met Jerry and he refused to let me get rid of him. I've thought about it and I think that it's all about Mom and Dad splitting up when you and I were so little. I don't think that it affected Margo because she was thirteen when they split but you and I..."

She paused and I looked up at her as I set aside my breakfast on a plate with my stomach feeling a little queasy all at once, and lifted my coffee cup again as she continued.

"I don't even remember what it was like to have a dad or any man in our lives growing up, so I know that you don't either. Then it was just us and Mom for all those years and I think that we just got used to having no man in the house and it felt comfortable—normal to us even though it really wasn't. I didn't have the first idea of how to even begin to try and let a man in or what that should look like because I had no frame of reference."

"Sarah, I've been with Derek for over eleven months," I stubbornly argued.

"It isn't a real relationship, Torie, its make-believe. I guarantee you that if he ever wanted to commit to you, he would be history. You would be heading for the hills so fast."

"That's not fair, Sarah."

"Oh really? Name one man that you've had a _real_ relationship with and _not_ Derek."

She waited for me to give her an answer until the pause became awkwardly long and continued to grow longer and longer. I opened my mouth a couple of times, forming names but had to discard them and I finally shut my mouth and glared at her in mortified defeat because I, honest to God, could not come up with one single goddamn name. Absolutely none! Zero!

I gave a heavy sigh. "What I have with Derek _is_ real and _no one_ is heading for the hills. We are in a committed..."

"A committed relationship, I know—I know," Sarah said tiredly. "But for the last eleven months of your _relationship_ you've been on the road promoting your books and living, first in your own house in Des Moines and now in Fremont. Have you ever even discussed moving in together?"

"No we..."

"Exactly," she interrupted before I could finish my answer. "And now you've actually moved away from him completely but instead of pulling the plug on it, you keep it going—playing at something that is totally bogus. You don't make any demands on him and he doesn't make any demands on you and I'm not sure which one of you is calling the shots."

"There's no one calling the shots. It's just an easy relationship, Sarah," I shrugged.

"He's the perfect insulator between you and any other man who might show interest in you so that you don't have to deal," she said.

"What has brought this on, Sarah? Why can't we just have a nice visit without getting into a big old discussion about my private life which doesn't affect you in the slightest?" I snapped defensively.

"I'm sorry and I don't mean to upset you but this thing with Derek just keeps going on and on and I can totally see you allowing it to continue for years unless he does something to force your hand. I can't understand _him_ either—why does he keep putting up with this?" she eyed me quizzically, gears turning behind those blue-gray eyes of hers that are so like my own.

When I said nothing in response, she continued, "You're pretending that you're in a relationship when actually you're alone, Torie, like you've always been alone and I'm sorry for you is all," she shrugged and then made a motion as if zipping her lips. "That's it, end of my lecture."

I would have argued further but I really had no defense. She was right, and we both knew it. Derek has been the most successful relationship of my adult life, but it isn't real and if it was—if he ever truly started making demands upon me for my attentions or if he wanted to live with me day to day, full-on, I would absolutely do something to sabotage it. That's who I am—that's what I do. After the preliminaries of dating, when it starts to get real, I always panic and I bail and then—I'm _alone_ again and the stretches between each failed attempt have amounted to _years_ of being alone.

What Derek has been, is a perfect barrier between me and other men, especially with the uptick in interest the last couple of years due to my success when it has proved to be more difficult, avoiding interested suitors. I love the freedom that Derek's simple, no-demands relationship has given me. I'm not available because I belong to Derek but I know that I don't _belong_ to Derek and he _definitely_ doesn't belong to me. Actually, he probably has the same issues that I have, in fact, I'm pretty sure that I am his longest relationship _too_ but I don't even know him well enough to know for sure and I'm not interested enough to even ask. We are a crutch for each other—a crutch that I don't know that I will _ever_ be able to throw away.

"Just think about it. I want you to be happy, Torie. I don't think that you'll ever find it with Derek, is all," Sarah said interrupting my musings and I looked over at her as she added the zipping her lip gesture again and we both laughed.

Sarah cares about me and her words come from a loving place but she let the subject go after that because she had said her piece and we spent the rest of our breakfast talking idly of inconsequential and safe subjects before we were joined by Jerry and Julie and all of us headed out to feed the horses and get the rescue up and running for the day.

***

In the afternoon, we picked out a couple of Sarah's own horses and went for a long leisurely ride by the river, just Sarah and me. It reminded me of our childhood, spending every minute that we could with our horses. From the time that we were old enough to start begging, we were around horses and we had even worked at a stable out in West Des Moines as young kids and teens, saddling horses and running trail rides.

As we rode around the ranch and along the river which was so peaceful and conducive to conversation, I kept trying to think of some way to bring up the experiences that I have been having at my house in Fremont but I just couldn't come up with any way of approaching the subject that wouldn't end with me sounding as if I were totally going insane. I really wanted someone to talk with about the experiences and Sarah would definitely be my first choice of a confidante, but I doubted that even _she_ would believe me and so I decided to keep my deep, dark secret to myself.

***

On Thursday evening, as the jet descended over the city of Des Moines and I watched the familiar landmarks pass below, I felt unutterably euphoric to be heading back home to Fremont. The time away had given me the little break that I had needed to regroup and I was ready for the weekend and spending time with Derek. With Sarah's remarks still with me, goading me on, I was determined that I was going to take stock and do some heavy evaluating this weekend as to just exactly _what_ our relationship consists of now and what, if anything, our future together might hold.

## Chapter 16

On Friday afternoon I was becoming more than a little nervous, the nearer time drew to the hour of Derek's expected arrival. I was concerned about many things but uppermost, bubbling to the surface time and again, was the undeniable probability of my time warping tonight and what might happen with him staying over—actually I was _very_ concerned about that prospect. Will I be able to return early so that he won't suspect anything out of the ordinary due to my sleeping late? Is there the possibility that he will have the experience also? I have no idea what to expect but it could be entirely possible that he might find himself having _one hell of_ _a_ vivid dream tonight. For myself, if it does occur, my plan is to try my damndest to play it cool, calm and generally act as dumb as a box of rocks if he wakes up tomorrow morning raving to me about some fantastical experience, although I have _never_ been characterized as someone who has a 'poker face' but rather, the exact opposite.

My time travels had started up again immediately upon my return last night and I'd spent a lovely visit with Grandma Rose and Grandpa Judson in about 1872, as one of their daughters—this travel I was my great-grandaunt Emily Wyman. I was about five-years-old; my sister Ivy was three and our youngest sister Mahala, was just a toddler. Grandma Rose and Grandpa Judson had been in the prime of their lives, both with tons of energy and just a joy to be around. It had been a wonderful visit and I didn't get back until nearly 11:00 a.m.

The travel had taken place in this house and it had been the middle of autumn I knew, because Grandma Rose had made a couple of trips out into the garden to harvest vegetables. She had returned both times with her basket full of tomatoes, radishes, onions, turnips, potatoes, leaf lettuce and she had put me and Grandpa Judson to work snapping beans over a pewter bowl at the dining room table while she had also instructed us to mind the younger girls to keep them ' _out of mischief'_ , as Rose had put it.

At mid-day the entire family, including my three great-granduncles, George, Norman and John, who were each a few years older than Emily, went by horse drawn wagon to visit with Alice and Henry for dinner at their newly constructed log cabin on their new homestead about a mile away.

We brought them a house warming gift consisting of a share of the fresh snap beans and other vegetables, as well as, some jarred applesauce and strawberry preserves, two loaves of fresh sourdough bread wrapped in a linen cloth, an apple pie and over the top of it all, draped across the large reed-woven work basket, was a beautiful white embroidered tablecloth with intricate patterns formed by groups of Colonial knots which is a term I only know because Rose had told me when I had asked.

She had looked at me quizzically as she had explained to me that the type of white on white embroidering is called candlewicking. Whether she had been surprised that a five-year-old child would have any interest in such a topic or by my not knowing something that she may have already begun instructing Emily in, I couldn't say but likely the latter, because at five years of age, Emily had probably been well on her way to having, at least, a rudimentary grasp of the skills of sewing and embroidery.

***

Instead of Derek arriving as expected, I received a call at about 5:00 p.m. from him, informing me, rather casually and without any hesitancy, that he simply wouldn't be coming tonight. He claimed to have tried and failed to find a single available rental car for the trip, hardly plausible in a city the size of Des Moines, and he was absolutely _not_ going to drive his precious Porsche to my house out on a mile of gravel. So for these, what he obviously considered to be good enough reasons, he was simply going to forgo the weekend with me—just like that.

This wasn't the first time in our relationship that a get together had been nixed by him and my normal response to news, such as this, is to let him off the hook and say it's okay, maybe next weekend, but with my sister Sarah's recent comments running through my head, I decided, here and now that I was going to push or shove my way, like a frickin bulldozer if necessary, into a real goddamn relationship with Derek Bonner.

"I'll drive into Des Moines and stay with you instead," I offered. "I can be there in an hour."

This seemed to surprise the crap out of him because all that I heard for several seconds was dead air on the other end of the line.

"I don't want you to feel like you need to do that and besides I don't think that'll work out," he finally managed to say.

"Why not? I don't mind coming in. Really I don't."

"Torie, I've already made a dinner appointment with a client who's in town for the weekend. It's Paul Owens and his wife."

"That's okay," I said honestly because of Derek's elite roster of obnoxious, self-centered, narcissistic, shallow, boring clients; Paul Owens and his wife Brenda were by far the least offensive. "I can help you with entertaining them. It'll be good to see Brenda again."

"That won't work," he said. "I booked reservations at 801 Chophouse which wasn't easy and it's just too late to add another to the tab and anyway I'm already on the road heading downtown to join them for drinks right now."

"Oh, I see," I said. "I get it."

"Don't be mad, Torie. Maybe next weekend or the week after," he offered and it couldn't have been with less enthusiasm.

Finally, I decided I needed to come right out and say something because this was getting a bit ridiculous.

"Why don't you just be brave enough to tell me outright, Derek, that it's over?" I spat.

"I'm not telling you anything of the kind. Where is this coming from?"

"I think that you know as well as I do that we are pretty much done. It's been what—almost two months since we've seen each other? After all this time, I think that maybe we need to face it."

He was silent for a minute, and then I heard him take a breath and sigh heavily before he spoke.

"Torie, we're just on different wavelengths now. You've changed and we just don't want the same things anymore. You seem to be perfectly contented out there in Podunk, USA, sitting in the middle of nowhere out on a gravel road and watching the damn corn grow. That's never going to be me, babe, and I think that you know that."

"Why didn't you tell me this, months ago?" I asked tartly.

"Would it have made a difference if I had?" he countered.

"You knew that this was my plan practically from day one. You knew that I wanted to buy this place because I showed you the damn photos of it on our second date," I reminded him.

"Yeah but I didn't actually think that you would go through with it and then when you did and you moved out there I was hoping that you'd get your fill of it and be back to Des Moines in no time."

"Why on earth would you think that? I never gave you any reason to believe that this was something that was going to be temporary and from day one you said that we would make it work."

"Torie, when we first met in Chicago and you were this beautiful, successful world-renowned author, I had no idea, that once the millions started rolling in, that you would completely check out on life."

"I haven't checked out on anything, Derek. Having the success has allowed me the freedom to make choices and given me the opportunity to live a life that has meaning for me."

"Yes, but there are two people in this relationship, babe, and it isn't working for me anymore. I'm living a life that has meaning for me too, you know," he paused, possibly expecting a retort.

I said nothing. It wasn't worth it to me to remind him that I had been trying to fit the mold of the kind of woman that he wanted in his world and had spent innumerable mind-numbing evenings trying to be the ambassador of good will for those superficial shallow people who he wanted so much to impress.

"Torie, I'll always care for you and be here for you if you need me for anything," he continued earnestly.

_Here it is then—I'm being officially given the old heave ho_ , I thought, and I didn't believe that bit about being there for me for one second because I have had absolutely no confidence over the course of the last eleven months that he would have _ever_ lifted a finger to assist me in any way, with anything—especially now, since it would require him to drive out on gravel to do so!

"Okay, Derek. Listen, I gotta go," I said finally. I had been stomping around my kitchen while we talked, taking up a sponge absently and determinedly wiping off the already clean granite kitchen countertop, before realizing what I was doing and tossing the sponge into the sink.

"I wish you nothing but good, Derek and I hope that you find what you're looking for."

"You too, Torie. You take care of yourself, lady," he said as if he were speaking to a casual acquaintance and then the line went dead, the call ended by him, just like that—gone.

"Well isn't this ironic," I said out loud to my quiet house. "Not quite up to the dramatic standard that one might expect in the world of a romance author. What kind of masterpiece could a sorry breakup like this produce?"

Real life and real life breakups definitely lack the poetry of their fictional counterparts and leave a lot to be desired, I decided as I glanced at the clock on my kitchen range and saw that it was only 5:15 and I had a long night ahead of me with nothing to do. I crossed my arms over my chest and paced around the center island for a few minutes, wondering about my lack of emotion about what should be feeling like an earth-shattering event; I mean—I had just lost my significant other, right?

As I examined my reaction I found that I harbored no real animosity toward Derek, no real anger at all and I didn't seem to be exhibiting any signs of a possible crying jag coming on—or even one respectable tear getting ready to fall for that matter, which I admit I was finding very interesting. I realized all at once that I didn't even care if he had already replaced me with some other woman, which could totally be the case, but I simply couldn't care less. Actually, I hate to admit it but I was feeling nothing but a bit of expansive relief at having it finished which is _definitely_ not the proper response—but there it is.

With decision, I picked up my purse and my car keys and headed for the door. What I need, I decided, is to get some dinner and get out of the house for a while. Maybe I'll even indulge in some desert such as pie or a hot fudge sundae—yeah that's the ticket, something to drown my sorrows or celebrate, as the case may be. I was still deciding about that.

I drove the mile to town and pulled into the Finish Line Diner and as I swung open the diner door, I decided to take a seat at the counter on one of the checkerboard swivel stools and grabbed up a menu from between a napkin holder and a sugar canister.

"Hey, kiddo, what can I do ya for?" Char asked in her usual welcoming tone of voice with its pleasant twang that testified to her growing up in the Smoky Mountains of Tennessee. She reached down below the counter and produced a napkin and silverware before turning to fill a glass with ice water and setting it before me. She leaned on the counter and placed a hand on her curvy hip as she watched me peruse the menu.

"What's good today, Char? Do you have any recommendations?"

Char turned and called through the pass-through, "Tom, you got potatoes?"

Tom bent down to peer out from the recesses of the kitchen through the stainless steel pass-through, looking like a plump, squat owl and bobbed his head on his non-existent neck. "Just whipped up a new batch."

Char swiveled back around to face me. "Open-faced roast beef sandwich—our special today and one of the best things that we serve."

"Sold!" I said with finality and dropped the menu back into its place between the condiments.

Char nodded as she pulled out her receipt tablet from her apron pocket and officially wrote up the order, attaching it to the metal spinner for Tom.

"Drink?" she asked.

"I think I'll have a Diet Pepsi."

"So what's new in your life, Torie?" she asked as she filled a glass with ice and started me a fountain drink. She pulled a wooden stool up on her side of the counter, placed my drink on a coaster before me and took a seat across from me, definitely settling in for a chat.

"Oh, I don't want to bore you with my life. I'm sure that you're busy," I said taking a look around the room for the first time and realizing that the place was totally empty except for me.

"There's a potluck in Hedrick at the Isaac Walton League tonight," she said. "I think you're my rush hour, sugar."

We both laughed and then I decided to be straight with her because she really is a good listener and as kind a woman as I'd ever met. "Well, since you asked, I just broke up with my boyfriend about a half an hour ago," I made a sour face and then cupped my chin in my hand, resting my elbow on the counter. "Do you have any sage advice for the lovelorn, Char?"

Char hooted with a snort of uproarious laughter like I'd never heard from her before and slapped the counter with her hand before grabbing my forearm with a quick companionable squeeze.

"Shoot, darlin', you don't want any of the advice that I could give. I've been married and divorced three times, girl! I'm the last person on earth to be givin' out advice on love. It's those damn truckers! They sweep me off of my feet every time," she sighed wistfully with a faraway dreamy look in her eyes that made me think that she was entertaining thoughts about one of those notorious truckers at this very moment. She seemed to shake herself mentally though and came back to the subject at hand.

"So this boyfriend of yours, not Dave, is it?" she asked with a worried frown.

Surprised, I shook my head quickly. I was shocked that she would even go there.

"Why on earth would you think that?" I asked curiously.

"I don't know, I guess it's just that you two have been in here together a lot and I know that he was divorced from Laura a while back. I'm glad it's not him though because I'd hate to see him get his heart broke again. Dave's a great guy."

"Yes he is," I agreed. "But no, my boyfriend was Derek Bonner, and he only came to Fremont one time. We didn't get out sightseeing while he was here."

"I see. Well I gotta say that you seem to be holdin' up just fine," she nodded appreciatively. "Good for you."

"That's actually what's concerning me a bit," I confessed. "I _am_ holding up—not even one single tear shed and I'm very afraid that maybe I've become cold-hearted, Char." I smiled, feeling extremely embarrassed by my confession and shrugged while self-consciously tucking my hair behind my ears to give my hands something to do.

"You? Cold-hearted? Oh, _hell to the no_ , Torie, honey. The way that you write your love stories tells me that you have the soul of a romantic. You just haven't met the right man yet, that's all. You will."

"You've read my books?" I was truly surprised by this revelation. I had no idea that she even knew who I was.

Char looked down underneath the counter and reached down, pulling out both _Eternal Fire_ and _Passion's Fury_ and plopping them onto the black-checked Formica counter before me with a wide grin, as my mouth fell open, stunned. I picked up _Passion's Fury_ , ruffling through the well-worn pages in amazement. Both paperback books were dog-eared and the covers were faded, torn, worn and the books warped permanently open from being well and thoroughly read and read often. I set the book back down and Char tapped the cover with the nail of a neon-pink tipped index finger.

" _Eternal Fire_ is romantic because I like the swashbuckling adventure, the pirates and the exotic locations, but I think that you really hit your stride with the Old South and New Orleans flavor of _Passion's Fury._ I gotta tell ya, some of those sex scenes, good _lawd_!" she drawled with a shake of her head. She went on then, warming to the subject. "When Beau finally has had enough and demands his husbandly rights and Melody does her dirty strip tease and then when Beau climbs into bed and well, you know better than I but—hot damn!"

"Page 132," I offered with a smile. "I know, right?"

Char eyed me with new respect. "Some of the best 49 pages of literature ever written I'll tell ya and let me just say that your books have kept me up nights! You sure do have the flair," she said with a shake of her head while fanning her face with a hand as if it were suddenly too hot in the diner. Then her expression changed as she obviously had a thought occur to her.

"Hey! Will you sign both of them for me? I know they're beat up, but autographed is autographed."

"You bet, Char," I said as she pushed both books before me and then pulled her pen out of her apron pocket.

I signed the books for her with a little personal message from me and just as I finished, the silver bell on the pass-through dinged and Tom called out much louder than was necessary in the quiet diner. "Order up!"

Char shook her head and rolled her eyes at me as she moved off of her stool to retrieve my dinner.

"Good lord, Tom, I think I can hear you without all the theatrics!" she scolded him good-naturedly, with obvious warm affection for her co-worker, who just happens to also be the owner and her boss. He just grinned.

I just had to smile at the two of them, thinking to myself that it was a very good idea, coming here to spend some time with Char tonight.

***

Two hours later, after having finished my dinner; enjoyed a couple of cups of coffee, good conversation and a piece of warm fresh-baked apple pie à la mode to celebrate the limitless possibilities of my new found independence; I tooled on home in surprisingly high spirits.

## Chapter 17

I took another look at my wristwatch as I paced around the front foyer for the umpteenth time and looked out the front door and down the gravel road searching for the telltale rise of dust that would announce a car heading this way. My best friend Mindy was due to arrive any time now, for an overnight visit to help me through my break up with Derek that had occurred five days ago and to cheer my sagging spirits, at least that's the story that she'd devised to tell her husband Mike. She knew darn well that I wasn't having much of any reaction regarding Derek, but I _was_ feeling kind of guilty about even agreeing to her request for a visit because, as when I'd been contemplating Derek staying over, I still have no idea what might happen if she comes for this visit and is sucked into my time-warp continuum. Unlike Derek though, if it were to happen, I would come clean about it with Mindy because I would trust her with my very life and I could trust her to keep this secret, if worst came to worst.

Did I mention that I'm feeling kind of guilty? Yeah, well I'm actually feeling _awfully_ _freakin'_ guilty for using Mindy in this way, like some unwitting guinea pig in my mad experiment. But I really need to find out what happens to others who spend the night in Rose's house and _yes_ , I am well aware that I am a horrible, evil person.

Assuming the best case scenario which would be that nothing at all happens to Mindy, then my other major concern is what might happen if I am stuck in an extended time travel and she is unable to wake me up? I can just imagine myself waking up in the emergency room of the Mahaska County Hospital with Mindy crying over my supine body while a befuddled doctor prepares to fill me full of amphetamines, or insulin, or who knows, _may_ be in the process of applying electrodes to my temples in order to shock me back to consciousness. Okay, that might be a little paranoid and far-fetched I know, but not by much. See, I've tested myself _so_ many times, first with my alarm clock and when that continued to fail, I bought an automatic timer and have used it to turn on my stereo at 6:00 a.m. with the volume cranked up progressively louder with each test and every time I wake up, sometimes as late as 11:00 a.m., the stereo is blaring and I haven't heard a single decibel.

This is _so_ not me! I have been an early riser my entire life. I have _vivid_ memories of being five-years-old and sitting out on the concrete front stoop of my house while waiting for the neighborhood to wake up at just after dawn. I can remember many times sitting beneath the glow of the hall light between the bedrooms in my mom's house at 5:00 a.m. playing with my Cabbage Patch dolls and waiting for my family to stir. As an adult, I have always awoke to an alarm and now I don't—not even when my stereo is blasting acid rock music at a volume that could wake the dead—ha, ha!

***

"It's great to see you. You look wonderful, Torie. I think that small town life agrees with you," Mindy said hugging me as I relieved her of her bag and ushered her into the house.

"It does," I agreed giving her an answering hug.

"Oh my God," Mindy gasped. "Torie, this is amazing! I knew that you had been working on adding vintage touches, but this is absolutely gorgeous! It looks just like a museum."

I looked about the front foyer with its beautiful staircase and the antique mahogany hall table that I had found in Omaha and that occupied the empty wall below the rise of the stairs, displaying on its shiny tabletop a variety of antique vases and small statuettes and I was very proud of the finished effect.

"It really does," I agreed. "I'm hoping to add an antique hall tree if I can find one that will fit this space." I pointed to the wall just to the left of the front door where I had temporarily placed a small bent cane coat tree and antique spittoon fashioned to hold umbrellas.

Mindy nodded, looking up and admiring the ornate Pairpoint painted-glass light fixture above our heads. I flipped on the light switch so that she could see the brilliant colors of the flowers and butterflies that decorated it.

"They're known as "puffies" because of the puffy and wavy shape. That was actually once the shade of a table lamp but at some point it was fashioned to fit an overhead light fixture. I saw it at Architectural Salvage in Des Moines and just had to have it," I explained. "I love it."

"It's beautiful and fits the space perfectly. You know, Torie, if you ever decide to move back to Des Moines, you could keep this place and hire someone to run it for you as a bed-and-breakfast. People would pay a lot of money to have the experience of the Victorian age."

"Hmmm, I don't know about all that," I said skeptically. "A bed-and-breakfast usually involves other sites in the area. Did you happen to take a look around as you drove into town? Not many attractions." I had to laugh at her with a shake of my head because Mindy is always thinking about possibilities.

I have known Amanda, _a.k.a_. Mindy Reynolds White, since I was four-years-old. We lived three houses away from each other all of our growing-up years and I have more memories of Mindy than any other person in my life, besides my family, of course. Mindy had been one of those socially and scholastically advanced kids who had skipped a grade in school, so that although we are the same age, she'd always been a grade ahead of me all through school but in spite of that fact, we had been inseparable.

I can still recall as if it were yesterday, the two of us, only five-years-old at the time, getting ourselves hopelessly wedged into the old brick barbecue in her parents' backyard. We'd always been able to crawl in the bottom and shimmy up the flue with no problem, and then the summer after we'd turned five; suddenly we had grown too big.

As we had listened to the blaring sirens of the fire trucks on the way to rescue us, Mindy and I had just kept looking into each other's eyes, talking to each other and tightly holding hands to keep from getting too scared. Mindy's father had hardly been able to contain Mindy's mother, however, who had been nearly in hysterics, wailing and crying as she, again and again, had peered down at us from the top of the flue, which had only intensified her hysterics; seeing us dangling there with our feet barely brushing the brick hearth beneath us—firmly stuck. Our heroes, the firemen, who had seemed larger than life to us, had us un-wedged in about five minutes' time with only a few scrapes on our arms from the rough brick, to show for our ordeal, but Mindy's mom can still get worked up over it if we ever reminisce about it in her presence, even after all of these years.

The depth of Mindy and my lifelong friendship cannot be over stated. Mindy had been the one and only friend that I'd told when I had got my first period. We both got our first real kiss from a boy nicknamed _Scooter_ , when we were ten-years-old. It had been on a snowy winter day and happened behind the warming house at an outdoor ice skating rink in a park near our homes. We both lost our virginity to our boyfriends who had also happened to be best friends, when we were sixteen. We went to horse camp together from the age of seven to fifteen and we spent the summer of 1992 traveling Europe together as part of a student exchange program. We started smoking cigarettes together at the age of thirteen and we tried pot together at fifteen, neither of which became habits.

We became devoted groupies to a Midwestern rock cover band called Pressed Worm and had spent most every weekend of our twentieth year sneaking into clubs with fake IDs in order to follow them around the local club circuit. We got our first apartment together just out of high school (that only lasted six months before we ran out of money and had been forced to move back home) and we shared a dorm room during three years of our college days. I had been her maid of honor at her wedding, and she will be mine, if that day ever arrives.

Her firstborn son and I share the same androgynous middle name, _Lee_ , just as my firstborn child, regardless of its gender, will share her middle name _Lynn_ , again, _if_ that day ever arrives. Oh, and in my current Civil War romance novel that I have been working on sporadically and forever—the main character and tentative title of the novel is _Amanda White of Cedar County Iowa._

Lastly and most profound, it had been Mindy who had helped me to select a coffin and headstone for my beautiful mother Grace North Mills, whom our family lost suddenly six years ago last January due to heart failure.

As for her looks, Mindy has always looked just like Dyan Cannon and not just to me, everyone always comments on the similarities, more so when we were young, especially during our teenaged years when Mindy had possessed long, pale-blonde hair. She had always flat ironed her hair until it hung perfectly straight to her butt, which had been the very popular _bootylicious_ type derriere that men couldn't and still _can't_ help but ogle. She was and still is confident, classy, and always very aware of her sexuality and its effect upon men. When we were young, she had been the perfect _wingman_ , for lack of a better term, because although we were both able to attract men's attentions, it was her vivacious personality that had always kept them buzzing around.

Even now that she is a soccer mom, complete with a minivan and a basement room full of boys' athletic equipment, she is still just as vibrant and energetic as ever. She is the team mom for most of the activities that her boys are involved in and always volunteers to run the concession stands and takes charge of the banquets at the end of each sports season—a real force of nature. And although her hair is wavy and shoulder-length these days, and beauty salon highlights have taken the place of nature, she is still the same person that I have known and loved for thirty-plus years.

"Come on, let's pick you out a bedroom. I have refurbished all of them and you can have your choice of my great-grandma Alice's bedroom, the boys' room, Mahala's bedroom..." I said enticingly, as we headed upstairs.

"How do you know which room was whose?" Mindy wondered aloud as she followed along behind me up the flight of stairs, pausing to admire the family portraits that hung in staggered orderliness on the wall as we climbed.

"Oh, I just had to guess," I lied.

***

After we got Mindy settled in, we decided to go out and take a tour of the town. I showed her where the old high school had been and downtown Fremont and we made a drive through the cemetery to show her my family, while we talked all the way, laughing and catching up with each other.

We decided to have dinner at the Finish Line and had just gotten seated at a booth near the front windows when Char, who has become my very favorite waitress, placed a couple of menus before us and after filling our water glasses, snapped her gum with expert flair and said that she would give us time to look over the menu and that she would be back in a few minutes.

"So what looks good to you?" I asked Mindy as I surveyed my own menu, considering. "I think I'll have a cheeseburger and fries."

"Ooh, that looks good to me," she said kind of breathy.

Struck by the odd tone of her voice, I looked up to see what she was referring to, and found that she didn't even have her eyes on the menu.

"Jesus, Torie, look at him," she sighed, gazing out the plate-glass window and into the parking lot.

I followed the line of her stare and saw that Dave Cameron was just climbing out of his black F-150. He was dressed in a simple white tee and blue jeans that hung off his hips just perfectly and showcased his long, lean, sinewy, six-foot plus frame. Without any kind of conceit or vanity, he innocently raked a hand through his unruly hair, which was doing that unintentional but extremely sexy, spilling over his forehead thing that it always does, as he approached the diner.

I had to laugh at Mindy's open-mouthed, stunned expression. I think that jaw-dropping most accurately describes the look and I think now that I had likely looked similarly thunderstruck when I'd first laid eyes on him a few short months back. He is one damn handsome man but doesn't act as though he knows it which makes him just that much more attractive.

"That's my home renovator, Dave Cameron. I told you about him, didn't I?"

"What!" she sputtered with a look of incredulity. "Um, I think you failed to mention that he was drop-dead gorgeous! I'm sure that I would have remembered that bit of information. Oh my God, Torie, is he single?"

"Yes, he..."

"Who does he look like? Someone famous..." she interrupted as she literally lifted up off of her seat so that she could better crane her neck and lean toward the window to watch Dave as he headed for the door.

I was much more dignified and primly seated on my side of the booth facing the door as he entered. I discretely kicked Mindy under the table so that she was, at least, on her butt if not completely unruffled when he noticed me and walked over to our booth.

"Hey there, lady, I haven't seen you for a while. You've been keepin' busy I guess, huh?" he asked in the usual, easygoing way that immediately puts one at ease.

"I just got back from visiting my sister in Colorado for a few days. I meant to call you soon to go to lunch or something," I said feeling a little guilty because I had failed miserably at keeping in touch with him after the street dance and it wasn't due to any awkwardness about the kiss or anything like that, nor was it anything to do with my break up with Derek which was really a non-event. No, the honest truth is that I hadn't called Dave because; sadly and rather pathetically, if I do say so myself, I have continued to spend more and more of my time living in and thinking about my stupid time warps these days to the exclusion of nearly everything else.

I had used the time between my return from Colorado until today, adding all of the detail and stories to my family tree program from the notes that I had taken while with Bill the barber, as well as adding the Olive Branch schoolhouse photos to my grandpa Arlan's biography page.

Mindy cleared her throat suggestively, looking for an intro.

"Oh, I'm sorry, Dave—this is my best friend Mindy from Des Moines. I think that I've told you about her before."

Mindy smiled warmly at Dave with a sweep of her long-lashed flirty eyes, taking in his entire person appraisingly. Like I said before, she oozes sexiness and just can't help herself.

"Sure, good to meet you, Mindy," he said politely, reaching out to shake her hand before his eyes came back across the booth to me.

"Well, I don't want to interrupt your reunion, ladies," he said looking into my eyes.

"You aren't interrupting, Dave. Would you like to join us?" I offered, shifting my position and moving my purse to make room for him to scoot in next to me and I sincerely hoped that he would.

"Thanks, Torie, but I have a carryout bag with my name on it waiting at the pickup window but it was really great to see you. Maybe next time," he declined me politely.

"Okay, if you're sure," I said, letting him off the hook but I couldn't quite hide my disappointment. "Hey, have a good evening then, Dave."

"You, too—it was nice to meet you, Mindy."

He nodded to us both and then sauntered over to the cook counter and Char was off and running in an animated conversation with him about something that had him grinning. I couldn't hear the conversation but she was gesturing and they were laughing and after a minute, Tom came out of the kitchen carrying a white plastic bag tied up and ready to go and the three of them continued standing at the cash register after Dave had paid, speaking companionably together.

"Torie," Mindy said under her breath as she watched the three across the room. "I can't believe that he's real. He's so freakin' hot!"

I had to laugh at her over-the-top reaction. "Yeah, I know."

"You mean to tell me that he's the guy who did all of the work on your house? He's the one that you took the trips to Omaha with? The same guy who helped you with the injured deer in the spring?"

"Yep, the same."

"Why the _hell_ aren't you dating him?" she asked dumb-struck.

"Well, when I moved here I was with Derek and I've been busy with book stuff," I shrugged. "Besides we're just friends, that's all."

"No," she shook her head and stated quietly but firmly. "No way! Didn't you see the way that he watched your every move? He's into you." She crossed her arms over her chest, clearly disgusted with me for missing what _she_ saw as an opportunity.

Dave walked back past our booth and without stopping, gave me a friendly nod as he left the diner and Mindy paused in her berating me to watch him walk across the parking lot to his truck.

"Holy hell!" she breathed. "He looks just as good walking away. Torie, you can't tell me that you don't think he's sexy..."

"Yes, I think he's amazing and he's a great person. We did..." I began and stopped, catching myself mid-sentence.

"What?" Mindy pounced on my words like a cat grabbing hold of a mouse. "You did what?"

"Nothing," I insisted but then against my better judgment confessed. "Except that we did have a moment back in June but I was with Derek..."

"Which is no longer an issue," she finished my sentence and continued. "A moment? What the hell does that mean? What happened?"

I frowned at her, lowering my brows.

"Don't you dare clam up now, Torie Mills! I have nothing except living vicariously through my friends romantic adventures, now tell me this instant," she ordered, pointing an index finger at me sternly.

"It was just that he and I shared a kiss—a few kisses."

"And..."

And so I filled her in briefly on all that Dave and I had shared at the street dance and when I'd finished, she just stared, slightly open-mouthed, waiting for something more.

I shrugged. "That's it and that's all. We both stammered about and apologized to each other and I left, drove home and called Derek to ease my guilty conscience."

"Oh, God, Torie, don't make me puke," she sneered. She had never agreed on my choice of Derek. "Man, I wish that I could think of who Dave reminds me of. Is it a young George Clooney, during _Facts of Life_? Or maybe it's a young Sam Shepard?—Oh—oh, I got it, Dermot Mulroney?" she questioned, her forehead creased in concentration.

"Mindy, those three look nothing like each other," I snorted with laughter. "And share absolutely no resemblance with Dave Cameron."

"Okay, you're the expert at deciding what celebrity people look like; so who is it?"

It has always been a quirk of mine to think of people in terms of which famous person they look most like; like my comparison of Derek with Brad Pitt or Jerry with Josh Holloway. In my younger days, during my college years, you could give me a few beers, and I would soon be swearing that every person in the bar looked _just like_ someone famous.

I pondered the question seriously now, bringing to mind and discarding faces but I came up with nothing.

"I have no idea. He just looks like Dave Cameron," I said with a dismissive shrug.

"Well, it's someone," Mindy said frowning thoughtfully and then letting the subject go as Char approached the table and flipped open her tablet, clicking her ball point pen as she smiled at us both.

"Ladies," she said. "If you're ready to order, what can I get ya?"

***

After we had dinner, we stopped at the Casey's General Store and bought a six-pack of light beer and a bag of pre-popped popcorn and we came back to the house to watch a couple of chick flicks. While Mindy picked out which movies we would watch, I went to open us a beer and put the rest into the fridge. When I turned around from closing the refrigerator door, I jumped and with my heart in my throat said a very bad word. Mindy had somehow soundlessly entered the kitchen and was standing right behind me, literally right behind me within inches and with a disturbingly maniacal grin on her face.

"You nearly scared me to death!" I scolded her, placing a hand over my chest as my heart pounded with a fight or flight burst of adrenaline galloping through my veins.

"Look!" she demanded, holding up a copy of my novel _Passion's Fury_ right in front of my face. "That's Dave Cameron! That's why he looks famous to me."

"What are you talking about? That's Jimmy Thomas and he's a professional cover model. I paid good money for my rights to that photograph," I stated matter-of-factly.

"Torie, you can't tell me that you don't see it. They could be brothers. Their identical!" she turned the book to peruse it again and tilted her head to the side as she looked the cover over, double checking her original hypothesis. "Okay, I'll concede that Dave isn't quite so muscular and he doesn't have the brown eyes but look at the hair color, the jawline, the dimples, the lips, even their eyebrows are the same shape for God's sake!"

I pursed my lips, considering and took the book from her hand.

"You know what? You're right," I said, studying the image as we took our beers and the bag of popcorn out into the front room. "I wonder why I didn't see that before?"

"Thank goodness, now I can forget about it. That has been driving me nuts since dinner!" With a huge sigh of relief, Mindy dropped onto the sofa, grabbing up the remote control. "So are you ready for a little Scarlet and Rhett?" she asked with a grin, shrugging her eyebrows at me suggestively.

I nodded absently and while the movie queued up to the main menu, I looked back to the book cover and my prized Jimmy Thomas photograph portraying my novel's romantic hero Beau Gardner. It seemed so odd and so unlike me to have missed, _for months_ , this very obvious Dave Cameron doppelganger that was staring out at me.

***

In the end, other than the freaky revelation about Dave Cameron, Mindy's overnight visit proved to be completely uneventful and that was _huge_! She'd slept peacefully through the night in my great-grandaunt Mahala's bedroom and she'd had absolutely no weird dreams or _any_ dreams, for that matter, because I'd quizzed her relentlessly about that in the morning over breakfast. It was also the one night in Rose's house that I didn't warp— _the one and only night—_ in all of the weeks that I've lived here which can only lead me to believe that the key to stopping them must be having other people in the house.

## Chapter 18

"Rose, we gotta hurry! Hurry!"

I looked over to see a very young Grandaunt Lucy's excited smiling face, flushed with exertion and her giggling gleefully. She and I were both running along a wooden sidewalk passing a line of storefronts in downtown Fremont. I looked over at her again and quickly calculated her age as about ten-years-old. If I was Rose as she said, then I knew that I must be Lucy's cousin, Rose Wyman, who was the youngest daughter of Great-Granduncle John Wyman and a namesake of Grandma Rose. Cousin Rose Wyman had been one of Grandaunt Lucy's closest playmates and cousins growing up, probably because they had lived on farms that were near each other and were both the same age. I knew that their relationship had been very close from my experience in other time warps when I had either inhabited one of them or simply observed them interacting with each other while I had inhabited some other relative. The two girls were inseparable, much like Mindy and I had always been.

Continuing to try and get up to speed on what the heck was going on in this warp, I looked down and saw that Lucy and I were clutching the metal handle of a heavy old-style butter pot swinging between us and the pot, being jostled by our movements, was bumping into our legs as we ran, causing us both to stagger ungainly like a couple of newborn calves. I realized at the same time that dangling from my other hand was a large reed basket containing a variety of different-hued-brown chicken eggs and it was swaying precariously until I realized it was about to tip and righted it.

We were nearing the front door of a general store and ahead of us on the boardwalk coming from the opposite direction were two other pre-teenaged girls in plain white linen summer dresses falling about mid-calf and sturdy leather boots, clomping along the walkway and they were _also_ carrying a churned pot of butter between them. It was apparent that this was sizing up to be some kind of a desperate competition because the other girls stepped up their efforts and I quickly sped up to match Lucy's pace.

Lucy and I made it to the door first by just a hair and Lucy yanked the door open and we dashed inside right before the others girls arrived. I let Lucy take the lead as she hurried to the glass-topped counter and we set the butter bucket on the floor and I put the basket of brown eggs up on the glass countertop.

I realized right away when I saw the large sign that hung over the counter that read Baitsell's General Store that we were not in Fremont but a township just east of there because The Baitsell's General Store had been in Wright Township. However all of the Baitsell family members are buried in Fremont and I had found numerous references to the proprietor of this store, John Baitsell, in local history books when I had worked on his families online memorials.

The other two girls arrived behind us breathing heavily from their efforts and I glanced back at them, receiving a scowl that told me that they were not well-pleased with Lucy and me or with their position in line behind us.

I suddenly remembered when my dad's oldest sibling, my aunt Delores, who is eighty-three-years-old, had related to me a story, passed down from generation to generation, about an occurrence like this; when I had spent an entire day with her gleaning what information I could from her, for my genealogy research. I'd written the story up and had added it to my family tree and hadn't really thought about it since then but I'm almost positive now that it had involved my grandaunt Lucy. That day with Aunt Delores had been a couple of years ago now and I couldn't recall all of the details at the moment but I would need to look it up when this current time travel ended and if it had been this experience, then update the story.

Lucy spoke up at once, looking Mr. Baitsell directly in the eye. "My pa says that we need to get fourteen cents per pound for the butter and not a smidge less than four cents per egg. Ma says that two of the eggs have double yolks," she added, obviously trying to sweeten the pot.

"I can't go a penny over eleven cents per pound on the butter and one cent per egg," Mr. Baitsell parried with a gleam in his eye.

"Thirteen cents per pound for the butter and three cents per egg," Lucy countered with a bit of uncertainty tempering her voice.

"Here's my final offer Lucy, I'll give you twelve cents a pound for the butter and two cents per egg. Looks like you got fourteen eggs here," Mr. Baitsell said as he inspected our bounty and waited for Lucy's response.

I have seen a couple of photographs of Mr. Baitsell before, but he had been in a group shot of influential merchants taken for a biography about Mahaska County written in 1911. This was my first true look at the man who was of medium height, slim and well-dressed in a clean white linen dress shirt and a black broadcloth vest. He had a pleasant, non-descript ordinary face and a kind smile that lit his gray eyes. It was obvious to me that he enjoyed the little formality of bartering very much.

"What do you say, Miss Lucy? Do we have us a deal?" Mr. Baitsell asked in a businesslike manner while he took up a graphite pencil and touched the pencil tip to his tongue, then poised it over his receipt book waiting patiently for her decision.

I glanced over at Lucy to watch her as she seemed to be weighing her options in her mind. She turned and took a peek at the girls behind us before she looked up into Mr. Baitsell's eyes with steely decision which was apparent by the straightening of her back and squaring of her slim shoulders.

"You have a deal, Mr. Baitsell. Thank you kindly," Lucy said every bit as businesslike with an added curt nod, before she looked over at me and grinned, excitedly grabbing for my hand and squeezing it tight.

I absolutely love my grandaunt Lucy, especially at this pre-teen exuberant age. I have found that she had been very precocious from an early age, with a sunny disposition and full of the wonder of life, like a newborn puppy, finding joy in every moment of simply being alive.

She had been clever and gifted at playing music on the upright piano that had been kept in the front room of Alice and Henry's house, she had been a good sister to her siblings, a help to Henry and Alice, a good friend. She did have a couple of dislikes, such as her naturally-curly brown hair that fell in ringlets down her back, and she didn't like weeding the garden overly much and she didn't like singing in the choir at church on Sunday because she didn't think that she had a good enough singing voice. For the most part though, I always know that spending time with Lucy in a time travel means it is bound to be an adventure because she is just so much fun to spend time with, especially when I also get to be a child.

She held my hand tightly in hers now while Mr. Baitsell transferred the eggs from our basket to another one cushioned with linen and displayed on the end of the countertop and then he handed ours back to me which I slid up to hold dangling in the crook of my arm while Mr. Baitsell came around the counter and took up our bucket of butter, walking across the room to a large floor scale.

"Seven pounds," he announced and then took an empty bucket from a stack standing beside the scale, bringing it over and setting it at our feet, before returning to his place behind the counter.

"Now let me just tell you all right now that I plan to pay the same twelve cents per pound and two cents per egg again for the first batch to arrive next week. Anna and Betsy, I am afraid that you will get ten cents per pound and one cent per egg. Of course, you could see if the Fremont General Store will pay more," he offered magnanimously.

"We'll take the ten cents, Mr. Baitsell," one of the girls said sullenly.

I noticed at that moment the young pre-teenaged boy sitting off to the side behind the counter with his arms folded across his chest, trying not to show his amusement at the situation playing out before him as a smile warred for control of his expressive, homely face. He was the store owner's son, Johnnie Baitsell and I recognized him easily and had a lump in my throat as I goggled at him in amazement.

Johnnie Baitsell is buried in the Cedar Township Cemetery in Fremont and I'd had the single most exasperating time trying to locate his grave. I had known that he had to be buried there because I'd found his name on the list from the WPA grave registration survey. That survey had been conducted in the 1930's when the government, in an effort to create jobs for citizens during the Great Depression, had hired people to, among other things, walk the cemeteries and record the headstone information for every person buried in Iowa. That information, by the way, has become an invaluable resource for genealogy buffs like me.

I had doggedly kept searching the cemetery for Johnnie every time that I had come to work on my research but always to no avail. Then one day, on impulse, I had squeezed around behind his parents headstone which is on the furthest east edge of the cemetery in the very last row of graves and up against the barbed wire fencing that butts up right against the woods, and low and behold there on the backside of his parent's headstone was Johnnie's information, along with that of his half-brother and baby sister who had also been on my list of graves that were MIA.

Johnnie died when he was fifteen-years-old, from consumption which is the name for the end stage of tuberculosis, far away from his home in Iowa, down in Texas, where his mother had taken him for the warmer climate in hopes of restoring his health. I have his obituary which describes how he and his mother had decided to come home to Iowa but his doctor had advised and persuaded them to remain in Texas for just one more week. They had agreed and only four days later Johnnie had died, cradled in his mother's arms and he had never laid eyes on his home or his family again. His last words as his mother had held him close were, "Praise God." His mother had returned by train a few days later bringing his coffined body home to his eternal rest at Cedar Township Cemetery. His story has always stayed with me because it was so very sad but also because of another strange twist and an amazing story in itself.

I know that the boy I am looking at right now is Johnnie Baitsell because I have his portrait and it came about in a very peculiar way. There was a man who lives out in California and at almost the exact same time that I was finally discovering Johnnie's grave in Iowa, this man had been browsing for collectables at a flea market in San Francisco. At a booth selling old original tintypes, the image of a well-dressed homely boy with slightly too big ears had caught his eye and totally piqued his interest when he had turned the tintype over and had found scrawled across the back the words 'Johnnie Baitsell, Mahaska County'. Thinking that he could perhaps do some investigating and discover the story behind it, he had purchased the tintype and in a short amount of time he had come upon my online memorial for Johnnie and had added the portrait.

The coincidences of me finding Johnnie's grave and the man finding his photograph in California almost simultaneously more than a century after he had passed away and now this; seeing him here alive before my very eyes, gave me a rush of goose flesh up my arms and the hairs prickled at the nape of my neck. This is a meeting that I will forever treasure and an amazing alignment of the fates.

Johnnie's father motioned to him now, and he jumped nimbly down from the stool he had been perched upon and came around the counter to collect the other bucket of butter and eggs from the girls. He counted the eggs as he carefully placed them into the display at the end of the counter.

"Eight," he announced, handing the basket back to one of the girls. He then took up their bucket of butter, setting in on the scale.

"Six pounds," Johnnie reported in the strong soprano voice of a young boy, having not yet begun to change. He brought an empty metal bucket to the girls and then carrying both of the buckets of butter, walked off and disappeared through a door that was likely the entrance to a store room.

I was hoping that he would return so that I could perhaps speak with him but in the meantime I wanted to try and pin down the exact date of this experience. I calculated that by his appearance and voice, Johnnie was at least a few years away from his being fifteen, but I couldn't remember the year that he died, even though I could clearly see the black granite headstone in my mind's eye. All that I know for sure is that he had definitely died after 1900.

I strolled over to the stack of newspapers that Mr. Baitsell had on his countertop and looked upside down at the date on the front page of the _Fremont Gazette_ which was likely still a weekly edition newspaper at this point in history, rather than daily. The date at the far right read May 7, 1903. I tucked this bit of information away, knowing that I'd need to figure this all out once I got back home but for now though, I held the basket and bucket while Lucy accepted the money for our barter.

I looked longingly around one last time for Johnnie as we prepared to go but he never reappeared and as we turned around to face the other girls, I felt a twinge of pity as I looked at their down-heartened expressions and I smiled at them kindly.

"Maybe next time," I said encouragingly as Lucy and I walked past them and through the door and out to the street.

When we came out of the general store, I saw that Great-Grandfather Henry Mills was waiting just down the street in a small open buggy with a two-horse team and my heart soared upon seeing him. We climbed up into the buggy beside him and it was a nice cool morning for a pleasant little drive back to Fremont. Grandpa Henry was very proud of us for getting the best price for our produce and he assured us that Alice would be very proud of us as well. I know that it sounds silly, but his nurturing appreciation for Lucy and me gave me such a warm feeling and swelled my self-esteem and I know, intellectually, that it was my sensing Cousin Rose's emotions that I was feeling as her uncle praised her but it always feels like what I am experiencing in my travels, the emotions that are soul deep within those I inhabit are somehow mine also, to enjoy, to keep and to cherish. Grandpa Henry had been a very loving and nurturing man and I never heard anything but the highest praise from him, for all of the children in his life.

## Chapter 19

Wearily, I lifted the remote control, pointed it at the television, and clicked the set off. As my hand fell back into my lap as if suddenly too heavy to even lift, I glanced up at the mantel clock above the fireplace and sighed deeply and audibly. Already 3:00 p.m. and I haven't even dressed for the day and I _still_ need to get my lazy butt off of this couch and in to Oskaloosa. I perused the impressive stack of DVDs assembled upon my coffee table and had the thought occur to me that if this ridiculousness wasn't a very serious attempt on my part to find some desperately needed answers, it would almost be funny—almost.

I'd spent this entire day on the couch watching the first _Harry Potter_ movie, _The Chronicles of Narnia, The Butterfly Effect, Ghost_ (starring Patrick Swayze), and an entire season of _The Ghost Whisperer_. This is the level of foolishness that I've resorted to, as I try to figure out _why_ I'm being haunted every night in my dreams and _how_ _on earth_ I am ever going to make it stop or at least get some kind of control over it!

Actually, the minuscule amount of thought provoking information leached from these paranormal shows is better than anything else I've found while spending endless wasted hours surfing the Internet. Maybe it is like _The Ghost Whisperer_ and all about spirits trying to get me to help them in some way, which I am more than willing to do, but unfortunately nobody is telling me what he or she _wants_ from me. Then again, maybe it's simply spirits trying to scare me the hell out of Fremont never to return—except that no one _is_ scaring or threatening me from the great beyond, on the contrary, with each experience, those from the past endear themselves to me all the more completely.

"Well, alrighty then, Torie, old girl, on to the second phase of your all-day _crazy-a-thon_!" I said out loud to myself sarcastically. "What an absolutely _perfect_ way to while away a late July afternoon."

The second phase of my plan is going to be a little more scientific and a little _less_ science fiction. That being, to try and find a concrete means of documenting the time warps and to measure the effect that the travels are having on me physically. I am already well aware of the most uncomfortable of these effects which can vary depending on the length of the travel but usually include ravenous hunger and thirst bordering on dehydration or conversely a near bursting bladder if I'd had too many fluids before going to bed. And once I'd even gotten my period in the night ruining my clothes and not even _that_ had broken through this trance or whatever the hell it is that I'm stuck in every night.

All of these were rather insignificant problems when compared with the other frightening thoughts that had occurred to me recently, regarding what could happen while I'm trapped in the past. Such as, what if a burglar or murderer breaks into the place or what if a fire breaks out? I am _totally gone_ every night and envisioning horrors such as me lying in my bed while my house goes up in flames around me or a raging tornado bears down on the place while I'm totally comatose—were causing me to experience an ever increasing phobia. Even if I were to have a minor medical condition such as the stomach flu, I could totally choke to death on my own vomit while in my helpless time warp state. These fearful thoughts _were_ scaring the hell out of me and if anything was going to chase me out of Fremont and my beloved home, it was going to be my paranoid imaginings of all of the ' _what ifs_.'

While doing some reading up on the physiological aspects of the problem, I'd found that the bottom line is—what I am experiencing is not the way that the brain and the body are supposed to interact. The brain is supposed to always be working even when you're asleep, playing overnight sentry and always on guard and monitoring internal and external information and stimuli, assessing the importance of the information and allowing those things to get through and wake you up when the brain determines that something needs to be taken care of. But ever since I've started warping, as I'd proved with my blaring stereo experiments, nothing is getting through to me—absolutely nothing.

I thought that it might be helpful for me to be able to see exactly what is going on with my body while I'm asleep, to see if there are any signs or changes that happen when a travel begins; any indicator that signals that a warp is imminent so that perhaps I can isolate those triggers and maybe stop myself from going. Highly unlikely I know, but at the very least I'll be able to see exactly what my body is doing while I'm gone.

I roused myself slowly from the couch and shuffled on upstairs to get cleaned up and to dress. I chose a bright-multi-colored tee shirt and hot-pink short shorts to offset my heavy doldrums and with stalwart determination, I hurried back downstairs, picked up my armful of Redbox returns, threw on my flip-flops and headed out to make a run to the Walmart store in Oskaloosa to buy a top of the line camcorder with night vision and with at least a ten-hour memory capacity and a tripod.

***

I had made my way to the checkout line, following after an extremely knowledgeable salesclerk who'd helped me to find everything that I needed and who was required to walk the expensive items up to the front check out for me, and I'd just gotten into line when I felt a light touch on my shoulder and turned around.

"What are you doing here?" I asked in surprise.

"Hey, boss," Dave said with a warm smile. "Long time no see."

I nearly dropped my purse in my excitement at seeing him and had to grab for it before it spilled its contents at his feet and then I laughed self-consciously and impulsively reached out to give him a quick hug, which he returned easily.

"Mr. Cameron, where have you been keeping yourself lately?" I asked while trying to regain my composure.

"I'm working on a restoration over in Ottumwa. Where have you been keeping _yourself_?" he asked in response. "I haven't seen you since that night at the diner."

I turned away briefly to place the rest of my items for purchase on the checkout counter and when I returned my attention to him I saw that his eyes were scanning my body but lifted to mine at once and he grinned without discomposure and shrugged an eyebrow at me in acknowledgement of his being caught in the act of checking out my ass, but we both left it at that.

"I keep meaning to ask you but never seem to remember; how's that closet I made for you working out?" he asked, still grinning.

"I know that you thought that I was crazy for that and it _was_ going to be a wall safe and then it became an experiment of sorts," I could have bit my tongue for so foolishly blurting that out. What the hell was I doing?

"I'm intrigued. What kind of experiment?" he asked with more interest.

"Oh, nothing," I said quickly, dismissing the subject with a flap of my hand as if flicking away a pesky fly.

"We should get together soon," I said in order to change the subject.

In spite of my idiotic awkward remark I smiled up at him and realized that I really had missed seeing him over the last couple of weeks. With the exception of an annual gynecological exam and a dental checkup in Des Moines, I hadn't been much of anywhere or seen anyone since Mindy's visit, oh—except for the UPS man bringing me items that I'd bid on and won on eBay, as I've continued to gather the makings of my macabre world inside Grandma Rose's house. During my warps I might see perhaps a piece of furniture, a book, a utensil and then research them, locating many of the exact antique items online for purchase.

"Hey, you know the state fair is coming up in August. What do ya say? Could I possibly interest you in a night at the fair? Or a daytime trip if you prefer," Dave asked.

I swiped my credit card through the machine and signed for my purchase as I answered.

"That sounds perfect—I love the fair. How about we make it the first weekend, Saturday in the late afternoon and right on through the evening?" I asked as the cashier thanked me and I took up my bags of camcorder and accessories.

"That's the absolute best time of day," Dave nodded in agreement.

I waited for him while he paid for his box of finish nails and a pack of spearmint gum, and then we walked out of the store together and out into the parking lot.

"Why don't you give me a call before then so that we can confirm?" I said, stopping in the parking lot in the middle ground between our two vehicles that were parked several rows away from each other. "You still have my number?"

"Of course, you're on speed dial," he said and held up his cell phone as if to prove it and gave me a dazzling wide, dimpled grin.

_Oh my God_ , I thought silently and tried not to audibly gulp as I experienced a not at all unpleasant, internal clenching of my guts as I took a real good look at Dave's face with the sinking sun lighting his eyes like twin brilliant sapphire gemstones. I'd forgotten just how unbelievably handsome he is. He had an attractive dark shadow of late-day stubble on his lean sun-darkened face and I was having a visceral and very inappropriate desire to reach up and run my fingertips over that plush along his strong jawline to discover if it was as soft as it looked. I was enjoying the scenery a little too long, I decided and coming from my trance, cleared my throat that was all at once parched.

"All right then I'll see you two Saturdays from now, I guess," I managed to say, while thinking that if I wasn't such a weirdo and so obsessed with my house, I could actually be sociable and invite him over for dinner sometime. Instead, I gave his forearm a friendly squeeze in farewell and turned away, hurrying to my vehicle.

"You need therapy woman. Big time!" I muttered under my breath as I hurried away, disgusted with myself.

***

Dave Cameron stood in the parking lot of the busy Walmart store watching the woman of his dreams drive off into the sunset. As she glanced back at him and waved, he raised his hand in answer before turning for his truck.

"Smooth move, Romeo! Jesus, make a date with her two freakin' weeks from now. Just stellar! Good work, Cameron!" he grumbled, berating himself as he climbed in and slammed the door. He knew that she was single now because Char had provided him with that information a few days ago but instead of being a man and taking a chance, he'd played it safe.

He pulled onto the highway heading back to the project in Ottumwa and without the nearly painful distraction of having Torie standing so close, right before his eyes, he could think more clearly and he decided not to beat himself up about it. The window for romance with Torie Mills had closed, if there ever had been such a window. His mind kept going back to that street dance and the passion that she had shown to him—but he was just deluding himself. It would never be more than friendship between them now and even if the date to the fair really did come to pass, he was positive that it would be nothing more than a totally platonic day, spent with a good friend.

## Chapter 20

When I got home from the store, I tried to be very scientific about my plan to study the view of my time warp experience from the outside. I tacked a wall calendar up above my bed with today's date circled in black marker; I put the camera on the tripod facing the bed, and adjusted the angle until the entire queen-sized bed, the calendar, and the digital clock on my nightstand were all visible through the eyepiece. I hooked the camera up to an outlet rather than charging and using battery power because I wasn't at all sure that even a fully charged battery would have enough juice to last until the end of the travel.

Generally, I've been going to bed around ten or eleven and assuming that I will wake up in the morning at or around eight or nine, I should have more than enough memory space on the card. I am so curious to see what I do during these episodes, if anything at all or to confirm that I simply lay in bed sleeping. I only hope that I will be able to relax enough to get to sleep this night.

***

It's always very confusing when I arrive in a time warp. The first few minutes are simply a matter of trying to figure out who I am, where I am, who I'm with and then trying to wing it as I join whatever experience I've arrived in the middle of. I've gotten pretty good at just accepting that I am whoever I inhabit and simply becoming that woman or girl. This time travel began as a bit of a challenge because I found myself in a huge crowd of people filling, what I recognized right away to be the front room of Grandpa Henry's farmhouse, and all of those present in the room were standing about, looking at and smiling at _me_.

Never knowing who I am until I can figure it out by the clues around me, unless I'm lucky enough to have a mirror or glass window handy, I always must do a bit of detective work to determine who I am and this time was no different. That is, except for the audience of onlookers watching my every move because I seemed to be the center of the attention and I felt a prickle of perspiration pop out on my forehead as I felt the pressure of possibly failing to fit in and that would be, at the very least, extremely embarrassing. So as a merciful breath of air drifted through the room from a west facing screened window, cooling my heated, flushed face, I took a deep cleansing breath in an attempt to calm myself and instructed myself silently but firmly, _Take it one moment at a time, and do 'not' get flustered_.

It worked and I felt myself settling into this extreme time travel challenge, determined to get to the bottom of this. So, okay, I began to internally break it down, I'm standing in what appears to be some kind of a reception line and my right hand is tucked into the crook of a man's elbow. I looked up at him now and saw that it was Wyatt Mills, who is my granduncle Wyatt and an older brother to my grandpa Arlan.

_Okay, this is a little odd,_ I thought _, but maybe I'm Great-Grandma Alice_. It wouldn't be at all unheard of for a son to be offering his arm to his mother. I glanced down at my free left hand and noted the thin gold wedding band and the young unmarred skin before surveying the delicate white silk of the long-sleeved blouse and floor length skirt that I was wearing which were all hand-beaded with sparkling clear glass brilliants woven around the wrists of the blouse. I knew that I'd seen the outfit before in a photograph and it all came together in a flash and I knew with certainty that I must be my grandaunt Jennie Andersen Mills, and this must surely be her and Wyatt's wedding day.

"I wish you nothing but happiness," a voice was saying close at hand and I became aware of the hum of conversation in the room.

I looked at the young woman who'd approached me with her curly-brown hair pulled up into a lovely bun at the crown of her head and I lost all my nervousness at once as I accepted her hand in greeting. She was my frequent and most beloved of warp buddies, my grandaunt Lucy Mills, Wyatt's sister.

"Oh Lucy, thank you so very much," I said.

"We are sisters now, you and I," she said excitedly.

"Yes, what fun we shall have together," I agreed with a light squeeze of her fingers before releasing her. She moved to stand before her brother at my side, looking up at him with an impish grin.

"Wyatt, my wish for you as well, dear brother," she said sweetly and I glanced up at Wyatt and saw a wide grin on his happy face as he leaned down to accept a light kiss upon his cheek from Lucy.

"Thank you, kiddo," he replied with affection, straightening back up tall.

_Oh my, he's a good-looking man_ , I marveled silently, admiring him. It came to me all at once, that with his hair combed back, glossy smooth and chocolaty-dark brown and with his piercing dark eyes, high cheekbones and firm jawline—that he looked exactly like Christian Slater, but a really young Christian Slater like in that movie _Heathers_ or maybe _Untamed Heart._

I have a couple of wonderful photographs of Granduncle Wyatt Mills in my genealogy file at this age including he and Jennie's official wedding tintype that would have been taken at some point on this day, with him looking _very_ dapper in this dark-gray serge suit and waistcoat, with a stiff white collared dress shirt and a gray-and-white-striped bow tie. _Just gorgeous_ , I thought as I smiled up at him, his face flushed with happiness and hopes for the future. Sadly, I already know what the future will hold for dear Granduncle Wyatt; that he will die at the age of thirty-four, from a bout of influenza, only about fifteen years from this day, that he and Jennie will never have children and that Jennie will go on to marry again and have a forty year marriage and two sons with her second husband.

Turning my mind from these sad truths, I continued my detective work regarding this current time travel experience. I know that Wyatt and Jennie were born, one year apart but shared the same birth date, and that they'd chosen to marry on that same date as well, making the occasion triply special. With this knowledge I now knew, without doubt, that today would be June 9, 1912.

I surveyed the front room of Great-Grandfather Henry Mills's farmhouse and the array of people gathered for the event. The room was filled to brimming with relatives and townsfolk and there was so much warm regard and laughter all around because people really relished these occasions, every bit as much as we do nowadays, perhaps even more so because it was a harder time of living back then and events such as weddings were appropriately savored. It seemed curious that this reception was being held at the groom's family home, but Great-Grandpa Henry, having one of the most sprawling of homesteads and being one of the wealthier men in the area, probably felt that he could afford it more readily than Jennie's less prosperous family. Another thought occurred to me, which was that at this moment in 1912, Henry and Alice were only about five years from their retirement from farming and the big move to the ' _in town_ ' house.

The line of well-wishers came to an end, and Wyatt patted my hand and lifted it to his lips for a gentle kiss.

"Well, we survived it," he said and chuckled softly. "I love you, Jennie."

"I love you," I responded automatically while looking up into his lovely dark-brown eyes as he bent to place a gentle kiss upon my lips. He smelled pleasantly of a faint whiff of shaving soap and of clean starched linen, a sweet fruity taste on his lips, perhaps some kind of punch but definitely a non-alcoholic drink and also a slight tinge of nervous but clean perspiration. Wyatt's lips retreated and he grinned down at me when those close by in the room, some of them younger men, began clearing their throats exaggeratedly, while others whistled in appreciation of Wyatt's taking full advantage of his new husbandly rights while the women in the room cooed and sighed over the romantic gesture.

"We'd best make our way outside for dinner," Grandpa Henry suggested approaching and giving me a light kiss upon the cheek and clasping Wyatt's shoulder in a squeeze of affection, "Wyatt and Jennie, if you would please lead the way."

I was not sure of what awaited us or where the dinner was set out so I took Wyatt's arm again and allowed him to lead me out of the front door and I was in awe of what we beheld. The front lawn had been bedecked for the reception with several rows of picnic tables arrayed with wonderful, formal place settings of fine china on white embroidered tablecloths. The scene was canopied by the towering burr oak trees that shaded the clipped lawn and a fire was crackling at the far side of the yard; with a roasted pig being turned on a spit over the low flames and minded by one of Henry's farm hands. Great-Grandma Alice Wyman Mills and daughters were assembled before a couple of banquet tables displaying a variety of food dishes and were ready to attend to all of the guests, as were Jennie's mother and sisters.

Wyatt led me to the head table where we were seated and waited to be served, making small talk with each other until the guests were all sorted out and seated. I paused in responding to a question from Wyatt as our water glasses were being filled by a young girl, and I automatically glanced up to thank her as she poured, and stopped, blinking up at her nonplussed as I realized that it was Hannah Andersen, Jennie's little sister. I quickly did the calculation in my head and realized that this lovely child would be gone just three short years from this time at the age of sixteen-years-old and from a sudden attack of appendicitis. The family had had no way to get her to any hospital setting in 1915 and even if they would have been able to, surgery in 1915 had still been primitive. More people than not died as a result of either the operation itself or, in the case of a ruptured appendix and without antibiotics yet in existence to fight the resulting infection that quickly spread throughout the body, died within days nonetheless.

"You're welcome," Hannah said with a sweet smile and impulsively, I turned in my seat and reached up to pull her down into my arms and gave her a warm embrace.

"Oh, Hannah, I love you," I whispered into her ear, stroking her flaxen hair, which was loose and flowing down her back. She placed the pitcher on the table and hugged me to her, as well.

"I love you, Jennie. I'll miss you tonight. The room will seem so empty without you," she said.

Everything that I know of Hannah Andersen had been gained from the newspaper articles written regarding her sad and painful death. She had been much loved by everyone in Fremont and greatly mourned by her classmates at Fremont High School.

I have in my possession in the real world, a single photograph of Hannah, a lock of her pale-blonde hair, a bit of ivory lace from her casket shroud, and pressed flowers from her funeral that I'd received from a woman named Jean who lives in Kansas. It was another of those odd occurrences that had happened as a result of my genealogy fetish and the memorials that I'd created for those buried in Cedar Township Cemetery.

The woman had found herself in possession of Hannah's remembrance by default when the last member of the Andersen line, a James Andersen, had died. He had been married to Jean's, now deceased second cousin who had also died with no close family and so Jean had ended up inheriting a small box containing her effects and that box had included the remembrance of Hannah. Having no blood or family link to Hannah, Jean had contacted me in hopes that I might accept the items and, of course, I had jumped at the chance to keep them in my care. Now I had the living, breathing young girl in my arms, and it was a beautiful moment. I hugged her tight once more and placed a kiss upon her petal soft cheek.

"Hannah, I'll see you often," I said and released her to resume her duties, without any idea as to whether my statement were true or not.

As I watched Hannah walk across the yard to continue serving the wedding guests, I pondered that I didn't even know where the Andersen family had lived. I _did_ know that Wyatt and Jennie had bought a farm from my great-grandpa Henry and that the house was situated just across the road from Henry's farm; I could see it now through a screen of poplar trees that edged the yard. I also know, gleaned from their wedding announcement that had appeared in the _Fremont Gazette_ , that Wyatt and Jennie had set up housekeeping and moved right into their new home on the day of their wedding, so I would be seeing the inside of that house this night, _if_ the time warp were to last long enough.

***

After dinner, the yard was growing dark, and several lanterns were lit and campfires started as the people continued their merrymaking until well after the last rays of the sun had faded away. Wyatt was very attentive to me and he was so romantic and kept whispering sweet words into my ear about the night to come. He'd actually made me blush with some of the things that he'd said that he intended to do to me once he had me to himself and all I kept thinking was, _Oh, I really need to warp out of here!_

As the hours ticked by and we meandered around the yard sharing conversations with family and friends, I began to get more than a little panicked because this warp seemed as if it were lasting awfully long. I kept thinking, this must end soon, but as the fires died down, the crowd took up lanterns and then a formal procession was formed and Wyatt took my hand in the crook of his arm and escorted me out of the driveway and toward the house on the other side of the road. It was then that I realized, with a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach, that I was about to spend Jennie's wedding night with Wyatt Mills and it didn't seem as though I was going to warp out of here! _Oh shit!_

I tried to keep my cool as the gathering of people sang an old song that I'd heard before; in fact, I thought that I remembered it from an old movie. "I Love You Truly" was the tune and as the crowd serenaded us, we stood, arm in arm, on the front porch of our new home and waited for the song to come to an end. When it did come to an end, the crowd just stood there and stood there, until Wyatt figured out what the holdup was. He opened the front door of the house and gallantly swept me off of my feet and into his arms and carried me over the threshold to the uproarious cheers of family and friends.

Wyatt set me onto my own two feet just inside the front room as the applause began to die down and we stood together watching as the throng dispersed back across the road to continue their partying, leaving Wyatt and I to our own devices. Wyatt turned to me with a chuckle as he closed the door on the scene and he leaned back against the door, observing me quietly, with a smoldering look in his eyes that was as easy to read a hundred years ago, as it is today.

_I'm in trouble,_ was my first thought and my second thought was, _What on earth am I supposed to do?_ I couldn't very well tell him that I have a headache or some such foolishness because this was important! This could make or break their marriage and I really have no idea of the far-reaching effects of these time warps. I don't have a manual of do's and don'ts! _Oh I would give 'anything' for a manual right now_! I thought longingly.

Wyatt approached me and slipped his arms around my waist, and then his mouth engulfed mine in a kiss that took my breath away. He held me close in his arms and his hands moved possessively over my backside, squeezing my rear as he ground his expanding hardness against my belly. With no knowledge of what they'd experienced together up to this time, I had no idea what my reaction or level of expertise should be. Had we already consummated the relationship before? Was I a virgin? I knew that I was about to give the performance of my lifetime as Wyatt lifted me into his arms again and carried me through the darkened house to the bedroom which was alight with the warm glow of several candles, revealing a bed invitingly turned down and the window coverings drawn down tight.

## Chapter 21

I came awake with an urgent need to dash to the bathroom. I was terribly thirsty and hungry and even without looking at a clock, I knew that I had been gone for probably _at least_ ten hours. After I'd washed my hands and then cupped them under the faucet and drank deeply to slake my thirst, I looked up into the vanity mirror surveying my appearance and decided that I looked well rested and actually I _felt_ rather well rested. I smoothed the auburn bedhead hairdo I had going on and suddenly my thoughts went back over the night's sleep or lack of it. Wyatt! I remembered suddenly, the wedding—and then it all came flooding back to me. I felt a flush rush up my neck and butterflies flitter wildly inside my stomach thinking about what I'd been witness to and had _participated_ in. I covered my face in horror and with mortified embarrassment.

"Oh, what did I do?" I began to say aloud and then it dawned on me—the camcorder!

I ran down the hall to the bedroom and saw that the camcorder had turned off. Okay, so it was ten hours, at least. I glanced at the digital clock at my bedside, 11:00 a.m. I had slept for twelve hours. I went to my computer and switched it on, checking the time and date at the lower right of the monitor screen. That added up and at least, thank God, I hadn't lost any days.

I took the camera off of the tripod and hurried downstairs and using the adapter, linked the camcorder to my television, pressed play, and clicked on the flat screen. As this was going to be ten hours of me sleeping, I decided that I could afford to let it run unobserved for a minute while I went into the kitchen to start a pot of coffee and pop a bagel into the toaster oven.

With a nice warm cup of coffee and bagel in hand, I headed back to the front room and placed my breakfast on the table, sitting back on the sofa and sipping at my coffee while I watched the grainy greenish night vision _me_ tossing and turning and then finally settling in for a night's sleep on the screen before me. The picture didn't change significantly for several minutes. I could watch the time pass by, by watching the digital alarm clock on the night stand. By 10:47 p.m. I could hear my breathing had slowed and I was sound asleep, lying totally still on my back with my hands folded over my waist.

I continued to watch myself sleep, enjoying my coffee, looking for any signs of change or movement and seeing none as the minutes ticked by, 10:52, 10:59, 11:06, 11:17 and then soon my thoughts strayed, wandering back to the night that I had just shared as Jennie Andersen Mills with her new husband Wyatt.

I felt myself start to react physically as glimpses of that wedding night ran through my mind. I've never been worshipped by a man, not like Wyatt had worshipped Jennie as he had made love to her for the first time in both of their lives. It had been a little awkward and it had been unsatisfyingly quick for Jennie because Wyatt, bless him, had tried his best but he had been a young man of nineteen so... But it wasn't the act so much as it had been the _total adoration_ that he had shown her that is amazing to me now and is something that I have never experienced in my own life. Maybe it's just that in this day and age when casual sex is the norm and people don't connect on all levels or any level except one before they have sex—but as Wyatt had undressed me slowly; unhurried and relishing every moment, it had been as if he were savoring the last taste of a decadent piece of fine chocolate or the last sip of a very expensive wine.

Wyatt loved the process, first letting my hair down as he loosed my long blonde curls and set the hair pins aside on a nearby dresser top. His hands were buried in my hair as he kissed me deeply and then he cupped my face, lightly running his thumbs along my chin as he looked into my eyes and held my gaze for a moment before his eyes and his hands moved to my throat and he started to carefully work each tiny pearl button open that ran from the modest high neck, to the waist of my gown. He glanced down into my eyes often, with his warm brown gaze, as he worked.

My breath hitched as I anticipated and he watched my face, gauging my reaction while he slipped his hand inside the open blouse to hesitantly cup his hand over one of my breasts, then growing bolder, he gently moved the fabric off of my shoulder, kissed the curve of my neck, and licked lightly with his tongue while sliding my arms out of the sleeves. I provided no assistance and he didn't want or need any help, as he carefully pulled the blouse from the waistband and slipped it from my body. He paused to lightly run his hands over my shoulders and upper arms as if settling a skittish horse before, with adept fingers he reached around my waist to unfasten the several buttons running down the back of my skirt and then he allowed the garment to drop to the floor. The ribbon at the neck of my lacey chemise was loosed next and it slipped off of my shoulders and his eyes slid down over my body, clothed in only white silk stockings and my shoes.

"Dear lord, Jennie you're so beautiful," he whispered, awestruck. "Lovely—so soft, like satin," he marveled as his fingertips lightly moved over my chest just above my full breasts.

I found my pulse increasing and a flush of desire suddenly blazed through me for this man who was in truth a perfect stranger but at the same time, someone who had been known to me in several other time travels and in varying roles, but as I gazed up into his eyes, I had a definite sense that the feelings that he was stirring in me now were not my own but, in fact, were Jennie's feelings, her love and desire for him being transmitted through me and affecting me.

I boldly reached up and pulled on his tie until it loosened and I unbuttoned his collar, gently kissing his neck. He released his breath, smoothing his hands down my back while lifting his head to give me more access to the tender spot and I couldn't help but oblige, kissing and running a light tongue over the slightly salty tasting jut of his strong jawline. I unbuttoned his shirt, stripped off his suit coat, and then wrestled just a bit with the toggle closures of his cufflinks.

Seeming to be at the end of his ability to wait longer, Wyatt stopped me there, lifting me into his arms and laying me across the bed, resting my head upon a soft down-filled feather pillow. I lay languid on the cool fresh linen sheets, watching as he quickly removed his shirt and slipped out of his trousers and underclothes. I couldn't help but let my eyes drift down along the lines of his form, admiring his body that was lean and muscular from farm work, as he slowly crawled onto the bed.

***

I returned abruptly from my remembering, set my coffee cup down soundly and jumped up from the sofa in a panic as I paced back and forth before the television and glanced at myself totally still and slumbering peacefully on the screen before me.

"Oh, my God I _mu_ st be losing my mind," I stammered aloud, crossing my arms over my chest and clutching my elbows, trying to hold myself together and halt the trembling that was rippling through my entire body. "What in God's name is happening to me?"

## Chapter 22

"Well, good day, Miss Mills," Dave answered with a tone to his voice that made me feel sure that he was smiling on the other end of the line.

Just by hearing Dave's warm and welcoming voice, I felt a little more balanced and a little _less_ insane. After the extreme time travel that I'd experienced last night, I have decided that I really need to get some normal time with someone to get a handle on my mental state, and the most normal down-to-earth person that I know in Fremont, Iowa is, hands down, Dave Cameron.

"Hey, Dave, I've been thinking about you a lot since I saw you yesterday at the store—realizing that I've been missing your company, and I thought to myself, w _hat the heck,_ so I'm calling to see if you might be free tonight, and if so, to see if you'd like to get together?"

With a mixture of hope and dread at what seemed like such a huge leap I was taking and just praying that Dave would catch me and not let me fall; I screwed up my face, cringing with embarrassment and covering my eyes with my hand, as I waited for him to accept my invitation or shoot me down. After a moment I went on to clarify further, "I was thinking that maybe we could have dinner at the diner or drinks and a few games of pool at Stevie's."

"I've got a better idea," Dave said right away. "How about you come over to my house, and let me fix dinner for you?"

"No..." I began to automatically argue against the idea but then as the thought of an evening with his undivided company sounded so inviting I said. "Really? Are you sure? I don't want to put you out."

"Are you kidding me, Torie? I would love to have you over and to fix you a nice steak dinner. Besides, you've never even met my dog or seen my house," he said wryly, as if slightly offended about these truths.

"You know—I don't even know for sure where you live," I admitted.

"I'm just north of the cemetery about two-thirds of a mile and on the left side of the road. You can't miss it. How does seven o'clock sound?" he suggested and I had to admit that he really did sound stoked about the idea.

I looked at the clock and saw that it was just now 12:15.

"I'll be there. Should I make something—maybe bring a dish of some kind?" I offered.

"Nope, just bring yourself. I've got it handled."

"Okay," I paused realizing that it was all settled and that there was nothing else to discuss.

"Well—I'll see you tonight then."

"I'm looking forward to it. I'm so glad that you called, Torie."

"So am I. I'll see you then."

After I hung up the phone, I decided to get cleaned up and go into Des Moines. I felt so relieved at having an excuse to get out of the house for a while that I called and scheduled an appointment at Roslin's. After the appointment I would still have enough time do some shopping at the mall for a new outfit to wear to my dinner date. This seemed like a much better plan than just sitting in my house the rest of the day, wallowing in the majorly disturbing memories of last night and _all of the nights_ that were starting to add up to the only plausible conclusion—that I am going stark raving mad.

***

As I passed by the cemetery and headed on up the gravel road toward Dave's home, the first look I got of the place caused me to slow to a stop as glimpses of it flashed between the screen of trees and unkempt weeds that dotted the fence-line and the ditches along the road. The house was huge and imposing was my first impression but as I started along the road again and the obstructions came to an end, I saw that it had the fanciful look of a gingerbread house with elaborate wood details and half timbers. Scalloped shingles in rich dark-red covered the turrets and the steep roofline which had gabled dormer windows jutting out in different directions and that were decorated with fretwork that looked as if the gables were covered by delicate old-fashioned lace.

"Wow," I breathed in awe as I realized that Dave Cameron had made his home an absolute study of Victorian architecture and an eye-popping showplace.

I pulled into the driveway and parked, looking into my rearview mirror as I ran my manicured fingertips through my hair to arrange my freshly trimmed bangs and to check my makeup for the tenth time since I'd applied it. I was more than a little nervous about this dinner, although it really shouldn't be a big deal because, honestly, I know Dave Cameron practically better than any man I've known in my lifetime. Still, after turning off the engine, it took me a couple of moments of internal motivational pep talking to calm my nerves and bolster my wavering courage.

I knew that I looked presentable in a new pair of blue jean capri pants, strappy sandals, and a burnt-orange blouse that didn't clash with my dark auburn hair. The sleeveless top sat just at my waist with a neckline that attractively showed a little cleavage but was not overly revealing. I was also wearing a new set of midnight-blue lace bra and panties that were very sheer and revealing although I, of course, do not anticipate this being a night when that should be of any concern. It's just that nice lingerie makes me feel good—more feminine, even if no one but me will ever see it.

With one final check of my appearance I shored up my courage, took up my purse and climbed out, following the stonework sidewalk edged by shrubberies and flowers, and walked underneath an English ivy-covered arbor to enter the manicured front yard—it was like stepping into the past. The work that he'd done on my house had been exquisite, but _this_ —it was obvious to me that he had lovingly restored every single detail—from the whimsical second story turreted room that looked like something out of a medieval fairytale, to the ornate Victorian wrap-around porches and all the way down to the ornamental flower beds, stone walkways and scalloped picket fencing.

I rang the doorbell and heard a dog barking from somewhere inside the house and then the barking came closer and closer until it was just on the other side of the door, and then the door opened and Dave stood there in a nice chocolate-brown button-down shirt, with the sleeves rolled up about mid-forearm and blue jeans. He had a welcoming grin on his clean-shaven face and his straight, dark hair was falling over his forehead, the sexy way that it always does, just perfect. The dog sat quietly a few feet back—very well-mannered, but his tail was swishing back and forth happily in anticipation of a new human to adore.

"Hi," Dave said simply and swept his arm in a gesture ushering me into the front foyer.

I reached down to pet the German Shepherd, who rose to all fours and stood quietly next to Dave as I entered.

"Shadow, this pretty lady is Torie. Torie, this is my boy, Shadow."

"Very nice to meet you, Shadow," I greeted him and he sat briefly again in order to offer me a paw which I accepted and politely shook.

"My goodness what a big boy you are," I observed noting that the dog was very large and not only as in his impressive height.

"Yeah, we're working on that. He's on a diet, but so far it's not working," Dave said with a shrug, shooting a disgruntled look at his dog.

I stepped on into the main space of the foyer as Dave closed the door and I couldn't help but whisper a little breathy, " _ooh_ " at first sight of the space which was open and airy, with a sprawling curved staircase. The first few stairs of the case were rounded and fanned out to draw the eye and then one's gaze couldn't help but move upward, following the shining oak banisters until reaching a landing halfway up the flight, where the waning rays of sunshine were lighting a huge brilliantly colored stained-glass window.

"Oh Dave, this is just lovely," I sighed. "Did you install the stained-glass yourself?"

It was composed of hundreds of leaded diamond-shaped panes with the glass stained in blues, yellows, greens and reds which combined, created a whimsical garden scene of brilliant flowers and had the effect of casting a warm glow across the entire foyer.

"No it was added at the time that the house was built back in the 1880's. I just have to keep it up but it's pretty durable. I think it's only needed to be worked on a couple of times in 130 years, including one misadventure involving, a golf ball, my brother Adam and the loss of car privilege's for a month," he gave me a lopsided smile. "Enough said."

"Well it's beautiful," I repeated and only then noticed the framed photographs of ancestors that were lovingly displayed on the wall leading up the stairs, just as I had in my own house and I smiled at him, knowingly. Great minds think alike.

"Let me show you around," Dave said and extended a hand toward me. I took it without demure, falling back into the comfort I had shared with him during our months of working together on my house. He had often taken my hand to drag me around the floor of a salvage shop or to keep tabs on me as we had wandered through the yard of an estate sale; "to keep me on task", he'd always say, because I had tended to get carried away with browsing if he didn't keep up the momentum.

We took a tour of some of the lower rooms beginning with a large front room dominated by an impressive fireplace made from natural stone and with a hearth that was head high to me. Off to the far side of this room, a smaller sitting room likely used by ladies to entertain or do their sewing back at the turn of the century. Next was the library slash den slash man cave which was lined with shelves full of memorabilia and books, and a desk that held the impedimenta of Dave's trade, his computer and a stack of design books. Near a leaded pane-glassed window on the far wall, stood an architect's drafting table covered by a sheet of draft paper.

I paused here to take a peek at the detailed particulars of what was obviously an old-fashioned carriage house. I looked over at him with a questioning lifted brow.

"It's out on the edge of New Sharon," he explained. "The owner wants the carriage house converted into a guest house. They want it to maintain the look but the inside will be a nice little two bedroom apartment."

I nodded, leaning over to inspect the details and decided that it looked as though it was going to be a pretty nice place.

"Come on," he said, turning and gently tugging at my hand.

Next up on the tour was the formal dining room with a mammoth crystal chandelier that hung over a large antique table and Dave flipped on and adjusted up a dimmer light briefly to give me the full effect of the sparkling crystal-droplet antique chandelier before we moved on; to an expansive family room with yet another fireplace and a wall of windows facing the back of the house with an uninhibited view for miles.

All the while as we strolled, we were accompanied by Shadow calmly walking along with us, his tail wagging intermittently in response to the tone of his master's voice as Dave described this and that feature of the rooms, giving me a brief overview of the history of the house. The home was full of so many family heirlooms and vintage touches that it put all of my efforts at my house to shame.

"Can I offer you a drink?" Dave asked as we entered the large country kitchen. I have some Miller Light or..."

"That sounds perfect," I said, putting my purse down on the center island and gazing out the matching two-thirds-view custom cherry-wood doors to the deck out back. The gas grill was already smoking, and after Dave pressed a chilled glass of beer into my hand, he took his own drink and excused himself with a light and completely innocent touch of his hand across my back in a slight caress as he went out to check on the steaks. The touch was innocent on his part but I'd noticed and it gave me a warm feeling as I followed him outside and stood enjoying the spectacular view of the gently rolling fields as the sun, lowering in the west, began casting long shadows over the scene.

"This is all your land?" I asked looking out over soybeans as far as the eye could see.

"Yep, it goes all the way down to the edge of the cemetery," he said, pointing south. "And about six-hundred acres straight out. The crops are struggling a bit with the drought this year. Everyone's hoping it turns around soon," he said and rapped his knuckles on the railing of the wooden deck. "Care to sit for a while?" he asked and motioned to a cozy grouping of outdoor furniture pieces.

We took a seat on a cushioned glider bench and he pushed it into motion with his foot as we sat back and sipped our drinks, watching the shadows spread out across the land.

"You have a wonderful home," I said leaning over to give him a slight nudge with my shoulder.

"Thank you. That means a lot to me coming from you," he said and smiled over at me.

I felt totally at ease and comfortable being with Dave, relaxed in a way that I haven't experienced for a long time now. The stress of my weird manic life in Rose's house didn't seem quite so bad at this moment and I could almost believe that my nightly time travels aren't real except that unfortunately they _are_ real and I will be dealing with them again in just a few short hours' time. I shivered at the thought and fervently wished that I didn't have to deal with that part of my life ever again. My life would be pretty perfect if only I could stay in this current dimension.

"Are you chilly?" Dave asked, noticing my shudder.

"Oh no, I'm fine," I assured him.

"How about you come inside and help me get the rest of the dinner on?" he suggested.

"Sure," I said and mentally turned off thoughts of Rose's house for now, determined to enjoy this evening in spite of my personal problems.

***

We prepared the rest of the dinner together; I helped him by tearing up the lettuce for a salad and we used a cutting board to slice vegetables together. At one point, he popped a slice of red bell pepper gently into my mouth and I reciprocated by giving him a slice of a green one. Dave put out the dishes, and I arranged our place settings at one end of the table, close together, while he went out to retrieve the steaks and baked potatoes from the grill.

We ate our dinner in the formal dining room with the chandelier softly glowing and with some great classic soft rock playing in the background from his whole house sound system. He got around to questioning me about my break up with Derek, after dinner and during our second drink.

"Char told me a few days ago," he admitted. "She wasn't sure if it was a secret or not but thought that I might be interested. You know Char."

"I don't mind and yes Char is a _wealth_ of information as I've come to know since my initiation into Fremont society," I said and gave him a side long glance.

"Uh oh—what has she told you about me?" he asked curiously but with a hint of leeriness.

I paused dramatically with an expression of distaste, as if I were about to share a laundry list of his flaws and depraved behaviors but then smiled at him.

"Only that you're a good man, but I'd already made that observation on my own," I said. "That's all."

He smiled and lifted his hand to make a gesture as if wiping sweat from his brow.

"So, back to Derek," he went on, continuing his pervious line of questioning. "Have you done okay since then? Have you heard anything further from him? Seeing anyone else?"

I gave him a roll of my eyes, "Doing fine and no to the rest. You may find this hard to believe Mr. Cameron, but there just aren't that many men who are interested in living in Fremont, Iowa."

He laughed, making it clear that he recalled himself saying something very similar to me, after his relationship with Sharon had ended.

"I think that maybe you need to look closer to home," he suggested with a shy smile and took a drink from his glass.

"Perhaps I should," I agreed noncommittally. "I'll take that under consideration."

"Well, on that note," he said dryly. "If you would care to entertain yourself for just a few minutes I'll get these dishes into the dishwasher and then maybe you'd like to take a drive into town and get some ice cream or something?"

"I'll help you. We don't have that many dishes. I'll wash them by hand for you _old school._ "

"Okay, well I'll dry then," he decided, coming to his feet.

***

As I filled the kitchen sink with soapy water, Dave settled an apron around my waist and he stood close behind me as he tied the strings into a bow. He said that he didn't want my clothes to get wet, but I had the sneaking suspicion that he was just looking for an excuse to get close to me. I didn't mind one bit because I was having that usual giddy, warm, absolutely right feeling about Dave that I have whenever I am in his company for any length of time. This time though, I didn't have the obligation of fidelity to Derek standing between us like a sentry guard, keeping Dave at bay and I had the definite sense that Dave was well aware of that fact.

He stood at the ready, at my side, with a dish towel in hand and carefully dried each dish as I dipped it into the rinse water and handed it off to him. His fingers touched mine several times as we handed the dishes between us and with each touch, it felt like an electrical charge was firing between us. I could feel the heat of his body, with him standing so close at my side and the sleeve of his cotton shirt brushed my upper arm over and over again like a caress.

It was when he had to reach up over the top of me to place the cleaned and dried water glasses on the open shelf above our heads that it happened. I looked up just as he edged around me to place a glass and his eyes looked down into mine and—you know how in every romantic novel ever written, when the hero realizes that the long awaited opportunity has finally arrived and he just goes for it? Well that moment, when he looked down into my eyes _was it_ and it happened exactly like I just described except that when he lightly touched my shoulder, turning me away from the sink to face him and pulled me into his arms, I held out my hands at my sides, soapy and wet.

"Dave, wait, I'm all wet," I warned him.

"I don't care, Torie, put your arms around me," he whispered huskily as his hand slipped around the back of my neck and his mouth sank onto mine as though he had rehearsed it a hundred times, a million times. It was just the perfect blend as his lips molded to mine and we fit, like we were old lovers who had done this with each other for years. I put my arms around his rock hard waist without further concern about being covered in soapy water up to my forearms, surrendering to the deep, passionate kiss.

"I want you, Torie. I need you," he whispered against my mouth and my deep kiss I gave him was the only answer that he needed.

With unspoken consent our clothes began to loosen and fall like a beautiful ballet as we left a trail from the kitchen and through the house—my apron—his shirt—my shirt—his shoes—my shoes, and when we were both, in our excitement, wrestling unsuccessfully with each other's jeans buttons; he had me off of the floor and up into his arms in one single fluid motion that hinted at a _tremendous_ underlying power that was being held in check. His mouth was on mine again, our breath huffing ragged and gasping in between fevered kisses and it seemed that there was not enough oxygen in the entire house for either of us to catch a full breath. And so with my arms wrapped around his neck and my legs locked firmly about his lean waist, he carried me up the stairs to the second story.

***

I lay breathless and in shock. "Dave I never knew that it could be that way. I didn't even know that I was capable of enjoying sex that much," I confessed as my body sated and satisfied, started to relax. "I can't believe that that's what I've been missing all this time? Thank you Dave! Thank you so much!" I gushed, giggling and kissing his neck, his cheek, his mouth. I couldn't believe what had just happened. Twenty years of going without, of never feeling the satisfaction of being fulfilled by a man and always assuming that it was something physically wrong with me! Dave had dispelled the myth and cured me in just minutes.

He chuckled and whispered, "I just keep racking up those points, don't I?"

"Oh yeah," I agreed and kissed him again deeply.

## Chapter 23

I hadn't seen a sunrise in Fremont since I'd moved into Grandma Rose's house. In awe, I watched the soft pink glow of its first dawning rays filtering through the sheers and enjoyed a changing pattern that was dancing across the hardwood floor. I realized that it was the reflection of the windblown leaves of an errant branch of a burr oak tree out back behind the house, caught in those same captivating rays of light.

A deep masculine sigh behind me reminded me of where I was and I smiled with satisfaction. I was in Dave's large bedroom, of course, which was beautifully decorated with earth-tone fabrics and heavy substantial furniture. The dressers and bed in oak, which had multiple woods inlaid; contrasted and complemented the dark hardwood floor and a woven area rug of muted browns, peaches, and greens. Dave was resting close behind me, spooning me with his arm protectively over my waist and I could feel the slow and steady rise and fall of his chest behind me.

I turned over as carefully as I could, not wanting to disturb him but very much wanting to see his face. He stirred slightly with my movement but didn't wake as I settled myself, still encircled by his arm, and I let my eyes roam over him. His expression was smooth and relaxed as the filtered early morning sun softly spilled upon his face and I smiled to myself, my heart squeezing with emotion at the sight of his sweet innocence in slumber.

I myself felt rested in spite of the fact that we had spent most of the evening in his bed and hadn't actually gotten to sleep until almost midnight. After that, we still couldn't get enough of each other, and we had wakened each another and made love two more times in the night. Both times it had begun slowly with a languid appreciation that soon had become frenzied with an urgency that had fused us together in our mutual and near simultaneous fulfilment which is still such an amazing and unbelievable occurrence to me. Thinking about the passionate lovemaking that he had helped me to discover and to share, I now know that I will likely never be able to get enough of this man.

As I watched him, his eyes fluttered open, and he gazed at me with a look that told me that he was remembering our night as well.

"Hey," I said softly, reaching out to smooth my hand through his hair that was spilling over his forehead, before running my fingers along the plush scruff of his cheek.

"Good morning, beautiful," he whispered, his eyes moving over my face before settling on my eyes.

Since he was now awake I felt at liberty to explore him and I ran my hand over his chest enjoying the feel of the soft light furring of dark hair and he pulled me close into him and entwined his legs with mine, running his hand over my bare back and lower to squeeze my right buttock playfully as he lightly kissed my lips.

"How about I fix you some breakfast? Can I fix you some eggs or pancakes? You name it."

"That sounds good—pancakes, I think. I'll help though, deal?"

"Deal," he agreed with a smile and lifted his head to place a gentle kiss on my bare shoulder. "What do you have planned for the day? Do you want to hang out here with me? I'd love it if you would, Torie."

"I'll need to run home, shower, and grab some clean clothes." Thinking of my clothes, I lifted my head and looked around the room and then remembered that at least some of my clothes were still strewn about downstairs. I dropped my head back onto the pillow.

"I'm gonna have to make the walk of shame, if I can find all of my clothes," I said with a laugh, not really feeling shamed in the slightest but rather the contrary. "At least I live a mile out on gravel so I won't have any witnesses."

"No walk of shame—and no one-night stand, I hope," he said seriously. "Waking up with you here beside me is a dream come true for me, Torie. I think that you probably already know that I've been crazy about you practically since day one."

"It's a dream come true for me too, Dave," I confessed and he smiled softly, satisfied.

"Tell you what, why don't we have some breakfast and then you run home and get cleaned up and come back over. You said that you know how to ride and we can take my horses out for a trail ride a little later today. I need to repair a fence out back by the barn, but after that, I'm free for the day. What do you say?"

"I say that sounds like a plan. I'd love to do that," I said.

"I have a nice little pond at the back of my ten acres so we can pack a lunch and head out there and make an afternoon of it."

"That sounds great," I said kissing his lips. It was actually my definition of an absolutely perfect date.

That settled, Dave rolled out of bed and headed to his closet and returned with a white terry robe that he lay on my side of the bed. Then in the buff he headed for the bedroom door and quizzically, I watched him go, enjoying the wonderful view of his firm muscular backside as he walked out the door and disappeared. A minute later and he was back, holding my blouse and sandals and he reached down to grab up my jeans and bra and panties from the floor and dropped everything on the bed.

He grinned down at me. "Quite the frenzy wasn't it?" he asked.

"Unforgettable," I agreed, rising to a sitting position as I ran my hands through my crazily snarled hair, bringing it into some kind of order.

Dave grabbed up the robe, holding it up and I stood and slipped into it, turning around to allow him to tie the belt about my waist and then I accepted the gentle kiss that he placed upon my forehead.

He then turned his attention to locating his own articles of clothing and I enjoyed the scenery as I watched him throw on his very sexy black boxer briefs and a T-shirt, then together, we headed downstairs.

We had a blast making breakfast together and after a leisurely morning, enjoying our breakfast and each other's company, I dressed and headed home while Dave threw on some clothes and headed out to repair the fence.

***

When I returned an hour later, I found Dave out back of the house by the barn still working on the fence and I totally appreciated the view as I approached and observed him lifting a heavy fence post into place with his impressive biceps bulging. My gaze was drawn to his flexing chest that has just the right amount of sexy dark hair and lower to that little happy trail that just begged to be explored. The sheen of perspiration lit his torso and he looked like a gleaming bronze statue with the mid-day sun beating down upon him.

He paused in his work to watch me approach while wiping sweat from his brow with the back of his forearm and he gave me a winning smile.

"Hey, I'm almost done here," he said breathlessly and then added. "You look beautiful."

"Thank you," I said and didn't dispute him although I thought that he might need glasses because I was not styling but rather I was appropriately dressed for horseback riding, which meant a plain pink T-shirt, some of my grubbiest jeans and my old worn cowboy boots.

He went back to his job at hand and I watched him meticulously work to feed a rail through the post and then pull out a wooden mallet and peg from a nearby box of tools, driving the peg into the slot of the rail, to fasten it to the post. He smoothed his hand over the joint ensuring that it was just right and I smiled to myself, thinking about what a stickler for detail he always is. He always wants everything about his work to be completely authentic and the wooden pegs, which he manufactures himself in his workshop, are just one of the authentic little details that he had brought to some aspects of my homestead as well.

"How about while you finish, I start seeing to the horses?" I suggested, pointing to the two bay quarter horses who were curiously hanging their heads over the corral rails, watching Dave do his fence mending; tails swishing methodically in an effort to keep the pesky flies at bay. They were just on the other side of the corral, out in a pasture and all I'd need do, would be to open the gate and they would likely come right in.

Dave looked over at them as he stamped the dirt back into the post hole.

"Sure, I'm done here. Let me help you get them in."

_He's absolutely flawless,_ I thought wistfully as I watched him stand upright after tossing all of his tools into his toolbox. He adjusted his jeans on his perfectly muscled waist before grabbing up his discarded T-shirt to wipe the sweat from his face. I'll admit that perhaps I'm a little fuzzy-headed from the effects of the night I had just spent with this wonderful man and my opinion a bit biased, but I doubt that many women could look at all of that dark golden-tanned skin and strong sinewy muscle and not share my opinion in short order.

I followed him to a gate where he lifted a rope, and the gate swung free. He closed it after us and pointed to the barn.

"Why don't you go ahead and open the door there, and they'll just walk right in. They know where their stalls are. You could get them brushed down if you want while I shower and then I'll saddle them up."

"That sounds good; you'll just need to show me where the brushes are but about the saddle, is that necessary? I'd rather ride bareback if that's okay."

"Hmmm—sure," he said eyeing me with interest. "Bareback it is. You really _are_ a horsewoman, huh? I'm impressed."

I smiled at him and shrugged my eyebrows noncommittally with a lift of my shoulder as I turned for the barn.

I unlatched and pulled the barn door open and waved at Dave, calling, "Ready, boss."

I stood to the side as Dave slipped the rope off of the gate and let the gate swing open. The horses trotted in and as predicted, obediently entered the barn and found their appropriate stalls. They were standing and nosing around in their feed troughs when I caught up with them.

Dave came in after me and I saw him open the wooden latch to a small tack room just to the left, setting aside his fence mending tools on top of a shelf. He emerged a moment later with a couple of metal coffee cans overflowing with grain and filled the horse's troughs with the treat, while I headed into the tack room and found the brushes and curry combs.

"You all set?" he asked as he tossed the coffee cans into a large barrel of feed and closed the lid.

I held up the grooming items and nodded, "I've got this handled. You go ahead and get cleaned up."

I leaned in to give him a kiss, and he abruptly jumped back from me, surprisingly me.

"No way, woman," he said definitely. "No kiss until I get myself cleaned up. I'm a mess. I'll be right back."

While I laughed at him, he grinned at me good-naturedly but stepped quickly out of my reach and hurried from the barn while I took the brushes and went to acquaint myself with my new friends.

***

Thirty minutes later and Dave was back, with his hair still slightly damp and dressed in a light-blue T-shirt that matched his eyes, blue jeans, and cowboy boots. He swept me into his arms and gave me an extra passionate kiss to make up for the earlier refusal, he informed me, and boy did it and he tasted good, like clean, minty mouthwash.

"Well worth the wait," I said honestly, laying my hand possessively against his stomach before turning with pride and indicating the horses all brushed down and bridled, awaiting us in their stalls.

"I even cleaned their hooves. I wasn't sure if you wanted a saddle," I said with a shrug.

"Bareback's fine by me," Dave said. "Which one do you want to ride?"

"Do you have a preference?" I asked.

"I'll ride Jack. They're equal in size and really in temperament too but Princess has a real nice gait," he decided, starting into Jack's stall as he spoke.

I took Princess by the reins, and followed Dave out into the corral where he grabbed a set of saddlebags that I saw had been dangling over the fence.

"I hope that you like chicken salad sandwiches," he said tossing the bags over Jack's withers.

"Perfect," I assured him.

Dave dropped Jack's reins and came around to Princess' side to assist me up onto her back.

"Hey, I got this," I said, stopping him as he was bending to take hold of my left leg just above the ankle in order to give me a leg up.

Dave stepped back with a wide grin and crossed his arms over his chest, to observe how I planned on getting astride the fifteen-hand animal and likely was anticipating an amusing struggle.

I took a step toward Princess' head to give myself some room, casually grabbed a handful of mane with both hands and swung up and onto her back smoothly with practiced ease.

"Whoa! Your stock just went way up, honey. That's impressive," Dave exclaimed with true appreciation.

I laughed with a roll of my eyes at his flattery but I _was_ pretty pleased with his reaction, however, in truth, it had taken me a long, long time and a lot of practice for this maneuver to look so easy and polished.

My sister Sarah and I had spent _hours,_ as kids, perfecting this seemingly effortless way of mounting a horse which takes much more strength and finesse than anyone realizes. When it all began for us as young girls, though, for Sarah and me it was all part of our emulating American Indians, as we spent our days roaming the pastures surrounding the stables, playing out different scenarios. We'd decided that if we were going to be Indians then we _had_ to ride bareback like Indians and we _had_ to learn to mount a horse Indian-style and so we had practiced and practiced and practiced. We had also worn fringed soft cowhide moccasins and had carried soft leather canteens of drinking water; and pouches of beef jerky, were always hanging at our waists. We even took it so far as to braid our horse's manes with feathers and jingling beads and we had used water based pony paints to draw tribal symbols on their coats. We would swing onto our horses backs and be off, whooping like Indians on the warpath out to protect our lands from the invading white man.

Dave grabbed Jack's reins and was nodding and grinning at me as he put them around the horse's neck and quite impressively swung up onto Jack's back in similar fashion.

"Okay, let's go hotshot," he teased, reaching out to open the corral gate.

As he moved Jack around the swinging arm, following me out of the corral, he continued curiously, "Torie, you're just amazing me more and more by the minute. I had no idea that you know so much about horses."

"Well, I didn't even know that you _had_ horses until you told me last night. We could've had something else in common to talk about much sooner."

"I think that we're gonna enjoy getting to know each other," Dave predicted. "I can't wait to find out _what else_ you haven't been telling me."

I felt the blood drain from my face as every ounce of it seemed to hammer through my heart in a sudden spurt of terror as I remembered all of my dark secrets I held inside Rose's house. I looked away and out toward the open pasture before us, to hide my panic as I said a silent prayer that he wouldn't be getting to know me _that well_ , anytime soon.

***

The pastureland we rode through stretched out for nearly ten acres and it was sandwiched between corn and soybean fields. A cool breeze came up as we rode along a tree-lined trail that edged the pasture at the fence line and we stayed under the trees that gave us relief from the direct sun. It was about seventy-five degrees which is perfect riding weather and the horses were frisky and every so often we let them have their heads for short bursts of a nice canter. I found that Dave had been right; Princess did have a gait that was as smooth as glass.

For the most part though, as we walked our horses and rode side by side, we talked and continued to build a base of knowledge about each other. Dave asked me about my childhood growing up with horses and he was surprised to learn that my experience eclipsed his own by far. We also talked a little about my sister Sarah's horse rescue work out in Colorado, which led to his admitting to me that he'd never been to Colorado or any place out west except to Arizona when he had helped to get his parents settled there. He expressed that his desire was to someday take some trips to the East coast to see some of the architecture in the New England area. I was surprised by this and admitted to him that my bucket list also includes seeing sights on the East coast as well and also finding some of my ancestors on my mom's side of my family tree, whose graves are in Massachusetts and New Hampshire.

***

We paused at the crest of a small hillock to take in the view as we arrived at our goal, the pond. A light breeze was blowing in our direction and across the huge expanse of water before us that covered probably more than two full acres. Smack dab in the center of the pond stood a small wooden cabin and there was a long wooden dock that led out over the water and directly to the tidy little structure. Further out was a wooden swimming platform accessible by a metal ladder that I could see glinting in the sun.

"Oh that's awesome," I exclaimed.

"Yeah, my brothers and I spent a lot of time out here when we were kids," Dave explained as we started down the decline toward the pond. "It was great for camp outs, fishing, and duck hunting trips. The cabin is pretty much a complete home, with everything you might need, although it hasn't been used for anything and has sat vacant for many years now."

We dismounted from our horses at the water's edge and Dave removed rawhide hobbles from one of the saddle bags and expertly hobbled the horses that stood placidly for the procedure which allowed us to be able to leave them to graze along the pond without them ' _heading for the hills_ ' as Dave put it. After we had removed their bridles and left them to enjoy the drifts of waving grass, Dave took up the saddle bags and nodded his head toward the water.

"Do you want to go on out there? There's a nice little deck on the east side. It's pretty out there and gets a good breeze. The pond is naturally occurring and stream fed so it isn't stagnant or buggie."

"Sure," I agreed, reaching for the hand he extended toward me and we walked side by side out over the water. As we did, I could see that the pond was well stocked with tons of fish. They were _everywhere_ and followed us as we walked along the wooden walkway. A little freaked out, I moved closer to Dave and further away from the edge of the dock, taking his arm and hugging up against him which caused him to chuckle.

"They won't get you," he assured me with a laugh. "I'll protect you."

***

As we arrived at the cabin, we saw that the position of the sun was casting a pretty nice shadow over the deck, east of the structure. Two small fishing boats were just south of the deck, up on a dry dock of their own and turned upside down, covered by heavy canvas and I decided as I looked about the water world around me that this was probably a paradise for the four Cameron boys who had grown up here. I could imagine that they had probably had quite a few imaginary adventures of their own here.

Dave put the saddlebags down and opened the cabin door, stepping inside. He emerged a minute later with a couple of folding chairs.

"My lady," he said gallantly, placing a chair out for me.

He went back inside and brought out a small folding table and placed it between us and dusted it off with a paper towel that he had in hand. He joined me, sitting across from me as he began rummaging in the saddlebags and setting out our lunch. It just kept coming as if he were a magician; the bags holding more than seemed possible. He pulled out plastic silverware, napkins, paper plates, a small container of fruit, a container of home-made potato salad, two bottles of water, two sandwiches and two small bags of chips.

As we began filling our plates, I was very aware that we had a lot of company. The fish were all along the edge of the dock, surfacing and surging to get a better view as they watched us with interest.

"I'd hate to fall in. I think that you could get eaten alive," I observed, eyeing them suspiciously. "They look hungry to me."

Dave glanced over the side of the dock at them, giving them little notice.

"They do really well out here. It's a perfect stopping spot and a lot of them spawn here I think because there has always been plenty around. It is a little freaky to swim in here," he admitted, nodding toward the swim platform about fifteen yards away. "They do tend to nibble on ya a bit."

"I knew it!" I said with an involuntary shudder.

"Joking," he assured me with a laugh. "They mostly run from you if you are in the water but you can feel their tails skimming you as they pass by."

I shuddered again at the idea, "So are they trapped here?"

"No, this pond is actually fed by a creek that empties south of here and goes on downstream eventually merging with the Skunk River."

"I went fishing just one time when I was about five-years-old," I said, tossing a small piece of my bread crust into the water to see it gobbled up instantaneously. "I was with my dad and the entire day all that I did was worry about injuring the fish, hurting the worms. I remember that my dad put the fish into a collapsible mesh basket hanging over the side of the boat and I kept worrying about their comfort. We released them at the end of the day but it was just a stress-filled experience for me," I admitted with a laugh. "My dad never did _that_ again."

"Note to self, no fishing," Dave said with a chuckle. "That's good to know but actually I don't fish myself; not since I was a kid. Tell me about your writing, Torie," he said suddenly. "Was that always your plan for your life?"

"Well, I minored in creative writing in college but got a degree in finance," I smiled over at him self-consciously as I admitted. "I had planned to take the business world by storm and I actually ended up as one of the directors of the new business department at Principal Life until my first novel was picked up by my publisher. What about you? Was your plan always renovation?" I asked.

"Yep, as far back as I can remember I've been interested in restoration and building things. I love history and the original way that things used to be done and understanding how it all worked back then, you know what I mean?" he asked.

I nodded my understanding, having it occur to me as I listened to him go on to talk about what restoring old houses means to him, that he would be someone who would totally enjoy the time travels I've been experiencing. I would never tell him about the travels, of course, but as he talked, I was thinking about all of the old buildings and many of the construction practices that I have observed. Also the farming processes that I have seen performed and just the everyday necessary skills that I myself have learned regarding the running of nineteenth and early twentieth century households back in old Fremont. I had absolutely no doubt in my mind that my travels would be something that Dave would love to experience.

***

After we finished our lunch and had packed up our containers to go, I decided that I wanted to take a look in the cabin and stepping inside, found that it was actually very nice. It had two built-in beds against walls opposite of each other and in between the two beds, was a kitchen area with cupboards and a tall butcher block work table. The cupboards were stocked with cups and plates and a good supply of pots and pans, with scorched bottoms that attested to them having seen many a campfire in their day. I leaned back against the butcher block table and then noticed above was a loft area with two additional bunks nestled up close to the bare rafters. Dave entered just then carrying the table and chairs and lifted them up to lay them atop one of the loft beds. He turned to face me with a smile.

"Want to see something pretty cool?" he asked.

"Sure," I said watching him with curiosity.

Dave walked across the room and leaned over the bed which was hugging the wall and then he tugged on a dangling rope at the wall. The entire side of the cabin opened, lifting up to expose a floor to ceiling screened window and Dave wrapped the rope around a cleat to keep the window propped open. He walked across the cabin and pulled an identical rope revealing another window on the opposite side and there was a refreshing _whoosh_ as the breeze blew through, taking away with it, any trace of the heat and staleness that had hung in the air from years of being closed up.

"Wow," I said in amazement, enjoying the cool brush of the wind against my skin. "This is a high end arrangement."

"Oh yeah, my grandpa Joe helped us build this thing back in the eighties. He was quite the craftsman. He taught me a lot of what I know."

"It's very nice, and private out here in the middle of nowhere like it is. You ever entertain the ladies out here, Dave?" I teased.

"You are the first," he said with a shy smile of surpassing sweetness.

"Not even Laura?" I cajoled him, unbelieving of his statement.

"Laura didn't enjoy the outdoors or the country or the pond. She didn't like horses because she was afraid of them," he shook his head and shrugged helplessly. "It wasn't a match made in heaven."

"Hmmm..." I said taking a step forward and wishing to remove the look of embarrassment from his face for his confession about his failed marriage, I reached up to cradle his face between my hands and guided him down to me for a kiss. His arms came around my waist possessively and I lifted on my toes and slanted my lips across his, for a suggestively passionate kiss.

"Umm, you'd better watch yourself, honey, or you could find yourself ravaged right here and now," he whispered in a husky voice.

"Or you could," I challenged, grinning up at him as I draped my arms around his neck.

He gazed down into my eyes and kissed my lips gently, wrapping me closer in his embrace.

"I'm serious, Torie. It scares me to think about how desperately I've wanted you all of these months. I thought that I was gonna lose my mind a couple of times, missing you, missing your company and wanting you so much. I could very easily become completely insatiable," he warned seriously.

"Shhh," I said and placed a finger over his mouth to silence him, then removed my hand and kissed him again deeply.

"Well, you've been warned," he breathed against my mouth and suddenly I was off of my feet as he lifted me and set me up onto the butcher block table behind me.

I reached out and slipped a finger into the waistband of his blue jeans and pulled him forward until he was standing between my opened thighs.

"I'm never going to be able to get enough of you, Torie," he confessed as he began to lift the hem of my T-shirt.

"I hope that's a promise," I replied as I lifted my arms over my head, allowing him to remove my shirt—it dropped to the cabin floor.

"It's a promise," he whispered, smoothing his hands over my bare back as he kissed me deeply and his passion kicked into high gear.

## Chapter 24

The Iowa State Fair came and went, and Dave and I never attended because we didn't have a moment's time or capacity for anything except being alone with each other. I spent every night at his place during the first part of August, leaving Rose's house and the time warps behind me and I'd found that I didn't miss them even one little bit because I was much too occupied with actually living my _own_ life for a change. I had effortlessly and quickly fallen hard for Dave Cameron and in fact, although I hadn't said the words and neither had he, I was totally, head over heels, in love.

But on a Thursday morning, August 16th, to be exact, I found myself wrenched out of my lover's arms and once again set upon the treadmill, in the form of a first class jetliner seat and in the company of my usual traveling companion, slash babysitter, my publicist Nancy, who though she always has my best interests at heart, _really_ _pushes_ me, with the full support and backing of my literary agent and publishing house. I know, well enough, that I am a pain in their collective corporate asses and I really wasn't trying to earn the reputation of being a temperamental troublesome diva but I'd had enough book signing events to last me a lifetime, and this trip to Chicago was going to be my last one, damn it, if I could just get up the courage to put my foot down.

At least the signing was only for four hours on Friday and at a smaller, more intimate shop, Barnett-Owen Books, in conjunction with their becoming a retailer for Kindle. I would be back home by Saturday night and although I didn't want to be away from Dave for even _one_ night, he had promised me that he would be waiting.

However this trip seemed fated to become much more than just a day at the signing table because on this trip, I was going to be meeting Claire Neumann and I had a feeling going in, that meeting her might just change my life, profoundly and forever.

My publisher had received a letter a few weeks ago from the Illinois Make-A-Wish Foundation and had, in turn, passed it along to Nancy, who'd passed the information on to me. The organization had received a wish from an eighteen-year-old cancer patient who'd been fighting a fearsome opponent for several years now, in the form of leukemia which had recently returned for the third time, and this time, it was acute and was viciously and aggressively waging an all-out war against her. Claire's one wish wasn't to go to Disneyworld or meet whatever boyband or pop star happens to be the current rage; her one and only wish was to meet me—ME— _for crying out loud!_

Nancy had arranged for me to go to Claire's home to meet with her for a short visit if her health would stand it, but as it turned out, Claire was now feeling well enough to come to Barnett-Owen to meet me there instead. I'd felt heartened by this news until Nancy had explained to me that because the chemo therapy was no longer working, Claire had demanded that it be halted permanently and the slight rebound in her constitution was only a short term reprieve and that her decline was eminent and unstoppable. She _was_ feeling well enough to come to the store and be my assistant for a couple of hours though and afterward, if she is feeling up to it, we will possibly grab something to eat together.

***

I had been at the signing and so busy, that before I'd even realized it, a couple of hours had passed by and I'd begun to anxiously check the clock up on the wall every few minutes as I awaited my special visitor. I'd just taken up a copy of my novel from the hands of a sweet, cherubic looking, apple-cheeked grandmotherly type with purple-gray wisps of feathery curls that added to the overall angelic effect, and had opened the cover to begin a note when around and beyond her plump, squat figure I spied, coming through the historical romance section, the most beautiful and most ill-looking young woman I have ever seen in my lifetime and my heart twisted in my chest. She had no hair—even her eyebrows were gone—and she wore a sky-blue beret that set off her large blue eyes perfectly. She was in a wheelchair, and her mother and father were wheeling her slowly toward me. I paused in my signing of the book and rose to come around the table to meet her and noticed at once that she had a copy of my novel _Passion's Fury_ in her lap, clutched tightly in her small, frail hands.

I reached out to shake her parent's hands, and then I knelt beside Claire.

"So are you ready to work?" I asked.

She nodded. "I'm so happy to meet you, Miss Mills. You are my all-time favorite author," she gushed breathlessly.

"Call me Torie, please. We're on a first-name basis, understand?" I joked with her, frowning mock-serious and she grinned with a nod. "All-time favorite, huh, well I think that you are destined to become my all-time favorite assistant," I predicted and gave a very gentle squeeze to her delicate hand.

Nancy came forward and helped Claire's parents to get her situated behind the signing table and I took my place close by her side while Claire simply beamed. Her parents didn't want to hang around and interfere with her time spent with me, so they gave her a kiss good-bye and told Nancy that they would be back in three hours but then they continued to linger until the Make-A-Wish Foundation representative, Liz, a dedicated and bubbly nineteen-year-old, stepped up and assured them that she would be close by in case Claire needed anything at all and she had their phone numbers in her portfolio if any emergency were to arise, which seemed to put them at ease enough so that they finally did take their leave.

***

Claire's arrival a couple of hours into the signing event proved to be the perfect timing for our visit. The shoppers with _Passion's Fury_ in hand were gradually slowing to a trickle and while Claire helpfully handed each of the autographed novels back to the customers, she thanked each one for coming to see us and expressed her hope that they would love the story as much as she did. She was absolutely adorable and I found myself alternating between grinning like a loon as I enjoyed the glimpses of her irrepressible, effervescent personality that shone through in spite of her desperately ill state and holding back my tears for the very same reason, as she effortlessly ingratiated herself with all who came in contact with her.

***

About an hour and a half into our time together, we experienced a major lull in the foot traffic coming by our table. Nancy along with Liz excused themselves and headed off to check on the status of some mysterious, top secret surprise that they wouldn't even give us a tiny hint about, in spite of some major whining and pleading on both of our parts. Watching them go, I sighed and lifted and shrugged my shoulders in defeat, looking at Claire.

"Well, since we have this opportunity," she said taking up her copy of my book and laying it on the table before me. "Would you please autograph my copy?"

I rolled my eyes at her and gave her a look that said ' _of course silly_ ' without saying a word and opened the book cover.

"What would you like me to say?" I asked clicking my pen and looking into her lovely bright blue eyes.

"How about ' _Claire, believe in a true love. Your friend, Torie._ '"

"I think I can manage that," I assured her and inscribed it as requested with an ornately scrolling and embellished "Claire" and "Torie."

"There you go," I said handing the book back to her and bowing my head toward her slightly and formally.

She smiled and then her smile faded as she looked earnestly up at me.

"Torie," she started hesitantly. "Can I ask you something?"

"Anything," I assured her. "Just name it."

"What I want to know is this, is Beau Gardner the man that is in your own life? I mean did you write him from someone special?"

I opened my mouth to reply and she hurried on to say, "I don't mean to pry, really I don't but I was just wondering because see I want to be a writer like you—it's always been my dream, but I've never been in love and I think that you have to know something in order to be able to write about it, don't you?"

"You aren't prying," I began. "And as for Beau Gardner, he lives only in my imagination."

"Really?" she breathed in amazement.

"Really," I nodded. "And all you _need_ , Claire, is an idea of what you want to create, and then you just make that world come to life. There is nothing like beginning with a blank page of paper and filling it with a world that you've created within your own imagination."

Claire nodded thoughtfully. "When I read the boundless love that Beau feels toward Melody, it made me wish that I might have time to find that in my own life, so that I maybe could write that type of story but..." her words dwindled away.

"But what, Claire?" I asked, urging her to speak her mind freely.

"You see, I'll likely never have the chance to find that man who I can write romance novels about, that one man who is meant to be my one true love," she said.

"Oh Claire," I said hoping to think of some words of wisdom but she wasn't upset or on the verge of despair but simply resigned.

"I'm getting very afraid that I might really die soon, as hard as that is to truly grasp or imagine but even if it's so, when I read your first book _Eternal Fire_ and then this one, they made me feel as if maybe I've glimpsed what a true love like that might be like to experience."

I had a lump in my throat and couldn't speak for a moment. I can still remember, very well, being an eighteen-year-old girl and reading my favorite romance books and praying for that day when my Prince Charming would arrive and sweep me off of my feet. My sister Sarah has always said that those books are what ruined us for real men and they were part of the reason that we had so much trouble finding one who was good enough, because no man can measure up to a romance novel hero.

I looked at Claire who was looking down at the book she held in her hands and I had a thought.

"Claire, do you want to know who my favorite romance author was when I was your age?" I asked confidentially.

"Who?" she asked looking up at me, interested.

" _Kathleen E. Woodiwiss_. Have you ever read her books?"

"No, are they as good as yours?" she asked seriously.

"Much better, I'm nowhere near her caliber," I assured her and had to laugh at that naive remark. "But if I buy you one of her books, would you read it and tell me what you think?"

"Sure," she said, awestruck.

"Are you on Facebook?" I asked, having an idea.

"Duh!" she said and we both snorted a laugh. _She_ because I think that she was shocked that she had just said ' _duh'_ to an adult and someone who she had placed (however misguidedly) upon a pedestal and _me_ because it was a sign of her feeling comfortable enough with me to totally be herself.

"Then let's _'friend'_ each other, and we can chat back and forth and talk about our favorite books. I have several that are my favorites currently. We can give each other our recommendations; what do you think?"

"I would love that," she said and then absently looked down at my novel in her lap again. She smoothed her hand across the shiny cover photo of Beau and Melody, who were locked in a passionate embrace and standing, artfully posed, against a blood-red Louisiana skyline.

"Jimmy Thomas is gorgeous, isn't he?" she asked seriously.

"Absolutely beautiful," I agreed. "That's why I have him on my cover, you know. He's the best at what he does, don't you think?"

She nodded in agreement and then opened the book and fanned through the pages until a folded piece of paper fell out onto her lap.

"I wanted to bring this for you, Torie. It isn't very good, but I wrote it myself and I wanted you to have it."

She handed me the paper and then smiled shyly as I unfolded it and read it quietly to myself while she looked on.

My love for you is great

Though I know I cannot have you

For like a rainbow

The harder I try to reach you

The further you move away

Now sorrow lays heavy on my heart

Like sturdy bands closing in on it

My heart is like a butterfly

Wanting to break free and fly away

But it is not able

For the bands are made of love

And cannot be broken

"You wrote this, Claire? It's wonderful! Autograph please," I demanded, giving it back to her and handing her my pen.

"It needs a title, though," I said watching her with a smile on my lips as she placed the paper on the table, leaning forward in her wheelchair, her head slanted slightly and pink-tipped tongue just peeking out of her mouth as she concentrated. She signed it for me with a similarly fancy scrolling flourish as I'd used when autographing my book for her.

"So what do you think?" I asked. "What title would fit?"

"Maybe ' _Fly_ ,'" she suggested with an uncertain shrug.

"I like it. In fact, Claire," I paused, considering. "What would you think about me featuring it in the front of my next novel? I really think that it would be perfect right after the dedication page."

"What's the name of the novel? What's it about?" she asked excitedly.

"Well, I've been toying with several titles but tentatively it is called _Amanda White of Cedar County Iowa_. It's set in the Civil War time and is a love story, of course, and the hero goes off to war."

"That sounds interesting," she said with heartfelt sincerity.

"Our secret though, we need to keep it to ourselves for now. So what do you say? What will you charge me for your work?" I asked very businesslike. "I'll give you proper credit of course. It will say by Claire Neumann."

"Seriously—OMG, Torie!" she gushed; then more quietly she continued. "If you really mean it and want to buy my poem, whatever you pay me for it, I'll give to charity—maybe to the Make-A-Wish Foundation so that some other kids can have their wishes come true."

A couple of customers approached just then and interrupted our discussion and so we spent a few minutes chatting with the two friendly, middle-aged women about _Passion's Fury_ but as soon as they'd gone, I turned right back to our negotiations.

"Okay, I'll pay you ten-thousand-dollars for the exclusive use of this poem in my next book, which you can give to the Make-A-Wish Foundation, if that's what you'd like to do or keep it for yourself—totally your call about that and in addition, one percent of all of the royalties from the sale of the book will go to the charity of your choice, or how about this," I said having a sudden inspiration. "What if we created a scholarship fund for different causes including aspiring young writers that we could name the Neumann Mills Scholarship or Trust—something like that. It could be huge."

Claire sucked in a breath of surprise and then laughed excitedly.

"Oh my gosh, Torie. Deal!" she agreed at once, shaking my hand, sealing the deal and placing the autographed poem back into my palm. I hugged her gently, mindful of her delicate condition and jutting knobby bones that seemed as frail as a newborn birds, as I ran my hand lightly over her back.

As the wall clock indicated that our book signing duties had come to an end, we glanced up curiously as Nancy and Liz finally returned and both spoke Claire's name in unison to get her attention as they approached us. Then I don't know who screamed louder, Claire or me, for walking between the two petite women was the very real, very muscular and very large life-sized version of my novel's cover, in the flesh; none other than, _Jimmy Thomas_ himself!

***

With a copy of my own novel bearing the autograph of Jimmy Thomas tucked reverently and carefully into the side pocket of my laptop, it was sadly time to bid Claire good-bye. It had been a huge day for everyone.

I handed Claire the Kindle which I'd purchased for her and her online library was loaded with _Shanna_ by Kathleen E. Woodiwiss, _Forbidden_ by another favorite author of mine Jayne Monroe, a classic bodice ripper by Johanna Lindsey, and _On the Island_ by Tracey Garvis Graves.

"When you get home, I want you to charge this up right away, and I want you to read _On the Island_ first. I think you'll love it. The hero is a cancer survivor, just like you and I'll be waiting for your book review. Shoot me an email. Okay?"

"I will, Torie. Thank you so much for spending this time with me today. If I do get better, I hope to become an author just like you," she said breathlessly and I could see the fatigue that just this three hour outing had cost her by the smudges of darkening shadows beneath her eyes.

"You will, sweetie. And I'll give your first finished novel to my publisher," I promised her, hoping against all hope as I said it that I'd have the chance to keep my word.

We had already exchanged all of our digits and email addresses. I had Claire's Facebook information and I had provided her parents with Nancy's contact information in case they needed to get in touch with her regarding the newly coined _Neumann Mills 2012 Charity Trust_ that will be established shortly. Nancy assured them that they could expect a letter within a week from one of the lawyers at her firm in order to get the ball rolling on Claire and my exciting charity collaboration.

We had all taken several PR photos for Liz and the Make-A-Wish Foundation and I had demanded that Nancy take a photo with our cell phones of Claire, Jimmy, and me together and all three of us had made it our phones background photo right then and there or I should say that Claire had. Everyone had had a good laugh over Jimmy and me, both scratching our heads and completely perplexed, until Claire had offered her assistance and had gotten it done.

Jimmy gave a sweet, chaste farewell kiss to Claire upon her pale lips and a kiss on the cheek to me and then he made a quick dash for the exit before he succeeded in causing a riot, or more likely, had found himself _sexually molested_ right in the middle of the book store, by a growing gaggle of his adoring female fans.

***

Nancy and I hailed a cab and took the short several blocks drive back to our hotel. Our flight will be leaving at 9:00 a.m. tomorrow and I am _so_ ready to get home to Fremont, Iowa and back into the arms of Dave Cameron.

Spending the day with Claire, a young woman who has never known true love and never will, (her parents told me confidentially that she is not expected to live past the end of the year), it made me take stock of my own life and fully appreciate what I have within my grasp, at long last. I was struck hard by the realization that _no one_ is guaranteed anything in this life and so; as I watched the sights and sounds of Chicago flash by, I silently decided that when I get home, as soon as I get home, I'm going to tell Dave that I'm in love with him. He's my destiny, I feel certain of that and I'm going to make sure that he knows just how much he means to me.

***

As I trudged down the hall toward my room after bidding Nancy good night at her door, still feeling an odd mixture of happiness and melancholy from the wonderful yet heartbreaking time spent with Claire; I turned the corner of the deserted corridor and saw, standing at the end of the hallway in front of my door, Dave, in the flesh. I ran full bore down the hallway like a derailed locomotive, dropped my things on the floor and leapt into his warm embrace.

"What are you doing here?" I squealed.

"I couldn't take being without you, so I drove up," he said kissing me briefly.

"Dave, I'm in love with you. I love you," I blurted without preamble, confessing it right smack dab in the middle of Chicago, Illinois, in a hallway of the Hyatt Regency and in front of room number 1908.

"Torie, sweetheart, I'm in love with you, too. You're everything to me," he said, kissing me again before placing me down onto my own two feet.

I picked my purse up off of the floor, and then fumbled around in it, searching for the room key and when I finally found it, I slipped it through the slot, the light turned green and I pushed the door open.

Dave grabbed up his bag and my computer before following me inside and then we dropped everything and in between a frenzy of quick passionate kisses, he slipped his shirt off over his head, before helping me to slip my blouse off over mine.

"Wait," I breathed between his fevered kisses. "Dave, let me call Nancy real quick; I need to let her know that I'll be driving back with you."

He continued to kiss my neck, my shoulders, my back while I grabbed up my purse and set it on the mirrored desk, turning on a lamp to light my way as I dug for my phone. Upon finding it, I paused, looking into the mirror and in fascination observed Dave as he stood behind me, and as if totally outside of myself, I watched as he lifted my hair out of his way and kissed the left side of my neck tenderly. I was mesmerized by the reflection of his handsome face as the light caught upon the bold planes of his cheekbones, his jawline, while he placed kisses along my shoulder and lightly ran his tongue over my skin. His light-blue eyes lifted, watching me in the mirror, as well, and I couldn't break the stare; those eyes of his are hypnotic. His right hand reached out, guiding my hand holding the phone toward my ear, as he kissed my shoulder again.

"Nancy," he reminded me in a husky whisper.

I looked at my phone and hurriedly scrolled for her number, while Dave's hands worked my pants zipper down and my slacks slid to the floor. Dave disappeared as he bent down to slip off my shoes and guide my feet out of my pant legs just as the call went through.

"Hey, Nancy," I said, distractedly, turning toward Dave as he straightened upright again but he turned me back around so that I was facing the mirror and his hands slipped around my waist, pulling me back against his chest.

"Ummm..." I mumbled absently. I was so freakin' distracted that I couldn't even think straight, "Dave—came up here, so—so—I..." I stammered idiotically. "I won't need to fly. I'll drive home with him. I just wanted you to know. Bye."

I closed the phone, dropped it into my purse, and reached up with my hand to hold the back of his neck, kissing him over my shoulder. Then I turned toward him and he bent and lifted me up into his arms and with my legs wrapped firmly around his waist, he carried me to the waiting bed.

## Chapter 25

I have become accomplished at time travel over the last couple of months, almost like it is an effortless intuition, taking in all of the information and figuratively speaking; hitting the ground running—even something as disconcerting as this! Waking up or arriving or whatever you want to call it and finding myself on the back of a moving horse with my arms wrapped firmly around a little girl's waist. Thank God I've been riding horses all of my life in the real world and am comfortable riding bareback. The girl who straddled the horse before me wore a blue-gingham cotton dress and her blonde hair was put up in braided pigtails and bound with blue silk ribbons. I quickly perceived by the landmarks on the road that we were traveling over, that we were heading away from Grandpa Henry Mills's farm, heading north toward town and by the position of the sun, my guess was that it had to be about mid-afternoon. In the blink of an eye I logged all of these details and assimilated all of the information.

I wished desperately for a mirror so that I could see who I am.

_Okay—not happening. You're going to need to think this through pragmatically,_ I thought to myself. _And use what you have around you to figure this out._

Okay, so also riding double beside us on a chestnut horse are my Wyman cousin Rose, namesake of Grandma Rose, and my grandaunt Lucy Mills. Since both girls had been the same age, I guessed them to currently be likely, fifteen or sixteen-years-old. I glanced around at the sound of a girl's laughter and saw two other horses were clomping along at a slight distance behind us. I recognized my grandaunt Joanna Mills and wondered whether the young dark-haired man riding at her side might be her first husband William Olson? I've never seen a photograph of him, but if Lucy was currently sixteen, then that would mean that Joanna would be nineteen, so it probably was William, who Joanna would marry when she was twenty-years-old.

"We'll make it just about on time," Rose said glancing skyward and squinting at the afternoon sun. "Molly, are you hoping that Jackson Worth will be coming this afternoon?"

She was asking me that question! Good, so now I know that I am currently my grandaunt Molly Mills, and one year younger than my sister Lucy.

"I suppose that he might be there," I improvised, not knowing what ' _there_ ' might be referring to but my answer seemed safe enough and covered a variety of possibilities, whether we were on our way to a party, a school dance or a church outing. What I did know was that Jackson Worth would become Molly's husband a few years from this time and place.

The girl riding with me turned to take an interested look at me over her shoulder and I was excited to realize that she was Katie McFall. This was my first _ever_ time travel with her but I should have known immediately that it was Katie by her flaxen hair that was nearly white and was dazzling with the sunshine gilding it. Katie was my great-grandaunt Ivy Wyman McFall's daughter and she was also a mutual cousin of both me and Dave Cameron.

***

As we rode into town, heading west on Main Street, I could easily see what our likely goal was, because there was a lot of activity on North Pine as we approached, centered on what I was sure must be the old town square that Dave had described to me many months ago when we'd dined together during my first week in town. The square is long gone and none of the one story buildings that bordered it exist in present Fremont, so history nerd that I am, I drank in the sight of the buildings ahead as we all now trotted along the dusty dirt road, everyone anxious to arrive.

I could see that the first building that edged the east side of the square was a drugstore and after passing that obstruction the entire pocket of the square was visible and we could see a swarm of activity, with buggies, and horses stretching around the four sides. The grassy center lawn was dotted with people seated on blankets, for the most part, and all of them facing the large white-washed gazebo at the center of the square. The gazebo had ceased to exist about eighty years ago but I could see now that it had been a lovely structure in the shape of a hexagon. There was an eight piece brass band up inside the gazebo warming up and tuning their instruments on its raised stage.

I knew that the 1890 high school must be on down Main Street, just out of sight. In fact, I was able to see just a glimpse of the bell-tower that sat atop the iconic two-story structure to the west but the false-fronts of the merchant shops on the square were blocking a clear view of the school itself. I wished desperately that I could just keep going along the street and get a good look at the school but instead, we all dismounted, leaving our horses tied at the edge of the square along Main as we found an empty place out on the grassy yard facing the gazebo. All of us girls helped to spread out several blankets that had been draped across the withers of Rose's horse and just as the six of us were getting settled, I saw Wyatt and Jennie heading our way.

_Awkward!_ I thought as they joined us and I looked Wyatt over, feeling a flush of embarrassment warming my cheeks because the last time that I'd seen Wyatt Mills, I'd had my hot little hands and my lips all over every single inch of his body which I know intimately and _that fact_ made this _more_ than awkward actually—it made me feel a little dirty and creepy to be honest. I tried to calculate his age and decided on likely seventeen, about a year older than Lucy and so I knew that he and Jennie would be about two years from their wedding night that I had lived through not so very long ago and it seemed just _so weird!_

Jennie took a blanket that had been slung over Wyatt's forearm and started to spread it out on the grass next to me.

"Wyatt, help me please," she asked sweetly, glancing up at him.

I looked up at him too and saw that instead of taking hold of the blanket, Wyatt turned and glanced around as though he thought that she was speaking to someone behind him and I smiled, because he was teasing Jennie and I knew very well that he had the sense of humor that would pull something like this. Jennie straightened up and with a hand on her hip, she gave him what I'd call a _no nonsense look_ , obviously not in the mood for his theatrics. She pushed against his chest with a hand until he stepped back a pace out of the way and she crouched down to adjust the blanket further.

Wyatt just continued to stand above us, making no move to assist and I realized then that he was breathing heavily and I started to get a little concerned about his health as I watched his dilated eyes that were open so wide that I could see the whites all around them and I thought that he looked like a startled rabbit that was about to make a dash for the first handy thicket.

I reached out to smooth the blanket myself. "Here, Jennie, let me help you," I said, keeping an eye on Wyatt as I did so because he didn't look well and I just hoped to hell that he wasn't getting ready to vomit or if he was going to vomit, I'd prefer that it not be while he is standing above me.

"Thanks," Jennie said to me with an exasperated roll of her eyes as she looked up at Wyatt standing above us.

"Wyatt, sit down," she directed, tugging at poor, dazed Granduncle Wyatt's hand and he complied, plopping down as heavily as a bag of bricks, facing Katie and me and blinking at us both, wide-eyed as a demented barn owl. Katie giggled at him, mimicking his face back at him and then she turned to treat me to her rendition of his ridiculous expression.

"I don't know what's come over you, Wyatt but I wish that you would stop acting at this foolishness," Jennie fumed, glaring between him and Katie. "Don't encourage him, Katie," she scolded.

Wyatt swiveled his owl-eyes toward Jennie, then gaped at the crowd around us, and all the time, panting, blinking and staring. I didn't think that he was acting though; I thought that he truly might be coming down with something or giving a very good impression of it. He looked around the grassy square as though observing an invasion of exotic aliens, before he reached up and started to very deliberately run his fingers over the planes of his face, poking his index fingers into his eye sockets, patting his own cheeks and putting his fingers into his mouth and feeling his tongue in the most peculiar examination of one's own body that one should be conducting in the company of fifty people. He looked like a total idiot and this caused Katie to fall into renewed gales of giggles.

Thank goodness the band started playing just then, which took the attention of the crowd off of our blanket mate but I couldn't keep my eyes off of Wyatt. Something was definitely not right about him today. He glanced over at me again now with his lips pale and with beads of sweat popping out on his wide forehead as he continued to observe all of us uneasily and I had a sudden strange thought occur to me as I watched him. _Could this possibly be a, but—no,_ I chided myself. _It couldn't possibly be another time traveler._

Never knowing how long I might stay in any time warp or what might cause it to come to an end; it was pointless to try to direct anything of importance about the experience, but when Jennie asked Wyatt to go into the drugstore for a fountain drink that they could share—I jumped up like a sprung jack-in-the-box.

"I'll go with you, Wyatt," I offered quickly.

The look of sheer relief that broke across Granduncle Wyatt's face at my declaration was comical. He was obviously thankful to have someone taking point for this expedition and he rose at once and followed me, like a puppy dog or I guess a _more_ likely simile would be like a lifeless zombie, toward the edge of the grass where we walked along a brick sidewalk, side by side. Wyatt kept looking down at his own boot clad feet though and then he started taking these irregular steps, first short, then long, then a high step lifting his knee up almost to his chest and all the while watching himself with interest as he performed these ridiculous gyrations.

"Wyatt, stop acting like a fool," I finally hissed in exasperation because people were watching and starting to laugh at him. I grabbed his arm to get his attention and growled. "Stop it!"

Just then, my grandpa Arlan approached, stopping on the walk before us and blocking our way as he crossed his arms over his chest and looked up into his older brother's face speculatively.

"Well, did you finish?" Arlan asked without preamble.

"What?" Wyatt questioned. "I'm sorry, and you are?"

Arlan snorted a bark of affected laughter that made it obvious that he wasn't amused.

"Funny boy," he said. "You'd better have fed the stock before you came to town. That was the deal, right? I milk for you tonight and tomorrow morning and you get to sleep in and then you feed the stock and milk old Bess for the next two night's straight."

"A—Ummm—I..." Wyatt stammered, shooting a helpless silent query toward me and again looking as if the contents of his stomach could be on the way up at any moment.

"Arlan, we have to get inside and back, before Jennie worries about what's become of us," I pointed to our group. "Do you see Joanna facing us? We're all sitting there. We'll be right back."

As Grandpa Arlan moved off through the grass to join our group, I faced Wyatt and grabbed him with both hands on his upper arms, as I looked up into his befuddled, confused eyes.

"What's my name?" I demanded, shaking him slightly before letting go of him.

"Um—you are..." Wyatt began and stopped.

"What—is—my—name?" I growled through clenched teeth, with hands on my hips.

He glanced around us to ensure our privacy before he spoke.

"I don't know," he admitted quietly.

Interesting, since I am currently inhabiting his own younger sister.

"Who are you?" I asked, tapping an index figure squarely in the center of his chest, lest he have any uncertainty as to who I was referring to.

"Wyatt?" he responded, framed more as a question than an answer.

_Oh shit!_ , I thought. _I was right. This guy has absolutely no clue about what's going on_.

"Not who you _think_ you should say you are—but who are you _really_?" I clarified.

Completely without hesitation and obviously extremely happy to be able to, at long last, have a ready answer, he blurted strongly, "My name is Dave Cameron."

At first I simply goggled at him, blinking idiotically in absolute bewilderment, before taking a deep breath, readying myself for a horror movie worthy scream but instead tamped down _that_ reaction and the next moment, I thought that _I_ might just vomit, which seemed like it would be less than helpful in this present situation. Finally, shaking my head to clear it and probably looking to anyone watching me as if I were a horse shaking off a swarm of pesky flies, I sputtered hoarsely, _"What the hell?"_

## Chapter 26

Sitting cross-legged, with my elbows braced upon my knees and hunched over Dave's supine body as I was; I imagine that I likely resembled a medieval gargoyle perched precariously upon the ledge of some Gothic building. I closely observed his face and marveled at that eerily blank and yet oddly tranquil repose that I'd glimpsed upon my own countenance when I'd recently videotaped _my_ _own_ time travel experience. It was entirely different though, seeing it manifest itself upon someone else's face.

I've been back for nearly an hour now and using the time to note the other physical effects of time travel upon the human body, namely Dave's body, as he has continued to remain unresponsive. Such as the change in his skin temperature, going from heated with a sheen of sweat beading upon his forehead, to a coolness that was a little creepy and corpselike. Both of these were somewhat indicative of him going through non-REM and REM sleep cycles except that there was no movement behind his gently closed eyelids, hinting at any dreaming, even though he definitely appeared to be in a deep enough sleep that he _should_ be dreaming. Also, in spite of his wildly fluctuating skin temperature, his breathing and heartrate continues to remain slow and regular. Even his usual nocturnal tumescence, referred to by Dave as his, _ahem_ — _morning glory_ had yet to _arise_ this day _, if_ you get my meaning and no I hadn't molested the man in his sleep, I'd just _looked_ and with a purely scientific interest.

I was continuing my intense observation of his face when, all at once, Dave's eyes suddenly popped open, causing me to jump and nearly bite my tongue in half with my trying to stifle an impulse to screech like a banshee. I glanced at the clock to see that it was 9:55 and mentally noted the time when he'd _finally_ awoke from his first night sleeping over at my house after our long drive back to Fremont from the book signing in Chicago. It appeared to have happened to him exactly as I'd always experienced upon my return, one second dead to the world and then _boom_ —awake.

"Hey, babe," he said groggily, blinking up at me blurry-eyed, but his perusal sharpened as he focused in on my startled expression.

"What's up?" he asked, reaching up, cupping the back of my head in his hand and bringing my face down while lifting his head off of the pillow to meet my lips for a gentle kiss.

"Dave," I began as casually as I could manage when he released his hold on me. "Do you remember anything from last night? Did you have any weird dreams?"

He yawned widely, stretching his muscular body languidly before moving to join me in a sitting position, scrubbing his hands over his face and scratching the beard stubble that was shadowing his jaw.

"Oh, gotta whiz!" he realized suddenly. "Hold that thought."

With an unexpected flurry of motion, he kicked off the covers and rolled his naked self out of my bed and out the bedroom door leaving _me_ sitting in consternation.

***

"You know, I did," he continued, not missing a beat as he reentered the bedroom and crawled back under the covers. He pulled me down beside him wrapping me up in a full body hug as he gave me a perfect kiss, having obviously found my mouthwash.

"What did you dream?" I prodded, watching his face intently.

"Well, it was..." he paused. "There was—hmmm," he tried again, a frown of concentration furrowing his brow as he attempted to pull his scattered thoughts together. He released me from his embrace, turning to his back at my side and looked up at the ceiling, mentally absorbed as he raked a hand through his hair while trying to remember.

"What?" I asked impatiently, sitting up again beside him and resuming the gargoyle pose. I wanted desperately to hear him confirm what I already knew to be true and had to bite my lower lip to keep from saying anything as I waited for him to say something coherent. I was determined to allow him to tell me and not, in any way, lead him or give him any ideas that might not be his own, until I was absolutely certain.

"It was such a weird dream, Torie, just really odd," he finally began. "I was in Fremont, I think and I remember that there was a band playing some music and a really cool old gazebo and I think that it was ' _the gazebo'_ , you know, the one that I told you about that used to be on the old town square?"

He paused again, looking up at me for confirmation and I nodded that I recalled, then his eyes lingered on me thoughtfully and he lifted a hand, pointing an index finger at me.

"You were there I think..." he said trailing off again with a frowning, faraway perplexed look on his face, before his stare settled back on me again and he had the most helpless confusion shining from those beautiful blue eyes of his. "No, that's not right, Torie, because it wasn't you but it was this little girl, or I guess she would've been a teenager, with long medium-brown hair and dark green eyes."

_Damn it, this could take all day_ , I thought in frustration but out loud I said. "Wait just a minute. I'll be right back."

I clambered over his body eliciting an _'oof'_ sound from him as, unfortunately; my knee had caught him squarely in the gut.

"Sorry," I apologized as I exited the bedroom, racing downstairs to the kitchen and returning shortly with my laptop and climbing back into bed.

Sitting cross-legged, I laid my laptop on the bed before me, keeping my back toward Dave because I didn't want him to see what I was doing until we were a good deal further into this discussion. I opened my computer and began logging on to my family tree program.

"Go on, what else do you remember about the dream?" I said over my shoulder as he continued to lie on his back beside me and I waited for my family tree to load.

"Why is it so important? It was just a stupid dream," he said, sitting up and kissing my bare shoulder while slipping a hand under the bottom hem of my tank top as his fingers slowly came around my waist, reaching upward in search of my breasts. I hugged his hand to my stomach with both of my arms, squeezing hard and effectively halting his advance.

"Just humor me, Dave, would you please?" I asked gruffly, turning and giving him my ' _I-mean-business'_ look.

"Okay, okay," he relented with a heavy sigh and dropped back onto his pillow, stacking his hands behind his head and looking, once more, up at ceiling as he began.

"I remember that there was a large crowd of people and I was with a small group of kids, I guess you could say—younger people. There was a blonde named Jennie and..."

I turned from my computer to look back at him. "How do you know her name?" I interrupted anxiously.

"Do you want to hear this or not?" he asked, crooking an eyebrow at me.

"Sorry," I said. "Go on."

"As for how I know, I know several of their names because people with me were using them. Anyway the blonde named Jennie asked me to help her spread out a blanket and I didn't understand what the hell was going on and was so _confused_ by everything going on around me that I just stood there like an idiot wondering why she kept calling me Wyatt. Then I remember sitting down facing this little kid, a girl with blonde pigtails named Katie who kept making faces at me and then the green-eyed girl, the one that I told you about—well her and I went off together and this kid stopped me and asked me about a cow or something and then I was walking with the girl and she took me around the side of this building into an alley..." he paused and slowly I turned to look over my shoulder at him again.

"This is going to sound crazy, Torie, but she told me that I needed to trust what she was going to say and to act accordingly."

I had goose flesh shivering over every inch of my skin as he described to me exactly what I'd done and said after we'd left Arlan on the sidewalk and started off again toward the drugstore.

"She told me," he continued. "That I needed to pretend that I was Wyatt and that the girl Jennie, who we'd left on the blanket, that she was my girlfriend, and she told me that she was my little sister Molly and that she didn't have time to explain anything else."

"Was this her?" I interrupted him excitedly and crawled on my knees over to sit beside him. He took his hands from behind his head and sat up with interest, taking the laptop from my hands and placing it upon his lap.

He looked at the old tintype of Molly Mills for only a moment before he nodded, his face going totally blank.

"Yes, that's her," he said in amazement.

"And then after she told you that she didn't have time to explain anything else, she told you that she was Torie."

"Yes and she told me that I was caught inside her time warp. How could you possibly know?" he asked me, with such a look of incomprehension that I nearly laughed but I didn't.

"Dave, it _was_ me. I had the exact same dream but it wasn't a dream, it's something about this house," I said flapping a hand and gesturing, taking in the expanse of my bedroom around us. "Or it might be something about Fremont or maybe, now that you've experienced it also, maybe it's something about our genetics, too. I haven't been able to figure it out."

"What the hell are you saying? Are you telling me that this has happened to you before?"

"Every night that I'm in this house it happens. It's always different dreams but always traveling back in time. The oldest time that I've visited was 1872 as a five-year-old girl shortly after my great-grandparents had built their first log cabin just down the road from here and the most recent time has been the year 1928."

I took my laptop off of him, setting it down on the floor, and then crawled back into bed as the tears began to well up and overflow.

"Ah, Torie baby, don't cry." Dave said in sympathy, lying down as I draped myself across his broad chest while his arms enveloped me.

"I'm sorry, I can't help it," I blubbered as I kissed his neck and wrapped my arms around him, holding him tight with my hiccupping little sobs shaking both of our bodies.

"I'm just so happy to know that it isn't only me because I've been thinking for months now that I am going insane." My tears were mostly happiness and relief; happiness that Dave now knew and relief at not being alone with this huge secret anymore.

"Torie, sweetheart," he crooned while rubbing my back gently as if settling a skittish animal. "It's all right—it'll be all right."

I lifted my head and Dave crooked his neck and frowned down at me sympathetically as he wiped my tears away with a corner of the bedsheet that was covering him and afterward he lifted his head from the pillow and kissed my cheek gently.

"I love you so much, Dave Cameron," I whispered with a sigh, my tears now completely spent.

Dave smiled at me and then in one fluid motion he rolled me off of his chest, tossed the sheet off of himself and rolled further until I was beneath his naked body.

"I'll never get tired of hearing those words from your lips, Torie Mills. I love you, too," he declared as his lips lowered to mine.

"Time travel, huh?" he questioned with a smoldering soft smile. "We've got a lot to talk about, lady—but later."

***

The steaming water cascaded over Dave's shoulders as he blocked the spray, bending to kiss my lips lightly. He lifted my clean hair and smoothed it down my back, so that it wouldn't hamper him as he squirted a handful of body wash into his palm and began washing me, his hands moving slowly down to my stomach and lower. He was a good boy, though; he didn't prolong it longer than was necessary to do a thorough job.

"So how do I get back to the square and get a better look at that gazebo?" he asked while he turned me around to give my backside a good washing.

"It doesn't work that way, Dave," I explained for the third time and I had to laugh at him because he was totally obsessed with getting back to have a closer look at the construction of the buildings and especially the gazebo on the old town square.

"Cameron!" I scolded him, when his hands had started doing some rather questionable maneuvers that had more to do with seducing than basic hygiene.

"Sorry," he apologized rather insincerely as I grabbed up a loofah and handed it to him over my shoulder, deciding that it would be much less stimulating than those expert hands of his.

"I think that you've done a good enough job down there. Wash my back please," I said, moving my hair over my shoulder and out of his way as he grumbled something unhappily under his breath about me not being any fun and it made me smile.

"Anyway," I continued. "You aren't in power when you're in there or out there, wherever ' _there'_ is," I shrugged helplessly. "It's like you're an actor and playing a part."

I took the loofah from his hand as I traded places with him so that I could rinse, and then I used a generous squirt of shower wash and gave his back and perfect rear a good washing to his obvious pleasure, I decided because of the rumbling growl he emitted as he turned around, taking me into his arms again. I accepted his slow deep kiss before I discarded the loofah on a handy holder and then ran my hands all over him.

"No fair," he moaned with a chuckle.

I kissed his parted lips once more conciliatorily before I released him, trading places with him and turning him so that he was under the spray and then I lathered his hair with shampoo and rinsed it for him.

"So about the gazebo," I said as he turned around to face me and I smoothed his clean hair off of his forehead. He pulled me forward into his arms and I tried once more to divert him from his more than obvious desires. "You may never see that place or time again. It was probably a one-time occurrence."

"But it was there for decades," he argued. "If I got back to old Fremont, I'm sure that I could find my way to it."

I wriggled past him so that I could turn off the water and opened the shower door, reaching out; I grabbed up a couple of towels off of a shelf just outside and handed one to him.

"Let's get dressed and you can run over to Jeff's house and pick up Shadow and I'll start us some breakfast while you're gone and then we can get into a deep discussion about it if you want or..."

"Yes?" he interrupted with interest, the slow smile telling me where his thoughts had _again_ strayed.

" _Christ—_ you're a sex fiend, you're insatiable," I observed. " _Or_ —we can wash laundry and go into Oskaloosa and do some grocery shopping."

He grinned at me as he buffed the moisture from his hair and blotted the water from his face.

"We'll just see about that," he said dropping a smacking kiss upon my smiling lips.

***

I heard the front door open and close soundly as Dave called out.

"Torie?"

"Kitchen," I directed him and a moment later he pushed through the swinging door from the dining room and paused to prop the door open with the door stop and I then saw that Shadow was close on his heels.

"Hey, Shadow. How are you doin', boy?"

Shadow stood quietly at Dave's side and wagged his tail languidly, while his nose tested the air, seeking out the source of the food smells. I returned my attention to the stove and finished adjusting the sausage so that it would brown evenly and replaced the splatter screen.

"Coffee," I asked, as Dave came up behind me and kissed my cheek over my shoulder, while I stirred the pan of scrambled eggs.

I pointed with my chin to the cupboard just above the coffee pot and Dave reached for one of my recent acquisitions; coffee cups and a perfect reproduction of the antique china pattern called Royal Crown Derby. They were beautifully patterned with orange and navy-blue flowers on a bed of beige with gold details. He removed a cup for me, as well, and proceeded to pour each of us a serving of the steaming brew.

Grandma Rose had possessed only one lonely tea cup in this pattern that she had inherited when her mother Jane, who had lived in Ohio, had passed away. She had told me about how it had arrived together with several other items and packed in excelsior to protect it. She had treasured the cup very much and had kept it inside a china cabinet in the dining room behind a paned-glass door. I had scoured the Internet until I had found a close resemblance to the pattern and had bought a sixty-piece service for eight including plates, cups, platters, a gravy boat. Most of the set, except for a few pieces for my daily use, are still boxed up because I am _still_ looking for an antique dining room hutch like Grandma Rose had owned. I haven't found one yet but I feel that it is only a matter of time.

I gave Dave a kiss on the lips as he took his cup of black coffee and went to have a chair at the kitchen table, looking out into the backyard.

"So about the warps," he said turning back to look across the room at me as I added cream and sugar to my coffee. "And my getting back to the old town square."

I took two plates from the cupboard and started filling them with scrambled eggs and sausage and then popped some bread into the toaster oven.

"Okay," I began, joining him at the table and sitting across from him with my cup of coffee in hand. "What I've found out up until now—and please keep in mind that I've been totally winging it and I have no idea what this is all about but what I _do_ know is that you don't have any control and you can't just pick and choose where you go or what you do and I know that you can't significantly alter the experience that you're in."

"But I felt as if I would've been free to do whatever I would have wanted to do," Dave said.

"Except that you didn't, do that, did you?" I reminded him. "If you'd had free will to change the experience, I think that you would have been heading for the next county. You were _so_ totally freaking out."

I laughed and Dave chuckled along with me.

"I _was_ freaking out," he agreed.

"See? So, no, you can't change the course of the experience. I've been able to make small insignificant manipulations, but the overall experience ends with its historical conclusion."

"But what about when we went to get the fountain drink? Couldn't we have just kept on going?"

"No," I shook my head decidedly. "We wouldn't have been able to leave the area."

He frowned, readying to argue the point further but the toaster dinged just then and I went to butter and jelly a slice of toast for each of us and brought Dave his breakfast, setting it before him along with silverware and a paper towel to use as a napkin before bringing my own breakfast to the table and taking my seat across from him again.

"Since you know now, I'll tell you about that closet that you added to my bedroom."

He looked up from his plate with interest. "What about it?"

I had such a mixture of relief and trepidation about revealing all of my secrets to him but relief was uppermost and I continued with a smile.

"You'll think that I'm crazy but I've actually been able to use that closet to bring small items back and forth—nothing major, just a few photos and small odds and ends."

"That's what you had me make that for?" he chuckled with a shake of his head. "A wall safe—I knew that was a load of crap—but what do you mean, back and forth? Are you saying that the closet appeared in the past in the same room?"

"Yes and don't ask," I said quickly, forestalling his next question. "I have no idea why it works—it just does. So," I said going back to our previous subject as he glowered at me good-naturedly. "Regarding the warps, I was hoping that having you stay overnight here might be a way to keep the travels from happening because when my friend Mindy stayed overnight, I didn't warp—but apparently _you_ are being invited in."

I wiggled all ten of my fingers in the air toward him spookily and added a mysteriously ghostly, " _Boooo!_ "

"Well, I'm stoked about it," he assured me as he took a bite of sausage and gave me a closed-mouth smile while he chewed his food.

"So, as for getting to someplace where you want to go—like the gazebo and even though it was around for decades, you might never visit that place or time ever again. Next time, you might be at a dinner table with your great-great-grandfather and be a ten-year-old boy, or possibly you will be your great-great-grandfather himself and you won't be able to just get up from the table and leave, not only because as you get better at the travels you automatically try to fit in but also because if you did try to walk out of the room, the others at the table would question you and besides, even if you made it out of the room and the house—sometimes you can't even recognize anything to tell you where you are—you aren't even sure of which direction is north. The craziest thing though, is that you have all of your own faculties and you still know everything about your own real life and times but you also know that your life is far away and unattainable—somehow you just instinctively know."

"But if I was in my own house or this house since I know it so well, I could easily find my way to town."

"Dave, I've tried," I tilted my head, indicating the house around us as I sipped at my coffee. "I've spent entire _days_ in this house in the past, and I've walk all of the rooms and I've gone out into the yard but it's always within the constraints of the experience—I can never just walk off. I think that you'll just need to experience it for yourself, that is, if the travels happen to you again."

"I wonder if we will be in the same experience together every time?" he asked.

"I guess that if you want to, we could stay here again tonight and we just might find out."

"Oh yeah, I'll be here," Dave assured me without a smidge of doubt.

I grinned across at him in sheer amazement. I can't believe how _into_ this he is and even _more_ surprising, how completely accepting of all of this news he has been. While I've spent _months_ fearing that I was losing my mind, his attitude is just like 'o _kay, time warps, sure, no problem'._

***

That very night we began a mutual journey to our own private discoveries as we went on separate time travels. I was Grandaunt Lucy and I was with my Mills family as we attended a Sunday church service and then I came home to do some baking on a cool spring day with (Lucy's mother), Great-Grandma Alice at she and Henry's newly constructed and commodious two story farmhouse, at their farm which, by the way, is no longer owned by family members but is still in good shape in the real world and is about a mile from Grandma Rose's house.

It was uneventful, as far as time warps go, but those are the kind that I cherish the most—it was absolutely wonderful and I drank in every moment. I always—a _lways_ enjoy spending as much time with Great-Grandma Alice as I possibly can. She is or I guess I should probably say that she _was_ , able to bake the most delicious homemade bread in her turn-of-the-century cook stove and how she managed to do it without burning or at least scorching it is beyond me, but she had it down to a science. We baked bread together and then enjoyed some of it with fresh churned butter and lemonade as we sat out back in lawn chairs underneath a shady oak tree; whiling away the time, as we allowed the kitchen to cool down, before going back in to clean up and wash dishes. There was a light breeze that felt heavenly upon my skin which was damp with perspiration from our baking exertions and the sweet smell of flowering plants and tree blossoms wafted through the air.

I decided to use the opportunity of this alone time with Alice to ask her questions about her childhood growing up in Ohio where she had lived until she was eighteen when Judson and Rose had brought the entire family out to Iowa, in 1868. Then after that, Great-Grandma Alice described to me when and where she had met Great-Grandpa Henry and she shared all of the little details about their wedding day back in 1872. While she spoke, her eyes sparkled with a light that couldn't have been attributed solely to the sunshiny day that we were enjoying together.

I couldn't help but reflect, as I listened to her speak, on the fact that before my time travels had begun; I'd known the basic details of Alice's existence. I had known when she had been born and when she had died, I'd known how many siblings and children she'd had, but I had known nothing about the more important details that make Alice so very special.

I have learned, as my times with her have unfolded, that she was much more than merely the dry, shapeless details from my genealogy charts. I know about the kind of woman that she is, _or was,_ a warm and loving wife, a good and charitable Christian who helped others whenever possible, a good sister, a wonderful daughter to Rose and a nurturing mother to my grandpa Arlan and his siblings. After weeks of avoiding my house and now coming back and reclaiming my secret, with Dave at my side, I feel that these travels might just be a blessing and a gift, especially days like this one, when I learned a little more about all of the varying facets that make up Great-Grandma Alice.

***

Dave's time warp had involved his great-great-great-grandfather Samuel McFall. Dave had been a boy of about seventeen he'd guessed but he'd had no way of knowing exactly who he was, only that he'd been one of Samuel's sons. He, along with Samuel and several other young men had been in a farmyard, during his warp, working at trimming the hooves of a team of four draft horses. Dave himself had been raised around saddle horses most of his life but he said that he'd had no clue about the draft horses or trimming hooves because he has always just hired a ferrier for such things.

After Dave had gotten underfoot a couple of times, several of the men had sent him up into the loft of the barn and put him to work at pitching hay. Later he'd been ordered to clean and fill the horse's water buckets and fill their feed bins with hay and a scoop of oats for each one. He had also been given the responsibility of walking each of the horses back to their stalls when they were ready, but he'd gotten two of the four mixed up and placed in the wrong stalls. He'd received a stern talking to from an older sibling; (his best guess of their familial relationship) for "Not having my head on straight," he had told me, mimicking the sibling's twangy country speech and Dave's rendition of it had been hilarious. Dave had been euphoric all the next day as he kept remembering and going over every detail that he could recall, time and again.

## Chapter 27

I stretched, arching my back languidly and turned onto my side, looking at the clock on my nightstand and saw that is was 7:30. Not bad, I decided, as far as return times go. I turned to my back again and reached out to run my hand over Dave's side of the bed but the sheets were cool, no longer holding any of the heat from his body although the scent of him, clean and masculine lingered. I moved over to lay face down on his empty pillow inhaling deeply, enjoying the fragrance of him as I hugged it as if holding him in my arms. Then I heard the front door close softly, followed by the creaking of the screen door as it was carefully latched and I jumped out of bed, as though I had been shot out of a cannon. I stepped into my slippers, threw my robe on over my pajamas, barreled down the stairs, burst out of the front door and off of the porch.

"Hey, Cameron," I called.

Dave turned from just placing his tool belt into the bed of his truck, obviously surprised by my sudden rise from the dead, and he smiled at me with surpassing sweetness.

"Did I forget something?" he asked.

"Just this," I said standing up on the tiptoes of my fluffy slippers and slipping my arms around his neck to give him a big bear hug. He lifted me completely off of the ground and turned me so that I was standing up against the side of his truck while he braced his hands on the top of the cab and bent to kiss me, but I deflected his kiss and gave him only a slight peck.

"I didn't think this through," I said with embarrassment. "I'm sure that my breath is atrocious."

"I don't care one bit," he said leaning down until looking me directly in the eyes. "Give me a kiss—now!"

I bowed to his demand and he truly didn't seem to have a problem with my breath after all.

"I want you to know that I did give you a kiss on the forehead before I left the house," he assured me. "But you were elsewhere. Were you doing anything noteworthy?"

"Oh it was just a tea with the Cedar Township Women's Auxiliary at Mrs. Quarton's house. They were discussing the upcoming observance of the 1896 Flag Day at the cemetery. Pretty dry stuff but Grandma Rose and Grandma Alice seemed to enjoy themselves. What about you?" I asked.

"Let's just say that I've learned more than I ever wanted to know about the digging— _by hand mind you_ , of a new outhouse pit," he said with a laugh.

"I'll need to hear all about it later," I said, smiling up into his eyes and feeling a little reluctant to let him go. Even though he was just leaving to go to work for the day, he would be meeting with a prospective client for dinner tonight and he wouldn't be home until almost 9:00 p.m.

"I hope that you have a good day. I'll be missing you. Get home as soon as you can."

"You too and of course I will," he assured me, gazing down into my upturned face. "I still can't get used to the idea that I have someone waiting for me to come home to them. It feels amazing to belong to someone, Torie."

"Me, too, I'm loving it," I confessed.

"We'll be starting our second month together soon, you know. Maybe we should plan a night out in Des Moines to celebrate. How about someplace fancy so that you can dress up and wear some sexy high heels?"

"Okay, I'll think about that. Date night, huh?" I said with a laugh.

"Definitely," he agreed and kissed me again.

"Well I'd better let you get going," I decided with a heavy sigh.

"I suppose so," he agreed, and released me from where he'd been keeping me trapped up against his truck and between his arms. I stepped back as he climbed in, waiting while he turned over his engine and then he lowered his window.

He reached out a hand to take hold of mine; drawing me toward him again and we shared one last brief kiss before I stood back, each of us wearing matching goofy lovesick grins, as we gazed at each other while he backed out.

***

When Dave started down the road, we exchanged one last wave before his truck was swallowed up by a cloud of gravel dust and I turned for the house, thinking as I did so, about my long day and evening stretching out before me like an endless wasteland. I decided, right then, that I'd get cleaned up and head into Des Moines.

I called ahead to the spa and made an appointment for my usual and after I'd arranged that, the thought occurred to me that after my appointment I could possibly do some browsing at the shops of Jordan Creek Town Center to pass some time. That thought, as thoughts often do, led to another, which was that maybe (that is _if_ I can actually pull it off) I could arrange to have a romantic surprise waiting for Dave when he arrives home tonight. And it was while pondering what that might possibly be, that I had a sudden stroke of genius, _What about a sexy historical romance theme_ , _à la_ _Passion's Fury,_ — _Hmmm_.

***

After I'd showered and dressed for the day, I sat down at my computer to work on my newly mandated, three pages a day of my Civil War romance novel still in progress. I'd received another sternly worded email from my agent Tom Rhoads just last night regarding my failure to give my editor the six chapters that I'd promised her by the end of the month. I was close to finishing but it had been a struggle because I just wasn't inspired—period. I have had more important things on my mind recently, namely Dave Cameron and time travel.

In spite of my lack of inspiration I was making some progress by just getting _something_ down in the general direction that I was headed which was helping me to push a little further when I came back to it again each successive day. I still have a long way to go in the overall story itself, but I did manage to punch out my three pages within a few minutes and slacker that I am, called it a day.

I let Shadow outside for a quick turn about the yard and waited on the porch for him to do his business. He is such a smart and perfectly trained dog that the slightest order and he immediately responds; he will even _pee_ on command. After I brought him back inside, I filled a water bowl for him, and then locked up the house before heading out of town.

***

As I drove the sixty miles to Des Moines solidifying my plans for some sexy surprise for Dave, I got to thinking about what Dave had said about us starting our second month. It was true, and if I were to follow my normal pattern, there could be trouble brewing in our relationship before long.

I couldn't help but think of Rick Larson; a great guy that I'd dated about six or seven years ago. Rick had been my last serious boyfriend before Derek and he had been in love with me, which had been his only crime. We had known each other through work for a couple of years before we had started dating casually and not long after that, we had become an item. It had only taken six weeks before he and I had been cohabitating semi-regularly and shortly thereafter he had wanted me to move in with him and share his life with him and work in the direction of permanence, and marriage, and children!

I really had been in love with him and at twenty-eight I should have wanted all of those things that he had wanted to share with me and I _had_ wanted them but when he had pressed it—instead of a happily ever after, I broke up with him and pretty spectacularly, right before Christmas. It was because I had been afraid that an engagement ring might have been in the offing and I wasn't about to wait for him to slip that symbolic noose around my neck. I had bolted, never speaking with him again, which had been more than a little awkward and uncomfortable, to put it mildly, since we had worked in the same building together every day. What's that saying about 'don't dip your pen in company ink?' Anyway, thankfully I got a new job and left the company about two months later and I had never looked back.

I hate to make comparisons but in many ways Dave _is_ Rick, all over again. Regarding Dave though, I am not feeling any of that pressure or the fear of what might be coming next. I am feeling like we are at a healthy place in our relationship and getting closer every day. Historically though, I know that everything always _seems_ fine until suddenly it _isn't_ anymore. I am just hoping and praying that I can break the pattern this time and continue this amazing journey with _this_ man.

***

After my appointment at the spa, I strolled along the shops at the mall looking for some kind of inspiration in my quest for a romantic seduction. I stopped into Soma and was browsing through racks of seductive apparel when a small rack of soft-white gauzy baby-doll gowns with wide, low-slung necklines and gathered sleeves, caught my eye. The gown was sexy but almost had a flavor of olden or medieval times about it. It was something that I could totally see my protagonist Melody Turner wearing as she teased and tormented her new husband Beau Gardner. The gown also came with a pair of sexy V-string panties of the same see-through gauzy material and I decided, without doubt, that this was going to be just perfect, so I grabbed up my size and headed for the checkout counter.

When I accepted my credit card back from the salesclerk, I took up my inspiration which had been wrapped carefully in tissue paper and tucked inside a stylish Soma bag and set out next in search of some romantic scented candles and perhaps some mood music to finish out my carefully orchestrated seduction.

***

When I heard the door of Dave's truck close at 9:00 p.m., I turned off the television and was at the door ready to welcome him home.

He smiled warmly at me as he pulled the screen door open.

"Uh oh, what'd I do?" he asked, not sounding truly concerned.

"Not a thing. Just happy to see you," I assured him.

He pulled me into a hug with one arm as he set his worn tool belt just inside and once free of the thing, enveloped me in a fierce two armed embrace. He sighed in contentment, as I ran my hands over his back, massaging lightly.

"How was dinner? Get the job?" I asked smiling up at him as our hug loosened but we continued to stand in the foyer, holding each other as we talked, swaying gently together, almost like a slow dance.

"Yeah and it's gonna be really nice. A total renovation of three thousand square feet and the guy wants to go for every detail to be exact. His enthusiasm kinda reminded me of a certain driven, sexy woman I worked for recently," he said as he lowered his hands to squeeze my butt cheeks playfully.

"Hmmm," I said as he wrapped his arms more securely around my waist. "Well, I think that I like the more recent work that you've been doing for her, some of your best, I think."

"Wait for me to grab a quick shower and I'll show you some more of my skills," he promised as he dipped me suddenly causing me to call out with a little ' _whoop_ ' and a burst of surprised laughter before he planted a deep kiss on my mouth.

***

As Dave headed upstairs to take a shower, I turned off all of the downstairs lights and hurried up to prepare for my performance. I drew the shades in our bedroom so that the light of the moon or any passing vehicle headlights wouldn't be warring with the cozy flicker of the lavender and linen scented candles that I'd lit and had placed strategically on my dresser and the nightstands. I feel that the gentle, soft illumination of candlelight always does wonderful, magical things to bare skin in the act of lovemaking. Next I pulled the covers back invitingly and finally I turned on the sound system which I'd linked up with my iPod, selecting the play list that I'd compiled with some of my favorite romantic love songs.

I had already showered earlier in the evening in preparation, so I now quickly undressed and slipped into my new gown and panty set and spritzed my perfume into the air, walking through the mist and then waving my hands wildly to dissipate the hanging cloud. I bent over, flipping my freshly cut and washed hair to hang down, and ruffled my fingers through it so that when I popped back upright and checked my appearance in the mirror, my mane was fanning in cascading layers around my face and down my back. Lastly I took up a small jar from my vanity and dabbed some gloss onto my lips before climbing onto the bed and posing myself carefully.

Regarding the posing; I had made the mistake of calling Mindy in the afternoon and telling her about my plans and amongst the _many_ sexy time ideas that she had reveled in describing to me and which I had shot down, one by one, there _had_ come one bit of input which I had decided to put to use. We had gone online and on Pinterest we had found dozens and dozens of boards and pins with the subject of sexy poses to make an impression on your man (I know, I know, both childish and ridiculous) but the one that Mindy had decided on for me, unilaterally, was of a woman sitting up on the bed with her back arched up straight in perfect posture which I now mimicked and _did find_ had the effect of thrusting my lightly veiled breasts out front and center. My legs I arranged so that my right leg was tucked up with the heel of my right foot close to my crotch and the knee of my left leg bent with my left heel close to my butt.

"Kind of like a sexy reindeer leap," Mindy had said regarding the pose demonstrated in the Pinterest board named '41 sexy ways to sit on a bed.' "Trust me," she had said. "That'll be hot."

***

When Dave came to the bedroom door a few minutes later what met his eyes was me, reindeer leap and all, sitting in the midst of our bed in the soft glow of perfumed candlelight, with the romantic strains of John Waite singing "Missing You" playing on the stereo system. I'd hoped to create sexy and if the look on Dave's face was any indicator, I'd succeeded and then some.

"You look beautiful, Torie," he croaked and I could see his Adam's apple bob as he swallowed hard.

"Thank you," I purred, smoothing my hand over his side of the bed invitingly. "Come to bed."

As he joined me, I pressed him back upon a heap of bed pillows and fluffed them for him, seeing to his comfort, as he reclined. I crawled up beside him, sitting on my heels facing him and gave him my most passionate kiss; first running my tongue gently between his slightly parted lips and into his mouth as it opened to me; his tongue eagerly meeting mine before I fastened my mouth over his.

He quickly took control of the proceedings while still kissing me, taking me by the waist and moving me over onto his lap. His eyes and his hands moved to my new low slung gown and with the slightest touch of his fingertips, the shoulder of the gown slipped off and down and he kissed my collar bone and the exposed round of my shoulder. His fingertips grazed lightly over the skin at my décolletage and then began to slowly pull at the tail of the bow of white satin ribbon nestled at the center of my deep cleavage and the gown loosened and slipped lower, exposing the upper curves of my breasts.

I enjoyed watching him as his eyes roamed lower and his arms enveloped me, supporting me as he leaned me back so that he could kiss my nearly exposed breasts. He inhaled deeply of my perfume, before tilting me back up straight. His hands worked the gown downward and I slipped my arms out of the sleeves with his assistance, letting the fabric puddle around my waist.

"Dave?" I said tentatively, smoothing my hands lightly over his ribs in a caress. I had no intention of bringing it up but all at once I had a strong desire to tell him of the fears I'd been pondering since earlier today, maybe to warn him now because he deserves at least that much.

"Yes, honey," he whispered, his eyes lifting reluctantly from my breasts.

"What you said today about two months?"

"What about it?" he questioned distractedly, reaching out with one hand to touch my hair; lifting a strand of it to his nose in order to inhale the fragrance.

"I'm infamous for bailing on relationships at two months, Dave."

His attention sharpened at once. "What are you saying? Are you considering ending this with me?" He dropped my hair and reached out to stroke my bare shoulders, with a clearly startled and concerned expression clouding his features.

"No, I'm not, but I've never gotten past that barrier with a real, day-to-day, relationship and I feel like we are heading in that direction quickly and I just don't know how I'm supposed to do this," I said indicating with a waving hand between our two chests at what seemed like a deep gulf of space between he and I. "I think the problem is that I never saw an example of a successful relationship in all of my growing-up years and although I'm beginning to learn about how it's done by observing my ancestors, it just isn't happening _fast_ enough and you and I are already deep into this, at least I am and..."

"Stop," Dave interrupted quietly, placing his fingers lightly over my lips to halt the flow of crazed insecurities that were spilling out of me. "Tell me what's scaring you."

I took a cleansing breath as he removed his fingers from my mouth and he smiled at me sweetly, waiting.

"It all scares me; everything about how perfectly this is going, scares me. I guess what I'm trying to say is this," I said and tried to be as succinct as possible. "If I start to pull back from you, will you try to stick with me and see me through it? _Please_ don't let me ruin what we have between us, okay?"

I wasn't expecting it, but I felt the sting of tears come to my eyes and I thought angrily that this evening was quickly deteriorating into a melodrama, thanks to me, as now my tears were welling up, ready to spill over and they were definitely _not_ part of the sexy vibe that I'd spent the entire day trying to create. I blinked, trying to stem the flow as I waited for Dave's reaction to my revelations of the last sixty seconds.

"Hey, I'm not going anywhere, Torie. I won't let you push me away that easily. I'm in love with you, you know? Two-month barrier be damned," he said and smoothed his hands over my bare shoulders tenderly. "And," he continued confidently. "I've seen a lot about how to do it right, Torie. My grandpa Joe and my grandma Mary were married for fifty-seven years and my parents, were and _are_ always loving and respectful of each other. If you just let me, I'll show you."

He used his fingertips to wipe away a tear that had fallen from my eye and kissed my cheek gently.

I kissed his cheek in return and then flattened my breasts against his sturdy, strong chest as I hugged his neck tight. "Okay, I'm not going to worry about it. If I try to bail then..." I said and pulled back to look hopefully into his eyes.

"Then we'll work through it together," he finished for me softly and brought my left hand to his lips, placing a kiss into my palm.

He continued quietly then as he took that same hand of mine and placed it against his bare chest over his heart. "I only ask that you be careful, Torie, because I'm fragile too, you know? I'm past the point of return and from here on out you'll break my heart. You have the power to destroy me." He studied my face as he smoothed his hand over the back of mine where it still rested against his chest and I could feel the thump of his heart, steadily beating under my fingertips.

"Never," I promised, as I leaned forward and sealed it with a kiss.

## Chapter 28

Dave Cameron looked into the rearview mirror and raised his hand in apology to the driver directly behind him, as he punched the gas and pulled on through the intersection. He hadn't noticed that the light had turned green because he had been deep in thought. Lately he had been in a continuous cloud of muddle-headedness, because he had been staying with Torie every night at her house and the experiences that he had been _living_ every night were really messing with his head. He turned onto the highway now, heading toward Fremont and his thoughts, once more, went to the time warps as he drove.

Torie had been helping him as much as she could by using her family tree program and building his family tree, including some old photographs that she'd found from a variety of sources, including his own family photos, as she had helped him to figure out who was who of his McFall ancestors that he had been meeting and learning about during his time travels.

He had seen his third great-grandfather Samuel McFall again just the night before last, as well as _his_ son, his own great-great-grandfather William McFall. The experience had involved a group of McFall men and their close neighbors, clearing a field of stones, boulders, prairie grass and trees to make way for corn. Even with two four horse teams of draft horses and lots of old-fashioned hard work, they had cleared less than a half an acre of prairie grass and tree stumps by the end of a day's work.

It had been backbreaking labor and as a brother to his great-great-grandfather William McFall, he had put in his fair share as well. They hadn't headed home until near dark and then the horses had been cared for and bedded down for the night before any of the men had gone inside to have dinner or see about their own needs, which in his case had included seeing to the cleaning of several cuts that radiated out from a smashed tip of his left index finger, courtesy of a heavy boulder. His third great-grandmother Elizabeth Barbee McFall had cared for his injury and this had given him a clue as to the timeframe because Elizabeth had been fairly young in the warp and he knew that she had died in her seventies and in the year of 1878.

The farmhouse that they had gone into, had been the home of Samuel and Elizabeth, and had been a house that Dave had never seen before and that no longer exists in current Fremont. He hadn't even been able to tell exactly what part of the McFall lands it had been situated on because none of the landmarks had been familiar, but of course, it had been more than a hundred and fifty years in the past and the landscape of the area today, looks nothing like it had back then.

_Last night's warp_ had been a little trickier and it was causing some _minor_ friction between Torie and him today and some _major_ good-natured ribbing but he knew that it was his own damn fault—him and his big mouth.

The warp had been a barn-raising for one of the local war heroes of the Civil War, Octavius Waltman. He'd been one of Fremont's most legendary soldiers although he had fought with the Forty-Third Ohio infantry, which had been quite often the case, Torie had explained to him just today. Men typically would go back to what they considered their own _country_ to enlist, even though, in Octavius' case, he had lived in Iowa for years by the time that the war had broken out.

Torie possessed a huge amount of information regarding Octavius' outstanding service to the Union Army and had chronicled the dozens of battles that he had fought in, during his several enlistments and reenlistments that combined, had spanned nearly three years of the war. Coincidentally, she had been using some of his information for the fictional Civil War romance novel that she had been working on ever since Dave had known her. She had also informed him that Octavius and he were related by marriage because Octavius had married Susan McFall, a blood relative of Dave's and so their children and grandchildren on down through the generations were all his distant cousins.

Octavius Waltman had lost a barn during a bad storm and the community, as was usual in small towns, had come together to rebuild it. Dave had totally enjoyed helping out with that and simply watching all of the practices used for constructing and raising the barn, while also getting to see many old tools and how they were used. It had been a great learning experience. None of which was what was causing the problems between Torie and him today.

The Fremont women had provided an amazing spread of food for the workers, and at the end of the day of work, an impromptu dinner and dance had been held inside the finished structure. Octavius and several other men had provided the music with fiddles, spoons, and washboards, just like in an old hillbilly movie.

Torie had been there and she'd been a heavyset middle-aged Wyman woman. Dave had found out later that she had been one of Torie's great-grandaunts, Emily Wyman who'd recently returned to Iowa for an extended visit from Washington State; while _Dave_ had been one of his own distant McFall cousins, and _as_ Andrew McFall; he'd been married to Amelia McFall and _SHE_ was the problem between Torie and him today.

Amelia McFall had been breathtakingly beautiful and _young._ He had found out when he had gotten back that she had been just twenty-two-years-old at the time. She'd had long blonde hair, brilliant emerald-green eyes and he'd had to admit to himself that she had possessed a figure that would have caused a man to stop and take notice, whether it was 1908 or today.

Amelia and Andrew had been newly married, and she had been head over heels in love with her new husband. She had catered to Dave's every need during dinner and had wanted to dance every dance with him. It was during a break from the dancing, when he had found himself a bale of hay, in a secluded, shadowy part of the barn and had collapsed onto it, in complete exhaustion and while trying to catch his breath—that Amelia had quickly found him again. She had immediately taken up residence in his lap, planting some pretty passionate kisses on him and it had been at this most inopportune moment that Torie had walked by them and had absolutely _glowered_ at him. It had been so unlike Torie, because she had always been very good about staying in character, but _anyone_ catching the look on Emily Wyman's weather-beaten face with her furrowed brows and wrinkled thin lips, pinched tightly shut, would have been able to easily discern that she was a woman in the throes of a jealous rage. Amelia hadn't noticed though and had pulled Dave to his feet, pardoning herself as she had flitted past Torie's generously padded squat figure and Dave had nodded politely to her as he had narrowly avoided bumping up against her enormous heavy bosom as Amelia had yanked him along in her wake.

Things had only gotten worse when, at the end of the night, it had been time to leave. Torie had looked on, as Dave had been helplessly propelled toward the door of the barn readying to take his leave with his wife, and leaving Torie behind. He had only been able to spare a regretful glance in her direction as he had left with Amelia, and had discovered, gratefully, that they had come to the barn-raising with another young couple in _their_ carriage, which had been fortunate because he wouldn't have had any idea where to go otherwise. The two of them had been dropped off at their modest farmstead just before dark.

Amelia had been giddy from all of the dancing and activities, and he had soon found out that she was also _horny as hell_. She had nearly attacked him before they had even gotten inside the house, and he had tried to calm her advances and capture her groping hands without success until finally he had narrowly escaped, by insisting that he needed to go out and check on the livestock in the barn. He hadn't even known whether they'd _had_ any livestock in the barn!

He had messed around out there as long as possible; pacing back and forth across the dirt floor of the barn trying to think of what to do next; petting a lone cow that had been placidly drowsing and chewing its cud, but that didn't object when he had reached over the rails of its stall to scratch it behind the ears. Eventually though, he had resigned himself to the inevitable because he couldn't stay in the barn all night, as much as he would have liked to. There had really been only one thing that he could do and so he had trudged back across the farmyard.

He had entered the house to find that the front room was dark but he could see a light coming from what was obviously the back bedroom where Amelia had already retired for the night. He had entered the room to find her waiting in bed for him—stark naked! So he had quickly averted his eyes and had taken his time removing his suspenders, boots, pants and finally his shirt, leaving his drawers on as a feeble attempt at protecting his virtue. He had kept hoping and trying to mentally _will_ himself to wake up at home with Torie—but it obviously wasn't happening and so he had resigned himself to dealing with the situation as best that he could.

As he had busied himself pretending to look for something on the tall chest of drawers across the room, he had taken a look at himself in a small mirror atop the dresser and had seen that he had been young, probably about twenty-five or less, with a mustache and longer light-brown hair that had been in desperate need of a decent haircut, but he could pass for good-looking, he had decided.

Having exhausted every excuse to delay and actually pretty tired from all of the work on the barn and the dancing, he had come to bed, put out the lantern, and climbed in, turning on his side _away_ from Amelia, while bidding her a quiet but firm good night. As he had feared though, she wasn't about to let it go at that. She had been spooning up against him in no time and then she had begun kissing and lightly biting him at the curve of his neck and rubbing her breasts all up against his bare back.

"Andy, I want you so much," she had whispered in the dark.

"Amelia," he had huffed ragged and breathless from desire. "I'm—too—tired."

"I would say you aren't too tired," she had giggled, the truth becoming ridiculously obvious because of an all too eager and traitorous part of Andy's anatomy. Dave had the definite feeling that Andrew's desire for Amelia had been fueling his and he had been totally disgusted with himself and had felt as if he were betraying Torie but he couldn't deny the effect that the woman was having on him, or deny his animalistic desire to take her.

"Oh dear God, _pleeease_ Andy," Amelia had begged him, with such pitiable longing in her voice that Dave hadn't been able to take it anymore and he had turned over to face her and then she had been kissing him and he had been running his hands all over her slim young body and touching her intimately as she had quickly helped him out of his impeding drawers.

_This isn't really me,_ had been his last coherent thought before he had succumbed to his lust, because he had really had no choice but to make the most of a situation that had been as unstoppable as a runaway locomotive.

## Chapter 29

As we watched the final scene of _Poltergeist_ , when the father rolls the TV out of the motel room and onto the balcony while the credits started scrolling, I clicked off the DVD player.

"So, what do you think?" I asked excitedly.

Dave was slouching on the sofa with his bare feet up on the coffee table and my legs across his lap as he absently ran his hands up and down my bare thighs.

He glanced over at me sidelong. "About what," he asked.

"Are you kidding me, Dave?" I said as I sat up, taking my legs off of his lap and tucking my feet up under the edge of his butt, leaning my shins against his hip.

He shrugged, reached out to take ahold of my shoulders to pull me toward him for a brief kiss, and then chuckled at my look of disbelief at his lack of an opinion.

"What? So you actually believe that your house is gonna just crumple itself up and be sucked out into the cornfields?"

"No, silly, not that part. I mean, do you think that this house could have been built on top of hallowed ground, maybe a cemetery or something?" I clarified.

"No," he said decidedly. "And even if it were, it would've had to of been built on an Indian burying ground which is highly unlikely and even if it was, it would be Indians haunting us, not our own families. And I'm also positive that the only burying grounds for the Fremont residents from the very first death in 1843, has always been Cedar Township Cemetery."

"Okay so what if our families are trying to tell us something, you know give us a message for some reason like..."

"Torie," he interrupted me tiredly. "Honey, would you please just stop trying to figure it out and enjoy the ride?"

He sat up and then squeezed my knee as he stood and went around the coffee table and to the entertainment center, ejecting the movie and digging into his jeans pocket for his car keys.

"Let's run into Oskie and return this. We can grab some lunch while we're there," he suggested, waving the jewel case in my direction. "What do ya say?"

"What I say," I tried again. "Is that I think that we need to consider..."

" _What I say_ ," Dave interrupted. "Is that I think that you are worrying for no reason and I don't see any problem with what we're experiencing. I'm enjoying the warps so much—even if I do make a fool out of myself most of the time because I don't know who I am or where I am. Still, I'm finding out so much about the way things were constructed— _and farming_ ," he said in amazement. "I had absolutely no idea what it really entailed to get a field cleared and plowed so that it could be put into production or what it took to get crops into the ground."

"Pfft! Yeah right _crops_ ," I snorted derisively. "When you left the dance with _little Amelia_ the other night, you seemed to figure out what to do with her pretty quick. You plowed her field in short order!"

I wasn't really upset about it but I did like giving Dave a hard time, just to see that grin that he couldn't hold back, like just now, before he attempted to look appropriately contrite.

"Torie, that was two days ago. Damn, I wish that I hadn't let you get that out of me. You'll never let me live it down will you?" he predicted.

"Probably not," I agreed.

"Again, babe, what was I supposed to do? She was my wife," he reminded me imploringly.

"Of course she just _happened_ to be the most beautiful woman in the entire town and possibly in the history of Fremont," I said grumpily. "And you're _sure_ that you couldn't have just told her that you had a headache?"

He gave me one of those smokin' hot, sexy looks of his. The kind that causes my womb to clench and demand that I give up the prize to him immediately if my watery weak knees can hold me up long enough to propel me toward some horizontal surface in order to do so—but I fought that visceral _urge to merge_.

"Clearly, you seem pretty darned pleased with yourself and your " _bedding of Amelia"_ experience," I observed, using air quotes.

"You're the most beautiful woman _ever_ to live in Fremont and you know it and besides, it's you I love, Torie," he assured me as he approached the sofa and bent down to kiss me.

I gave him a little smacking smooch as I resisted sharing the smile that beamed from his entire face and lighted his eyes like blue crystals.

To be honest, he had apologized to me profusely and I had believed him when he had told me that he had been unable to stop himself. He had gone on to say that I just couldn't imagine or understand the mental anguish that he had gone through as he had tried and failed to keep control of the situation.

Not wanting to steal any of his thunder, I'd decided that it wasn't necessary to tell him that I knew exactly what he had gone through. After all, it had been my sharing of that confusing carnal experience with Wyatt Mills that had been the catalyst which had set me on my path toward Dave and I didn't feel any true jealousy regarding him and Amelia. Still, that didn't mean that I couldn't enjoy razzing him about it.

"Oh, my God, would you stop that insufferable smirking every time you think about it," I teased him as he took both of my hands in one of his and pulled me off of the couch to stand before him.

"Not funny, Mills," he informed me, grinning down into my face while pointing the way to the front door and our shoes that we'd left, tossed haphazardly at the threshold.

"A little funny," I argued, sticking my tongue out at him playfully as I stepped into my flip flops.

"Let's go, smart aleck," he ordered, opening the front door and shooing me out before him by giving me a gentle swat on the butt.

***

It was a blast—just _so_ much fun to live in two different worlds. Ever since Dave and I had started cohabitating at my house every night, it had become pretty complicated too, because he isn't as educated as I am about the people of old Fremont, and so often, I am forced to assist him or cover his _faux pas'_ and the havoc that he wreaks because he doesn't know who everyone is or what is happening when he arrives in the middle of a time warp already in progress.

Sometimes though, I have no choice but to let him sink or swim on his own, because he will be inhabiting someone who is totally unassociated with me and so I might be in the same warp but perhaps across the room looking on from a distance as he comically blunders his way through, usually receiving some pretty humorous reactions from others who are sharing the warp with him.

I can almost always tell that it is him; all I need to do is to look for a man or boy who doesn't seem quite right and it is almost always Dave—usually with his telltale deer-in-the-headlights look about him which is a dead giveaway. Even _more_ difficult, is him trying to figure out if I am in a certain time warp with him (usually I'm not) and so for a while now he has been ' _in search of'_ some solution to this problem; so that we can communicate silently with each other and give each other a head's up if we are there.

***

So it was, that one lazy summer Sunday morning, I lay naked and still comfortably abed, covered by a lightweight cotton sheet, with my hands stacked behind my head and my feet tucked up close to avoid being trampled upon, as I watched Dave, _he_ in glorious nakedness, stomping about on the bed above me. Once again he was trying doggedly to figure out a signal that we two could use—this particular morning with a certain amount of urgency brought on by yet another extremely difficult time travel that we'd only just returned from. He was determined to _not_ live through another such embarrassment _ever_ again.

His stroke of genius, this time around, was for him and me to sign to each other.

"Like a third-base coach at a baseball game," he explained.

I couldn't help but giggle, completely unhinged, as he seriously and single-mindedly worked out a routine for us to use, while I used the proceedings as a perfect opportunity to admire the sexy rugged scenery of him, striding around and shaking the entire bed as he did so.

"You know," I observed. "You look like that movie _Thelma and Louise_ when Brad Pitt was showing Geena Davis how he did a stickup, but I think he was wearing, _at least_ , some underwear."

"Stop!" he scolded good-naturedly. "Okay now watch me."

Then he started this extremely complicated routine, touching his nose, his ear, his nose again, and his shoulder, then slashing an index finger diagonally across his bare chest.

I snorted a laugh as I raised my hand in the air excitedly like an overachiever in a grade-school classroom vying for the teacher's attention.

"Oh—oh! I know, I know! Tom Hanks— _Field of Dreams_!" I guessed idiotically.

Dave glared at me and took a deep disgusted breath through his nose.

"It was _A League of Their Own_ ," he burst out, correcting me and then he got pissed that I'd distracted him, and crossing his arms over his chest, he looked down his nose at me.

"Damn it, Torie! We aren't playing charades. I'm trying to actually do something here," he growled, not making me believe for one instant that he was really mad at me. He is the most even-tempered, good-natured man that I've ever known in my life and he can take some teasing just as well as he can dish it out.

He tried to seriously start another veritable hand signaling _cornucopia_ that quickly dissolved into this sexy but comical, over-the-top routine which included some rather obscene grabbing of his groin and thrusting of his hips.

"You really expect us to be doing all of this craziness while we're sitting in a church service or riding in a buggy or at an _ice cream social_ with a bunch of people?" I asked and he shot me an incredulous look, his eyes wide at the horror of me mentioning the ice cream social, which was the warp that we'd just returned from.

"Ouch, not nice," he hissed. "Hey, if you've got a better idea I'd love to hear it."

"Well..." I began helpfully, but was cut off by him as he began striding around on the bed above me again.

"Last night," he snapped, his voice booming like some high-powered lawyer getting ready to present his evidence to a jury. He then began gesturing dramatically as he set the scene for me, although I'd been there and had no trouble envisioning it. His pantomime complete with him acting out himself approaching phantom people stationed around the perimeter of the queen-sized expanse of the bed.

"Like a complete _idiot_ I was walking around that church yard with my stupid bowl of ice cream in hand, slinking up to every woman and girl in attendance like I was some kind of mentally challenged secret agent and looking deeply into their eyes while whispering, ' _Torie—Torie, is that you?_ ' Jesus! And you don't think _that_ wasn't a little bit awkward?" he demanded and shook his head in embarrassment, remembering the scene.

"It was pretty funny, though, when your great-great-grandmother Katherine asked someone to fetch some smelling salts and told you to sit down and rest. _'Take it easy, Jasper. Could be that the heats got to ya_ ,'" I mimicked, in my best feeble old lady voice. "I thought that I was going to burst while trying to hold in the laughter."

"Yeah, and thanks for the assist, love of my life," he cajoled me as he lowered himself down before me, throwing the sheet off of me and holding his weight on his elbows while effectively pinning my naked body underneath his own.

"How about like on _The Carol Burnett Show_?" I suggested, running my hands along the swell of his back and down over his muscular buttocks, squeezing lightly. "Remember that autobiography we watched about her last week? About how at the end of her show, she would always pull on her earlobe? It was a signal to an aunt of hers or something like that."

"Well, okay that might be better," he conceded dryly after pondering it for a moment. "A little less conspicuous anyway—okay that's what it'll be then, a pull of an earlobe—agreed?"

"Agreed," I said with a smile, lifting a hand and smoothing his disheveled hair off of his forehead.

***

But even though we had a lot to contend with, trying to navigate the town of Fremont anywhere from eighty to a hundred and fifty years in the past, we had some awesome experiences together. One warp in particular was devastatingly beautiful for us both and the combination of euphoria and melancholy that we had experienced when it was over, had lasted for days and had brought us even closer together. During that time travel, I had been my great-grandaunt Ivy Wyman McFall and Dave had been her first husband, Joshua McFall. We had warped into the scene at almost the same time and were there, alone in their home together, for hours...

I arrived in early morning and I was standing at a closed bedroom window, holding the sheers back and looking out onto a side lawn. There were several flowering trees just outside of the window and inside a white picket fence, and the branches of the trees were covered by deep, rich pink blossoms. A light breeze was blowing across the yard and causing the blossoms to swirl like a blizzard of pink-tinged snowflakes, falling and drifting in a tousled storm over the brilliant green grass of early spring. The azure sky was dazzling and newly sprouting fields of crops in the distance were laid out in a precise pattern, alternating a line of emerald green beside the rich inky black of the Iowa soil, stretching out to the far horizon.

I turned from the window, letting the sheer drop back into place and noticed at once the total stillness within, in contrast to the riot of color and movement outside. As always is the case, when arriving in a new travel, my field of vision seemed to gradually expand out as I started to register everything and my first impression was that I was in a perfect, turn-of-the-century, Victorian bedroom. The bed was ornately carved with a cherry-oak head and foot board and a thick embroidered comforter looked to have been carefully folded down and was bunched up at the foot of the bed. While the white linen sheets looked as though the occupants had just recently risen, leaving the impressions of their bodies in the pillows and the ticking of the feather mattress.

The dresser across the room from the bed was draped by an ivory lace doily and I approached it to admire a wedding photograph in a gilded frame which was the exact moment that I figured out that I was Ivy Wyman. The tintype was of her wedding day with her first husband Joshua McFall who was Dave's great-granduncle. In the photo, Joshua was sitting straight and proud in a chair as Ivy stood at his right, with her hand resting lightly upon his shoulder. It happens to be a family heirloom that I have in my possession in the real world.

Beside the cherry-oak dresser was a large oval floor mirror and I paused there next to look at my reflection and realized, for the first time, that my left arm was draped across my chest protectively, holding a white cotton nightgown over my breasts and shielding my body as though for modesty's sake, however the stillness around me indicated that I was likely alone.

I stepped closer to study my reflection in the mirror and decided that I was probably in my very early twenties, with long and loose light brown hair that was falling over my shoulders and my breasts, in a riot of cork screw curls. The face reflected before me was lovely; with midnight-blue eyes staring back at me with a curious, expressive smile upon her full pink lips.

I was still clutching the gown to the front of my body and moved it now to look at my figure and I gasped as I saw my hugely rounded stomach. I was at least seven or eight months pregnant, I decided. I cradled my rounded abdomen in my hands and in fascination, turned sideways and looked into the mirror and gasped again as I felt a movement inside of me. It was very shocking to have the sudden sensation of a baby poking and stretching within me, especially since it is something that I've never experienced in my own body.

Before I even had a chance to process this completely, I heard the slap of a screen door somewhere in the house and then determined heavy footsteps, a man's, I thought, striding in my direction across a hardwood floor and I sucked in my breath, held the gown before my naked body and tiptoed over to hide against the wall next to the door out of sight. That's when I heard the man's voice.

"I—vy," he called softly, enticingly as he approached the room, separating the name into two very long drawn out syllables that had a definite sexual connotation.

Then the steps halted abruptly just outside the bedroom door and oddly, there was nothing more, just total silence. I waited, breathing shallow, listening intently when the man finally spoke again.

"Oh shit!" he hissed low and gruff. "Where the hell...?"

Even though it was a completely different voice, I knew immediately that it had to be Dave, arriving with his usual, _ahem_ — _flair._

I clutched the gown to the front of my body and cautiously peeked around the doorjamb and out into the hallway to witness Joshua McFall standing in pitiable uncertainty. He was dressed in just pants and boots with his suspenders dangling loosely down around his hips, looking as if he had definitely dressed hurriedly for some reason. He turned and tiptoed down the hall in the opposite direction of me, guardedly looking through an arched doorway that likely led to the front room or possibly a dining room.

"Dave," I whispered quietly to save startling him but still he jumped like he'd just been skewered with a red hot poker and swung around to face me.

"Torie, thank God! Where the hell are we and..." his voice trailed off as I moved the gown to hold it down at my side and stepped from behind the doorframe out into the hallway so that he could see my body completely.

He eyes bugged as he gaped at the obvious mound of my stomach.

"Oh my God, you're pregnant!" he blurted unnecessarily.

"It's Katie," I said, touching my stomach tenderly.

Dave shook his head and shrugged his shoulders, not getting my meaning.

I reached out and took his hand in mine and led him into the bedroom where I showed him our wedding photograph and I tried to explain to him who we were. He got distracted as he looked at his own image in the floor mirror and he reached up to touch his shoulder length brown hair and then he watched himself in fascination as he smoothed his modest and well-trimmed mustache. He seemed to recall me all at once and turned his attention back to me, trying to focus on what I was saying but at the same time I could see his eyes darting around as he took in everything about the warp as quickly as he could process it.

"Sorry. You were saying," he apologized and said to clarify. "You're Ivy and I'm Joshua."

"Yes, and do you remember when we were at the gazebo and you were Wyatt and you sat down next to me and that little girl with blonde pigtails? She was sitting right next to you and me on the blanket."

"I remember the girl but..." he nodded.

I smoothed my hand over my stomach and laughed softly. "This is her."

"How on earth can you possibly know that?" he wondered in amazement.

"She was their only child, Dave. Joshua McFall died just a couple of months after Katie was born while he was out hunting alone when his gun discharged accidentally as he was climbing over a barbed-wire fence. He died instantly."

"This is too much to handle, Torie. I am feeling _really_ overwhelmed for some reason," Dave admitted, placing a hand against his forehead as if to stop his head from spinning. "So this is our house. Are we alone?" he asked, lowering his voice as he realized that we might _not_ be and fearing that he could be overheard.

I nodded. "I'm sure that we are. When I arrived I was looking out of the window and I think that I was anxiously awaiting your return," I said looking at his state of undress before I continued. "I think that you must have run outside to do some morning chores and were on your way back to me because by the tone of your voice and your footsteps—you meant business as you approached the bedroom door."

I moved the gown away from my body again, exposing my nakedness. "I think that they were planning to have some early morning delight," I said and let my eyes drift over his body again, tall and broad but sinewy and whipcord lean.

It was the most unusual sensation because I was feeling my love and desire for Dave and feeling a very deep sense of Ivy's love for Joshua and my heart seemed to squeeze with a maelstrom of emotion overflowing and surging through my system in every direction. I think it must have been what Dave was feeling too and the reason that he was feeling overwhelmed because that was exactly what I was feeling, totally overwhelmed. I felt tears come to my eyes and then I felt the baby move within me again, very strong, adding to my tumultuous emotions and I gasped, clutching my stomach.

"Oh my God, Torie—are you okay?" Dave asked worriedly as he took me gently into his arms.

I touched my abdomen that was still stretching and moving beneath my hand and I reached for his hand and laid it on my belly over the point of the pandemonium going on within me and his eyes widened as he looked into my tear-brimmed ones.

"Wow!" he whispered in awe and then. "Hey, don't cry sweetheart. Torie, please don't."

"I'm fine," I assured him. "I'm just feeling crazy emotional right now."

I repositioned his hand, placing it on the location of another strong kick as the baby changed position again and I closed my eyes, feeling sensations that were so foreign and new to me, but beautiful. With my eyes still closed, I put my arms around Joshua's neck and brought his head down to me and I kissed his lips. Dave kissed me back, wrapping me carefully in his arms as I dropped the gown to the floor, and we just held each other, kissing warmly. It was so familiar because it was Dave's kiss, his _style_ of kissing which I know so well but the experience was completely new and different at the same time.

"Torie, I can sense his love for them inside me. He loved this woman and this baby very much," he whispered against my mouth, while running his hands gently over my naked back.

"I feel it, too, her love for them as well as my love for you and it's so much emotion that it's hard to bear," I admitted, smoothing my hands over his muscular back as he cradled me against him as best he could, considering the awkward shape of my abdomen wedged in between us.

"It's so sad," I said, opening my eyes and pulling back to look up into his face. "To know that he will die in just a matter of months, and be buried in Cedar for all of eternity—just imagine everything that he missed out on in life. He was only twenty-three-years-old when he died," I smoothed my hand along the light stubble of his cheek gently. "He looks so young."

"She does, too. They look like they're just kids," he murmured, running a finger lightly along my jawline. "What year is it I wonder?"

I thought about it for a moment, thinking about my family tree and Katie McFall.

"It must be the spring of 1891, I think." I said without complete certainty but knowing that I would be able to pin down all of the details when I could get back home and consult my family tree.

As we stood there in Joshua and Ivy's bedroom, me naked and him half dressed, holding me within his arms, the desire that I felt for him flared sudden and intense and I slid my hands down his smooth, muscular chest and over his ribs, moving lower. As I leaned toward him, over the mound of my stomach, inviting him to kiss me again, I reached down between us to work the buttons of his pants open but Dave quickly withdrew from the kiss and grabbed ahold of my hand just as I reached inside. His hand closed around mine, stopping me.

"No, Torie, we can't. You're pregnant—what about the baby?" he asked, trying gallantly to be the voice of reason but his desire for me was all too apparent.

I laughed softly. "It's fine. People make love all the time when they're pregnant, Dave."

"A hundred years ago they didn't," he argued. "What if something were to happen to you or the baby? What would we do? We don't even know where we are for sure in order for me to go for help?"

I stepped back and displayed my slim, naked, and very pregnant figure.

"I think that they were planning this—I know that they were. Don't worry, please. You met Katie when she was a girl, remember? Nothing is going to happen—Katie will be fine, and Ivy lived to be a very old woman," I assured him.

Finally convinced and without any further preamble, he released my hand and made no objection when I worked his pants downward, until he took up the task, quickly stripping out of the rest of his clothes and boots, leaving everything puddled on the floor where they dropped. Then with his desire warring for control of his features against the trepidation he felt about what we were about to do; he finally succumbed completely and allowed me to lead him to our bed, which was lit by the early morning's filtered sunshine and invitingly rumpled from our previous night's rest.

***

We made love carefully, in spoon fashion with Dave snuggled up close behind me, which was tender, intimate and comfortable for me, in my heavily pregnant state. Then, just after, Dave reached over my waist in search of my hand and upon taking it, laced his fingers over the top of mine and then he whispered softly, in Joshua's voice, a term of endearment that Dave had never used before.

"I'll always love you, _my own_."

The warmth of his breath drifted over the cup of my ear and his words were filled with such raw emotion that I got a shiver of goosebumps stippling my skin and tears pricked my eyes. Shocked by the wrenching desolation in his voice, I shifted slightly to be able to look back over my shoulder and into his face. When I did, I saw a single tear leaving a track upon his cheek and Dave smiled at me, helpless to explain. He bent his head toward mine and I gently kissed his tear away, and then turned over as he gathered me carefully into his arms, holding me close.

It had seemed to us, as if the man whose life had been cut short, much too soon, was sending a loving message—wafting gently across more than a century of time and space to ' _his own'_ , to his Ivy. It had been intense, beautiful, and a moment of pure love.

## Chapter 30

August 29, 2012

From: Torie Mills <toriewrites@aol.com>

To: Claire <clairen1994@aol.com>

Subject: Meeting you!

Dear Claire,

Hey, world's greatest assistant! I have been home in Iowa for a while now and haven't heard a peep out of you, so I thought that I would write and thank you again for all of your help and great company at the signing. Those can be kind of a drag for me but the time spent with you will go down in history as my all-time favorite book signing event! If you feel like it, feel free to write me anytime and as often as you like. I will look forward to hearing from you.

TTFN

Your friend,

Torie

***

August 31, 2012

From: Claire <clairen1994@aol.com>

To: Torie Mills <toriewrites@aol.com>

Subject: Re: Meeting you!

Dear Torie,

Hi! I was so happy to get an email from you. It was so great to meet you and Jimmy Thomas. I wanted to thank you also for a great memory! I have had my e-reader all charged up forever and will be reading starting tonight. I had to go to the hospital a few days ago and ended up stuck in there. Something about my lung function—I try to ignore all that. I am trying to stay occupied. Hence...the reading shall commence!

TTFN

Claire

***

September 1, 2012

From: Torie Mills <toriewrites@aol.com>

To: Claire <clairen1994@aol.com>

Subject: Glad you're feeling better!

Dear Claire,

Yes, reading is the best medicine! I say take two books and call me in the morning—sorry, a play on some corny old saying I heard somewhere. I'm glad that you are out of the hospital, honey. I was a little concerned when you hadn't written me. The doctors probably didn't want you doing anything like that, huh?

Okay—I got a little romantic thing for you, since you, being a writer also, you'll appreciate this. When I got back to my room after our day together, my boyfriend Dave, (I showed you his picture remember?) he was standing in the hallway, in front of my hotel room waiting for me! He drove all the way from Iowa (about 6 hours) to be with me. Awww!

If I ever decide to write something other than historical romance, I'll have to include that little gem, I think or you can use it as an idea for your writing if you like. It wouldn't work in the horse-and-buggy days as well, which is my usual mode of transportation in my books. You know what I mean? It would probably take like two weeks to get from Iowa to Illinois on horseback. You'll need to consider those kinds of things when you start to write your novel. You will be amazed by all of the things that you will need to learn and consider as you write. Using words and sayings that don't fit with the times—that is the hardest thing to overcome when writing historical romance, for me anyway.

I am going to make a chocolate run to the convenience store now. I'm having a major craving for a Casey's fudge brownie.

TTFN, Sweetie!! Take care of yourself and tell your dad and mom hi!

Torie

***

September 3, 2012

From: Claire <clairen1994@aol.com>

To: Torie Mills <toriewrites@aol.com>

Subject: Book Reviews

<attachment>

Dear Torie,

_Great choice regarding_ On the Island _! I finished it in two days, and it was just perfect! I could relate to T.J. so much, and the love story was so hot! I found the author's fan page on Facebook and left a little note, and she wrote me back. Most of my teenage life I have spent in hospitals and feeling sick, and I let her know that she got that part totally right._

Even though I'm not feeling very good right now, my hair is starting to grow a bit and my eyebrows, too. I have dark-brown hair. I don't think that you know that about me. I am attaching a photo of me from when I was about 15 before I got sick the first time.

_Now on to_ Shanna _next and I'll give you a review. This may take some time. It's like 700 pages! Dang!_

Love,

Claire

Oh and P.S. I got an email from Jimmy. It was so nice of him to do that. I know that you are all busy people with your jet-setting around the world and all. That you take time for someone like me is so amazing. It means the world to me, Torie. It really does.

***

September 3, 2012

From: Torie Mills <toriewrites@aol.com>

To: Claire <clairen1994@aol.com>

Subject: Re: Book Reviews

<attachment>

Dear Claire,

_I am so glad that you liked my recommendation. And yes,_ Shanna _is an epic-sized read but well worth it. Just let yourself drink in all of the beautiful details that she fills her pages with. I am anxious to get your opinion of Shanna and Ruark. I wonder if you will have the same opinion of their relationship as I do. Warning! Pretty smokin' hot love scenes ahead!_

The picture of you is beautiful. You have the most amazing sky-blue eyes. I hope that you know that. Actually, I didn't really even notice that you didn't have hair when we were together in Chicago. Okay, maybe at first, but after a few minutes, all that I could see was the wonderful young woman inside.

Now for the comment about jet-setting! Hey, girl, I live in a little spit of a town that has no grocery store, one combination gas station / convenience store, and yesterday a big old brown cow was standing in my garden, eating my fall bounty! Not really, I got no fall bounty this year, but it was eating my grass! Very glamorous, huh!? I had to call Dave, and he had to leave his job about five miles away and come to my rescue. Doesn't sound like a romance scene, does it? Oh, but it was—nothing more romantic than a man wrestling with a wild beast for you.

Actually, he just put a rope around its neck and walked it up the road to the farm that it had escaped from. It was as gentle as a puppy dog. Pretty darn funny—so glamour?—NOT!

_I'm jealous that you got an email from Jimmy! Isn't he the best though? I have asked him to schedule his photo shoot for OUR (yours and mine) book cover. I'm basing my hero on Dave, and I think we just gotta have a Jimmy for the cover, don't you? I know that you will agree. I absolutely can't wait to see him in a Union soldier uniform. Yum! Speaking of which, do you ever watch You Tube? Look up the official You Tube video by_ Fun _for "Some Nights". I swear that I listen to that thing over and over for hours while I write our novel. It sets the perfect mood for me. You will know why when you watch it._

I have your poem placed in the text (looks awesome!!). Still deciding on the title for the book, and actually, as I have been writing, I keep thinking that the leading lady needs to be Claire, with dark-brown hair and bright-blue eyes...Hmmm, what do you think? I have attached the first 2 chapters for you to critique for me, and hey...be brutally honest, okay? Being a writer yourself, your opinion is important to me. Don't have to read it right away, though, because Ruark and Shanna are waiting!

Much love to you, girl! Tell your mom and dad hello!

Torie

***

I hit the sleep switch of my computer, rose, and looked across at Dave, who sat amidst a mountain of pillows and white bedding, smiling in amusement as he enjoyed Letterman's opening monologue and the most completely contented feeling came over me. My heart was overflowing with love for him and my stomach was full of butterflies at the thought that this wonderful man is truly mine. I felt a deep and visceral need to express my love for him and when he felt my eyes upon him and looked up at me, opening his arms out toward me in a welcoming gesture; I approached the foot of the bed and I slipped my tank top off over my head and worked my boxers down until they dropped to the floor. Keeping my eyes on Dave, I walked over and switched off the overhead light, casting the room into the soft glow of the dimmed bedside lamps.

"Uh-oh—I think I'm in for some lovin'," Dave announced in his sexier-than-hell casual way, quickly grabbing up the remote and turning off the television.

I walked back to the foot of the bed and playfully grabbed the sheet, slowly drawing it down and off of him. He settled back casually, stacking his hands behind his head, and crossing his legs at the ankles, grinning as he allowed me to have my way with the covers.

"Do your worst to me, beautiful. I'm all yours," he chuckled.

## Chapter 31

The time travels spent at Grandma Rose's house are always very special to me regardless of what is involved. I am always just blown away and completely absorbed; while strolling with curiosity through the rooms and discovering all of the little secrets that they hold. I love preparing meals with the women and I enjoy serving and sharing those meals with the family. Sometimes, wonderful evenings spent sitting outside on the front porch in warm weather and all of the family gathered together, sharing conversations about what had happened during their days as well as the latest news and gossip from town. I treasure being able to watch it all unfold as my dad's family carves out their unique place in Fremont's history, during a century and a half of living here. But then one time travel—the lighthearted fun abruptly came to an end and things got a little _too_ real.

***

A travel always begins with the five senses one by one _awakening_ , is the best way that I can describe it, the perception of the surroundings, moving outward; expanding like the rings on the disturbed smooth surface of a tranquil lake ever outward until my mind can take in and encompass the entire scene.

This travel began with my first sense, my eyes, opening to view a ceiling above me, drenched with natural sunlight and casting a warm glow over cracked and yellowed white paint. Next my hearing came awake to a chorus of birds singing outside an open window to my right where the touch of cool air wafted over my face, and my sense of smell awakened to a fresh light breeze carrying on it, the scent of lilac in full bloom, as it ruffled opened curtains of blue calico.

My perusal of myself moved on, noticing the brown locks of my hair hanging over my chest and then I studied my right hand resting upon my midriff with young, unmarred skin and the realization came, that I was lying in a bed, with pillows stacked behind my back, propping me up so that I could look out of the window. I attempted to adjust my right leg to relieve a pressure point but was unable to lift it. I looked down my body to my legs that felt heavy and immovable, although I could see that they were covered by only a lightweight linen sheet. I was finally able to move my leg to relieve the discomfort but it literally felt as heavy as lead, as if instead of the sheet, my body was covered by one of those aprons that a dentist or radiology technician uses to protect those body parts that are not to be exposed to x-ray.

A slight burst of panic at this inability to move my leg freely, started to set off alarms in my head and my attention came back to the room and the window and I understood then that I was in Grandma Rose's house and the room that I was lying in was a back bedroom, one of those facing the barn and, in fact, the window was the very window that I had a photograph of—that shot where the barn is visible and a team of draft horses are coming back from a day in the fields. I, all at once, knew then and the travel came into perfect focus, as I was able to merge all of the scattered pieces of my consciousness together into this one place in the universe and pin it down. I was in Mahala's bedroom and I was lying in _her_ bed and I was feeling _her_ weakness as I looked about the room with my head spinning as if I'd just gotten off of some wildly careening carnival ride.

My great-grandaunt Mahala Wyman, who shares a headstone with her parents Judson and Rose in Cedar Township Cemetery, died at the young age of twenty-one, of congestive heart failure, known as dropsy back then and I knew that I might possibly be ill with that disease which would eventually kill her; the same death that had taken my own mother six years ago. The wooziness in my head increased as if I'd just stood up from a chair too quickly but in fact, the jolt of these realizations was causing my heartrate to jump and in turn, my entire circulatory system to react. My heart was stuttering irregularly in my chest and I intentionally took a breath and attempted to calm myself until my frantic, scattered thoughts finally settled back again into my skull.

The next moment, the ripple of my consciousness expanded outside of my own immediate physicality when I saw a man dressed in a black suit come to stand beside my bed and I became aware of the shift on my mattress caused by his weight as he sat down beside me. I looked up into his face and watched dispassionately as he put the earpieces of a stethoscope into his ears and his fingers worked the buttons on the front of the long-sleeved cotton nightgown I wore, which I noticed now, and saw was embroidered with dozens of blue and yellow blossoms. He placed the cool metal disc upon my bare chest and listened intently to my heart which I could still feel fluttering like a butterfly, flitting unevenly across a meadow, pausing and starting.

I realized that I knew the man, or I should say that I recognized him anyway. He was Dr. Jacob Krout and he had been a doctor in Fremont for more than forty-three years. He currently looked young and I guessed that he was probably in his early to mid-thirties. I've seen several photographs of him in regional history books and also photo's that others have added to his online Findagrave memorial. He is buried in Cedar with his family and his wife Mary Alice or "Allie" as she had been known, had been a daughter of Fremont pioneer William Dinsmore.

Dr. Krout continued to quietly listen to my heart as I studied his completely ordinary face but I was struck by the kindness in his light-blue eyes.

"Try to take a deep breath, Mahala," he requested. "And another—good."

He smiled warmly at me and then he removed the stethoscope from my chest, and removed the earpieces from his ears, letting the instrument dangle about his neck before he buttoned my gown up again.

"I will be making the rounds to see your sister Ivy when I leave here," he said by way of making small talk. "She and Joshua are sure looking forward to that little one. I don't think that I've ever seen a couple more anxious for a child in all of my years."

The doctor chuckled softly and looked from me to some point at his right and woozy from the deep breaths that I had taken, I carefully turned my head in that direction and became aware that someone was holding my left hand when I felt it being squeezed and then I saw that Great-Great-Grandma Rose was sitting at my left side in a straight-backed chair.

"We're all looking forward to that new little grand baby," Rose said while patting my hand and she smiled at me lovingly. "I think Mahala is more anxious than anyone. So how is your family, Dr. Krout; Allie and little Erma?"

"Everyone's just dandy. Erma will be going on ten years next month," he said proudly.

The doctor looked back to me and smiled. "I will stop again tomorrow to see how you're coming along," he assured me while taking his stethoscope from his neck and placing it into a medical bag that he lifted from the floor and placed upon his lap. He fastened the latch of the bag and looked back at me, squeezing my free hand briefly in farewell as he rose to go.

"I'll see you out, Doctor," Rose offered politely.

"I can see myself out, Rose, please don't bother," he said as he paused to pat her shoulder gently before walking to the door and turning back with his hand on the knob, bowing slightly. "Until tomorrow, ladies."

Rose turned her attention back to me as the bedroom door closed softy after him and I noticed then that she had a Bible open upon her lap. She lifted from her chair and scooted it, turning it in a little closer toward me so that I could easily look into her face, before she settled herself again and began reading to me from the Bible. I have no idea what chapter the passage was from because the good book isn't one of those on my book shelves at home. I haven't cracked a Bible since I was confirmed at the age of thirteen. Rose finished the brief passage and then lifted my hand and leaning down, brought my hand to her lips and kissed the back gently.

"Mahala, you're the light of my life, sweetheart, I hope that you know that. I love you so very much, precious. We'll read and we'll pray every day until you are fully restored to health. I have faith in our Lord God and you need to have faith in Him and believe."

"I do Mother, and I will," I agreed and then had a thought. "Mother, what day is it?"

"Friday, April 10th," she said with a puzzled frown. "Why?"

"What year?" I asked. I was almost certain that I knew already because the doctor had mentioned Ivy being anxious to deliver Katie, but I just wanted to have it confirmed.

She looked at me as though fearing I was having a fit or something. She leaned forward and placed her cool palm against my forehead gently, obviously searching for a fever before answering me.

"Why it's eighteen and ninety-one, sweet. You know that."

I smiled faintly but I felt as if the world were wobbling on its axis and lights began shimmering at the edge of my vision and I feared that I might black out as my heart fluttered madly in my chest from the shock because I know that Mahala Wyman will _die_ on April _11_ th, 1891.

I have her obituary at home that I had taken from the _Fremont_ _Gazette_ and it contains a poem that I have memorized. It was credited in the text of the obituary as being written by my Grandma Rose and just a few days from this time warp.

One chair is vacant in our home

Dear Mahala no more is there

Oh, how we miss her smiling face

We miss her everywhere.

She suffered long here below

In this world of sin and pain

Although we miss her very much

Our loss is but her gain

She left us here to weep and mourn-

She has crossed to that heavenly shore,

Where sickness, sorrow, pain and death,

Are not and feared no more.

We mourn for our departed one

Why, we cannot tell;

Her absence darkens our old home,

She has gone to Heaven to dwell.

I had an overwhelming sense of sudden panic set in because I know, only too well, that I have no control over how long a time warp will last. Might I still be here until the next time warp day or will I warp out of here before her death. I don't know what time of the day Mahala died and I wondered fearfully, _Could I be in her body when she dies tomorrow and if so, is there a possibility that I might die in the real world?_ These time warps had suddenly become deadly serious.

***

I came awake with a sudden jolt and when my eyes popped open, my first sight was Dave's face beside me, inches away and sharing my pillow. He was gazing at me and the warm sunlight was spilling upon his face as he smiled at me sweetly.

"Good morning, love. I've been watching you sleep," he confessed, lifting a hand and reaching out to smooth a strand of my bangs off of my forehead.

"I was warping, not sleeping," I said quietly and then the warp came back to me all at once. "Dave," I blurted and then all in a rush. "I'm afraid! I'm afraid that these warps aren't going to end until something bad happens to one of us."

"What makes you say that?" he asked with a frown of concern.

I snuggled up close beside him, shivering with the delayed reaction of what I'd just lived and then laying with my head in the hollow of his shoulder and wrapped within his strong, sheltering arms, I related what I had just experienced in Mahala's room. He listened thoughtfully to everything but when I had finished, he immediately dismissed it.

"You didn't die though, you came back," he said confidently.

"But I wasn't dying during the warp, Dave. I left before the next day happened but what if she would have died? We don't know what this is; maybe I _could_ have died there and just simply passed away in my sleep and you wouldn't have known anything about what had happened to me there."

"It isn't real, Torie," he began but then rubbing my back as if to warm me as a shiver of nerves ran through me again, he continued. "No I don't mean that—because it _is_ real, but we haven't had anything happen there that has fed through to us here, except for the physical items that you've brought back, but that has been completely intentional on your part."

"I don't want to stay here at night anymore, Dave. You don't understand..."

"Sweetheart, let's go take a long, hot shower together and then we can get dressed and go out for breakfast at the diner and talk about it more a little later," he suggested. "After you've had some time to decompress and think it through, it'll seem different. It always affects us strongly when we first wake up. What do you say?"

Just then I heard the click of nails on hardwood and lifted my head to see Shadow lope into the bedroom, obviously having heard our voices. Shadow was all teeth, lolling tongue, and doggy smiles as he rounded the bed to my side and next thing I knew he had his front paws up on the bed and his cold wet nose was sniffing and snuffling the back of my neck. I tried to squirm away but still held tight within Dave's arms, I was at Shadow's mercy.

I screamed, and Dave chuckled, egging him on as he continued to hold me in restraint.

"Good boy, Shadow! Let's get this sleepyhead out of bed. Nothing like a cold nose and a tongue in your ear to start your day off right, huh, Torie?" he asked and laughed, tickling my hipbones while Shadow jumped up onto the bed to join in on the fun.

"Dave! Shadow! You idiots," I shrieked as Dave finally released me and I scrambled over his body, heedless of where my knees and elbows landed in my haste to flee and an unintended knee in the gut caused a pained " _Oof!"_ to escape from Dave as I left the two of them behind me and bolted for the door, heading for the bathroom.

I looked back as I passed from the room and smiled at the sight of Dave giving Shadow a big bear hug as the huge dog collapsed onto his master's chest, and then he began treating Dave to a good share of slobbering kisses all of his own, while Dave jerked his head this way and that upon the pillow, trying to avoid some of the more intrusive ones aimed at his nostrils, ears and grinning mouth.

"How's my big boy, huh? How's my boy?" Dave asked him in his silly and cutest _ever_ dog voice—you know, that special voice that people always seem to change to whenever they're talking to animals or little babies.

## Chapter 32

I turned the handle and opened the front door while Dave stood out on the porch keeping tabs on Shadow, who'd bolted past me and was busy doing his business on the front yard.

"Come on, Shadow! Hurry up! We've got a football game to watch. Let's—go—Hawks!" Dave hooted, as if his enthusiastic cheerleading would speed up nature's call.

I closed the door on them to keep the chill out and dropped the house keys into a blue and white footed Staffordshire ceramic bowl atop the antique oak sideboard just inside the dining room as I passed by it.

I heard Dave open the front door as I was pushing through the swinging door and propping it open, continuing on into the kitchen where I was headed in order to start a pot of coffee for myself. I was feeling the need for another cup, even though I'd had two cups at the diner as we had enjoyed our leisurely brunch.

After I had the coffee going, I opened my laptop and leaned against the center island while I logged on to check my emails and amid all of the spam and Facebook status information for my author's page, I had an email from a familiar address and smiled, thinking that a note from Claire was sure to brighten my day, until I read the subject line and I opened the email quickly as my heart started to pound.

September 8, 2012

From: Claire <clairen1994@aol.com>

To: Torie Mills <toriewrites@aol.com>

Subject: From Claire's Mom

Dear Torie,

Our dear, sweet Claire passed to her final reward this morning at approximately 2:00 a.m. while peacefully asleep. The paramedics and her doctor, who responded to our emergency calls and arrived within minutes, told us that she hadn't suffered but had simply slipped quietly away. We were not expecting her death so soon or so suddenly. We'd hoped to have her with us, at least, through Christmas and we feel cruelly cheated because we thought that we still had time but God had other plans for his newest angel and I am at peace knowing that her years of suffering are at an end. No child's life should follow such a painful and tragic path.

Meeting you in Chicago last month was truly one of the highlights of Claire's young life and she'd talked about that day constantly ever since and because of that afternoon spent with you, she had been looking forward to and thinking about the future again and setting a goal for herself, to become a writer like you one day. I want to thank you for giving her that spark that she needed in order to look outside of her struggles and to start thinking about life's possibilities.

The services for Claire will be held at the United Brethren Church at 801 Merced St. in Downer's Grove's, IL, on Tuesday, September 11, 2012, at 2:00 p.m. I wanted to give you this information but please feel no obligation to attend; however should you decide to, you would be most welcome.

I found Claire when I awoke in the night and upon seeing a light coming from her bedroom had gone to investigate and I entered to find that the light was coming from her computer that was resting on her nightstand beside her and still on. She had apparently been working on writing an email to you and had set it aside, dropping off to sleep before she could finish. I'm sending that email to you separately but wanted you to know the circumstances, from me, before I sent it on.

Thank you for caring about our beloved daughter and for the generous donation to the Make-A-Wish Foundation in the form of payment for her poem, which will go a long way toward making other ill children's wishes come true.

I met with the lawyer from your representative's firm just last Thursday to finalize the court documents for The Neumann Mills 2012 Charity Trust. This is another achievement that Claire was so very excited about and proud of, as she tells you in the email that will follow.

Sincerest regards and best wishes to you Torie, for your continued success,

Claire's dad and mom,

Bill and Marilyn Neumann

I couldn't speak when Dave came into the kitchen upon hearing my sobs. He had me in his arms and just held me tight as I sobbed brokenly into his chest.

"Claire died," I finally managed to croak after a few minutes.

He was still holding me, but I knew that he was looking over my head and reading a portion of the email.

"Oh, Torie, I'm so sorry, honey. I know how much you cared for her."

"Dave, can we go to her funeral in Chicago on Tuesday?"

"Of course we can. I'll run up and get us a flight scheduled on the upstairs computer right now. Are you going to be okay?"

I reached for a tissue from the box near the sink and wiped my eyes, nodding to him even though another sob was racking me.

As Dave hurried upstairs, I took out my cell phone that still had the photo of Claire, Jimmy, and me as the background and dialed Marilyn's phone number.

"Hello?" It was Claire's dad.

"Bill, this is Torie Mills, and I don't want to bother your family at this time, but I wanted to let you know that I'll be at the funeral on Tuesday and to let you know that I'm so very sorry for your families loss."

"Torie, thank you. Here, Claire's mom would like to speak with you."

"Torie?"

"Hi, Marilyn, I don't want to bother you, but I needed to give you my heartfelt sympathy and to tell you that I will see you on Tuesday," I blubbered. "She was such a wonderful young woman, Marilyn. You should be so very proud of her."

"Thank you so much and I think that Claire would appreciate your being here, Torie. Let's be sure that we connect at the funeral because we'll be having a dinner afterward and I would be so happy if you could join us. We can talk more about that when I see you on Tuesday. Do you need us to pick you up or at least arrange a ride for you from the airport?"

"No, Marilyn," I assured her through my tears, amazed that she was thinking of my transportation needs at a time like this. "I've got it handled. I'll see you on Tuesday."

"Thank you for calling, Torie. Good-bye."

As I hung up my phone, I had to get through another wave of tears and then I brought my computer with me and went out into the dining room, taking a seat at the table. I sat in a chair, staring at the unopened envelope that was waiting for me, with my mouse hovering over it, terrified to touch it as if it were some kind of explosive device, my dread warring with my desire to read her final message to me, if only I could muster up the courage to open it.

Dave trotting down the stairs drew my attention and he came into the room and rounded the table, placing a kiss on the crown of my head while laying the flight confirmation and hotel reservation before me.

"We leave Monday at 2:00 p.m. and returning at 10:00 a.m. Wednesday morning," he said as he tipped my head back and kissed my lips gently. "I love you, Torie. I'm so sorry, babe."

"Thank you, honey. I just need to get up the courage to read the email that she was writing to me last night before she passed away."

"Do you want me to read it first? Or read it to you?" he offered.

I shook my head. "No, I'll do it. Go ahead and turn on the game. You're missing it."

He kissed my forehead and then did as I'd asked, leaving me alone in the dining room to read the email while he went out to the front room to watch the Hawkeye football game.

***

September 7, 2012

From: Claire <clairen1994@aol.com>

To: Torie Mills <toriewrites@aol.com>

Subject: First Two Chapters

Dear Torie,

_I have started_ Shanna _and am to the part where they are arriving at her island home and she doesn't know yet that Ruark is still alive. I love it! You were right about all of the detail. It's really good._

I couldn't wait, and I read the two chapters of your new book practically as soon as you emailed them to me. It is wonderful! Of course! I can already see that Nathan and Amanda are going to have a wonderful love story and I couldn't agree more about the poem. It fits perfectly! It's really a lot like Amanda, you know, the way that she loves all living things—if you know what I mean. I'm feeling kinda goofy tonight, like I've had too much sugar or something.

_If you want to change her name to Claire, Torie—I would be very happy about that. It will give me a little bit of immortality, you know? Even if not though, just having my poem published in your book, which is sure to be a best-seller, and knowing that millions of people will read_ my _poem is very cool!_

Regarding the money for Make-a-Wish, Liz called and said that some people have already been helped because of my donation that I gave them. There is a boy with cancer that lives here in the Chicago area, close to where I live I think and his wish was to fly in a helicopter, and he was able to do that, just yesterday. It was always his one thing that he wanted, just like meeting you was mine and I'm so happy that we could give his wish to him. Mom said that the trust is all set up and ready to start helping others as well and it is just so cool to think of all of the other kids that we may be able to help, isn't it?

_Oh before I forget, what you told me in your last email about Dave and the cow, (which was hilarious!) was the kind of scene that I could imagine in a modern day romance novel and Dave sounds like the kind of man that I would wish for—for myself. I hope that you and he have a long and happy life together, Torie, and I hope that you appreciate each other and live your life together as passionately as Beau Gardner and Melody Turner did in_ Passion's Fury _and if I get well, or even if I don't, maybe in my next life, (because I simply must believe that I will get and_ deserve _a do-over at some point), I will still be owed one_ soul mate _who will find me someday, somehow and I will cherish him and he me, until the end of time._

_I'm getting so tired that I'm getting a little sappy, I think. I'll need to finish this up tomorrow_ ...

## Chapter 33

The parking lot of the United Brethren Church in Downer's Grove's, Illinois, was filled almost to overflowing as Dave and I found a spot and parked our rental car. I flipped the visor down and looked into the mirror on the backside and checked my appearance. I looked like a wrung out washcloth and felt like one too. I didn't have any makeup or mascara on my eyes because I'd already been a crying mess more than once today as we had gotten dressed and ready at the hotel.

Dave rounded the car and opened my door, extending his hand to assist me out.

"How you holdin' up, babe?" he asked with concern.

A light cool breeze caught my hair as I climbed out and he smoothed a wisp of it off of my face as he kissed my forehead before closing and locking the car door.

"I'm fine," I assured him as I squinted up at him, wincing as the brilliance of the sunshiny day assailed my tired eyes. I managed to straighten his black tie and ran my hand along the lapel of his dark-gray suit coat, checking his appearance.

"Let's go," I said bravely as I gave him my hand and he tucked it into the crook of his elbow and we started across the lot, following behind a stream of other mourners.

As we entered the lobby of the church, we were each handed a memorial pamphlet with several beautiful photographs of Claire on the front cover showing her at different stages of her short life: one as a baby lying on her stomach, huge blue eyes and a smile that seemed endless; another as a child of about ten; and also the photo that she'd emailed me from just before she'd become ill at fifteen, with her long dark-brown hair spilling over her shoulders.

We moved along in a line then to where two young girls stood beside several poster boards on easels which were full of photographs of Claire and her family in hundreds of poses and situations; her entire time on earth lovingly lain out, so that all could see and share a glimpse of a life well-lived. At the top border, along the center board of the three that were displayed, was her birth and death year and just below in bright fluorescent blue, purple, and pink marker with sparkling glitter all around the words, was written, " _In Celebration of Claire Elizabeth Neumann_."

Claire had once been to Mexico; she had once been to an ocean shore and had made a sand castle on a bright, sunny day; she had reached the summit of Pike's Peak and had stood at the very middle of the suspension bridge over Royal Gorge with her arms flung wide open; a fearless grin on her face as she took in the grandeur, while her mother cringed in the background, clinging to the bridge railing with both hands and in obvious terror of the dizzying height. She had spent time at Walt Disney World, had seen the White House and the Statue of Liberty, she had ridden horses, played the piano, played softball, had been a Girl Scout, had gone fishing, and she'd had at least two slumber parties with girlfriends as they had camped out in front of a television with a big bowl of popcorn.

She had obviously loved her two younger siblings, a boy and a girl, very much, and there were many photographs of them sharing laughs and hugs. There were Christmas mornings and Easter egg hunts, family picnics and birthday parties and I noted with interest the photograph of her seated, at about eight-years-old, in a professional _generational_ portrait with her parents and each of their sets of parents and a generation of great-grandparents standing just behind her mother Marilyn's parents.

Dave and I slowly admired each board, and when we'd finished, he took my hand in the crook of his arm again, and we entered the large modern sanctuary of the United Brethren Church which was quickly filling to capacity.

An usher showed us to a seat, and we scooted into the pew, moving to the inside where I sat down next to a teenaged girl, who was sniffling and dabbing at her eyes. Her mother had a sheltering arm about her shoulders and I could guess that the girl was probably a friend or classmate of Claire's because she looked to be about the same age.

The background music, which had been produced by an organist at the front of the sanctuary, came to an end after Claire's family had been ushered slowly to their reserved area at the front of the room. Once they were seated, a recording of a song began to play over the loud speakers from some unknown source. It was The Band Perry and their song "If I Die Young" which was perfect but such a heartbreaking choice, and I couldn't help but think that Claire or maybe one of her close friends had chosen this song for her—someone else who had known, as I do, just how much she had longed to find her one true love.

The crowd all stood as if in one single motion, in a show of respect as we watched the light honey-maple stained casket draped with a large spray of pink roses making its way toward the front of the sanctuary, while the words of the song brought tears to the eyes of most of those in attendance. Dave wrapped a comforting arm about my shoulders and lightly rubbed my upper arm as I dabbed at my own blurry eyes, barely able to keep my composure.

## Chapter 34

I shuffled through the newspapers displayed in the wire stand next to the front door as we entered the S.S. Kresge store. I'd been able to see my reflection in the plate-glass window as we had come inside and out of the bright sunlight. I was probably twelve or thirteen with medium-brown shoulder length hair, pimples, and a poodle skirt above saddle shoes and white bobby socks. I was completely stumped—I had absolutely no idea who I was.

The woman with me was probably in her mid-forties, clothed in a neat and tailored lemon-yellow-striped dress with a full skirt that fell below the knee and high heels. Her blonde hair was in a short style and as I looked her over it struck me that she reminded me of June Cleaver, from the TV show _Leave it to Beaver—_ all she was missing was a string of pearls.

As I perused the newspapers now, I was looking for today's paper so that I could figure out the date—always important information. It dawned on me as I scanned the rack that the only paper available was the _Eddyville Times_. _This is odd_ , I thought. _Am I in Eddyville?_ If so, then this is a completely new location for a time warp and several miles from the town of Fremont. Eddyville is on the far side of Mahaska County and situated where three counties intersect; Mahaska, Monroe, and Wapello; Eddyville straddles all three. Regardless, I was definitely not in Fremont or vicinity and I was very confused by this. In my head I struggled to make some kind of sense of it as I looked for the date to the far right of the headline; Friday, July 3, 1959. _Wow, 1959_! I thought. This is the most recent date for a time travel that I have ever experienced.

It seems pretty benign though, so I am in Eddyville shopping, big deal—easy breezy, except that I feel like I am totally out of my element. I turned the date over in my mind again and again while mentally bringing up my family tree and trying to consider all possibilities. But my pondering was interrupted when I was suddenly brought up short and I listened to a young woman speaking and I turned from the rack.

"Mom," she was calling. "Bridget says that Barbara and Ricky aren't going on the float and that they're waiting at the campgrounds instead. They have to go with us, right?"

I swiveled around following the sound of her voice and got just a glimpse of her face as she brushed by me, heading for the checkouts that were just a few feet away—but it had been what she had just said that had been absolutely astounding. Those two sentences she had uttered as she joined a group of people and continued even now to try to get her mother's attention, were epic _._

The group she had joined of attractive, mostly blond-haired people, all looked very similar, with their green eyes and pronounced cheek bones. As I watched the girl push by her siblings, it all came together for me in an instant; at least part of this time travel puzzle fell into place. They were the Thompson family and the girl with the attitude had to be Suzanna, the oldest of the five kids. I had never met these cousins, but we were all descended from the Mills family line, and I had seen their photos because all of their faces had been splashed across newspapers and periodicals throughout Iowa and the entire nation.

Suzanna joined her mother who was preoccupied with unloading a shopping cart and the girl continued to whine and complain about her siblings as her mother paid little attention to her tirade. Then I felt a creepy feeling tightening in my stomach as I saw the man who strolled around the corner from a food aisle and approached them, placing a few more items on the conveyer belt to be added to their purchases. It was the father of this family, and he was a hulking blond tower of a man. Mark Thompson smiled amiably at Suzanna and assured her that _every_ member of the Thompson family would be on the family float for the July 4th parade in the town of Craton or there would be no fireworks display for any of them.

"Ha—ha," Suzanna smirked at the kids. "Told you so."

Yes, I know the handsome yet icy-cold looking face of Mark James Thompson. I know his wife, Cindy, who timidly looked on during this exchange and who was my blood cousin and the only dark-haired member of the Thompson family. I know the children: nineteen-year-old Suzanna, seventeen-year-old twins Bridget and Barbara, sixteen-year-old Tim, and eleven-year-old Ricky.

And unfortunately I also know that by the end of this summer day in 1959, the entire family will be dead—murdered by their own trusted husband and father, and he will be running for his life from the authorities during one of the biggest man hunts in Iowa's history. It was just so creepy, seeing them all like this.

Totally absorbed with watching the drama playing out before my eyes, I was startled when June Cleaver took me by the hand and dragged me along with her as she approached the family just as the cashier was finishing with ringing up and bagging their purchases.

"Why, Mark and Cindy Thompson—fancy meeting you here," June said with amusement.

"Why, Phyllis and Lisa, what a surprise," Cindy returned politely and her eyes caught mine.

"Hi," I managed to say shyly while inside my head, I was scrambling like mad trying to sort this all out. Phyllis was a Mills cousin. Lisa, her daughter, was born about 1947 as near as I could recall.

"Hey, Tim, how are you?" Phyllis asked with an air of genial comradery.

I knew that Tim Thompson had been to the boys' state basketball tournament in Des Moines in March of 1959. The newspaper articles that I'd read about the murders had made a lot out of that fact _and_ the fact that he had been one of the youngest participants, he being only a sophomore that year. Phyllis had been a participant in the girls' state basketball tournaments back in her high school days and they had that in common, I decided quickly.

I was pulling out all the stops and dredging the deepest recesses of my brain for tidbits of knowledge and putting my genealogy chops to the ultimate test regarding these families and I was pretty proud of my prowess, _if I do say so myself._ I came from my thoughts quickly though, when there was a hesitation in the conversation as Phyllis waited for some acknowledgement from Tim. I looked over at him to see his eyes darting around with uncertainty.

"Fine," Tim answered after an uncomfortably long pause.

_Oh my God!_ I thought in horror. It was all that I needed to recognize him; it was Dave, it just _had to be_ and he was currently inhabiting the body of a teenaged boy who, before this day is over, will have his brains blown out by the trusted father in horn-rimmed glasses and a flattop haircut standing by his side.

"Hey, Tim," I blurted out suddenly. "Happy day before the 4th of July! You were at the basketball tournament in Des Moines this year and you did great because not many sixteen-year-olds play at the tournament, you know and I can't believe that the 1959 school year is finally over."

I conveyed as much information to him as I dared and by the strange looks that I received from absolutely everyone, I knew that my remarks had sounded really ridiculous and lame, but I didn't give a shit. Then I gave the secret signal and I prayed that it would go unanswered. I reached up to tug on my left earlobe, and Tim immediately did the same. There was absolutely no doubt about it, it _was_ Dave.

I needed to get him alone and tell him, but what could I possibly say? It wouldn't change the outcome because what will be will be, regardless of whether he knows about it or not. If Dave stays here and doesn't warp out of here soon, he is going to experience a horrific blood-bath that I wouldn't wish upon my worst enemy, let alone the man that I love with all of my heart and soul.

But wouldn't it be cruel if I were to warn him about what I know to be coming, knowing full well that he will have no way to escape the carnage? To say to him, _Hey, you're gonna die today_ , and then walk out of the store with Phyllis and leave him to deal with the reality of it all alone. Or would it be more humane to keep the knowledge from him and just pray that he warps back home soon, never needing to know?

Before I could make up my mind about what to do, the entire Thompson brood bid us farewell and Dave actually turned and chanced a quick wink at me as he followed along behind the others. Then with a burst of sun-heated wind that rushed inside as Mark Thompson held the door open for the rest of the family, and with the tinkle of the chime sounding as the door swung shut after them—Dave was gone, walking off with the family and into a nightmare that he had no clue was coming.

***

Phyllis picked up a spool of thread and called to the young salesclerk, "Miss, would you happen to have any more of this shade in the back?"

The girl reached to take the spool of dark-blue thread from Phyllis's outstretched hand and hurried through a swinging door at the wall of the fabric department.

I kept turning to look toward the plate-glass windows at the front of the store hoping to see what—I don't know. It wasn't as if I was going to see Dave suddenly dash back inside to see me because I know that he has no more power to resist his experience than I do. So I impotently fidgeted and paced back and forth behind Phyllis's back as she continued to browse over the sewing supplies.

"Look at this, Lisa. Isn't that fun?" she asked me, pointing out a bolt of bright-purple paisley patterned cloth.

"Yuck, I don't like it! Mother, can't we go?" I asked impatiently.

"Where is it that you think you need to go to, Lisa? You know that we've had this day planned out for a _week_ , so don't you _dare_ start with your attitude, young lady, or we're going to have some trouble," Phyllis warned sternly and it was obvious to me that she was in no hurry to leave.

"I'm sorry, Mother. I'm just bored and I want to go home," I whined with a heavy sigh but what I _really_ wanted, was to get out of this store and out to the street where I might possibly spot the Thompson family again.

Phyllis looked at her delicate gold wristwatch before responding, "We aren't going home, and our lunch date with Grandma isn't until 11:30, so you'd better just simmer down. Go look at some of the books until I'm done here," she said, pointing with a flutter of her manicured fingers toward a wall rack full of magazines near the front of the store. With a growl of true frustration at my impotent lack of power to do anything but obey her and with my fists clenched into tight balls at my sides, I stomped off in that direction.

***

As I perused the wall full of reading materials, I acknowledged to myself that they would be very interesting to me if it wasn't for the situation that I am dealing with; all of the half-a-century old magazines featuring the current hot topics and movie stars of 1959. The _TV Guide_ cover featured _Father Knows Best_ and Marilyn Monroe and her costars from the movie _Some Like It Hot_ were gracing the cover of _Silver Screen_ while Elvis Presley was on _Movie Mirror_ as well as about a _dozen_ other teenybopper magazines.

All I could think about though was Dave and so I turned abruptly, walked straight up to the glass front door of the store, and pushed it open, stepping out onto the sunbaked sidewalk. I looked up and down the block hoping that maybe I could see the Thompson family along the street and get another glimpse of Dave but they were long gone.

"What would that accomplish?" I mumbled to myself.

I was losing it on the inside—totally losing it. I was thinking irrationally that if I could just see him, I'd run up to him and hug him tight and give him a kiss.

"Yeah and then everyone including Dave would think that you've totally lost your mind," I hissed under my breath. "You are not Torie, and he is not Dave," I reminded myself angrily of the obvious truth.

So after taking one more fruitless look around the busy street, I yanked the door open and reentered the store, finding Phyllis where I'd left her, leisurely browsing over the bolts of cloth in the fabric department and I knew already that this was going to be an excruciatingly long day.

## Chapter 35

Dave Cameron looked out the window from the backseat of the old Ford Fairlane sedan and he was very cognizant of the miles stretching out behind him and _between_ him, and Torie who he had left back in Eddyville, very much against his will. Now he rode with a family that he had absolutely no knowledge of, other than what Torie had told him while at the store _and_ the snatches of conversation that he was catching during this car ride, which wasn't much. With the noise of the wind blowing in from all four of the wide-open car windows, it made any _real_ conversation nearly impossible.

They didn't drive to Fremont which he had figured would have been their destination, but instead, the dad, Mark Thompson, took a turn to the right and onto Highway 63 as they headed out into Wapello County. Dave had no idea where these people lived or where they were headed and all he could do was sit, wait, and hope that he would wake up soon and be in his own bed.

This particular warp was boring him because nothing really interested him about it except for a mild interest in the car details and this _was_ a nice old car, he admitted to himself while rubbing the shiny chrome detail at the window, wondering briefly what model year it might be. Other than the car though, this was a bland warp, the kind that he didn't really enjoy, _plus_ when he'd had to leave Torie behind him at the store it had been almost physically painful. No, she hadn't looked like his beautiful Torie, she'd been a young girl with stringy brown hair, and dark-sable eyes but when he had looked into those eyes, he had sensed the soul and the love of Torie and he was missing her now, very much. The best time travels were when they could be together and share everything.

Dave glanced to the right as they drove past Ottumwa and merged onto Highway 34, because the house that he had recently remodeled was right along the main highway as they passed through. _Weird,_ he thought as he studied it now, because it looked almost exactly as it did in the real world today and since his restoration of it. He had gotten all the important details just right. _Good job, Cameron,_ he silently congratulated himself, giving himself a mental pat on the back.

They took another right off onto gravel and drove a good two or three miles outside of the town of Agency until they pulled onto the road that serviced the campgrounds at Craton Lake outside of the Fox Hills Wildlife area. They continued on around the lake driving past Silver Streak campers and canvas tents as people were staking out their claims, for the July 4th holiday and gobbling up every available camp site.

They pulled into the driveway of a large old cabin near the lake with a short dock jutting out over the water and Dave saw a small fishing boat was tied up and bobbing on the rippling waves caused by the wake of, at least, a half dozen brightly-colored speed boats zigzagging out in the distance. There was also a two-car garage and the dad, or _Horn-Rims_ as Dave kept referring to him, (in the privacy of his own head), parked the car inside and Dave could see that the other spot on the left was occupied by an old pickup truck of some sort that had been decorated with red, white, and blue crape streamers. He wondered briefly just _how long_ the family had been at this place and how they had managed to get the truck decorated. He felt as if he must have missed some earlier parts of this experience and that they had likely been staying here for at least a couple of days by the settled in look of the place.

"Let's get this car unpacked and then we can grab the backpacks and head out," Horn-Rims said to him.

"Umm, sure," Dave replied and decided to take his time rolling up his car window and getting out. He wanted to give Horn-Rims and the others time to head inside so that he didn't look lost, which he definitely was. He climbed out and the mother, Cindy, handed him a box filled with hot dogs and buns, chips, condiments, and a few fireworks which were sticking out of the top. He followed the girl called Suzanna inside and to the kitchen where he put the box down on the kitchen table and stood there watching as the mom came in and started unpacking the contents of the box, while the little kid Ricky tore open a bag of Lay's potato chips and started stuffing his face in a business-like fashion.

Dave heard a high-pitched whistle that made him jump and then Horn-Rims pounded on the wooden frame of the screen door and stood out on the porch landing as he shouted through the screen.

"Tim, let's go. Ricky, come on, now!" he ordered.

Ricky wiped the potato chip grease from his hands onto his blue jeans and looked up at his mother, giving her what Dave conceded, was a pretty good impression of a pathetic puppy dog.

"Mom, can't I please stay home with you? _Pleeease!_ " Ricky begged.

Cindy looked at Dave and then back to Ricky, seeming very uncertain before she finally addressed Horn-Rims.

"Mark, I need Ricky to stay and help me," she said and then looked apologetically at Dave.

"You go on, Tim, honey. Don't make him wait."

When Dave obediently hurried out of the door and followed Horn-Rims down the steps, he saw that they were heading for what looked to be a 1950-ish black Buick sedan. He hadn't noticed it when they had arrived, parked at the side of the driveway nor had he noticed the straight line of poplar trees that formed a border and living privacy fence along the north side of the cabin. _They've definitely been here for some time,_ he decided silently. Having the truck and two cars here, it made him wonder if maybe they owned this cabin and lived here at least part-time each year or maybe full-time.

Dave had never been a _car guy_ ; it wasn't ever his thing but he could appreciate the fact that the Buick they were approaching was really old and he had never ridden in one and he was a little enthused at the prospect. He pulled on the passenger door handle and as the car door creaked open it felt as if it weighed a ton. _This is a huge old sled,_ he thought in amazement as he climbed in.

While Horn-Rims opened the trunk and started placing items inside, Dave closed the car door and began checking out the old radio and dashboard features. He opened the glove box and when he did, he saw something metal that glinted and he reached inside and pulled out what looked to be a police officer's badge. He flipped the leather cover over, and under plastic, on the backside was a photo of Horn-Rims, without the horn-rims and below the picture it read Deputy Mark Thompson, Wapello County Sheriff's Department. _So he's a police officer_ , Dave realized and then as the trunk slammed shut, he quickly put the badge back inside the glove box and closed it just as Mark climbed in.

The engine chugged to life, and after Mark made a couple of adjustments to the mirrors, they were off, taking a right out of the driveway and heading south. The gravel blew out behind them and rattled like buckshot, pelting the inside of the wheel-wells as they fishtailed and left a cloud of dust behind them, heading for where—Dave didn't know—one thing that he did know was that the _dumbass_ was driving the car like some kind of fiend and certainly wasn't behaving like an upstanding police officer.

## Chapter 36

The Des Moines River had carved a path through the Wapello County countryside, leaving behind majestic bluffs which had been expanded upon by the state of Iowa, creating a hikers dream of steps, overlooks, and well-maintained hiking and nature trails that cover miles of terrain upstream of the Fox Hills wildlife area. As Thompson's car pulled off Cemetery Road and splashed through the water that ran over the concrete throughway and came up to the tire rims, Dave could see that the river that ran close by was stirred up and cloudy, rushing pretty fast as they parked next to it and near a trailhead which cut up the side of a steep bluff.

They climbed out as Horn-Rims began giving Dave his official decree with authority.

"We'll start here," he announced and then pointed over Dave's shoulder. "And _that_ will be our goal."

Without further comment he handed Dave a backpack that he had pulled from the open trunk, as Dave turned around to see what he had been referring to. He could see that there was a bridge that was about two miles away and upstream from where they were now and he studied it while slipping the pack on over his shoulders and getting it settled comfortably in the center of his back. By the time he turned back around, Horn-Rims had slammed the trunk and he was heading toward the stone stairs and then, in an instant, had disappeared behind a stone outcrop. Dave had to jog to catch up with him and in no time they were under the cover of the sprawling trees of the forest and heading up a hundred feet until they eventually reached a level and well-worn dirt hiking trail.

Dave didn't mind hiking but it had never been a passion of his. He enjoyed horseback riding over hiking but his brothers were hikers, just as they were fishermen and hunters. Dave had never enjoyed any of it, even as a kid himself. He had fished and hunted to fit in with his older brothers but it wasn't anything that he missed or ever felt inclined to do again and he hadn't been out hiking on foot for years.

Whenever given the choice, as a kid, Dave had always chosen to be in the workshop out back behind the barn, learning the secrets of woodworking and carpentry from his mother's dad, Grandpa Joseph McFall, and in later years after he'd passed away, his father Mike Cameron had continued to teach him the secrets that were now his life's work and passion.

"Tim! Let's move it. Get the lead out!" Horn-Rims ordered as sharply as any military drill sergeant dressing down new recruits. "What the hell is with you today, kid? Come on up here! You keep making me lag back to keep track of you and you'll fucking regret it. Do you hear me?"

Thompson stopped abruptly and swung around to find that Dave was right behind him, keeping up in even stride and Thompson blinked with obvious surprise. Dave thought that the guy seemed very disappointed that he _wasn't_ lagging behind, almost as though he was looking for an excuse to get pissed off and he was kinda weirded out by the guy's language to his son, because if what Torie had said was right, then this boy was only sixteen. He couldn't imagine that his own dad would have ever talked to him or his brothers in this manner, the disrespect and loathing in the tone of his voice was palpable, and Dave wasn't doing _anything_ to warrant this level of verbal abuse as far as he could tell. Apparently the guy had an extremely short fuse, Dave decided and judging by Horn-Rims anger level, perhaps he was expecting a much different attitude regarding this hiking shit than what Dave was giving him. Not really wanting to get into any big thing with him, Dave decided that he had better step up his performance and at least try to act the part. Maybe this kid Tim was an avid outdoorsman or something and so Dave smiled, apologized for whatever unknown offense he had committed and seeming satisfied with this, Horn-Rims then had turned back around as they had continued on with their quest.

Sometime later, they stopped to take a drink from their canteens and both of them stepped off of the trail to take a piss and afterward, Dave was forced to wait patiently on Horn-Rims, as he paused to break off a branch from a nearby tree and then had proceeded to meticulously remove all signs of the leaves and twigs, making himself a sturdy walking stick.

As he waited, Dave's thoughts turned to Torie and he wondered what she might be doing right now. He sure hoped that she was doing something better than what he was stuck in the middle of. This goddamn warp just _had_ to end soon he predicted, but without any real hope of his prediction coming true. He was definitely ready to get back home though, wrap Torie up in his arms and feel the warmth of her loving embrace.

***

The warm breeze blew in through the open window above the kitchen sink, ruffling the gaudy curtains which were covered by a pattern of old-fashioned teapots and blue china cups filled with a steaming brew, while badly drawn silverware was scattered haphazardly across the remainder of the material. _Really bad choice, Phyllis_ , I thought uncharitably and, in fact, if I were being brutally honest, I didn't think much of Cousin Phyllis's taste regarding most of the furnishings in this house _or_ the materials that she had laboriously chosen while out shopping today, a process that had been as excruciating slow to watch, as if watching a sloth climb a tree.

I had kept all of my opinions to myself throughout the day though and I was, at the moment, behaving as any meek and obedient twelve-year-old girl would behave, as I cleaned and cored apples over a metal colander bowl that was placed down inside the white porcelain-enameled kitchen sink, while Phyllis worked behind me on the opposite kitchen counter, rolling out the pie crusts. I kept checking the ridiculously huge sunburst wall clock as I peeled and it was currently 3:00 p.m.

As I quietly worked, my mind was in a flurry, considering where Dave might be. Maybe he was back already and sleeping soundly beside me in Rose's house right this moment. Maybe he was watching me sleep right now and just waiting for me to come back to him. _I'm trying, Dave_! I screamed silently inside my head, hoping that maybe telepathically he would get the message.

I knew that there was a better than fifty-fifty chance that Dave was still here in the past though and that he might, right this second, be out hiking through the Iowa countryside out in remote Wapello County and along the Des Moines River, with Tim's father, Mark Thompson. I know that it was what the two had done on this very day back in 1959. I had tons of articles at home about what had happened on this day. If only I could warp out of here, then I could go to the box downstairs in my living room closet and find them. If only...

***

Dave closed the door, roaming around the unfamiliar bedroom and paused at the bureau, absently picking things up and putting them down. He was getting a little panicky because this guy Horn-Rims was an absolute _lunatic_. He had decided this as he had put up with hours of hiking with the asshole. The guy had kept talking about things that had made no frickin sense whatsoever, and he had called Dave different names all afternoon, first Wayne and then Fred, among others and Dave had thought that it was just so bizarre. At first he had thought that maybe they were nicknames that the guy had used for his son Tim or something like that but it had been like the guy thought that he was completely different people. Also the weirdo had gotten angry and he'd had meltdowns about every hour for absolutely no reason that had made any kind of sense.

During one of his fits, Horn-Rims had snapped the walking stick that he had made earlier, while in a frenzy, by bashing it against a tree as he had shrieked like a banshee and while Dave had stood back helpless and watching. He had intermittently, at other times, just started yelling for no reason, swearing and going off on tangents of foul language that Dave was shocked by, calling his son every dirty name in the book, from a little pussy, to a fag, and much, much worse. The man was a total nut job and he kept mumbling something under his breath over and over again about how it would all be handled soon.

Then things had started getting scary. Horn-Rims had kept getting up into Tim's face, acting like he was going to hit him just to make Tim flinch and then he had laughed at Dave when he had flinched. Then all at once he had grabbed Tim around the waist and had rushed toward the edge of a bluff, acting as though he was going to throw him off, about a hundred feet straight down into a rocky crevasse, and then he had laughed it off as though it had been a big joke, but Dave had known that the asshole wasn't joking.

Dave hadn't known what Tim's reaction would have been to this treatment but his reaction had been to glare the dipshit down until Horn-Rims, obviously feeling uncomfortable seeing the steely challenge in his son's eyes had blinked first and looked away. This had been Dave's one victory of the day. He was pretty sure that the asshole got some _major_ jollies out of mentally abusing the poor kid that he now inhabited. Horn-Rims had about eight inches and at least eighty pounds on Tim. _Big man—intimidating a little kid like this_ , Dave had thought angrily. If this were 2012, the asshole would be in prison for child abuse.

Dave paced back across the bedroom once more like a caged cat, feeling that he had more than paid his dues for this time warp and that he deserved to wake up but it seemed that now he was going to be treated to a night out in the town of Craton with the rest of the kids, at an arcade, whether he wanted to go or not. Horn-Rims had given the kids no choice, all of them were going—period—right after dinner, which Dave could smell now wafting through the air and was likely going to be meatloaf.

Dave took a glance at himself in the mirror that hung on the back of the closet door, sizing himself up. He wasn't six foot one like Dave Cameron, he was Tim, and he figured that he was probably about five nine—of slight build and thin. He seemed, to him, to be too short for basketball, but he had made it to the state tournaments so he must have had some pretty good skills on the court.

He sank down onto the edge of his twin bed and continued to look into the mirror studying his image. He looked so young, he thought. He saw that he had the same light blond hair and green eyes as his dad and he definitely looked like all of his siblings. He rubbed his hand across the peach fuzz that covered his cheeks and just above his upper lip, feeling the odd sensation of a pubescent boy's smooth face. Considering his fair skin he decided that they were likely from Norwegian blood and had inherited most of their features from Mark, because none of them resembled their mother.

He stood up and opened the dresser at the foot of his twin bed as he looked for something to change into for the arcade. He pulled out a pair of clean jeans and yanked open what he assumed was his underwear drawer—it was. He pulled out a white tee, some clean tighty whities and a fresh rolled up pair of tube socks and next went to the closet, choosing a blue plaid, long-sleeved button down shirt and closed the door again after, so that he had the mirror available to check his appearance.

As Dave pulled off his dirty, ripe and perspiration marked T-shirt, he glanced into the mirror at himself and then he froze.

"Whoa! What the..." he hissed out loud.

He approached the mirror and watched his reflection as he reached down to run his hand over the huge bruise that covered the right side of his ribcage. It was black, blue, purple, green and a ghastly shade of mustard yellow around the edges and covered an area about the size of a dinner plate. He turned to see how far it went around his torso and found that there were five more huge bruises across his back, perfectly straight and about six inches long. It looked as though he had been beaten severely with something pretty weighty. He reached around to touch his back and found that none of the bruises were real tender, which meant that they were fairly old injuries and he had a pretty good idea who had probably given them to him.

"Oh, this shit is just getting better and better!" he whispered aloud harshly to his reflection.

He stripped naked and redressed in the fresh clothes after checking the rest of his body for other injuries but he found none. He watched in the mirror as he finished the last button of his shirt and then as an afterthought, grabbed up a deodorant stick from the dresser and lifted his shirt, applying a liberal amount and after, tucked his shirt in before he took up a hairbrush that he had noticed earlier and ran it through his short-cropped hair. He took a seat on the bed and pulled on his clean socks and his same tennis shoes from earlier and afterward he stood and took one last look in the mirror before heading for the door but he paused, holding the doorknob, while giving himself a pep talk internally as he closed his eyes. _You can do this_ , he said quietly in his mind, striving for calm.

He took a deep breath as he opened the bedroom door and headed down the hall. He could hear the blare of the television giving the evening news and he followed the noise and found Mark sitting in the living room in a recliner watching the set.

"Mark! Timmy! Dinner!" Cindy called from the kitchen.

Dave walked slowly into the living room, giving Mark a chance to get out of the recliner and then followed him but Mark turned around suddenly with an angry snarl, towering over Dave and pointing the way to the kitchen.

"Move your ass, punk!" he hissed with menace.

Dave was quick to obey, again having absolutely no idea what he had done to have set the asshole off. The guy must be bi-polar at best or a sadistic child abuser at worst, he decided because he was definitely not all there. Dave sensed that the dad was right on his heels and breathing down his neck, so he stepped up his pace, heading out to the kitchen to have dinner with the family and grabbing a chair as far away from Mark Thompson as he could manage. _This is such bullshit_! Dave thought silently, _I am so over this entire experience_.

## Chapter 37

_Seriously_? _Seriously_! Could this time warp last any longer or be any more pointless? The love of my life is possibly about to be _murdered_ , and I am in my goddamn Cousin Phyllis's living room in Fremont, standing on a foot stool as she works at hemming my new blue-cotton party dress. The pins around the wrists of my dress are poking me uncomfortably. The black-and-white television blaring _Jackie Gleason_ while Phyllis's husband Charlie Walters howls with laughter and stomps his feet on the floor with the most annoying regularity is about to make me snap! While the heavy cloud of pipe smoke swirling around Charlie's head and filling the room with its noxious odor is enough to make me want to retch and _now_ , damn it all to hell, I feel tears welling up and can't stop them.

"Mother, I need to go to the bathroom," I announced sharply.

"Lisa! Good heavens, must you be _so_ dramatic and you're as flighty as a hummer tonight," Phyllis observed glaring up at me from the floor where she knelt as she finished a pin and smoothed the skirt down carefully before, with a flip of her hand, she waved me off of the stool.

"Now you hold that dress careful and don't you dare disturb those pins," she called after me as I dashed from the room.

Instead of going to the bathroom, I ran for the kitchen and out the back screen door, which slapped shut behind me and I gulped in great lungful's of the humid, warm and yet wonderfully clean and fresh air. The night was quiet but for the sound of crickets and other night creatures, but the sky was filling with towering clouds and to the southwest I could see heat lightning dancing across thunderheads. It was almost 8:00 p.m., and that would mean that, unless Dave was back from the warp now and in bed waiting for me, he was probably on his way to the arcade in Craton.

I paced back and forth across the back porch of the small house that sat along Main Street and then walked down the steps and around the side of the house, heading down the driveway toward the street. The diner was visible from the house and there was a blue neon light on the roof of the building and a red blinking arrow pointing down to the parking lot. The name in blue neon said Blue Bird Café. The Finish Line Diner and everyone who I know from that place, still fifty years out in the future.

I turned and paced up and down the drive again and again, clenching and releasing my hands at my sides, my palms clammy with nervous perspiration, while my tears welled up and spilled over. My stress level and my fear for Dave over-flowing like an overfilled cup.

"God, please help me! Grandma Rose, Grandpa Judson! Spirits! Someone! Help me get home!" I whispered aloud desperately, looking up at the darkening sky. "Please let me get back home to Dave." My voice broke on the word Dave and I covered my face with my hands.

It took me several minutes but I finally got ahold of my emotions and smoothed my tears away, taking deep breaths until I could again think logically and I shook my head at my own stupidity for my ridiculous pleas because there was no one who was going to be able to help me with this. So without any other choice, I wiped one more stray tear that was tracing down my cheek and turned, heading back toward the house and the pipe-smoke-filled living room to continue my private purgatory. There was nothing else for me to do and nowhere else that I could go.

***

I felt like I slammed onto the bed at a hundred miles an hour directly from the heavens. The jolt of reentering from the time warp was palpable. I found I was on my side, facing the outside of the bed and glanced at the clock on the night stand, 3:00 a.m. I snapped on the bedside lamp and turned over quickly toward Dave.

"Dave," I said gently, shaking his shoulder. He was lying on his back, with his hands across his waist and covered by a light sheet.

"Dave!" I said louder and sat close beside him, shaking his shoulder hard. Nothing—he was still gone. I bent over to listen to his chest, and the slow rhythm of his beating heart was comforting although it really meant nothing that his heart was still beating now. If I returned just now at 3:00 a.m. and if the warp continued on, on its own schedule, then it was still only about 8:00 p.m. there and the murders didn't happen until just before midnight, still four hours from now.

This half-baked theory of mine about the time warp schedule didn't make sense, even to me—the creator of the theory! It didn't seem like the warps ran on a logical or chronological timetable and more likely, the warp, if he were to stay in it, could last until 10:00 a.m. or later because most often, we awake later rather than earlier. That I'd come back so soon, _that_ was the puzzling occurrence.

I clambered out of bed then and dashed downstairs clicking on light switches as I went. I opened the living room closet, stretched up to the shelf, and pulled down a cardboard box that held albums full of documents from my research. I dropped the box on the floor and sat down on my heels as I yanked out the album labeled 'Newspapers' and laid it on the floor, opening it and flipping to the tab labeled 1959.

Shadow came up beside me, nudging me underneath my left arm, wanting me to pet him.

"Shadow, go lay down," I commanded firmly and he obediently responded, moving several feet away to lie down on a rug. He put his head on his front paws and watched me while I paged through the album.

The slick sleeve containing the articles about the mass murder of my Thompson cousins was overflowing. I'd found so many newspaper articles from the _Craton News, Eddyville Times, Fremont Gazette, Oskaloosa Herald, Keokuk Daily Gate, Des Moines Register_ , and _Ottumwa Courier_. Each one of them laid out the final day and night of the Thompson family and what had occurred back on July 3, 1959.

I snapped open the album clasp, leaving the album and box out and taking the sleeve, ran back up to the bedroom. I turned on the overhead light and sat on my side of the bed beside Dave while I pulled out two original folded articles from the sleeve, which had been in the effects of my grandpa Arlan when he had passed away. The rest of the documents were photocopies from microfilm that I had gathered from several public and genealogical libraries.

I paused to watch Dave's chest rise and fall, and getting to my hands and knees crawled over to him and reached for one of his hands, lifted it to my lips, kissed it and laid it gently back upon his stomach. Then even though I knew it was pointless, I tried to rouse him gently once again and leaned over him to kiss his closed lips and ran my fingers lightly through his glossy dark hair.

"I love you, sweetheart," I said softly.

I turned my attention back to the articles and then sitting close beside Dave, I unfolded the first one and laid it across my pillow to read, being careful because the paper was fragile and yellowed and the print faded. It was one of the original articles from the _Keokuk Daily Gate_ , and it provided the time line.

Mass Murder at Craton!

The headline screamed, dramatically set in bold three inch type.

_Saturday, July 4, 1959—The entire state of Iowa has been shocked by the brutal murders of Cindy Thompson and her children, gunned down in cold blood on Friday night while at their summer cabin on Craton Lake. The murderer is still at large and is believed to be the father of the family, thirty-nine-year-old Deputy Mark Thompson, who is a Wapello County sheriff's officer. He had been undergoing some psychological counseling and had been on medical leave from the department for the past three weeks. He is believed to be armed and dangerous_.

I folded the article and went on to the other original story from the _Fremont Gazette_.

Thompson Mass Murder Plot Revealed

Thompson Captured in Agency Home

July 6, 1959, Agency, Iowa

The massive manhunt that involved more than 100 law enforcement officers and a dozen trained bloodhounds came to an end yesterday when Mark Thompson was captured at his residence in Agency. Officers had checked the residence twice, but apparently Thompson had been able to avoid detection by hiding in the crawl space underneath the structure. Bloodhounds were brought in and discovered him about midday. He was disarmed without incident and no injuries to the suspect or officers were reported. Once disarmed of his service revolver, he was quickly taken into custody.

As Thompson was being returned to the county jail in Ottumwa, the route took him past the funeral procession at the Arbor Hill's Chapel and cemetery in Ottumwa where a mass funeral was being held for the six members of his family. The entire community turned out in huge numbers to attend the tribute to the innocent victims.

**New details emerge**

_On Friday, July 3, the family had spent time in Eddyville shopping for supplies needed for the July 4_ th _celebration. The family was to be part of the traditional parade in Craton where they have had a Norwegian heritage float for the past five years._

After the family returned from town, Thompson and his son Tim spent the rest of the afternoon hiking along the trails near the Des Moines River. Several boys fishing off the bridge on Cliffland Rd. reported that they saw the two at approximately 3:00 p.m. as they arrived at the bridge but that then they had quickly turned around, heading back the way that they had come. The boys reported that Mark Thompson seemed to be very irritated with his son. The boys also stated that the son seemed equally concerned about his father's behavior. "The kid kept telling his dad to calm down," one boy reported.

About 8:00 p.m., Thompson drove his five children to an arcade in Craton about four miles from their cabin on Craton Lake. He dropped the kids off at the door and told them that he would be back by ten o'clock to pick them up.

_After Thompson left the kids off, authorities plan to prove that he drove back to the family cabin on the lake where he got into an altercation with his wife, Cindy and then killed her in cold blood. Cindy Thompson's body was found in the family's car in the garage and she had been shot once in the right temple. Authorities suspect that Thompson shot Cindy inside the house and then removed her body, placing it inside the car as there were signs that he had attempted to clean up all evidence of the crime_.

_No one in the vicinity reported hearing any shots, and it is believed that Thompson was using a sound suppression device, which he would also use later as he stalked and executed his children_.

## Chapter 38

Dave Cameron, currently stuck in a noisy arcade in the little town of Craton, Iowa, sipped at his Pepsi Cola and looked dispassionately about the room. It was decorated with streamers of red, white, and blue hanging from the rafters and wound about posts. The place had been packed with pre-teen and teenaged kids when they had arrived but the crowd was dwindling now.

He was keeping an eye on the four kids who were his siblings. The three girls, his sisters, were across the room near the concession stand while Ricky, his little brother, was sitting close by at an arcade game fighting off aliens or something. He couldn't afford to lose sight of any of them and possibly get left behind. He would have no way to get back to the lake and the cabin, if he did. Horn-Rims had left them here almost three hours ago and he was supposed to come back and pick them up but he was an hour over-due, while Dave Cameron was _over-stressed_.

He had decided hours ago during this endless, torturous warp that Torie had been right, they needed to quit staying the night at her house, and they needed to leave these goddamn warps in the past. They had a _real_ life to live together and he had finally had enough of this. He wanted to marry the beautiful and caring woman who had made his every day magic since the first moment that she had come into his world. He wanted to bring her to his home to live for the rest of her life and he wanted to have children with her while they were still young enough to be parents. They didn't need this shit to add something missing to their lives; this was taking them _away_ from their lives.

Knowing that his body was lying beside Torie this moment back in Fremont, he thought about how he could be reaching out to pull her to him, could feel her body under his hands, feel the heaven as she would turn to him and embrace him. He could be making love to her this very minute, instead of pulling a splinter from his hand, which he just picked up from the goddamn roughhewn table he was sitting at!

He watched Ricky, Suzanna, Bridget, and Barbara crossing the room to join him and wondered what was up as they approached the table until he felt a huge hand clamp down roughly on his shoulder, squeezing hard and he nearly jumped out of his skin when Horn-Rims leaned over, shaking his head and dripping water off of his flat top onto Dave's upturned face.

"Storm's coming in," Mark announced. "We'd better get on the road. Ready?"

Dave jumped up, using his own shirt sleeve to remove the sprinkles from his face, and reached for his lightweight brown cotton jacket. _Hell_ _yeah, I'm ready, asshole_! he thought angrily.

"Where have you been?" Barbara snapped.

"Oh, I just had to finish watching Jack Benny. Your mom didn't want to watch alone," he replied casually.

The girls and Ricky stomped past, heading out the door so Dave really had to hustle to keep up with them.

***

As they started off, the girls in the backseat all expressed their opinion of their dad keeping them waiting for so long, which Dave felt was very risky on their parts. Thompson could flip out on them at any moment, like he had witnessed earlier in the day and he knew that Horn-Rims would go off for no reason but the girls didn't seem to have any fear of him or maybe they were just hardened from years of abuse. Dave felt that they _should_ fear him, but had another thought which was; perhaps he reserved all of the abuse for Tim alone.

After the girls had finished venting, the rest of the ride was pretty quiet as they drove, until the thunderstorm started really coming on and the rain began pelting the top of the Buick like a jackhammer. They were coming up on the turnoff to the campgrounds but instead of turning, Horn-Rims continued on straight down the highway.

"Where are we going?" Suzanna asked in her whiniest voice.

"I gotta run to the house and pick up the barbecue tools for your mom; she forgot them the last trip home and she wants her good tablecloths for the picnic. We'll just be a few minutes."

As they arrived and parked in the driveway of a neat, well-maintained ranch-style house in the town of Agency, Horn-Rims ordered them to stay in the car and told them that he would be right back as he dashed out into the roaring thunderstorm, leaving the car engine on and idling.

"Tim, would you turn on the radio?" Bridget asked, from the backseat.

Dave was riding shotgun, with Ricky in the middle and before Dave had a chance to react, Ricky had reached out and clicked on the radio.

"KZRN," Suzanna ordered from the back seat. "Turn it!"

With a heavy sigh, she leaned over the seat as Dave was trying to assist Ricky and they were both fumbling with the dial, trying to figure out what channel she meant.

"Get out of the way squirt, I've got it," she said, slapping Dave's hand away.

_Fine by me_ , Dave thought. _Knock yourself out, sis_.

He went back to watching out the car window, at the flashes of lightning that filled the night sky. Fremont was so many miles away from him now and he longed for home and was homesick for Torie's company, but _his_ Fremont and _his_ Torie weren't there and they wouldn't be there for another fifty years. A sudden clap of thunder jerked him back from his thoughts and he became aware of the other kids in the car and the warmth of Ricky as the little boy's head lolled in weariness and rested comfortably against his left shoulder.

"It's gonna be a stormy night," Barbara predicted just then unnecessarily, from the recesses of the darkened back seat.

## Chapter 39

I glanced at the clock on my nightstand: 9:00 a.m. I stretched my hands above my head and then reached out to caress Dave's leg lightly before touching his face and the slight moisture beading on his forehead. I wiped it off with the palm of my hand and leaned over to use my breath to cool his flushed face. He was overheated and so I removed the sheet from his body, letting his legs be exposed and draping the tail of the sheet over his hips, preserving his modesty.

I left Dave for a few minutes and went downstairs for another cup of coffee and to let Shadow out to do his business. The cool morning air perked me up slightly as I leaned against a post of the porch and watched Shadow pick out the perfect spot. I was dead tired, but I would not go to sleep until I got Dave back and he had to be coming back soon, he just had to be.

After I got Shadow back inside, I headed to the kitchen and as I stirred some two-percent into my coffee, my stomach growled angrily so I grabbed up a banana off of the counter, and made my way back up to the bedroom. I settled my breakfast and coffee on the nightstand, turned on the radio to a low volume and sat down on the bed next to Dave.

I studied his still form again and thought _God, I miss him,_ and on impulse got up onto my hands and knees and leaned over my beautiful man and kissed his forehead and both of his gently closed eyelids.

"Come back to me, sweetheart," I whispered and touched my lips to his for a soft kiss before laying my cheek against the stubble of his, rubbing against the plush roughness.

Somewhat heartened by the contact, I sat back down next to him and ran my hand over his perfectly muscled chest and the smooth skin and soft, dark hair, thinking wistfully that I wished that it would only take a touch to bring him back to me and immediately my mood swung again back toward helplessness because I know that there is nothing that I can do but wait and keep watch over him.

I picked up another newspaper article, this one from the _Des Moines Register & Tribune_ for July 7, 1959, and continued to read the actual police report information released by authorities. Thompson had provided a full confession and in-depth details to police, shortly after his capture, laying out the sequence of events.

Mark Thompson stated that his wife, Cindy, was seated in a chair in the living room when he shot her. He said that he dragged her body out to a nearby garage and put her into the family car, placing the gun in her limp lifeless hand on the seat beside her so that it would appear to be a suicide. He admitted that his plan had been to stage the scene to look like a murder-suicide spree, framing Cindy for the crimes.

_Thompson then headed back to Craton to pick up the kids from the arcade. He said that he knew that he was going to need more guns and ammunition, so he drove his five children to their home in Agency where he retrieved additional weapons from the gun safe located in his bedroom. The children were left in the car, and when he returned, he put the items in the trunk of his 1949 Buick and headed back to the campgrounds_.

I grabbed another clipping, the _Ottumwa Courier_.

Mark Thompson drove his children back to the campgrounds and the secluded family cabin at about 11:30 p.m. To disorient the children and to hide the blood in the living room, he had pulled the fuses from the house and cut the phone lines before he had headed back to pick the children up. When they pulled in, the cabin was dark and the children believed him when he told them that the power was likely knocked out due to the lightning storm.

_Thompson said that the girls jumped out and ran through the pouring rain and into the house. Suzanna came back out after just a minute to confirm that the lights were out and added that her mother wasn't inside. Thompson told her that she was in bed but one of the other girls came back out to announce that it wasn't so, that their mom was gone. Thompson told them that she had probably just run to the ranger's station for a copy of the parade schedule, and Tim Thompson went to the garage to check for the Fairlane_.

I felt nauseous thinking of Dave discovering the body in the family car. Would he? Or would it play out differently? We had the freedom to make slight changes in the warps but nothing substantial. I had a sick feeling that Dave would likely find the body of Cindy Thompson—if for no other reason than he was a thirty-eight-year-old man currently residing in a sixteen-year-old boy's body and things wouldn't seem right to him, knowledge of the events or not. It would be common sense that would drive him to be suspicious and go to investigate, just as it had been Tim Thompson's discovery, those many years ago, that had begun the horrifying chain of events.

" _Chasing Cars_ " by Snow Patrol began playing on the radio and as the words of the song washed over me, amplifying my pain, I felt my tears spilling over onto my cheeks. I tossed the stack of papers onto the floor as I trembled uncontrollably from fear and nerves; I sat on my heels and laid my head against Dave's chest, trying to find some comfort in his nearness while listening to his strong steady heartbeat. I rocked gently, smoothing my hands over his shoulders and wishing that his strong arms would come around my body, sheltering and reassuring me that everything will be okay. Racking sobs possessed me as I placed fleeting kisses all over his face, his neck, his chest and I lifted his hand to place a kiss into his palm and cradled his hand against my cheek, watching his expressionless face.

"Come back to me, David. Please come home," I croaked brokenly.

## Chapter 40

The Buick maneuvered around washed-out gravel and it took all three of the guy's attention and eyes to spot the holes.

"On your right," Ricky shouted. "Now, left—oooh!" he groaned as they hit the edge of another jarring pothole.

Suzanna, Bridget, and Barbara were looking on anxiously from the backseat as Ricky and Dave rode shotgun and navigated.

"I can't see a damn thing through the fog on the windows and the rain," Horn-Rims complained, reaching up to wipe the inside of the windshield with the sleeve of his forearm.

"Tim, quit breathing!" Suzanna said with a laugh. "You're the one who's full of hot air."

_Real funny, aren't you, sis_? Dave thought angrily but said nothing as he realized that siblings were as big of a pain in the ass fifty years ago as they were today. Who knew?

They had been driving for almost another fifteen minutes in the crappy old car on bone-jarring bumpy gravel and this drive to the cabin earlier today hadn't seemed to take nearly as long. _When we get home, 'if' we get home,_ Dave thought pessimistically, his plan was to go straight to bed and then hope against hope that by the time that morning came, he would be out of this hell and back with Torie.

***

"Hey, the house is dark," Suzanna observed, as they finally arrived at the cabin.

_Let's state the obvious, Suzanna_ , Dave thought, irritated beyond bearing with the girl. It then occurred to him that he was starting to actually think of her as his pain-in-the-ass sister. _This has been too long an f-ing time warp! Time to wake up, Cameron!_ he thought angrily, but no—no such luck.

"The lights were probably knocked out by the storm," Mark offered as he pulled the car up close to the kitchen door, where everyone piled out and the girls ran ahead for the house.

"I wonder why Mom doesn't have the flashlights out," Bridget said as she dashed across the rain-swept drive.

"Your mom is sleeping," Mark snapped. "Be quiet in there, girls."

Dave pushed the car door shut and walked alongside Ricky as they headed to the protection of the covered porch, passing Mark, who had paused to lift the trunk lid.

"Mom's gone!" Suzanna announced as she came back to the screen door and walked out onto the porch.

"She's in bed," Mark snapped with irritation.

"No, she isn't," Barbara announced coming to the door to look past Suzanna to Mark, as he slammed the trunk shut without removing the items he had picked up from the house.

"Goddamn it, get inside the house and find some flashlights!" he ordered.

Dave started to wonder about the mother also as he stood there on the steps listening to the exchange between Horn-Rims and the girls.

"She probably went to the ranger's station for the activity schedule," Horn-Rims suggested with certainty.

"I'll go check the garage to see if the car is there," Dave decided. If the car was gone, it would tell them a lot.

"Wait until we have a flashlight!" Mark called after him but Dave was already off of the steps and jogging the few paces across the driveway and to the side door of the garage.

Both garage doors were down, but since he had been in the garage earlier in the day, he knew where the Fairlane would be parked. He entered the side door, shuffling his feet in the pitch blackness to be sure that he didn't stumble, as he reached out in search of the car. He touched the back fender and then came around the rear and to the left side. He wanted to check the ignition for the keys and yanked open the driver's door, when he did—the dome light came on.

The dead, lifeless eyes of Cindy Thompson appeared to be looking directly at him as she sat slumped behind the steering wheel. The scent of blood was thick in the air, wafting over him and filling his nostrils with the sickeningly sweet smell; a smell that he had always associated with hunting and a freshly killed and skinned rabbit. He stood rooted to the spot, unable to move, as his eyes lowered to her light-blue blouse which was saturated with her blood that had been flowing from a wound in her right temple and that had run down the side of her face and onto her blouse. Coming from his initial shock, Dave recoiled and in a panic stumbled backward away from the car and then he was running for the door because it all came together for him in an instant of clarity and he had no doubt that Horn-Rims was responsible for this.

When he came out of the garage he saw that Horn-Rims and the kids were no longer standing on the back porch and he ran through a new wave of pouring rain, crossing the drive and heading for the cabin. He leapt up the three steps in a single bound and grabbed the screen door handle, heading for the dim glow of a flashlight beam he could see coming from the living room when he heard a scream.

"Daddy, no!" cried Suzanna in a panic and as Dave raced to see what was happening to her, he heard the muffled blast of gunfire and more screams and then the light was extinguished and without a thought about it, Dave plunged headlong into the blackness, moving silently, in search of the others.

## Chapter 41

Fremont Gazette (continued from page one)

Hunts His Children

" _I don't know why I did it," Thompson admitted._

Bridget was the first to be shot. She was found by authorities where she had fallen and died, shot in the head just past the kitchen in the hallway leading to the living room. Barbara was next, chased by her father into her bedroom and shot in the head as she cowered in the back of her clothes closet. The others ran for cover, dashing through the dark house, and Thompson systematically hunted them, one by one with his .38 Special and later with his Winchester rifle, both modified with silencers. Thompson is a veteran police officer and did not shoot blindly but instead he was methodical and took his shots carefully.

Suzanna was next, executed as she lay upon the bathroom floor. Thompson said that she had run into the bathroom and had stumbled and fallen before she could close the door against him. She had pleaded with him for her life but he had pulled the trigger and then unloaded a second shot into her brain.

_Ricky was shot in the back and found just inside the kitchen door of the cabin, apparently trying to escape with his brother Tim and finally Tim, shot twice in the head and found in a pool of blood about one hundred yards from the cabin_.

I sobbed into my tissue and threw the newspaper article off of the bed. I looked at the clock on the nightstand: 1:00 p.m.

Dave appeared so very still and it had been ten _hours_ since I'd awoken at 3:00 a.m. He had to be getting close to dehydration and I considered that I was going to need to make a decision about whether to call for emergency help because if he didn't wake up soon, he was going to need, at the very least, some intravenous fluids. I started thinking about what I could possibly say to the authorities regarding his very apparent deep coma or worse, what if he never did wake up, what if he were to die—but I determinedly refused to let my thoughts go down that path, as I crawled over to sit by Dave's side and touched his face which felt cool. I reached out and pulled the sheet over him and then added the lightweight comforter from the foot of the bed.

"Come on, baby, Dave listen to my voice, and come home to me. Please!" I whispered as I placed my lips against his cool forehead and a tear fell from my eye, tracing along his skin as it slid toward his hairline and I wiped it away.

My mind turned to thoughts; sudden glimpses of our too brief times together and I remembered the first day that I had met him, that first look at him standing on the porch of this old house with his beautiful smile. The trips that we had made gathering supplies in Omaha, the night at Stevie's as we had bar-hopped in Fremont and I remembered his eyes on me when I had seen him at the lounge in Des Moines as he had watched me from across the crowded bar. There was the street dance and that first dangerously intense kiss that we had shared, then the night that I had come to his house for dinner and we had made love for the first time and he had showed me _finally_ and truly what a man is supposed to give to a woman—he had _made_ me a woman that night. So many little moments but all of them didn't add up to enough to last me my lifetime, not nearly enough. I wanted to love him and live with him for the rest of my life and grow old with him by my side. I lifted his head now, resting it in my lap and cradled him, smoothing his hair from his forehead and rocking him gently.

"Come home to me, Dave."

***

As Dave moved quietly through the house, he could see a penlight beam as Horn-Rims stalked another victim. He heard a blast somewhere in the recesses of the bedrooms and a moment later, feet running and then he heard a body hit the floor. He could hear Suzanna pleading, "Daddy, please don't!" and two muffled shots and then silence.

Dave moved to crouch behind a sofa and could hear frantic breathing close by his side; it was eleven-year-old Ricky. Dave reached out to take the little boy's hand and then whispered into his ear, "We have to get out of this house."

Ricky didn't speak but held Dave's hand tight, as together they came from behind the couch and started for the kitchen. They had to skirt around a body and Ricky gasped in shock and Dave could feel a shiver run through Ricky as the little boy unintentionally had stumbled over one of his sisters, her arm flung out in death. Dave tightened his grip on Ricky's hand, urging him on.

They made it to the kitchen and Dave reached out to find the kitchen table in the dark and drug Ricky around the obstruction but before they could get to the screen door that was just ahead, a beam lighted the room as if day and a muffled shot rang out, and Ricky was yanked from his grasp as the blast hit the little boy, throwing his body against the screen door to block it open. Another shot and Dave could feel a burning pain explode in the side of his head and then the floor rushed up to meet him as his head slammed onto the linoleum.

Stunned and nearly deafened from the percussion of the impact in the closed space of the kitchen, Dave struggled to lift his head and reached out a hand toward Ricky and fumbled in the dim light, finding his legs and shaking a foot which was limp and lifeless but Dave didn't have time to be sure because he could hear Horn-Rims boots coming around the kitchen table and Dave staggered unsteadily to his feet and careened toward the open door. He leapt from the back steps and ran across the driveway toward the boat dock, thinking that if he could just get to the water then maybe he would have a chance to survive.

He glanced behind him to look for Horn-Rims and when he did, he stumbled and fell ponderously onto the driveway, rolling to his back, just twenty yards short of his goal. The blood from his head wound was running into his eyes, mixing with the pouring rain, and he had just used the heels of his hands to clear his vision when he saw Horn-Rims just a few feet away and he watched him casually cock the Winchester rifle as he approached. There was a sudden crack of thunder that cut through the night and reverberated through the ground beneath Dave, from a lightning strike somewhere nearby but still Thompson kept coming.

Refusing to let the approaching evil be his last sight on earth, Dave closed his eyes and brought Torie's face to mind as he fervently, reverently studied the soft blue-gray eyes that were the doors to her very soul, her beautiful smile and her sweet full lips that he would never taste again and he spoke quietly, out loud to her, one final message.

"I love you, Torie."

Then the gravel crunched beneath Horn-Rims' feet and he could sense the man towering over him before he felt the deadly cold muzzle of the rifle against his forehead at point-blank range and Dave braced himself for the impact and didn't pray to God for courage to face his impending death but instead he whispered Torie's name, just one last time.

## Chapter 42

I entered the office and waited at the reception desk as the efficient secretary was busily fielding several phone calls.

"Reiner, Mitchell, and Jones, hold please. Reiner, Mitchell, and Jones, hold please."

"Miss Mills, if you would have a seat for just one moment, I'll let Mr. Mitchell know that you're here," she said with a courteous smile.

I took off my stocking cap and pea coat, tucking my hat and gloves into the sleeve of my coat and holding it over my arm; I took a seat in the stylishly decorated waiting area. I picked up a magazine and tried to find something that interested me to read but nothing caught my eye and I tossed it back onto the side table.

From my vantage point, I could see the frosted-glass door open, and John Sweeney with his wife Margaret came in, looking a bit lost.

"John! Margaret!" I called, waving my hand to get their attention.

"Hey, Torie, there you are. We had a little trouble finding a parking place. Glad we aren't late."

"I think they'll be ready for us in just a few minutes," I said and smiled. "Did you read over all of the verbiage of the contract? Look good?"

The couple removed their coats and Margaret unwound a multi-colored scarf from her head and John hung their things on a nearby coat tree.

"Torie," he said indicating my coat.

"Oh, thanks, John," I said, allowing him to take my coat and hang it for me, beside theirs.

John took a seat then, across from me and he used his thumb and finger to push his glasses up on his nose, nodding.

"It is just such a wonderful gift for the genealogical society."

"It's my pleasure, John. I can't wait for the next five years and to watch all of your plans come to life. To see the property used for educational purposes will be a wonderful addition to Fremont and with the five acres that go along with the house, you will have plenty of space to spread out and grow."

"Torie, we're forever indebted to you. The community of Fremont and really _all_ of the Eastern Iowa counties this facility will serve. Are you sure about the antiques and photographs inside the house? You want to leave everything as is?"

"Torie, John, Margaret, come on in," a man's voice called cordially.

I nodded my answer to John and taking a deep breath, followed Greg Mitchell, a prominent Oskaloosa lawyer and champion of our cause. Greg is forty, handsome, and unattached and he had been a little too interested in me early on in the process but we are on the same page now.

"Please, everyone, have a seat," he indicated the chairs across from his desk, and holding his tie to keep it from sweeping the desktop, he took his seat back behind. "As we discussed on the phone last night, Torie, this is just a finalization of the contract that each of you have already approved and once we file the papers with the state tomorrow, the responsibility for the property, will be permanently transferred to the society."

I nodded and smiled at John who was looking like a kid on Christmas morning. I fervently hope that he will make the place everything that he is dreaming it could be.

"Shall we begin?" Greg asked.

"Please," I said.

"As John wished and you agreed, Torie, the formal ownership of your property will become that of the genealogical society with no reference to Mr. Cameron or yourself, however, it is understood that the planned Renovation, Trade, and Farming Sciences addition expected within the next five years will be known as the David Samuel Cameron Learning Center."

John looked at me for my approval, and I nodded.

"Dave would have never agreed to this," I said. "It'd be too over-the-top for him, but it's my decision."

Everyone nodded immediately in total agreement.

"Item two. A yearly donation from the Neumann Mills 2012 Charity Trust in the amount of ten thousand US dollars annually to be paid within the first month of each calendar year for the upkeep of the residence and to pay any expenses necessary for the year, as long as the trust remains sustainable. If the trust becomes insolvent, the monetary contributions with be deemed fulfilled. Torie has made the initial contribution for the current year, and the trust has been advanced one million dollars from Torie, pending the publication of her book project still in progress."

"And lastly, it is understood that the property on 140th Avenue also known as York Avenue in the state of Iowa, County of Mahaska, Township of Cedar, town of Fremont will forever and always be considered a public building and will not now or hereafter be used as a private residence. Neither will the property have any overnight visitors or school-related retreats, reunions, or conventions. If this meets with everyone's approval, then all I need is your John Hancock's and we'll be out of here."

"John and Margaret, you first," I said.

Greg Mitchell moved his pen holder and paperweight, placing the document before John, who signed and then handed the pen to his wife and indicated with his index finger on the document, where she should sign.

"Be sure to put your title of treasurer," John reminded her.

Mr. Mitchell looked at me next and slid the paper over and I quickly added my signature. _Finally over and done,_ I thought and I had mixed emotions about that truth. I felt a huge sense of relief, as if a heavy weight had been lifted off of my shoulders and I was thankful that no one else would _ever_ face the horror that I was unable to save Dave from experiencing but I would and already _did_ miss seeing my ancestors; so many people who were lost to me now forever—Lucy, Rose, Grandpa Henry and so many others that I had come to know and love. I will cherish what I lived and learned from them and I am determined to use those lessons to make my own life rich and full. I know now that I am capable of giving myself completely to a man and how to be successful at it because thanks to Grandma Rose and the rest, I have many good examples of loving relationships to draw from.

We all stood and shook hands, and I hugged John and Margaret and swept my hand before me indicating that they should precede me.

"Hang on, Torie," Greg said.

I stopped and looked back at him leerily, wondering what he had in mind. I hoped that he wasn't going to say anything that might make me feel uncomfortable or require me to awkwardly refuse his advances again. I didn't quite know what else we had to settle.

"Go ahead, John, Margaret. Don't wait for me. I'll be calling you soon."

As the couple left and closed the door behind them, Greg took a seat at his desk.

"What is it, Greg?" I asked, not taking the chair that he offered with a gesture of his hand.

"I had just hoped that maybe I could trouble you for..." he said as he reached into his desk drawer and then pulled out a hard cover copy of my novel. "An autograph?"

"What!" I laughed. "You're a romance reader?"

"No, but my sister is. Her birthday's next week."

I had to shake my head at this and reached for his pen.

"What's her name?"

"Julia," he said.

"There you go," I said after writing one of my standard lines and closing the cover, handing the book back to him while placing his pen back into its holder.

"I really need to get going but again thank you for all of your assistance during the transfer."

He rose from his desk and escorted me to the waiting room.

"I hope to see you again someday, Torie," he said and smiled with genuine warmth.

I really hoped that I wouldn't have any need for a lawyer in the foreseeable future but I shook his hand, retrieved and got into my coat, and plopped my blue knit hat upon my head, moving toward the door.

"Thank you. Good-bye, Greg."

***

As I stepped out into the cool early October evening, the harvest moon was just rising over the square and a tumble of dry, crisp autumn leaves, scattered by the wind, danced out of my way.

My Nissan Pathfinder was parked at the curb before me as I came down the steps and leaning against the side, with his hands in the pockets of his Hawkeye jacket was a very curious lawbreaker.

"Hey, I think that you are in a no-parking zone, boss."

"You gonna tell me now why I wasn't invited to this little meeting?" Dave asked and gave me his most serious expression.

"You wouldn't have approved of all of the details of the agreement."

"Hmm, that doesn't sound good," he decided as he stepped forward to meet me on the sidewalk and with his hands still in his coat pockets, leaned forward to give me a warm kiss.

"Hey, you'll have to read all about it in the papers tomorrow. We'll go out early for breakfast and pick one up," I offered.

"Not too early. They're saying thunderstorms in the early a.m., and you're going to be in my bed and in my arms until the last rumble of thunder, my love," he said seriously, and I knew that he meant every single word.

## Chapter 43

"Dave, sweetheart, are you sure about this?" I asked and slid over beside him on the seat of his Ford F-150.

He let the engine idle as we sat on the edge of the drive into the Arbor Hill's Cemetery in Ottumwa and I put my chin on his shoulder and kissed his cheek. It had been two weeks since we had given the house to the genealogical society, and we had just passed the one-month anniversary since that last horrible time warp had come to an end.

We had made it through so much over the last month and I didn't know whether this trip, on a gloomy October afternoon, was a mistake or if he was strong enough yet, to handle it. Dave was staring down the long, winding drive and I could tell that he was having second thoughts himself, likely fearing what it might do to the fragile state of his mental health.

Dave had returned from that last time warp at the last possible moment. He had heard the blast and had waited for the pain of that final bullet to enter his brain, but he had never felt it. When he had returned, his head had been in my lap, and he had just buried his face in my chest, his arms coming around me fiercely as he had pulled me down beside him, hugging me so tight, just saying my name over and over again. When he had finally pulled back enough to see my face, he had reached out with his hands and smoothed my tears away, kissing me softly and we had left Rose's house immediately that afternoon and had not returned to spend the night there again.

The first few days after that last warp Dave had been like a war veteran, experiencing post-traumatic stress disorder. We had gone back to the house later that same day and had gathered up all of the newspaper articles from where they had been scattered about my bedroom and we had taken them home to Dave's house and he had read every single article regarding the murders, more than once and then he had talked—he had talked to me for hours and hours, going over it again and again. It had been hard for me to hear, but he had needed to talk about it so that he could get it all out and begin to deal with it.

There had been many difficult memories from that day, but the most painful for him were those regarding Ricky. It tore Dave to bits to talk about it, because he had wanted to reach out to help Ricky but he'd had no time. He recanted every moment; from when Ricky had been ripped from his grasp by the impact of the bullet, to the burning pain in his own head when a bullet had struck him in his left temple; his left eye instantly filling with blood and completely blurring his vision as he had hit the floor. He said that then it had been just total frenzy as his sudden instinct to simply survive had kicked in and he had left Ricky behind as he had run, just as Tim had done fifty years ago; running for his life.

Dave Cameron, the thirty-eight-year-old man that he had been on the _inside_ that night—could _not_ reconcile that he had left an innocent young child behind. It made him question his own ability and his courage—not sixteen-year-old Tim's courage, but his own. He had been an adult on the inside that night and he felt that he should've been able to do _something_.

"Tim couldn't have saved Ricky's life, Dave. He couldn't even save his own life and Ricky was dead before Tim ever ran out that door," I gently reminded him, as he wiped a tear from his face with the palm of his hand and nodded, unable to speak.

He had found himself questioning why he had survived when all of them had died and even though it had been fifty years ago and he'd had no power in the situation and could not have re-written history, he still felt guilty over his inability to stop it from happening. He had shed many tears for the victims, especially for the young kids whom he had come to know so well over the course of the experience and we had made pilgrimages, to all of the points on that journey that he had lived through that terrible day and he had told me _everything_.

When we had stood on the bridge over the Des Moines River, he had talked about the pointless hours that he'd spent hiking. The abuse that he had endured as a slight and defenseless young boy as Thompson's bizarre behavior had escalated to the point where he had nearly thrown Tim off of a steep cliff. Dave felt that he should've known that something big was about to take place but I reminded him that he'd had no way of knowing what had been coming.

When we'd stood where the cabin had once been and which had been bulldozed and the remnants removed fifty years ago, he had told me about the horrible bruises that had been on Tim's body and he was and still is angry that not one article had brought those up and that Thompson had gotten away with that crime and Dave still wondered what story had been there beneath the bruises that no one would ever know about. Then he had shown me and we had walked the path that he had run that night in the pouring rain and he showed me the boat dock which had been his goal and where he had stumbled and fallen to the ground and where Tim Thompson had died.

I came back from my musings when Dave took a deep determined breath.

"I need to do this," he said quietly.

I nodded, and he leaned over to kiss my temple as he turned the truck into the entrance and we drove along the park like setting, looking for section "D".

I climbed out of his driver's door after him while he reached into the bed and lifted the six blood-red rose covered wreaths. I took a couple from his hands, and together, we started searching for the markers.

"Torie!" he called to me softly as we had started to get separated as we browsed. "Here they are."

I hurried over to his side and saw the unassuming stone for Cindy and the five smaller stones for the children. The six matching dates of death, July 3, 1959, told of some tragic happening, and would be obvious to any visitor, even without knowing their sad story—those matching dates spoke volumes.

Dave dropped down onto one knee before the stone for Tim, placing the wire holder and pushing it into the earth, then mounting the wreath above his marker as he absently brushed a dry leaf off of the face of the headstone.

One by one, we placed the wreaths for each of the others, and then Dave took a deep breath as we stood back a pace and looked at our work. He put his arm around my shoulders, and I put my arm around his waist and looked up into his eyes, which were bright with unshed tears.

"I'm ready to move on from this, Torie. I think I can let it go now."

I turned to hug him tight, as he bent to kiss my lips tenderly and I reached up and used my thumb to brush away a tear from his cheek, and he used his index finger to smooth a tear away from my cheek as well and we both smiled.

"I love you, Dave. Let's go. We have our own lives to live now." And with a last look and wrapped in each other's arms, we turned and started toward our waiting truck.

## Epilogue

The fire crackled with a relaxing effect as I sat at my desk in the family room and looked out of the large wall of windows, to the empty fields that stretched out before me, lying under a blanket of fresh snow. To the left I could glimpse the gas grill and deck furniture that were all tucked in warm and cozy under tarps to wait out the long Iowa winter ahead.

It had been a whirlwind of a November for Dave and me. We'd married quietly at the county courthouse in Oskaloosa on my birthday, the second day of the month and Mindy and Dave's high school buddy Jeff Allman had stood up with us as witnesses, and afterward, we'd all come back to Fremont and had lunch at the Finish Line to celebrate. Char had given us each a piece of apple pie à la mode on the house as a wedding gift and the entire day had been just the most perfect low-key event—just perfect.

On November 4th, after we dropped Shadow off at The Barking Lot kennel in Urbandale, we had driven to the airport and were off for a honeymoon getaway to Naples, Florida which had included a romantic three day sailing cruise around the Florida Keys, courtesy of my dad, before making the pilgrimage to his home on Marco Island to spend a couple of days with he and his wife, my stepmother Sandy. Next we rented a car and drove to Tampa so that I could meet Dave's brothers Mike and Kyle and their families before driving on to Birmingham, Alabama to meet Dave's brother Adam and we had spent a couple of days with his family, before heading home to Iowa.

We will meet the rest and celebrate three events: our marriage, New Year's Eve, and Dave's thirty-ninth birthday, on December 31st when we will be hosting all of our family and friends at a mega party and reception in Las Vegas for a four-day extravaganza at the Bellagio. Our wedding might have only cost us the fifty-dollar court fee to the state of Iowa but our million-dollar reception is going to be legendary!

When we had returned to Fremont after our trip, we'd headed out for another short trip, to Cedar County to look at all of the locations of mine and Claire's novel, _Claire White of Cedar County Iowa_. It had been just what I'd needed to get my creative juices flowing again, so that I could finish and I'd just typed the last word only minutes ago.

"Hey, boss," Dave said as he placed a mug of coffee beside me.

I looked up, and he bent down to give me a kiss on my lips and then he put his arms around my shoulders, kissing my neck gently.

"Paper says we officially got four inches," he said looking over my shoulder and out the window.

"Another long, cold Iowa winter but I don't think that I'm going to mind it this year, not with you sharing it with me," I confessed, leaning my face close to his as he rested his chin on my shoulder.

"You finished with it?"

"Just now," I said and scrolled to the beginning of the novel and showed him the title that I'd officially decided on.

"Nice. I think that Claire would be pleased."

I scrolled to the first chapter and pointed to the screen.

"There you are, that's your character and check this out," I said opening a file on my computer. "Judy Bullard just sent this final a few minutes ago, the official cover photograph."

The photo depicted a battle-ravaged scene of the Civil War in the background and in the foreground my beautiful leading lady Claire with long dark-brown hair and sky-blue eyes and her handsome man; he holding his musket in one hand and dressed in a navy-blue Union uniform; taking her into his arms for a last desperate, passionate farewell kiss.

"You decided on _Jimmy Thomas_ I see."

"Never any question about it. He's the best at what he does," I reminded him.

Dave studied the photograph for a moment and then said with a rather amazed tone of voice, "You know, I do kinda look like him, don't I?"

"Do ya think?" I said and laughed as I rolled my eyes and turned in my chair to face him. I closed my computer and rose, brushing my fingertips along Dave's jaw and then I reached to take him by the hand. "Come with me, husband."

"Hey, what about your fresh cup of coffee?" he questioned.

"I'll reheat it."

I clasped his hand in mine and led him through the house and up the stairs to our bedroom, entering with him in tow.

"I'm ovulating and we are supposed to be taking advantage, remember?"

He chuckled as he stripped his sweater off over his head and began unbuttoning his jeans.

"My work is never done," he grumbled but looked ever so pleased about performing this husbandly duty.

I gave him a soft kiss. "For luck," I said. "Now, let's make us a baby."

## Book #2 Into the Future Excerpt

Dave

As I waited for Torie to join me for our entrance into the reception, I leaned against the window frame and took a sip of my beer, looking down a few floors below to the bustle of the evening traffic of taxis and tourists along the Las Vegas strip. It was a constant stream of movement and color, until the scene was dwarfed by the beginning of another choreographed show from the fountains, which demanded everyone's attention. All along the sidewalk before the reflecting pool, the crowds stopped to take in the spectacle. Even without the music to enhance the experience, just watching from above as the geysers blasted into the air with complicated precision was an amazing sight to see.

I turned at the sound of commotion coming from down the hallway and saw pouring out of the women's lounge, a steady stream of my family. Two teenaged daughters of my oldest brother Mike stopped to glance out of the window beside me and squealed with excitement at the fountain show, before joining two of my brother Adam's little girls in giving me a group hug. I lifted my beer up out of the way before it became a casualty of their enthusiasm.

"Uncle Dave, you're the best uncle ever!" eight-year-old Tanner informed me. I think that I had earned this title for yesterday when I had spent a good part of the afternoon being a human catapult for all of the kids in the pool. Talk about a work out. My brother Mike and I'd had kids flying everywhere!

"Love you, Uncle Dave," Amy, a bubbly fifteen-year-old gushed and grabbed her younger cousin Tiffany's hand as they all rushed off to share the fountain news with anyone in the ballroom who might be interested.

"Amy! Tanner! Tiffany! There will be plenty of time for that later. It's time for dinner," my mom, looking totally frazzled, called after them and then looking at me, gave a helpless shake of her head.

"Torie will be right out," she assured me. "You look very handsome, honey."

She reached up to give me a quick kiss and a squeeze of my forearm before ordering "Ella, Sophia—let's go girls," as she and Torie's stepmother Sandy shooed the rest of my nieces in the direction of the ballroom.

"Hey, handsome," Mindy said with a flirty wink as she and Torie's sisters passed by. "She'll be right out."

"Remember, the two of you need to come in the farthest doors, closest to the stage," a stressed out Margo ordered and gestured, pointing down the hall as she breezed on by.

Sarah rolled her eyes and then mouthed silently, "Sorry." to me as she hooked arms with Margo.

"I think they've got it, sis," she said with a shake of her head. "Margo, you are going to have a heart attack if you don't chill."

I held my drink out toward Sarah, indicating my half full glass. "Would you, please?"

She took it from my hand as Margo gestured again.

"The furthest doors, Dave, don't forget," she repeated as Sarah hustled her toward the open ballroom door.

"Got it, Margo," I nodded, giving her a thumb's up. "We'll be right in."

The hallway became quiet again as the ballroom doors were closed, muffling the music which had been piped in for pre-dinner dancing and then the women's lounge door opened once more.

I gazed down the corridor to see an auburn-haired vision in long-sleeved sparkling silk, with a neckline that plunged down to show just enough of the swell of her perfect breasts and a thigh-high hem, short enough to showcase silky-smooth legs, as she strutted languidly in my direction.

I stood in absolute awe of her. I will never tire of watching her heading in my direction with a grace and fluidity that screams _woman approaching_. Without even trying—she buckles my knees. It has been almost two months of marriage, and the surge of heat and the rush of my pulse quickening at the mere sight of her only becomes stronger with each passing day.

## Works by Dana Roquet

The Heritage Time Travel Romance series

Out of the Past, book #1

Into the Future, book #2

Forevermore, book #3

Coming Soon

Enduring Gift, book #4

Heritage Time Travel Romance series

PG-13 All Iowa Edition

Out of the Past, book #1

Into the Future, book #2

Forevermore, book #3

Coming Soon

Enduring Gift, book #4

PG-13 All Iowa Edition

Love's Vengeance
