Tish and I – and Derrick Yancy – were the only ones who remembered anything about the alternate timeline.
My sister and Case sat on the adjacent couch, Case’s arms wrapped almost double around Tish as she snuggled close to him, her head on his shoulder. Because the kids were present we had not related extensive details about what we’d been through; full disclosure could come later, after we’d slept. And…been allowed a little time to heal.
Malcolm, I thought for the countless time, with bittersweet acknowledgment of the tender ache that would, forever after, exist deep in my heart.
I could never thank Malcolm Carter enough, could never hope to repay him for what he’d done to restore my life. I prayed that in return he kept his promise and lived out the remainder of his life seeking happiness rather than running from it; I prayed he had eventually married and become a father. I’d come quickly to recognize that any chance of a child created during our night in Muscatine was an impossibility; with the righting of our timeline my body had been restored to its former condition, the one which had given birth to five babies and was currently nursing the newest. I would not bear Malcolm’s baby; the memory of our lovemaking, I decided, would remain sacred, existing between us alone. I would never see Malcolm again and it was the least I could do for him.
Someday, when I was brave enough, I would look for clues. I would search for hints as to Malcolm’s later life in old documents, letters, telegrams…
Or…maybe I would not.
Maybe, as Ruthie said, the past was better left in the past.
I cupped my husband’s face with my free hand, his thick black beard soft atop the firm line of his solid jaw, and his beautiful eyes, the deep blue of Flickertail beneath summer sunshine, crinkled at the outer corners as he grinned. The sight of his grin caused the next breath to lodge in my chest; the bridge of my nose stung with unshed tears. Malcolm’s spirit, his very essence, shone so clearly in Mathias’s every movement, his every expression. And I recognized all over again the depth of connection our two souls had shared since time began; in this way, Malcolm would never be far from my side.
“My sweet woman,” Mathias murmured, leaning close to steal a quick, soft kiss, tucking wayward curls behind my right ear. “It’s been a hell of a night, hasn’t it?”
I thought of leaping from a bedroom window into Malcolm’s arms; for me, that moment had occurred but hours ago.
“It has,” I whispered, edging closer to him, cuddling our baby between us. “A hell of a night.”
Derrick Yancy, perched on an ottoman between the two couches, looked up from scooping dip onto a handful of chips. A week ago the Rawleys, let alone Tish and Case, would never have welcomed Derrick into their home. But things had changed. Fallon’s death had been the catalyst in a series of events that culminated, at least in one immediate way, in a distinct difference in Derrick’s persona. He seemed, in fact, almost giddy.
He broke free from his past. He took action and shed his connection to Dredd. And, more importantly, from Fallon, whose natural life should have ended over a century ago.
“It was only a ploy,” Derrick had explained earlier, referring to his family’s attempt to reclaim the Rawley and Spicer homesteads for themselves. “I don’t want this land. I never did, it was only ever for Fallon’s sake. I hate Montana, if you want to know the truth. I fucking hate nature. I’ve wanted to move to Manhattan for years now and I told my father so this evening.”
“What about Fallon?” Tish whispered. “How will you explain his absence?”
We would not learn until much later exactly what had occurred in the final moments of Fallon’s life; Ruthie was unable to speak of it for many months afterward. At that point, I assumed Fallon had died from gunshot wounds inflicted by Malcolm and Cole. Derrick responded quietly, “No one in this century ever has to know, for sure. My father will assume, I suppose, that Fallon reached a point where he was unable to return to the future. Or that he simply died in the past.” Derrick’s brows drew inward. “He should have died long ago, as it is.”
“I think it’s a wonderful decision for you, moving to New York. It suits you. You seem different. But in a good way,” Tish added hastily. “I mean that.”
Derrick looked intently at her for only a second, before sighing and softening his gaze. “It is pretty wonderful, isn’t it?” A small smile tipped his lips. “I’d hate to come up against you in a court of law. I wouldn’t stand a chance.”
Robbie Benson was still alive in this timeline. Tish had called him almost immediately after we’d spoken to Mom and Aunt Jilly, to Grandma and Aunt Ellen – everyone in Landon accounted for, their lives, and therefore ours, blessedly returned to normal; at some point, I would ask Aunt Jilly if she remembered anything. No one else seemed to retain a hint of it, thank goodness, but Robbie had in fact remembered something even more important – Tish’s warning to steer clear of all dealings with the Turnbulls. After law school he had gone to work for a small nonprofit and lived in a Chicago suburb along with his wife, a woman he’d met in France while on spring break.
Ruthie called later with the news that Marshall was in stable condition, currently sleeping, and that she
