But I knew it could not be that simple; I sensed Fallon out there somewhere, far more dangerous than I had formerly believed, and more than ready to destroy all that Ruthann and I held dear, for the simple pleasure it would bring him. He despised us for reasons I was only beginning to understand. We had parted ways from Ruthie, Axton, and Marshall for that very reason, praying it would prove more difficult for Fallon to find any of us. Even if Ruthann and her Marshall returned to their original time period they would not be entirely safe from Fallon, for he could follow them there. And so the only logical conclusion I could reach was that Fallon must be killed; the sooner, the better.
I had reconciled myself to a life without my dearest friend, ready to endure the consequences no matter what the personal cost. I closed my eyes, seeing Ruthann’s beautiful face and the warmth of her direct gaze. I would never have survived the past winter if not for her; she was yet another person my heart ached with loving. How did one begin to separate the two emotions? Were love and pain meant to be intertwined, an inevitable pairing of deepest feeling?
You and my sister share a soul, Ruthann had said. You are my sister, in this place.
Together we had spoken of the future – the present, as Ruthie knew the twenty-first century – and therefore I had learned of a man named Case Spicer to whom her sister, Tish, was blissfully wed. This knowledge stimulated many a discussion, the two of us speaking in hushed voices late into the night hours. Prisoners in a Catholic convent in western Illinois, we had talked to ease the desperate fear which would have otherwise overwhelmed us.
I know Cole and Case have the same last name but it’s Axton who reminds me most of Case, I swear, Patricia. I truly believe that Axton is Case in the future, not Cole.
And so I clung to Ruthann’s conviction; the promise that somewhere in time Axton and I would find one another. We could not be together in this life but at least I retained the assurance of a future life together.
Let it be so, dear God, let this come to pass.
I cannot survive this life without the promise of the next.
And the reproaches blazed anew, as painful as if I stood in the center of a roaring fire.
Chapter Eight
The Iowa Plains - June, 1882
I LONGED FOR AN ESCAPE FROM THE CLAUSTROPHOBIC CON-fines of the wagon bed and so Cole wrapped me in a thick shawl and we joined Malcolm and Blythe at the breakfast fire, where Malcolm crouched poking at golden-brown biscuits with an iron cooking tool. Blythe sat cross-legged on its far side, warming his large, gnarled hands. Both men hurried to their feet at the sight of me, offering polite greetings and gladness at my appearance.
Despite the shawl and the heat thrown by the fire, to say nothing of Monty’s plump warmth in my arms, I could not contain a shiver. But I was determined to take the air for a moment’s time and restrained further trembling, with effort. Cole settled a tattered wool blanket over the ground and then helped me to sit; I sensed the way he withheld concerned commentary, and was grateful.
“Those look delightful,” I told Malcolm; my voice emerged thin and pale. I was unaccustomed to illness, to personal weakness in general.
“Thank you kindly, ma’am,” Malcolm replied, his kind, dark eyes flashing to my face as he reclaimed his crouch beside the crackling fire. “I ain’t much of a cook but I do have biscuits down to an art, if I do say so myself.”
“And thank you for entertaining Monty. He is quite taken with you.” I smiled at my contented son, whose eyes appeared as bright as gems in the dawn’s light. Despite Malcolm’s striking physical stature and outgoing, demonstrative nature, there existed within him a deep well of tenderness; the baby seemed to sense it and had ceased crying on several occasions after being placed in Malcolm’s arms. I acknowledged, with a sharp pang of guilt, that he had likely held my son as often as I on our journey northwest from the convent.
“Young’uns always are,” Malcolm affirmed with an air of gentle teasing. “Between my brother and Becky, and Sawyer and Lorie, I have an even dozen nieces and nephews. And it ain’t no lie that I’m the favorite among them-all.”
“Among the Rawley children, as well,” I commented, recalling the way the youthful offspring of Miles’s three brothers had clambered all over Malcolm during our brief time in their rowdy company.
Blythe Tilson remained reticent; I’d learned he was an observer rather than a talker. Besides, Malcolm chatted enough for any two people. Though I desired greatly to know, I was hesitant to inquire how my presence would be received by Malcolm’s relations in northern Minnesota, whenever fate decreed we should arrive at their home; I thought of them in conjunction with Malcolm rather than Ruthann, though she too possessed a familial connection. Cole had provided for me all the details Ruthann had been unable to supply regarding her ancestors in this century; the Davis family, along with Malcolm’s older brother, Boyd Carter, had established and settled homesteads along the wooded lakefront thirteen years ago, in the summer of 1869. One day, many decades from now, their descendants would manage successful businesses in the selfsame area, places with picturesque names to conjure countless striking images in my mind.
Flickertail Lake. Landon. Fisherman’s Street.
