“But that doesn’t stop other timelines from existing simultaneously,” Mathias said, and I nodded, thinking of my conversations with Aunt Jilly. I wished she was here, too.
“I think it seems more like a river or something,” Quinn said, addressing Camille. “Flowing without stopping, I mean. And we’re all caught in the current but some people can sort of, you know, bob out of the current.”
“Right. Like Marsh and Ruthie,” Camille said.
“And this Franklin fellow, the imposter,” Clark mused. Dear Clark, possibly the sweetest man alive, a kind and quiet soul who had never remarried after the death of his beloved wife, Faye. I wanted to see Clark smiling and jovial again, as he’d been when I first knew him. It seemed the lines of worry and distress carved into his forehead would never again be smoothed away. It was grossly unfair to lose a spouse so young, but another wrong entirely for a father to lose his son. And Clark had now experienced both.
“Derrick has insisted on more than one occasion that Franklin, whoever the hell he really is, is dangerous,” I said, gaining steam. “And after having met him, I believe it. He was armed, for Christ’s sake, there on the street in Chicago headed for a funeral. And Franklin knew us. How could he have known us, unless…” My thoughts whirled, seeking something that defied reason.
“Unless he knows who you used to be. That has to be it.” Camille’s eyes were now intent upon mine. Awareness crackled between us, sending shivers radiating to my fingertips and toes.
“Cole,” I whispered. Before I knew I had moved, I was clutching my midsection. “Franklin knows Cole Spicer, I’m sure of it.”
“That’s who Case used to be, right?” Sean asked. No question seemed too strange these days.
“That’s what we believe,” I affirmed, unable to look away from Case. “And Cole is who allegedly shot and killed Derrick and Franklin’s ancestor, Thomas Yancy.”
“He no doubt deserved killing,” Clark said, and I felt another rush of vindication; I could not have loved the Rawleys more if they were my own family. Their loyalty and devotion was unparalleled.
“We planned to head back to Minnesota next weekend,” Mathias said, his wide shoulders rising with a deep inhalation. Determination radiated from his posture and his eyes; he made a fist and cupped it within his other hand, knuckles forming ridges. Rarely had I seen him appear so grave, mouth solemn rather than grinning; I’d always associated lighthearted cheer with my brother-in-law. He added, “So I say, let’s do this.”
“No time like the present,” Quinn murmured, with a half-smile acknowledging the irony.
“Tomorrow night is the full moon,” Clark said, lacing his fingers as though to prevent tense fidgeting. “And it’s supposed to be clear.”
Case said, “We’ll be ready.”
The front door burst wide, emitting a blast of chilly air along with Wy, Millie Jo, Lorie, and the twins. Their screaming, laughing presence effectively ended the conversation but something had taken root in my heart as potently as the baby had taken root in my womb.
Hope.
Chapter Ten
Jalesville, MT - March, 2014
UNWILLING TO PART FROM EACH OTHER’S COMPANY, CASE and I met Mathias and Camille at The Spoke that night; Garth and Becky intended to join us later in the evening. The Saturday night mood was raucous, the familiar little bar noisy and crowded, bathed in neon and good cheer. The Spoke was owned by Clark’s younger sister, Julie Heller, and her husband; their daughters, Pam, Lee, and Netta, ran the entire show. After hugs and congratulations, (along with a glass of 7UP for me), Pam made sure we had a constant supply of beer. The band tonight was a local father and son duet, and within two songs they’d persuaded Case and Mathias to join them on stage. It didn’t exactly take much arm-twisting; both of our men were at home singing and making music.
“They look so right up there,” Camille said, beaming and clapping as Mathias sent her a wink as he accepted both a cowboy hat and the microphone. Clad in a fitted turquoise-blue sweater and faded jeans tucked into snow boots, the dark cloud of her hair spilling over her shoulders and down her back, Camille looked all of about seventeen years old, and determined to enjoy the evening. “I swear it was just yesterday that Mathias was up there for the first time, singing with Case and Marsh and Garth.” She looked my way, her lips softening into a fond smile. “Even that night I realized you and Ruthie should be here with me. That our men were up there, singing, and you guys weren’t even here to see it.”
“A lot had to happen in the meantime,” I whispered, watching Case as he positioned a borrowed fiddle beneath his jaw. My throat ached at the memory of what I’d put Case through before I understood that he was mine, that we belonged together.
When you know, you just know, he’d once said.
And I know you are for me, Patricia.
“Ax,” I heard myself whisper.
My hands were in fists.
Camille, seated to my left, leaned closer. “I can’t hear over the music. Did you just say ‘ax?’” She angled her beer bottle so I could better see the label, which featured a well-built man wielding what appeared to be a battleax. The beer, Warrior’s Ale, was from a local brewery.
“I…” Words stuck to my tongue; I slowly shook my head, indicating never mind.
The past year I’d spent so much time sitting at this very table along with Ruthie
