She lifted to one elbow, the quilt sliding to her waist. “How much you remind me of Ruthann. Not only are you similar in appearance, but your mannerisms are quite alike.” She sighed as I lifted my eyes to hers, holding my gaze with sympathy and sorrow. Thunder rumbled over the crying of the rain, followed seconds later by a burst of lightning; the window momentarily glowed bright blue. “I miss Ruthann every day. I pray, for all our sakes, that your actions have restored your future lives to that which you recall.”
“She loves you very much,” I told Patricia. “For you, not just because you’re so much like our sister, Tish. And I pray the same, that what we’ve accomplished today will change things. But how will we know? I thought once that happened, Derrick and I would immediately be returned to the future.” A shiver clawed at my nape and I fought the urge to look over my shoulder, toward the shadows gathered in the corners of the room. “It must mean we have to finish things here, first.”
“And by that, of course, you are referring to Fallon.” Patricia was equally frightened by his name, her eyes following a similar path along the dark edges around us. “Malcolm has dispatched two of Fallon’s associates this day, which shall infuriate him. He counted upon Vole, especially, to carry out his orders in this century. I am glad to hear of their deaths. I wish only that they would have suffered, prior.” She shuddered, drawing the quilt back to her shoulders. “Filthy bastards. Turnbull attempted to rape Ruthann, the selfsame night she and I met. I am proud to say I struck his head with a stick of firewood. If only I had killed him then! And if not for Vole, Miles Rawley would be alive this very day.”
“And Ruthie would be his wife,” I whispered, marveling at the strangeness of the thought. What would Marshall have done, had he arrived in the nineteenth century to find Ruthann married to another man? It was, of course, no stranger than the fact that I’d made love with a man other than my husband – but who was my husband, here in this place.
A hard knot of longing grew in my heart, interrupting its continuous beat.
Mathias. Oh God, I miss you. I know you’re here, in Malcolm, but I still miss you. I need you to be there when I get back home, the you I remember, the life we both remember. I have no place in the future, not without you.
“Miles loved her with all his heart, that is true. I believe Ruthie would have been happy with him, had fate taken that particular path.” Patricia was perceptive and blunt; she was Tish, after all. She whispered, “Malcolm is quite desperately in love with you. He is your husband in this life, is he not?”
I tried to swallow the massive lump in my throat so I could respond.
Patricia saw I was beyond words, continuing softly, “Surely it is your resemblance and connection to Ruthann that inspires my trust. She spoke so often of you, and Tish, and the men with whom you share your lives. The love you share.” She paused, inhaling a short breath. “I love two men, Camille, and though I am ashamed to acknowledge it because it is far less than either deserve, it is no less true.”
I looked up. Her eyes were like blue spears.
“Axton,” she whispered, bringing her folded hands to her lips. “I love Axton Douglas, very deeply. And yet, I also love Cole. I have chosen to share my life with Cole, and sworn to myself I would forget Axton, but to do so I’ve suffered a cleaving. Here.” She rested a hand to her heart. “And I fear it will never fully heal. I would never dishonor Cole by confessing to my love for another man, and I trust you to keep my dreadful secret, as did Ruthann, but the fact remains.”
“Axton, who’s out west with Ruthie and Marsh right now?”
Tears rimmed her lower lids. “I ache with missing him. I am a selfish beast.”
“But…” I sifted through the enormous amount of information Ruthann had divulged the night she reappeared at Shore Leave, searching for the relevant detail. “Wait. Axton is who Ruthie believes Case is, in the future. Right?”
Patricia nodded slowly, unable to staunch the flow of tears; she used the quilt to blot her eyes, speaking in a strangled voice. “Derrick spoke of…what happened to Case Spicer, your sister’s husband.”
“Tish was destroyed,” I whispered, flinching at the memory. “And it’s all the more reason we have to stop every possibility of that timeline ever existing.” No sooner had the words cleared my lips than I sat straight as if jabbed in the ribs, eyes leaping to the west-facing windows. The curtains were drawn on the stormy night but it was not the violent clap of thunder that commanded my sudden attention. Jolted by both the noise and my abrupt motion, Monty stiffened and began to fuss.
“What is it?” Patricia gasped.
Alerted to danger but unable yet to answer, I stretched outward with my mind, toward Ruthann, all senses firing. In light of today’s chaos I’d been allowed no time to imagine my little sister’s reaction to the news that I was here in 1882. The Ruthann out there in Montana tonight had not experienced the fire and its horrible aftermath; she was roughly a week behind the Ruthie who had surfaced in Flickertail Lake burdened with the knowledge of those events. But tonight was when Fallon had intended to burn the Rawleys’ homestead.
“Ruthie…” I gritted my teeth, straining to reach her.
“Something has happened? Something is wrong?” Patricia’s voice was high
