Fifteen minutes later, he turned into the island’s almost empty parking lot. On an average day, the island had about four hundred visitors. But today, either they’d come earlier or were coming later, but at least they weren’t here now.
Since it was May, pink and white cherry blossom petals now littered the ground. He crossed the scenic pedestrian bridge that stretched from the Potomac’s Virginia side to the island and then plunged into the forest.
Being out here eased concerns about his parents and allowed his mind to sort through the information he’d uncovered during his recent trip. But freeing his mind heightened his concerns about Ensley. With any luck, she would only have been in the past for two or three days by the time he found her.
But there was another concern he’d ignored until now.
All the brooches brought soul mates together, but he wasn’t looking for a soul mate. He wasn’t sure Ensley was, either. The timing was all wrong—for him, at least.
He pushed forward, climbing over logs and snaking around bushes.
The brooches all had slightly different properties, right? And if the purpose was to enlarge and strengthen the family, that could still happen without locking him in a relationship he didn’t want. If he kept his emotional distance—and he was good at that—everything would be fine.
He finally emerged in the clearing where TR’s seventeen-foot-tall bronze and granite monument stood with the forest as a backdrop. There was no one else around, so he had TR all to himself.
Saplings grew between granite blocks, proving that groundskeepers didn’t overrun the island with hedge trimmers and pruning shears. Compared to other DC monuments, TR’s was understated. There were no lawns, no gardens, and nothing cultivated. The forest was allowed to run free, with few man-made touches.
Off to JC’s right, a flurry of motion had him reaching for his Glock, but it was only a group of white-tailed deer, flag tails waving, scurrying around the monument. He relaxed his hand, but not his mind or alertness.
“You’d like this, wouldn’t you, TR? You’d feel right at home.” Although, TR, an avid hunter, would probably shoot the deer.
JC left the monument and hiked the Upland Trail that traversed the island and looped around the old Mason mansion site. He spent an hour walking around the mostly flat, easy trail, thinking about the man the island honored. If JC met him, what would he want to know? Off the top, he’d ask the twenty-sixth president why he found solace on a sweat-soaked wrestling mat while mastering the art of the armbar.
JC returned to the granite-paved oval plaza, which was flanked by two pools with fountains and surrounded by a moat spanned by footbridges. Four twenty-one-foot-high granite tablets inscribed with quotations from TR’s writings circled the statue.
The four tablets were titled “Nature,” “Manhood,” “Youth,” and “The State.” JC approached the closest tablet and read one of the quotes. “Be practical as well as generous in your ideals. Keep your eyes on the stars, but remember to keep your feet on the ground.”
JC sat on one of the benches and listened to the woodpeckers and the croaking frogs. He contemplated life…his life…and the lives of all the MacKlennas. Was he doing the right thing for the right reason? After what he learned in Asia, he was convinced that involving his dad in more brooch business could get them all killed.
One of the white-tailed deer turned and stared at him for a long moment and then walked back into the forest. JC sat still and meditated for several more minutes.
Yes, he was doing the right thing for the right reason. Period.
8
The Badlands (1885)—Ensley
Ensley woke with the morning sun in her eyes. The purple light of dawn rising over the prairie was something straight out of a fairy tale.
And that fairytale included the blanket of leaves covering her. Where’d they come from? Had they fallen on her overnight? Not likely. They seemed to be strategically placed all around her.
So, again, where’d they come from?
Not that she was complaining. The leaves had kept her warm when the temperature dropped during the night. But wait a minute. The fire in the pit was crackling, and she hadn’t added any logs. Yet here it was, keeping her toasty warm.
There were only two possibilities: she was a sleepwalker, or she wasn’t alone.
The first wave of fear for the day smacked her in the face, and she reached for her little knife. Could she run away and hide? Hell no. She couldn’t even walk.
Remembering her foot injury, she wiggled her toes and rotated her ankle. When there were no sharp pains, she tried the other foot, thinking she’d gotten them mixed up, and when that foot didn’t hurt, either, she was even more alarmed. It wasn’t the kind of injury that would heal overnight. So what the hell happened?
A blanket of leaves, a roaring fire, a healed foot.
None of it made sense.
She lay there, eyes closed, listening to the crisp, dry leaves rustle in the morning breeze, letting her mind wander to wherever it wanted to go.
The image of a giant of a man wearing dark trousers and a red cloak flashed across her mind’s eye. The man’s right arm was exposed, revealing tattoos from his neck to his fingertips. He must be a member of the Mandan, Hidatsa, or Arikara Nation.
She sat up, scattering the leaves and exposing her sockless feet. Neither one was swollen or bruised. Either she imagined the fall and injury, or her friendly ghost sprinkled magic dust over her foot and healed it.
That’s impossible. Ghosts don’t have magic dust. Fairies do.
Then how could she explain it? She couldn’t. Time travel and ghosts were both unexplainable.
She decided not to dwell on it. There’d be time later to analyze everything that had happened, but not today. She had breakfast to catch and cook and miles to walk.
She reached
