A Time for Everything (3 page)

“Do ye wish fresh water now, miss?”

“Uh, I mean, the, uh, lavatory, the water closet, the privy?”
Oh my God, what’s the matter with everyone here?

The girl’s brows wrinkled in what looked like genuine confusion. She scuttled past Sam, reached under the bed, and pulled out a covered porcelain bowl that stank of urine even from ten paces away.

The girl fled before Sam could ask anything else, the sound of her footsteps pelting down the stairs faded gradually. Sam stepped into the room, turned the skeleton key and locked herself in. She stuffed the candle into a holder, walked to the bed, and sat on it, shoving the smelly chamber pot back underneath with her foot. Shadows from the small taper danced on the walls. A leaden bleakness settled over Sam, leaving a sick feeling in the pit of her stomach. She’d never felt quite so alone. Something was desperately wrong. And she didn’t like any of the answers that kept cropping up.

Something crinkled beneath her. When she examined the mattress, she discovered it was made of straw and smelled moldy. A thick, tightly woven blanket was all that covered the sacking around the straw.

“Okay.” Sam heard the tremor in her voice and knew how rattled she was. She kept on talking out loud in an attempt to calm herself. “I need to get out of these wet clothes. There’s only one blanket…” She shook it out and determined it wasn’t wide enough to roll herself up in. “I am not going to lay my naked body on that mattress. God only knows what sort of vermin live in it—”

A light knock on the door interrupted her monologue. “Siobhan?”

“The door’s locked,” she snapped, so tightly wound she could barely get the words out.

“That is as it should be, lass. I wished to ask if ye’d be needin’ aught else afore I went to bed myself.”

Sam thought fast. “Yes. Can you get me another blanket?”

“If I canna find one, I shall give you mine own.”

Before she could protest, his footsteps receded down the hall. In just a few minutes, he knocked again. “You can leave it on the floor,” she said.

“If I do that, it’ll get dirty. Lass,” there was a weary note in his voice, “ye can trust me. I’ll not see you come to any harm.”

Sam shivered. The rooms above the inn were far from warm. She really did want that extra blanket. Snaking the key off a wooden table, she twisted it in the lock. The minute the door was open, he handed her a neatly folded blanket, and said, “Now lock up behind me. I’ll collect you come the morn.”

She didn’t lose any time once the door was secured. She shucked her jacket and then the layers beneath. Once she was done hanging things on hooks and nails, her small room under the rafters looked like an outdoor store. Arranging the two blankets, she slid between them. Then she remembered her phone. Cursing herself for not thinking about it sooner, she padded over to where she’d left her small backpack and dug for the iPhone. When she found it, she groaned. It had escaped from the plastic bag she’d put it in. Water beaded on its screen. Her finger hovered over the
On
button, and then she drew back. She wasn’t certain, but she thought you weren’t supposed to power on cell phones when they were wet. The driest place in the room was her bed so she slid the phone between the blankets. Upending her pack, she spread its meager contents on the rough, wooden floor and blew out the guttering candle before getting back into bed.

The analytical part of her mind wanted to make sense of what had happened. If she didn’t know better, it looked as if she’d suddenly emerged into seventeenth or eighteenth century Scotland. “Impossible,” she muttered. “There’s got to be a better explanation.”

Yes, but what?

“I have no fucking idea,” she answered herself. “And if I try to figure it out tonight, I may as well kiss sleep good-bye.”

It took a long time to shut her mind off, though, and to get warm enough to finally fall asleep.

Her bladder roused her from a deeply disturbing dream. A woman with long red hair had been chasing her. Afraid it was some sort of alter ego who wouldn’t give up no matter what, Sam had finally turned to confront whatever was after her. The unearthly visitor—definitely not her, thank Christ—had held out spectral fingers and spoken in an Irish brogue so thick it had taken Sam a few tries to interpret what she was trying to say.

“Take care o’ my braw laddie. I canna so ye must. And bairns. Ye must gi’ th’ clan bairns.”

Remembering a class on dreams she’d taken as an undergraduate, Sam tried to ask the woman who she was, but the creature clutched at herself and wailed in a language Sam couldn’t decipher.

Heart pounding and fighting a sense of disorientation, Sam felt around for the light switch in her headboard. The crinkle of straw beneath her brought her crashing back into her new reality. “Ah shit,” she muttered. “This is way more than just a bad dream.” Stumbling around in the still-dark room, she managed to find the chamber pot and squatted over it, feeling grateful she didn’t need to take a crap. Insofar as she could tell, toilet paper wasn’t amongst her room’s modest amenities. She dropped the lid over the pot and shoved it back under her bed. Its contents sloshed, wetting her bare feet.

“Oh my God! How did people live like this?” She crawled back into her finally warm blankets, urine-damp feet and all. She thought she ought to turn her wet clothing, but it was such a luxury to finally be warm she didn’t want to stay out of bed for very long.
The phone. I should try my phone.
Her fingers closed around the warm, plastic case. At the last moment, she decided to give the electronics a few more hours to dry. If she turned it on too soon she might cut off her only lifeline.

The next thing that woke her was a sharp knocking on her door. “Siobhan. ’Tis long past time to be up. Ye’ll sleep the day away.”

Prying gritty eyes open, she saw the room was flooded with light from a window made of wavy glass. Though it let light in, she couldn’t see out. He called her name again. “I’m up already,” she said peevishly. “Just give me a few minutes to dress.”

As she’d feared, her things were far from dry. Oh, they weren’t dripping anymore, but it took all her self-discipline to put the clammy garments next to her skin again.
Please,
she prayed to no one in particular,
let it have stopped raining.
Taking a measured breath, she powered her phone. When the small screen lit up, she was so delighted she kissed it.

Yesss…

All too soon, the words in the upper left hand corner of the display switched from
Searching
to
No Service
. Sam bit her lower lip in frustration. This was absolute proof she wasn’t in Inverness. And maybe proof she wasn’t even in the twenty-first century anymore. She shivered from far more than wet clothing.

Footsteps sounded in the hall. Before Angus could knock again, she turned the phone off, put it in a pocket, and picked up her backpack. She was just turning the lock as his fist fell on the door. “Ready,” she said. “I’m ready,” and stepped into the dark hallway.

“I’ve bread from the kitchen,” he informed her. “And a jug o’ mead so we can depart directly.” His hair was braided this morning. Shiny and dark, it still looked wet. He was wrapped in the same plaid as the night before. Her fingers twitched. She wanted to reach out and touch the fabric to see if it was still just as wet as her clothing.
Yeah, right,
her inner voice goaded
. Fabric be damned. You want to touch him. Admit it.

“Mmph.” She answered both him and her inner self, deciding to not even try to talk until she got herself under better control. She balled both hands into fists to make sure the fingers in question didn’t develop a mind of their own.

He led her outside into weak sunlight. The sky was still thick with clouds, but at least it wasn’t raining. Sam inhaled deeply. It really was a lovely morning. If only she could get back to where she belonged, all would be well with the world. She’d even forgive Angus for dragging her to this bizarre reenactor encampment.

A boy wearing leather breeches and a torn wool sweater held on to two horses. Angus flipped him a coin and looked at her. “Take the mare.” He pointed to the smaller of the horses, a bay with lovely markings.

She looked at the blanket covering the horse’s back. “Uh, I’ve never ridden bareback before. Not sure I can do that.”

He rolled his eyes and stepped closer. “I’ll help you up. Dinna fash yourself, Lilly is gentle. She willna throw you.”

“Are these your horses?” Sam asked, surprised. Why did Angus keep horses in Inverness if he didn’t live here?

He flashed her a smile. “Aye, lass. I sent word to my holdings last evening. Jamie here brought them down during the night.” He glanced at the boy. “There’s a good lad. Are ye certain ye wouldna care to ride back? Soulna,” he slapped the large black stallion’s rump, “can carry the two of us.”

The boy, who looked to be about ten, shook blond curls framing a dirty face. “Nay, laird. Mum askit me tae stop wi’ Griselda. There be things she needs.”

“Can ye be home by nightfall?”

Jamie dropped his gaze, thinking. “Mayhap tomorrow morn, if it pleases my laird.”

“Be safe, lad.”

“Safe travels to you too, my laird. Thankee well for the privilege of riding Soulna.” The boy’s eyes shone as he looked at the horse. Dipping his head toward Angus, Jamie melted into the bustle of folk dotting the streets of the reenactment camp.

Chapter 3

Angus set a modest pace. Once they’d left the few buildings that seemed to comprise the entirety of the town, she brought her horse up next to his. “We need to talk.”

“Aye, lass. That we do. For one thing, I dinna ken which part of Ireland your people hail from. If I’m to be sendin’ runners, ‘twould help if ye—”

“Stop.” She held up a hand. “Just stop.” Her eyes stung and Sam realized how close she was to tears. She swallowed hard, grappling for control. It wouldn’t help her case if she broke down. “You don’t have to pretend anymore, Angus. Just tell me where we are and how far it is to get back to Inverness. Okay?” She hesitated at the look on his face, which she couldn’t decipher. “I promise I won’t tell a soul about you or that other bunch of people back there.” She waved a hand in the general direction of the collection of shacks they’d just left.

“Lass…” He seemed to be at a loss for words. Pity shone from the depths of his oh, so green eyes.

“Look. If it’s money you want—”

He snorted. “Right. As if ye’ve a pot to piss in. I’ve never seen such odd clothing on a woman. Ye must have scrounged it off a corpse. And a male corpse at that.”

Sam decided she’d had just about enough. She sucked in an angry breath, feeling heat rise in her face. “I’ll have you know my family owns Seagrams.”

“And what might that be?” He quirked an arched brow her way. It was as if he were indulging her. Already primed, Sam’s temper surged.

“Just the largest whiskey distributing company in the world,” she informed him haughtily. Then she borrowed a page from his book as she tossed her heavy red hair back over her shoulders. “Surely you’ve heard of it.”

“No, lass.” He looked sad. “Canna say as I have.”

Silence settled over them like a shroud. The horses’ hooves made little squelching sounds as they plodded through the ever-present mud of the roadway. Sam gathered her courage. Before it could desert her, she blurted, “What year is it?”

“Th’ year o’ our Lord one thousand seven hundred and ninety. How is it ye dinna ken that?” She saw a small muscle twitch in the side of his face. He seemed to be tense and picking his words very carefully.

Her heart banged against her ribs. She wanted to knee the horse into a gallop and run until…
Until what?

Until I get back to my own time.

Doesn’t look like a time-travelling horse to me.

Shut up. Just shut up.
She pinched her nose between her thumb and index finger hard.

If what he said is true, it would explain everything
. Sam forced herself to look about her. They’d passed a number of neat little homesteads, all of which looked a lot like the structures in what Angus had identified as Inverness. There wasn’t an electrical pole or wire in sight. Come to think of it, she hadn’t heard the distant thrum of either airplanes or cars since before yesterday’s thunderstorm.

He cleared his throat, obviously trying again. “What year were ye thinkin’ it might be, lass?”

“Two thousand twelve.” There, it was out. What would he say next? Sam stared at Angus, wanting to read his expression, but unable to since he’d hooded his eyes. “Uh, look,” she stumbled on, “I have things with me that can prove that.”

“What sort of things?” His voice sounded like a tightly wound spring.

“They’re in my backpack.”

“Mayhap ye can show them to me later. Once we have reached my holdings.” He hesitated. “I dinna wish to stop. ’Tis just shy of four hours riding to—”

“That’s fine.” Sam waved him to silence. In several hours of riding, she could easily determine if she’d somehow slipped through some sort of time warp. Either things would start looking more familiar. Or they wouldn’t. She remembered horses could cover about five miles an hour. That meant they were going around twenty miles. Things in Scotland were close compared to the States. If she didn’t pass any twenty-first century trappings between here and there, what he was telling her was likely true.

If it is, how the hell can I get back?
Batting down panic, she shushed her inner voice. Time enough for everything once she knew for certain just what devils she faced.

“So, Angus,” she tried for an upbeat note, “what were you doing out in the Highlands last night?”

She saw his jaw tense. There was a lengthy silence before he answered her. “Mourning Moira, my lost wife. She has been gone a year. Yesterday was the anniversary of her death.”

Though she didn’t understand why, Sam wanted to know how Moira had died. She was struggling to find a way to ask that would be sensitive and not overly intrusive, but Angus saved her the trouble. Once he began talking, words ran out of him as if he’d never spoken to a soul about what had happened. Who knew? Perhaps he hadn’t.