Love Across Time (3 page)

“Here you go.” She handed the book to the woman with a smile.

“Thank you, dear.” Tears glistened in her eyes. “I hope you find your true love. You’re such a sweet thing, you deserve no less.”

“I hope so, too.” Her heart fluttered at the thought of someone loving her, but there’d be no Scottish Highland hero waiting in the wings. No man to enrich her life the way Harold had Mrs. Bixby’s. All she envisioned was a lonely future filled with nothing but lost memories.

“Take care, Mrs. Bixby,” she said and patted the thin hand that rested on the book.

Her gaze lifted when a tall man with thinning brown hair came through the door.

“Do you have everything Mother? We’re ready to go.”

“Yes, dear. I want you to meet Maggie. Maggie this is my son, Thomas.”

She shook the hand he held out. “Your mother spoke of you often.”

“Yeah, same here. Thanks for listening to Mother. She tends to rave on about the Scottish clans. It’s not often she finds a captive audience.”

Is that what she’d been, captivated. Yes, in a way she supposed she had been. Books, movies, and every adolescent girl’s dreams romanticized the legendary Scottish Highlanders. Tall, handsome men dressed in knee-length kilts, riding a stallion to rescue damsels in distress.

The softly spoken, “Goodbye, Maggie,” interrupted her whimsical thoughts.

“Goodbye, Mrs. Bixby.”

A nurse pushed the wheelchair with Mrs. Bixby and her precious book down the hall to the elevator. Before the doors closed, a feeble hand waved farewell.

After a moment of gazing down the empty hallway, she limped back to her room. She found the image of a big burly, Scotsman, sweeping across time, riding a great-war horse to avow her irresistibly, fascinating. Then she’d have someone who loved her, someone she loved, someone with whom to make new memories. Her own true love.

Reason intruded. Nothing so romantic could happen to her. No one even knew she existed. Sometimes it felt as if someone had dropped her from outer space into alien territory. Everything appeared wrong, upside down, topsy-turvy. Her mind a complete blank, she had absorbed the culture, yet nothing appeared familiar, like she didn’t fit in. She flopped down on the edge of the bed. Would her family ever find her? A tear trickled down her cheek.

Were they even looking?

With Abby on vacation, and Mrs. Bixby gone, the hours slowly ticked by. Loneliness crept over her. Each tick of the clock increased the empty ache inside her.

Piqued at not having a past, of not knowing who she was, or where she came from, she rose from the bed and opened the closet door to stare at the only clues to her identity. Her heart longed for a connection to family: brothers, sisters, parents, and her phantom lover that in her dreams became real. Did the tattered gown and jewelry hold the answer to her past? She took the items from the closet, arranged them on the bed, and stared at them.

The tattered gown felt soft and delicate between her fingers. Maybe if she wore the gown it would bring back some tiny glimmer of her past life. Stripped of her clothing, she held her arms over her head and the gown slithered down her naked flesh. Eyes closed. Arms held stiff at her sides. She waited.

Nothing.

Disappointment centered heavily in her chest. Other than the soft cloth warming her chilled skin, she felt nothing. No flicker of another existence. No awareness of events in her childhood.

Just nothing.

Irritated that no idealistic life swooped down to replace the blank pages of her memory, she scrutinized herself in the mirror. The diaphanous gowns folds swirled in waves around her legs. She scanned the room. Where had the gust of wind come from? The gown settled once again to caress her bare legs with its softness. The bodice dipped low to reveal the mounds of her breasts. The rose tips strained against the fabric. The gowns simplicity emphasized the curve of her waist and the flare of her hips. Her cheeks flushed with heat. The material was no more than a wisp of white smoke. Definitely, a gown designed for seduction.

Still, no memory came crashing from the past to fill the dark void of her life.

She gathered the brooch and ring from the bed, and returned to the mirror. The brooch’s clasp was still intact. Two interwoven intricate lines with no beginning and no end formed two hearts. An odd piece of jewelry. Curiosity compelled her to trace the smooth shiny surface with her finger. The longer she traced the lines of the precious metal the warmer it became. White-hot heat flared. She jerked her finger back and stuck it in her mouth. A tiny blister had formed.

When the metal cooled, she attached the brooch where the two fronts gathered in the center, away from her delicate skin.

The unique ring, made of the same gleaming silver as the brooch, had hands holding a heart topped with a crown. The overhead light flashed off the band and caused it to glow. She twisted it around and looked inside. Etched on the widest part of the band were.... Numbers? One, seven, four. Unable to read the last number, she tilted the ring toward the light streaming through the window. Five?

A wistful smile creased the lips on the face reflected in the mirror. Maybe they were her lucky numbers.

The ring slid easily onto her finger. Hand held out, she stared at the ring. Her eyes squinted in a puzzled frown. The position appeared wrong. She removed the ring, turned it around, and put it back on, then spun it around until the heart faced her, and the crown pointed toward her short clipped nail. Much better. Hand held high she admired the way the silver band encircled her finger. Had someone made the ring especially for her?

The image in the mirror blurred, wavered. She clutched the edge of the dresser. Dizziness engulfed her. Swirls of mist twisted around the edges of her vision as the room faded. Heat swirled around her, hot, sweltering. Strength ebbed while the ring pulsated with each beat of her heart. The brooch and ring shimmered. Flashes of light arced between her hand and breasts. Wind, tinged with the acrid smell of smoke, whipped the gauze-like material around her legs. Sweat soaked her body. Pain pierced her heart. A woman’s shrill, high-pitched voice screamed. Her legs crumbled, and she tumbled end over end into the dark pit of unconsciousness.

A mist writhed at the edge of Maggie’s consciousness. Her mind drifted in the nether world, neither awake nor asleep. Kaleidoscopic images intermingled without becoming one clear picture. The mist receded inch by inch, leaving in its place twinkles of light. Twinkles became flashes. Flashes became a solid glimmer.

Her eyelids fluttered upward and pain assaulted her eyes. She snapped them shut. Light filtered through her lashes, and she squeezed them tighter. Her head throbbed. Her throat felt parched. Her tongue traced her chapped lips. What happened?

Whispers of a memory reached out to her, but pain shoved it aside. Bewailing its loss would only increase her agony, so she remained silent.

Gradually, she relaxed the tight scrunch on her eyelids. Dark shadows swirled and gradually lightened to a soft dove gray. A groan rumbled deep inside her. Pain fought to break free. She swallowed the moan before it escaped. The only time she had felt this awful was during the first days of her recuperation in the hospital.

She’d survived then. She’d survive now.

Ignoring the pain, she lifted her eyelids in slow degrees. Under half-closed lids, the room came into focus. The faint blush of dawn peeked through a narrow slit in rough-hewed rock. Dust motes danced in its muted glow. Disoriented and uncertain the light hadn’t played a trick on her, she blinked. Once. Twice. Her eyes widened and grew rounder. She scanned the room again. No trick of the light could disguise what she saw.

Her stomach clenched. Her chest tightened so hard she swore her ribs cracked. A scream built in her throat. She gagged with the force it took to swallow the sound. Tears of fright gathered in the corner of her eyes.

Suffocating heat surrounded her. Her skin burned. Firelight sparkled in a fireplace of mammoth proportion stretched along one end of the room. Orange, red, and blue flames flickered and twisted around large logs. The wall above the massive hearth held a broadsword, an axe, and a shield.

On the far wall, no longer stood the strong, sturdy closet door as a safeguard for the gown she’d worn the night of her accident. The garment dangled from one of several wooden pegs driven into the wall. Frantic, her gaze darted around the room. Suspended from the wall, a tapestry depicting a battle, complete with men in armor and drawn swords, had replaced the scenic picture of Oklahoma’s swaying wheat fields.

Twitching spasms of panic rose as her gaze continued its journey around the room she instantly recognized from her nightmares.

Stop panting. You’ll hyperventilate. Relax. Breathe deep.

The exercise slowed her breathing to normal. Or what could pass for normal in these circumstances. She considered herself a rational person. Therefore, there had to be a rational explanation for what she saw.

Close your eyes, and start counting. You’ll be back in the therapy center when you open them again.

She squeezed her eyes shut and counted to ten. That should be enough time, but just in case, she counted to twenty. Trepidation caused her eyelashes to flutter against her cheeks. Afraid the room would remain the same she slowly lifted her eyelids. Her fists gripped the wool blanket as terror swooped down to overwhelm her. Counting hadn’t achieved anything. She was still trapped in her nightmare. The desire to scream for a nurse, Abby, anyone, clogged her throat.

Of course! Abby. The tension tying her stomach in knots eased. Abby must have kept her promise and kidnapped her from the center. But, how had Abby known about the room in her dream? Everything looked authentic, from the tapestry to the rough-hued washstand.

The steady rhythm of breathing penetrated her sense of panic. Abby? She slowly rotated her head on the pillow. Her gaze settled on a man slumped in a wooden chair, asleep, large feet propped on the foot of the bed. A stubborn chin, grizzled with what must be a week’s growth of beard, rested on his massive chest. His folded arms were thick with corded muscle. A soft snore emitted from his firm, sensual lips. Lines of exhaustion marred his features, and the tautness in his face indicated worry. Heavy brows scrunched together as if something troubled his sleep.

Definitely not Abby.

Intrigued, she wished his eyes would open so she could discover the color. Blue, hazel, or dark as sin? With his tanning bed complexion, she’d guess dark as sin.

Long lashes brushed against high prominent cheekbones. A wan shaft of light struck his shoulder-length dark hair and it gleamed blue-black. The swath of hair that fell over one side of his face failed to hide the scar that dissected one cheek from his hairline to upper lip. His straight nose set slightly off kilter as if he’d been in more than one fistfight, and his opponent had a mean left hook. Not a handsome face with the smooth appearance that she’d seen on television stars, but more rugged, more masculine. The absence of lines around the eyes suggested his age in the mid-twenties. His face held a touch of vulnerability, yet even in sleep, an aura of power emanated from him. A man of authority, one who issued orders and expected them followed without question.

Pure alpha male. To quote one of Abby’s favorite descriptions of such a man.

Her gaze traveled down his considerable length to where his long legs crossed at the ankles then back up to his face. Forehead scrunched in a frown, she wondered if the man had gotten his odd, outdated clothes from a movie wardrobe.

She smiled at the ridiculous thought, and her chapped lips resented the effort.

Who was he? But more importantly, her gaze swept the room once more, where was she?

Afraid any movement might wake him, she stifled a yawn. Let ‘sleeping dogs lie’ as Abby was fond of saying. That’s it! He must be one of Abby’s friends. Travis or Colin? The remaining tension left her. Abby must be close.

Again, her gaze traveled over the sleeping male. Abby had very attractive friends. His rugged good looks and powerful body stirred the same sensations as her phantom lover: heart throbbing, stomach churning, a pulsating ache low in her belly. If her past hadn’t been a blank page, she would have enjoyed meeting Abby’s friend.

Not wanting to disturb him, she ignored her discomforts and forced herself to relax and wait for Abby to make an appearance. Surely, she would arrive soon.

She grew groggy as she waited for her friend. Just as she began to drift asleep, the creak of a door startled her back into wakefulness.

“Laddie, wake up,” a man whispered.

Peeking through her eyelashes, she watched the scared-faced man. He cast one glance at her, then gently removed his legs from the end of the bed and went to the door where a head peeked around the edge.

Despite his impressive size, his powerful well-muscled body moved with the sleek gracefulness of a large, predatory cat. He had to be at least three to four inches over six feet tall and his shoulders...wow, his impressive shoulders strained against his linen shirt in a very fascinating way.

An oddly dressed man and woman stepped inside and drew her attention away from her bedside attendant. Quiet words, spoken in a heavy brogue were hard to decipher until they moved closer to the bed. The woman stood erect, somber, her eyes averted from the younger man’s disfigured face. Maggie’s gaze drifted over the two men and their axe-men physiques. Engrossed in their conversation they failed to notice she’d awakened.