SEDUCTIVE SUPERNATURALS: 12 Tales of Shapeshifters, Vampires & Sexy Spirits (197 page)

Aboard the train at the Santa Barbara depot, Taylor walked down the aisle and found her seat. She got settled and watched the activity outside.

In the dim light of the station, people were finishing their good-byes, scrambling for suitcases, squeezing in one more hug. It had been a nice break, with interesting seminars on health issues like type two diabetes and the autism spectrum. She’d signed up several months ago for the continuing education credits, and had been looking forward to enjoying a long weekend in the beautiful, quaint village—a beautiful, but
unexciting
village to someone who had expected a journey filled with passion, danger, and adventure. At least according to Madame Rosalinda.

As the train pulled away from the station, Taylor closed her eyes and allowed its steady rhythm to comfort her. She snuggled down low in her seat, her cheek against the soothing cool of the window.

Soon the constant rocking of the train made her body feel heavy and relaxed. Blurred images flashed through her mind of long ago car trips from her childhood, like scenery moving by too fast to see clearly. With Dad driving, Taylor remembered, she’d always felt safe, protected from whatever was out there in the dark. She felt the same way now.

She was glad to be going home. The trip to Santa Barbara had been basically a little dull and pretty uneventful—downright disappointing, probably because her expectations had been so high. And it was the clairvoyant’s fault, she’d decided.

Madame Rosalinda’s psychic predictions had sounded, well, exciting—but absolutely nothing significant had happened on the trip. There had been
no
perils to overcome. Definitely
no
love affairs. And
no
incidents that called for heroic action on her part.

Instead, she had spent a very peaceful weekend in class during the mornings and walking along the pristine California shoreline each afternoon, exploring the expensive boutiques in the mall downtown in the evenings. At least it had been a good rest and a nice getaway.

The sensible side of Taylor’s personality was now convinced Madame Rosalinda’s mysterious predictions were merely an exercise in the dramatic. But her desire and willingness to believe in inexplicable things kept at least some of her expectations a tiny bit alive. Even now.

As she began to feel drowsy from the soothing rhythm of the train, memories of the fair—and her father—filled her mind with dreamy images.

* * *

Taylor stirred from her nap as she felt the train slowing down. She cupped her hands on the cool glass and peered out the window into the inky darkness. The station sign wasn’t quite readable, and she didn’t recognize the stop. She knew the trip from Santa Barbara south to San Diego included numerous small town stops for weekday commuters who rode the train rather than fight the freeways.

She must have slept through most of them. All in all, it had been a quiet ride, with few passengers to disturb her sporadic napping.

Resettling in her seat as the train pulled away from the station, Taylor mentally replayed the events of the day at the fair. What was the message? Maybe she had missed something.

As she carefully pictured the inside of Madame Rosalinda’s tent, a chill shuddered down her spine. A second chill traveled over her skin and she rubbed her arms to stop the crawl of her flesh.

Eyes closed, once again she tried to sleep.

* * *

Waking with a start, Taylor realized that the train was again slowing, and should be coming into the downtown San Diego station by her best estimate. She yawned and stretched her arms, rocking her head from side to side to work out the kinks.

As the train came slowly to a stop, Taylor grabbed the bowler style straw hat she had bought on impulse in Santa Barbara, and placed it on her head. She was dressed casually in a collarless white shirt and beige linen vest, with summer-weight tailored trousers in a chocolate brown cotton. Flax-colored canvas wingtips completed her look.

As she glanced around, Taylor saw that she was the only person disembarking from her car. The other few passengers must have quietly gotten off at previous stops, she thought, while she’d napped.

Taylor clutched her small, leather suitcase and walked down the dark aisle. Why aren’t the lights coming on, and why did it seem so dark at the station? What happened to all the lights? Maybe a storm or some kind of black-out?

As she checked her watch, activating its built-in indigo blue light. Eleven-thirty. The train was overdue. She sighed, hoping she wouldn’t have too much trouble finding a cab at the late hour.

As Taylor carefully navigated the steps leading down from the car, she peered at her feet in the darkness, again wondering what the heck was going on with no kind of safety lights for disembarking passengers. Wouldn’t they have activated a generator or something? And why did it seem like she was the only one getting off the entire train?

Cautiously, she stepped onto a wooden platform that was barely visible and then onto hard-packed earth. A sudden gust of wind blew her hat to the ground and she ran a few quick steps to retrieve it.

“Hey, watch out! You there!”

Taylor swung around, then froze—gaping in astonishment at a horse and buggy speeding towards her. She sidestepped out of the way, tripped on the edge of a wooden boardwalk and fell back violently against the clapboard wall of a building. The impact knocked the breath out of her and she struggled for air for several seconds. As her eyes became more used to the darkness, she began to examine her surroundings.

The dirt road before her was rutted and next to now
empty
railroad tracks. The sleek, shiny Amtrak train was no longer there, though she hadn’t seen or heard it depart. Some distance down the block she saw what seemed like some kind of an old-fashioned electric lamp on a tower at least a hundred feet high. The subdued light it cast bathed everything in an unearthly glow.

Taylor stared in disbelief. Had she gotten off at the wrong stop?

Then, at her feet she noticed a discarded magazine, its pages turning in the slight breeze. With growing trepidation Taylor picked it up and examined the cover.

In the dim light, she read, “
The Golden Era
, An Illustrated Monthly Magazine Devoted to the Artistic and Industrial Progress of the West. The Golden Era Company, San Diego, California. July 1888.”

Taylor stared at the date. It couldn’t be true.

This can’t be right
.

Panic spread out from the pit of her stomach and she struggled to fight the very real feeling she was going to throw up. A few feet away she saw a large wooden barrel and ran to it, praying it was filled with water.

She dipped in with both hands and splashed her face several times. The water was cool and helped, at least temporarily, to pacify her rattled nerves. Her face still dripping, she took another look at her surroundings.

The wooden building behind her appeared to be a general store, darkened at the late hour. She stared at the window display, reading aloud, “Finally a Cure for Female Weaknesses. Try Mrs. Pinkham’s Vegetable Compound. It’s been curing since 1873.”

She continued, peering into the next window. “To Cure a Cold in One Day, Take Laxative Bromo Quinine, 25 Cents—No Cure, No Pay.”

Either downtown San Diego had developed a sudden interest in nostalgia or she was going crazy. Taylor walked back for her suitcase and tried to make sense of things.

This is insane. Okay. I’m going to walk around the corner and everything is going to be just fine.

Taylor grasped her suitcase tightly to her chest and walked briskly to the corner, silently wishing with all her heart that she would soon see the familiar sights of a modern downtown San Diego. As she reached the corner of the building, she hesitated—just in time to avoid a collision with an extremely intoxicated man who was rather unsuccessfully trying to navigate the long, dark road.

“Whoa there, young fella! You just about scared the pants offa me!” As the man stumbled in his dazed condition, he grabbed Taylor’s arm for support.

“Are you all right?” She turned her head, trying to avoid the unmistakable rank odor of alcohol on the man’s breath.

“Is that you, Willie?” The man peered at her, his eyes squinting in concentration.

Without thinking, she answered, “No, it’s Taylor.”

“Oh, Taylor, Taylor, Taaaay-lor.” The man swayed to an upright position and wrapped his arm tightly around her shoulder. “Come on, Taylor, let’s go get us a drink. I’m buyin’, too!” He cackled loudly and dragged Taylor along with him across the street.

As she struggled to stay upright, she could do nothing else but go along.

Taylor stumbled as they turned sharply into the doorway of a building and her suitcase banged painfully against her leg. She gasped in shock as she stared at what looked like a saloon right out of the old Wild West.

The room was crowded with a mix of rough-looking cowboys and dozens of finely dressed men in black string ties and fancy brocaded vests. Scantily clad women in satin and lace were scattered throughout the room, seductively draped over the men’s shoulders or in their laps. Card games were being played at every table and an occasional triumphant cry burst from the crowd, followed by the conspicuous slap of cards from the losers.

Taylor’s companion enthusiastically dragged her across the rough wooden floor through the noisy crowd and successfully maneuvered them both into a small space at the bar.

“Hey, Jackson, give us rakes a couple o’ beers and a shot o’ yer best whiskey—an’ don’t be pouring none o’ that rotgut. My friend Taylor, here, is right thirsty.”

The man leaned heavily against the curved polished edge of the bar, and finally loosened his death grip on her shoulder.

As she bent to place the small suitcase against the bar at her feet, Taylor flexed her weary shoulders. With her back to the raucous crowd, she nervously stared straight ahead. Above the back of the bar was a long series of mirrors, each with a gilded filigree frame, a delicate floral border etched into each one. An unexpected touch of elegance in the bawdy environment.

Taylor looked at her own reflection in the mirror as the bartender poured their drinks. In the dim light, she instantly understood why her intoxicated companion had assumed she was a man, especially in her bowler hat and tailored trousers. She appeared to be a fresh-scrubbed young man, perhaps a traveler from a place where fashion was unconventional to say the least.
Thank God I’m not in my jeans and tee-shirt.

It quickly dawned on Taylor that she needed to continue to pretend to be a man at least until she could figure out just how to escape from the saloon.

“This round’s on me, Taylor!” The man slapped her sharply on the back, and sent her hat soaring over the bar where it landed neatly at the feet of the bartender.

Taylor’s hand flew to her head in alarm. In the shadowy light, though, she could see her short hair lay close to her head in a somewhat masculine style. A moment later she looked into the questioning blue eyes of the bartender.

She cleared her throat and consciously thought about lowering her voice a little before she spoke. “Could I have my hat, please?”

The bartender reached for the bowler and gently placed it on the bar in front of her. Seconds later two foaming mugs of beer and two large shot glasses filled with amber colored whiskey appeared in front of her hat.

“Here you go, Henry,” he said to her companion.

“You’re a good man, Jackson. Now, drink up Taylor, it’s gonna be a good night for us—I think yer gonna be bringin’ me the luck I need at the Faro tables. Let’s drink to our luck tonight.” Henry raised his shot glass to Taylor, sloshing a little on the floor in his haste.

Taylor raised her glass and drank the shot in one large gulp. It was strong enough to make her eyes water, but she was thankful for her inherited taste and tolerance for whiskey.
Thanks, Dad
. The liquid warmed her throat and stomach, soothing her fears at least for the moment.

“It’ll be okay.”

Taylor looked up, but saw only her own anxious expression in the mirror.
Dad?

“I’ll be here when you need me.”

She whirled around and searched for her father’s face in the crowd. Was he there with her? Here? Was that even possible?

When the feeling of his presence vanished, Taylor turned to face the bar and found the bartender staring at her.

“Oh, uh, I thought I heard someone,” she explained. “I thought it was someone I knew…” Taylor picked up the mug of beer and drank deeply, simultaneously wishing the man would stop looking at her.

As Jackson turned away to pour more drinks, Taylor watched him. Busy as he was in the cramped space behind the bar, he moved with easy grace, as though he was most comfortable in constant motion. Like a cat, she decided.

He was neatly dressed in a clean white shirt and ornate crimson and black brocaded vest, a loosely knotted silk string tie at his neck. His inky black hair was combed back, and seemed to be cut in longer layers than most of the other men. A few untamed tendrils curled onto his forehead. He was clean shaven, with a generous mouth that, she had already noticed, was quick to smile. He was hot—by anyone’s standards, no matter the time or place.

Taylor took another swallow of beer and tried to distract herself, self-conscious and embarrassed by her attraction to the man. It was as though she couldn’t help watching Jackson’s reflection in the mirror as he worked, the muscular outline of his broad shoulders straining against the fabric of his shirt as he constantly reached for bottles and glasses. She glanced downward to a waist that revealed an obviously flat stomach and narrow hips.

Taylor blinked, now more than a little shocked at her brazen staring. It must be the whiskey, she thought. Why else would she be on the verge of fantasizing about a man who—with any luck—would think
she
was a man?

And, add to
that
the fact that at least it appeared she was actually sitting in a saloon in San Diego in 1888.