Wrong Face in the Mirror: A Time Travel Romance (Medicine Stick Series) (10 page)

“I called in for you,” he said. “Told the warden you wouldn’t be in today as you had to do some things pertaining to the fire.”

She looked at him with distaste. “Who died and left you my boss?”

He only laughed. “You can’t go around looking like a scarecrow in clothes that don’t fit you.”

She accepted the truth of that in silence. He needn’t think she was going to accept having decisions made for her, but she did need a day off to restart her life. Or Hart’s life. Whichever.

The dreams of the night before, forcefully she decided to think of them as dreams, had answered one question and brought another to the forefront. She had seen herself as she left fourteen-year-old Stacia behind so now she knew what had happened when she’d been shot. She’d left Hart there to face her death. Hart Benson had died in her body.

“What happened last night?” she asked abruptly. “The last I remember we were driving home.”

“You tumbled right off to sleep,” he said matter-of-factly. “I couldn’t get you to wake up so I carried you into bed.”

She hadn’t been wearing her exterior clothing when she’d awakened so he’d done a little more than that. With rising indignation, she told herself that he still thought of himself as Hart’s husband which was something of an excuse for such actions.

Then new memories stirred in her brain. Had she only dreamed she’d remembered seeing him smile at her and
the first feelings as they got to know each other? She’d always thought it was Hart he’d married, but she didn’t have Hart’s memories. And she was beginning to remember falling in love with Alistair Redhawk.

The experiences of being back in her own body had changed her. Instinctively she knew that Hart Benson had been quiet, reserved, intensely passionate, but not forcefully so. Somehow through whatever had happened to send her into the coma and forgetfulness of her own past had left her still pretending to be that strong, but introverted young woman.

Stacia Larkin was something else. Now as she began to remember who she was, she swung her legs in a long stride as she walked, her voice was louder and slightly deeper, and her personality expanded so that when she walked into a room others looked up. Stacia was no wallflower, no hovering in the background shy violet.

Worst and best of all, she was intensely conscious of Alistair Redhawk in a purely physical way. Her body reacted to his presence, becoming more alert and intensely alive. She found herself day
-dreaming about being in his arms and as for her night dreams, well, if she were easily embarrassed, then she would be embarrassed.

But Stacia looked forward to those dreams and enjoyed every minute of them. But until she remembered being married to him, she wasn’t sure which of them he loved. Was it her or was it Hart?

Though these days she tried to think of herself as Hart. If Hart had died in her body as she suspected, then the rest of her life would be spent as Hart. It was the only option and Stacia was a woman geared to face reality.

Not Stacia, she reminded herself. Hart.

“You seem different today,” gentle little Mr. Jeffers commented after creative writing class. “More sure of yourself.” His wrinkled face was puzzled and he spoke tentatively as though he was afraid of offending her.

“I’m not hiding under Hart’s bushel basket any longer,” she agreed and then laughed. That statement would mean absolutely nothing to him and the last thing she wanted to do was give the elderly prisoner, who had so many phobias, anything else to worry about.

The worst one he had was fear of open spaces. Mr. Jeffers had adapted so completely to a lifetime spent within prison walls that he was afraid to go outside. She’d suggested a field trip for the three men interested in creative writing to hear a regional author speak and he had declined hastily. “Oh, I really couldn’t, Miss Benson. I’m sure the warden would never approve.”

She had a feeling he just might. And the youngest of the three men was in his
sixties. Surely, no matter what they’d done years ago, they deserved to see a little of life before they died.

She shrugged. She supposed the only way she’d get Mr. Jeffers out of here was if she dragged him, but she thought the other two men might be more amenable.

When she mentioned the proposed outing to Alistair over supper at Pizza Plus that night, he didn’t seem to think it was such a good idea. “You’ve have to take a guard, Hart, but I doubt that you would get approval.”

She took a bite of salad and debated, “Why not? Lots of towns have prisoners working on public projects. What’s the difference?”

He seemed preoccupied as though he was having trouble focusing on the subject at hand. “Those are people locked up for non-violent crimes and not considered dangerous to the public.”

“Poor old Mr.
Jeffers and his buddies?” she questioned scornfully.

“Don’t know about the buddies, but your Mr.
Jeffers went on a rampage and brutally killed a neighbor. Was originally sentenced to die, but because of his youth the sentence was eventually changed to life in prison.”

“How old was he when this allegedly happened?”

“Fifteen or sixteen. I wasn’t around then, but it was an infamous and terrible crime.”

“That’s so long ago. People change, Alistair.”

“Sometimes,” he agreed cautiously, “but not enough that I would want to trust your life or that of anyone else with the possibility. Some people start out troubled and stay that way. Anyway, I won’t have you getting involved in such a project.”

She stared at him. “And just why do you get to decide?”

“Because I’m your husband,” he said quietly but with thunderous undertones.

Somehow the statement that should have enraged her instead rather
amused her. “Gallant male protecting his mate,” she teased, confident enough in her own ability to take care of herself not to be challenged by this attitude. “And anyway, we’re not exactly married.”

He didn’t argue, but rather glumly chose another slice of pizza.

She felt almost normal, like any other woman out with a date, eating pizza and drinking pop. That was before she saw Tommy and family walk in. The girls ran to her for hugs, then went back to join their parents at a booth as far away as possible.

Tommy was still furious with her for staying out at the ranch house with Alistair until she found a place of her own and Nikki backed him up. She said it wasn’t decent.

“I need to tell you something,” Alistair said once the girls had left.

The solemn tone put her on alert. “What is it?” she asked quietly enough to be heard only by him.

“I talked to Helen Larkin’s daughter. She’s going to rent a car when she lands in Oklahoma City and will go by the lab to contribute DNA to help identify the bones we have.”

She was unable to eat another bite. Helen’s daughter. Her sister’s daughter. This was a dimension of reality she didn’t know how to face. The last time she’d seen her sister, just last night, Helen had been only
ten. “Do I have to see them?”

He shrugged. “Certainly not. They don’t really have anything to do with you, but under the circumstances, I didn’t want to catch you by surprise if you ran into them. They’ll be leaving DNA samples at the lab in the city so we can determine if the bones are those of their missing relative.”

She chewed at her bottom lip. He didn’t believe anything she’d said about being Stacia, of course. He was a logical man still looking for a reasonable answer.

It was time to change the subject.

“I believe I’ve found a place to rent,” she said.

“In Mountainside?”

She shook her head. “Nothing here. This is in Wichita, a nice old couple who want to rent out their garage apartment.”

He looked interested. “Don’t tell me. Not the Gordons
?”

“Sallie and
Henry Gordon,” she agreed, “out on west sixth.”

“Hart, you can’t rent from them.”

“Why not? Why is it any of your business who I rent from?”

“They were cooking meth in their garage apartment up until the laws were changed making it hard to
do undetected buys of the necessary allergy meds. We haven’t been able to prove that they are continuing to deal through the drug cartel, but it’s only a matter of time. But I guess the sheriff’s wife would provide a satisfactory cover.”

“Oh.” She settled back in her chair. She had become somewhat familiar with terms from the drug world in her short time as a prison librarian. “That nice old couple?” she asked plaintively. “You’re joshing.”

He shook his head. “Anyway, until I’m sure you’re not at risk, I’d prefer you stay in my guest bedroom.” He grinned and leaned closer. “Unless you’d rather a closer relationship.”

She wouldn’t admit to being tempted. After all, it was legal and all that. She’d been brought up by a generation that professed commitment to old values. Mom always told her daughters that she’d not permitted her husband as much as a kiss until they were safely engaged, but
Stacia had experienced the war years that had shaken so many standards. Couples had married with little courtship, knowing they could be saying goodbye forever while others hadn’t even taken time for the formalities. As for herself, she had been cut off from most companionship with men her own age as the boys went away to war and she was left in little Medicine Stick.

Several of the girls from town had gone away to jobs building planes for the war over in west Texas, but her parents had said there was plenty to do right
there at home. And she’d feared slipping loose from herself somewhere when she didn’t have close kin to anchor her.

By the time she was adult, she’d known full well that the way she lived wasn’t exactly common. The flashes of time when she saw a dark-haired girl with
a face more striking than pretty as her own reflection in the mirror began to frighten her.

Alistair waved a
long, slim hand in front of her eyes. “Where are you, Hart?” he whispered.

She came to herself with only the slightest of jerks. “Right here.” She managed a flirtatious smile. “Where else would I be?”

All his days were busy, but this one was downright chaotic with activity so that he forgot about Stacia Larkin’s family members coming to Wichita County until his secretary peered around the door into his office somewhere in mid-afternoon.
“Serena Hudson and Bobbi Lawrence here to see you.”

Hudson? Lawrence
? Wearily he blinked eyes blurred by too much desk work. Who did he know by that name? He couldn’t think, then realized. These would be members of Helen Larkin’s family. He got up and went to show them in.

They were solemn but friendly,
Helen’s daughter and a young girl who looked around the office with keen interest. Serena Hudson, Helen’s daughter who he remembered had been named for her grandmother, was a graceful woman with silvering hair whom he knew to be in her fifties but looked ten years younger. She smiled and introduced the girl accompanying her as not her daughter, but her granddaughter, Bobbi Lawrence.

“My daughter Stacie planned to come,
but at the last minute she was unable to get away from work.”

“Stacie,” he found himself repeating the name.

“That’s right.” Serena Hudson settled into a chair and motioned to her granddaughter to do the same. “She was named for my aunt. My mother told such wonderful stories of her sister that she remained alive for all of us, though, of course, we’d never met her. Mother grieved for Stacia all her life.”

He’d never seen as much as a picture of Stacia Larkin so he had no idea i
f these two women resembled her. Certainly neither of them had the red hair that Hart had claimed she possessed.

“It’s horrible to think mother was right all along,”
Serena Hudson said. “She was so afraid her sister was still in that little town when it was flooded.”

“We don’t know that for sure,” Alistair inserted with some discomfort.

“We will eventually. When we stopped to contribute our DNA for testing, they did say it could take months before they could give us any answers, but after so many years, we simply feel fortunate at the possibility.”

Alistair didn’t feel that he would welcome such concrete news. If Hart was right—and yet how could she be?  It had to be a mistake
; those bones could belong to anyone after sixty four years. Most likely some drowning victim.

And then he reminded himself of
the bullet in the skull. No way did that fit in with an accidental death.

“We thought while we’re here we’d like to retrace our roots,” Serena
Hudson went on. “You know visit the old sites mother talked about, go to the cemetery where my great-grandparents are buried. And if possible, talk with people who knew my family back in the Medicine Stick days.”

“Yeah,” the teenager spoke for the first time, sounding anything but enthused, “a real blast from the past.”

“Bobbi,” her grandmother reprimanded gently.

The girl flashed a grin that somehow reminded him of someone. “Yes, Granny, dearest,” she responded mockingly. In spite of the girl’s sassy tone, it was evident to Alistair that grandmother and granddaughter were on the best of terms.

“Well, anybody around back then and old enough to have memories of those times would be getting on in years,” he said cautiously, not feeling that Hart would be anxious to contribute her supposed recollections. “But most of them settled in the nearest town. That’s Mountainside. I can give you a few names to start off.”

They thanked him and asked to be notified once he’d heard from the state about the DNA results. Serena told him they would be staying at the
lodge out by the lake while they were visiting and she gave him as well her cell phone number and an address where she could be reached in California.