Authors: Amanda McIntyre
The author, a Mrs. Clancy, expressed in writing what she called a long overdue thank you to the scores of resilient women of the Sweet Magnolia who played an integral part in the support and livelihood of the little mining town of Deadwater Gulch. She read down through the list, some of the names seeming familiar, others only a name, until she came to one close to the end of the page. She blinked a few times, thinking it was her lack of sleep causing her delusions. But her finger, frozen in place, forced her to read and read again the name until she believed it to be real.
Angel Marie Sutter. (1856-?) (Unable to locate after her disappearance in 1881. At the time of this publication, it was concluded she left to search for her father in California.)
Impossible
. She stared at the name. Yet it gave just cause for why so many things seemed odd to her. Why her clothes seemed out of place—why
she
seemed out of place. She snapped the book shut.
Impossible
. There had to be a better explanation. People didn’t just fall asleep and wake up in a different time. She drew the blanket up around her shoulders and mentally retraced her steps back to the hospital, to the time she’d met Shado at the tree lot, wearing the white fur jacket given to her by the large, well-dressed man of color. The lights, the crowd, and the music swirled in her head, and still she couldn’t remember anything prior. The music she’d heard earlier on the radio, however, sounded very familiar, endearing to her in a way she couldn’t place. When she awoke at the hospital, she assumed many of her memories were part of her dreams while she was unconscious—but now she knew they were as real as what happened between her and Shado and equally hard to ignore.
It was still dark and the snow had not let up when she took a quick bath and dressed in the sweatpants Shado had brought for her and an old sweatshirt she found on the back of the bathroom door. She curled up with a cup of tea in what he referred to as his recliner, mesmerized by the startling revelation in Miss Brisbee’s book. Was it true, or was she losing her mind? At some point, she heard his alarm go off, but let him sleep for more reasons than one. Between the awkward tension the night before and her most recent discovery, she hadn’t determined the best way to broach either subject, really, or if it was even wise to do so. He couldn’t refute the obvious, of course. It was her name in black and white, but as to whether she and the woman were the same—the belief might be enough to land her right back at the hospital under a new set of tests.
It was near eleven according to the wall clock when the phone rang. She placed her hand on the receiver and waited, wondering if he’d answer it from his bedroom. Strange contraptions—remarkably convenient, true, but annoying at times. Another shrill ring startled her and this time she plucked up the receiver and held it to her ear as she’d seen her keeper do several times.
“Hello?” She spoke tentatively into the oddly shaped piece.
“Angel? Er…Miss Sutter?” A mellow, masculine voice with a slow twang she didn’t recognize talked as though he knew her.
“Yes, this is. How may I assist you?” she responded. She couldn’t remember telling anyone but Shado her name.
“Hasn’t he cautioned you about answering the phone?” He sounded a bit familiar.
“Is this Detective Gleason?”
“Hey, you did remember. Good. Yeah, I need to speak to Shado, er, Detective
Jackson.”
“He’s still in bed, I’m afraid.”
He made a sound somewhere between a cough and clearing his throat. “What a bum. No wonder he’s not answering his cell.”
Angel glanced down the hall at the closed door. “Excuse me?”
“Never mind,” the man said.
“Would you like me to wake him?” she offered. She’d gladly do so with a good reason. She felt a tug on the phone.
“Here let me take it.” Shado’s soft command sent a cascade of tingles washing over her body.
He eased the receiver from her hand. “Jackson.” He spoke with blunt authority.
She stepped away, toying with the bag in her teacup and sensed him watching even before she faced him. A flicker of warmth flitted in his eyes before he turned away. He paced back and forth as he spoke, and she marveled at the little mannerisms unique to him and how easily she’d come to recognize them in such a short time. How he rubbed his hand over his brow when weighing his options, or how he pushed his fingers through his hair when he was frustrated.
She debated whether to tell him about the book. Up to now, she’d blamed her lapse in memory on the injury to her head. What if her inability to comprehend the things of life were a result of her not having them where she was from?
She looked out the window, aware of his one word responses, but lost in her thoughts. Perhaps Miss Brisbee could shed more light on the events surrounding the Sweet Magnolia. If she was familiar with the disappearance of Miss Lillian and the sheriff, perhaps there was a story about what happened to the woman named Angel in the book. There had to be a logical explanation and until she understood it, there was no reason to add to Shado’s concerns. Just the same, no matter how impossible, the possibilities heightened her desire to find out more about the Sweet Magnolia and her connection to it. Because if the impossible was somehow possible, and she was from the past, then what was to prevent her from going back?
“Got it. Right. Call if you need anything.” He put the phone down and glanced at her. “Is that coffee?”
She glanced briefly over her shoulder. “Tea.”
“I’m going to make coffee.” He went into the kitchen. “Have you been up long?” he called from the other room.
“Since sunup.” It wasn’t a complete lie.
“Looks like we’re going to be holed up here for a while,” he remarked.
Holed up? As if they were desperados on the run. Surely, the thought came from watching too many western television shows. The idea, however, of being in such close quarters with him caused her heart to skip a beat. “They don’t need you at the tree lot?” Her effort at casual conversation sounded unconvincing even to her. He hadn’t mentioned a word about what had happened between them. Maybe it meant nothing to him. She moved nearer the window and placed her palm against the glass, grateful for the sensation, which confirmed she was alive.
“Angel?”
Startled, she turned and lost her grip on the teacup. Frantic not to let it drop, she juggled it midair to keep it from crashing to the floor. An instant before she lost control, he stepped forward and captured the cup in one hand. He handed it to her with a pensive look.
“I-I’m sorry,” she stammered and took it. Their fingers brushed lightly, but she tried to ignore her body’s instant reaction. She quickly moved around him, wondering if they were going to tiptoe around one another all day.
He gently grabbed her arm and turned her to face him. “Hey, slow down. I think we should talk.”
She nodded. Of all the things she wanted most to do, it would have given her unending joy to tell him about the book, ask him what he thought of the possibility of traveling through time. There were so many new and unusual things she didn’t understand about him, about where and how he lived. She wanted to tell him about the visions she’d had and though most were disjointed, they seemed real at the time. Would they sound to him like the rantings of a madwoman? More than anything else, however, she wanted to be held in the safe warmth of his arms where nothing else mattered. She looked up into his stern face.
“About what happened….” He looked away, and she saw the muscle in his jaw tick as though he was holding in what he really wanted to say.
Please, don’t say it was a mistake.
“I don’t regret last night, Angel. Not one moment. I hope you don’t.”
Her shoulders relaxed. She shook her head.
“But I won’t lie to you,” he continued. “When this is all over, when you gain back your memory, you’re going to feel different about things—about me, I promise.”
She pressed her lips together. “Maybe it will be you who feels different.”
He rubbed his hand over his chest and sighed before swinging his focus to her. “I want you to know, I meant what I said about wanting to be with you. But you understand how complicated things could get if we—”
She nodded.
He pushed his hand through his bed-tousled hair.
She looked at the floor, hiding a smile. At least this was difficult for him. That was a good sign, wasn’t it?
Stepping toward her, he raised his hand to cradle her cheek. “I want you to know…um, I won’t hold you back. I make no promises. I can’t guarantee—” He swallowed hard. “The temptation to be with you…it can’t happen again. But I need your help.”
She met his gaze. “My help?”
“To stop things before they go any further.” She chewed her bottom lip, debating his request.
“You’ve got to tell me no.”
It felt like a landslide had fallen on her chest. “What if I don’t want to?”
He closed his eyes and let out a sigh. “Listen, right now, it isn’t about what you want or what I want. It’s about keeping a clear head and staying alert. I can’t do my job if I let my emotions get involved.”
Did he realize what he was saying? Still, she understood his dilemma and if there was any substance at all to this fragile beginning between them, it would survive until they were able to explore it freely. “I understand.”
He dropped his hand and waited a moment before he spoke. “Good, because that was Gleason, and I don’t know how we’re going to do this, but the captain has ordered me to keep a low profile for a day or two.”
She followed him to the kitchen and the sight of the corded muscles of his naked back caused her heart to falter.
Say no to him?
“Because of the storm?”
“It’s more serious. Rumor on the street says Espinoza is up to something.” He went about making himself a cup of coffee. The brown crystals he sometimes used made her gag.
“Here, let me make you some real coffee.” She plucked the jar from his hand and proceeded to make a pot of coffee like he’d shown her. He leaned against the kitchen door with his arms folded and watched her.
“Besides, I’m perfectly fine alone. No one knows I’m here.”
“The word is he’s looking for you.”
“Which explains the target practice at the hospital the other night.” She tossed him a side look and filled his cup. He took a sip and closed his eyes with a heavy sigh. What had happened between them lingered; she sensed it in the strained silence filling the room.
“All the more reason we need to stay focused and make a dent in these books. Hopefully, we can find the guy who attacked you.”
There it was. He’d dropped the lid on his emotions. Angel eyed him. Once the ordeal was resolved, perhaps he would open up. At least they’d be able to move forward with their lives—whether together or apart. “I looked through one already this morning.” She glanced down at the stack on the kitchen table. “It seems there are an awful lot of men who don’t abide by the law in this town.”
“Yep, ’fraid so.” He held up his cup. “Thanks for the coffee. You do that very well.”
She held his gaze, wanting to return her gratitude for things he’d done very well, but thought it best left unsaid.
“Listen. I’m going to grab a shower and get dressed, and then we can get started, right?”
“You don’t want breakfast?”
“I had a cup of coffee. I’m good.” He sauntered down the hall and disappeared into the bathroom. After refreshing her tea, she stood at the kitchen entry and listened to the metal on metal sound of the shower curtain being pulled shut. An instant later, the loud squawk of the faucet handles and the thunder of water coming up through the pipes followed. She found the convenience of water at the twist of a handle a miraculous thing. Her imagination wandered precariously to him standing naked in the shower, the water sluicing down over his muscular, hard body. She licked her lips and took a long swallow of stout tea, wishing she had a drop or two of a good whiskey to calm her nerves.
Perhaps she needed to accept the brief moment between them, though passionate, was due to their temporary situation. In reality, it likely meant nothing at all. But even while she resigned herself to the strong possibility, emotions of another kind warred inside her.
As she walked back to the living room, her eye caught something lying near his boots. A closer look revealed a small photograph wedged against the wall. She plucked it from its place and glanced at the bathroom door before focusing on the picture. She wiped away a bit of dirt from one corner and studied it, noting a beautiful, smiling woman snuggled close to a young boy with blonde hair and blue eyes, every bit the color of Shado’s. Perhaps it was his nephew, the one in the other photo, now grown, but in that one, there was no woman. Was this perhaps his former wife or maybe a lover? Whoever took the picture was someone dear to the subjects by virtue of their wide smiles and blatant looks of love on their faces. She felt an awkward sense of betrayal, confused by her thoughts and out-of-place emotions of feeling special and yet so alone at the same time. Strange goings on she could no more explain than she could the intense feelings she was developing for Shado. Would she one day awaken to realize this was all a fantasy contrived of her own desire to find happiness?