“Tókhi wániphika ní!”
Coyote embraced the couple too.
Both the muses giggled and grabbed hold of everyone, calling each other aunties already.
“Wait!” Duncan ordered, like the former soldier he was. “Just hold.”
The small crowd removed themselves from the couple, staring at them. Duncan slowly cupped his wife’s cheeks, smiling down at her with tears glistening in his eyes.
“I’m goin’ to be a da?”
Fleur nodded, her own moisture pooling in her gaze.
He held her close with a brief kiss, then wrapped an arm around her shoulders. “Now, I need my brother, so I can tell him the good news.”
“We’ll find him, Duncan. We’ll find Jacob Cameron in no time.” Clio’s enthusiasm was noticeable in the way she almost sung what she’d said.
“And I’ll talk to Meredith. See how she’s doing.” Erva bit her bottom lip.
“You sure, honey?” Clio asked.
Erva took a huge breath and nodded. “Let me talk to her first...please.”
Clio and Erato turned to each other, communicating whole dialogues in their expressive auburn brows.
Erato looked back at Erva. “That would be helpful if you talked to her, smooth things over, before we return her to her own time. I can give you a phone to help with the time travel. You and your husband can go back—”
“He’s taking his board exams,” Erva said. “He can’t go with me.”
“I’ll go with you,” Coyote said gruffly. “That’s a rough time. You’ll need someone there to protect you.”
“Thank you.” Erva gave the god a thousand-watt beam.
“All right,” Duncan hollered. “Then that’s the plan: Erva checks on Dr. Peabody, while all others search for my brother.”
Everyone nodded.
Fleur wrapped her arm around her husband’s waist. “Don’t worry, baby. We’ll find him.”
Deep in the heart of the Montana Territory
December 26
th
in the Lord’s year of 1887
A
shotgun scabbard was impossible to put on a horse. Tie the scabbard with the tack at the back of a saddle, and, if ever confronted, Jake Cameron would have to unfasten the blasted thing, shearing off precious seconds of time he should use to protect himself. So he preferred to have the open scabbard attached to the front side of his saddle. Ready for action in a second, but it bruised his knee every time he rode for more than just an hour.
He was on hour eight of the all-night ride, and the constant bumping from the scabbard to his knee had just progressed into maddening. However, Jake was fairly certain he finally approached the tiny town of Plateau. The sun rose in the midnight blue sky, making the dirt road, the mountains, the grass, and the occasional cotton wood tree around him hazy gray from the frost. It hadn’t snowed last night or the day before, Christmas. There’d been many a complaint about that, he’d overheard. Although most of the Montanans dreaded the snow, it was sought for one day of the year, when it would bring magical white joy to all who celebrated the day.
It had remained cold and brown though. As they said in the Highlands,
Is blianach Nollaid gun sneachd
- Christmas without snow is poor fare. And today was no fairer, but even more dreary with the grayness the morning frost brought to the scenery. As much as it hadn’t snowed, he sure felt it in the air, the way he could sense impending doom—it vibrated in his bones, mostly his ribs, making him feel as though his heart rattled.
Something about this trip made his heart rattle more than usual. Didn’t know what that was about and wanted to spend some time thinking upon it. But he needed the money the town offered more.
Like most mining settlements in western territories, Plateau looked as transitory as all the others. Dotting the valley village were tents with chimneys, white smoke puffing away like old men gossiping on a porch. A short wide street lay bare the gray-brown frozen earth and was home to five buildings. A tiny jailhouse, freshly bricked into place with new whitewash already peeling from being applied when it was too damned cold. A general store next to a stagecoach stop, complete with hotel and restaurant, and, Jake guessed, the seeming requisite tavern. And a church. Always at the end of the street. This one was decorated with homemade paper ribbons of red and green, torn down and swaying limply from a frigid breeze.
He didn’t know what it was about churches being at the end of the road. Wondered if the builders of the steepled structure engineered it to be that way. As if asking the folks without any faith to come to the end of the line for answers.
Jake knew the answers though.
There weren’t any.
Stopping at the tavern, his legs protested any kind of movement. Sure, he’d taken breaks during the ride, stretched, but he was exhausted, and his body nearly crumbled when his booted foot met the cold ground. He held onto Moses, his bay gelding, for support. The old horse cocked one eye his direction, summoning an I-told-you-not-to-push-it look. Jake almost chuckled at the horse. Almost.
Tilting his head side to side, then bending his knees, he got his bearings. It was like sea legs, it was. After a long ride, one had to take the time to resettle to the surface, to the soil, to become grounded. He’d hated sailing but had often wondered if the steamboats of this age might be more comfortable. Then again, the reason he’d hated sailing was because he’d been a prisoner of war. It had been 1651. He’d never ventured far from his Highland MacKay country, but he and his brothers had been pressed into service for Laird Reay. Cromwell and the New Order Army were unstoppable, but if he and his brothers deserted the royalist army, they’d’ve had a sword through their bellies. Fight or die. Die or fight. Too fast, he’d found himself in England, Worcester, battling for his life. After his brother, Douglas, lay mangled, bloody, and dead, he’d surrendered to the English, hoping for reprieve from the fighting, from further death. Striped from his lands, his brother’s demise laying heavily on his shoulders as did the cold manacles around his wrists and ankles, and the sailors above deck ridiculed his accent as often as they’d flung the dead overboard. Aye, he hadn’t been fond of sailing.
Jake shook his head, reminding himself of the time, of his tongue. Not saying a word was usually best for passing as an American. However, he knew he’d have to talk today. After all, this was an interview to become the new sheriff of Plateau. So he’d practiced on the ride, hence the reason for riding at night when no one could hear him. He’d talked all night, perfecting his American accent. He sounded pretty good to his own ears, if he did say so himself. But then again, he also sounded raw and in need of...
“Coffee?” A friendly woman’s voice rang out.
A smiling black woman held open the door to the stagecoach stop across the street from the tavern. Jake suddenly noticed a small sign above the woman, probably an old white torn sheet with the word “Stop” on it. Must be the simple name of the stagecoach stop. The woman had a pink shawl wrapped tightly around her thin shoulders, and her forest green skirts pillowed around her legs.
“You must be Mr. Cameron.”
“Yes’m.”
Her smile grew, like the sun rising and warming the land. “You have excellent timing. I’m Laura Casper. Tom Casper’s wife, the man you telegraphed for the position.”
She was Tom Casper’s wife? Tom Casper owned Plateau, all the land, the coal, all the buildings, hell, everything here.
Before he had time to ponder further, she beckoned with a wave of a hand. “Get in here, Mr. Cameron. It’s too cold to keep the door open.”
“Sorry, ma’am.” He raced toward her, his long legs still angry with him, but he made them work somehow.
She laughed, her chuckle as amiable as her smile and seemed to chortle even more as he passed her into the hot antechamber. Lord, it was a bit of heaven to walk into. That warmth. He hadn’t noticed how cold he was until now. The other benefit to walking into the Stop was the strong scent of coffee, always a good omen.
The stagecoach stop was a long cabin. Inside to his right was a telegraph and desk with papers and ledgers strewn about. In front of him was a staircase to the rooms, one of which would be his, he hoped. To the left was the restaurant with an eight-foot pine, without one decoration. Must have gotten to cleaning the Christmas mess early. In front of the dining room was a small pub. It had the look of something back home in Scotland—quaint tables squished together, mismatched chairs, and a bar for serving the ale or whisky. Children and their parents would sit together, the parents with their tankards, while the bairns...Lord, what had he done when his da had been drinking? More than likely, trying to run away from the bastard.
“Now, may I get you that coffee, Mr. Cameron?”
“Yes, please.” He turned toward Mrs. Casper, trying to give her his own grin. It had been a while since he’d been in need of one, and his face felt too tight when he tried to curl his lips up.
Mrs. Casper didn’t seem to notice but smiled and hummed as she strode toward a carafe on the huge desk. Placing a thick brown cup from a shelf down on the desk, she poured black brew into it, turning Jake’s smile more genuine every second.
Ah, coffee. The elixir of the gods.
“Cream, sugar?”
He wanted to say yes to both, being a bit of a sweet tooth, and he loved the richness of cream. But he wanted to make a good impression and thought, for whatever reason, if he said no it would be for the better. While shaking his head, Mrs. Casper arched a lovely dark brow.
“Sure?”
Damnation, he hated his longings.
“Actually, ma’am, may I have both?”
She giggled. Actually giggled like a chit. “Oh, I like you already. Of course, you may have both. You’re our new sheriff.”
“I haven’t hired him yet,” A gruff voice sounded from the pub.
Jake turned to see a bear of a man rumbling toward him. A white bear of a man, who stared at Jake’s hat. Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, he’d had his Stetson on this whole time.
In a flurry Jake whisked off his hat as Mrs. Casper handed him the dark rich coffee.
“That’s my husband, Tom Casper. Honey, this is Mr. Cameron. You are going to hire him. He has manners.”
Mr. Casper extended a meaty red hand as Jake caught it. The shake was firm and with enough exuberance it jangled Jake’s head. Casper wasn’t as tall as Jake, but he had a lot of flesh to make up for it. “They say manners can hide all sorts of defects.”
Mrs. Casper sidled up to her husband, slapping him playfully against his thick shoulder. “Stop teasing. He doesn’t know you well enough to know you jest.”
“Am I, Laura? Am I?”
She giggled and swatted the big man again.
Jake could only swallow. This wasn’t the first time he’d seen a mixed couple. After he’d become a prisoner of war, he’d been shipped off with his brothers and hundreds of other Highlanders to America to become an indentured servant. When he and his brothers had escaped their servitude, they’d found sanctuary in a Yamasee village, where other slaves and servants had also run away. One of the first people to welcome him into the tribe was an African man with an Irish wife. But Jake hadn’t seen such a thing in over two-hundred years. Didn’t know people would be that brave anymore. And something about it made his heart trip. In such a damned good way.
Since he’d landed in this time, he kept trying to figure out a way to go back. The man with the pale blue eyes had stolen him then moved him from one era to the next in a tornado-like blur of memories. Jake just wanted to return to his brothers, safe. Well, safety was relative speaking. No matter what age he found himself.
Maybe this town, this job, wouldn’t be so bad. Maybe he could pass time here, until he could figure out a way back to his brothers.
Mr. Casper finally released Jake’s hand and nodded. “Well, Mr. Cameron, nice to meet you at last.”
“Likewise.”
“Your resume hasn’t arrived yet.”
Jake nodded. “Scared I’d beat it, but it’s coming.”
Mr. Casper narrowed his eyes slightly. “You in a rush to become a lawman?”
“In a rush to make money, sir.”
Mr. Casper cracked a wide smile at that. “Like honesty, I do. I hope you like honest money too? It ain’t as much as the other kind, but it’s reliable.”
“Yes, sir.”
Mr. Casper leaned closer. “Call me Tom, if I can call you Jacob.”
“Jake.”
Another smile from Mr. Capser, and Jake felt as if he’d won real money already. “Jake, it is then.” The large man sighed and looked at his wife. “Ah, hell, I like him too.” He studied Jake once more. “I should be interviewing you proper, should wait for your resume.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Oh, he’s got that face, though, honey,” Mrs. Casper said as she wrapped two hands around Tom’s massive forearm. It sounded sweet what Mrs. Casper had said, but any comment about his face...Jake immediately looked down to the floor.
It had been a year now living with this disgusting pox-marked visage, but sometimes he could forget how grotesque he was. Then a child would point, a woman would whisper, or a man would say something about the monster, and he would remember all over again his deformity. His ugliness.
Jake hardly heeded that Mrs. Casper continued talking. “...look at those eyes. Those are honest eyes.”
“Yes, they are.” Mr. Casper rocked back on his heels, then clapped Jake on his shoulder. “Ah, hell, you’re hired. You’re our new sheriff. You do have an honest face, honest eyes.”
Jake blinked, not sure how to handle the compliment. He’d inspected his image yesterday in a brass-backed mantle. In the metallic background, his face had morphed and smeared. Those were handsome features the brass had created for him. But there too were the marks on his face like that of a cannonade fired on a hill. It reeked of war. His personal war had been smallpox, almost forgotten in this time thanks to variolation and inoculation.
So he just shook Mr. and Mrs. Casper’s hands, trying with everything in him to force the ends of his lips up, make himself appear jovial, normal. Human.
He was human, but feeling so disfigured, so out of his own time, he often wondered if he was more demon than man.
“You packed some arms, Jake?”
“Yes, sir. Have more being shipped.”
“You were a lawman for a railway, right?”
“That I was.”
“Now you want to work for my mining town?”
Jake gritted his teeth after he’d sipped some of the delicious coffee. He hated talking about being a lawman for the railways. He’d been paid muscle, that’s all. There was little law involved. And he’d had a hell of a row about justice with his employers, leaving him scraping for any job, hoping, even going as far as praying, he’d never be asked to do the things they’d wanted him to do for the railway.
“I’d like a chance at being a lawman for your town, yes, sir.”
Tom smiled once more. This time the grin was slow and measured. “It’s a small town still, but I get more men asking for work everyday. I have now close to five hundred miners. I’ve got now mostly Slavs and Fins, and they don’t get along. Don’t know why not. They’re good boys most of the time, but yesterday—”