Faithfully Yours (The Forever Time Travel Romance Series, Book 1) (2 page)

The bed frame shook, and she looked up.  The man still held to the footboard.  Dirt lined his grimy fingernails.

"Hank?" Faith asked.  Although her dream ebbed at a slow pace, pieces of reality began to fit in place. Her shoulders drooped.  Aidan would not come to rescue her.

"Who else would be standing in my bedroom, addressing my wife?" Hank shouted. 

There was no doubt that this was the voice that had interrupted her time with Aidan.  She licked her lips and swallowed.  Aidan had been a dream?  "N-no one.  I suppose," she answered, trying to pull herself awake. 

It would be easier to stack hay one strand upon the other than to relinquish the last few remnants of her dream.  The thought of saying good bye to Aidan, no matter how fabricated he had been, saddened her in ways she didn't understand.

"You suppose?" Hank asked.  He sounded as though his time could be better spent elsewhere.  "If this is your way of getting out of work, I won't stand for it."  He picked up her dress from the back of the chair and tossed it at her.  The gingham was as worn as her nightgown.  He stormed from the room, slamming the door behind him.

"I'm awake, Hank.  I'll have breakfast ready in a few minutes," she called to the stomping footfalls, and pulled the splayed dress from around her neck and chin.

The only desire she had was to return to sleep and search for Aidan.  A wicked smile spread across her lips as she wondered if he would be as she had left him, in bed and holding her in his arms.  The answer would have to wait until tonight.  Hank was angry now, and would be livid if she kept him waiting much longer.  She drew the blankets away from her and pulled her legs over the edge of the bed.  She held her dress in her lap.  The bedroom was sparse and cold.  Although a small fire burned in the fireplace, there were no wall or floor coverings.  Wind whistled, entering the cracks between the hewn logs.  Somehow, she was certain that Aidan would have paid closer attention to home repairs.

She shrugged.  A honeymoon with a man like Aidan had been a nice dream.  Hank wouldn't be as pleasant when he returned if his breakfast wasn't on the table.  She touched her hand to the lump on her shoulder.  Her broken collarbone had been blamed on her laziness, and not on his temper.  At least that was what he told her sister, Honor when she came to set the bone.

Lowering the top of her nightdress, she halted her movement.  On her finger was the same silver ring she had worn in her dream.  Why would a person in a dream question where a piece of jewelry came from?  Aidan hadn't cared so much where it was from but that she wore something that was not from him.  He had been so kind.  She glanced to the door.  It was no wonder she had created a man like Aidan to dream about.  She pulled the gingham over her head and slipped the nightdress off.  Her skin still tingled from where Aidan had touched her, had kissed her, had...How could she know his touch when it had never happened?  She touched her hand to her lips.  It had all been so real.

A cow mooed in the distance.  Apparently Hank was milking Mabel on an empty stomach.  The length of time it would take to fill a pail with milk would be long enough for her to put some biscuits in the oven and fry some eggs.

Faith reached her hand beneath the bed and pulled her shoes out from under the frame.  Catching them by the heels, she slipped them on and wondered how Aidan preferred his eggs.  If it was possible for dreams to repeat, maybe she would get the chance to ask him tonight.

Chapter 2

Faith knelt next to the hearth, wadded her apron in her hand, and grabbed the skillet handle.  This had been her routine for the past four years since her parents' died.  She pulled the pan toward her and turned the bacon to cook the topside of the meat.  The raw strips popped and sizzled before settling into a quiet surrender, much like she had done after her marriage to Hank.  She nudged the strip to the side, giving it room to crackle. 

She pulled a fresh pan from a nail behind the wash basin, scooped a spoonful of bacon drippings from the first skillet, and dribbled the fat into the cast iron pan.  Fried eggs, bacon, and biscuits should be enough to satisfy him.  Keeping his stomach full was usually the best means to maintain his temper.  She made a mental note to pack extra biscuits when wrapping the leftovers. 

Working in the tobacco fields was not how she enjoyed spending her day, but at least it kept Hank from grumbling.  Four months ago, when she failed to maintain straight lines during planting season, he had forced her to pull the plow while he re-tilled the rows.  Her hands, feet, and shoulders had bled by the time the two of them finished working.  Instead of bandaging her gashes, Hank had pointed out that she had learned her lesson and he would expect things to be done better next season. She rubbed her shoulder, remembering the pain.

The window over the wood box caught the light, reflecting her image.  Ignoring their breakfast preparations, she pushed a loose strand of hair away from her forehead and looked to see if dark circles marked her eyes.  She leaned in closer, and tilted her face from left to right.  Her eyes looked as they always did, tired and listless. 

She lowered her gaze, and her breath caught in her throat.  There had been a smudge of color on her neck that wasn't part of her dress.  She cast a quick glance over her shoulder toward the front door.  Hank would be returning soon and if she was correct in her assumption, she certainly didn't want her husband to see her neck. 

She tilted the angle of her makeshift looking glass and pulled the collar of her blouse to the side for closer inspection.  Two purple and red blotches rode low on her throat. Unbuttoning the top four buttons of her bodice, she pulled the material away from her skin and looked down.  Her eyes widened, and the same heat she had experienced last night washed over her.  The blotches did not stop at her collarbone. 

She refastened her clothes and turned her attention back to the fire.  Her hand shook, but she managed to work a spatula under the eggs, and flip them over.  The edges of the whites flapped like a hand towel on a clothesline.  How was she ever going to explain the marks on her skin to Hank?  She wasn't completely certain how they got there to begin with.  She turned her face away from the half-cooked breakfast and clutched a hand to her stomach.  Why would she want to put that thought in his mind, anyway?

Aidan's dark hair and eyes drifted easily into her thoughts.  She could still remember the way his mouth, wide and full, had pulled at her lips and his teeth had nibbled lightly.  Her mouth opened in response as she thought of him.  She could taste him, smell him, feel his hands on her.  Never had any of her dreams been this vivid.  She closed her eyes and inhaled.  The scent of hay filled the room, and she rubbed her hands over her arms.  He had held her so close, not in a suffocating way, but with tenderness and care.  She could stay in his embrace forever.

"Are you trying to set the house on fire?" Hank growled at her from the open doorway.  He coughed and fanned the air in front of him.

Faith stumbled, dropping the spatula to the floor.  Smoke flumed above the pan and filled the small room in a thick haze.  The acidic smell burned her eyes and lungs.  Tears streamed down her cheeks and she gasped for air, coughing until her chest ached.  Without thinking, she grabbed the skillet bare-handed and pulled it away from the fire.  Pain shot up her arm.  Crying out, she held her aching hand in front of her face.  She clutched her wrist, and moved it in a back and forth motion, blowing on her throbbing palm in short, quick bursts. 

Hank remained in the doorway.  The only help he offered in way of comfort was to prop the entrance open with his back.  Although he seemed unconcerned about her health, at least the smoke rose to the ceiling and crawled along the rafters to the outside world.  The flour sack she had been using still sat on the table, waiting for her to make gravy.  She grabbed it up and dumped half a bag of the powder onto the torched eggs.

Hank crossed his arms over his chest.  His lips curled with disgust.  "So, there's no breakfast?" he sneered.

Faith quickly pulled the bacon from the coals and sat the pan onto a towel.  The eggs were lost but she had managed to salvage the meat.  "You like it crispy, don't you?" she asked, and tried to smile in his direction.

He left the doorway, walked to where she stood, and looked down at the pan.  "That isn't fit to eat.  You burned the bacon, too." 

He glanced around the room, and his neck grew crimson.  This colorful trait of his always warned her of what was to come.  Like waving a red cloth in front of a bull, things in his domain were not as he preferred.  He would remove the irritant and reestablish his territorial control.  The air and ground nearly rumbled around her. 

Faith lowered her hands and placed them behind her.  She backed away, trying to move in a slight, yet fluid movement.  The bedroom was behind her, but there were no locks on the door to prevent him from charging in.  She glanced to the table.  The butcher knife and bacon slab lay next to the dirty bowl and spoon she had used to make biscuits.

"That's to be my breakfast?" he shouted, pointing at the smoking pan.  "Burned bacon?  You expect me to work all morning without food?"

"No," Faith said, shaking her head.  "I made biscuits.  The biscuits!" she screamed and grabbed a cloth from the table, wadding it in her good hand.  Hank stepped backward out of her way.  She pulled the Dutch oven from the fire and lifted the lid.  Golden brown balls of dough glowed in the pan.  She sighed.  At least she had salvaged something edible.  "I can cook more eggs," she assured him.  "They'll be ready by the time you've emptied the milk pail."

He glanced down to the bucket he carried.  It was half filled.  Although she didn't dare ask, she wondered if he had stopped milking early or if Mabel was producing less than usual. 

"Get them ready," he snarled, and stormed from the house.

Faith watched through the window as he headed to the ice house.  She waited until he disappeared from view before she allowed herself to breathe.  Exhaling, she slid the pan of biscuits onto the table.  The bread needed to cool before it could be eaten.  Limp and exhausted, she slumped into a chair and laid her hand in her lap.  Even though she had promised Hank eggs, it could wait while she looked at her injury and tried to determine the extent of the damage.

Red and warm, she flexed her fingers.  She would be fine within a few days.  If she had the luxury of letting the wound rest, it would be pink and healthy by nightfall.  Hank would never allow her to stay home because of a burn.  The best she could do to prevent the tenderness from tearing open and become inflamed was to wrap it with a cloth.  She shrugged and pushed herself to her feet.  There was no need to give him something else to complain about.

To prepare a place for him to eat, she stacked the dirty dishes into a pile, clearing one half of the table, and then looked into the butter bowl.  There was enough for breakfast, but later tonight she would have to churn the cream from today's milking.  From the amount of milk she had seen in the bucket, there was only enough to make a heaping tablespoonful of butter. 

Perhaps the old woman who lived on the ridge behind the property would have a surplus.  Her cows always produced well.  If she was willing to share her cream, Faith could give her half of the butter she churned.  It seemed a fair exchange.  She glanced around the messy room.  Dirty dishes were strewn everywhere.  It wouldn't be difficult to convince Hank that she needed to clean the house before going to the field.  Once everything was back in order, she would sneak off to the ridge and offer the trade. 

The dogs barked outside, and Faith jumped.  Instinctively, she reached for the frying pan and moved to the hearth.  "Aidan, I wish you were real."

Chapter 3

Located between Faith's childhood home and the house she and Hank now shared, Faith walked the short distance to the footpath she and her sisters had first trailed.  The path might have never existed if it had not been for her sister Hope's wild imagination.  She strongly believed an old crone lived on the ridge.  That alone was nothing to pique their curiosity, but Hope had insisted that the ancient female was a witch who posed a threat to their lives with her abilities to perform outlandish feats.  Faith shook her head as she recalled Hope's overly active thoughts. 

Branches and shrubs stretched across the passageway, blocking an easy walk.  Faith pressed through, climbing the uneven path, determined to reach the top.  She didn't remember the short trek taking so long to complete.  There were just as many exposed tree roots now as there had been ten years ago.  She climbed around the last boulder and leaned against it to steady herself.  From where she stood, the ground ahead of her looked level.  The trees swayed in front of her, and glimpses of a sod roof and a stone chimney came into view.  It was too late to turn back now.  She had reached the top of the knoll.  Hopefully, Hank wouldn't notice her absence.

Faint echoes from her childhood whispered in her ear, and she could hear Hope's voice daring her to peek through one of the covered windows.  Faith shook her head at her sister's foolishness.  The
evil witch
was no more of a threat now than she had been then.