Faithfully Yours (The Forever Time Travel Romance Series, Book 1) (9 page)

A possible path veered to the right of the main trail.  Faith followed the hazelnut scent and pushed into the narrow clearing.  With her mind set on the answers she wanted, she headed up the incline.  Twigs and brambles pulled at her skirt, a possible foreshadow of what was to come.  Unwilling to be dissuaded from her quest, she whipped loose foliage from in front of her legs, and started upward.  The toe of her shoe dug into the ground as she climbed the bank.  Leveraging her foot against an exposed rock, she grabbed a sapling near its root and pushed herself to a short plateau.  The slope of the hillside was steeper than she had anticipated.   Her lungs burned and she breathed hard, climbing the last steps to the top of the rise.  How had an elderly woman made it to the top so much faster than her?

Faith regained her balance and peered out from under her damp bangs.  The area in front of her spread out like a lush meadow.  Standing straight, she wiped her hair away from her forehead and looked from one side of the property to the other.  There were no fences or boundaries to section off the land as private property.  When she had come to this home yesterday, she had taken a much easier path. 

A chicken squawked at the front of the house.  The bird flapped its wings and flew to the porch railing.  Although Faith empathized with the animal's peril, she had wrung a few necks in her life.  It was possible that dinner preparations were under way.  Faith walked warily from the side of the clearing, hoping the biddy had been frightened by something other than an axe wielding, crazy woman. 

A hawk screeched overhead, swooped low, and then soared away from the house.  Faith wondered if the woman had transformed herself into the predator, and had left her to draw her own conclusions.  Faith shielded her hand over her eyes and looked to see if a gray mane trailed behind the bird.

"Did you come all the way up here to look at the wildlife?" a voice asked from the front porch.

Faith shifted her gaze downward and lowered her hand.  "No.  I came up here to talk with you.  Did you not hear me when I called to you in the cabin?"

The woman pulled a dishcloth from off of her shoulder and swatted the seat of a chair.  She wasn't even winded.  Dry leaves and dust swirled to the floorboards.  She sat down and then stretched the towel across her skirt.  Lifting a mixing bowl, she positioned it on her lap, tipped the chair backward, and rested her shoulders against the wall.  With everything well balanced, she pulled a fistful of green beans from the dish and snapped off the ends. 

"What do you and I have to discuss, Mrs. Valentine?" she asked and laid the broken stems in her lap.

Faith narrowed her eyes and tried to determine the woman's ploy.  Apparently, her isolated existence had lent itself to an obsessive imagination.  Faith stepped closer, searching the area on the porch.  No weapons appeared to be within an easy reach. 

"How do you know about Aidan?" Faith asked. 

She barely raised her knees high enough to climb the stairs to the porch.  The balls of her feet scraped the wood steps, but she pushed onward.  Making it to the top of the last rise, she stood to the side of the woman, turned, and looked behind her.  The porch swing no longer hung where it had yesterday.  It was possible that it had been removed, but the woman didn't seem to be the type of person who would employ menial help, nor did she seem inclined to change her surroundings on a whim.

"Wasn't there a swing here yesterday?" Faith asked, pointing to the empty space.

The woman's brows rose and she scoffed.  "Yesterday."  She nodded her head as though confirming a suspicion.  "Is that the question you want answered?"

"I have several, and I won't be limited," Faith snapped.

The woman's hands curled around a fresh batch of beans and snapped them in half.  A few green seeds shot upward, arced, and then bounced to the floor.  "For someone who needs answers, you might consider using a more pleasing tone of voice."  She opened her hands and the broken bits plummeted into the bowl.

Faith stared over at her and tried to surmise her adversary.  The woman's gray hair looked as though it had been dark in her younger years, and her eyes looked as though they may have been a shade of blue before turning gray and cloudy.  Faith rubbed a spot high on her cheekbone.  Just below, and to the left of her eye was a small mole, a trait all members of her family shared, all except for her sister Grace. 

The woman in front of her sat in profile.  The left side of her face was clearly in view.  Faith squinted and focused on the area near the woman's eye.  Although not a mole, a similarly shaped blemish marked her upper cheek.  At least Faith could rest in knowing they weren't related.  Faith lowered her gaze and took in the woman's overall appearance.  It was odd how the elderly face appeared the same now as it had when Faith had seen her as a child.  Was it possible that the woman had not aged throughout the years?  A person isn't born old, surely she had enjoyed a youthful life at some point in her past.  The woman turned her head, ending Faith's uninvited inspection.

"If you plan to be here a while, perhaps you should sit."  She pointed to a chair next to her.

"Thank you."  Faith kept her eyes on the woman and positioned the seat at an angle to keep her within view.  "What's your name?"  She used her most congenial voice.  She couldn't very well address her as 'the old woman from the ridge' or worse, 'the old witch from the ridge'.

The woman closed her eyes as though the idea of sharing her title caused discomfort.  She cleared her throat.  "You may call me, Trista."

"Trista," Faith repeated, listening to the sound of the syllables.  Although she had never met anyone with that name, there was something familiar in the sound of it. 

"I'm still waiting for an answer, Trista." 

Trista raised her gaze and stared at Faith.  Icy tentacles seemed to crystallize and wrap around Faith's soul, tugging at the core of her being.  If she didn't do something to prevent the mental dissection, she feared she would never be whole again.  She pulled back in her chair and crossed her arms over her chest.

"That's the oddity about receiving what you search for," Trista explained.  "The response isn't always to your advantage."  Her shoulders shrugged and she snapped off the end of another bean.  "Well, my dear.  I shall tell you what you ask.  I know Mr. Valentine because I attended your wedding.  Do you not remember your guests?"

An involuntary shiver ran down Faith's back, and she rubbed her hands over her forearms, hoping to remove the frosty enclosure that wrapped itself around her body.  This answer did not tell her anything useful.  "But yesterday," Faith mumbled and looked to the side of the house.  She may have no memory of marrying Aidan, much less knowing who had witnessed the ceremony, but she was certain that this woman had asked her if she had met Aidan, and neither of them had mentioned anything about the wedding. 

"You seem confused."  Trista peered over at her from a sideways glance.  "Have you suffered an injury?"

Faith touched her hand to the small of her back.  She wasn't completely sure she should confide in the woman.  "I was thrown from my horse," she said, tentatively.

The woman nodded.  "That should be sufficient."

"Sufficient?  For what?" Faith asked.

"To allow you the ability to stay with this husband."

It was odd that she would reference Aidan in such a manner, especially after reminding her that she had been an invited guest to their wedding.  Faith thought over what she had said.  "
This
husband.  What do you mean by that?"

Trista stopped her bean snapping and looked over at her blank-faced.  "Do you prefer Hank?"  She returned the chair to all four legs and gathered the corners of the towel.  "After seeing Mr. Valentine, I would think the decision would be easy.  Of course, the manner in which you get to stay with him, will not be."  She walked to the edge of the porch and tossed the bean trimmings in the yard.  "I'm certain Grace would have suggested that you go back to Hank, if she would have helped you at all."

Faith stood and followed Trista to the pump.  "Why do you say that?  You talk as though you know a lot about my family.  Grace is my sister.  She would give me sound advice."

Trista sat the bowl on top of the water bucket and worked the handle.  "Grace is unimportant."  She stopped and looked over at Faith.  "Make sure you keep your man away from you."

Faith's facial muscles tensed.  "Aidan?  Why would I want to do that?" 

Water rushed from the cast iron spigot in the yard, swirling the beans in a clumsy circle.  Faith reached her hand to balance the bowl, and Trista pressed down on the handle with a double fisted grip.

"The fall from the horse will work for a few days," Trista said.  "If you whimper, you might be able to get an entire week from it."

"Are you suggesting that I deny my husband?  Even if I wanted to --"

Trista turned her glare on Faith, pinning her in place.  "You will do it if you want to remain with him."  She lifted the bowl from the hook and cradled it in front of her.  Making her way back to the porch, she spoke over her shoulder.  "Or do you want to return to Hank?"

Faith stayed at the pump, taking in the woman and her advice.  Although Trista's shoulders slumped forward, her movements were smooth and languid.  Faith thought about the older people she had seen in her church congregation.  They generally stopped on each step to rest or gain their footing before moving to the platform, but Trista mounted the stairs without pause.  Other than her outward appearance, she demonstrated no frailties.  She also knew details about her family that went beyond a casual observation.

Faith followed behind the woman but stopped at the bottom of the steps and rested her hand on the banister.  "How do you know so much about me and my family?  And do not go into that house without telling me what I want to know."

Trista turned sharply and glared down at her.  "I gave you answers.  Your parents lived in the valley below this hill.  You and your sister live there as well.  I attended your wedding.  And you will do as I say if you want to remain here with this husband."  She stepped away from the door of the house and to the edge of the porch.  Sunlight lit her face, seeming to change her features to that of a much younger woman.  "You do not want to return to Hank.  He is dangerous.  Faith, please."  Her tone softened.  "Do not return to Hank."

Faith's mouth opened, not certain what to make of the woman or her request.  "I can't refuse my husband.  There has to be another way."

Trista shook her head.  "There isn't.  Extreme passion will always return you to the other time."

Passion. 
That would explain how she had come back to her life with Aidan.  Being thrown off of a cliff and dying could certainly be thought of as passion.  And when she had been with Aidan...Her cheeks heated with the memory.  "Are you saying I have
time
traveled?" Faith asked.

"How else would you explain it?"  Trista rested her bowl on the rail and looked down at her.

"How much time has passed?" Faith asked, her insides starting to shake.

"Forty years.  In this time, you are still twenty years old, the same age as you were with Hank, but Hank is now seventy."

Faith turned her face upward, an old fear resurfacing.  "He is still alive?"  Even without him being present, she could feel his criticism descending upon her shoulders.

Trista left the beans on the porch and moved to the top step.  "Yes, he is alive, and that's why you must not go back to him."

"How do you know all of this?" Faith asked, barely above a whisper.  There had to be something that had been overlooked.  She wouldn't return to Hank.

"I have seen many years," Trista said.  "And you have enough to consider.  You should return home to Aidan, but be careful.  He cannot protect you from Hank.  Don't fool yourself into thinking he can."

"
I
could not protect me from Hank," Faith snapped.  An old feeling of helplessness changed to anger, and Faith glared at Trista.  She leveled her gaze like a loaded rifle, and dared Trista to flinch.  "Why," Faith said, her words as sharp as granite. "Why did you not help me when Hank dragged me to the cliff?  You could have stopped him.  I doubt he could have accomplished what he did with both of us there."

Trista turned without answering Faith's question and walked to her front door.  Clearly she mistook Faith's question as rhetorical.  "All you need to know right now is that passion is the trigger to send you through time," she said.  She glanced back over her shoulder.  "Your husband awaits you.  Return to him before he becomes suspicious."

"Answer me," Faith shouted, ignoring the woman's warning.  Her throat felt as though it bled from the demanding question.  She balled her fists at her side, her body becoming ramrod stiff.  "I fell from the cliff.  Am I dead?"

The hawk screeched from on top of the roof.  His wings spread wide and he launched himself from the peak.  With his flanks pinned back, he dove to the ground.  His sights were clearly set on his target.

The chicken.
 Faith turned to see if the hen was in the yard or if she had sensed impending doom and gone into the coop.  The grounds were empty of domestic animals, and Faith breathed a sigh of relief.  A scramble of brown and white rolled at the tree edge and Faith gasped.  With the bunny grasped tightly in the predator's talons, the bird labored to gain altitude before silently flying over the treetops with his prize.  Faith winced, feeling similar sharp claws pierce her skin.