The Bride Price (6 page)

Before Nona could respond, a knock at the
door interrupted them. Richard reached out and opened it and
Christine sailed through, with another woman in tow.

“Well, doesn’t this look like a party?”
Christine chuckled. She looked around at everyone, and her eyes lit
on Richard. “Good afternoon, Richard, what a nice surprise seeing
you here.”

He gave a slight bow. “Good afternoon,
Christine, I hope you are well? Elizabeth, once again a
pleasure.”

Christine urged Elizabeth forward, towards
Sophie. “Sophie, may I introduce our sister, Elizabeth?”

Sophie shook her hand. “It’s nice to meet
you.”

“Nice to meet you, too,” Elizabeth said.

“Are you ready for Madame’s?” Christine
raised her eyebrows in question.

Sophie grabbed her arm. “Will you please take
me to the hospital, Christine? Jamie’s there and he needs me.”

“Ma’am, I’m not certain it is your husband,”
Richard reiterated.

Sophie threw her arms up in the air and let
out a strangled scream. “Stop ‘ma’aming’ me, you Neanderthal.”

Christine and Elizabeth looked at each other
like they had just come into the middle of an intense play and
missed the entire first act.

“Please, Christine,” Sophie begged.

“Well, of course I will. Have you ever seen a
battle hospital? I must warn you, it can be very unpleasant, but if
your Jamie’s there, I’ll help you find him.” Christine shot Richard
a glare.

“I must see him.” Relief washed through
Sophie. Finally, someone would take her to Jamie.

“The carriage is right outside. We’ll stop at
the hospital and then go from there to Madame Desmarais’,”
Elizabeth said.

Sophie could only stare at her. Who could
think of shopping when Jamie could be lying, mortally wounded, in a
hospital bed?

* * *

When they finally pulled up to the hospital,
Sophie shuddered, speechless. This truly was no more than a
glorified tent. She had seen photos and read descriptions about
what Civil War hospitals were like. She’d been aware tents were
often used, but nothing prepared her for the overwhelming sight and
smell of blood and dirt. The stench hit her full force, and only by
breathing through her mouth was it bearable.

Sophie followed Richard past rows of soldiers
in various stages of injuries and consciousness before he paused at
a cot in the back corner of the tent. Once Richard stepped aside,
Sophie took a deep breath, inched closer to the young man—and
nearly passed out. Feeling Richard’s firm grip to her elbow, Sophie
forced herself to look.

A gash from one side of his forehead to the
other didn’t appear to have been cleaned and was left open to the
air. From what she could see, under the inadequate coverage of
another bandage, his right eye appeared to be bulging from its
socket. A makeshift binding on his arm barely covered his missing
right hand.

Sophie covered her mouth with her fingers.
Her heart broke for the young man left to die in the corner of a
filthy tent. Richard pulled her into his arms and held her as she
wept into his chest, and although the faint scent of alcohol wafted
from him, she was too upset to care. “I’ve lost him. He’s gone. How
did I get here? What am I going to do without him? I can’t
live
without him.”

Christine rushed over and pulled her gently
away from Richard. “Sophie, it’s all right. He’s not dead, can you
see? He’s breathing. Your James is alive. Michael will have a look
at him, and we will all take care of him so that he comes back to
you quickly. Shhh, Sophie, look. He’s alive. You need to believe
he’s going to be all right.”

But he wasn’t Jamie. He was someone else’s
husband, son, brother. Someone else’s friend or lover. He wasn’t
hers.

Her stomach churned at the realization she
was somewhere Jamie might never find, and her breath left her body
at the thought that they might be lost to each other, without hope.
She was in 1863, and he was stuck in the future to mourn her
death—or disappearance—or whatever.

Her hand found its way to her chest as her
step faltered, and she bent at the waist in agony from the pain.
Christine held her steady, and Sophie took a deep, ragged breath.
“Christine, it’s not Jamie. It’s not him. He’s truly lost to me.
He’s gone.”

Sophie took the handkerchief Christine
offered and wiped away her tears. Christine wrapped her arm firmly
around Sophie’s waist as she took a deep breath and tried to take a
measure of the comfort Christine offered.

Turning, Sophie addressed them all, “Thank
you, everyone for bringing me here, and for the patience and
kindness you have shown.” She took a deep breath. “Christine, would
you mind terribly taking me home? I don’t feel up to shopping at
the moment.”

“Of course, Sophie.”

Sophie followed the women out of the hospital
and into the carriage, although she saw nothing as she slid the
curtain aside and stared off into space. She had to figure out what
to do from here. In the 1800s, women were vulnerable. Men made the
rules and kept women housed and fed. Women didn’t work for a
living, unless they “worked” for a living and that was something
Sophie would never do.

Only God could help her now, and He just
had
to direct her home.

Arriving at the house to find the butler,
Daniel, waiting on the porch, Sophie allowed him to assist her from
the carriage. She followed everyone inside and absently removed her
gloves and bonnet.

“Sophie, let’s get you upstairs and then you
can rest, all right?” Nona asked.

Sophie nodded and climbed the stairs,
grasping the exquisitely carved handrail until her knuckles were
white. Christine, Nona, and Elizabeth followed.

“Is there anything I can get for you?”
Elizabeth asked.

Sophie shook her head.

“How about some water?”

“No, thank you,” Sophie whispered.

“Nona, Elizabeth, why don’t the both of you
go downstairs and I’ll sit with Sophie for a little while. It will
give us some time to talk.”

As Elizabeth and Nona reluctantly left,
Sophie paced the room, chewing on her thumbnail as tears streamed
down her face.

“Sophie?”

“Hm?”

“We will find James.”

Without looking up, Sophie shook her head,
stalled briefly, and then started to pace again. “We must take care
of that young man, Christine.”

“We will.”

Sophie grabbed her arm, her heart racing with
an unnamed fear. Something about this soldier was significant. She
didn’t know what, couldn’t put it into words, but knew she had to
do something. “Promise me. Make Michael take personal care of him.
I can’t tell you why it’s important, because I don’t know, to be
honest. But it is.”

“I promise, Sophie.” Sophie started to pace
again, and Christine laid her gloves on the side table. “Is there
something else?”

“Like?”

“Something you’re not telling me?”

Sophie’s head whipped up. “Why would you say
that?”

Christine sat slowly in one of the chairs
near the fireplace and smiled up at Sophie. “I’m certain I couldn’t
say.”

Sophie watched Christine through narrowed
eyes for several seconds, her heart racing as she assessed the
woman. “I can’t tell you.”

“You can’t tell me what?”

“I can’t tell you that—” A quiet snort
escaped and Sophie stalled. “Nice try.”

Christine folded her hands in her lap.
“Sophie, you can tell me anything.”

“Not this.” Sophie rubbed her forehead with
her palm.

“Why not?”

“I just can’t tell you,” Sophie stressed.

“Sophie, you can. Will you trust me?”

“Christine, it’s far more than you could ever
comprehend. You would never believe me and you’d probably think I’m
crazy.”

“What if I promise to believe you no matter
what?”

A groan escaped as Sophie stopped pacing
briefly. “You really think you could do that, no matter how
farfetched you might think my story is?”

“I really think I could do that, Sophie. Will
you try?”

Sophie took a deep breath and said a quick
prayer. Squeezing her eyes shut, she turned away from Christine and
whispered, “I’m from the future. The year 2007, to be exact.”

“I’m sorry?”

Sophie faced her again. “I’m from the future,
Christine. I was born in 1981…”

Christine stood with a gasp. “That’s
impossible.”

“I truly wish I was.” Sophie took a deep
breath and shared her story.

Sophie didn’t go into detail about planes or
automobiles, but did fill her in on almost everything else.
Including her love and knowledge of the current war.

“My word,” Christine muttered.

“Yes, my word.” Sophie kneeled in front of
her and took her hand. “Do I see an asylum in my future?”

“It’s quite an extraordinary story, Sophie,
but I do believe you.”

Sophie let out the breath she’d been holding.
“You do? Truly?”

“Yes.”

Sophie raised an eyebrow. “You’re not just
saying that so it lulls me into a false sense of security?”

“If I were?” Christine had an evil glint in
her eye.

“Men in white coats aren’t going to come in
the middle of the night and carry me off on a stretcher, are
they?”

Christine giggled. “You have quite the
imagination. I don’t think we should spread this information to the
masses but I also don’t think you’re lying or mad.” Christine took
Sophie’s hands and squeezed. “I believe you, Sophie.”

Sophie stared at Christine, eyes filling with
tears. “Thank you, Christine. You have no idea what this means to
me.”

“Well, enough of that. I want to know
everything that’s going to happen with this war. Don’t leave out
any details.” She clapped her hands in excitement.

“I won’t—on one condition.”

“Anything.”

“You cannot tell anyone about the war. The
outcome must not be altered.”

Christine nodded. “I’ll keep your secret,
Sophie.”

“Also, you must help me find my way home. I
have to go back.”

* * *

Bernadette Desmarais sat with her husband,
Philippe, in their spacious, modern kitchen in Portland, Oregon –
present day. “This is not going well,” Philippe said as he ran his
hands over his beard.

“Oui,
” Bernadette replied. “But what
choice do we have? She’s the one.”

“He will die without her,
cherie
.”

Bernadette stood and paced. “
Oui
.”

“They must be reunited.”

“He was not part of the plan, Philippe.”

“I understand that, however, she will waste
precious time trying to find her way home. James must join her, or
she will be unable to guide the others to stop the threat.”

“She is strong.”

“Oui
, however, that strength is not
focused where it should be.” Philippe stood and wrapped his arms
around his wife. “Imagine living without me. You would not fare so
well.”

Bernadette playfully slapped his arm. “It is
you that would not fare so well without me, husband. Don’t forget
that.”

Philippe chuckled. “You’re probably
right.”

“I’ll visit him tomorrow, but at the very
least, he goes within the week.”

CHAPTER FIVE

“You realize it has been weeks with no word.” Pacing
the floor, cell phone gripped in his hand, Jamie rubbed his
forehead with his other, his voice low and lethal as he spoke to
the FBI agent on the other line. “No, she would not have left me.
She couldn’t leave the room without losing her breath. She would
never have made it out of the house, let alone far enough away for
me not to find her!”

“Jamie?”

Turning to find Emma standing in the doorway of the
library, a frown on her face, he raised his finger and watched
while she crossed her arms and leaned against the frame.

“Yes, fine.” Jamie snapped his cell phone shut.

“What did they say?”

Bracing his hands behind him as he leaned on the
desk, he let out a growl. “What they always say. A whole lot of
nothing.”

Emma moved further into the room. Her hand reached
for him but dropped quickly at his deflection. Jamie didn’t want to
be comforted. He wanted his wife back.

“I’m sorry,” she said.

“Not your fault, Squirt.” The peal of the doorbell
interrupted any further conversation, and Jamie made his way to the
door.

“Hi, Jamie,” Chrystal said from the porch.

“Hi. What are you doing here?” He stepped aside.
“Come in.”

“Thanks. Is Emma here?”

“I’m here,” Emma called as she made her way into the
foyer. “Sorry, Jamie, I told Chrystal to stop by.”

Jamie nodded but didn’t comment as the nurse stepped
inside.

“I wanted to introduce you to one of our grief
counselors. She should be here any minute.” Chrystal hugged
Emma.

“We don’t need grief counseling, Chrystal,” Jamie
said.

“I asked her to come, Jamie.” Emma dropped her head,
face red.

He raised an eyebrow. “Why?”

“I think it might help.”

Before he could argue, another knock sounded on the
door, and Jamie was forced to put aside his opinions. He opened the
door, and a tall woman, with dark auburn hair swept up into a
simple chignon, lifted her chin as she held her hand out to Jamie.
“
Bonjour
. You must be James. My name is Bernadette.” Her
deep-set blue eyes shone kind and bright.

She spoke with a strong French accent, her voice
deeper than expected for a woman. Jamie smiled. The only person who
called him James was Sophie—when she was angry with him. “Please
come in.”

“Merci.”

“Also, please, call me Jamie. Nice to meet you.”
Jamie shook her hand, his eyes drawn to Emma, who appeared
contrite. Bernadette’s warm, firm grip pulled his focus back to
her.

“Jamie. I am here to help.”