Back to Tomorrow

Chapter 1

Chapter 1April 24, 2000

Hardwick, Vermont

“The postman just came, Em. Run out and see what we have today, would you? I can’t leave off stirring this fudge yet.”

Aunt Faith’s cheerful voice cut through Emily’s gloomy thoughts.

Leaving the window, which looked out into the rainy afternoon, she moved to obey. Her heart wasn’t in the small task, nor in anything she could imagine doing. Pausing on the back porch to tug on overshoes and a mackinaw, Emily grabbed an old umbrella and forged out toward the mailbox that stood beside the highway some fifty yards from the house. Driven by a biting wind, icy raindrops stung her cheeks, as if nature wept with her. Six months, and so little has changed. It almost feels as if time is standing still.

Although most of the mail seemed to be addressed to Faith Dennison’s business, Maple Leaf Confections, the last item, a thick brown envelope, bore Emily’s name. Moisture smudged the return address, but the handwriting looked like that of her friend, Carol Hodges.

Emily hurried back to the house, curiosity over what she had received temporarily overcoming her depression. Almost anything would be welcome if it took her thoughts away from the ache of loss and the pressing issue of what she should do with the rest of her life.

She’d come here to Aunt Faith’s last fall after leaving New Hampshire, stayed to help with the rush of business prior to the holidays, and somehow hadn’t managed to move on. She kept delaying just one more day, unable to find a new direction for her life.

Carol was now nearly seven months pregnant—as Emily herself might have been, had the planned wedding taken place last October.

They were still best friends, four years past their two-year stint as roommates and their college graduation. Carol had sympathized with Emily’s loss through several long phone calls, but that offered no clue as to what she might have sent.

While Faith went through her mail, Emily carefully pulled the heavy tape off the flap to unseal the envelope. She upended it, gave the envelope a slight shake. A single sheet of paper filled with Carol’s scrawling handwriting and a small, leather bound book slipped out into her waiting hand. Emily quickly scanned the scribbled lines, the erratic sizes and shapes of the letters reflecting Carol’s volatile personality.

Tom and I found this fabulous old trunk in Tombstone that we thought would make a wonderful toy box for Junior. In the process of cleaning it up, we discovered this little book in one corner. Remembering how you love old tomes, I decided to send it to you right now. Maybe reading will while away some otherwise dreary hours.

Please think about coming out to Fort Huachuca for a visit.

Spring in Arizona is lovely and I’d so enjoy your company while I wait the last few weeks before this rowdy child makes his appearance. All I can do now is sit and talk, but then, I was always good at that, wasn’t I?

Emily smiled, recalling their many late-night conversations, sometimes one or both falling asleep in mid-word, too drowsy to go on.

She could use a dose of her bubbly friend’s enthusiasm now. Maybe she’d accept the invitation.

She turned her attention to the little book. Holding it gently, she absorbed the aura of age, let her senses appreciate its special value. The soft binding of red leather was cracked and worn, marred in spots by traces of mildew, but basically still intact. The book exuded a musty scent, which she found vaguely comforting. Old books had always fascinated her. The odor brought to mind only pleasant memories.

As she held it, the book fell open to reveal hand-scribed lines, the ink faded to a sepia tone but still clear. The writer had a neat, elegant hand, the delicate copperplate penmanship of a bygone era.

April 24, 1889. Arrived in Tombstone. To actually see a place of such notoriety triggers a thousand fantasies. I can scarcely wait to begin my explorations, although my primary purpose in coming here must take precedence. The place is not wholly as I expected, being both more rustic and more cosmopolitan. The country around is stark and empty, miles of ragged, pale hills and scraggly bushes too small to be counted as trees. One wonders how anything can live in such an inhospitable environment, but local people assure me the desert teems with life. Other than some birds and a few lizards, however, I have seen little so far.

For a moment the book, the cozy room, and all else faded. In its place, the described landscape appeared, vivid in every detail. The harsh glare of midday sun burned Emily’s skin and made her squint.

She wrinkled her nose at the sulfurous dust on the creosote-scented breeze, which carried the muffled sound of distant gunshots.

Afterwards Emily decided she must have seen a postcard or a photograph, perhaps something Carol had sent when she and her husband first arrived at Fort Huachuca. The fort was only twenty some miles from Tombstone. No other way could she explain the curious vision, hallucination, or whatever it was. When she came out of the odd trance, her aunt was peering at her with an expression of concern.

“Em? Are you all right, dear? You looked so peculiar for a moment.

You haven’t received more bad news, have you?”

“Oh no, nothing like that. It’s a note from Carol, my old roomie, you remember? She and her husband bought an antique trunk in Tombstone to make a toy box for the baby. They found this diary or journal in it, which she’s sent to me.”

Still feeling slightly dizzy and displaced, Emily shook her head.

This was the strangest sensation she’d ever experienced. She snapped the book closed, deciding not to look at it any more until later. A curious paradox of wishes warred inside her. She wanted to put the small tome away and never see it again, but also to sit down at once and read straight through.

Since her aunt still looked worried, Emily continued. “Carol invited me out to visit. Her baby’s due in June, and she sounds as if she’s running out of patience. Her doctor has prescribed rest, staying off her feet as much as possible until she gives birth. I expect that’s a real trial for her. She’s always so full of energy and activity.”

Faith set her mail aside and resumed her work. “Why don’t you? It would be a nice change of scenery and a break before you decide what to do next. I know life is dreary here right now, and that can’t help pull you out of your grief.”

Although Faith seemed to address her remarks to the bowl of fudge she spread onto a baking sheet to harden for cutting, Emily heard the sincere concern in her aunt’s words. Inhaling deeply to absorb the rich, sweet scent of the warm candy, Emily hoped the aroma would dispel the lingering sting of acrid desert air.

Belated, Emily remembered to reply. “Perhaps I will. There isn’t much more I can do here to help out, really. In all honesty, you have everything down to a gnat’s eyebrow. Except for doing the books, when I try to help, I only wind up being in the way.”

“It’s an old lady’s habit, Em. I’m too used to working alone to adjust now. Not that I don’t enjoy your company, but life’s too slow and quiet here for you. You’re used to the bustle of a college town, your library, friends around, and young folks. Twenty-six is far too young to settle into an old maid’s quiet routine.”

This time Faith’s keen gaze sought Emily’s, as if demanding her attention. “You really ought to go. Call your friend tonight and start making plans.”

* * * *

Late that evening, after placing the call to Carol, Emily bade her aunt good night and climbed the steep stairs to the loft bedroom she’d been using. She snuggled under the fluffy comforter on the old-fashioned sleigh bed and settled a pair of plump down pillows behind her back. The aroma of lavender drifted up from the linens when she moved, while the refitted hurricane lamp on the nightstand cast a gentle glow over the bed. Its light softly illuminated the small, slant-ceilinged room.

The nightstand also held the little red book. Emily almost feared to take up the journal again, but she couldn’t resist. This time she opened the cover to the flyleaf and read the inscription there. Property of Zachary Tremaine, Philadelphia, Pennsylvania. Journal of my trip to Arizona Territory, begun April 1, 1889.

With a fingertip, Emily traced the flowing letters, lingering over the name, scribed a bit more boldly than the rest. Zachary Tremaine. It had a nice sound, a masculine, comfortable yet old-fashioned ring to it.

What did he look like, this Zachary Tremaine?

She doubted he’d describe himself in his own journal, but she felt an unexpectedly sharp wish to see him, just one time. She needed to know whether his eyes were brown, hazel, or blue, whether his hair was dark or fair and whether he was tall or short, handsome or homely.

If I were psychic, maybe I could key on this book and bring his image into view. The sudden wry thought brought a fleeting smile.

Normally she scoffed at such notions as nonsense, but at the moment it seemed not only desirable but even possible.

Emily placed her right hand flat over the inscription and let her eyelids drift shut. Zachary Tremaine, let me see you. Nothing happened. Of course. She hadn’t really expected a sudden vision, had she? Opening her eyes, Emily turned back to the page to which the book seemed to fall open and began to read. She picked up where she’d left off before.

As I scrambled down from the Butterfield coach, I immediately sank ankle-deep in floury, pale dust. Arizona is a phenomenally dusty place. The sharp alkaline scent triggered an urge to sneeze. But with this wonderful panorama surrounding me, who cares for the dust?

Tombstone, Arizona Territory—I’m really here! Even Ned Buntline’s stories hardly equal the reality. After having experienced Tombstone, surely I will be able to scribe such tales myself.

Each graying clapboard building along the boardwalk calls to me to explore its depths. The graveyard that the stage passed coming into town similarly lures. However, before I can succumb to the siren song of curiosity, I have promises to keep.

Somewhere in or near this town, I’m told, Mary Ann lives in a tumbledown shanty, virtual prisoner of a scalawag gambler who goes by the name of Joker Jake McEuen. I swore to Mamma that I’d find her, rescue her, and get her safely home, whatever it takes to accomplish that goal. I’d rather die than break my promise. Mamma has endured more than enough grief in her lifetime. She doesn’t need this added burden.

The homey, old-fashioned bedroom faded. Emily stood in the dusty street, watching as a tall, slender young man stooped to collect the worn valise the stage driver handed down from the boot. Stepping onto the planked walkway, he followed it past a shop or two and several saloons to a door overhung by a sign that read “Rooms—Clean and Economical.”

At the door, he paused, turned, and looked up and down the street.

He was tall, at least eight inches above Emily’s five-foot-three. His mahogany-dark hair curled down against the celluloid collar of his pale blue shirt, which lent a blue tint to his gray eyes. He had nice, even features, just ordinary enough not to be too handsome, but the laugh lines at the corners of his mouth and eyes indicated good humor. Above his mouth, a neatly trimmed moustache curled, its color matching his hair. His shoulders were comfortably wide while the rest of him seemed slim, and he moved with a quick, light agility.

As the image faded, Emily expelled a shaky breath. Wow. Was that for real or only an illusion built on her imaginative wishes? If the vision actually were Zachary Tremaine, he truly fit the image Carol would call “a hunk.”

Turning back to the journal, Emily continued to read, slipping into a scene that seemed as vivid as any movie or television program. She could feel Zachary’s excitement, absorbing the vibrant energy of the brawling mining camp. The white dust stung her nose. The glaring sun made her squint. Stamping hooves, jingling harnesses, and hurrying footsteps along the boardwalk all rang in her ears.

* * * *

The “rooms” sign hung over the double front doors of a two story structure that appeared sturdier and better-kept than the average Tombstone edifice. In the windows fronting the street, clean, lacy curtains lent the place a genteel home-like air. Entering the parlor-lobby, Zachary rented a room for a week. A young Mexican girl led him to a second story chamber at the front corner of the building, overlooking the two main streets. Though small, it was clean and airy, furnished with a double bed and a chest of drawers topped by a lace-edged runner and a basin and ewer. A small desk and matching straight chair stood in one corner.

He crossed the room to look out of the corner windows, nodding in satisfaction. Sitting at either of those windows, he’d have a grandstand seat on all that transpired below. He tossed his valise into a corner.

After swiping the dust off his face, he sauntered back downstairs and out into the midday sun.

Even this early in the year, it had a heat and brilliance no eastern resident had ever experienced. A brisk wind blew out of the west, carrying the scent of a nearby stable along with wilder odors that he could not identify from beyond the town.

On the street corner beneath his room, Zach paused to watch a troop of Cavalry canter by. Clad in dusty blue uniforms, the men rode nearly identical tall bays. Men and horses alike bore sweat stains and trail dust attesting to hard travel. Someone on the stage had said they were still chasing renegade Apaches out in the Dragoon Mountains, visible to the east as a ragged heap of pinkish boulders.

Although she wasn’t quite in the stranger’s head, Emily could almost sense his thoughts, as if bits of his memories and ideas were trickling across to mingle with her own. A chill washed over her, half fear and half eagerness. She continued to read, only she wasn’t actually reading. More and more, she merged into the stranger’s mind, losing herself in his visions.

Even before the troopers’ dust settled, Zach forged on across the street. Where would be the most likely place to encounter Joker Jake?

Probably one of the saloons. A twinge of unease crossed his mind as he approached the swinging doors to the Crystal Palace.

Two decades of listening to his preacher-father’s sermons on the evils of demon rum couldn’t be totally erased in a few years as a man-about-town. Though he had been in others, a saloon still seemed a den of inequity, and even though he knew the real world now, old habits died hard. Squaring his shoulders, he pushed the twinge aside with the doors as he entered.

At midday, the Crystal Palace seemed relatively quiet. Only a few miners stood along the bar, while a small group played poker at a round table in the rear of the long room. The notorious dance hall girls were nowhere to be seen, and the piano stood silent.

Moving to the long, polished bar, he ordered a mug of root beer. He sipped it slowly, looking around the room, still hardly able to believe he was actually here. The elegant bar, backed by mirrored glass shelves lined with an amazing array of bottles, could have been seen in any city, but the clothes and coarse speech of the miners were distinctive.

After a moment, he approached one of the miners, the one nearest him at bar. “Pardon me, but would you know where I might find Joker Jake McEuen?”

The miner fixed a bleary gaze on him for a long moment. A stupidly belligerent expression marked the man’s bewhiskered and dirt-crusted face. The miner reminded him of his uncle’s bull—slow but dangerous when disturbed.

“Cain’t say I do. What yer want wi’ him?”

“I’ve got some business with him.” Zach didn’t care for the man’s attitude. His business with McEuen was none of the miner’s concern, unless they were friends or partners. “Do you know him?”

“Nope. Never had th’ hardship. Steers clear of them card sharps, I does.” The miner swiveled away to speak to the man on his far side, clearly not interested in continuing their conversation.

Turning the other way, Zach saw someone had stepped up beside him. He labeled this man a cowboy by his attire, which differed from that of the miners in a few key details—a wide-brimmed hat, high-heeled dusty boots, and a large knife in a belt-sheath. Before he could speak, the man smiled and extended a knobby, work-worn hand.

“How-do, stranger. Folks call me Mustang Pete. I ride for the Diamond Q out by the Whetstones. Couldn’t help overhearing your question,” the cowboy said. “I’ve heard tell Jake hangs out at The Lucky Cuss, but I’d say you’d do best to stay clear of him.”

Zach shook the proffered hand. “I’m Zach Tremaine. Pleased to make your acquaintance. Why do you say that—about staying clear of McEuen?”

“He’s a mean son, quick tempered and as willing to pull his pistol on you as give you the time of day.” The cowboy’s face wrinkled even more with obvious distress. “He shot a friend of mine last week.

Curly’ll make it, but it was close for a while. Curly says he saw Jake palm a card, and if Curly says so, I believe him. Nobody ever catches McEuen, but he wins too much. He studied with Doc Holiday, learned all them cardsharp tricks, and then made up some of his own. He’s a bad customer all around.”

The cowboy’s weatherworn face looked honest. There seemed to be no malice or deceit in his simple statements. Besides, his comments agreed with all Zach had heard about McEuen, no word of it good.

“Much as I appreciate your advice, I’ve really got to find him. Any idea where he lives?”

Pete shook his head, a woeful expression on his face. “Not sure, but heard tell he’s got a place down in the arroyo north of town. Maybe staked him a claim, though some say he’s got a woman there. For a fact he’s prickly about anyone nosin’ around. I’d watch m’self if I was you.

He hears you’re asking, he’s liable to get ugly.”

“Thanks for the warning. I’ll be careful.”

“Don’t get to town too often, but I’ll look for you when I come,”

Pete said. “You seem like a fine young feller. We need more o’ the likes of you around here.”

Zach finished his drink, took his leave from Pete, and strolled back outdoors. So far things were proceeding well enough. Next he had to find Jake’s shanty and see if Mary Ann was there. To do that, he’d probably have to rent a horse. He’d already learned how deceptive distances were in the clear western air. Whistling, he followed the wind-driven aroma down the street to the stable.

* * * *

“No!” Emily slapped the book shut. She closed her eyes as a shudder coursed through her body. “I don’t like this!” The sound of her own voice provided a tenuous anchor to reality. Either there was something powerfully strange about this little book, or else she was losing her mind.

Just who was Zachary Tremaine that he could impact her so strongly across one hundred and eleven years? Nonsense. She’d probably just dozed off and dreamed, recalling some scene she’d seen on television or in an old movie. She clicked off the light and slid down in the bed to go to sleep.

* * * *

Emily resolutely left the journal alone for the next several days as she prepared for her trip to Arizona. At times her hands literally itched to take up the little book and continue following Zach’s adventure, but the eerie way that tale seemed to take over her mind stopped her.

Finally, as she settled in her seat for the second leg of her long flight from Boston to Tucson, she drew the journal out of her purse and opened it once again.

May 15, 1889, Tombstone, Arizona Territory. Today I saw Mary Ann. It has been totally frustrating, searching without avail, but today that seeking came to at least a partial end…

Abruptly, Emily found herself standing in the doorway of a small room, looking in. Although most of the details were hazy, one thing was vividly clear. Across the room from her, Zachary Tremaine stood at the window, gazing down at the street below. While she watched, he shoved the lace curtain impatiently to one side, leaning forward until his face almost touched the glass.

“Mary Ann? No…yes! Maybe I can catch her…” The murmured words were uttered in a melodious baritone voice, with hardly a trace of distinctive accent.

He wheeled from the window, heading straight toward Emily, walking with a hard, urgent stride. In another instant, he’d run right into her! Before he did, she jolted back to the present, but not before she got one good look. He was every bit as handsome as her first impression had led her to believe. But who was Mary Ann and why was he so excited about seeing her?

Emily took a deep, quick breath. I’m not sure I want to know, but…yes, I do. She turned a page and began to read. Before she finished the page, she became completely engrossed in Zach’s adventures, but at least she didn’t go into another trance.

When the plane taxied into the Tucson airport, Emily reluctantly stowed Zach’s journal in her purse. Now she knew who Mary Ann was.

She felt a surprising sense of relief at discovering her to be not sweetheart but sister. More absorbing than the best historical novel, the journal had her completely enthralled. Every word she’d read seemed vivid and immediate.

As the plane groaned to a stop, she cast a bemused glance around the crowded cabin. It took her a moment to recall she actually lived in the first months of the twenty-first century.

When Zach was writing his tale, this great bird in which she’d crossed the continent hadn’t even been envisioned. A hundred and eleven years—it seemed more like eternity.

Even as a child, she’d often been chided by her parents for the tendency to get totally lost in a book, but this was more intense. Surely she’d recognize Mary Ann Tremaine, Jake McEuen, and others Zach had encountered if she met them in the street. And Tombstone would be almost as familiar to her as Briar Vale, New Hampshire, and the campus of Winston College.

Emily shook herself free of the spell as she stood to follow the other passengers up the jet way. She went over the realities once again. She wasn’t here to look for the Tremaines but to meet Carol and Tom Hodges and travel with them to their home in Fort Huachuca, the historic Army post in the southeast corner of Arizona.

She and Carol would visit, having a happy reunion before she went on her way to seek a new position. Maybe she’d stay until the baby arrived, just a little over a month now.