Back to Tomorrow

Chapter 3

Chapter 3Mulling his revenge, Zach waited for what seemed like hours for Jake and Mary Ann to emerge from the store. Finally they did, Mary Ann carrying her purchases, although she seemed to struggle with the burden. She stretched to deposit them in the buckboard while Jake stood aside, his arms folded across his chest.

Zach boiled. Why didn’t the blackguard help her? That was no way for a man to treat a woman, especially one carrying his child! His hand itched for a chance to teach the arrogant young gambler some respect.

The day will come, Zach promised himself. The day will come and he will pay.

Finally Mary Ann struggled up to the buckboard’s seat. Jake did untie the horse and hand her the reins. Zach was too far away to hear what the gambler said, but from his expression and the way he shook a fist, it was a lecture, probably even a threat. Mary Ann hunched, head bowed, almost as if she anticipated a blow. If she responded verbally, Zach couldn’t hear her.

A twist of pain caught in Zach’s gut, but he stayed silent and hidden. This wasn’t the time. When Jake slapped the gaunt horse’s rump, it started off at a stiff trot that had Mary Ann bouncing on the narrow seat. Zach seethed, but with Jake watching, he couldn’t follow her, at least not in plain view back along Allen Street.

He moved through the gap to the alley, turning sideways to squeeze through the narrowest part. The two structures were clearly not built perpendicular to one another. Once in the alley, he ran to the first cross street. From the corner he could see neither the buckboard nor Jake.

That meant Mary Ann had turned.

Fueled by urgency, he ran to the opposite end of the block and again out to the front to look. Allen Street essentially ended, cut off by an arroyo, not far beyond the Birdcage Theater. Certainly she hadn’t gone that way. He looked back the other direction and caught a glimpse of the buckboard, now apparently turning down the Charleston road, although she’d started off to the east. Ah ha. So they were living out of town.

Well then, where had Jake gone? No doubt back to whichever saloon he currently frequented, perhaps to resume a game. Zach stopped to lean against a pillar supporting the veranda roof of one of the less notorious establishments—a dry goods store, according to the sign—while he contemplated his next move.

A sudden flurry of activity up Allen Street drew Zach’s attention.

He saw a crowd had gathered in the street. They looked to be right in front of the entrance to Nellie Cashman’s boarding house, where he was staying.

The gawkers seemed to be staring at something or someone lying in the street. He hadn’t heard gunfire, so it was probably not a shooting victim. What might it be? The reporter in him had to find out.

He set out at a jog, again running along the edge of the street rather than the congested boardwalk. As he drew nearer, he glimpsed a supine figure clad in blue denim pants and jacket. The clothing reminded him of the vision or specter in his doorway, a short while earlier. Curiosity well piqued, he edged his way in from the outer ring of spectators.

“Jest appeared, right there. I seen it.”

Zach recognized the speaker as a crippled former miner who cadged drinks at the poorer class of saloons. “Lucky Lem” they called him.

What was lucky about the unfortunate man escaped Zach.

“Folks don’t just appear, Lem. He—er, she—must’a fallen off o’something.”

Zach wasn’t sure who had spoken that time.

Lem shook his head, playing to the audience. “Nope, I seen ‘er, just kinda rise up outten the dust, right there. Some kind o’ magic or maybe an apper…a…well, like a ghost or somethin’.”

Several of the spectators hotly debated the issue of what was and was not possible while Zach edged closer. Finally, looking over the heads of a couple of young boys, he got a clear view. Like the vision he’d glimpsed in his doorway, the person had feminine features, tumbled coppery-gold curls, and a slight form, clad in blue denim.

Even as he watched, the large knot on her forehead grew even bigger and began to turn a mottled red and blue. Wherever the person—perhaps a child since she was small—had come from, she had suffered what might well be a serious injury. Blows to the head, Zach knew, should never be taken lightly. From the looks of it, this one was a dilly too.

Pushing his way through the spectators, Zach knelt in the dust at the stranger’s side. He scanned the crowd quickly, seeking a helpful response. Wasn’t anyone going to do anything? “Isn’t there a doctor in town? This child’s been hurt.” His irritation sharpened his tone.

Upon closer inspection, he recognized the person was definitely female, but definitely not a child. A gust of wind blew her jacket open, revealing a shirt of some soft, clinging fabric that shaped over a very nicely rounded bosom.

Caught just short of trying to pick her up, Zach rocked back on his heels in surprise. He’d never seen a woman dressed in such manner before. This certainly looked like a story or a mystery.

At that moment, a woman dressed in calico pushed her way through the crowd to Zach’s side. Though small, her presence and demeanor commanded respect. He recognized his hostess, Nellie Cashman. A handsome lady of middle age, Nellie was recognized and admired by almost everyone in town. She took in the situation with a glance before slanting a questioning look at Zach.

“Can you carry her, young man? The poor child needs to be inside, out of the sun and wind, out of the dust. I’ve sent for the doctor, though what good it will do God only knows. The wretch is probably intoxicated as usual. Still, we can get her inside, away from prying eyes and fools who don’t know what to do.” When her keen black gaze swept the crowd, every man and lad fell back, most wearing shamefaced expressions.

Stooping forward again, Zach carefully slid one arm beneath the small woman’s shoulders and another under her legs. Rocking back on his heels once more, he lifted her into his arms, and with a bit of effort, got to his feet. She wasn’t all that heavy, only an awkward burden due to her limp, unconscious state.

For the moment, all thoughts of Mary Ann and Joker Jake slipped to the back of his mind. Here in his grasp was a tantalizing mystery and perhaps the first installment of a new adventure.

* * * *

Emily came awake slowly, first aware of a pounding pain in her head, and then of a cool, damp cloth pressing gently across her brow, at the very spot that hurt so badly. When the cloth was removed, she opened her eyes.

The room was totally unfamiliar, and the dark-haired woman who bathed her head was also unknown to her. “Wh…where am I? What happened?” She tried to look as far to each side as she could without moving her head. Even that scant effort produced more pain, anguish so intense she feared her skull might either explode or fall off if she actually moved.

“Hush, child, everything will be all right. You either fell on or were hit in the head. We found you lying out in the street, but that nice young man from back east brought you inside. You’ve been an hour coming around. I was beginning to worry.”

Emily’s gaze slid slowly around the small room. She felt the rough texture of the counterpane at her fingertips, scanned the faded floral wallpaper for a clue. Nothing triggered any recollection. She then focused on the grayish light seeping through the lace curtaining the single tall window opposite the double bed on which she lay. “What time is it?”

“I would guess about six-thirty. I’m going to have to get back downstairs to oversee the serving of supper shortly.” The woman bent forward and peered at her intently. “Hmmmm.”

She lifted a small lamp from a table at the bedside and brought it close to Emily’s face. An oil lamp, the flame flickered gently from the stirring air. Emily searched the room again, but saw no sign of electric lights. Was this the only light available? Authenticity was wonderful, but this was a bit much.

“Look at the lamp, dear,” the woman said, drawing her attention back to the light. “Ah, that’s good. Your eyes are reacting normally, which is a good sign. I hate to leave you alone, though.”

Just then a voice spoke from beyond the half-opened door. “I can watch her, Mrs. Cashman. I know you’ve work to do.”

The voice was masculine, low-pitched, and somehow musical in its rhythm and tone. Something about that voice seemed familiar. Since the door was off to her left, out of the range of her vision, Emily risked turning her head a little to try to see the speaker. After she moved, everything in her vision shifted and swam. The acute pain had subsided a bit, but moving was still a bad idea.

From the sound of approaching footfalls, the voice’s source advanced into the room. He entered the circle of light cast by the small lamp. Although her eyes didn’t seem to focus perfectly, Emily saw he was tall, slender, and dark haired. He looked to be dressed in dark trousers and a white shirt under a dark vest.

The lady stood up, shook out her skirts, and moved toward the door.

When he took her place in the straight-backed chair beside the bed, she paused and half-turned to look back at them.

“I’ll send Angelina up with your meal, Mr. Tremaine, as soon as it’s ready, or—no, she can relieve you once she’s served the dining room.

It’s really not proper, you alone with a young woman this way, but there’s no one else I can detail. If she needs anything before that, come to the door and call. We’ll leave it ajar, of course.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

As the lady left the room, he turned to look down at Emily. “Hello, miss. I’m glad to see you’re awake. There was no telling how badly you were injured when I first saw you. It looks as if you took a nasty bump, though. Can you recall what happened?”

Emily shut her eyes a moment, struggling to sort through the cotton wool in her mind. She wanted badly to reconstruct some memory and find a rational explanation for where she was and how she’d gotten there. Everything she had seen so far seemed to indicate she was no longer in Tombstone, at least not in 2000, but the other possibilities were too fantastic to believe.

She realized belatedly that the man expected an answer. “I believe the stage ran me down. The horses had been frightened by a close lightning bolt and stampeded. I was simply in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

The man shook his head, a thoughtful frown on his face. “Funny, I didn’t hear any commotion and the clouds we had earlier all blew off to the east. If the team got spooked and stampeded, I think someone would have been yelling.”

“I don’t know.” Emily already pursued another thought, one that both intrigued and horrified her. “Would…could you tell me the date?”

“It’s May 15,” he replied.

She sucked in a breath. “And the year?”

“The year?” Zach looked at her sharply. “Why, eighteen-eighty-nine, of course.”

At his matter-of-fact statement, Emily’s blood froze. Oh my God, I think it’s time I woke up! She raised a shaky hand to touch her throbbing brow.

He leaned down toward her, frowning even more. “What’s wrong, have you lost your memory? Do you know who and where you are?”

Did she know who she was? She had to search a moment, but found an answer that seemed correct. “My name is Emily, Emily Dennison and I think I’m in Tombstone—Tombstone, Arizona?”

“Well, you’ve got that much right, anyway. Yes, we’re in Tombstone, Arizona Territory. I assume you just arrived, so where are you from, Miss Dennison?”

Emily felt a bit like the mouse, blocked from its hole by a cunning but lazy cat. Yet her head ached too much for her to offer any real resistance. Partial truth was easier than concocting a story.

“I live in New England. Green Vale, New Hampshire. Right now, I’m visiting a friend at Fort Huachuca. She’s married to an Army officer stationed there.”

He nodded. “I see.” His thoughtful expression and somewhat distant tone indicated he wasn’t satisfied with her explanation. Well, damn it all, she wasn’t either! The intensity of his regard made Emily want to squirm, although she didn’t dare.

“When I found you,” he continued, “you were very strangely attired—in denim trousers like the miners wear. Were you trying to disguise yourself as a youth or something? I hope you weren’t up to some nefarious activity, because ladies simply do not wear trousers.

Not in Philadelphia nor even Tombstone, and I am quite sure not in New England either.”

Emily’s thoughts scurried in frantic circles like frightened chickens.

Clearly this man was alert, curious and not easily put off. Just how much could she explain without appearing to be a raving lunatic?

Somehow, perhaps by the intensity of her wishes, she seemed to have been transported from 2000 to 1889. No, it couldn’t be possible. She was going to wake up momentarily and find it all a dream, but if she didn’t…she simply couldn’t deal with that possibility just yet.

Sometimes, Emily concluded, the best answer to a question was another question. At least it gave her further time to think. “If I might be so bold as to inquire, what is your name and where are you from?”

“My name is Zachary Tremaine. Home is Philadelphia, but I’m here on a family matter and I plan to spend some time observing and writing about the west.”

At the mention of his name, a tangle of vague memories settled into place. The journal, her odd glimpse of a room in which this man had appeared, a room much like this one, in fact, and more recently, her fruitless search around town for some mention of Zachary Tremaine.

“I was doing some research myself,” Emily admitted. “But it’s hard to think with this horrible headache. It’s throbbing in time with my heartbeat. Have you an aspirin, anything I could take for the pain?”

“I’ll have to ask Mrs. Cashman. Someone said she’d been a nurse during the war, but I doubt she keeps anything like a pharmacy. I can inquire, though. Maybe some laudanum…” Zachary stood and headed for the door, disappearing through the opening.

Waiting for him to return, Emily drifted off to sleep. When she awoke, the dark haired woman—Zach had called her Mrs. Cashman—again sat beside Emily’s bed. Mrs. Cashman? Surely not the Nellie Cashman of whom Emily had read just a short while ago. No, it couldn’t be.

The room was dimly lit by the flickering lamp, and only darkness showed through the curtain. Emily’s headache had subsided to a dull sensation of pressure. Her throat and mouth felt parched. She couldn’t recall being thirstier. Her thick, dry tongue would barely shape the necessary words. “Could I please have a drink of water?”

Mrs. Cashman jumped at the sound of Emily’s voice. “Oh my, I think I drifted off for a moment. I’m sorry. Of course you may have some water, dear. Young Mr. Tremaine said you’d told him your name was Emily. That’s a lovely name.”

Standing, Mrs. Cashman filled a glass from the pitcher on the chest of drawers and returned to the bed. She slipped an arm under Emily’s shoulders, lifting her enough that she could drink. The water tasted wonderful. Emily drained the glass.

Emily settled back on a mound of fluffy pillows. It took some talking, but she finally persuaded her hostess that she didn’t need constant attention. Long after Mrs. Cashman left, Emily lay awake, searching for a way to confirm whether or not she had actually fallen back into an earlier century.

She felt more curiosity than fear, mainly because she still didn’t really believe it. As often as she had wished time travel were a reality, she couldn’t accept that the phenomenon had happened to her. Either she was dreaming, or she really had been injured and was being temporarily housed in a re-creation of a nineteenth century hostel.

Given the theme park atmosphere of modern-day Tombstone, perhaps that notion wasn’t totally farfetched.

* * * *

Unable to drift off to sleep, Zach found his thoughts turning to the strange young woman who slept two doors down the hall. Emily. The nag of curiosity would not allow his attention to drift elsewhere.

Everything about her intrigued him. Even her speech sounded odd, the way she used some words and the inflection she gave others. He’d met New Englanders, and except for Bostonians, they didn’t sound much different from the Philadelphia folks.

If she really was staying at Fort Huachuca, how had she gotten to Tombstone? He’d seen the stage arrive that morning and she had definitely not been among its passengers. And there was no stage in the afternoon, at the time she’d been found on the street. She’d evaded his question about her clothing too. Most of his questions, in fact.

Although he couldn’t neglect his effort to rescue Mary Ann, this young stranger presented him with a mystery he was determined to solve. Intuition told him hers was a story worth exploring.

In a peculiar way, she was pretty, fine featured and elfin in appearance, her golden-red hair worn short and curling around her pert face. Though hardly larger than a child of twelve, her strange garments had revealed an enticing feminine shape, perfectly proportioned in every detail.

She might not be a lady, dressing as she did, but she was definitely a woman and one with whom he’d like to become acquainted, if for no reason other than to learn her story, whatever that might be. Another Tombstone character—even if she claimed New Hampshire as home.

Wakeful with his excitement, Zach got out of bed, lit the lamp, and drew his journal out of the drawer of the little desk. Dipping his pen in the inkwell, he began to write about the day’s events. It had, after all, been quite an eventful day. He wrote quickly, the nib scratching gently on the paper.

He paused, staring at the faded wallpaper before him. Having finally seen both Mary Ann and Joker Jake, he was even more determined to free his sister from the gambler’s hold. Obviously, Mary Ann stayed with Jake only because of fear and shame, not from any affection or even loyalty. He could sense she was scared almost to death.

Poor Mary Ann. His lips drew into a hard, narrow line, just thinking of her sad case. As for Jake, he couldn’t find one single redeeming trait about the man. Perhaps there was one, somewhere, but it was certainly well hidden!

Writing failed to provide the solace it normally gave. Zach laid the pen down beside his journal and rose to pace across to the window.

Even at this late hour, twelve-thirty according to his watch, Tombstone was neither dark nor quiet. The saloons hummed with activity, miners and cowboys staggering in and out. An occasional gunshot pierced the night. Riders moved up and down the street, and now and then a shout or a scream echoed along the boardwalk.

Again, his thoughts turned to Emily Dennison. The more he considered her appearance and the little she’d said, the surer he was she protected a secret. A secret he would pursue until he uncovered it.

In his three-month search for Mary Ann’s whereabouts, he had learned a great deal about extracting information from both willing and unwilling sources. Playing detective, one had to be a bit of an actor at times, enacting a variety of roles to put people at ease or in fear of concealing what they knew.

Threatening, cajoling, daring, and sympathizing—he’d tried them all. Which technique would work with Emily remained to be seen, but merely spending the time with her to employ them was tempting enough of itself. Uncovering her secret would simply be the frosting on the cake!