Jolt

  The look she gave him could have smelted iron. "My mom was born in 1961—my dad in 1962. My grandparents haven't even been born yet."

  He opened his mouth and closed it again, and Lita spun and climbed the bank. "I'm going to find a way to prove it, Tate. I don't know how yet, but I'll think of something."

  Tate blew out a breath and followed her to the buggy.

  Chapter 17

  It was nearing midnight and every now and then, Tate still heard Lita crying. She had wept all evening.

  Flinging off his sheets, he got out of bed, pacing in his nightshirt. Every fiber of his being wanted to go in and console her. Every bit of reason told him not to.

  The doctor could check on her, but it was the man who wanted to hold her. He'd reasoned his way into being stoic on the drive home, but the longer she cried, the less resistance he had.

  Ever since their trip to the Springs, he'd been thinking about her—the side of her that seemed to have lost touch with reality and the side of her that seemed to feel reality deeper than he'd ever felt it. The words she spoke in the Garden still resonated inside him, and even though she couldn't possibly know the things she claimed to know about that place, he felt distress at just the possibility of it being changed in any way.

  But it was nothing compared to the distress he felt now, knowing she was hurting and not being allowed to help. He stopped his pacing as a question formed in his head. "Who says it's not allowed?"

  He spun as though speaking to someone in the room. "Everyone would say I shouldn't go to her. Everyone. I'm a widower, and she's a single woman in my house."

  And then it occurred to him. "Everyone" was not there.

  Grabbing up his dressing gown from the chair, he strode to her room. He paused just a moment, catching his breath, before knocking lightly.

  The crying stopped, but no one came to the door.

  He knocked again, louder. He was about to knock a third time when the door opened. He pushed into her room and turned on a lamp. Then without a word he took her in his arms. The weeping started anew as she clung to him, and he swept her up, carried her to the edge of the bed and sat, pulling her head to his shoulder. He didn't let go until her crying was reduced to quiet shudders.

  Finally she pulled back and braved a smile. "I like this new treatment, Doc."

  He smiled back, wiping the tears from her cheeks. "I'm always on the lookout for new medical advances."

  Her expression grew serious. "If you are a part of this, I think I can do it."

  He wasn't entirely sure what she meant. "A part of what?"

  "Living. Here. Now. Without you, it's too hard."

  He pulled her back to his chest, his heart and his head once again warring over words. "I'll take care of you, Lita."

  Chapter 18

  Tate approached his house long past noon, stopping for something to eat before heading out again to check on Mrs. Pilson's infant. He hoped to take Lita along. If she's still feeling down, holding the baby might cheer her up.

  After all her tears of the night before, he was completely unprepared for the laughter that floated on the breeze as he left Maisy with Harold in the carriage house.

  Coming around the corner, he saw that two quilts had been thrown over the clothesline, the corners weighted down with bricks to form a V-shaped tent.

  Tate walked to the open end and peered in to find Lita and Nellie stretched out on their backs atop a quilt covering the ground, their stockings and shoes in a pile nearby. The two were giggling uncontrollably.

  Crouching down, he tickled the bottom of Nellie's feet, and she pulled her legs up as she sat in surprise. "Papa!"

  Lita pushed up on her elbows, still grinning. "Do you want to join our comedy club, Doc? We're offering free memberships for a limited time."

  Tate chuckled. "No doubt you two are quite entertaining, but I only stopped by home for something to eat."

  Lita sat all the way up. "Mrs. K. went home not feeling well about mid-morning, so I made lunch. There's quite a learning curve with that stove, but I managed to make some fairly decent biscuits and gravy."

  Tate grimaced. "How not feeling well?"

  "Stomach ache."

  He took off his hat and ran a hand through his hair before replacing it and standing. "Well, that fits with about half the town. I'm trying to decide if it's just a touch of the flu or something else."

  "What other reason could there be? It wouldn't be food poisoning if half the town has it." Lita scooted to the end of the tent, and Tate offered his hand and pulled her up. "Or could it be a water issue? Most of your 'healthy springs' taste awful."

  Nellie bounded ahead to the back door as Tate walked with Lita. He noticed that both had left their shoes behind. "It's most likely flu, although one can never rule out the possibility of drinking water contamination."

  He held the door for her. "You seem… better today."

  "I'm not going to get over what I've lost in a day, Doc, but Nellie doesn't need to feel it, too." She gave him a small smile as she passed him into the house. "I'll always try to put on a smile for her, and if this is where I'm… stuck, then this is where I'll have to learn to be happy."

  He frowned at her use of the word "stuck" but was proud of her attitude. "You have emotional adjustments to make, and I'll try to be understanding."

  She cocked her head at him. "But that doesn't mean you believe me."

  Tate took off his hat, struggling to find the right words. He took too long.

  Lita blinked back tears and gave him a weak smile. "No, I thought not." Holding his gaze, she swallowed. "So how do I go forward in a century that is way behind?"

  His hand came up without thought to smooth her hair, ruffled by laying on the quilt. "I'll help you."

  She smiled. "Well, I am living proof that you have to be careful what you wish for." She turned abruptly, moving through the wash porch to the kitchen. "I always loved this style of dresses, but looking at them and living in them are two different things. And I'm just not used to the lack of air-conditioning in all these layers." She stopped at the ice box and pulled out a bowl covered by a plate. "I'm sure they will feel wonderful in winter, but right now, and especially in this kitchen, they are nothing short of torturous."

  Tate wondered about women's fashions in Missouri. From what he'd seen advertised in the papers, he had assumed they were pretty much the same all over. He took the bowl from her hands and waved her on through to the dining room. "Well, don't let it be said that I am a torturer of women. I'll warm up my own lunch."

  "Knock yourself out, Doc. The biscuits are in still in the pan."

  She left the kitchen, and Tate was left to ponder the term "air-conditioning" and how knocking himself out had anything to do with cooking.

  As soon as he had the gravy warmed and spooned over two fluffy biscuits, Tate carried his plate and coffee into the dining room to find Lita writing in a small book.

  Curious, he sat next to her. "May I ask what you are composing?"

  Instead of answering, she handed it to him. The first page was a list of names: Thomas Edison, Oscar Wilde, James Naismith, Lizzie Borden, Mark Twain, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.

  He laid it down on the table as he cut into Lita's meal and took a bite. He was momentarily distracted by the savory flavors in his mouth. "Mmm, this is good. I believe your biscuits rival, if not surpass, Mrs. Kettler's."

  "Thanks. I'm glad you like it." She pointed to the book. "These are all names you know, right?"

  "Some of them."

  "Which ones?"

  He paused to take another bite. He could see that she was impatient, and he remembered her declaration of the previous day that patience wasn't her best suit. He smiled, swallowed, wiped his mouth on his napkin, and turned his attention back to the list. "Let's see, well, I know Thomas Edison, of course, and I believe Oscar Wilde is a playwright. And everyone knows Mark Twain. The other three I'm not familiar with."

  "Okay, well, Lizzie Borden was famous for being a
ccused of killing her parents quite brutally with an axe, but I'm not exactly sure of the date. Maybe it's happened already, maybe not. The same goes for James Naismith. He is credited with inventing basketball, although I'm not certain exactly when—sometime in the late 19th century. And Sir Arthur Conan Doyle was just getting his Sherlock Holmes character off the ground around this time. Turn the page."

  Tate had gotten side-tracked, by "maybe it's happened already, maybe not," and hadn't heard much of the rest.

  She turned the page herself. "Okay, now here are a few things I'm pretty sure of. Unfortunately the big things like World War I isn't for another twenty-two years, and I can't wait that long to convince you I'm not totally looney tunes."

  World War I?

  "Women in Colorado got voting rights way before it was a national law. That happened in 1893, and here's a tidbit I learned up on Pikes Peak. Katharine Lee Bates wrote a poem entitled America the Beautiful also in 1893 while looking off the mountain. It wasn't published, however, until several years later. Then someone set it to music, and it became a patriotic classic." She paused. "I hope it doesn't take two more years to convince you, but just in case…"

  He couldn't help smiling. "Well, I won't be surprised about the women's vote. Almost anyone could predict that… So how does the song go?"

  She didn't miss a beat. "Oh beautiful for spacious skies…" She kept singing until a very dramatic "from sea to shining sea."

  It was a good song—a beautiful song. And no, he had never heard it before, and if Lita were to be believed, he wouldn't hear it for another couple of years.

  He stared into her eyes, wishing he could believe her, but he couldn't help thinking that she was making all this up in some part of her fractured mind. He longed to hold her again, but he couldn't allow that until she was well. Her eyes were asking for his acceptance, but all he could offer was truth. "That was beautiful. And you have a lovely voice. I look forward to hearing it more often."

  He turned back to his meal, vowing to write a letter to a colleague about her case as soon as he was done seeing patients for the day. He didn't trust the phone system when it came to confidentiality. He had a feeling those operators listened in.

  She leaned toward him, determination setting her jaw. "Tate, you know that hotel we ate in yesterday? It burns to the ground sometime before the next century."

  He froze with his fork in his mouth then slowly withdrew it. After swallowing, he turned to her. "Lita, I know to let most of what you say go by because of your… head injury, but other people may not. You need to watch what you say. If by some chance that hotel did burn down, and someone remembered your ramblings, you could be blamed."

  "Ramblings. Tate, I'm telling you what I know of history to prove to you that I've been in the future."

  "Well, so far you've proved nothing."

  "I know that. Unfortunately you'll have to wait, but when they do happen…" She patted her book.

  Tate sipped his now-cooled coffee. "So who's the next president?"

  "I know all the presidents, but not the dates so much… Who's the president right now?"

  It seemed impossible that one so intelligent and well-educated should not know the current president. Must be another gap in her memory. "It's Benjamin Harrison."

  Lita closed her eyes and started to sing another song. "James Garfield someone really hated 'cause he was assassinated. Chester Arthur gets instated. Four years later he is traded for Grover Cleveland, really fat, elected twice as Democrat. Then Benjamin Harrison—" She stopped singing. "That is, of course, where the song isn't quite right because—"

  "Grover Cleveland was only elected once."

  "No, it's not quite right because Benjamin Harrison was in between Cleveland's two terms."

  "So you're predicting Cleveland to win the next election."

  She smirked. "I'm not predicting anything. It's already happened. It's a done deal. I'm just telling you what the history books say."

  Her eyes were shining with confidence, and if he were a weaker man, he might have been persuaded.

  "And Tate," —she laid her hand on his shoulder— "there's an economic downturn coming next year; don't put your money in silver. Gold is going to be the standard of the nation, at least for a while."

  He pushed his plate away while she continued to talk. "I wish I knew something major that happens in August or September of this year, but I just don't."

  As was so often the case since Lita's arrival, he found himself without words. People make predictions all the time about the economy, but they usually don't speak with quite this much confidence. "I guess time will tell."

  She closed her book and held it to her chest, smiling smugly. "It will indeed."

  She looked so sincere, sitting there hugging her names and dates in his late wife's pinstriped, green dress as if they were some kind of lifeline. His mind strayed to what he knew of the mysteries underneath the dress—bright pink underthings she washed out in the bathroom sink every night, unlike anything he'd ever seen, and a tattoo that no respectable woman would have commissioned. And for a moment, what she was purporting almost made more sense than what an injury could explain.

  Almost.

  "Lita, what you are suggesting simply isn't possible. People aren't thrown through time by lightning."

  She rose and moved quickly past him to the door. "There's a first time for everything, Doc."

  Chapter 19

  Lalita drank in the mountain scenery as she and Tate traveled to the Pilson's house with Nellie in between them on the buggy seat. She had persuaded Tate to take them both to see the baby. After a quick call to confirm that the stomach flu had not hit their household, he had agreed, and Nellie had been ecstatic.

  While Tate lectured Nellie on the dos and don'ts of a house call, Lalita let her mind wander. She still felt a certain emptiness at the thought that she'd never be going home, but the adventurer in her was starting to return. Had she been able to choose a time period on her own, she might have very well chosen this one, although she hadn't been kidding about the clothes. She was so over Victorian dresses.

  She looked to the handsome man still yakking at his daughter, who was nodding every few sentences. The man who thought she was flat out crazy. The man she was falling for. She also knew he was falling for her as well, but he wouldn't admit it as long as she appeared "ill."

  That left her with two options: pretend to have come to her senses and do everything possible to fake it in this century or prove to Tate that she is from a different time and only have to fake it when she left the house. Both had their difficulties, but she still believed the latter was the best course of action. She would then at least have one ally who understood her.

  For the thousandth time, she regretted losing her phone. Maybe it couldn't come through time with me. Maybe it's still laying there on the mountain in 2015. She winced. It was probably fried by the lightning. She pictured the headlines: "Freezing Female Disappears on Mighty Mountain. Unidentified Melted Technology Left Behind."

  Nellie poked her in the ribs, and she brought her attention back to her companions in the buggy. "I'm sorry, did you say something?"

  Tate smiled. "I said, 'a penny for your thoughts.' "

  Lalita laughed. "Wow, a penny is actually worth stopping and picking up in this time, so I'm flattered that you're interested. You would, however, not appreciate hearing my thoughts at the moment."

  She glanced at Nellie, and Tate gave a tiny nod of acknowledgment, although his expression seemed to show surprise as well.

  They arrived at the Pilson's a few minutes later, and Millie herself received them in the parlor. After Tate checked the baby girl over and declared her fit and growing, he handed her back to Millie, who deferred to Lalita, smiling warmly. Tate laid the baby in her waiting arms, and Nellie leaned in beside her on the small sofa.

  Millie pushed a button by the door, then sat across from them. "I want to thank you again for all your help with the delivery, Lalita. You'
ll make the doctor a fine nurse."

  Lalita looked at Tate, surprised. "Do you hear that, Doc. Maybe I've missed my calling as a history major, and the universe adjusted my course to send me to you."

  Tate smiled warily. Even when Lalita didn't say something completely ridiculous, she said it in a different way than most. He looked to the blond woman who was now giving her maid instructions, wondering how she would take Lalita's comments. She appeared not to notice anything amiss, and Tate scolded himself for being touchy. Stop looking for trouble.

  The maid returned a few minutes later with a tray of iced lemonade. Tate, who was sweating profusely on what must be the hottest day yet this summer was grateful for the cold beverage instead of the hot tea women seemed to indulge in no matter what the temperature.

  Tate took a drink then nearly bolted out of his seat when Lita seemed to be handing the baby to Nellie. "Miss Torres, I don't think that Nellie—"

  "It's okay, Doc, I'll help her." She looked to Mrs. Pilson. "That is, if it's all right with you."

  Mrs. Pilson waved a hand as she took a lemonade off the tray. "Goodness, yes, Nellie looks to me to be up to the task. That baby has three older siblings, so she's been handed about a good deal."

  Tate settled back in his chair but kept his eyes on his daughter. It wasn't until he realized that Lita was holding her hands in such a way on her lap as to be ready for every contingency that he relaxed enough to give Mrs. Pilson his attention. "Are you having any problems post delivery? No trouble with nursing, I assume."

  She blushed and seemed reticent to speak. "I do have something… I noticed it just this morning."

  He leaned forward. "What is it?" He noticed her glance toward Lita. "We can talk about it in another room, if you'd like more privacy."

  She hesitated a moment longer, then spoke. "I hope it won't offend you, Doctor, but I was wondering if I could talk to Lalita about it."

  Lita looked up at the mention of her name, and Tate's eyebrows rose along with his hackles. "Lalita! Even though she was a fine assistant in Anna's delivery, she does not have any medical training."