Jolt

  She came back with an armload of bottles and bars, along with a sheepish grin. "All of this stuff seems really cheap to me, since the last face cream I bought was literally a hundred times this price, but you tell me if it's too much."

  He waved her to the cash register. "I haven't had to buy anything like this for over a year."

  She grinned, setting it all on the counter. "Thanks, Doc, that soap of yours was about to ruin my hair."

  Tate hadn't noticed any difference, but now that she had brought it to his attention, he wanted nothing more than to run his fingers through it by way of inspection.

  The woman behind the counter brought him back. "Do you want to pay cash today, Doc, or just put it on your tab."

  Tate smiled. "Thank you, but I prefer not to have a tab." He pulled out his wallet and handed her enough to cover the cost.

  When he turned, Lita surprised him with a kiss on the cheek. "Thanks again."

  Tate blushed. "Lita…" He looked around and hurried her through the store and out. "It's hardly suitable—" He stopped and tipped his hat to a passing woman and her daughter, biting his tongue against further correction.

  They walked in silence to the buggy, but Lita refused his hand and climbed up herself. Sighing, he ran around to the other side. After starting Maisy down the street, he tried to form an apology. "Lita, I'm sorry. I'm just concerned about the gossiping tongues of a small town."

  "Oh pooh, you're no fun at all. It was just a little peck. I didn't take you into a dip, for Pete's sake."

  "Nevertheless, a 'little peck' between two single people in a small town like this will start rumors. You have your reputation to consider." Tate started Maisy back on the road to home.

  "Is that really all you're worried about? What was it Seth Dickson said?… 'Most men won't give her the time of day because she's a squaw.' Now, I know you would give me the time of day because you let me stay in your home, and you just bought me a lot of nice things, but is that how you think of me too—as a squaw? Did my little kiss embarrass you because I'm part Native American?"

  Tate's head jerked toward her. "No, absolutely not."

  She lowered her voice to almost a whisper. "How do you think of me?"

  Tate swallowed. "I… I think very highly of you. You have many talents." He flashed her a smile, somewhat surprised that she was not smiling back.

  She turned her stony stare to the road ahead. "I took you for a braver man, Tate Cavanaugh, but I was wrong. You're a coward."

  Tate flinched. "How do you figure that?"

  "You're scared of me."

  "Nonsense," he blurted. "You've just… read more into our relationship than is there."

  "I don't think so. What did you want to discuss with me the day before we went to Colorado Springs?"

  "Discuss?"

  She pursed her lips. "Don't play dumb with me. The picnic you invited me to go on—you said you wanted to discuss something with me. And you had a real sparkle in your eyes when you said it. What was it, Tate?"

  Tate felt a drip of sweat run down his neck. "I… I don't recall."

  She snorted. "For someone so concerned with truth, you are quite the liar."

  He turned Maisy onto the hill heading home, knowing she was right. "All right. Here's the truth. You spoke the night before about leaving, and I… well, I was going to ask you to stay."

  "Just… stay. Was there more to it than that?"

  Tate was gripping the reins so tightly, his knuckles were turning white. "I wanted to court you, Lita."

  "But after I told you I came from the future, you changed your mind because you think I'm crazy."

  "No, well, I don't know. I'm not that kind of doctor. I can't make that diagnosis on my own. That's why I—"

  Lalita was watching her handsome, strong doctor turn to jelly before her eyes. "That's why you what?"

  He looked at her with what seemed like regret, or perhaps it was just sympathy. "I wrote a letter to a doctor that deals with illness of the mind about your case."

  "I'm not a case, Tate, I'm a woman out of place."

  All at once, Lalita saw the future all too clearly, being questioned and probed by psychiatrists and psychologists. Maybe even locked away. Away from Tate. She blinked back tears. "How long until he gets the letter?"

  "A week or so, I imagine."

  She wiped a tear from the corner of her eye. "You said you'd take care of me."

  He reached over and unclenched her hand from her skirt. "I will, Lita. I promise."

  ***

  "Ugh! How did people live before microwave ovens? This stovetop warming is for the birds." Lalita was trying to warm up the spaghetti and sauce in a pot without it getting burned, her mood continuing a downward spiral.

  Tate turned the page on his newspaper, where he sat on the stool across the room. "What's for the birds? Are you making something for the birds?"

  She gave him a look, still fuming from their earlier conversation. "No, I really am making lunch for us, not the birds." She couldn't help the scowl that came to her face. "If only I could take you back with me, but standing out in a lightning storm on the off chance I'd go time hopping again instead of being fried is probably pretty risky." She stirred with great vigor, continuing to mutter. "And who says I'd go back to 2015? Maybe I'd jump back to Shakespearean times. The plague would be fun."

  He didn't answer, seemingly absorbed in The Daily Gazette. When she had been talking about advances in medicine, Tate seemed different—like he was starting to believe her, but talking about her "illness of the mind" on the way home disobliged her of that thought. She found she was getting pretty weary of his distrust. She set the pot off the stove and walked to stand in front of him. He brought his gaze slowly up to her. "Can I help you with something?"

  She took the paper out of his hands, folded it and tossed it on the counter. "Tate, after all I've told you today, how can you still not believe me. Nobody could make all that stuff up."

  Tate didn't speak for a moment, and Lalita wanted to slap him. Finally he rose and crossed his arms. "I grant you, it all sounded very… natural, but since I didn't recognize a good deal of what you were talking about, I have no idea if you were making it up or not."

  "But," she continued, putting her hands on her hips, "Don't I sound rational whenever you do know what I'm talking about?"

  He smiled before maneuvering around her to divide the spaghetti onto the two plates she'd brought from the dining room. "So what you're saying is that you sound perfectly rational when you are rational."

  She grabbed a spatula and slid a biscuit onto each plate, her ire building. "No, that's not it at all. What I'm saying is how can someone who sounds rational to you most of the time, sound completely crazy to you at other times?"

  "That is, indeed, a very good question."

  Tate carried his plate to the dining room, and Lalita felt like screaming. "Oh, you are just not trying to understand me!" She grabbed her plate and followed, sitting down across from him.

  "On the contrary, Lita, I've been doing almost nothing but trying to understand you from the time you woke up here a week ago."

  He bowed his head for prayer, and Lalita followed suit, but as soon as the "amen" was said, she was right back after him. "Okay, what I'm saying, I guess, is that I'm not prone to irrationality, so why would you assume that just because you can't understand what I'm saying at the moment, that I'm irrational and crazy."

  Tate chewed and swallowed, not sure if he wanted to pursue this conversation or not. "So last night… that felt rational to you."

  Lita blinked. "Perfectly. I'd been suffering for a week with your awful soap for my hair and deodorant that doesn't work—don't think I don't know why you were avoiding me all last evening—and my itchy, hairy legs were just the last straw." She stared down his skeptical expression. "Maybe not rational for a man, but completely rational for a woman."

  He couldn't help it when a smile slipped out. "So are there two different scales for rationality? Ma
le and female?"

  Her expression was bordering on dangerous. He ducked his head and went back to eating, but it was impossible to ignore the fury being directed his way. Finally, she set her napkin beside her plate and rose. He caught just a glimpse of her acerbity before she strode from the room.

  He sighed and followed her down the hall and to the parlor. "Lita, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to upset you. You're right. There are things that women are concerned about that men are not."

  She spun to face him, tears forming in her eyes. "I just need someone here to believe me, Tate, and you're all I have."

  He plunged his hands in his pockets once again when he'd rather pull her to his chest. "I wish I could."

  She rolled her eyes and pushed past him, speeding down the hall and up the stairs.

  Tate sighed again and walked back to the dining room. He sat back down but found that his appetite had left him, as well. He rubbed a hand around his jaw, wishing he could make the leap to belief in her tall tale. Would it really hurt anything to play along? He looked across the table to her barely-touched meal, wondering if he should take it up to her, when the doorbell rang.

  He found Rand Allen and his wife, Mercy, standing on his porch. Though they loved to espouse their distinction as founding members of the Congregational Church, Tate thought of them more as the town's biggest busybodies.

  He slapped on a smile. "Mr. and Mrs. Allen, to what do I owe the pleasure?"

  Rand Allen spoke even though his mouth couldn't be seen behind his graying mustache. "Dr. Cavanaugh, might we have a word?"

  Tate opened his door wider, and the large man and his thin wife stepped inside. He waved them into the parlor. "Be my guest."

  When they were all seated, Tate smiled thinly. "Well, what can I do for you?"

  ***

  Lalita lay on her bed listening to her stomach growl. She really was hungry. She'd heard the doorbell, but all she had been able to see through her window was a buggy parked out front. Now she didn't know if she'd be able to sneak back down and finish her lunch without being seen, and she scolded herself for her temper that had taken her from the dining room table in the first place.

  He's not going to believe you without proof. You're just going to have to accept that. Agitated, she rolled off the bed and began to pace. "Such a frustrating man!"

  With her hunger pangs increasing, she opened her door and listened. The voices were muffled, so she assumed Tate must be entertaining whoever had stopped by in the parlor.

  She was half-way down the stairs, when the voices suddenly grew quite loud.

  "I don't see how my medical practice falls under the jurisdiction of the church, Mr. Allen."

  "Dr. Cavanaugh," a deep voice was appealing, "do you deny buying her dress goods, perfume and the like? That hardly seems like something a doctor does for a patient."

  "They do when the patient has shown up with nothing but a head injury that has left her memory full of gaps. She's been wearing my dead wife's ill-fitting clothes for a week, and I have no idea how long her recovery will take."

  Lalita took a deep breath and continued down the stairs. Her stomach would have to wait. Tate needed backup. She lingered a moment at the doorway, catching Tate's eye before she stepped into the room.

  Tate gave her a nervous smile as she entered, rising from a heavy leather chair. "Mr. and Mrs. Allen, I'd like you to meet Miss Lalita Torres," —he gave her a pointed look— "the reason for your visit."

  Lalita sucked in a tiny breath as the man pushed his overweight body back up to standing. Wow, I thought obesity was a modern problem. Lalita saw his eyes crinkle, but no smile could be seen under his mustache. She wondered how on earth he ever got so fat with his mouth unavailable.

  "Miss Torres, Dr. Cavanaugh was telling me and Mercy about your recent injury that has put you here in his care." He waved her toward the settee. "Now that you're here, you can tell us yourself."

  Both men sat, and Lalita lowered herself to the velvet couch. Sitting as ram rod straight as Mercy, she considered the incongruity of this woman's sour face together with her name. On the outside, though, Lalita kept a serious, though pleasant expression. "Mr. Allen, I'm most certain that the good doctor can probably explain my condition better than I can." She gestured toward Tate. "My memory is still quite sketchy."

  Mercy leaned forward. "And yet you were seen riding a bicycle all over town just a few days ago." She turned her attention to Tate. "Shouldn't someone who has suffered a head injury be abed?"

  "In the case of Miss Torres," Tate jumped in, "I am assuming an injury as I could not physically find one at the time she was brought to me. She was unconscious and—"

  "But I'm certain, my dear doctor," Lalita interrupted, "that my unconsciousness was caused by the lightning strike I experienced up on the mountain."

  Tate inwardly cringed, wondering if Lita was going to go into one of her incomprehensible speeches.

  Mercy gasped. "You were struck by lightning?"

  Lita shook her head. "Not directly, but a big flash in the middle of a lightning storm on the highest mountain around is the last thing I remember before waking up here."

  Mr. Allen rested his elbows on the arms of the chair, his hands clasped over his prodigious belly. "What were you doing up there?"

  "With the cog railroad, it's becoming quite the tourist attraction," Tate threw in from his side of the room.

  "Yes," the large man said, stroking his mustache, "but they say she was all alone. Did you go up alone, Miss Torres?"

  Lita gave a tiny glance toward Tate before answering. "That's part of my memory loss, Mr. Allen. I don't remember that part."

  The man and his wife exchanged a look before Mercy spoke. "Miss Torres, surely you realize that as a single woman you should not be here living in the same house as a widower."

  Lita opened her mouth to speak, but Tate jumped in, leaning forward in his chair. "I assure you, Miss Torres is in no danger from me. We have a doctor/patient relationship only." He looked to Lita, who, praise God in heaven, had schooled her face to complete agreement. "And until such time as she regains her memory enough to return to her family," he continued, "she is welcome to stay here."

  Mr. Allen lifted his double chin. "Welcome, yes, and you are to be commended, doctor, for your kindness, but we have to think about what is best for Miss Torres. You must agree that the two of you under the same roof—"

  "Will come to nothing," Tate threw back. "I've been through all this with Reverend Niemeyer. Surely I have lived in this town long enough to earn a bit of trust in my person and in my medical knowledge. If I say that it would be best for Miss Torres to be in my house until she fully recovers, then I would think that should be good enough."

  Mercy scowled, rose, and went to sit beside an obviously surprised Lita, taking her hand. "Miss Torres, we would just like to offer you another alternative. You can come and stay with Mr. Allen and myself while you recover. Doctor Cavanaugh can still see you as often as he thinks necessary, but your virtue would not be in jeopardy by staying alone with an unmarried man."

  Tate ground his teeth, wanting to tell this busybody to mind her own business, but he knew he didn't dare. He also knew that one day listening to Lita, and the Allens would be calling the sanitarium in Denver.

  Lita was making a show of pondering the nosy woman's words. At least he assumed it was a show. He had a flash of her earlier anger. Maybe she wants to leave. The room suddenly felt devoid of air, and he jumped up to open a window.

  "It's a very kind offer, Mercy, but I think the doctor's right," Lita was saying as he turned to sit back down. "Besides, to help me earn a bit of money to get back on my feet, the doctor has hired me as a governess for Nellie."

  Tate didn't blink, and he strove to contain the smile he felt twitching on his lips.

  "I can hardly do that job if I'm staying with you," she went on sweetly. "If the doctor gets called out at night, who would be here for Nellie?"

  "We thought that Mrs. Ket
tler…" Mr. Allen muttered into his mustache.

  "Oh, no, dragging Mrs. Kettler out of her house in the middle of the night was just a temporary arrangement until the doctor could find someone more suited to the task. You see, Mr. Allen, the doctor told me that the first time he saw me with Nellie, he knew that God had answered his prayers for a governess." She looked directly at Tate. "Isn't that right, Doc?"

  Oh, Lita, we've moved way beyond lying by appearances. Tate cleared his throat as he shifted in his chair. "I couldn't have said it better."

  Mr. Allen and his wife continued to implore her to consider coming home with them, but Lita was adamant that Nellie's needs came first.

  Finally they rose, handing their calling card solemnly to Lita, leaving Tate feeling like a lecher for even considering letting her stay in his home unchaperoned. They all walked to the door, Mercy reminding her husband to call Fall River when they got home.

  "Oh, yes, I suppose I must." He turned back at the door. "I don't imagine you've heard, Doctor, about the ghastly business that happened in Fall River, Massachusetts, this morning."

  Tate sunk his hands into his pockets. "No, the newspapers here don't often cover the East Coast."

  Mr. Allen nodded. "The only reason I know is that Mercy is distantly related to the deceased."

  Mercy shook her head, looking near tears. "If it had just been a death, but the way she died… and her husband, too." She put a hand to her mouth, unable to go on.

  Her husband put a hand to her back. "A heinous crime, and the prime suspect is their daughter Lizzie."

  Lita's eyes went wide, and she took a step back. Tate understood her repulsion. "The daughter murdered both her parents? That is a nasty bit of news," he agreed. "My condolences, Mrs. Allen."

  Mercy found her voice, although it was a ghost of what it was earlier. "She didn't just murder them, she nearly chopped them to bits. With an axe."

  Tate felt horror a split second before something else flashed in his remembrance. He licked his lips as Mr. Allen opened the door and ushered his wife out onto the porch. Tate followed them out. "Mrs. Allen, if I might ask, what was the surname of the woman suspected of this murder."