After a bit of political hashing, Tate brought up the topic that had been on his mind ever since he'd gotten word from his lawyer that Lita's time before the judge was at hand. "Jeremiah, I know you planned on leaving at the end of the week, but would it be possible to stay through the hearing? I'm not certain we will be allowed to offer any kind of testimony, but if so, your statement as a psychologist would carry some weight, I should think."
Jeremiah seemed to deliberate, and Tate was embarrassed for even asking. He has patients he needs to get back to. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't have asked."
Jeremiah held up a hand. "No need to apologize. My hesitancy comes from wondering if my testimony would be a help or a hindrance. Because most of what I've learned about your Miss Torres is that she rarely tells the truth."
Tate blinked. Obviously their cover-up of Lita's real story hadn't fooled his perceptive friend in the slightest. "Jeremiah, there are circumstances that are best not discussed if Lalita and I are to have a normal life together. But that doesn't change the fact that Dickson was acting inappropriately when he cornered her in my carriage house."
"Maybe. Maybe not. We only have her word, and as I said, her word is not worth much in my book." Tate's eyes flamed, and Jeremiah hurried on. "You wanted my professional opinion, so there it is. I've heard very few sincere words come out of her mouth, and the ones that do are more than a little perplexing."
Tate nodded, trying to keep a cool head. "I understand your confusion. I felt the same way at first, as you well know from the letter I sent you, but…" He licked his lips wondering if he could really trust him with the truth. "Will it be good enough for you if I say that something happened that changed everything—that all her idiosyncrasies and ramblings suddenly had a context that gave her credibility? Would you accept that from an old friend and not ask any more questions?"
The tall man leaned an elbow on the arm of his chair and propped his chin against his fist. "I could as an old friend." He rubbed his thumb along his jaw. "But you're asking for more than that. You're asking me to speak as a professional in my field in front of a court of law." He tapped a finger against his lips for a moment before straightening in his chair. "For that I'd need it all. The whole truth."
Tate blew out a breath. If Dickson didn't back down, and Lita stood before a judge, he had a feeling she was going to need all the help she could get. But will he keep the secret? Tate could see no advantage for him to tell anyone. To bring it to light would only harm his reputation as a psychiatrist. Tate met Jeremiah's expectant gaze and began.
***
Lita and Nellie stood drying the dishes in silence. She knew she should try to put on a happy face for the little girl, but she just couldn't. Knowing that Tate's family was Native American, and he never mentioned it, was eating at her.
As she had studied the picture, she could see that it was his grandmother who was the only family member who was full-blooded. The older man in the picture was white and their half breed son had married a white woman. Tate's siblings, a younger man and even younger girl, looked like Lita—just a touch of their heritage showed through—but Tate looked like he had married into this group instead of being born to it. One would never know by looking at him that he had the same amount of Native American blood that she has.
And with that portrait crammed in a drawer, he obviously wants to keep it that way.
Lita couldn't help feeling marginalized. If he's embarrassed of them, won't he be embarrassed of me?
She slid the last plate into the cupboard, turned, and leaned against the counter. Nellie hung her towel up, and Lita tried her best to muster a smile. "Hey, kiddo, thanks for your help. Why don't you get ready for bed, and I'll come up and read to you in a bit."
Nellie nodded, smiling. "I'll put Arabella in the nightgown you made for her!"
Lita felt suddenly overwhelmed with angst and squatted down to take Nellie in her arms for a hug. "Great idea!" She released her and blinked back the tears that were threatening. "I'll be up in a minute or two."
As the girl hurried from the kitchen, Lita shed her apron and hung it on a peg. She was about to head out of the room herself when there was a tap on the back door. Sweeping the curtain aside, she saw a tall, broad fellow in a baggy suit jacket and dusty bowler, holding a crate. His black hair was as slicked as his mustache twisted.
She opened the door, and the big man smiled. "Evening ma'am, I have a delivery for the doc—some medical supplies from Denver."
She moved aside to let him enter. "Oh, okay, just put them anywhere. Do you need to be paid?"
"No, ma'am, that's already been taken care of." He set the crate on the floor and rose smiling, holding something Lalita hadn't seen since her trip up Pikes Peak.
She reached for it. "My purse! Where did you find it? How did you know?"
His smile grew into a grin. "My brother and me, well we were the ones that brung you down the mountain to the doctor. Your bag got left behind in our wagon, and then supplies got piled on top. We just found it this afternoon."
She opened it and peered inside. "Well, thank you so much for bringing me to Dr. Cavanaugh and returning my purse. I appreciate it."
He just stood there smiling, and Lalita wondered if she needed to give him a tip. She started to pull out her wallet, but realized that none of the bills would match the currency of the time. I don't need to be arrested for counterfeiting. She gave him a nervous smile, thinking of going to get Tate, when he suddenly spoke.
"You know, I didn't really expect to find you still here. I was just going to leave your things with the doc and hope he'd know how to get them to you."
"Really? You've not heard anything about me?"
"No, ma'am, but I've been on the road with deliveries for a while." He smiled again, grabbing the door knob. "Well, I'll get out of your way. Tell the doc 'hello.' "
As soon as the door closed, Lalita was fishing in her purse for her phone. She knew it was mostly useless now, but it did still hold pictures. Lots and lots of pictures. It was dead, but thankfully, she had been fortunate enough to be thrust back to a time with electricity. And she had a charger.
Even though it was only useful as a paperweight at the moment, she still wanted to show it to Tate and talk to him about the photos she'd found in his desk. She started down the hallway, knowing that couldn't happen with Dr. Fischer still lurking about. I wish that man would go home.
A sudden need for fresh air had her moving past the stairs and down the hall to the front door. The voices in the parlor stopped her in her tracks. Dr. Fischer was speaking. "The list of people… did you know them?"
"Some." Lalita strained to hear Tate but couldn't make out his next few sentences.
"So having it in writing became crucial." Dr. Fischer must have been facing the doorway, as she could hear him plainly. "And once you were struck with the reality of it, the people on the list suddenly became important to you, and that made you see her… differently?"
Lita sucked in a little breath waiting for Tate's response.
"Yes, I could no longer deny the truth." Tate was suddenly loud and clear. "Everything changed at that moment."
Lita didn't want to hear anymore. With her heart breaking, she moved quickly back down the hall and up the stairs. She had feared it, but now she knew for sure; the petition made Tate re-think his love for her. The truth was that his career was at an end as long as she was in his house. Everything changed. He said it himself.
Heading for her room, she just got the door closed before she broke down in sobs.
***
Jeremiah had no idea what to do with what Tate had just told him, but one thing he was sure of—Tate believed it. "So how does this riding on lightning bolts work? Seems pretty dangerous to me."
"I have no idea. She obviously wasn't hit directly. She says she remembers a bright flash before everything went black."
Jeremiah leaned forward, struck with a new thought. "Do you think it's happened before… to others?"
Tate ran a hand through his hair. "Who knows? There are a certain number of people who go missing each year without a trace."
It was a compelling idea, and it would explain many things about the enigmatic woman, from her short hair to her speech to her improper behavior, but Jeremiah wasn't ready to confess belief in time travel just yet. "What did you say the murderer's name was—the one that matched Lita's prediction?"
"Lizzie Borden. I don't think I'll ever forget that name."
Jeremiah searched his memory but couldn't recall hearing anything about it. "And when did it supposedly occur?"
"On the morning of the fourth. Lita wrote it down on the third around midday."
Jeremiah didn't remember the name from her book, but at the moment, he couldn't recall any but Mark Twain. "And have you verified Mr. Allen's story?"
Tate nodded. I made some calls to some colleagues back east. It's real, and it happened just like Lita said—both parents were killed with an axe. Lita says all the evidence points to the daughter Lizzie, but she won't be convicted."
"Really?" Jeremiah was surprised at the extent to which Lalita was willing to put this story of hers to the test. "Well, I guess time will tell."
Tate looked at his pocket watch and rose. "Yes, but we don't have time enough to prove her story before the court date." He glanced toward the door. "I need to go up and tuck Nellie in. What do you say? Will you testify on her behalf?"
Jeremiah was still reluctant to commit before having another look at her little book. "Do you still have her predictions?"
"Yes." Tate hesitated in the doorway. "Is that what it will take to get your support?"
Jeremiah nodded. "That, and my own calls to verify the axe murderer story."
Tate turned. "Follow me."
Pretending to know nothing of the book and its whereabouts, Jeremiah followed him to his study. Tate sat behind his desk and pulled open the center drawer. His brow wrinkled, and he pulled out all the papers within. "I'm sure it was right here earlier today." He closed it and went through the other drawers, all without result. "Lita must have it. Sometimes she adds to it." He rose. "Let me tend to Nellie, and then I'll ask her about it."
Jeremiah gave a nod, kicking himself for letting Lalita know he'd seen it.
***
Lalita managed to get through one book, and even though she knew Nellie was disappointed that she didn't read another, she had escaped with the confession of a headache.
Lying in bed, she scrolled through the pictures on her phone, tears streaming down the sides of her face. She skimmed through photos of family, friends, pets, and school, sinking deeper and deeper into depression. Finally, she turned it off with a brusque move of her thumb and set it down on her bedside table to continue charging.
Wiping the tears from her face, her mind spun with what to do. Tate no longer cared for her, or at the very least, he wasn't willing to give up his medical practice for her. To save his practice, she would have to leave. But I have no money—at least none that's usable— and since everyone thinks I'm a slut, they probably won't hire me. Seth Dickson's proposition came to mind, and she closed her eyes tight before flopping to her side. That just can't be my only option. Think, girl.
What she needed was respectability, and in this time, at her age, and with her ancestry, she wasn't sure how to get it outside of marriage to a white man. She almost laughed, thinking about the fact that her "white man" was hiding who he really was. He's no whiter than me. She could understand why he might hide that fact from the general population, but why her? Why wasn't it one of the first things he told me when he talked about his family? Why the big secret?
The only conclusion she could come to was shame. It's okay, somehow, to marry someone like me, but not be someone like me. His words, "Everything changed" pierced her heart yet again, and tears flowed anew.
She knew she'd have to leave more than his house. It would kill her to be so close to him and Nellie without being a part of their family. There might be more options in Colorado Springs, but how would I survive while I looked for a job? She wondered if Tate might make her a loan. She huffed out a breath. With what? Thanks to me, he's almost broke.
Her mind shifted to her other possible future. Prison. If Dickson didn't back down, and she got a judge with the attitude of the marshal, she wouldn't have to worry about altering any more of Augusta's clothes—she'd be wearing horizontal stripes. And stripes are not the new black, in my book. She punched her pillow hard. Why does everything come back to Dickson?
She tried imagining a future with Seth Dickson but only felt a wave of nausea. There was no doubt he was still a good-looking man, but he had to be over forty. And there was just that way he had of looking at her that gave her the willies. He doesn't love me. He doesn't even know me. He just wants to get me out of my clothes.
Fisting her hands in the sheet, her adoptive mother's frequent admonition came to mind. "You don't always get to choose your garden. Bloom where you're planted."
All those times that she thought her life was hard, she hadn't had a clue. But she wasn't a quitter. Whatever happened to her—wherever she ended up—whoever she kissed goodnight—she knew she was a survivor. With or without Tate, I'm going to make it.
***
Tate knocked lightly on Lita's door after Nellie had informed him of Lita's headache. He wanted to kiss it away, and he had some headache powders she could take as well. There was no answer, so he assumed she'd fallen asleep.
He also wanted to ask her about the book and tell her that he had enlisted Dr. Fischer as an ally to testify. He had wanted to give her hope, but he didn't want to wake her. He'd get the book from her in the morning and tell her the news over the big breakfast he planned to make for her. He'd sulked around the house long enough. Time to sit down and make a plan, and if that plan meant moving to a new town and start over with his medical practice, then that is what he'd do.
He smiled, thinking about Jeremiah's suggestion that he make an appointment with the judge to get married as soon as he arrives in town. They would have the morning as newlyweds before she would have to appear before him on assault charges. Dickson's scheme would be undone, and Tate didn't think he'd go through with it just for spite.
The doorbell rang, and Tate hurried down the stairs. He opened it to Haskel Emory, a middle-aged man with thinning brown hair, carrying his wife Josephine—two of the people who had signed the petition against him. Tate opened the door wider. "Haskel, what's the trouble?"
Emory's wife moaned, and he stepped inside. "I don't know, Doc, but she's in terrible pain."
Tate waved him into his examination room as Jeremiah came to the door of the parlor. "Anything I can do?"
"Not until I can ascertain the problem." Tate turned to follow Mr. Emory. "Stay close, though."
Tate pulled his stool to the side of the bed and studied the woman's face contorted with pain. She looks as though she's going through the contractions of childbirth. He looked down her slender body. But that is obviously not the problem… Unless it's an early miscarriage.
"Haskel, is your wife pregnant?"
"No, I don't believe so."
Josephine shook her head with her eyes closed, confirming her husband's answer.
"Mrs. Emory, can you tell me where the pain is located?" Her hands unclenched from her skirts and moved to her abdomen. As he gently pressed in various spots, his worst fears were confirmed when she screamed out with the pressure he applied on the lower right side.
He sat back, wishing for a different diagnosis.
"What is it, Doc?"
He patted Mrs. Emory's hand. "I'll just be a minute, then we'll see what we can do about reducing your pain."
Rising, he faced her husband, and
taking him by the arm, he led him across the hall to the parlor and spoke in a low voice. "I believe it's appendicitis. There's no other recourse but surgery. If it bursts, she'll die from the infection."
A look of panic came to the man's face. "And if you cut into her, she'll probably die anyway."
"I won't lie to you, Haskel, there is a risk of that, but we know she has no chance at all without the surgery, and the risk goes up the longer we wait."
The man's nostrils flared as his breathing accelerated, staring at Tate's shoulder. Finally he lifted his head and nodded.
"Good, let's move then. I'll need your assistance to get her undressed." He looked over Haskel's shoulder to Jeremiah. "Dr. Fischer, will you fill the largest pot you can find in the kitchen with water and fill up the autoclave, then wake up Miss Torres. We'll need to sterilize the area as fast as we can."
As the psychiatrist sprang into action, Tate and Haskel went back to the exam room to find Josephine clutching her skirts over her abdomen, tears running down the side of her face. Tate sat on the stool next to her and covered her hand with his. "It's going to be better soon, Mrs. Emory. Your husband and I are going to move you, bed and all, into the parlor temporarily while we set up for your treatment in here."
She gave a tiny nod, and the two men rolled the bed across the hall. Tate turned off all the lights save one small lamp. "Try to rest, and we'll be underway momentarily."
Fischer met them with the kettle of water, and Tate directed him toward the sterilization machine and told him how to get it running after he had added his surgical equipment.
Tate set them to work scrubbing down the surfaces of the room with carbolic acid before he opened a closet with double doors that revealed a tall wooden table. They moved it into the center of the room, and Tate adjusted the separate head and foot rests with cranks to bring it into a laying down position. After throwing a thick wool pad on top, followed by a waterproof cloth, he instructed Mr. Emory to wipe it down with the carbolic acid as well.