Mark Bell

 

This wasn’t possible.

Samantha continued to stare at me from her tiny prison, her body beaten and bloodied. For an instant, I wondered if her ghost had finally found me again and was torturing me once more. Blinking hard, I waited for the vision to subside, but it never did.

A strange rush of emotions filled me, causing my eyes to prickle. She was alive! By some happenstance, fate had brought us back together. Her dress was torn in several places, gore splattered over the fabric—some of which looked like it might not be hers.

“Mark?” she questioned again, but I couldn’t even answer her. My mouth refused to form words as I stared at her, trying to accept what I was seeing before me.

Anger coursed through me, seeing her in such a state, but my surprise kept me rooted to the spot, mouth hanging open like a sail without wind. Fear touched the back of my mind, for both her and me. Something told me Captain Randall wouldn’t find me necessary to keep around any longer if he found out I knew his captive. What did they want with her?

Curiosity also slapped me across the face. How long had she been in this time? Had it happened in the Pit? Did she know how? What had she been doing since the slip? Were there more time travelers?

Most of all, there was a radiating sense of peace that burned me from the inside out. It touched every part of me, causing the tears that now fell freely down my face. My hands shook beneath its power, my knees giving out as I crumpled to the floor. The feeling urged me to reach out and take her in my arms, to hold her and share my relief. Not even hesitating, I followed the instinct, gasping as her hands clutched the front of my shirt, wrists still bound together.

I wasn’t alone anymore.

“How are you here?” she asked, her voice muffled against my shoulder. “How?”

“I don’t know.” My fingers felt her hair, long and frazzled, even more wonder filling me as I held her.

Common sense raised its head and nudged me, the realization of her situation hitting me full force.

“Here, let me untie you,” I spoke, releasing her quickly and setting to work on her bindings. “Then I can look at some of your injuries.”

Randall had left us both in the room the ship used as a surgery. It wasn’t large, or even adequate for such a task, but there was a table for patients to sit on and a desk for the few scant instruments the last doctor had left behind.

Frowning, I pushed thoughts of Abel Martinez from my mind. He’d been a good man, despite how he’d met his end.

Sam’s eyes seemed to burn into me as I worked, quickly freeing her and pulling her from the trunk. It was immediately obvious that she’d either been clubbed over the head at some point, or her ride here had been a bumpy one, judging by the lump under her hair. Carefully, I led her wobbly form to the makeshift bed and sat her down, grabbing a lit candle off the supply table and holding it in front of her face.

“Open your eyes, wide,” I coached her, trying to watch the dilation of her pupils and determine if she had a concussion.

“How are you here?” Her voice held an air of anger and I paused, looking at her in surprise.

“I told you; I don’t know. It just happened.”

“How are you here, on this ship?” she clarified. “Working for Thomas Randall? Do you have any idea who he is?”

“A bit.” Feeling somewhat miffed, I went back to observing her eyes until I was satisfied her head injury would be fine. “I was pressed into service, along with the former doctor.”

“Pressed?”

“This ship fought and boarded the one I was on,” I explained. “After they took all of the goods, they decided they needed a few men for the crew as well. The doctor and I went, as well as another man. Everyone else was killed.”

Appearing aghast, she pulled away as I tried to feel the spot as well. “You went willingly?”

“Yes. No. I did what I needed to, to survive. You of all people should understand that, I think.” Staring pointedly, I waited for her to relax and let me continue my evaluation.

My emotions were still a roller coaster as I touched her, drinking in the presence of someone from my own time. It didn’t seem like it would have mattered much, but it did. I couldn’t explain it, but it was as if my soul had found a missing piece in the image of someone who knew completely what had happened to me. Not just that, but someone who understood the situation wholly, because it had happened to them, too. A person who knew what a cell phone was, who would understand television and movie references, or know exactly what I meant when I used slang from the twenty-first century.

Several minutes passed as I checked her, happy to find that she was mostly banged up and not mortally wounded. “I think you’re going to be okay,” I told her, stepping away and giving her some space. Being by her was like being drunk, not knowing what to do or say, but having so much I needed to express.

She nodded, biting her bottom lip, her hands resting against her stomach. Her eyes were troubled, something bothering her more than the abuse she’d taken from the crew. What had they done to her? Balking, I instantly worried someone had touched her in an intimate way.

Pirates were not above rape.

“Were you hit there?” I asked her, hoping she would quell my fears for her.

“Yes. Kicked,” she said, her voice strained.

Sighing in relief, I felt my posture slump some as my muscles relaxed. “You’ll probably have a bruise, but I don’t think anything too bad happened, based off your other injuries. It’ll be sore for a while, though.”

She nodded again, her eyes tearing up, and then took a deep breath, seeming to calm down some. “Mark—” She hesitated, eyes glancing toward the open door.

Taking the hint, I got up and closed it, checking to see if there was anyone in the hallway. Once I was sure we wouldn’t be overheard, I motioned for her to continue.

“I’m pregnant,” she whispered, her eyes wide with fear.

It felt like I’d been shot in the head, the words causing me to stare blankly for a moment before I shook myself roughly.

“It’s only a few weeks along,” she hurried to say, seeming to tremble. “But I was kicked in the stomach. Is there any way . . .” Her words trailed off as she covered her mouth, tears starting to roll down her face.

Nodding, I shoved my startled and slightly outraged thoughts into a box and closed the lid, tight. “Lay down,” I ordered, crossing to her side. “There’s no way for me to know for sure, but I can feel around where you were kicked and try to see if there was internal damage.”

She did as I asked, hiccupping, and stared at the ceiling.

The good news was that wombs were made to protect babies. Based on the condition she’d arrived in, the trauma had probably occurred before she was put in the box. She would have noticed bleeding if she were miscarrying.

Feeling through her dress, I tried to be gentle, watching as she flinched. Whoever had kicked her hadn’t spared any force. Unfortunately, just as I’d thought, I wasn’t able to tell anything.

“We’ll just have to wait and see how it goes,” I told her comfortingly. “That’s the best we can do. How are you feeling?”

“Sick,” she replied, laughing slightly. “That’s a good sign, right?”

“I guess.” My experience with pregnancy was limited to my time as a paramedic, before I’d decided to become a history professor. Even then, I’d rarely actually had to use any of the skills I’d been taught. Since being here, I’d picked up small things from other healers, but not so much about this.

“Sammy,” I started, my frustration getting the better of me. “Whose baby is this? What on earth were you thinking, getting pregnant? We’re not from this time! We have to be careful!”

“Excuse you,” she said, her tone instantly dangerous as her expression morphed into a glare. “It’s my husband’s.”

I didn’t know how many more surprises I could take today.

“Your husband?” Stepping back, I looked at her like she was crazy. “You’re married?”

“For over a year,” she said briskly, frowning at me.

“How long have you been here?”

Her face softened at that. It was obvious that we had a lot of talking to do.

“Almost two years. You?”

Gulping, I turned my back to her, hands clenching into fists. “Ten,” I said softly.

Hearing her small gasp, I glanced over my shoulder, getting some satisfaction from the expression of sorrow on her face.

“How?” she asked. “How did it happen?”

Chuckling some, I shrugged, moving to face her as I leaned against the wooden wall. “It’s a mystery. I was in Arizona and got caught in a dust storm. When it ended, I was in another time. Of course, it took me a little while to figure that out. It wasn’t a fun period.

“I was in the desert, no city in sight. For a while, I thought I was dreaming. Then I started to wonder how I could have wandered so far away during the storm. It didn’t feel like I’d gone that far—I’d been at a hotel in the middle of the city. It didn’t even seem possible.

“I got sick. There was no water, no food, no anything. I remember laying in the dirt and looking up at the sky, watching vultures circle around. That was when they found me.”

“They?” Her eyebrows raised in surprise.

“The Apache Indians.” Smiling, I could easily recall their faces when they came across me, even though I’d been in a haze of sorts.

“I didn’t understand it then, but they argued about whether or not to take me to their village. The leader, Taklishim—Grey One—thought I was too far gone to bother with. A few of the party agreed with him, but there was a young man who refused to go without me. He said I must be either an offering from the gods, or I was lost and they were being tested to see if they were kind at heart.”

“What was his name?” she asked, caught up in the story.

“Runs With Wolves.” The twenty-three-year-old boy and I had become close friends in the time I spent with the Apache. I often heard his loud laugh in my sleep, the picture of his tan face and brown eyes bringing memories of campfires and ridiculous stories he told to try and impress the woman he’d loved, Singing Bird. It was obvious to everyone but him that she wanted no one else; when she sang, her voice always had a way of conveying her love for him, no matter the tune or group she was with.

Coming out of my memories, I saw Sam staring intently, waiting for me to go on.

“I stayed with them for two years,” I continued. “Once I was healthy, I worked as a servant, but was well taken care of. Over time, I was treated like a member of the tribe. They called me Snake Eyes, because of the way I was squinting when they rescued me.” My smile grew wider then, a laugh caught in my throat.

“The Apache were like a family to me. After two years, though, I started to feel . . . useless. It was clear to me that I’d traveled through time somehow; I had a basic idea of when I was. Runs With Wolves could tell I was unhappy. After a while, it was decided I would leave and go home. Or least, what they thought was my home.”

“You never told them the truth?” She sounded more melancholy, even though there was nothing she could have done.

“Does your husband know the truth?” I asked, raising an eyebrow cockily.

“Yes, he does.” Smiling ruefully, she shrugged. “It’s a long story. Not ten years long, though, so you finish yours first.”

Nodding, I continued the tale, relieved to finally talk about what had happened to me, all those years ago.