HOLMES ROSE WELL BEFORE DAWN THE next morning. It was Saturday, and George would be arriving soon with his recalcitrant mare, having delayed delivery the previous weekend due to the tesseract catastrophe. So Holmes showered and dressed in boots, jeans, and a t-shirt, made a pot of hot tea and filled his mug, then grabbed a jacket and slipped outside to await George.
Thus for the first time he watched the sunrise over Pikes Peak. It was beautiful, and wild, and primal, in a way he had not experienced in many years. Holmes sat on the edge of the deck, letting his long legs dangle between the railing spindles, and watched as the sky in the east lightened from a deep, star-spangled cerulean blue up the spectrum, finally becoming white as the copper sun split the rugged horizon. As the solar orb ascended, the heavens reverted to turquoise.
Holmes sat, temporarily at peace with the world, cradling his mug in his hands and sipping it as the chill of the morning ebbed away. Anna wandered up, sniffed the contents of his mug, and let out an approving mew.
“Aha,” Holmes chuckled. “I’ve no doubt you think it should be yours, Anna. But please believe me when I say you would likely not care for the admixture of tea in your cream. When I return to the kitchen, I shall put down a saucer for you—provided you do not tell Skye.”
This seemed a fair arrangement to the little feline; she meowed again and head-butted Holmes’ hand. He chuckled anew, giving the cat an affectionate pat before sipping his tea.
The crunch of tires on gravel announced George’s arrival, and Holmes finished his tea and went to meet the rancher.
“Mornin’ to ya,” George greeted the detective, extending a hand as he clambered out of his pickup. “You must be Mr. Holmes.”
“I am, indeed,” Holmes said affably, shaking the man’s hand. “Sherlock Holmes, if you can believe it. My parents named me after that detective in the books.”
“George Prendergast. Pleased to meetcha. Where’s Skye?”
“Oh, Skye has yet to arise this morning. The last few days have been…difficult.”
“Yeah, she said something about an industrial accident when she called me last week. Had to work overtime.”
“Yes, well, the accident killed a friend of hers and poor Skye saw it,” Holmes revealed only the details agreed-upon with Jones and Morris as cleared. “She took it hard, as you might expect. So I thought I would provide her the chance to rest this morning. She has already instructed me where to place your mare, Mr. Prendergast, and she will work with it later this morning, when she arises.”
“Aw, man, that sucks,” George noted, shaking his head sympathetically. “Poor Skye. If it ain’t one thing, it’s three, seems like.”
“Indeed. Now, shall we unload your mare and see her put to rights?”
“Sure. Gimme a second to open up the trailer…”
* * *
Half an hour later the copper-brown quarterhorse mare, Penny, was in the round pen before the barn, with a full water bucket, several flakes of hay, and a scoop of feed in her feed bucket. She seemed content, and George thanked Holmes, closed the trailer, climbed into his truck, and was gone.
Holmes performed one last check of the new horse before returning to the house, a certain little cat trotting at his heels, awaiting the fulfillment of his promise.
In the kitchen, Holmes put down a saucer with a scant tablespoonful of cream. Anna mewled her delight, rubbed her thanks on his boots, then turned her attention to her liquid breakfast.
* * *
Holmes let Skye sleep as late as she would that morning. Around ten the scientist stirred. Knowing she was going to work with George’s misbehaving horse, she didn’t bother showering, only threw on work jeans, boots, and an old, grass-stained t-shirt. She pulled her hair into a ponytail and wandered into the den. Holmes met her with a cup of hot tea.
“What do you wish to do regarding breakfast?”
“Have you eaten yet?” Skye asked, sipping the tea gratefully.
“Yes, although it was nothing fancy. Cold cereal with milk.”
“That’ll do for me. Not long until lunch anyway. I didn’t mean to sleep this late.”
“Obviously you required it. George Prendergast came by this morning. Penny is in the round pen by the barn.”
“Good. I’ll eat, let my food settle, then go see her.”
“Would you like my assistance?”
“No, but I wouldn’t mind your company. I’ve trained horses for years, but sometimes I need the distraction of a human companion, or I’m apt to get exasperated. Penny can be a real handful. She’s a good horse underneath, but headstrong, and George lets her get away with all kinds of stuff. And that teaches her bad habits. I do this for him about every two or three years.”
Holmes acceded to her request, and after Skye ate her cereal, the pair wandered outside. Skye watched the horse with an experienced eye for awhile, then fetched a lunge whip from the tack room in the barn.
Meanwhile Holmes entered the round pen and removed the water pail and empty feed bucket. Skye held the gate for him to exit, then went inside the pen with the horse. She leaned the lunge whip against the fence and walked over to Penny while Holmes carried the feed bucket to the barn and refilled it.
“Hi there, girl,” she said, rubbing the horse’s neck. “Looks like you’re back again. If your daddy would make you behave, you and I wouldn’t have to keep dancing this waltz all the time.” Penny snorted, and Skye laughed. “My sentiments exactly. Okay, let’s get started, girl.”
Skye retrieved the whip and slowly approached Penny with it. Penny snorted again, but didn’t spook or pin her ears, and Skye gently rubbed the whip over the horse, reminding the animal the whip was not there to hurt it, but to guide it, an aide like the bit and reins, or the rider’s legs.
* * *
From his position leaning on the fence, Holmes watched approvingly as Skye proceeded, sympathetic to the horse’s feelings; he had seen too many harsh horse masters in his time and he liked the positive approach Skye used. Once Penny was comfortable with the whip, Skye backed up to the center of the round pen and extended the whip.
“Penny—gid’dap,” Skye called, smooching to the horse. Penny tossed her head, but didn’t move. “Penny, walk on,” Skye tried again, this time tapping the horse on the rump with the tip of the whip as she smooched. That apparently triggered a memory in the mare, and Penny started forward. “Good girl,” Skye praised.
Skye pivoted as Penny walked around the pen, keeping the lunge whip extended and allowing it to lag several feet behind Penny’s tail as a cue. After several laps, Skye raised the whip over her head and brought it slowly down in front of the horse, calmly but firmly saying, “Whoa, girl.” Penny stopped immediately.
“Very good,” Holmes observed. He picked up the feed bucket and held it for Skye, who scooped out a handful of feed.
“Oh yeah, she knows what she’s doing,” Skye agreed, offering the grain to the horse as a reward. Penny dove nose-down in Skye’s hand. “Like I said, she’s a good, well trained horse. But George won’t make her mind, and lets her do as she pleases, and gallops her back to the barn, so discipline goes out the window. Then Penny thinks she can do anything she wants to, and gets barn sour and stuff. George told me she almost ran away with him the other day, and started bucking because she didn’t want to go down to the creek. Now, George is a rancher, and some of his property is so steep, you need horses to work. A horse that bucks on a mountain slope is dangerous.”
“Agreed.”
“So I’ll spend some time today and tomorrow reminding her of her manners, maybe fifteen minutes after work on Monday and Tuesday, and she’ll be a good girl…until he teaches her to misbehave again. Um…is there going to be work on Monday?”
“You refer to the investigation? I fully anticipate it.”
“Okay. Just checking.” Skye used the whip to turn Penny, and started her around the pen in the other direction.
Within an hour, Penny was moving through her gaits, speeding up, slowing down, stopping, turning, and backing up on command. Holmes brought out a western saddle and bridle, slinging them over the fence, and Skye saddled the mare. Holmes looked on with interest, comparing and contrasting the western tack with the English saddle and girth with which he was familiar. Skye secured the cinch, then swung into the saddle.
“C’mon, baby,” she said, smooching to the horse. “Let’s have a canter.” Easing forward on the reins, Skye smooched again, applying pressure with her legs.
But this was not at all to Penny’s liking; she was already hot, tired and impatient, ready to rest, not canter with a rider’s weight. The horse started bucking, and Skye had hard work of it for several moments. Holmes watched with deep concern as she pulled up the horse’s head to counter the bucking, squeezing with her legs to push the animal forward.
“Go! Go! Git!” Skye cried, planting her seat as deep in the saddle as she could, and Penny lunged into a brief canter before bucking again.
“Sonuvagun!” Skye grumbled, starting the process all over. “Pay attention, horse!”
Skye hauled the horse’s head up once more, and Holmes thought she had it, when Penny abruptly bucked and shied sideways. The combination move dumped Skye from the saddle. A self-satisfied Penny stepped aside. Holmes was over the fence in a split-second.
“Skye? Are you hurt?” he asked, kneeling beside her.
“I’m getting too damn old for this,” Skye grumbled, sitting up slowly. “Nah, I’m not hurt. I’m gonna feel it tomorrow, and a hot soak is definitely on the agenda, but I’m okay.” She scrambled to her feet with Holmes’ help, and Holmes held the horse while Skye mounted.
A full thirty minutes later, Skye had been dumped twice more, but Penny had at last settled down. Skye spent the next fifteen minutes putting the mare through its paces from her seat in the saddle, then brought the horse to a halt in the center of the pen.
“Do you want to ride her out into the pasture?” Holmes wondered.
“No, not after the way she’s behaved,” Skye decided, dismounting. “I’d as soon not be on a runaway. If she’s better tomorrow, we’ll saddle Silver Blaze, and you and I can go for a ride around the ranch. That’ll help the training, too, because Blaze is a good, solid horse and he’ll keep her calm.”
“That sounds acceptable. Now if I may suggest, do you let me unsaddle this obstinate beast, while you go inside and take that hot bath you mentioned earlier.”
“Oh, bless you, Holmes,” Skye exclaimed gratefully. “I’m all over that like a duck on a June bug.”
He’d been diligently collecting colloquialisms in an attempt to learn modern lingo, but Holmes almost crossed his eyes on that one. He chuckled as he watched Skye start to scamper toward the house. An abrupt hitch in her gitalong slowed her to a walk, and she put a hand on her lower back before continuing toward the house—at a much slower pace. Holmes raised an eyebrow, then turned to his four-legged charge.
“You have been a very bad girl,” he informed the horse. “And for hurting the mistress of the household, you will get five more minutes under saddle.” Holmes loosened the cinch, but did indeed stand there and ignore the horse for a full five minutes before untacking her.
When he finally removed saddle and bridle, Penny followed him to the gate, nuzzling at his shirtsleeve.
Holmes slung the items over the top of the fence while he returned the water bucket to the pen and added fresh hay. Then he put away the tack and headed for the house.
* * *
Skye took a long soak, emerging with a few bruises and stiff muscles, but otherwise in good shape. They hopped into the truck and headed for Cripple Creek, eating a late lunch in one of the casino restaurants before going to the underground gold mine, spending the afternoon touring the working facility.
The next day, Penny was more cooperative, and soon Holmes and Skye were in the saddle, she on Penny, he on Blaze. They rode the periphery of the ranch, and Skye thoroughly familiarized Holmes with the boundaries of her property. Then, as Penny was still behaving herself well, they ventured off the ranch, riding along the gravel road almost all the way to Dog-Leg Rock before turning around and coming home again.
* * *
The first part of the week Holmes discreetly vetted General Morris and Dr. Hughes, via Colonel Jones and Agent Smith. Once that was done to his satisfaction, he sat down with Skye and they went through the rest of the team, discussing their personalities, habits, quirks and idiosyncrasies.
This took several days, as there were some fifty people on the Project: Tesseract team. Unfortunately, even with the help of General Morris, who provided informal personnel files for their perusal, nothing of significance turned up. And according to Jones and Smith, the latter of whom reported in on Friday morning, Sergeant Thompson appeared to be doing little other than his normal duty shifts.
“That in itself is strange,” Holmes noted, once they got back to their shared office.
“Why?” Skye wondered.
“Thompson is in his late twenties. He could be termed an attractive man as such matters go. There is every indication he is a…I believe Agent Smith said the modern term was ‘straight male,’” Holmes said, maintaining a neutral expression. “And as of six months ago, he had a very active social life—bars, several female companions, parties. Yet he is currently spending most of his evenings and weekends ensconced in his quarters—which, I might add, are almost as cheerless as the temporary quarters in the which I was housed.”
“It’s like he’s waiting for something…” Skye became pensive as she pondered this information.
“Indeed,” Holmes said with intense satisfaction. “You see it.”
“Yeah, but what’s he waiting for?”
“For word from our mole, perhaps?”
“To do what?”
“That is the pertinent question,” Holmes observed.
* * *
The following Tuesday morning, Skye encountered Bob Harris in the hallway.
“Bob! What are you still doing here?” Skye wondered, surprised. “Most everyone else in the Processing division is on vacation.”
“Oh, well, I had something planned for later in the year,” Bob averred, “and I didn’t want to blow all my leave now.”
“But what are you charging to? With the project on hold, the charge numbers are closed.”
“General Morris worked something out for me. I’m expecting to get a temporary assignment sometime this week. It’ll be okay.”
But Skye noticed he didn’t meet her eyes.
“Oh, that’s fine,” she said smoothly. “That’s always good, to know you’ve got a charge number.”
“Why are you here?” Bob asked, the faintest hint of insolence in his tone.
“What?”
“General Morris announced you were on administrative leave. I’d have thought you’d be wherever home is, or visiting family, or something.”
“Oh, well, the general made me Mr. Holmes’ liaison, you know,” Skye said, thinking fast. “His knowledge is a little…out of date. General Morris asked me to train him for something that would be…” Skye scrambled for words to divert Harris from their true intent, “um, useful in our modern world.” She secretly winced.
That was awkward, she thought, and not too complimentary of Holmes. But the last thing I want is for him to realize Holmes is leading an investigation. Especially when something about the story Bob just gave me doesn’t wash.
“Ooo. That must be a barrel of fun. Is the guy any good at anything?”
“Well, I’m teaching him how to use the computer now,” Skye noted, hiding her offense at the disdainful insult to the ingenious detective, omitting the fact Holmes already had the hang of it and was merely learning useful websites on the internet. “Any coursework he might take will likely involve using it, so he needs to be able to handle it.”
“Yeah,” Bob agreed cynically. “Good luck.”
“Thanks,” Skye grinned thinly. “I’m gonna need it. Better get back and see what he’s got into. Hope your temporary assignment comes through soon.”
“Me, too. See you, Dr. Chadwick.”
“See ya, Bob.”
* * *
As soon as Bob was out of sight, Skye betook herself straight to General Morris’ office, waving a greeting to his secretary. Skye knocked, then entered, closing the door behind her.
“General Morris,” she launched in.
“Well, this is a surprise, Skye,” Morris said, glancing up from his paperwork. “What brings you here? I thought you and Holmes would be hard at work for Hank—er, Colonel Jones.”
“That’s why I’m here. Do you have a new assignment lined up for Bob Harris during the hiatus?”
“Why, no,” Morris said, startled. “He’s assigned to project analysis for the duration.”
“On whose authority?”
Morris shrugged, then rolled his desk chair to his filing cabinet. He pulled out a drawer and riffled through its contents, emerging with a signed order.
“Looks like Caitlin Hughes,” he said, scrutinizing the form.
“Get Caitlin and Holmes up here right away,” Skye said grimly.
* * *
“Hell no, I never authorized anybody outside of Hardware, Software and the team leads for continuance through the hiatus. They’re working on getting the apparatus back in repair after the emergency shutdown, not to mention finding out what happened. That snarky little rat! Let me see that form.” Caitlin’s furious face was nearly the color of her hair. Morris handed it to her while Holmes and Skye watched Caitlin study it. “It’s good, but that’s not my signature.”
“Show us, please,” Holmes said, offering Caitlin a pen and a pad of paper.
Caitlin gave Holmes her signature, and a sample of her handwriting, for comparison. Holmes whipped out the lens Jones had given him and studied the two signatures in detail.
“No, Dr. Hughes is quite right. Note the differences in the tail of the G, the definitive downward stroke in the original’s L, and the lack of dots on the I’s of the forgery. No, this is definitely not her signature. It is a reasonably decent forgery at a brief glance, and would pass readily enough to those with a modicum of familiarity with her signature, but forgery it is, and no mistake.”
“But why would he do it?” Caitlin wondered.
Skye shot a querying glance at both Holmes and Morris; the expression on both men’s faces told her they were not yet ready to make the matter more public.
I guess enough people already know about it, Skye sighed silently. The more people know, the harder it is to keep it under wraps.
“I expect he was worried about a paycheck, Doctor,” Morris offered. “Don’t worry, I’ll handle the situation. You’re getting ready to go on vacation, aren’t you?”
“Yes. I was almost ready to walk out the door. Nate’s getting the neighbor to take care of the cattle for awhile, and we’re going to visit family in California. Our flight leaves this afternoon.”
“Then you go right ahead,” Morris said solicitously. “Don’t worry about a thing. You’ve earned a break. I’ll take care of this little matter.”
“Okay,” she said uncertainly.
“You take care, hon. We’ll hold it together while you’re gone, I promise.” Skye gave her a hug.
“Thanks, honey,” Caitlin said, starting to smile again. “I’ll see you in a couple of weeks.” She stood and headed for the door.
“Safe flight,” Skye called after her as she closed the door.
The room fell silent.
“I guess we’ve found our mole,” Skye observed.
“Sounds like it,” Morris agreed.
“Not necessarily,” Holmes noted. “Admittedly, it does appear highly suspicious. But there is also another member of the team who is still on duty without being actively involved in the analysis, is there not? The medical officer?”
“True,” Skye admitted. “But that’s protocol. The medic stays around to handle any emergencies that come up. Just because the device isn’t active doesn’t mean accidents don’t happen, or that people can’t have heart attacks or the like.”
“She’s right, Mr. Holmes,” Morris verified, “but you have a good point too. I’ll have a little look-see into the matter, or rather, have Jones do it, I suppose. Meanwhile, what do you want me to do about Harris?”
“Nothing, for the moment. Let him think his little deception is continuing as planned, and he has successfully played both ends against the middle. Skye and I will contact Jones and Smith, and notify them of this latest development. Then, my dear Skye, I think you shall do a bit more consorting with the enemy, to see what we can find regarding his schedule.”
* * *
That proved more difficult than either anticipated. While Holmes called Jones and requested a meeting with him and Agent Smith, Skye sauntered by Harris’ office on the pretext of asking what his vacation plans were: Skye intended to take a break, and was considering bringing Holmes along, but wanted ideas.
Harris wasn’t in his office.
Nor was he to be found the rest of the week.
On Friday, Jones called a meeting with Smith, Skye, and Holmes.
“We must locate Harris,” Holmes observed. “He must be kept under surveillance. If he is the mole, he could do untold damage at this point, if allowed to run amok.”
“I’ll put my people on it,” Smith murmured, scribbling a cryptic note and putting it into his inside pocket.
“Dr. Chadwick, you used to be a police officer.” Jones unexpectedly addressed Skye.
“Yes, Colonel. A reserve investigator, actually.” Skye blinked, startled.
“Have you maintained your pistol certification?”
“I have.”
“Good,” Jones scribbled the information down in the case file. “I’m considering giving you a kind of adjunct police status on the base. It’s not generally done, but I’m not comfortable with the two of you going unarmed on this case. And until Holmes’…personhood…is established, we can’t get him a weapon.”
“Ooo, good point,” Skye murmured, grasping his concern. “Okay, let me know what I need to do. I’ll get out my Glock and clean it, have it ready to go.”
“Excellent. Be patient. I’m going to have to go through some odd channels for this one.”
“I think I can help there,” Smith added. “I’ll work it from my end, you tackle it from yours.”
“Copy that,” Jones noted. “It’s almost quitting time now. You two get on up the mountain, have a good weekend, and get that Glock out, Skye. We’ll handle things down here, and I’ll call you if anything important shows up.”
* * *
Holmes walked up to the house from the barn, having taken advantage of the unusually warm sunshine to bathe Silver Blaze. Blaze was coming to be Holmes’ horse, the two having developed a strong attachment in the days since they’d been introduced. The horse now stood happily in the sun, his coat drying speedily under the influence of the dry Rocky Mountain air. Holmes cast a fond glance over his shoulder at the horse, then turned his attention toward a consideration of what to do next.
But it was a lovely Saturday, more like something out of June than early May, and Skye had refused to make any plans, informing Holmes that sometimes a “cat day,” a lazy, do-nothing day, was in order. Well, he decided, when in Rome…
Holmes aimed for the deck along the back of the house, concluding a catnap in the sunshine sounded like an excellent idea. It would also give his water-splattered clothing the opportunity to dry. Why is it impossible, in any age, to bathe a horse without getting oneself thoroughly wet as well? he wondered with no little amusement.
So Holmes mounted the stairs along the south wing of the house, wandering around the corner of the deck to the eastern side, in search of a likely napping spot.
Only to discover he wasn’t the only one with that idea.
And the other person with that idea was already stretched full in the sun…
…With almost nothing on.
“Dear God,” Holmes murmured, flushing, uncertain where to look. “Skye, what on earth is the meaning of this?”
Skye lay on a blanket on the deck, blonde hair splayed about her head, sunglasses protecting her eyes, and a bubble-gum-pink bikini covering the essentials. It was seldom that men of his era saw much of a woman’s body at all, and despite himself, Holmes’ eyes roved the curvaceous figure. He did have the good grace and presence of mind to avoid staring; however, his eyes seemed determined to alternate between observing some new feature of her body, and darting off toward Castle Rock distantly peeping over the forests to the north. His mouth grew dry, and he found himself unable to decide whether to await her answer or beat a hasty retreat. He was spared the decision when Skye responded.
“Oh, I thought I’d get some sun,” she purred throatily, not at all unlike a sunning cat.
“In your undergarments?” Holmes wondered, totally at sea.
“No, silly,” Skye grinned up at him from behind the sunglasses. “This is my swimsuit.”
“Swimsuit? You mean a bathing costume? Great Scot. My vest—undershirt,” he corrected himself, trying to use the term Skye would know, “contains more material.”
“Now see, this is something you’ll have to get used to,” she noted with a laugh, then patted the blanket beside her. “C’mere and sit down. I made iced tea,” she said, sitting up and reaching toward the cooler Holmes just then spotted in the shade under the eaves. He shook his head in private irritation at the observational omission, realizing her attire had so flabbergasted him that he had temporarily lost his usual attentive demeanor.
* * *
Skye opened the cooler, extracted a plastic jug and two tall glasses, scooped each glass full of ice, then poured the tea over the ice. Turning around, she found Holmes still standing beside the blanket, refusing to come any closer.
“Holmes, sit down,” she said firmly, patting the blanket once more. “I swear, I don’t bite, and I won’t try to violate you,” she grinned behind the sunglasses, attempting to soothe the heart of his concern with humor.
* * *
If I refuse, passed through the detective’s mind, I shall undoubtedly alienate my liaison. And that is an undesirable situation. I have already done so once, and she took it ill. And she has had several nasty experiences in recent weeks; so much the more is it unwise. But to sit next her?! In that state of undress? Hm. Perhaps a compromise is in order…
So an uncertain Holmes eased himself into a seated position on the blanket, ensuring several feet of space existed between himself and Skye to maintain some semblance of propriety. She handed him one of the glasses, and he tried not to flinch as her fingers brushed his. The color in his face deepened, his cheeks becoming a dusky red as heat rose in them. What in God’s name is going on here? he wondered, staring at the top of Pikes Peak, directly in front of him.
* * *
Well, this is going over like a lead balloon, Skye thought in disappointment, watching him visibly retreat in response to her carefully considered, deliberate actions. I guess I went a little too far, a lot too fast, but it’s such a lovely, warm day, it was perfect for sunbathing. He has to see this sort of thing eventually, and I thought it’d be better with me, here in private, than out in public in an uncontrolled environment, maybe even on a case. Besides, I needed the opportunity to relax after…the last couple of weeks. She internalized the sigh, and attempted a different tack.
“Try the tea and let me know what you think of it,” Skye suggested, waving her glass at Holmes’ in a metaphorical attempt to break the ice. “Iced tea is popular in the southern United States where I grew up. Instead of cream and sugar, it has sugar and lemon. It’s great for cooling down on a hot day.”
Politely, eyes still firmly fixed forward, Holmes took a sip, then nodded.
“Try tasting it next time,” Skye said dryly.
* * *
Holmes blinked, then shot her a sidelong glance, realizing his dissembling was neither deceiving so astute a companion, nor helping the situation. Blast it.
* * *
Skye saw his eyes dilate as they fixed on her form once more, then his gaze slid away. Boy, is he uncomfortable, she thought, hiding a wince.
* * *
Holmes took a deliberate sip of the iced tea, allowing it to remain in his mouth, savoring it for a moment before swallowing. Then he nodded.
“Quite different from what I am used to, but very refreshing.”
“Unlike my swimsuit,” Skye observed bluntly.
“I…” Holmes began. The flush, which had started to fade from his face, returned. “Skye, you are barely covered.” His tone bordered on, but did not quite cross the line into, indignance.
“Holmes, this is what swimsuits look like nowadays,” she explained patiently, understanding his reaction, and glad to get the matter into the open so they could discuss it. “If it makes you more comfortable, I can go buy a one-piece, but all that’ll do is cover up my middle. It won’t hide my shape, it won’t cover my arms and legs, and I’ll still have shoulders and cleavage.”
Holmes absorbed that, but said nothing.
“I guess this means we won’t be buying you swim trunks anytime soon,” Skye sighed frustratedly, setting her tea in the shade and lying back. “I’d hoped to take you swimming at one of the lakes this summer. And you’ll need to get some tan built up first so you don’t sunburn.”
“If that,” he aimed a wiggling finger at her garments, “constitutes female swimming attire, what, pray tell, constitutes the male?” Holmes frowned.
“Anywhere from trunks like long boxer shorts, to something closer to the bikini bottom I have on.” Skye shrugged.
A sound suspiciously akin to a disdainful snort was her only response.
Skye sighed again and settled down to absorb the warmth beaming down from its source nearly a hundred million miles away. The deck grew quiet. Holmes sat gazing out over the ranch, sipping his tea, while his nearly nude liaison lazed in the sun.
* * *
After about ten minutes of silence, during which it became apparent Skye was more inclined to somnolence than further conversation or activity, Holmes began to relax, his high color fading to near normal. Initially he hadn’t been entirely certain of Skye’s intentions, but as the minutes passed it became obvious her intent was indeed as she had said, and she was passively soaking up sunshine. That conclusion reached, and the silence growing tiresome to his active mind, he found himself automatically practicing his usual observing technique, clandestinely eyeing her as she lay, seeming asleep.
She was muscular, as he had suspected for some time; but her muscles, unlike his, appeared covered with a thin layer of subcutaneous fat, giving her body a softer, smoother appearance. She was possessed of long, strong legs, shapely with muscle; a flat belly; shoulders that were wide for a woman; and two mounds of flesh rising smoothly and aesthetically from her chest, not unlike two low, broad mountains.
Holmes felt heat rise in his cheeks once more, and he glanced away, stared at Pikes instead, and sipped his tea.
A few minutes later, Skye’s drowsy voice queried, “Holmes? What time is it?”
“Hm?” Holmes fished his pocket watch from his jeans. “Almost ten-twenty.”
“Oh, I better roll over,” she decided, suiting action to words and pillowing her face on folded arms.
This gave Holmes something new to observe, and he studied her back with curious interest for several moments, able to use less stealth in the doing, as the likelihood of being caught decreased. The musculature was more apparent here, and he became aware how she could handle her horses so readily, even when they were being recalcitrant.
His eyes slid lower, and the artist within him noticed her backside had curves every bit as aesthetic as her chest. But, he concluded, they were less like mountain peaks, and more like rolling downs. But before he could get further with the thought, Skye grunted and pushed up.
“Idiot, what am I thinking? I’ll end up like a lobster. Holmes, I need your help.”
“Of course, Skye,” he responded, putting aside previous musings. “What do you require?”
“Here,” Skye grabbed a large blue plastic tube beside the cooler, tossing it to him. He caught it dexterously, studying the labeling. “Pop off the cap, squeeze a big glob in your hand, and rub it into my back. It’s sunscreen. As fair as I am, if I don’t use this, I’ll sunburn inside ten minutes.”
Holmes stared in something akin to horror, his gaze alternating between the tube and Skye’s back.
“Skye,” he began, his face turning pink.
“I know, I know, I’m so pale I shouldn’t be sunbathing at all,” she said sheepishly, inadvertently cutting him off. “But I found out years ago, if I don’t get a little sun at the beginning of the season, when I do get out in the summer, I’ll burn despite everything I do. This way, I get a little tan, and then I can use the sunscreen in the middle of the summer and I don’t have a problem.”
“Skye,” Holmes tried again, more decided this time.
“I’m sorry to ask you to do it,” she continued babbling, revealing her own embarrassment at her lack of independence in the situation. “I got my legs and arms, but I couldn’t reach my back, and I couldn’t find the sponge on a stick I used last year. I must have thrown it out.”
“SKYE,” Holmes said firmly.
Skye quieted, twisting to look at him.
“Skye, I shall not be doing this,” he said unequivocally, handing the tube of sunscreen back to her. “You are asking me to rub my hands on your bare skin, and that would simply be improper. No gentleman would do such a thing to any lady not his wife.”
“But…but…you gave me a shoulder rub to relax me the other day, after the…the accident,” Skye pointed out, confused.
“That was…different,” Holmes said, uncomfortable. “You were properly covered, and in considerable emotional distress. You required calming. I repeat, no gentleman would touch the bare skin of any woman to whom he was not wed.”
“Not here. Not now. I mean, you wouldn’t ask a perfect stranger to do it. But it doesn’t have to be a spouse, Holmes.”
* * *
“No, Skye.” He shook his head, frowning, before putting down the tube and folding his arms, the very picture of Victorian male resolve. Skye pushed onto her side, resting on one elbow to stare at him, puzzled.
“Holmes? We’ve been in almost constant contact ever since…well, since you arrived on this plane. That’s…what, at least four, five weeks now?”
“Yes, I believe so,” he thought, reckoning back. “Closer to six, I should think.”
“It seems like longer,” Skye mused. “I swear, it seems like I’ve known you for…”
“Indeed,” he agreed softly, understanding. “A very long time.”
“So we’re friends, aren’t we?”
“Yes, I suppose so.”
“You’re not sure.”
“I had not stopped to consciously consider the matter in detail. But yes, you are a trusted confidante. One of the few I have had in my life. Yes, I believe the term ‘friend’ does apply.”
“Have you ever seen a bad sunburn?”
“Watson sunburned his nose once, while we were in disguise on a case,” Holmes recalled in sympathetic amusement. “Talk of ‘A Study in Scarlet.’ He looked quite the sight, and complained for two days. Then it peeled, and he looked even worse.”
“Imagine my entire back looking—and feeling—like Watson’s nose.”
Holmes blinked in surprise, then visibly winced. He picked up the tube of sunscreen and considered it, studying the labeling.
“This prevents that?” he queried softly.
“Yeah.”
* * *
Skye was unable to see Holmes’ internal turmoil. His mind told him he should leave, he had no business being there, let alone touching her as she was suggesting. Not to mention the fact that her current attire, in Holmes’ opinion, was not something a lady would wear in the company of a man with whom she was not intimate, and it instinctively raised strong questions in his Victorian mind regarding her moral virtue.
But, as she had so adroitly pointed out, they were friends. They had been thrown together in completely unique circumstances for a month and a half, a baptism of fire for their alliance. After all, how often did a man move to a different universe to live? No, Holmes knew Skye well enough now to trust her, and she had never done anything untoward regarding him until this moment. And, he considered, in this world, she was not asking for anything improper even now, but requesting the aid of a friend to avoid a painful injury.
No, she is still a lady. She simply does not realise the full import of what she is requesting of me.
For Holmes knew a part of him very much wanted to touch her. Oh, he had coolly and even humorously analyzed her form with regard to topographic features, but it amounted to the same thing: He had thoroughly inspected her body, practically ogling it. Did not a lady deserve to be protected from such?
And there was the matter of distraction. Holmes was in the midst of both a very serious case and the struggle to assimilate into a new life. Both required every ounce of grey matter he possessed in order to succeed. He had seen enough of the world—any world—to know: Touching led to…more. And “more” usually led to emotional entanglements. And Holmes refused to abide emotional entanglements, for in his opinion, they led inevitably to the dissolution of that high intellect which was his raison d’être.
But Skye had created quite an unpleasant mental image for the detective. Despite his lighthearted reference to the incident, Holmes clearly recalled how Watson’s nose had reddened, then blistered, the blisters breaking and weeping. His poor nose had been raw and angry, scabbing over before it peeled only a few days later. And then peeled again, a week after that. The thought of Skye’s entire back in that horrid condition made even Holmes cringe. The idea that he, Holmes, could so simply prevent it nagged at his heart and mind.
Holmes sighed, torn, then his eyes narrowed as he gave the matter further thought.
* * *
“So if you do not do this now, it will be worse this summer?”
“It will be worse,” Skye nodded acknowledgement. “Believe me, I’ve tried.” She hesitated. “You wouldn’t have offended me, Holmes. If anything, I’d have been grateful. I’m sorry I offended you. I didn’t mean to. I guess…look, just forget it.” Metaphorically throwing in the towel, she reached for the tube, intending to get up and go inside.
* * *
Holmes pulled the tube out of her reach.
She will be forced to curtail her leisure activities, if this is not done. And she will not have a position of employment for an unknown length of time. Skye will have nothing—NOTHING—to do.
For a moment, he recalled the boredom between cases that once led him to the use of narcotic stimuli, and thought of the vivacious Skye in such a state of ennui. He made his decision.
Holmes’ face was expressionless, the steel-grey eyes hooded, as he ordered, “Lie back down, Skye.” Startled, Skye obeyed, keeping her head turned to look at him. Holmes popped the tube’s cap open, squeezing the lotion into the palm of his hand. “I will not permit your harm, my dear, when it is in my power to prevent. Tell me how much,” he murmured, holding it where she could see.
“That’s good,” Skye observed.
“Move your hair, my dear,” Holmes said, shifting closer and moving into a kneeling position beside her. “I should not like to get this into your charming locks. It would be quite untidy.”
Skye flipped her hair out of the way, then said, “Oh, wait a minute.”
Holmes watched in dismay as she reached behind her back and unfastened her bikini top, pulling the straps out of the way. By Jove. Does she intend to disrobe now?! For God’s sake, Skye, do not sit up, he mentally pleaded. He nearly bolted, then and there, but mastered himself and remained. To Holmes’ titanic relief, Skye kept her chest flat against the deck. Or as flat as her chest would go, anyway. At least it proved sufficient to maintain Holmes’ now-fragile grip on his self-possession.
“Okay,” she said when she was done. “This’ll be better. I’ve gotten nasty little burns from not getting the lotion under the straps, and then the straps move when I do.”
“Ah,” Holmes said, understanding, trying to hide his trepidation even as his face flushed yet again. I said I would not permit her to be harmed, and I meant it, he determined, gritting his teeth against the sensation as his hand contacted her shoulder blade. “Is a massage technique appropriate?”
“It doesn’t have to be elaborate. Slap it on. Just make sure you cover all the skin from my neck to my bikini bottom. It’ll dry on its own.”
Holmes’ hand swept across her shoulders, spreading the lotion. Then he dispersed it across her back, trying hard to ignore the smooth skin gliding beneath his fingers.
“Mm,” she sighed, and the sensual, unexpected sound nearly did away with his composure. “You have a nice touch, Holmes. Not so light it tickles, and not so heavy it’s pressing my ribcage into the deck.”
“Thank you,” he murmured, concentrating on maintaining his aplomb while working the lotion into the small of her back. In some ways it was more difficult than he’d anticipated: His fingers wandered, spreading out, wanting to explore, and he had to focus to keep them in line. He ran his hand along the elastic top of her bikini bottom, ensuring the lotion covered that thin line of skin. He suspected he should allow his fingertips to slip beneath that elastic, but was not remotely about to attempt it.
“There,” he remarked in relief, sitting back on his heels. “You are now properly protected, Skye.”
“Thanks, Holmes,” Skye said, and he heard the seriousness of her tone; she was making it as obvious as she could how appreciative she was. She fastened her top, grabbed a small towel nearby, and handed it to him. “Here. Wipe your hand off on this.”
Holmes accepted the towel, wiping the residue of the lotion on it. Skye reached into the cooler and produced an ice cube, tossing it to him. He caught it deftly, allowing it to melt in his hand and liquefy the dried lotion between his fingers, then removing the resultant slurry with the towel.
“Need some more tea?”
“No, not yet,” he said, glancing at his glass to confirm his decision, then settling back to try to relax again. In retrospect, it hadn’t been quite as bad as he’d feared. In fact, it had been mildly pleasurable, but the detective tried to put the sensation aside. He picked up his glass and sipped from it, letting it soothe his ruffled dignity. “And now you are adequately protected from sunburn?”
“For the next hour or so, yeah. And by that time, I’ll be ready to go inside. Seriously, thank you, Holmes.” She gave him a look of indebtedness.
“I suspect it would have been more difficult for both of us, had you gotten badly burned. I cannot imagine being able to wear a shirt at all under those conditions.” Holmes waved a dismissive hand, discreetly refusing to look in her direction.
“I’ve done it, but it ain’t fun.” Skye rested her forehead on her folded arms once more.
The pair fell quiet. Anna hopped up on the deck, and Holmes watched the little cat flop onto its back, turning its belly to the sunshine and writhing in pleasure before curling up in the sun and grinning at him. Holmes grinned back, amused by the feline’s antics.
“Cat day,” he murmured, glancing between Anna and Skye. “Yes, it suits you.”
“Hm-hm,” Skye chuckled. “It suits you, too, Holmes. You just haven’t learned to relax yet.”
“No,” he admitted wryly. “And if you intend to show up regularly, clad like this, it is little wonder.” Holmes took a deep, exasperated breath.
“Trust me, Holmes, this is a conservative suit. If you saw a woman in a Brazilian string bikini, your Victorian sensibilities would run screaming, if not outright curl up and die.”
“Brazilian string?”
“Don’t ask.”
“Hm.”
A curious Holmes made a mental note to research the matter, privately wondering how bad it could be; then he sipped his tea as Skye reached for her own, and he caught the thoughtful gaze she directed at him.
“What?” he wondered, suspicious.
“You need more social interaction. We’re going to a party tonight.”
* * *
Late that afternoon, Skye led Holmes into his bedroom, opened his closet door and perused the options.
“Hm, lessee,” she considered, as he stood behind her, looking over her shoulder. “The party’s down at Woodland Park, at a clubhouse in a new subdivision. It’s George’s birthday, nothing fancy, but there’ll be a lot of people, because I swear he knows half the county. His daughter’s throwing the party for him. It’ll be ‘nice casual.’ I already gave him his present when I worked with his horse, so we’re good there. I think you can get away with a pair of twill trousers, a shirt of some sort, and a sport coat.” Skye reached into the closet and fished out a pair of grey trousers and a black corduroy sport coat. “This’ll work. You okay with it?”
Holmes considered the proffered garments for a moment, then nodded his approval.
“What color shirt do you want to wear?”
Holmes studied the options, then reached past her into the closet and extracted a pale blue, short sleeved oxford cloth shirt.
“Ooo,” Skye grinned appreciatively. “Those grey eyes of yours will pop. Cowboy boots, loafers, or oxfords?”
“Loafers,” Holmes decided, having discovered the ease of the slip-on shoes.
“Perfect.” She turned toward the bedroom door. “Go ahead and get cleaned up and dressed. We’ll eat at the party.”
* * *
Soon the two were ready. Holmes looked casually handsome, the English-cut corduroy jacket emphasizing his lean build; Skye wore a black broomstick skirt and scoop-neck blouse, cinching her waist with a chunky turquoise and silver concho belt. Black pumps clad her feet. She rummaged in the coat closet, emerging with a soft grey ruana to protect against the spring evening’s chill. Holmes took it, wrapping the fluffy shawl about her shoulders, then offering his arm.
Skye took it, and they headed out to the car.
* * *
The party was a bit much, in Holmes’ mind. The music was loud, and while he found it interesting, some of it was so discordant he was getting a headache. For the most part, he stood in the corner and observed the event with a glass of Jack Daniels in his hand, which he occasionally imbibed.
Skye mingled freely, although she didn’t ignore her escort by any means. Every few minutes she wandered back to Holmes’ side to chat, and coax him from the corner. A few times she even got him involved in some conversations with other party-goers, mostly about his literary “namesake,” and the “hobby” his name had supposedly engendered. Once or twice the discussion meandered into the artistic, and Holmes was able to discourse on the artist Vernet or the merits of Wagner over Gilbert & Sullivan.
But the gyrations this modern crowd called dancing puzzled him. Holmes was familiar with ballroom dancing, and reasonably accomplished at it—it had stood him in good stead on several cases when he had to disguise himself. But he frankly had no idea where to start on this style, although he refused to admit it to Skye.
* * *
After delivering several hints, which were ignored, Skye pointedly suggested they dance. Holmes promptly and decidedly declined. Skye frowned, unhappy and secretly hurt.
“Holmes, you need to at least try. It’s a skill you should learn.”
* * *
“I am aware of that, Skye,” Holmes replied in an undertone, aware he had hurt her by his rejection despite her efforts to disguise it, “but now is neither the time nor place. Later, after I have had the chance to study the form, and perhaps to ask you some questions, I may attempt it at home. Emphasis on may. I do not find it aesthetically pleasing.”
Skye grumbled something under her breath, and opened her mouth to say something else, but it never came out.
“Hey, Skye, is this guy buggin’ you?” a voice came from behind her. “Back off, buddy. Nobody messes with our Skye.”
Holmes raised an irritated eyebrow as Skye turned. A stocky, tow-headed man in jeans and bright pink t-shirt stood there, beer in hand, truculent expression aimed at Holmes. He was younger than Skye by a decade, Holmes estimated, if not a couple years more. He was not inebriated, although he had partaken of enough to lower his inhibitions.
* * *
“No, Jake,” Skye explained patiently, internalizing her exasperation at the interruption. “Everything’s fine. This is my date, Sherlock Holmes. His parents named him for their favorite literary character. He’s a good friend. Holmes, this is Dr. Jacob Batson. He was a co-operative student under me a few years back.”
Holmes nodded acknowledgement.
“Cool,” Jake grinned. “Neat name. So what’s with the long face?”
“Nothing,” Skye sighed. “Minor disagreement.”
“Aw. Lover’s quarrel?” Jake’s grin became a smirk. Skye bit her lip in an effort to control her annoyance.
“Hardly,” Holmes replied. “We were discussing dancing.”
“He’s not much into it,” Skye observed.
“On the contrary, I have been known to dance the odd waltz. Even the occasional tango. But that,” Holmes nodded at the floor where couples writhed, “is another matter entirely.”
“A waltz, eh? You one’a those ballroom dance instructors, like they have on the TV competition show?” Jake asked curiously.
“Something like that,” Holmes remarked blandly, he and Skye having once caught part of the program in question while channel surfing.
“Skye, can you dance that fancy shit?” Jake wondered.
“I can, a little, yeah. I can waltz, anyway. I can’t tango…” Skye shrugged.
“Wait here a sec.” Jake grinned slyly. He scampered off toward the DJ, beer sloshing in hand.
“Uh-oh…” Skye groaned under her breath.
“What is wrong?” Holmes asked, tone denoting concern at her reaction.
“Jake’s plotting. That’s never a good thing. I wonder sometimes if he’ll ever grow up. I swear he’s still more boy than man, even if he did finish his doctorate last year. Listen, if he does what I think he’s gonna do, don’t feel obligated.”
“What do you think he is going to do?”
“That,” Skye observed, as the opening strains of Anne Murray’s May I Have This Dance warbled through the air. “Yeah, that’s a passable waltz, I guess.”
“He anticipates we shall dance now?”
“That appears to be the expectation,” Skye agreed, watching as Jake and the DJ smirked at them. Jake bowed, cheekily brushing his hand toward the dance area, which had cleared at the opening notes of the older song. Skye frowned at him, shaking her head in disapproval at the younger man—and found herself swept into the center of the room.
Holmes was good, Skye decided within seconds—really good. He led her skillfully around the dance floor, his right hand on her waist keeping her steady, his left hand on hers holding her upright, while her startled feet learned the rhythm.
* * *
As she settled into the steps, his hand slid around her waist to the small of her back, pulling her closer; his observations of the other dancers told him partners now stayed much nearer one another than would have been proper in his day. Once Skye’s body brushed his torso and his thighs subtly guided hers, he eased his hand’s pressure. Skye shook her head in perplexed amusement.
“Well, I certainly didn’t expect this,” she murmured into his chest.
“No, but they did,” Holmes observed into her ear. “I thought it behooved us to keep up the appearance, at least. After all, you have gone to a good deal of trouble to provide me with an appropriate background and relationship to you, as a fitting façade; not to mention furnishing me so many varied learning experiences. It would be a shame to spoil it by failing to take advantage of the opportunity.”
Skye smiled, blushing into his shoulder at the appreciative comment. The pair glided across the floor while the other partygoers watched, impressed.
“You ought to be careful, Holmes. You’re going to spoil me.”
“How so, pray tell?”
“Victorian gentlemen removed to the present day are SO much more socially adept and considerate than the chronally apposite variety. I’ll be permanently ruined for ‘normal’ men.”
It was Holmes’ turn to redden, the heat suffusing his face. “Well…I am glad you approve,” he decided after a moment to regain his equanimity.
“Absolutely.”
* * *
The song ended, and their audience applauded, even adding a few enthusiastic whistles. Holmes released his partner’s waist and sketched a half-bow to their onlookers, as one corner of his mouth quirked in sardonic amusement. Skye dropped a curtsy, which surprised him with its fluidity—he had long since observed formal bows and curtsies were not in common use in this world, or at least in this part of it. Keeping hold of her hand, he led her off the dance floor, in search of his discarded drink. When he found it, there were lipstick stains on the glass, and he frowned, abandoning it and going to the bar to make another.
* * *
He brought two, handing one to Skye. She gave him a gratified smile and accepted it, sipping the whisky.
“If you like,” she suggested, “when we leave, we can run by a liquor store and you can pick out something you recognize, instead of this Jack Daniels. It’s good stuff, but it IS American, and you might find something British you’d rather have. A lot of the established labels have been in existence for a long time.”
“No, this is quite satisfactory,” Holmes noted, swirling the dark golden drink in his glass before taking a sip himself. “It is more than acceptable whisky. Occasionally I indulged in a good single-malt scotch, such as Glenlivet, but not frequently.”
“Well, it’s expensive, but Glenlivet is still aroun—” Skye began, when they were unexpectedly besieged.
* * *
Or at least, Skye corrected herself, Holmes was.
“Well, hello there,” the sultry brunette remarked, coming up to Holmes and laying a possessive hand on his arm, stroking the muscles through his sleeve. “My name’s Yvette. You’re quite a dancer. So am I. Wanna take a spin?” She smiled up into Holmes’ face, her green gaze seductive. “They’re playing something slow. Maybe later, we can even take it…horizontal.”
“I get him next, Yvette,” the brunette’s bottle-blonde friend laid claim, edging between Holmes and Skye to take Holmes’ other arm, effectively cutting Skye out. “I’m not letting you monopolize him. He’s a hunk. I’m Barb,” she added obsequiously.
Skye bit her lip, and she grew worried: She hadn’t thought to teach Holmes modern seduction terms. She tried to catch his eye, to ensure he knew what was happening, and more importantly, what was being suggested. It disturbed her on some fundamental level she didn’t quite grasp, but if—unlikely though she considered it—Holmes wanted to respond to the women’s invitations, he was welcome to do so; she just wanted to make sure he understood the implications first.
* * *
Holmes, however, was a sophisticated, suave, experienced man regardless of timeframe, and although the language was unfamiliar, the rest of the encounter was not.
After all, he thought, a man being propositioned by a loose woman is much the same despite place or time. Thank Providence, Skye is a true lady.
Adopting a banal expression, he informed the women in his cultured English, “I fear not. The only dancing I intend to do—‘horizontal’ or otherwise—is with my companion, Dr. Chadwick.” He pulled back somewhat abruptly, loosing his arms from clinging hands and moving close to Skye in the same motion, making it plain his date was his desired company.
“Ooo,” Jake remarked with a huge smirk, walking up and overhearing Holmes’ comment as the disappointed women departed, “Horizontal dancing? Skye didn’t say she had herself a boyfriend now.”
* * *
“Skye doesn’t say a lot of things,” Skye retorted, irritated. “Because Skye’s business is SKYE’S business.” The hint was as blunt as she could make it. Unfortunately, it sailed past Jake like a kite in a Force Ten gale.
“So somebody got under her skin. She get off on the accent?” Jake sized up Holmes with a leer. He turned to Skye, teasing. “I bet it’s like having your own personal 007 in the bedroom, huh?”
Holmes’ eyes narrowed in controlled anger. Skye’s anger was less controlled. Her face flushed and she scowled before barking, “Jake, shut the hell up.”
“Hey, baby, don’t get all fussy on me. I think it’s great you finally sat up and took notice of somebody. About time you got your head out of your science books.” Jake shot another curious glance at Holmes. “I heard you’ve even moved in with her. That true?”
“It is true I recently moved into her SPARE BEDROOM, yes,” Holmes admitted through gritted teeth.
“Cool,” Jake leered again.
* * *
That was the last straw, as far as Holmes was concerned.
“Sir,” his calculated tone was that of a man trying hard not to liberate his fellow conversationalist of a few teeth, “have you ever heard of the terms ‘old fashioned lady’ or ‘proper English gentleman,’ I wonder?”
“Of course,” Jake laughed.
“Are you aware of their meaning?”
“Sure.”
“Then let me be the first to inform you, without equivocation, that you are looking at prime examples of both.” Holmes’ tone was cutting. He sat down his unfinished drink, removed the barely-touched glass from Skye’s clenched fingers, and offered his arm. “Shall we depart, my dear Skye?”
“Yes, Holmes, I think that’s an excellent idea,” Skye answered in a frosty, clipped voice, taking his arm.
Jake looked crestfallen. Putting out a hand, he stammered, “Hey, hey, um, wait a minute.”
The offended pair paused. Holmes pointedly extracted his pocket watch and glanced at it.
“Don’t be mad, guys,” Jake muttered, dejected, shoulders slumping in defeat. “I didn’t mean to hurt anybody’s feelings. It’s just…you two look really good together, and Skye, everybody here likes you. Well, maybe not those chicks,” he jerked a thumb after the two women who had propositioned Holmes, and Holmes noted they were now hunting in greener pastures, having managed to catch the attention of a handsome blond and his buddy. “But you know what I mean. We wanna see you happy, Skye, and I kinda thought…I mean, I hoped…well, I thought maybe you finally found the right dude.”
Holmes watched dispassionately as the blonde head by his shoulder bowed. When Skye responded to Jake’s apology, it gave the detective considerable food for thought.
“Thanks, Jake. I appreciate the idea, even if the way it was expressed was kinda ‘over the top and keep on going.’”
Jake winced, then grinned sheepishly.
“But for starters, I met Holmes on business, and since it looks like he’s going to be here in the States awhile, I’m helping out. Second, he hasn’t been here long, and it wouldn’t be quite right for me to latch onto him for myself like that. He deserves the chance to look around a little, you know?”
“Yeah,” Jake nodded, disappointed. “But he’s living with you…”
“Not in the Biblical sense,” Skye chuckled. “Like I said, I’m helping out. He needed a place to stay, at least in the short term. He and I hit it off almost immediately, and he’s a good friend now, so he’s welcome to stay as long as he wants. But there are no strings attached, and if he decides tomorrow to strike off on his own, or with someone else, I’d tell him to go forth with my blessings.”
* * *
Skye’s hand was still in the crook of Holmes’ elbow, and he pressed her arm against his side, a world of meaning in the subtle, unseen gesture. The reassuring act registered on her consciousness, giving her the strength to get through Jake’s next statements.
“Aw. Skye, you’re pushing forty, sweetheart. Aren’t you ever gonna settle down with somebody?”
“Do I need to? Does it matter?”
“It matters to your friends. Sometimes, girl, you seem so…alone. Like there’s not a person in the world who really gives a rip.”
* * *
Holmes felt her breath catch through his side, and he glanced down at her face. She was paler than usual, and there was an oddly strained expression on her face.
“I dunno, Jake. I think you guys better get used to it. Listen, we gotta go now. It’s getting late and we have to get back to the ranch.”
“Okay,” Jake nodded reluctantly. “Mr. Holmes, you’re not still mad?”
“No,” Holmes answered succinctly.
“Okay, good. See you later.”
“Bye, Jake.” Skye twiddled her fingers at him as they left.
* * *
Outside, Holmes held the car door while Skye clambered behind the wheel, then went around and got in the passenger side. Skye put the key in the ignition, but sat there for a long moment, staring through the windshield at the darkness.
“Skye?” Holmes asked, his tone evoking the meaning, Are you all right?
“Yeah,” she said, answering the question he had not spoken aloud. “But I think we’re gonna make a little stop on the way home.”
“Oh? Where?”
“Liquor store. For some Glenlivet. I think I’ll join you in a nip when we get home.”
“Ah,” Holmes said in approval.
* * *
“Hello?” The shadowy figure picked up the ringing phone.
“Hey there, Pete.”
“Well hi, Yvette. What can I do for you?”
“You didn’t tell me that Brit you met was such a hunk.”
“Hunk? Brit? You saw him?!”
“Did I ever, baby. Mm-mm. I could go for him. But he was only interested in some blonde chick he was with. Damn, ever since I left Bob I can’t seem to find anything but shit for men. The good ones don’t go for me.”
“Well, don’t worry, Yvette. You’ll find a good one. So tell me…where did you see him? Holmes, right?”
“Yeah. I’m at this party…”
* * *
They did indeed get a bottle of Glenlivet, and upon arriving home Skye opened it and poured them each a substantial glass. They repaired to the sofa in the den, where Holmes lit the fire Skye had set in the fireplace before they’d left; it was a chilly night despite the warmth of the day. They were both silent for long moments, staring into the flames as they savored the single-malt. When she neared the bottom of her glass, Skye sighed, then turned to Holmes, who was only about halfway through his drink.
“Holmes, I want to apologize.”
“For what?” he wondered, noting she had imbibed just enough for her inhibitions to be lowered. He suspected it was deliberate, to give her courage for whatever this conversation was going to be about.
“Today must have seemed like a real assault on your senses.” Skye sighed again. “Between my swimsuit and the two women hitting on you, then Jake making his little remarks…I can guess what you’re thinking.”
Holmes frowned at the term guess, but remained silent, waiting.
“The thing you have to understand is,” Skye went on, “sexual mores changed drastically, several decades ago. Until around 1960, it was all still about like it was in your day. Then a big medical breakthrough happened, and it changed everything.”
“And that would be?”
“The Pill. The birth control pill. Artificial hormones for women that prevent pregnancy. It meant intimacy didn’t carry as much risk, and we were immediately propelled into the much ballyhooed ‘sexual revolution,’” Skye said, rolling her eyes in mild disgust.
By Jove, Holmes thought, amused, I’m getting ‘the birds and the bees’ lecture. But he listened, well aware matters had changed substantially since his day, and curious to understand why.
“Clothing got skimpier, and skin got exposed a lot more. And sex outside of marriage became accepted. Now it’s automatically assumed if two people find each other attractive, they’re gonna sleep together. Some people take it to extremes, like the two women who hit on you tonight, and go after…well, sometimes it seems like any opportunity they can find. Other people take it a lot slower.”
Holmes frowned as he listened. An idea had occurred to him, and he found it bothersome.
“Skye, this ‘Pill’…is that not the medication you take from the little blue pack every morning?”
“Um, yeah,” Skye admitted, blushing.
“Then do you…?” Holmes turned a disturbed gaze on her.
“Uh, no,” she informed him, blushing even deeper. “I tend to be one of the old-fashioned types who take things a lot slower. I had,” she looked away, too embarrassed to hold his gaze, “I had some problems with my cycle being irregular, and having horrible cramps, and my doctor put me on the Pill to regulate things. It’s purely for medical reasons.”
There was a pause while Holmes absorbed that. He was not ignorant of such matters, having studied the human anatomy in detail, both male and female, in the course of pursuing his profession. He had to admit he had not seen signs of such difficulties in Skye’s physiognomy, so he concluded the treatment was working.
“So your mores are closer to my own, but you wear skimpy bathing costumes that expose most of your body,” Holmes observed, letting his irony become evident in his tone. Skye gave an embarrassed laugh.
“Yeah, it seems contradictory, doesn’t it? But seriously, look here.” She rummaged in the magazine rack and pulled out a catalog of women’s clothing, flipping through it until arriving at the swimsuits. “This will give you a good idea of what my options are.” She held out the open catalog to Holmes.
Holmes accepted it, setting his drink aside to leaf through the pages. His eyes widened in surprise as he looked at the selection of swimsuits on rail-thin models.
And so that is a Brazilian string bikini. String is, indeed, the operative descriptor, and it has nothing whatsoever to do with a tesseract. He shook his head at his own wry attempt at humor. There is more female skin exposed on these pages than I have ever seen before in my entire life, even including the autopsy room. No wonder Skye thought I would be offended. He paused, studying the suits. And Skye was right about another matter, as well. Her bathing garment is one of the more conservative.
He looked directly into her eyes. Despite himself, he felt his face warming, but he pressed on, needing to know.
“Skye, was I being tested today?”
“Well…yes and no.” Skye blinked, and it was obvious the blunt question had caught her off guard.
“Oh?” The grey eyes narrowed.
* * *
Skye grimaced, noting the narrowed eyes, and realizing he wondered if she had been propositioning him.
“Yes, from the standpoint that I wasn’t sure how you were going to react. But I wanted to enjoy the sunshine, and I figured you had to be…excuse the pun, ‘exposed’ to it, sooner or later. I never dreamed it was going to be the theme of the day.” Then it was her turn to meet his eyes. “But if you’re thinking I was prospecting for a bed partner, that’s the ‘no’ answer. Besides, even if I was, I’d know better than to approach you. I know your attitude on such matters.”
* * *
Holmes nodded, having gotten the answer he wanted. His face cooled, to his relief.
“I don’t have to guess whether or not you heard Jake’s comments at the end,” Skye noted, turning to stare back into the fire, “because I know those eyes and ears of yours don’t miss much, if anything. So you can probably deduce I gave up on fairy tale notions of white knights, shining armor, and happily ever after, some time ago. But my standards are high, and I won’t settle for some casual affair. I have yet to find someone I can’t live without, and I do fine on my own.”
“I had noticed. But Skye, may I ask a personal question? I will understand if you decline to answer, but I am trying to understand your…philosophy, let us term it.”
“Shoot.”
“Would you ever…?” Delicately, Holmes didn’t finish the question, but his tone and expression left no doubt regarding its meaning.
“My definition of love and marriage has never revolved around society’s definitions,” she informed him, gazing into the flames of the fireplace. “A piece of paper and a church ceremony don’t mean the union is any holier than one without.”
“Now there,” Holmes remarked, out of his wealth of observational experience, “is a wise statement.” He shot her a sideways glance. “So you would?”
“With the right man,” Skye confessed. “Please to note the singular. My parents always said marriage was between three people: the husband, the wife, and God. Politicians and clerics may be around at the outset or not, but they aren’t part of it.”
“Your parents sound like intelligent people. No wonder they produced so astute a daughter.” Holmes laughed.
“Thanks. And on that note, I think I’ve had too much to drink, and I should go to bed.”
Holmes rose as Skye put down her glass and stood. He watched in concern as she left the room, but she was navigating well, per his practiced eye. It occurred to him that her purported overindulgence was an exaggeration calculated to allow her escape from a difficult, and possibly painful, discussion.
So Holmes permitted her a graceful retreat: He remained by the sofa as she wandered down the hall, disappearing into her bedroom.
Holmes knocked back what was left of his own drink thoughtfully, banked the fire in the fireplace and closed the fire screen, before betaking himself to his own room.
* * *
Skye went through the motions of getting ready for bed. She crawled between the sheets and flicked off the lamp.
Then she curled onto her side and let the pain within well up. She didn’t fully understand its origins, but it would out, and she let it occur.
She cried herself to sleep.
* * *
Holmes prepared himself for bed, turned out the lights and went through his usual ritual, opening the window and smoking his pipe while staring into the night. It had been an eye-opening day, in more ways than one, and he wondered if he could get used to the much more blatant sensuality and sexuality of this world. With a shrug, he decided he could; after all, it did not pertain to him personally, and the detective could see where the increased openness would have advantages in his line of work. It might take awhile to learn to restrain his instinctive responses, but Holmes was nothing if not adaptable.
When his pipe was depleted, he tapped the dottle from it and cleaned it, then put it away. Leaving the window partly open, he crawled into bed.
But he lay for a long time, staring into the darkness, while soft, warm, phantom skin pressed itself silkily against his palm.