CHAPTER 46: CAITLIN

Gettysburg, Pennsylvania – Saturday, August 31, 1918

"This, Miss Carson, is where it all happened."

Caitlin cringed when she heard the enthusiasm in Freddie Jackson's voice. She knew from past experience that this was where boys went off the rails and described either a wild party from their past or a romantic encounter that went better than expected.

"This is where what happened?"

Freddie turned his head.

"Do I really have to tell you?"

Caitlin nodded.

"It might help."

Freddie chuckled.

"This is where Pickett made his charge. Most historians believe the Battle of Gettysburg and the Civil War were decided on this very stretch of ground."

"Oh," Caitlin said.

Freddie smiled.

"You're a funny girl."

"You're not the first to say that."

"I imagine not."

Caitlin laughed to herself as she and Freddie walked side by side down Hancock Avenue, a narrow, dusty road that paralleled the main Union lines of January 3, 1863. She knew enough about Gettysburg to know that the whole town was a veritable Smithsonian exhibit, but she decided to keep that knowledge to herself. She liked getting a guided tour from a local boy who clearly had a deep and abiding interest in the subject matter.

"What's that over there?"

Caitlin pointed to the juncture of two rock walls a few hundred feet to the west. She was pretty sure that the intersection, near a copse of trees, was fairly important in the grand scheme of things, but she wanted to hear from the handsome historian before moving on.

"That's the Angle," Freddie said. "That's the high-water mark itself. It's where a hundred and fifty Virginians, fighting for the Confederacy, broke through the Union lines and nearly turned the tide. It was as close as the South came to winning the battle."

Caitlin offered a smug grin.

"You're very knowledgeable, Mr. Jackson."

Freddie slowed his step.

"Do I detect a bit of sarcasm, Miss Carson?"

Caitlin laughed.

"Yes."

Freddie smiled.

"I guess I get carried away at times."

"It's all right," Caitlin said. "I like listening to you."

With the permission to carry on, Freddie Jackson, lifelong resident of Gettysburg, Pennsylvania, continued his narrated walking tour. He pointed out distant sights, like Seminary Ridge, Devil's Den, and Little Round Top, until something closer and more immediate — the three people walking fifty feet in front of him — grabbed his attention.

"It appears Cody has his own captive audience."

Caitlin looked ahead and saw that her twin, walking between Emma and Greta, was doing his own share of pointing and talking. She had no doubt that her brother, a student of history himself, was doing his best to impress his ladies.

"He loves U.S. history almost as much as you do. It's one of the few subjects he enjoyed in school," Caitlin said. She laughed. "In fact, besides biology, it was the only subject."

Freddie fixed his gaze on the others.

"My sister seems to like him. So does my mother. Whenever Cody and my mom are together, they act like old friends. Have you noticed that?"

Caitlin tried to contain a grin.

"I have."

"Why do you think that is?" Freddie asked.

Caitlin paused before answering the question. Though she desperately wanted to have fun with her curious new friend, she did not want to overdo it. She knew that anything she said on the matter could subject her to additional and unwanted scrutiny.

"I think it's because Cody is a lot like our father. He's smart and knowledgeable and likes to share his knowledge with others. If I'm not mistaken, that's one of the things your mother liked most about my father when they saw each other in high school."

"So I hear."

"Freddie?"

"Yes?"

"Can I ask you a personal question?"

"Of course," Freddie said.

"Have you decided between college and the Army?"

"No."

Caitlin cocked her head.

"Don't you have to decide by Tuesday?"

Freddie nodded.

"I'm a procrastinator of the first order."

"What's holding you up?" Caitlin asked.

Freddie frowned.

"I'm afraid. I'm afraid of a lot of things."

"I don't understand."

"It's simple really. On the one hand, I'm afraid of letting down my father, my brothers, and half the boys in my graduating class. On the other hand, I'm scared of getting killed in a war that will probably end in a few months. I'm also afraid of giving up a scholarship. There is no guarantee the college will offer me another one if I enlist in the Army."

"Are you leaning one way or the other?" Caitlin asked. "If you are, I can push you the rest of the way. I'm really good at pushing people off cliffs."

Freddie laughed.

"I see you take after your aunt. My mother told me she was quite the comic in high school. She said she kept her in stitches for much of their senior year."

"She really said that?"

"Yes."

Caitlin smiled.

"I'll have to tell my aunt."

"Please do," Freddie said. "I'm sure it will make her day."

"I know it will."

"So what do you think I should do? If you were in my shoes, would you fight in a war that is winding down or take a scholarship and risk being called a coward?"

Caitlin bristled at the last word. She stopped, turned to face Freddie, and gave him a piece of advice he needed but had probably never received.

"You're not a coward. You're a young man choosing a path."

Freddie smiled sadly.

"I'm not sure others would see it that way."

"Who cares what they think? It's your life ," Caitlin said. She stepped back and pointed to the vast field to the west. "I want you to take a good look at this field. Take a really good look. A lot of Confederate boys lost their lives in this field following stupid orders from stupid men for a stupid cause. Do you think any of them, in hindsight, would have preferred to go to college or take a more peaceful path, even at the risk of being called a coward?"

"I see your point."

"Go to school, Freddie. Get an education. Make your mother proud. Don't worry about what your father and brothers think. They will love you no matter what you do."

Freddie nodded.

"You're right. You're absolutely right."

"I think so," Caitlin said.

"I'm going to take that scholarship. I'm going to attend college and make my mother, at least, a happy person. Thank you for your frank advice."

"You're welcome."

Freddie looked at Caitlin with admiring eyes.

"I wish I could do something for you."

An idea struck Caitlin.

"Maybe you can."

"What? Just name it."

"I want you to help me find someone."

"Who?" Freddie asked.

"Sylvester Scott."

"You mean the Civil War hero?"

Caitlin nodded.

"Cody and I came here in part to interview him for a genealogy book our father is compiling. Captain Scott is our fifth cousin, twenty-nine times removed."

"That's pretty distant."

"Can you help us find him?"

"I can do better than that," Freddie said. "I can introduce you to him."

"You know him?"

"I know him well. I see him several times a year at dinners and picnics for veterans and their families. He lives in the sticks south of Gettysburg, but he drives into town every other Monday to play poker with his cronies. If you want, I can introduce you next month."

Caitlin brightened.

"I would love that. I have one request though."

"What's that?" Freddie asked.

"Don't introduce Cody and me as family. Introduce us as ambitious scholars who are doing research on Pennsylvania history. We want the captain to take us seriously."

"Then I'll introduce you as scholars."

Caitlin touched his arm.

"Thank you."

"Don't mention it," Freddie said. He looked at the party ahead and then at the pretty girl from Flagstaff. "It's the least I can do for someone who helped me see the light."

CHAPTER 47: ADAM

Carlton County, Minnesota – Sunday, September 1, 1918

Sitting at his dining table with two twenty-four-year-old women, Adam tried to decide which had humored him more in the past twenty-four hours — the one who had asked for all the Cream of Wheat in Cloquet or the one who had asked to travel to France.

In the end, he declared the contest a tie. Bridget's craving for porridge was on a par with Natalie's request to turn the family's current time-travel mission on its head.

Adam sipped some coffee from a white porcelain cup and then studied the face of the usual suspect — an ambitious, persuasive sister who never ceased to amaze him. He knew the second he saw the fire in her eyes that she was probably going to get her way.

"You don't ask for much, do you?"

Natalie eyed her brother.

"I only want a chance to prove myself."

Adam took another sip.

"Can't you prove yourself in Minneapolis?"

"It's not the same thing. It's not even close," Natalie said. "I have a chance to report on history as it's being made. I may never have an opportunity like this again."

Adam frowned.

"What about the travel situation?"

"What about it?"

"It's a factor we have to consider. In case you haven't noticed, German subs are still patrolling the Atlantic and sinking ships. I don't want you to become a part of history while trying to cover it. I'm also concerned you may not be able to return to the States before the winter solstice. If we have to wait for you and miss our next travel date, we may never get another chance to find Mom and Dad. Have you thought about that?"

"Of course I have," Natalie said.

Adam paused when he heard the anger and frustration in his sister's voice. Though he knew he could kill Natalie's proposal with a simple "no," he did not want to do so now. He wanted to gather as much information as possible before reaching a decision.

"Tell me more then. Lay it all out."

"I think I have," Natalie said. "As I said, the Post is part of a newspaper consortium that is sending a media team to France to cover the end of the war. Mr. Robinson, the publisher, asked me to be a part of that team. He did so because I'm good at what I do and because I am able to travel on a moment's notice. I have two days to give him an answer."

"When would you leave?"

"I would leave Minnesota this week. I would like to leave Minneapolis on Thursday, spend a night or two in Gettysburg with Cody and Caitlin, and arrive in New York for my training no later than Sunday night. The ship to France leaves on the fourteenth."

Adam took another sip.

"Have you notified the others?"

Natalie nodded.

"I sent Greg and the twins telegrams last week asking for their permission to go. They replied on Friday. I can show you the replies if you want to see them."

"That won't be necessary."

"They gave me their blessing, Adam, but they also deferred to you. They recognize the gravity of the situation and want you to make the final call."

"That's great," Adam said. "I get to be the bad guy."

Natalie stared at her brother.

"You get to be the adult . If you think this trip is a bad idea, then say so. I may not like your answer, but I'll support you. So will the others. Our family comes first."

Adam took a deep breath and pondered the situation a second time. He did not like the decision on his plate. Though he did not want to crush his sister's dreams, he did not want to succumb to sentiment. He considered the facts, weighed the risks, and then did what he had done several times in the past fifteen weeks. He turned to his wife for guidance.

"What do you think?"

Bridget stared across the table at Natalie and then returned to her husband, who sat to her left. She gazed at him with eyes that projected both firmness and understanding.

"I think that life is meant for living. I know you are worried about finding your parents and meeting deadlines, but there comes a time when you have to put that aside and simply enjoy what God has put in front of you. If we focus only on tomorrow, then we risk missing the opportunities of today. When I agreed to marry you, I did not consider where I would be living in five to ten years. I did not consider the possible negative consequences that time travel might have on our marriage or our children. I just jumped in. I married you because I believed that things would work out in the end. I think it's your turn to take a similar leap of faith. I think you should let Natalie follow her dreams to France."

Adam chuckled.

"Is this my wife talking or the Cream of Wheat?"

Bridget smiled sweetly.

"It's the woman who loves you and believes in you. Let her go, Adam. Let her do what she wants to do. We'll be fine. We'll all be fine."

Adam smiled as he considered his lovely wife's words of wisdom. He could not disagree with her assessment or her recommendation, even if all of his instincts told him that sending a sister to a war zone on short notice was an incredibly bad idea. He thought about all he had seen and heard a little longer and then returned to his headstrong sibling.

"Before I agree to this, I need to know two things."

"I'm listening," Natalie said.

"The first thing pertains to communication. How you will communicate with us on a timely basis? Letters alone won't cut it if and when we need to make quick decisions."

"Are you sure?"

"I'm positive," Adam said. "Camille Anderson, my neighbor and our great-grandaunt, regularly corresponds with her fiancé in France. She tells me that letters take six to eight weeks to get through the censors, cross the ocean, and reach their destinations."

"Then I'll send telegrams. According to Mr. Robinson, I'll have regular access to a telegraph office and other means of communication available to the press group."

"That will work."

"What's the other thing?" Natalie asked.

Adam sighed.

"I need to know what you will do if your media team does not return to this country before December 10. I need a specific answer, Natalie. This is a potential deal-breaker."

"I understand."

"So what will you do?"

"I'll do what I have to do," Natalie said. "I did some homework last week and learned that many civilians are already crossing the Atlantic on Navy ships, merchant vessels, and even private yachts. If I have to commandeer a tugboat in Southampton to get back to the States by December 10, I'll do it. I'll be here, in Minnesota, on that date. I promise."

Adam looked at his sister, his persuasive, charismatic, world-beating sister, and gave her the smile she wanted. For the first time all morning, he felt good about the future.

"If you're willing to do that, then go. Write up a storm, drink some champagne, and punch the Kaiser in the nose for me. You deserve the chance to do all three."

CHAPTER 48: GREG

Playas de Tijuana, Mexico – Thursday, September 5, 1918

For the second time in four weeks, Greg Carson watched Old Sol drop into the Pacific Ocean while in the company of a ravishing redhead from the American Southwest. For the first time ever, he did so while sitting in the blanket-covered bed of a Ford Model TT.

"I commend your taste and creativity," Greg said. "I don't know many women who would set up a candlelight dinner in the back of a pickup truck. Well done, Miss O'Rourke."

Patricia smiled.

"If you knew what I hauled in this thing last month, you might not be so quick with the compliments. This is a utility vehicle, Mr. Carson, not a pleasure vehicle."

"It's perfect."

"I'm glad you approve."

Greg popped a chunk of cheddar in his mouth and then washed it down with a rosé that Patricia served on special occasions at El Fugitivo. He found the cheese and the wine as satisfying as the roast beef sandwich, potato salad, and pickled beets he had consumed earlier — and as tempting as a cherry pie that waited in the wings. He looked at the cook.

"Do you come here a lot?"

Patricia shook her head.

"I visit this beach maybe twice a year."

"Why not more often?"

"I rarely have the time — or a reason."

Greg smiled.

"Am I a reason?"

Patricia laughed.

"You're something. Exactly what I haven't decided."

Greg digested the comment and then gazed at the woman who made it. He liked her sense of humor almost as much as her auburn hair, emerald eyes, and disarming smile.

"Who's running the shop tonight? Lupe?"

Patricia nodded.

"She's the only one who can in my absence. Valeria can hold down the fort for short stretches, but she's not yet ready to go solo. Sofia is just a glass washer."

Greg chuckled.

"I thought she was your sanitation engineer."

"You don't forget a thing, do you?"

"It's hard to forget the night we met."

Patricia smiled sweetly.

"I imagine so."

Greg laughed to himself as he mentally revisited the night the estimable Miss O'Rourke tore him a new one for calling her a waitress. He still remembered her gruff demeanor, the fire in her eyes, and the conviction in her delightfully blended voice.

"For what it's worth, I admire the fact you hire only women. Your gender gets a raw deal from mine most of the time. If you don't stick up for yourselves, who will?"

Patricia laughed.

"You sound like the suffragettes I knew at Vassar."

Greg smiled.

"Now I've done it. I was just trying to be nice."

"Either way, I appreciate the kind words," Patricia said. "I do what I can for my help not because they are women but rather because they are hard workers who deserve the best."

Greg paused to consider her statement. Just when he thought he could not find one more reason to like this generous, thoughtful woman, he found two or three. He pondered Patricia's many virtues for a moment and then turned his attention to a matter that was never far from his mind. Barely three weeks after he had saved his new friend from a violent and surely life-changing sexual assault, he was still a man in legal limbo.

"Have you heard any scuttlebutt on my case?"

Patricia nodded.

"I heard some this afternoon. A friend of mine who works in the prosecutor's office said it is extremely unlikely the territory will press charges against you. He said that the political pressure to make an example of you has decreased while the internal pressure to move on to more important matters has increased. The prosecutor will make a public announcement on your case in a week or two. In other words, you're almost home free."

Greg sighed.

"That's good to hear."

"I didn't want to say anything until I heard from my police sources, but I think the information is solid. No one in Tijuana has the stomach to prosecute a good guy."

"So now I'm a good guy?"

Patricia smiled.

"You are in my book."

"Your tune has changed," Greg said.

Patricia sipped her wine.

"Perhaps it has. I didn't like you at first. I didn't like you at all. I thought you were just like the legions of boorish American college boys who take over Tijuana nine months a year. You have that cockiness I've seen a thousand times and loathe like the plague."

Greg gazed at her with thoughtful eyes.

"So what changed?"

"I changed."

"I don't follow."

"It's not that complicated," Patricia said. She looked at the setting sun and then at the man in her truck. "I finally realized that a man's face is not necessarily a reflection of his soul. You may look like most of my customers, but you don't act like them. You have a good heart and a kind disposition. You're the sort of man who restores my faith in humanity."

Greg smiled sadly.

"I don't know what to say to that."

"You don't have to say a thing," Patricia said. She set her wine glass to the side and scooted closer to her not-so-boorish friend. "All you have to do is kiss me."

CHAPTER 49: NATALIE

Gettysburg, Pennsylvania – Saturday, September 7, 1918

Natalie watched with interest and amusement as Emma Bauer Jackson carried a bottle of whiskey and four tumblers to her kitchen table. She could see that times had changed in twenty-nine years. She stifled a laugh when Emma placed the bottle on the table and distributed the glasses to four people, including two eighteen-year-olds.

"Emma?"

"Yes?"

"I have a question," Natalie said.

"Oh? What's that?"

"When did the prim-and-proper preacher's daughter from Johnstown, the one raised by Lutheran teetotalers, start drinking hard liquor and serving it to minors?"

Emma looked at her kitchen wall clock.

"Since seven fifteen."

The twins laughed.

"I don't mind," Natalie said. She chuckled. "I don't think my siblings mind either. It's just that you are so much different than the girl I remember. You've changed."

Emma poured four glasses and took her seat at the table. She sat opposite Natalie and to the left and right of Cody and Caitlin, respectively, in the small, dimly lit room.

"We've all changed," Emma said. She took a sip and gazed at Natalie. "Even my father changed. He bought this bottle on a mission trip to Kentucky the year before he died and gave it to us as a present. I've been waiting for a special occasion to open it."

"That's thoughtful of you."

"It's practical too. Cody tells me that Prohibition is coming. If I don't serve this whiskey now, some unscrupulous men with badges may take it away."

Natalie laughed.

"He has that right."

Emma looked at the twins.

"If either of you would prefer lemonade, I have that too."

"No, no," Caitlin said. "Whiskey is fine."

"Cody?"

The only male at the table grinned.

"I'm good."

Emma offered a satisfied smile.

"I thought so. Now where were we?"

"I was just saying how much you've changed," Natalie said. "You're much different than the girl I remember, with one very notable exception."

"What's that?"

"You're still drop-dead gorgeous."

Emma looked down and then at Natalie.

"Thank you. I don't hear that very often."

"That surprises me," Natalie said.

Emma took another sip.

"Why? I'm old and wrinkled. I'm a shadow of the woman I used to be. Only my husband and my sons think I'm the sun and the moon."

"That's not true," Cody said. "I do too."

The women laughed heartily.

"Your brother is a charmer. It's been nice having him here," Emma said to Natalie. She looked at Caitlin and then again at Natalie. "It's been nice having both of them."

Natalie sipped her whiskey.

"Where are your children tonight?"

"Freddie went to a picture show. Greta is attending a dance with a young man she met this week. Like my youngest son, Theodore is a freshman at Pennsylvania College."

"Caitlin told me that Freddie decided to attend college instead of joining the Army like his father and his brothers. She said he made the decision just this week."

"She should know. She talked him into it."

"That's an exaggeration," Caitlin said.

Emma gazed at Caitlin with great affection.

"I don't think so. You said something to him the other day that set his mind on fire and changed the way he looks at the world. For that, dear, you have my eternal gratitude."

"I take it you approve," Natalie said.

Emma sighed.

"I do. I have a husband and two sons on the front lines right now, Natalie. I don't need another reason to wake up in the middle of the night."

"I understand."

"I'm glad you do. Not everyone does."

Natalie looked at her hostess with pure admiration. She could not imagine how Emma got any sleep knowing that her loved ones faced machine-gun fire, artillery barrages, and even poison gas on a daily basis. She wished she had even half this woman's courage.

"How often do your soldiers write?"

Emma took another sip.

"Tom writes every day, Tommy and Cal once a week. Not that it matters. They can't say much or provide timely updates. Any news they send is old when it arrives."

"Where are they stationed?" Natalie asked.

Emma frowned.

"I don't know exactly. I know only that all three are serving in the 28th Infantry Division in the Argonne Forest in northeastern France."

"That's where I'm headed. Or at least it's close to where I'm headed. I'm going to U.S. Army Base Hospital 36 in Vittel, which is about a hundred miles south of the lines."

"I envy you. I am much too far from my boys."

Natalie looked at Emma again. This time she saw not a high school girl from the past but rather a concerned wife and mother from the present. She reached out to her.

"Maybe I can close that gap."

"How?" Emma asked.

"I can send some of your letters from France. Give me what you can before I leave tomorrow. I'll send them to Tom and the boys when I'm in Vittel on September 23."

"You would do that?"

Natalie smiled.

"It would be my pleasure."

CHAPTER 50: ADAM

Carlton County, Minnesota – Tuesday, September 10, 1918

Adam retrieved the faded newspaper clipping from his shirt pocket and examined the message again. He had done little but examine the message since pulling the clipping from a letter Greg had mailed on August 28. The words, in all caps, spoke for themselves.

TO OUR BELOVED CHILDREN: WE LOVE YOU AND MISS YOU. SEE YOU IN SEDONA IN DECEMBER. TIM AND CAROLINE CARSON

 

Adam conceded it was possible that the people who had placed the ad were not people who had raised him, but he knew that possibility was slim. In all probability, Tim and Caroline Carson, his time-traveling parents, were roaming the back roads of North America, searching for their children, and anticipating a joyous reunion in the desert.

Adam folded the clipping in half, slipped it in his pocket, and smiled as he considered his family's incredible break. The mission of a lifetime was no longer a search. It was a waiting game. Even if the Carson kids did not pursue another lead in the next three months, they would still succeed in the end. They would see their parents in December.

The father-to-be let his mind drift to Arizona and the future and then turned once again to Minnesota and the present, where two men, three women, and a dog enjoyed a splendid summer evening in Ollie Anderson's backyard. For the first time in weeks, he looked forward to spending time in 1918. The pressure to find his parents was off.

Adam pulled a beer bottle out of a bucket of ice, removed the cap with an opener, and walked to a deluxe brick smoker and grill, where a master chef, wearing a puffy white hat, practiced his craft. Though he had seen many men grill meat in his day, he had never seen one quite as skillful and graceful as his great-great-grandfather.

"I ought to take notes," Adam said. "You're good."

Ollie flipped a steak.

"I'm sufficient. Mamie is good."

Adam cocked his head.

"Then why isn't she cooking?"

Ollie set his grill fork to the side. Then he turned toward Adam and pointed with his head at Mamie, Camille, and Bridget, who sat in lawn chairs thirty feet away. The women, attired in frilly blouses and long gray skirts, chatted like sorority girls at a college social.

"Need I say more?"

Adam smiled.

"Are you hinting at a female cabal?"

"I'm not hinting at anything. I'm telling you. Mamie hasn't been the same since she learned your wife was in a family way. Between Bridget and babies and daughters and weddings and her new pinochle habit, she has no time left to cook or clean."

Adam laughed to himself as he digested his neighbor's comment. He had not heard anyone even suggest that a woman's place was in the home since Eduardo Martinez, his cranky maternal grandfather, had passed away in 2015. He wrote off Ollie's politically incorrect observation as a sign of the times and carried on with the conversation.

"Well, for what it's worth, I'm glad to see you behind the grill," Adam said. "I'm glad to see you, period. Mamie told me you were returning to work this month. She said you would come out here only on weekends, if you came out here at all. What's changed?"

"My priorities have changed."

"I don't follow."

Ollie smiled.

"I've done some thinking since you and the missus moved out here. I've done some thinking and some figuring and reached a couple of obvious conclusions."

"What are they?" Adam asked.

"The first is that I should enjoy life while I still can. I'm not a young man anymore. I'll be forty-nine in October. That's too old to work on engines and transmissions, but it's not too old to ride horses or fish for pike or hike through the woods. If I don't come out here and enjoy all this now, I may not be able to later."

"What's the second conclusion?"

"That too should be obvious," Ollie said. "To put a fine point on things, I like my neighbors. I like you and Mrs. Carson and a lot of other folks who have moved to the area this summer. Cloquet is filling up nicely and will fill up even more when all our soldiers come home. I want to be a part of this community when that change takes place."

Adam sipped his beer.

"So what's your plan?"

"My plan now is to sell my shop. I've already spoken to a competitor who is offering me ten percent above my asking price. I have until Friday to give him an answer."

"Are you going to sell?"

Ollie nodded.

"My lawyer is already drawing up the papers."

Adam paused for a moment and gazed at the women in the distance. He could tell from their smiles and laughs that their fun was just beginning.

"I think it's great you're moving here for good, but don't do it because of us. Bridget and I are short-termers in the neighborhood. We won't be here forever."

"I know," Ollie said. "I considered that too. That's why I decided to move now. I figure I can enjoy your company for a few months before you hightail it back to Arizona."

Adam smiled.

"I'm flattered you think so much of us."

Ollie picked up his fork and flipped a steak.

"It's not just me. My wife thinks your wife is the best thing since cherries jubilee. She has a third daughter to fuss over and an expectant one at that. If Elsie were here and not in Minneapolis, Mamie would lift her arms to the sky and ask Jesus to take her now."

Adam laughed.

"Young women have that effect on people."

Mamie broke the laughter with a shout.

"What are you boys talking about?"

Ollie turned to face his wife.

"We're just talking about our ladies."

"I thought so," Mamie said. She gave her husband a pointed glance. "You need to talk more about those steaks and sausages. Your ladies are getting hungry."

Ollie acknowledged Mamie's statement with a gentle wave then looked at the neighbor with the nearly empty beer. He wore the face of a beaten man.

"I think that was our last warning."

"Are you sure?" Adam asked.

"I'm positive," Ollie said. He laughed. "Welcome to married life."

CHAPTER 51: CODY

Gettysburg, Pennsylvania – Thursday, September 12, 1918

Cody looked at the sprightly old man as he returned to their table with two cups of tea and reminded himself that the man was real. Though he had died in 1920, at least in the parallel universe Cody and Caitlin called home, Sylvester Scott, age seventy-eight, was as real now as the rain that peppered his kitchen window. As a Civil War hero, a Gettysburg icon, and the twins' great-great-great-grandfather, he was pretty compelling too.

"I hope you like willow bark," Sylvester said. "I nag Louise every day to get Earl Grey, but she never listens. She insists this stuff is better for my rheumatism."

"I think she's right," Cody said as he accepted his cup. "In fact, I know she is. Willow bark also prevents heart attacks, alleviates acne, and eases menstrual cramps."

Sylvester stared at Caitlin.

"Are you sure he's your twin?"

"That's what my parents tell me," Caitlin said as she accepted her cup. "I have my own theories, of course, but I won't bore you with the details."

"Then I won't ask for them," Sylvester said. He reclaimed his seat at the small square table and looked again at his chief interrogator. "Now where were we?"

Cody sipped his tea.

"You were telling us about the time you snuck behind enemy lines and traded coffee for tobacco with four Confederate scouts. I think this was before the battle."

"I'll say it was," Sylvester said. "We couldn't stray far while we were moving with the Army. Our superiors played everything by the book. A few of us missed our tobacco, though, and decided to play by our own rules. This was in the middle of June, I think, when Hill and Longstreet were running wild through the Shenandoah Valley."

"How did you make contact?"

"We shouted at them."

Cody's eyes widened.

"You shouted at the enemy ?"

Sylvester nodded.

"We shouted at the cavalrymen from the safety of some bushes. They plum near crapped their pants when they heard us, too, but they didn't run. They engaged us in a friendly, albeit distant, conversation. Before you know it, the eight of us were talking about wives and girlfriends and creature comforts like coffee and tobacco."

"Then what?

"Then we discussed a swap and came back the next day. My comrades and I returned with eight pounds of ground coffee. The rebels came back with five pounds of Carolina bright-leaf tobacco. We made the trade, exchanged some letters and gifts, and retreated back to our lines. They could have taken us prisoner at one point, but they didn't."

Cody sipped more tea.

"Why do you think they didn't?"

"They were men of honor, that's why," Sylvester said. "Even though they were enemy soldiers that we fought fiercely two weeks later, they were men of honor and gentlemen."

Cody scribbled Sylvester's comments on a legal pad. Though he had already compiled six pages of notes for an academic paper he would never write, he felt compelled to record as much as he could. It wasn't every day that a teen from 2017 got to interview a living participant of the War Between the States. He started to ask yet another question but stopped when Louise Scott, Sylvester's seventy-four-year-old wife and the twins' great-great-great-granny, entered the kitchen with a stack of mail.

"How is the history lesson going?" Louise asked.

Cody lowered his pen.

"It's going well, ma'am. Your husband is a Civil War encyclopedia. I don't know how he remembers things from fifty-some years ago like they happened yesterday."

"He just does," Louise said. "Sylvester plays battles in his mind like some people play phonographic records. The war never ended for him."

"How did he meet you?" Caitlin asked.

"He met me the way you met him . He came to this very house seeking information. I have long suspected, though, that Sylvester came here seeking something else."

"Now, Louise, don't bore the children with scurrilous stories," Sylvester said. "They came here to learn about the war, not hear idle speculation."

"I like idle speculation," Caitlin said.

Cody sat up straight.

"I do too."

Louise smiled.

"Then I'll give you both sides of the story. It all happened on June 28, 1863, the day General Meade took over the Army of the Potomac. Sylvester says he came to the farm that day to get information on wells and creeks. My mother told me something else. She said he had come by many times before. She said he always rode past the house when I was lifting and stretching and hanging clothes. I was nineteen at the time. He was twenty-three."

"You were a voyeur?" Caitlin asked.

"I was a scout ," Sylvester said. "I scouted things. The Army paid me to inspect the land and assess my surroundings. While conducting official business for the United States government, I frequently encountered hostiles, neutrals, and friendly folks alike."

Cody nodded.

"That sounds legit."

"In any case, Sylvester, or Sly, as he was known then, finally paid us a visit. He spoke to my father, ate a lunch my mother prepared, and inspected our well," Louise said. "He met me when he inspected the well. I was drawing water at the time."

"Was it love at first sight?" Caitlin asked.

"I suppose it was. Sylvester took his time inspecting the well. I took my time drawing the water. Before you know it, we were talking about all sorts of things. Then he asked me my name and asked my father if he could write me and call on me after the war."

"Did your father say yes?"

"He did," Louise said. "He never refused a man in uniform."

"Then what?"

"Then he came back. Ten days after Mr. Lincoln was shot, Sylvester came riding up our driveway on a shiny brown stallion. He called on me that spring, offered to buy some of our acreage, and married me in June. We've been on this farm ever since."

Caitlin sipped her willow bark.

"That's rural romance at its finest."

Louise laughed.

"I suppose you could say that. Despite some ups and downs over the years, we've had a good life. We wouldn't trade living here for anything."

Sylvester nodded in agreement. He seemed content to let his talkative wife rewrite the family history book, even if she did engage in idle speculation. He chewed on a buttermilk biscuit, finished what was left of his tea, and then gazed at his twin interrogators.

"Do you have any more questions?"

"I don't," Caitlin said."

Cody set his pen and pad to the side.

"I do."

"What's that?"

"Can you introduce us to your sister?"

"Winifred?" Sylvester asked.

Cody nodded.

"We want to hear Mrs. Taylor's stories as well. We understand she's the widow of a U.S. senator, a philanthropist, and a woman who has lived an interesting life."

"She's all of those things."

"So can you help us out?"

"I'm afraid I can't," Sylvester said. "Winifred is in Nova Scotia now and won't return to Harrisburg until November. That's when Louise and I leave for Florida."

"I see."

"Can I answer anything else?"

Cody turned to Caitlin. He wanted to see her face before proceeding with the toughest, most relevant, and least likely part of the interview. When he saw her nod and smile, he took a deep breath, gathered his thoughts, and returned to the man of the house.

"You can," Cody said. "Caitlin and I would like to know if you have recently met with a couple from Arizona who share our last name and our wholesome good looks."

Caitlin stepped on Cody's foot.

"I can't say I have," Sylvester said. "Are these folks kin?"

Cody nodded.

"Tim and Caroline are our parents. We're looking for them."

Louise stepped toward the table.

"Why are you looking for your parents ?"

Cody frowned.

"It's a long story."

Louise smiled.

"I like long stories."

Cody paused before proceeding. Though he wanted the elderly couple's help in finding his folks, he did not want to discuss the particulars of the search. Nor was he sure that such a discussion was even necessary. Since receiving news from Greg that their parents were alive and well and posting ads in newspapers, he had thought less about gathering information and more about attending a reunion in December in Sedona.

"I appreciate your interest and patience, ma'am, but this story is very personal. It's one I would rather not share right now."

"I understand," Louise said.

"In any case, Mrs. Scott, Caitlin and I would deeply appreciate it if you would notify us if you see this couple or hear from them in the next few months. We will be staying with Emma Jackson and her family at least through the end of October."

"What about after that?"

"You can reach us in Minnesota," Cody said.

Louise put a hand on his shoulder.

"I don't know what this is about, young man, but if we can help you find your parents, we will do so. Just let us know how and where we can contact you."

"I will," Cody said. "Believe me, I will."

CHAPTER 52: NATALIE

USS Echo, North Atlantic Ocean – Saturday, September 14, 1918

The Echo was a convert to war. A cargo ship built in 1914 by a transatlantic steamship company, she was not designed for the rigors of combat, but she handled those rigors just the same. Since joining the fleet of the United States Navy in September 1917, she had carried sailors, soldiers, civilians, munitions, and even animals safely from New York to Le Havre more than twenty times. Only twice had she confronted German submarines on the open seas. She emerged unscathed each time.

Natalie pondered that record of success as she draped her arms over the railing on the Echo's starboard side. She could not believe that a bulky 430-foot-long ship with one engine and one propeller could still ply the ocean at twenty-two knots.

"Are you excited?"

Natalie turned around and tried to identify her questioner in the dwindling light. She smiled when she saw Frank Bean, a reporter from the Chicago Gazette , approach.

"Are you stalking me, Frank?"

The reporter chuckled.

"I'm coming to your rescue. I saw you staring at the water after dinner and again just a few minutes ago. I figured you needed a friend or at least a distraction."

Natalie brightened.

"Perhaps I need both. Come join me."

Frank, a trim, handsome man with dark hair, kind eyes, and a boyish face, walked to the edge of the deck, rested his arms on the railing, and looked at his colleague, whom he had met in New York. He studied her face for a moment and then resumed the conversation.

"You didn't answer my question."

"What question?"

"Are you excited? Are you excited about your assignment?"

Natalie nodded.

"I am. I'm a little frightened and overwhelmed too."

"Join the club," Frank said.

"Why do you feel that way? This is your fifth trip."

"It doesn't matter. The challenges are the same. When you step into a war zone, you step into a world like no other. You enter the realm of the unpredictable."

Natalie tilted her head.

"Should I wear some armor?"

Frank laughed.

"Only if you want to keep the Frenchmen away. You won't need it against the Germans. Unlike me and most of the others on this team, you'll be far from the lines."

"Are you envious?" Natalie asked.

"I am," Frank said. "You'll have a chance to speak to soldiers away from the distractions of the front and the watchful eyes of their superiors. I wish I could say the same."

"You'll get your stories. You'll get your excitement too. If this war ends when I think it will end, you'll be on hand to write the first draft of history."

"Are you still sticking with November?"

Natalie nodded.

"You can take that to the bank. Unless you grow fond of the food and drink in France, you'll be home by Christmas. We all will. This war is winding down."

"You seem confident for a civilian."

"Let's just say I'm an optimist."

Natalie gazed at the dark water and the indigo sky. As she did, she thought about her family, her homecoming, and a December reunion that was all but a certainty. Since learning that her parents had announced themselves in a San Diego paper, she had thought less about missions and more about people. She pondered these matters and others until Frank punctured the splendid silence with a predictable question.

"What are you thinking about?"

Natalie turned her head.

"Do you really want to know?"

Frank smiled.

"Oddly enough, I do."

"I'm thinking about my family. I haven't seen one of my brothers in several weeks and my parents in almost a year. All but two of my siblings are scattered in different places."

"Where is home for you?"

Natalie frowned.

"Right now it's the USS Echo . Before that it was Minneapolis, Johnstown, Phoenix, Tucson, and Flagstaff. I'm kind of a wanderer, in case you haven't noticed."

"What's it like in Arizona?" Frank asked.

Natalie sighed.

"It's different than this. You can walk a hundred miles in some places and not see water or another human being. It's stark, unforgiving, and relentlessly beautiful."

"You sound like a poet."

"If I do, it's because I worked with one once."

"What's his name?"

Natalie did not reply. She instead let her mind drift to Johnstown, where she had loved a man who was a poet in everything but name. She wondered what it would be like to be with Sam now. She missed him most at times like this. She missed him a lot. She pondered the pleasant past until Frank brought her back to the not-so-pleasant present.

"Natalie?"

"Huh?"

"What was his name?" Frank asked.

"It doesn't matter. He wasn't famous."

"You seem distracted."

Natalie smiled sadly.

"I guess I am. It must be the U-boats."

Frank turned to face his peer.

"We'll be fine."

"Are you sure?"

"I'm sure. I'm so confident that I'll buy you a drink."

"What if you're wrong?"

Frank smiled and offered his arm.

"Then I'll buy you three."

CHAPTER 53: GREG

Tijuana, Mexico – Tuesday, September 17, 1918

Greg opened his eyes when he heard the knock and tried to decide whether he had heard the noise or dreamed it. He leaned toward the latter. No one knocked on his door at eight in the morning. No one knocked on his door . He listened in silence for several seconds, concluded that he had imagined it all, and slowly closed his eyes. Then he heard another knock, popped out of bed, and scrambled to put on some clothes.

"I'll be there in a second," Greg said.

He threw on a white cotton shirt, dungarees, and a pair of loafers and stumbled his way out of his tiny bedroom and into his modest living room. Though he did not know what prompted the early morning visit to his humble abode, he suspected it was not good. He opened the door just as his unannounced caller tried to knock a third time.

"Patricia? What's going on?"

"A lot is going on," Patricia said. "May I come in?"

"Of course."

Greg stepped aside as the owner of El Fugitivo, wearing a light blue dress, a matching hat, and a frown, walked into an apartment she had never seen. A moment later, he checked for others, closed the door, and joined his unexpected guest on a shabby couch.

"I'm sorry to disturb you," Patricia said. "I thought about waiting, but I decided I could not sit on the news. I wanted to give you as much time as possible to think things through."

"What news? What are you talking about?"

"My contact in the police department paid me a visit thirty minutes ago. He said that Mark Pearson, the man you shot, committed suicide in Los Angeles."

"Are you sure?" Greg asked.

Patricia nodded.

"My friend confirmed a rumor I heard yesterday. My attacker is dead. He hung himself in a hotel room six days ago. His father, the congressman, is out for blood."

"What can he do now?"

"He can do a lot. He's already done a lot. He's convinced the prosecutor to press charges against you when he returns from a business trip to Nogales. The territory is not going to slap your wrists. It's going to charge you with attempted murder."

Greg closed his eyes and sighed.

"How much time to I have?"

"Three days," Patricia said. "The police will arrest you Friday morning, take you to the station, and wait for the prosecutor to file charges. Reporters from several papers will be there. So will the congressman, the district attorney from San Diego County, and other law enforcement officials. You won't have a chance once they get their mitts on you."

"Why don't they arrest me now?" Greg asked.

"Chief Figueroa convinced the prosecutor that you are not a flight risk. He believes you are being railroaded and wants to help, but he can only do so much now."

"Do the customs agents know about me?"

Patricia nodded.

"So do the National Guard units patrolling the borders. If you try to leave Mexico at the border crossing, you'll be arrested. If you try to leave by running, you'll be shot."

Greg rubbed his temples as he absorbed the information. He could not believe that a morning that had started with an annoying knock had escalated into a nightmare. He wondered if he would ever again see his family or the digital age. He looked at his friend.

"It looks like they have me."

Patricia put her hand on his knee.

"Don't jump to conclusions."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean I have an idea."

Greg shook his head.

"I can't get you involved in this."

"I am involved!" Patricia shot back. "I've been involved since the night you saved me from those animals. I'll get you out of this mess if it's the last thing I do."

Greg took her hand.

"I'm sorry for dismissing you. I'm not thinking very clearly now. I'm not sure I'll think clearly tomorrow. I just don't see a way out of this."

Patricia lifted his hand and kissed it.

"That's why you have me."

Greg frowned.

"What's your plan?"

"I'm still working on it," Patricia said. She took a deep breath. "I may need a couple days to figure a way to get you out of Mexico. I may need three."

"What should I do in the meantime?"

"That's the easy part. You should act as if nothing has changed. Check in with the police at least once a day, talk to the merchants, and go to the races, but stay as far away from the cantina as you possibly can. We can't be seen together this week."

Greg tightened his hold on her hand.

"You're really committed, aren't you?"

Patricia nodded.

"I turned a corner at the beach the other night. I decided if you weren't worth my time or my money — or my love — then no one was. I'm going to get you out of Mexico and then do everything I can to restore your name. That's a promise."

Greg smiled sadly. Then he pulled his hand out of Patricia's, placed his arm around her shoulders, and pulled her close. When she looked up at him, he kissed her softly.

"I don't know what's cooking in that creative mind of yours, but I suspect it's something good. If you think you can pull this off, then that's good enough for me."

Patricia offered a tender gaze.

"Thanks for trusting me."

Greg kissed her again and chuckled.

"That, Miss O'Rourke, is the easiest thing I've ever done."

CHAPTER 54: TIM

Ensenada, Mexico – Wednesday, September 18, 1918

Tim suspected the news was bad. He suspected it the second Maria greeted her friends with a frown, led them to her living room, and asked them to sit on a couch. When Antonio entered the room a minute later wearing a frown of his own, he knew the news was bad.

"Thank you for coming so quickly," Antonio said in a serious voice. He sat next to Maria in a facing sofa. "I wanted to speak to you sooner, but I did not want to do so over the telephone. The news I have to share is both troubling and complicated."

"What news is that?" Tim asked.

"I may have information on your son, the one who is running from the law. I have reason to believe he was in Tijuana last month and may still be there now."

"How did you get this information?"

"I got it from Pablo Fernandez. He is a trusted friend and a buyer in my company who travels to Tijuana twice a month. I had asked him to inquire about your son when he visited the town on Monday and Tuesday. He did so and apparently learned a few things."

Tim glanced at Caroline. He wanted to make sure she was ready for unpleasant and possibly even tragic news before he continued his line of questioning. When he saw her return his gaze and nod her head, he knew it was all right to proceed.

"What did your friend learn?"

Antonio sighed.

"He learned, among other things, that a young American man named Greg Carson was arrested last month after shooting another American man in an alley. He had apparently come to the defense of a woman who runs a popular cantina on Main Street."

"Why was he arrested?" Tim asked.

"Pablo does not know. He knows only that the man who shares your son's name was arrested five weeks ago and released a few days later."

"That's good, is it not? At least he wasn't charged."

"That is true," Antonio said.

"Then why the glum face?"

"I am concerned that this man is still in danger. When Pablo heard about the shooting, he looked into the matter. He asked the police where Greg Carson lived, but they would not tell him. Others did not know. They had not seen the man in days. Pablo learned only that the prosecutor in the case is still considering charges, ranging from simple assault to attempted homicide, and may bring those charges as soon as this week."

"Then we should leave," Tim said. "We should leave now."

"I would not do that."

"Why not?"

Antonio took another deep breath.

"There is more to this story, señor. There are things you should know before you pack your bags and rush into an unfamiliar situation. They are things that may give you pause."

"I'm listening."

"Just before Pablo left Tijuana, he paid a visit to the woman, an American named Patricia O'Rourke. He asked her directly where he could find Greg Carson."

"What did she say?" Tim asked.

"She said she did not know."

"Does Pablo believe her?"

"No."

"Do you believe her?"

Antonio shook his head.

"Pablo said she appeared nervous and uncomfortable. He said her eyes revealed what her mouth would not. She knows something. She knows something important."

Tim stared at his host.

"How can you be sure?"

"When Pablo said that he did not believe her and started to draw the attention of others in the cantina, Señorita O'Rourke pulled him aside and spoke to him privately."

"What did she tell him?"

Antonio returned the stare.

"She told him to come back in a week. She said if he returned alone, on the twenty-fourth, she would answer his questions. She pleaded with him to give her that time."

"Let me get this straight. You want us to wait a week while your man tries to get information from a woman we have not met and cannot necessarily trust?"

"I do."

Tim rubbed his temples when he felt a headache come on. He did not like the idea of waiting another day, much less another week. He wanted to find Greg now.

"I don't like this, Antonio. I don't like it one bit. Tell me why we should not go to Tijuana tomorrow and turn the town upside down looking for our son."

"I will tell you why," Antonio said. "You can do nothing to prevent Mexican authorities from arresting your son a second time. Nor can you smuggle him safely to the United States, where, I should add, he faces possible felony charges for draft evasion."

Tim pressed ahead.

"So why should we trust this woman?"

"Is it not obvious?"

"No."

"Señorita O'Rourke may be able to do what you cannot," Antonio said. "Pablo tells me she is a crafty and resourceful woman with friends on both sides of the border. She may be working on a plan to get Greg out of Mexico. If I were you, I would give her the opportunity to do so. It may be the only way you will ever see your son outside of a prison cell."

"What do you suggest then?"

"I suggest you take the next steamer to San Diego, find a place to stay, and send me the address of the hotel. I will give the address to Pablo and have him contact you after he speaks to the woman. You may have your answers, if not your son, by Wednesday."

Tim appealed to his wife.

"What do you think?"

Caroline frowned.

"I think we should listen to Antonio. I am with you in spirit, but I think this is one of those times we must put our faith in strangers. I would much rather try to get Greg out of a jail in the States than one in Mexico. We have access to good lawyers and due process back home. We have nothing here. If he is convicted and sent to prison down here, we may not see him for a long time. I don't think we have a choice."

Tim looked at Antonio.

"Did Pablo get a description of the suspect?"

Antonio shook his head.

"He knows only that he is a man in his twenties."

"So he could be another Greg Carson."

"That is possible."

Tim rubbed his temples again as he tried to make sense of it all. For the first time, he conceded he might be rushing things. He had no hard proof that Greg or any of his five children had traveled to 1918. In the grand scheme of things, it was far easier to believe that another man with a common name had been detained. As a man of science and a person of sound mind, he had an obligation to at least pay lip service to Occam's razor. He gave the matter a few moments of thought and then finally returned to his host.

"All right, we'll do it your way."

Antonio nodded.

"I think that would be best."

Tim looked at Caroline, who offered a supportive smile, and then at two people who had made his first time-travel trip to Mexico so memorable. He would miss them both.

A moment later, he watched with amusement as rough-and-tumble Rosa, holding five-week-old Lucia, led five girls like baby ducks through the living room and into the adjacent family room. He would miss them too. He gazed again at the head of the household when a loud and intrusive ship horn, probably from an outgoing freighter, blared in the distance.

"You realize the next steamer leaves at six thirty."

"I do," Antonio said.

"That means tonight is goodbye."

"I know that as well. We do not want you to leave. We have enjoyed every moment we have spent with you and your lovely wife. It has been a treat having you here."

Tim smiled.

"We feel the same way."

"Perhaps when this war is over and passions cool, we can gather again, with our entire families, and enjoy another wonderful visit," Antonio said. "I know I would like that."

Tim stared into space as he pondered a visit that would surely never happen. As much as he wanted to return to this time and place, he knew he never would. So, apparently, did his wife, who wiped tears from her eyes when he looked her way.

He could not blame Caroline for getting emotional. The Ramirez family was hers much more than his. They were the reason she had originally suggested 1918 and Ensenada over safer, more accessible, and arguably more interesting destinations.

Tim threw an arm over his wife, pulled her close, and gazed one last time at the most appealing couple in Mexico. He smiled when they smiled at him.

"I would like a reunion, too, Antonio. After all this, we deserve it. If there is a way I can bring our families together again, I will find it. You have my word on it."

CHAPTER 55: GREG

Tijuana, Mexico – Thursday, September 19, 1918

Greg checked his watch, noted the time of eleven fifty-nine, and then peeked through the crack in the slightly open door. As was the case five minutes earlier, he saw nothing but a dimly lit street on the western edge of Tijuana. He heard nothing but the sound of a breeze in nearby manzanita trees and the joyful expressions of a pack of coyotes.

He looked at Lupe Guerrero, who stood next to him inside her front door, and gave her a comforting smile. Even in the darkness, he could see her frown, the sweat on her forehead, and the fear in her gentle eyes. He knew that the forty-year-old mother of two wanted nothing to do with aiding an American who was about to be charged with murder.

"It'll be all right," Greg said.

Lupe forced a smile.

"If you say so, señor."

Greg hated dragging Lupe into his troubles, but he did not have a choice. He knew that her participation was key to the success of the mission. He had known this and more since Wednesday afternoon, when Patricia O'Rourke had brought Greg, Lupe, and her daughters together in her own home and unveiled a plan that was as simple as it was audacious.

Greg had wasted no time implementing the first part of the plan. After checking in with the police Thursday morning, he started down Main Street and wandered through the shops, bars, and restaurants like a clueless tourist. He did what he could to give others the impression he was oblivious to what awaited him on Friday, when officers would rouse him from his sleep, drag him to the station, and parade him in front of law enforcement officials, politicians, and reporters like a sacrificial lamb.

At a quarter past five, when the fugitive time traveler was sure he had eluded anyone tracking his movements, he walked not to his apartment but rather to Lupe's modest adobe house on Baja and Arroyo. He arrived in time for dinner, in keeping with the plan, and began what had proved to be a long evening of waiting, watching, and quiet reflection.

"Where are your daughters?" Greg asked.

"They are asleep in their beds," Lupe said.

"That's good. The less they know, the better."

"I agree, señor."

Greg laughed to himself. He could only imagine what was running through the mind of a woman who had never before scoffed at the law, much less violated it. He made a mental note to send Lupe and her girls something special if and when he made it to safety.

As he waited for Patricia to show up in her remarkably functional vehicle, he revisited the past three days and two unexpected events that had left him rattled and uneasy. Each made him question whether he had remained in Mexico too long.

The first event was particularly unsettling. A trader named Pablo Fernandez had visited El Fugitivo on Tuesday night and asked about Greg's whereabouts. When Patricia denied that she knew anything about the man who had saved her from three American thugs, he pressed her for answers and finally convinced her to speak. He did not leave the cantina until Patricia agreed to meet with him privately in exactly a week.

The second event was nearly as disturbing. Robert Pearson, a six-term congressman from Los Angeles, made a surprise visit to Tijuana Wednesday afternoon. Though he did not meet with the police or local officials, he did speak with at least two barkeepers and a restaurant owner he knew well. He told all three merchants that he would return in two days with a larger entourage and a bigger wallet. In doing so, the lawmaker, a man who got things done, confirmed what Greg had feared. Friday's dog-and-pony show was a go.

Neither event mattered now, of course. By the time the congressman returned in the morning and Pablo came back on Tuesday, Greg would be gone. He would be ensconced in a Southern California safe house or confined in a Southern California jail.

He started to make an observation to Lupe but stopped when he heard what sounded like the engine of a truck. A few seconds later, he opened the door wide, popped his head through the opening, and gazed at the street as Patricia pulled up in her Ford Model TT.

Greg held up a hand, motioning for Patricia to wait, and withdrew into the house. Then he picked up his fully loaded carpetbag, turned to face Lupe, and gave her a warm hug.

"Tell your girls 'thank you' for me when they get up in the morning. Tell them they have done me a huge favor by keeping this matter to themselves."

"I will, señor," Lupe said. "Good luck."

Greg nodded and took his leave. He paused only to look for possible witnesses to the great escape before opening the door to Patricia's pickup and taking a seat beside her.

"Hi, good looking."

"I'm sorry I'm late," Patricia said. "I tried to close the bar early, but I couldn't do it. An amorous young man insisted on walking me home. He wouldn't take no for an answer."

"Can you blame him?"

"Hush, Mr. Carson, or I'll turn you in."

Greg grinned.

"You wouldn't do that. You like me."

Patricia smiled as she pulled away.

"You presume too much."

Greg didn't think so. He knew the ginger snap from El Paso liked him and maybe even loved him. No one, he reasoned, risked their life and limb for a casual acquaintance.

As Patricia reached the end of Baja Street and turned west onto the only road leading to the ocean, Greg settled into his seat and pondered the journey ahead. He figured he had a ten-percent chance of crossing the border safely if the patrols had dogs and an eighty-percent chance if they did not. He loved dogs and wanted to raise some pit bulls when he returned to the twenty-first century, but he did not want to see any tonight. He thought about success and failure for a moment and then focused on the driver.

"Are you ready for this?"

Patricia turned her head.

"Does it matter at this point?"

"Yes," Greg said. "It does. You can still opt out of this craziness. You can drop me off right here if you want, turn around, and return to your comfortable life."

"I could."

"Then at least consider it. If at any point things get too hot for you, I want you to abandon me like a bad habit. I'll sleep better knowing you're safe."

Patricia smiled sadly.

"You presume I have a choice in the matter."

Greg stared at the driver.

"You do have a choice."

"That's where you're wrong. I could never abandon a friend or someone who helped me in a time of need," Patricia said. She sighed. "I could never abandon someone I love."

Greg turned away as he considered her statement and mentally replayed the past five weeks. He had missed signs and signals that should have been as clear as day.

Patricia was not risking it all because of gratitude or a desire to help a man in need. She was rolling the dice for love. She had burned her bridges. She was all in for him.

"You're right about one thing," Greg said. "I do presume too much. I presumed I would never hear those words from your lips. You caught me by surprise."

Patricia looked at Greg.

"I'm sorry."

"Don't be. I like surprises like that."

"I thought you might. I wanted to tell you earlier, but I never seemed to find the words or the opportunity or the courage. It takes courage to open your heart. To be perfectly honest, I have wanted to express my feelings since you saved me from those cretins."

Greg took a deep breath.

"Don't mistake gratitude for love."

Patricia smiled.

"Don't presume that I am."

Greg chuckled.

"OK."

Patricia gazed at her passenger and then returned her attention to the road, a narrow, dusty, three-mile goat trail that connected Tijuana and the beach. She looked remarkably composed for a woman about to take a serious plunge. For the next minute and a half, she did nothing except drive the truck and keep her thoughts to herself.

She stepped on the accelerator when the road became smooth and straight and took her foot off the gas when the goat trail returned to form. A moment later, she slowed to a stop in front of an arroyo, killed the engine and the lights, and turned to face the man she loved.

"This is where we part."

"So it is," Greg said.

"Are you ready?"

"I think so. I just follow the arroyo, right?"

Patricia nodded.

"Follow it for a third of a mile. Follow it until you reach a bend that veers sharply to the west. Then step out of the arroyo, walk east about two hundred yards to a large rock, and wait for your chance to cross. You'll see men on horses and maybe even men on foot. I've heard that the National Guard has added foot patrols in this sector. Wait for them to pass. Wait an hour if you must. Don't rush this. If you rush, it may be the last thing you ever do."

"Assuming I make it, then what?"

"Walk due north about a half a mile until you reach a road. Scout the area thoroughly before you step into the open. I'm told that county deputies patrol the road between midnight and six and sometimes turn off their lights. Don't let them see you."

"I won't," Greg said. "How will I find you?"

"Look for an 'abandoned' truck that looks a lot like this one. I'll tie a white handkerchief to a spoke on the front left wheel so you can identify it from a distance."

"Where will you be?"

"I'll be hiding nearby, away from the road, in case the deputies or others decide to stop and inspect the truck," Patricia said. "I'll come out when I see you."

Greg looked at her fondly.

"You've thought of everything, haven't you?"

Patricia put a hand to his face.

"I want to see you again."

"You will," Greg said. "I promise."

Patricia laughed.

"How do I know you won't run straight to San Diego and find someone else or rekindle that 'friendship' of yours with that pretty little library clerk?"

"I'll tell you how," Greg said. He picked up his carpetbag, which he had placed between his feet, and handed it to Patricia. "I'm going to leave this with you."

"What's that?"

"It is my bag of belongings. There is money in that sack, along with some maps, charts, tools, and papers that will not make any sense to you. If something happens to me, keep the cash and send the rest to my brother Adam. I left his address with Lupe."

Patricia frowned.

"Then I guess this is it."

"I guess it is."

"Be careful. Be very careful."

Greg opened his door.

"I will."

Patricia wiped away a tear.

"I mean it, Mr. Carson. I will curse your name from here to Poughkeepsie if you don't cross that border safely. Then I'll curse your mother and the dogs you want to raise."

Greg laughed.

"That's all the incentive I need."

Patricia motioned with her hand.

"Now, go!"

"Hold your horses," Greg said. He leaned toward the driver and gave her a long, tender, and deeply satisfying kiss. "That's a down payment for better things to come."

Patricia wiped away another tear.

"Just go."

Greg nodded and stepped out of the truck. He closed the door, scanned the area for soldiers and deputies, and then stuck his head back through the window.

"I'll see you on the other side."

Patricia gazed at Greg with watery eyes.

"I'm counting on it."

"Patricia?"

"Yes?"

Greg smiled.

"I love you too."

CHAPTER 56: GREG

Friday, September 20, 1918

The fugitive did as instructed. Moments after Patricia started her truck, turned around, and headed toward Tijuana, Greg stepped into the arroyo and headed toward California.

He did so knowing very well it might be his last act on earth, but he did not care. If he died tonight, he would do so knowing that a special woman loved him to tears.

Greg checked his watch, noted the time of twelve thirty-five, and then started up the riverbed with a spring in his step. The wash was as inviting as a dark alley in Chicago on a Saturday night, but it was bone dry, fairly smooth, and unoccupied. If he ran into any trouble on his short journey north, it would not happen in this arroyo.

As he proceeded north toward the river bend, under the light of the harvest moon, Greg thought about his family, Patricia, Cecilia McCain, and Pablo Fernandez. He smiled at the thought of the first group and frowned at the thought of the second. Cecilia and Pablo were complications in a life that was suddenly filled with complications.

Cecilia had continued to write. Despite Greg's written pleas to downgrade their once-steamy romance to a platonic friendship, she continued to send him letters. She had no intention of letting up until she saw him again, in person, and had a chance to "talk."

Pablo presented a different kind of problem. He had asked about Greg as an informed and interested party and not as a curious bystander. In doing so, he had raised a number of questions and concerns that Greg had either set aside or tried to forget.

Greg vowed to give Cecilia and the mystery man more attention in the coming weeks. In the meantime, he had a border to cross and a special friend to find. He looked forward to spending more time with the woman who continued to surprise and amaze him.

When he reached the bend in the waterless river, Greg stepped out of the arroyo, scouted the area for trouble, and then headed east at a steady pace. Using a compass and the stars as his guide, he located the large rock in less than five minutes. Once there, he found a place to sit, brushed some dust from his dungarees, and settled in for a long wait.

Greg did not even think about crossing early because he knew Patricia would not reach the rendezvous point until at least one thirty and because he wanted to observe the men guarding America's gate. From a quarter mile away, he could see that they moved on horses and traveled in pairs. Two teams rode their mounts in a westerly direction. Two others rode eastward toward the railroad tracks, the highway, and San Ysidro.

So for thirty minutes, Greg Carson, time traveler, fugitive, and man in love, sat on a flat rock in the most northerly reaches of Baja California and observed. It took him only a short while to see that the National Guardsmen, who rode back and forth across a two-mile stretch, passed each other at regular intervals. It was when the second teams passed each other and headed in opposite directions that Greg would have his best chance to succeed.

He waited just ten more minutes before making his move. When he saw the second teams ride toward the middle at one thirty, he got up from the rock, tied his boots, and proceeded north toward a lightly guarded border, the United States, and freedom.

Greg moved slowly at first. He did not know the terrain and did not want to step blindly into a hole or trip on a rock or a bush. As he drew closer to the border though, he thought more about his reunion with Patricia than tripping over an obstacle. By the time he reached the border itself, he thought of nothing else and broke into a full sprint.

His impatience proved costly. Seconds after crossing what he believed to be the imaginary line between the United States and Mexico, he stepped on a piece of wood and created a loud cracking sound that punctuated the night air. Before he could fully process his mistake, Greg heard men shouting, horses whinnying, and chaos ensuing. When he saw distant lights move in his direction, he ran even harder.

Greg huffed, puffed, and panicked as two teams closed in from opposite sides. Though he knew the soldiers could not determine whether man or beast ran through the darkness from two hundred yards away, he knew it did not matter. The men had no obligation to ask questions first and shoot later. They had orders to protect a border.

For more than a minute, he ran hard, kept low, and did his best to elude four horsemen pursuing a shadow. For more than a minute, he succeeded. Then he heard more shouting, a sharp report, and the sound of horses galloping. He looked for the road ahead but saw nothing but darkness, desolation, and desert. He was running out of time and hope.

Then he noticed something. Seconds after running past two large bushes, he became aware of a pain in his side. He placed his right hand on his left side and felt a sticky substance that had begun to soak his shirt. He had been shot. In the middle of his race to freedom, he had been shot in the side and rendered as helpless as a wounded deer.

Greg nonetheless pushed forward. Despite dwindling strength and sinking spirits, he willed his way another hundred yards. He ran as far as he could and as fast as he could until fatigue, pain, and resignation took their toll.

Though Greg could hear the mounted soldiers in the distance, he did not look to see if they were close. He knew they would find him. Even if it took them several hours, they would find the moving shadow and bring him to justice or haul him to a morgue.

Greg finally gave up the ghost a minute later. He pushed himself one last time, stumbled to a stop, and dropped to all fours. He wobbled for a moment like a newly born foal. Then he fell flat on his face, embraced the cold desert soil, and yielded to the night.

CHAPTER 57: PATRICIA

San Diego County, California

Patricia heard the shot mere seconds after parking her truck. She did not know who did the shooting or why, but she had a pretty good idea. The National Guard had tried to stop someone from entering the country illegally and may very well have succeeded.

She tied her white hanky to the truck's front left wheel, walked across the dark and lonely road, and slowly headed south into a dangerous expanse. Though she had no desire to walk into a situation that might get her killed, she had no intention of abandoning her new love either. She had committed to him in more ways than one. His fight was now hers.

Even so, Patricia did not rush into trouble. She stopped about fifty yards from the road and carefully surveyed her surroundings. She saw more than enough to give her pause.

Four horsemen, divided into two distinct groups, rode toward her from a distance of about six hundred yards. Each carried flashlights. All hotly pursued someone or something.

Patricia crouched to make herself less visible and then watched the action closely as the men came together in the middle of the expanse, exchanged words, and fanned out in four directions. Though she did not see anyone else in the area, she knew instinctively that someone was in the area and that that someone probably needed help.

Unable to do anything but watch and wait, she did just that. She walked to a nearby clearing, sat on the cool desert floor, and waited for the opportunity to do something.

She did not have to wait long. Fifteen minutes after the horsemen separated and began searching the area, they assembled again, spoke to each other, and rode back toward the southern border they were sworn to defend. They returned to their stations and resumed their regular patrols. At one fifty-five, Patricia O'Rourke was able to safely advance.

Slowly, cautiously, and quietly, she walked through the arid field, scanned the area with attentive eyes, and searched for the man she knew was out there. She scanned and searched until she was convinced that it was safe to call out and inform Greg Carson that a friend, his only friend on this unforgiving night, had come to help him.

"Greg? Are you out there? Greg?"

Patricia listened for a reply. When she did not hear one, she called out again in a louder voice. She repeated the words until she heard what sounded like a moan. The cantina-owner-turned-fugitive-enabler rushed to the source of the sound and quickly found what she feared she might discover. She saw her friend lying face down on the ground.

"Greg? Are you all right?"

Greg moaned.

"I've been shot."

Patricia dropped to the ground and carefully rolled Greg over on his back. She needed only a few seconds to see that he had been shot in the side and needed immediate attention if not immediate treatment. Blood oozed from an exit wound about the size of quarter.

"I have to move you," Patricia said. "I have to get you to the truck, but I can't do it without your help. You have to get up, Greg. You have to get up."

Seemingly moved by her words, the wounded man did just that. He rolled to his belly, pushed himself up with his hands, and slowly got to his knees. When Patricia wrapped her arm around his back and tried to lift him to his feet, he helped her out. He rose to his feet just as she was about to concede she could not move him at all.

"Put your arm around my shoulders and do your best to stand," Patricia said. "If you can stand, I can do the rest. We have only a short way to go. Can you stand?"

Greg nodded.

"Just guide the way."

"I will," Patricia said.

So she did. For the next ten minutes, the five-foot-four-inch, 120-pound proprietor guided her six-foot, 190-pound friend through sagebrush and weeds to a pickup parked a hundred yards away. Patricia thanked her lucky stars that the San Diego County Sheriff's Department, normally out in force, had apparently taken the night off.

When the two reached the Model TT, Patricia leaned Greg against the side of the truck, opened the door to the cab, and retrieved two wool blankets and a folded bed sheet she had intended to use at the safe house. A moment later, she ran to the back of the truck, opened the gate, and spread the blankets evenly across the unoccupied bed. Then she returned to Greg, threw her arm around his back, and helped him onto the blankets.

"This will have to do for now," Patricia said.

Greg grimaced.

"I'll be fine."

Patricia grabbed the clean white sheet where she had left it and handed it to the bleeding man. She could see from the pain on his face that he was struggling.

"Press the sheet against your wound. Even if it hurts, keep pressing. Do what you can to contain the bleeding. I'll do what I can to get you to a better place."

"Sounds good," Greg said. He winced. "Just hurry."

Patricia nodded and kissed his cheek. Then she scrambled out of the back of the pickup, flipped up the gate, and climbed into the cab. As she started the truck, grabbed the wheel, and pulled away from the edge of the road, she noticed the lights of an oncoming vehicle.

What else? Patricia asked herself.

She slowed her speed to about thirty miles per hour and then eyed the car closely as it approached from a distance of a quarter mile. She knew if the driver were a cop, he would stop the truck, inspect the bed, and place two people in jail. For a moment, she pined for the simpler days of her youth and even the simpler days of July.

Patricia braced herself for the worst when the car drew to within fifty yards. When the lights of the vehicle hit her eyes, she tightened her grip on the wheel, veered as far as she could to the right side of the road, and continued westward at a steady clip.

She gulped when she looked in her mirror and saw that the car, a new Model T with markings on the back, had slowed to a stop. She suspected it was only a matter of time before its driver turned around and investigated his fellow night owl. She reached for a gun she had left on the passenger seat but wondered if she had the courage to use it.

In the end, she did not have to answer the question. The other driver pulled away and continued his eastward journey toward San Ysidro. Patricia continued her westward journey toward a safe house in Coronado five miles away. At two twenty on a quiet Friday morning, she could finally exhale. God and man had cut her a break.

CHAPTER 58: GREG

Coronado, California

Greg did not ask for acetaminophen, ibuprofen, or naproxen. He knew they did not yet exist and would not for decades. Nor would a host of other medications that might have reduced at least some of his discomfort. When you were a fugitive from the law in the age of Woodrow Wilson, you did not have a lot of painkilling options at your disposal.

Despite this unfortunate situation, he could not complain. He had made it. Even with a bullet hole in his left side, a sprained ankle, and assorted cuts and bruises, he had entered the United States and remained a step ahead of those who wanted to put him away.

Greg also had the loving attention of the best nurse west of the Pecos and perhaps west of the Hudson. Five hours and fifteen minutes into what was already the longest morning of his life, he was not about to quibble about Patricia O'Rourke's qualifications.

He looked at the bandage taped to his side and then at his caregiver, who sat in a chair next to his single bed. Even after dragging him to her truck, driving him to a safe house, and dressing his wound three times, she looked like a million bucks.

"Thank you," Greg said. He adjusted his pillows and sat upright. "Few people would have done what you did tonight. None I know could have done it as well."

Patricia dabbed his forehead with a wet cloth.

"You must have a fever. You're babbling again."

Greg fixed his gaze on his friend.

"I'm serious. Thank you for following through with the plan. You invited a lot of trouble for yourself when you pulled me out of that field and drove me here."

Patricia smiled.

"I invited trouble when I pulled you out of jail ."

Greg chuckled.

"I suppose you did."

Patricia put a hand to his face.

"You should rest."

"I would rather talk to you."

"Then talk to me now. I won't be here later."

"Why not?" Greg asked. "Are you leaving?"

Patricia nodded.

"I have to slip back in my house before sunrise. If I don't, I'll have a difficult time convincing Chief Figueroa and others that I slept in my bed all night."

"What about the border agents?"

"What about them? The men who waved me through at one fifteen will not be the ones who wave me through at six fifteen. New agents come on at six."

Greg frowned.

"When will you return?"

"If all goes well, I'll be back on Tuesday," Patricia said. "I have a lot of business to attend to and a lot of people to meet. I imagine the police will want to speak to me all weekend."

"What should I do?"

"You should stay here."

"Where is here?" Greg asked.

"You are in the beach home of Daniel and Molly Pierce, high school classmates of mine who now practice law in San Francisco. They spend their summers here and let me use the place whenever I want in the off-season. They left town three weeks ago and won't be back before Christmas at the earliest. So you have the house to yourself."

"What if I need something?"

Patricia dabbed Greg's forehead again.

"Ernesto Herrera will take care of it. I asked him to check on you at least twice a day until I return. Don't be surprised if he checks on you three times. He's very thorough."

Greg tilted his head.

"Who, pray tell, is Ernesto?"

"He's Lupe's cousin and a man I trust. He lives about a mile down the road with his wife and three daughters, who know nothing of your existence."

"What about the neighbors? Do they know Ernesto?"

"They do not," Patricia said, "but they do know me. I told the Hunters and the Mills that a handyman will stop by this weekend to fix some plumbing and electrical problems. I spoke to them on Tuesday and gave them Ernesto's name and the address of his contracting business. I told them I would be back myself in about a week."

"Once again, you've thought of everything."

"I only wish that were true. Among other things, I haven't thought of how I will explain you to the neighbors if they see you. So it's probably best if they don't see you at all."

"I understand," Greg said.

Patricia dropped the cloth in a small pan on the floor and then checked her handiwork one last time. She peeled back part of Greg's bandage, examined his wound for a few seconds, and replaced the old bandage with a new one. When she finished taping him up, she put the used bandage in the pocket of her dirty dress, reached out, and took his hands.

"How are you feeling?"

As Greg pondered an answer to that surprisingly complicated question, he admired the woman before him. He wondered whether their special friendship, now an affectionate relationship, had a future and whether that future had been predicted in advance.

Flattered by the attention Greg had given her in 1889, forty-year-old Julia Jamison had said she envied the woman who would someday steal his heart. Then she offered a bold prediction that seemed almost prescient in hindsight.

"Your match, the love of your life, is as real as the land and the sky. You may not find her for a while or even recognize her when she's standing right in front of you, but you'll find her. Or she'll find you. One way or another, two smart, tough, beautiful people will end up together, and when they do, the world as they know it will never be the same."

Was Patricia the one? Greg asked himself. Was this smart, tough, beautiful woman from Texas the one he had waited for? He was starting to think so. In a matter of weeks, she had challenged and inspired him and prompted him to take stock of his life. He pondered some big questions for a moment and then returned to the little one before him.

"I'm feeling fine for a person with a bullet hole in his side," Greg said. "If you leave a bottle of whiskey next to the bed, I'm sure I'll feel much better."

"You need sleep, not liquor, but if you want the second after getting the first, you can find it in the kitchen," Patricia said. She gazed at her patient. "I left some food for you too."

Greg smiled.

"That's what I love about you. You're thorough."

Patricia laughed softly, but she did not reply to the comment. She instead checked her watch, straightened the bed covers, and reclaimed Greg's hands.

"I have to go."

Greg took a deep breath.

"This is the part I hate."

"I don't care for it either," Patricia said.

"Then stay."

"I can't do that, but I can do something else."

"What's that?" Greg asked.

"I can make you a promise. I will stay in Tijuana only as long as I have to. I'll finish my business and come back to you," Patricia said. She lifted her hands out of Greg's, put them to his face, and gave him a tender kiss. "And when I do, I'll come back to you for good."

CHAPTER 59: NATALIE

Vittel, France – Monday, September 23, 1918

The Hotel Ceres, the crown jewel of United States Army Base Hospital 36, was not as large or as imposing as the Spalding in Duluth, but what it lacked in size, it more than made up for in style. The massive French château, a tribute to several architectural styles, featured six floors, nearly two hundred rooms, and almost as many amenities as a hotel on the Las Vegas Strip. Converted from a summer resort to a military facility at the start of the war, it was Vittel's pride and joy and an ambitious American reporter's new workplace.

Natalie admired the outside of the hotel for a moment and then continued up a wide walkway to the building's entrance, where Marcie Moreau, her liaison and primary contact, waited near the door. She had met Marcie, a twenty-six-year-old registered nurse from Detroit, at a press briefing earlier that day and looked forward to seeing her again.

"Sorry I'm late," Natalie said as she reached the door. "I would have been here twenty minutes ago, but my orientation ran long. Colonel Williamson gave a lengthy speech."

"I knew he would," Marcie said. She smiled. "That's why I waited a while before coming out to greet you. I didn't expect you to see you before two thirty at the earliest."

"I can tell you've done this before."

"I've done it many times, Miss Carson."

"Please call me Natalie."

"I will if you call me Marcie. Just don't let the senior nurses hear you. They are as strict about procedure and protocol as the officers and the doctors."

Natalie paused and stepped aside as a small group of officers spilled out of the building and walked briskly toward a waiting car. She knew they were officers not only by the bars on their uniforms but also by the stern looks on their faces. Wars did not generate smiles.

"I'll keep that in mind," Natalie said.

Marcie looked at her guest.

"Are you ready?"

"I think so."

"Then let's begin."

Thus began the tour. For more than an hour, Marcie showed Natalie the centerpiece of the largest base hospital in France and one of the largest in the world. She showed her the administrative offices, meeting spaces, and telegraph room on the first floor; the dining, entertaining, and recreation areas on the second; and the dedicated wards on the third.

Natalie frowned when Marcie led her past windows that offered glimpses of the burn, rehabilitation, and contagious diseases wards. She had not seen as much suffering and misery since walking through Johnstown in the aftermath of its flood.

The sights and sounds in the contagious diseases ward, where more than two hundred men battled for their lives, made the largest impression on the visiting reporter. They were disturbing evidence that bugs were as deadly as bullets in this volatile part of the world.

As Marcie led her from the third floor to the fourth, Natalie thought about her siblings and her parents. She knew they were as vulnerable to the flu as the soldiers in France, despite their twenty-first-century immunities and knowledge of the past. She hoped they applied at least some of that knowledge to staying healthy and safe.

Marcie slowed her tour to a crawl on the fourth floor. She gave Natalie detailed descriptions of the surgical and post-operative areas and even an X-ray room that was a shining example of state-of-the-art medicine in 1918 and the talk of the hospital.

Along the way, Marcie, a pretty blonde with bright blue eyes and a disarming smile, introduced Natalie to other nurses, doctors, and administrators. She seemed eager to tell the visiting journalist, a woman making inroads in a man's world, what she and others did for America's fighting men in this scenic but dangerous part of northeastern France.

Ten minutes later, at three thirty, the nurse led the reporter to the large recovery room on the sixth floor, the final stop on her informative and enlightening tour. It was here that Marcie introduced Natalie to some of the bedridden men she would interview for articles that would be published throughout the Midwest and perhaps the rest of the country.

For the next thirty minutes, Natalie met and spoke to the cream of the Allies' crop, the fighting men of the American Expeditionary Forces. She spoke to soldiers from all parts of the United States, including three from Arizona, two from the newly minted territory of the U.S. Virgin Islands, and one who looked like her dashing and adventurous middle brother.

Natalie made the most of the opportunity to meet and greet the bona fide heroes until she reached the end of the room and presumably the end of the tour. She looked forward to coming back and spending time with these engaging young men.

"Is that all for today?" Natalie asked.

"That's up to you," Marcie said. "There is a smaller auxiliary recovery room that opened across the hallway last week. I can show it to you, if you would like."

"I would love to see it."

"Then follow me."

So Natalie did. She followed the nurse across a sterile hallway to a twenty-by-thirty-foot room that faced the sunny western sky. As she entered the chamber, she noticed that its patients appeared to have fresher wounds and sadder faces. She quickly concluded that they were the newest inductees into a club that few rational people wanted to join.

Marcie did not disturb those men who seemed lost in their thoughts. She instead made a beeline toward two soldiers in the corner of the room who appeared as happy as clams in a sea filled with gin. She waited for the men to acknowledge their female visitors and then made two introductions that would change the course of Natalie's life.

"I'm sorry to interrupt your conversation, gentlemen, but I would like to introduce you to a lady who will be spending a lot of time here in the next several weeks."

The first man smiled.

"I'm listening."

Marcie smiled.

"This, Lieutenant Jackson, is Miss Natalie Carson. She is a reporter with the Minneapolis Post who will be interviewing wounded soldiers this fall. She is part of a press group from the Midwest that was sent here to cover what we hope will be the end of the war."

The lieutenant offered a hand.

"I'm Tom Jackson. It's nice to meet you."

Natalie shook his hand.

"It's nice to meet you too. Where are you from?"

"I'm from a couple places," Tom said. "I grew up in Gettysburg, Pennsylvania, but I've spent most of the past six years in Syracuse, New York, where I attended college."

Natalie cocked her head.

"Do you know an Emma Jackson from Gettysburg?"

Tom grinned.

"I sure do. She's my mother."

Natalie laughed as she thought of Tom's chipper reply and a line from Casablanca , one of her favorite movies. Of all the hospitals, in all the towns, she had to walk into one treating one of the very people she had come to see. She gazed at Tom with amusement.

"Then it's a small world, Tom Jackson. I know her."

"You know my mother ?"

"I visited her earlier this month. I'm the oldest daughter of Cody Carson and the niece of Caitlin Carson, two of your mother's high school classmates. My younger siblings, who are named after my father and my aunt, are in Gettysburg now. Your mom has sort of adopted them for the summer and the fall. So have Freddie and Greta."

Tom widened his eyes.

"I can't believe it."

"Believe it," Natalie said. "Your mother sends her love."

"How is she doing?"

"She's doing well as far as I can tell. You can find out for sure in the letters she asked me to mail from France. If you wish, I can bring them on my next visit."

"Please do," Tom said. "This is amazing."

"I don't have any letters from Freddie and Greta, but I can tell you a few things about them too. Let's set aside some time to talk about your family this week."

"Let's do."

Natalie did not ask Tom why he was in the hospital, but she suspected it had something to do with his right knee. She noticed that he favored it when he shifted in his bed.

Marcie did not offer an explanation either. Perhaps bound by patient confidentiality or simple good taste, she focused instead on the matter at hand. As soon as the conversation between Natalie and Tom hit a lull, she proceeded with the second introduction.

"This officer is also a recent college graduate," Marcie said. "Lieutenant Henry Miller graduated from the University of Minnesota. He hails from Mankato, I believe."

Henry smiled.

"You have an excellent memory."

"Thank you," Marcie said.

Henry extended his hand.

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Miss Carson."

Natalie shook his hand.

"The pleasure is mine."

"It's nice to meet a fellow Minnesotan," Henry said as he sat up straight. "If you write for the Post , you must be pretty good. It's the best paper in the state."

Natalie nodded and muttered a few words, but she did not comment further on the officer's observation or even talk more about Minnesota. She instead searched the recesses of her mind for a name that suddenly seemed very important.

"Lieutenant Miller?"

"Yes."

"Do you mind if I ask you a personal question?"

"Of course not," Henry said. "Ask away."

"Are you engaged?"

Marcie looked at Natalie.

"That's not an appropriate question."

Henry smiled.

"I don't mind answering it."

Marcie frowned.

"Then do as you wish."

Henry looked at Natalie.

"I am engaged, Miss Carson. I'm engaged to a beautiful woman from Duluth. We plan to get married in a double wedding in her hometown as soon as the war is over."

"What's your fiancée's name?"

"It's Camille Anderson. Why do you ask?"

Natalie smiled as she looked at her great-granduncle, one of two grooms in an iconic family photo that still hung in a den in Flagstaff, Arizona, in the distant year of 2017. She could not believe she had won the time-travel jackpot with one pull of the slot machine.

"I'll tell you later."

"Why not now?" Henry asked.

Natalie laughed and sighed.

"Let's just say I have my reasons."

CHAPTER 60: GREG

Coronado, California – Tuesday, September 24, 1918

Greg ignored the pain in his side as he carried a bottle of burgundy to a candlelit table, poured two glasses, and took a seat opposite a woman who had just returned to California with stories he could not wait to hear. He paused for a moment to let his lamb-and-potatoes dinner cool and then gazed at the ravishing redhead in the beige evening dress.

"I take it you finished your business."

Patricia smiled.

"I finished a lot of things."

Greg sipped his wine.

"I'm just happy to see you again. Until I saw you drive up, I was afraid the Mexicans, or at least the ones with badges, had decided to keep you as a souvenir."

"You're maligning the wrong people," Patricia said. "The police are the good guys in this case. The men you should fear are the ones who wear suits and carry briefcases."

Greg folded his hands.

"Do tell."

"Do you want the long version or the short?"

"I want everything."

Patricia took a deep breath.

"All right then, I'll tell you everything. Friday, as I'm sure you can imagine, was a circus. It was more than a circus. It was a nonstop conjuncture of chaos."

"What happened?"

"Everything happened. From the moment the police came for you at seven o'clock to the moment the California delegation left town, Tijuana was a madhouse. When the police couldn't find you, they came knocking on my door. I was ready for them, of course. I told them I hadn't seen you since Wednesday and didn't know where you were."

Greg finished a bite of lamb.

"Did they believe you?"

"I think so," Patricia said. "They didn't question my story, though they would have had they inspected the truck. They would have found your blood all over the bed."

"Where are the blankets and the sheet?"

"I tossed them in a garbage can in San Ysidro."

Greg smiled.

"You should be a criminal."

Patricia raised a brow.

"Why is that?"

"You would be a good one," Greg said. "Instead of burying the evidence or throwing it in the ocean, you left it in a place that will lead the police in the other direction."

Patricia shook her head.

"I'm beginning to question my affection for you."

Greg chuckled.

"Please don't. I value it."

Patricia stared at him.

"I certainly hope so."

Greg laughed to himself as he gazed at his playful companion. Though he was eager to get the answers to his many questions, he was in no hurry. He was enjoying the back-and-forth banter as much as the actual exchange of information.

"What happened after the police left?"

"The circus moved to the station. The congressman, the prosecutor, and several reporters arrived at ten expecting to find you in custody. When Chief Figueroa told them you couldn't be found, the bigwigs started yelling and pointing fingers. They didn't let up until a National Guard commander arrived at eleven thirty. He reported that soldiers on the American side had fired on an intruder early Friday morning."

"Then what?"

"Then I got involved again," Patricia said. "I wanted to stay out of the spotlight, but I jumped back in when the congressman met with the press. He told them that a 'violent criminal' was running free and urged the reporters to join the hunt. I was afraid of what that might mean for you, so I met with the reporters privately and reminded them of the facts in the case. To no one's surprise, they quickly lost interest in the story. No one, not even the congressman's sycophants, wanted to pursue a man who had shot a rapist."

Greg looked at her with pure affection.

"Thank you."

"Don't thank me," Patricia said. "Thank the reporters and their editors. They are the reason you didn't see any articles in the papers this weekend. If they had blared your name and mine on the front pages, we might both be in jail now."

"What about the Mexicans? Have they lost interest in the case? Or do they want me arrested and extradited for crimes against humanity?"

"Only the prosecutor wants your scalp."

Greg lowered his fork.

"What about Figueroa? Does he?"

Patricia shook her head.

"If he did, he doesn't anymore."

"I don't follow."

"On Saturday, after the politicians, the prosecutor, and the press left town, I paid a visit to the chief and donated a thousand dollars to his retirement fund."

"You didn't have to do that," Greg said. "Don't get me wrong. I appreciate the gesture, but I think you wasted your money. I have no intention of returning to Mexico."

"You're missing something."

"What's that?"

"The chief knows we like each other," Patricia said. She paused. "He has known since the beginning. He also knows that I drove out of town early Friday morning and returned to my house just before sunrise. He knows I am with you now."

"Then why pay him the money?"

"I did it for two reasons. The first was to thank him for treating you fairly while the prosecutor weighed charges against you. The chief could have arrested you at any time. The second reason was to keep him quiet. I don't want him saying anything to anyone who asks about us. My 'investment' in his future should guarantee he does not."

Greg took a deep breath.

"Did anyone else ask about me?"

Patricia nodded.

"Two people did. The first, a colonel, told Figueroa that the Army still wants to know your draft status and background. The brass in San Diego doesn't like it when draft dodgers and deserters slip through their fingers. For that reason alone, we have to be careful."

Greg glanced at his wound and chuckled.

"You are a mistress of understatement."

"Watch it, buster."

"Who was the second person?"

Patricia sipped her wine.

"He was a detective with the Arizona state police. He asked to see your apartment, your arrest records, and your mug shot. He wanted to know if you were the same Greg Carson who killed two ranchers near Prescott in 1889. He left town convinced you were not."

"That's a relief."

"I should say so. You're weren't alive in 1889."

Greg took a moment to digest this news. Though he was happy to hear that the detective had left Tijuana satisfied, he was not happy to hear that Arizona police were still investigating a twenty-nine-year-old crime. He wondered if he would ever be free of it.

"What about that trader?" Greg asked. "From what you told me, he was very interested in my whereabouts. What's he going to do if he returns to the cantina and doesn't find you behind the bar? You were supposed to meet him tonight, remember?"

"I remember. I've been thinking about him all week. I don't know what he's going to do if and when he comes back, but I do know one thing. If he presses Lupe or her daughters or the chief for answers, he won't get any. He won't get anything but shrugs."

"I hope so. We don't want any unexpected visitors."

Patricia eyed her dinner companion.

"Have you told anyone about your situation?"

Greg shook his head.

"I'm going to though. I'm going to write to my siblings tonight. I think I should update them on some changes in my life."

"I do too."

"Can you take the letters to the post office?"

"Of course," Patricia said.

"Then I'll have them ready by eight in the morning. Send them by airmail if you can. I want them to arrive as soon as possible."

"What's airmail?"

Greg laughed to himself. He did not know if airmail existed or not. He did know that he had a big mouth and needed to be more careful.

"It's something you'll love."

"Are you being difficult on purpose?"

"Yes."

"I was afraid of that," Patricia said. "Is there anything else you want me to do? If so, just tell me. I seem to have a lot of time on my hands now."

"There is one thing."

"What?"

"I want you to answer a question."

"Oh? What is that?"

"If you finished your business with the police and the press on Saturday, why did you wait until today to come back?" Greg asked. "What kept you in Tijuana?"

"Lupe kept me."

"I don't understand."

"I gave her El Fugitivo. I wanted to give Lupe and her family financial security, so I took the necessary steps. I met with a lawyer, signed some papers, and set up a bank account. Then I said goodbye. Leaving those women was the hardest thing I've ever done."

Greg stared at Patricia.

"I want to be clear about something. Did you do that for me? Did you do all that and more for a man you have known less than two months?"

Patricia smiled sadly.

"I did it for you and me."

"I'm overwhelmed," Greg said. "I'm overwhelmed, honored, humbled, and everything in between. No one has ever committed to me like this. I don't know what to say."

"You don't have to say a thing."

"Are you really sure about this?"

Patricia nodded.

"I know there are many people, including my grandparents and most of my friends, who would disapprove of my actions. They would remind me of my past experiences and warn me against investing too much too soon in any one man. They would tell me I'm foolish and maybe insane, but even if they did, I would not change my course."

Greg frowned.

"I feel insufficient. I've done nothing for you."

"That's not true. You've taught me that life is meant for living, even if it involves hardship, risk, and pain. You've reminded me that the past is not the present and that the future is what we make of it," Patricia said. She took Greg's hand. "You've opened my eyes."

CHAPTER 61: TIM

Tijuana, Mexico – Thursday, September 26, 1918

Tim glared at the chief of police.

"What do you mean he left town?"

"I mean he left town," Alejandro Figueroa said. He leaned back in his chair, folded his hands, and looked indifferently at his visitor. "The man you call your son left last week."

"You mean he escaped last week. He eluded you and your men hours before you were supposed to arrest him and hold him for trial. Is that right?"

"We all make mistakes."

"Where is he now?"

"I do not know."

Tim leaned forward.

"I don't believe you."

Figueroa stared at his accuser.

"Believe what you wish."

"What about the woman? Where is she?"

"I do not know that either. Señorita O'Rourke left Tijuana on Tuesday after settling her affairs. She did not, as you gringos like to say, leave a forwarding address."

Tim shook his head in disgust. Then he glanced at his wife, who sat next to him in front of the chief's ornate oak desk, and saw that she had her own issues.

Caroline Carson battled tears as she stared at a "wanted" photo of Greg Carson that she held in her hands. On this cool, crisp day, her thirty-first wedding anniversary, she seemed as rattled and unnerved by recent developments as her argumentative husband.

As he pondered Caroline's tears and the chief's flippant replies, Tim asked himself the obvious questions. Why had he trusted Antonio's instincts over his own? Why had Greg not done more to find his parents? Why had he not left behind a single clue that might help those parents find him now? They had left clues for him.

Then there was the mystery woman, Patricia Anne O'Rourke, a college dropout from El Paso who had come to Tijuana in early 1915 and opened a cantina for misfits. Where was she right now? Was she with Greg? Were they an item? If so, what were their plans?

Tim did not know the answers to any of these questions. All he knew was that the resourceful Miss O'Rourke had covered her tracks on her way out of town.

Pablo Fernandez had said as much when he had met with Tim and Caroline at their hotel room in Coronado on Wednesday. He had gone to El Fugitivo Tuesday night expecting to find the old owner and answers. He instead found the new owner and excuses.

Lupe Guerrero did not tell Pablo how to contact her close friend, former supervisor, and benefactor. She told him only that gin fizzes were now half price on Tuesdays and that he could come back anytime. The new boss sounded an awful lot like the old one.

Tim took a deep breath as he considered the futility of it all. He wondered when he and Caroline would ever get a break in the so far fruitless search for their children. He weighed their limited options for a moment and then turned again to the man with the badge.

"Are you a father, chief?"

Figueroa rubbed his hands.

"I am."

Tim fixed his gaze on the cop.

"Then surely you understand my frustration."

"I do," Figueroa said. He tilted his head. "What I do not understand is why a man of means cannot find his own son or why a resourceful son cannot find his father. I suspect that you are the one who is keeping secrets, señor — not me."

Tim smiled sadly.

"Touché."

The chief sighed.

"I do not know where your son is hiding. Nor, I suspect, do the authorities in California or the other forty-seven of your magnificent states. Like our prosecutor and your army, they are all chasing a fugitive now, a man without a home or a country. Go speak to others in your family. Go speak to friends. Perhaps they can tell you things I cannot."

"I'm not speaking to them now," Tim said in a testy voice. "I'm speaking to another father whom I believe is deliberately withholding information from me. I didn't come here expecting to find all the answers, but I had hoped to leave with at least a few."

"Then I will give you one."

Caroline lifted her head.

"What is that, Chief?"

"I saw your son and the woman together many times. On each occasion, they seemed happy and at ease with each other. They laughed and smiled. They reminded me of my wife and me when we were that age. They reminded me of people in love."

Tim jumped back in.

"What are you telling us?"

"I am telling you what you should already know," Figueroa said. "If you want to find him, then look for her. When you find the girl, you will find the boy."

CHAPTER 62: NATALIE

Vittel, France – Friday, September 27, 1918

"So how many Germans did you kill before they shot up your knee? Ten? Twenty? Seventy-seven? Don't be shy now, Lieutenant," Natalie said as she sat in a chair between two familiar hospital beds. "Your adoring public wants red meat."

Tom Jackson chuckled.

"You are as funny as you are beautiful, Miss Carson. It's a wonder they let you leave Minnesota without an escort. You're more dangerous than a mechanized division."

"Don't let the nurses hear you talk like that. They will discharge you today and send you back to the front. You don't want that now, do you?"

"As a matter of fact, I do. I have already put in a request to rejoin my father, my brother, and the rest of my unit at the earliest opportunity."

Natalie lowered her notepad to her lap.

"That depresses me."

"Why?" Tom asked. He sat up in his bed. "Why would you not want me to rejoin the fight and help put an end to this ugly war as soon as possible?"

Natalie smiled sadly.

"I guess it's because I would rather see you return safely to your mother and your siblings in Pennsylvania. You've done your part, Lieutenant. Let someone else do his."

Tom looked at the reporter with affection.

"I see my mother got to you. She does that to people. She gazes at them with her big puppy dog eyes and gets them to think the way she does in no time."

"She just wants you back in one piece. She didn't say much about the war when I was in Gettysburg, but I could tell she was thinking about it. She changed the subject almost every time I brought it up. She's terrified something will happen to you."

"She's always terrified. She's been that way since I was five and learned how to swim in the pond down the road. She was sure the leeches would get me."

Natalie laughed.

"She's a mother."

Tom smiled.

"Yes, she is. She's a good one, too, but she worries too much. If she knew the caliber of the men I serve with, she would worry a lot less."

Natalie digested the predictable comment and then took a moment to study the man in the hospital bed. She could see why he had a string of girlfriends back home.

Born, like Greg Carson, on the Fourth of July, twenty-four-year-old Thomas Preston Jackson Jr. was intelligent, engaging, and too handsome for his own good. He had his mother's brown hair, blue eyes, and dimples that could stop a streetcar. He was also, like many young men his age, optimistic and confident, perhaps too much so in this time of war.

"Your mother was right about one thing."

"What's that?" Tom asked.

"You're the charmer in the family."

"How can you say that, Miss Carson? You haven't met my father or my oldest brother. Cal puts me to shame with the ladies. He has twice the looks and half the brains."

Natalie laughed.

"Were you born this way?"

A male voice rang out.

"He was."

Natalie turned around and saw Henry Miller and Marcie Moreau walk her way. She noticed that both the soldier and the nurse wore smiles.

"Are you sure, Lieutenant?"

Henry grinned.

"I am, Miss Carson. I can't prove it, of course. I didn't grow up with this critter, but if I had to bet a month's pay that Lieutenant Jackson was born that way, I'd do it."

Marcie helped Henry into his bed, adjusted his covers, and fluffed his pillows. Then she looked at the reporter, a regular visitor, with eyes that reflected amusement and envy.

"Are you keeping Tom in his place?"

Natalie smiled.

"I'm not sure that's possible."

"Oh, it is. You just have to remind him that he's only a man and not the center of the universe," Marcie said. She glanced at the grinning Pennsylvanian and then at Natalie. "If he oversteps his bounds, let me know. We hold our patients to the highest standards."

"Then I'll keep both of them honest."

"You do that. In the meantime, let me know if you need anything. I've been instructed by my superiors to make your visits as pleasant as possible."

"Thank you," Natalie said. She looked at the friendly nurse. "I'll keep your offer in mind when I visit the other patients. I think these two are fairly maintenance-free."

Marcie laughed.

"Then I'll leave you to your work."

Natalie watched her liaison exit the room and then turned to the man she had wanted to speak to for days. She had said very little to Henry Miller since meeting him for the first time on Monday and wanted to change that today. She smiled when he smiled at her.

"Where have you been?"

Henry sighed.

"I've been walking the grounds. I do it twice a day to relieve my high blood pressure and what my doctors call arrhythmia. My ticker no longer runs like a Swiss watch."

Natalie eyed him with concern.

"Then why don't they send you home?"

"They plan to," Henry said. "My discharge is in the works. Unlike Spartacus over there, I'm done fighting and plan to be home by Christmas. I would like to be home sooner, but I'm not holding my breath. As you know, the Army moves as slow as a sloth on ice."

Natalie laughed.

"That's pretty slow."

Henry looked at her more closely.

"What have you been doing this morning? Have you been listening to Tom's tall tales or doing something productive? I certainly hope it's the latter."

"If you must know, we have mostly talked about life back home," Natalie said. "We both agree he has a mother who worries about him night and day."

Henry frowned.

"You can add my mother, three sisters, and fiancée to that list. They do nothing but worry in their letters. If they knew the caliber of my comrades and the competence of the doctors and nurses at this hospital, they would worry a lot less."

"Lieutenant Jackson said something similar."

"Well, it's true. We're surrounded by good people."

"I'm happy to hear that," Natalie said. "I can only imagine how difficult it would be to be here if you weren't surrounded by good people. War is tough enough."

Henry looked at Tom.

"I could listen to her all day."

Tom laughed.

"I could look at her all day."

Natalie turned her head.

"Behave yourself, Lieutenant. I can still report you."

Tom smiled.

"I apologize, ma'am. I forget myself sometimes."

"It's all right," Natalie said. "You're male. I understand."

Henry laughed like a boy watching two comedians interact. He seemed to enjoy the playful exchange as much as his walks around the building. He gave Tom a knowing glance and then turned his attention to the woman in the dark blue dress and matching hat.

"Say, Miss Carson, when are you going to interview me?" Henry asked with an accent that screamed Fargo . "You've been here five days and haven't asked me a thing."

Tom chuckled.

"That's because you have nothing to say."

"Shut it, you," Henry said. He looked at Natalie. "I'm serious. When are you going to ask me about the war? Or, better yet, when are you going to tell me why you wanted to know my fiancée's name the other day? I've been thinking about that all week."

Natalie paused before answering the second question. She did not want to rush a reply that might make or break her new friendship with an important relative.

"I asked you her name because I was pretty sure I had met her," Natalie said. "As it turns out, I have. I met her four weeks ago when I visited some relatives."

"You met Camille ?" Henry asked.

Natalie nodded.

"I met her parents too. We all had dinner at their cabin one night. Ollie and Mamie are two of the nicest people I have ever met."

Tom leaned forward.

"Let me get this straight. You had dinner with my mother and his fiancée, this summer, and we didn't know you from Martha Washington until you came here on Monday?"

"That's right," Natalie said.

"Lady, you get around."

Henry furrowed his brow.

"I still don't understand how you met them."

Natalie took a moment to consider her reply. She knew she had to be careful when discussing her family in front of both men. If she explained how she had met the Andersons, she would have to mention a brother who could not be her brother — or at least a twenty-eight-year-old brother born to Emma Jackson's high school sweetheart. Even the friskiest of men did not start their families at the tender age of eighteen. So she expanded on the lie that Cody, Caitlin, and Emma had crafted in Gettysburg and changed her brother's status.

"My cousin Adam introduced us. He and his wife, Bridget, moved into a cabin just down the road from the Andersons. They have all become good friends this summer."

"I guess so," Henry said.

Natalie smiled.

"If I had known what I know now, I would have brought some letters or even a jar or two of Mamie's preserves. I could have brought a lot of things."

Henry shook his head.

"I still can't believe you saw them."

"Well, I did. They all looked happy, healthy, and content. I think all three like living in the woods. They didn't speak once about returning to Duluth."

"I believe it."

"In any case, they are all doing well and keeping busy," Natalie said. "Mamie and Camille are already planning the wedding, with some long-distance help from Elsie and even a little assistance from Bridget. All they need now are a couple of grooms."

Henry smiled and sighed.

"You and I need to talk."

"We will. We will soon."

"Why not now?"

"I have work to do, that's why."

Tom laughed.

"I told you she was all business."

"That's not true, Lieutenant. I came here today for business and pleasure, but the Post pays me only for business, so I better at least pay lip service to that."

Henry folded his hands.

"Then how can I help you, Miss Carson?"

"I'll tell you how. You can tell me something my readers will eat up," Natalie said. She lifted her notepad and pencil and looked at Henry. "You can tell me a war story."

CHAPTER 63: GREG

Coronado, California – Monday, September 30, 1918

For the first time since coming to the safe-house-by-the-sea, Greg saw the night sky, felt the sand beneath his feet, and enjoyed a lengthy walk with a beautiful woman. He was happy to do all three. After eleven days of hiding and recuperating in his new home away from home, he was ready for a change and a little fresh air.

He gazed at the stars and the surf and then at the girl as he and Patricia walked arm in arm toward the beach house a quarter mile away. This, he thought, was heaven.

"You seem quiet tonight."

Patricia shot him a glance.

"Can't a woman collect her thoughts?"

Greg smiled.

"She can if she shares them."

The former cantina owner and current fugitive returned his smile, but she did not reply to his flippant comment. She instead directed her eyes forward, kept walking, and steered the conversation toward a matter Greg himself had considered for days.

"Greg?"

"Yes, Patricia?"

"Where are we headed?"

"I believe, Miss O'Rourke, that we are headed north-northwest toward a residence owned and sometimes occupied by Daniel and Molly Pierce of San Francisco."

Patricia turned her head.

"I should have shot you when I had the chance."

Greg chuckled.

"I'm glad you didn't. A bullet a year is enough for anyone."

"I suppose it is."

"What's the matter?"

Patricia frowned.

"I've just been doing a lot of thinking lately."

"Are you having doubts about all this?" Greg asked. "Because if you are, I understand. I sort of dragged you into a situation that most people wouldn't consider very appealing."

"You didn't drag me into anything. I entered this arrangement with my eyes open and my mind clear. I wanted this as much as you did."

"Then why are you frowning?"

Patricia took a deep breath.

"I'm frowning because I want more than nice dinners and walks on the beach. I want answers and direction. I want to know where we will be next week and next month and next year. I assume you have given this some thought. I know I have."

"I think about it every day."

"Then why haven't you offered specifics?"

Greg looked away as he pondered a reply. He wanted to tell Patricia the truth and do the things she wanted, but he knew it was too early. He had to speak to his siblings and solve a hundred and one pressing problems before taking any radical steps.

"I haven't because I'm a coward."

Patricia met his gaze.

"You're not a coward. Cowards don't step blindly into dark alleys to save people they barely know. They don't run through a gauntlet of armed guards on horses. They don't invest themselves in women with questionable backgrounds. They slink away."

Greg frowned.

"Isn't that what I'm doing now?"

Patricia shook her head.

"You're keeping secrets. There's a difference."

Greg could not disagree. He was keeping secrets. He was keeping secrets from the very person he should trust the most, a woman who had risked everything for him.

For five minutes, he thought about his options and responsibilities as they walked barefoot on the beach in awkward silence. When they finally reached the back porch, the one out of view of the neighbors, Greg stopped, turned toward the most patient woman in the world, and put his hands to her face. Then he leaned in and gave her a soft kiss.

"I don't deserve you."

"Does it matter?" Patricia asked. "You have me."

"You say that now, but will you say it later? Will you say it when you learn that the man you have been seeing for weeks isn't the man he says he is?"

"That doesn't sound good."

"I guess it depends on your definition of good."

"Just tell me what's going on."

Greg took a deep breath.

"I can't tell you everything now. I can't tell you much of anything until I hear from my siblings and get more answers myself, but I can tell you two things."

Patricia stared at Mr. Evasive.

"I'm listening."

"The first thing should be obvious," Greg said. "I love you, Patricia. I have for weeks. If there is one thing you can take to the bank, it's my genuine affection for you."

"What's the other thing?"

"The other thing, the most important thing, is that I'm not going away. I will remain by your side as long as you will have me. That's a promise I will make you now."

Patricia studied his face.

"Does that mean what I think it means?"

Greg nodded.

"I just need a little more time to figure things out. If you give me another week or two to get my ducks in a row, I'll give you everything."

Patricia smiled mischievously.

"Everything?"

Greg nodded again.

"Everything."

Patricia did not reply with words. She instead took one of his hands and led him across the porch, through the back door, and into a beach house that was as dark as an alley. When they reached a hallway that provided direct access to the two bedrooms, she turned to face him, placed her hands on his shoulders, and kissed him lightly on the lips.

"Greg?"

"Yes?"

Patricia looked at him with playful eyes.

"How is your wound?"

"It's getting better."

"Does it hurt when you exert yourself?"

Greg smiled.

"I don't know. I haven't exerted lately."

"Is that so?" Patricia asked.

Greg nodded.

"I've been taking it easy."

"Then perhaps you should rest," Patricia said. She grinned and maintained eye contact as she slowly unbuttoned his Oxford shirt. "You don't want to risk injury."

"I don't," Greg said. He kissed her hard as they commenced a slow, clumsy dance toward her bedroom and a long-desired outcome. "Safety comes first."

Patricia pulled off his shirt.

"Don't forget emotional well-being."

"I agree. That's important too," Greg said. He unbuttoned her dress as they spun, stumbled, and kissed their way down a dark hallway. "I'm vulnerable now."

Patricia smiled.

"You're almost helpless."

Greg and Patricia maintained their motion. For a blissfully long minute, the two lovers, kindred spirits from different centuries, pirouetted into a spacious bedroom, closed the door, and continued their dance across a spotless hardwood floor. They did not stop until they bumped into the foot of a canopy bed that stood in the middle of the room.

Greg watched with awe and admiration as Patricia pulled out of his embrace, stepped back, and slowly removed a green knee-length cotton dress. He sighed when she did the same with a series of lacy undergarments, revealing a lithe form that shimmered in the starlight spilling through the bedroom window.

"Like I said, I don't deserve you."

"Yes, you do," Patricia said. She stepped forward, threw her arms around his neck, and kissed him hard on the lips. "You've earned me."

Greg paused one last time to behold the treasure in his arms. If he ever doubted that this perky, brilliant, pistol-packing mama was the one, he didn't any more. She was the one he would take with him through time. She was the one he would build a life around.

A moment later, Greg placed his hands on Patricia's bare hips, admired her raw beauty, and soaked up the energy that seemed to radiate from her body. He was in nirvana.

"Are you sure about this?"

"I'm sure," Patricia said. She put her hands to his face and met his gaze. "I left all of my doubts and fears on the beach — along with my hat, I think."

Greg chuckled.

"We'll find it."

Patricia offered a wistful smile.

"If we don't, I'll get a new one."

As Greg looked at his girl, he noticed tenderness, affection, and even vulnerability in her eyes. Then he noticed some tears.

"Are you all right?"

"I'm fine. I'm just getting sentimental."

"Sentimental?"

Patricia nodded.

"When I left Saratoga Springs, I didn't think I would find love again. I wasn't sure I wanted to find it. I was bitter and angry. I thought I'd be happier free and alone."

"What are you saying?"

"I'm saying I was wrong. I was as wrong as a person could be. It's taken me years to say those words, but I think it's time. It's time for me to let go of the past."

Greg kissed her and wiped away her tears.

"I love you. I love you so much it hurts. If all this is too much for you, we can save it for another night. I'm serious, Patricia. I can leave you alone."

"Don't even think about it," Patricia said as she laughed through her tears. She wrapped her slender arms around Greg's neck again and kissed him one more time. "I have waited far too long for a night like this. This is our moment, Mr. Carson. Let's make it count."

CHAPTER 64: ADAM

Carlton County, Minnesota – Wednesday, October 2, 1918

Adam read the letter a second time, put it down, and then stared across his dining table at his suddenly interested spouse. Fourteen weeks into his 1918 adventure, he wondered if it were even possible for life to get more complicated for the Carson family.

"It appears Greg is having fun again."

Bridget returned his stare.

"I can feel your sarcasm. Do you have bad news?"

"I do," Adam said. He took a deep breath. "I have bad news, good news, and some that's a little of both. Which would you prefer to hear first?"

Bridget mustered a smile.

"I want the good news. One should always lead with the good."

Adam looked at his glass-is-half-full wife with unbridled affection. Of all the things he loved about Bridget, few came close to her optimism and unshakable faith in humanity.

"All right then, I'll lead with the good — or at least the news that's not so bad. My brother, the confirmed bachelor and ladies' man, wants to marry this fall."

"He what?" Bridget asked.

"Greg wants to marry Patricia O'Rourke, the cantina owner he has mentioned only a few times in his previous letters. He wants our permission to propose to her this month, reveal our time-travel secrets, and bring her east in a few weeks to meet the family."

"Let me see the letter."

Adam offered Bridget four sheets of paper.

"Here you go."

Bridget took the letter, scanned the first page, and then placed the sheets in the middle of the table. She looked at Adam with curiosity. She seemed more interested in hearing her husband's views than wading through four pages of correspondence.

"You don't seem pleased."

Adam frowned.

"I'm not sure I am."

"I don't understand," Bridget said. She pushed the letter back to her husband. "If Greg wants to share his life with someone, is that not a good thing?"

Adam paused before answering the question. Though he did not like the idea of Greg marrying someone he had known for only a short time, he knew he was not in a position to judge or even advise. He had married Bridget less than five months after meeting her in a Johnstown hotel in 1889. He proceeded with caution.

"It depends," Adam said. "If Greg has spent a lot of time with this woman and weighed the pluses and minuses, then getting married probably is a good thing. If he has not done these things, then it probably is not. He didn't provide us with a lot of information."

"What more do we need?" Bridget asked. "We both know your brother is a prudent, sensible, and rational man. He would not ask for any woman's hand unless he thought she was worthy in every way. I think we should give him the benefit of the doubt."

"I think so too. It's not like we can't change our minds."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean Greg left us an out," Adam said. "He said he would not actually marry Miss O'Rourke until all of us, including Natalie, had a chance to meet her and approve of her. He only wants our permission to propose to her this month and share our family secrets."

"What do we know about her?"

"We know more than we did yesterday. Greg said a lot in his letter. Among other things, Patricia O'Rourke is a savvy businesswoman who came to Tijuana by way of Vassar College and a ranch in El Paso, Texas. That alone makes her interesting."

Bridget O'Malley Carson smiled.

"She's also Irish."

Adam laughed.

"Yes, she is."

"Are you suggesting that's a flaw?"

"No, dear. Irish girls rule."

"That's better," Bridget said in a self-satisfied voice. She let the light moment linger and then gazed at the bearer of mixed news. "You're still concerned though. I can see it in your eyes. There's more to that letter than a marriage proposal."

"There's a lot more. Greg's a fugitive, for one thing."

"He's a what?"

"He's a wanted man in Mexico and maybe this country. He shot a man who tried to have his way with Patricia in a Tijuana alley. He spent a few days in jail and then fled the country when he learned that authorities intended to prosecute him for attempted murder."

"Is he all right?"

"He is now," Adam said.

"I don't understand."

"Greg was shot in the side by a National Guardsman as he ran across the border. He has been hiding out and recuperating in a safe house near San Diego since September 20."

Bridget stared at her husband.

"Why didn't you say something?"

"You said you wanted the good news first."

"Never mind what I said. We should go to him."

"No, we shouldn't."

"Why not? Your brother needs us."

"Read the rest of the letter," Adam said. "Greg wants us to stay where we are until he travels east with his new friend. He doesn't want or need any help from us now. All he wants is a few weeks to sort out his affairs and our permission to propose to Patricia."

"I don't like this."

"I don't either, but I think we should respect his wishes. If he's in trouble with the law, he's going to need time to get out of trouble. We went through this before in 1889."

"I know," Bridget said. "Has he contacted the others?"

Adam nodded.

"He sent Cody and Caitlin a similar letter. He didn't send one to Natalie because he knew it wouldn't arrive until November. She might be home by then."

Bridget gazed at Adam.

"Then I guess it's up to us."

"So it appears."

"Do you really have any objections to him proposing?"

"No," Adam said. "If Greg is willing to postpone any nuptials until Natalie returns from France, then that's good enough for me. I'll send him a telegram this afternoon."

Bridget looked at Adam.

"Can you send one to Dr. Garrison too?"

"Why?"

"I want him to come by next week."

Adam's heart sank the second he saw a flicker of fear in Bridget's eyes. He knew her well enough to know when she was hiding something important.

"Are you all right?"

Bridget frowned.

"I think so, but I want to be sure."

"What's going on?"

"I would rather not say. It's embarrassing."

"I don't care if it's embarrassing," Adam said. "Tell me what's wrong."

"I don't want you to worry."

"I will worry unless you tell me."

Bridget fidgeted in her chair.

"I noticed a change today."

Adam leaned forward.

"Be specific, honey. I want to know."

"I saw some blood in my underwear when I got up this morning," Bridget said. She took a deep breath and stared at Adam. "I noticed some spotting."

CHAPTER 65: NATALIE

Vittel, France – Friday, October 4, 1918

For the first time since arriving at U.S. Army Base Hospital 36, Natalie Carson managed to combine business and pleasure in the great outdoors. Though the grounds around the Hotel Ceres were not as lush or inviting as the surrounding French countryside, they were more than sufficient for two twenty-four-year-olds on a pleasant morning stroll.

"How is your knee?" Natalie asked.

"It's getting better. It's getting a lot better," Tom said in a cheerful voice. He tightened his hold on two crutches as he and Natalie walked a path that ringed the hotel. "In two or three weeks, I'll be ready again for active duty. I'll be back where I belong."

"Do you really want to go back?"

"I think you know the answer."

Natalie smiled but did not reply. She knew there was nothing she could say or do to keep a warrior like Tom Jackson from war itself. She had seen the same fire in the eyes of too many men since she had begun her rounds in Vittel eleven days earlier.

"Can I ask you a personal question?"

"Of course," Tom said. "Nurse Moreau isn't here."

Natalie laughed.

"No, she's not."

"What do you want to know?"

"I just want to know if you ever think about the future. In the time I have been at the base hospital, you have not once mentioned a girl back home or a career interest or even a hobby you are looking forward to resuming. Why is that?"

Tom smiled.

"You cut right to the chase."

"It's what reporters do."

"I guess."

"If the question is too personal, I understand," Natalie said. "I'm just curious as to why you haven't said much about Pennsylvania. Lieutenant Miller talks endlessly about his fiancée and life in Minnesota. You talk mostly about France and the war."

"I guess I'm a bit superstitious."

"I don't understand."

"Then let me explain," Tom said. "When I came here several months ago, with my father, my brother, and the first big wave of soldiers from the States, I met a lieutenant from Oklahoma named Buddy Black. We had almost nothing in common, but we became good friends anyway. He liked listening to my wild college stories. I liked listening to his descriptions of life back home in Muskogee. Buddy spoke a lot about his wife and his baby girl and his plans to work eighty acres of prime farmland after the war."

"Let me guess. He never made it home."

"No, ma'am, he did not. Three weeks into the Battle of the Marne, he took a bullet as we crossed an open field and tried to reclaim a position from the Jerries. Buddy lived just long enough to say goodbye and hand me a letter to his wife. He died in my arms."

"I'm sorry," Natalie said.

"I think about Buddy every day. I think about his wife and his baby and the farm he'll never work. I do so to remind myself that we are all on borrowed time here."

"Then why not seek a discharge? You're already a decorated veteran. No one would think less of you if you booked a trip home on the next transport."

"That's not true," Tom said. "I would think less of me. I wouldn't be able to sleep at night knowing I left my father, Cal, and our comrades to finish what we started."

Natalie smiled at the officer on crutches as they began their second trip around the hospital complex. She realized now that she had misjudged the man.

Emma Jackson's oldest son was more than a dashing flirt with an injured knee. He was a hero of the first order and a compassionate human being.

Natalie pondered the ageless mysteries of men and war and then looked again at her wounded warrior. She could see he was trying to will himself to better health.

"Have you told your mother about your knee?"

Tom nodded.

"I've written her several letters, but I doubt she's received them. You know how long letters take to clear the censors and the bureaucrats."

Natalie frowned.

"I do. I still haven't received mail from my family. If you want, I can inform your mother about your condition. Do you want me to send her a telegram?"

"No," Tom said. "That would only make things worse. If she knew I was getting better, she would know I was getting ready to return to the front. Just leave things as they are."

"Is there anything I can do for you then?"

"You can buy me a drink."

Natalie smiled.

"I doubt the nurses would approve."

"I don't know," Tom said. "I think Nurse Moreau might. She's turning into a freethinker. She might surprise you if you run it past her."

"I'll see what I can do. In the meantime, is there anything else I can say or do that will make your life easier? I want to help. I'm not just here to work."

"I can see that."

"Then just ask," Natalie said.

"I suppose there is one thing."

"What's that?"

Tom turned his head.

"You can answer a question."

"Oh? What question is that?

"It's one I've been thinking about since you arrived. You say you're from Minnesota, but you talk like you're from California or someplace out west. How is that?"

Natalie smiled again.

"It's not as mysterious as it seems. I grew up in Arizona and didn't move to Minnesota until June. I have lived nearly my entire life in the Southwest."

"That explains a lot. How come you left Arizona?"

"I wanted to be a newspaper reporter. There are not a lot of openings for women in journalism in cowboy country. In fact, there are not a lot of openings in most places. So I traveled north in search of opportunity and eventually found a great job at the Post ."

Tom stopped to take a rest.

"Tell me about your family."

"What would you like to know?"

"Oh, I don't know. I suppose the usual things. Is your family big or small? Do they all live in one place, like mine, or are they scattered like leaves?"

Natalie paused before answering the questions. As much as she wanted to tell the truth and only the truth, she knew she could not. She had to stick to the narrative.

"Most of my relatives live in Flagstaff. My parents have lived there most of their lives, as have my grandparents and many of my aunts, uncles, and cousins. I mentioned my siblings the other day. I'm very close to both, despite our age difference. I'm also close to two cousins, Adam and Greg Carson, even though they no longer live in Arizona."

"Where do they live?" Tom asked.

"Adam, as you may recall, resides in Minnesota. He and his wife, Bridget, live in a cabin near Duluth and plan to stay there until their first child is born in February. As for Greg, I don't know where he is right now. He was headed to Mexico the last time I saw him."

"He's not running from a draft board, is he?"

"It's possible," Natalie said. "Greg is not fond of this war. Nor is Adam or my brother. All three think the United States should keep its nose out of Europe."

Tom smiled sadly.

"That seems to be a common sentiment. I know my brother Freddie has mixed feelings about the war and the policies of President Wilson. He was still trying to decide whether to attend college or join the Army when I last heard from him."

"He chose college," Natalie said.

"Are you sure?"

"I'm positive. My sister talked him into taking a scholarship. She did in one afternoon what your mother apparently could not do in several months."

"I'm glad," Tom said. He tightened his hold on his crutches, paused for a second, and then continued walking. "I'm glad Freddie made that choice. This hellhole is no place for a young man of his caliber. He'll accomplish more in college than he could here."

Natalie smiled.

"Your attitude surprises me."

"Why?"

"You seem like a guts-and-glory type, that's why."

"Well, I'm not," Tom said. "I'm a man who believes in this war, but I'm also a man who wants to see his brother live a long and happy life. I want to see Freddie and others enjoy the very things Buddy Black could not. I'll sleep better knowing he's there and not here."

Natalie laughed.

"Can I take you home with me?"

Tom beamed.

"Miss Carson, I thought you'd never ask."

Natalie looked at Tom with fresh admiration as they neared the end of their second lap around the building and their time together. She could see why this man, the pride of Gettysburg, Pennsylvania, and the apple of his mother's eye, was loved by so many.

"I better get you back."

"Must you?" Tom asked.

Natalie nodded.

"I don't want to create a scandal."

Tom frowned.

"I am saddened beyond repair."

"Then I'll do my best to cheer you up," Natalie said. "As soon as you are discharged from the hospital, I will treat you to a dinner and all the drinks you want."

Tom smiled.

"I'd like that, ma'am. I'd like that a lot."

CHAPTER 66: CAITLIN

Gettysburg, Pennsylvania – Sunday, October 6, 1918

As props and backdrops on an autumn stage, the deciduous trees of Emma Jackson's rural estate were magnificent. The peach, cherry, and apple trees that lined the driveway from the house to the highway announced the season in colors that spanned the spectrum. Oaks, birches, and cedars in the surrounding forests provided additional weight and majesty to the kind of scene Caitlin Carson had rarely seen in her native Arizona.

Caitlin took a moment to appreciate Pennsylvania in its finest attire and then turned her attention to a tree that never changed. Even in a sea of red, orange, yellow, and brown, the blue spruce that Emma called the Memory Tree commanded center stage.

Caitlin walked fifteen feet from the driveway to the conifer, pulled a yellow ribbon from her dress pocket, and tied it to an unadorned branch. She commented on her handiwork when Cody and Emma, dressed in their Sunday best, joined her a few seconds later.

"I like it. It's pretty."

"It is," Emma said. "It is just like its brothers and sisters. I don't know what I'm going to do when I run out of space. I can't bring myself to remove any of the ribbons.

Caitlin smiled.

"You can always plant another tree."

"I think that's a wonderful idea. I'll ask my gardener to plant one as soon as he can," Emma said. She turned to face Cody. "Can you plant a tree tomorrow?"

Cody nodded.

"I can do it today if you want."

Emma laughed.

"Don't laugh," Caitlin said. "He'll do it."

"Oh, I know he will," Emma said. She walked up to the tree, inspected Caitlin's ribbon, and tightened it to the branch. "Who is this for again?"

"It's for my future sister-in-law. Greg fell in love with a woman he met in a Mexican cantina this summer. He wants Cody and me to bless their sacred union."

"Did you? Did you bless it?"

"We did, even though we probably didn't have to," Caitlin said. "Everyone knows that matches made in drinking establishments are matches made in heaven."

Emma smiled.

"I should know."

"What do you mean?" Caitlin asked.

"I met Tom in a tavern."

"Are you joking?"

Emma shook her head.

"We met in Riley's Road House."

"I think I've seen it," Cody said.

"You probably have. It's next to the college."

Caitlin smiled and stared at Emma.

"What possessed you to enter a tavern ?"

"Lily Tompkins did," Emma said.

"Who is that?"

"She was my roommate and a girl who had a big crush on Tom. For weeks at the start of our junior year, she would drag me to Riley's just to gawk at Tom while he socialized with his friends. We didn't drink or socialize. We just gawked."

Caitlin tilted her head.

"So what happened then?"

"I got tired of gawking," Emma said. "I told Lily that she either had to profess her love to Tom or find a new friend to take to the tavern."

"Did she profess her love?"

"She did. On our last visit to Riley's, right before Thanksgiving, she wrote a love note and asked me to deliver it. I didn't care one way or the other, so I took the note, walked across the room to a table filled with college boys, and handed the message to Tom."

"Let me guess," Caitlin said as a grin formed on her face. "He liked the messenger a lot better than the message."

Emma nodded.

"It was love at first sight. Tom asked me to a recital the next day, Lily requested a new roommate, and my life took a very predictable turn."

"I feel sorry for Lily," Caitlin said, "but that is a romantic story. It's almost as romantic as when Cody wooed you out of your window and kissed you under a silvery moon."

Emma smiled.

"Don't get carried away."

The twins laughed.

"You're right," Caitlin said. "It's hard to beat that."

When the conversation hit a lull, Emma stepped away from the twins and inspected her favorite tree. She examined its needles, tightened some of its ribbons, and brushed away a few leaves that had drifted from nearby trees onto its boughs. Then she returned to her beloved childhood friends and raised a question Caitlin had expected for weeks.

"How is your brother doing?"

"You mean Greg?" Caitlin asked.

Emma nodded.

"You haven't said much."

"That's because we don't know much. Greg has written us just twice since moving to California, but we think he's doing well. He sounded happy in his last letter."

Caitlin did not mention that Greg was wanted for violent crimes in two countries, recovering from a gunshot wound, and living in sin with a barmaid from El Paso. She figured she could save those tidbits for a future reunion.

"How about Adam and Bridget?" Emma asked. "How are they doing? Are they excited about becoming parents for the first time?"

"I think so," Caitlin said. "They were excited when Cody and I left. As far as how they are doing now, I don't know. We haven't heard from them in more than a week. We do know they like living in the cabin and will stay there until we return to Minnesota."

Emma looked at the siblings.

"Are you still planning to return this month?"

Caitlin glanced at Cody, who frowned, and then returned to Emma. She was not sure how to answer a question that was as loaded as a Gatling gun.

"That depends a lot on you. Cody and I like it here and want to stay longer, but we don't want to overstay our welcome. We feel like we're encroaching on your family time."

"You are doing no such thing."

"Are you sure?"

"I'm positive," Emma said.

"Does that mean we can stay the month?"

"You can stay as long as you wish."

"That's kind of you," Caitlin said.

Cody nodded.

"It's generous too."

"It's what friends do," Emma said. She approached the twins, took their hands, and gave each of them a sweet smile. "I don't want you to mention the subject again. As far as I'm concerned, the matter is closed. You're not guests here. You're family."

CHAPTER 67: BRIDGET

Carlton County, Minnesota – Tuesday, October 8, 1918

The pelvic exam lasted ten minutes. Conducted in a rustic backwoods bedroom while the nervous father-to-be paced in his living room, it revealed enough to leave the would-be first-time mother both hopeful and apprehensive.

On the plus side, Dr. Winston Garrison ruled out a miscarriage. He told Bridget in no uncertain terms that her baby was still safe and secure in its temporary home. He said that light bleeding was not uncommon during a pregnancy, even at four and a half months, and that she could still expect to deliver a healthy child in February.

On the minus side, the retiring physician did not rule out future problems. He expressed concern about Bridget's slightly dilated cervix and said she might have to severely limit everything from travel to physical activity to bring her baby to term.

As the doctor put his speculum and other instruments in his black bag, Bridget slipped on her underpants, scooted to the edge of the bed, and sat up. Though she found the exam both uncomfortable and humbling, she was glad she had requested it. There was nothing like peace of mind to help an expectant mother get through a difficult day.

"Can you tell Adam the news?" Bridget asked.

Garrison closed his bag and faced his patient.

"We can tell him together, if you wish."

Bridget nodded in agreement, got up from the bed, and waited for the physician to don his jacket and open the door. When he did a moment later, she exited the bedroom, rushed across the hardwood floor, and fell into her waiting husband's open arms.

"I'm all right. The baby is all right."

"Thank God," Adam said.

Garrison entered the lightly furnished living room a moment later. He spoke to Adam as soon as the expectant father released Bridget from his embrace.

"She's going to be fine."

"Are you sure?" Adam asked.

"I'm as sure as I can be at this point," Garrison said. "I would like to see Mrs. Carson again next Tuesday, in case her condition changes, but I don't anticipate any additional difficulties. If she takes care of herself, she should be a mother in February."

"That's great. Thank you, Doctor."

"You're welcome."

"Do you want to see her here or somewhere else?" Adam asked. "If it would help matters, I could drive her to the clinic in Cloquet or even your office in Duluth."

"I'll come here. Until I say otherwise, Mrs. Carson should not travel to Cloquet, Duluth, or anywhere else unless she needs immediate medical attention."

"Why is that?"

"It's simple," Garrison said. "Expectant mothers, bumpy roads, and the Spanish flu are not a healthy mix. Hundreds of people have flooded my offices and local hospitals in the past week alone with flu-like symptoms. You don't want any part of that."

"I agree."

Bridget frowned as she imagined weeks of house arrest. Though she agreed with the doctor's orders and the reasons behind them, she did not care for the idea of spending October, November, and December confined to a cabin. She wanted fresh air and exercise.

"Can I still go for walks, Doctor?"

Garrison nodded.

"You can walk, stroll, and even dance if you want. As long as the roads and trails are free of ice, you can move around the property. I encourage it, in fact."

"What if it snows?"

"Then you have to stay inside."

"Can you suggest some indoor activities?" Bridget asked. She smiled at Adam. "I may drive my husband crazy if I'm cooped up in this cabin all winter."

Garrison rubbed his chin.

"Do you like to read?"

"I love to read."

"Then I believe I have a solution."

Adam jumped in.

"What do you have in mind?"

"I have books in mind," Garrison said. "My wife and I have collected scores of novels over the years, including many newer titles. Most are stored in boxes in our attic."

"You don't want them?"

"We don't want them now. We plan to leave most of our worldly possessions behind when we move to Florida next summer. I can bring a few books with me on my next visit or leave the whole collection on my porch for you to pick up. Either way is fine."

Adam looked at his wife.

"What do you think?"

Bridget smiled.

"I think my ship has come in."

Adam returned to the doctor.

"Will you be home on Saturday?"

"I'll be home the whole day," Garrison said. "Just give me until ten or eleven to sort the books and put them in sturdier boxes. If you show up at noon, you can join us for lunch. I'm sure my wife would love to meet the man who is taking care of our cabin."

"I like the idea of books and lunch," Adam said to the doctor. He looked at Bridget. "I don't like the idea of leaving you alone all day without a car or a telephone."

Bridget took his hand.

"Let me speak to the Andersons. I'm sure I can talk Mamie or Camille into spending the day with me. You make your plans. I'll be fine.

Adam looked at the physician.

"What's your address?"

"It's 124 Sycamore Street."

"Then I'll be there at noon."

"I'm looking forward to it," Garrison said. He smiled and shook Adam's hand. "Take care of your wife, Mr. Carson. I'll see you on Saturday."

CHAPTER 68: GREG

Coronado, California – Thursday, October 10, 1918

Ten blissful days after he and Patricia O'Rourke had consummated their love in a modest beach house three miles to the south, Greg Carson sat at a picnic table, rested his head on folded hands, and gazed at two of the eight wonders of the world.

The first wonder needed no introduction. The Hotel del Castillo, one of the largest and most opulent on the planet, loomed in the east like Buckingham Palace. Built in 1888 during the San Diego area's first real estate boom, the 399-room wooden resort, a tribute to Victorian architecture, had charmed visitors from around the world for thirty years.

The second wonder was no less stunning. Wearing a silky lavender dress, a matching hat, and a million-dollar smile, she looked like a cover girl for McCall's .

"You look smashing, Miss O'Rourke."

"I look like a show pony," Patricia said. "I would much rather look like the happy women sunning themselves on the beach behind you."

Greg lowered his hands and smiled.

"You can put on your bloomers tomorrow. I asked you to wear something nice today because I wanted to see you in a dress and not a swimsuit when I proposed to you."

Patricia gasped.

"No."

"Darn," Greg said. He laughed. "I was hoping for a 'yes' or at least a lukewarm 'maybe.' A 'no' does precious little these days to propel a relationship forward."

Patricia put her hands on her hips.

"You know what I mean."

"I'm not sure I do. My first English teacher, an irritable old gal named Mrs. Snodgrass, told me over and over that words have meaning. North is north, south is south, yes is yes, and no is no. If a girl says no, there's a pretty good chance she means it."

"Can I divorce you now?"

Greg chuckled.

"You have to marry me first."

Patricia smiled and blushed.

"Let me think about it."

Greg reached across the table, took her hands, and gazed at her with pure affection and admiration. He could not remember feeling happier or more alive.

"I love you, Patricia. I spend every minute of every day thinking about you, worrying about you, and wondering what you're thinking. Even though you left me unarmed in the middle of the desert with banditos and trigger-happy soldiers, I love you. I love you with my whole heart and cannot imagine life without you. Will you marry me?"

Patricia laughed.

"Of course I will, you silly goat."

Greg smiled and leaned in for a kiss.

"That's better."

The former cantina owner did not reply right away. She instead took a deep breath and gazed at Greg with watery eyes until she could no longer see through them. She retrieved a handkerchief from her purse, wiped her eyes, and gazed again at her suitor.

"Why now? Why today?" Patricia asked. "You could have asked me a week ago and received the same answer. You could have asked a month ago."

Greg released her hands, opened a jacket he had purchased on Monday, and retrieved two telegrams he had stuffed in the inside pocket. He unfolded the messages, placed one on top of the other, and handed them to the weepy woman in the silky dress.

"A month ago, I didn't have those telegrams. Today I do. Three of my siblings and my sister-in-law gave me permission to propose to you, even though they have never met you. I couldn't reach Natalie, my oldest sister, because she's in France covering the war."

Patricia looked away for a moment, as if collecting her thoughts, and then returned to the man with the answers. She stared at him with eyes that reflected confusion.

"I think it's thoughtful of you to consult your siblings, but I don't understand why you need their permission to marry me or anyone. You're a grown man."

Greg frowned.

"Sometimes I wonder about that."

"What's that matter?" Patricia asked. "You seem sad all of a sudden. This should be a happy moment for both of us. It is for me. What's troubling you?"

Greg winced as he considered possible answers to the question. For weeks he had offered Patricia excuses, half-truths, and outright lies. Now that she had agreed to marry him, at least in principle, he had to do more. He could no longer evade his responsibilities to her or his siblings. He had to come clean and put all his cards on the table.

The time traveler studied his lovely, trusting de facto fiancée for a moment and then put his hands in his outside jacket pockets. He retrieved a black velvet box with his left hand and a red velvet box with his right and placed both containers in the middle of the table.

"These boxes ," Greg said, "are troubling me. The black one contains an item I bought this week. It represents the present. The red one contains an item I brought from home. It represents the future. Both are yours if you want them."

Patricia grinned.

"What's the catch?"

Greg smiled sadly.

"The catch, sweetheart, is that you can't accept one without the other. The boxes are a package deal. If you want a life with me, you have to take both."

Patricia met his gaze.

"Are you proposing or issuing an ultimatum?"

Greg sighed.

"I guess I'm doing both. I'm not very good at this. I'm not even original. I brought the boxes here today because Adam used the same approach when he proposed to Bridget a few months ago. I figured if it worked for my brother, it might work for me."

"You don't have to do anything creative to win me," Patricia said. "You have me. I would marry you if you offered me a paper ring and a hut in Honduras."

Greg chuckled.

"I suspect you would."

"I mean it when I say that none of this matters. I'm ready to proceed regardless of the circumstances. I love you as you are," Patricia said. She reached across the table, took Greg's hands, and smiled. "Now let's put all these doubts and fears aside and get on with the show. Let's answer all our questions once and for all. Let's open those boxes."

CHAPTER 69: CAROLINE

Caroline pulled back the drapes in her fourth-floor room at the Hotel del Castillo and stared at the deep blue sea. She noticed that the Pacific Ocean was anything but pacific on this sunny Thursday afternoon. It was as active as her mind and as restless as her soul.

"What are you staring at?" Tim asked.

Caroline turned her head and looked at her husband as he got up from a desk chair and walked toward the window. She laughed at the sight of him in his pinstriped pajamas.

"I was staring at the ocean. Now I'm staring at my husband and wondering when he is going to join the living and put on some clothes."

Tim smiled.

"I'll get dressed in a minute. It's not like we're going anywhere today. It'll be at least four or five before we get through all those newspapers."

Caroline glanced at the desk on the far side of the room and saw that Tim had read only a few of the local papers they had collected in the past week. Both hoped to find a clue or a lead in the search for their son and continue down a trail that had grown icy cold.

When Tim reached her side and put his hand on her shoulder, Caroline turned her head and once again gazed at the sea, the beach, and the people who enjoyed them. She knew now why so many people came to this idyllic corner of the world. It was perfect.

"There are a lot of people out there."

Tim stared out the window and nodded.

"There are a lot of couples out there."

Caroline frowned.

"I know. I've been watching them. Any one of them could be Greg and Patricia. Our son and his lady friend could be right outside this hotel."

"Or they could be on a slow boat to China," Tim said. "People who are wanted in one place tend to move to another. I have a feeling they are hundreds of miles away."

Caroline sighed.

"Even if you're right today, I hope you're wrong tomorrow. I want to believe we will find the kids soon and end this game of tag. I'm tired of failure, Tim. I'm tired of chasing shadows and rumors and coming up empty. I want a different outcome."

"I do too."

"So what are we going to do about it? I don't think we're going to find the answers in newspapers and magazines and police bulletins. The media and the authorities have moved on to other things. As far as they are concerned, Greg Carson is yesterday's news."

"I know," Tim said.

"Then let's focus on your relatives. I know it's still a little early, but we're running out of options — or at least good ones. Maybe we should go east now and get a head start on the second part of our search. Have you written to that aunt of yours?"

"She's not my aunt yet. She's a rich old lady in Pennsylvania who doesn't know me from a hole in the ground. If I contact her now, I can't do so as a relative. I have to do so as a stranger who isn't trying to fleece her out of her wealth. Can you think of any possibilities?"

Caroline grinned.

"I can always think of possibilities."

Tim raised a brow.

"Give me one I can live with."

Caroline tapped her fingers on the windowsill. Though she wanted to tease her husband a little longer, she knew it was time to get down to business. Tim was right. He needed a plausible cover to interview a woman who might be the key to finding their children.

"How about a writer?"

Tim nodded.

"That might work."

"You can introduce yourself as a writer from San Diego who wants to write a piece on important but unappreciated figures of the Gilded Age. If you stroke her ego just right, you might land an interview with one letter. Then we can go from there."

"Who will you be?"

"I'll be your assistant and longtime mistress, of course," Caroline said. She pulled Tim close and smiled. "Winifred Taylor will gobble me up. I wouldn't be surprised if she has eight or nine lawmakers on the string right now, including some younger ones."

"She's seventy-six, Caroline."

"So? You said yourself she was progressive."

Tim laughed and sighed.

"What would I do without you?"

Caroline kissed his cheek.

"You would wander the world in misery."

Tim smiled.

"You're right about that."

Caroline gazed again out the large paned window and saw extras from Somewhere in Time stroll into view. She wondered what it would be like to be young and in love in one of the most romantic eras in American history. She looked at her husband.

"So do you like my idea?"

Tim nodded.

"I love it. We may have to work on some of the particulars, such as my writing resume and the background of my 'mistress,' but I think it will work."

Caroline frowned.

"Do you think Winifred knows anything about the kids?"

"If she doesn't, then her brother does," Tim said. "Don't forget that Cody wrote a term paper on Sylvester Scott. He knows all about him. If there is one person in this world he would seek in an effort to find us, it would be the Civil War hero."

"Then we should visit him too."

"We will. We just need his home address. If we can gain an audience with Winifred, then getting that should be a piece of cake."

Caroline smiled.

"Then let's forget the papers and get writing."

"That's fine with me," Tim said. He pulled his wife close and laughed. "I was looking for a reason to stay in my pajamas today."