1860!
Laura stared in sheer astonishment at the man seated opposite her, the man whose mental stability she now seriously questioned.
Pity, she mused, feeling disappointment. The man appeared to embody every quality she had always admired in the Western man. He was taciturn, cool... and ruggedly good-looking to boot. Too bad he was also apparently insane.
But the expression in Jake’s dark eyes had more the look of sincerity than of madness. And that really scared her.
Wonderland indeed.
“Ah ... Mr. Wilder,” she began hesitantly, unsure how to proceed, “this time you really are amusing yourself at my expense ... Right?”
“Why would I do that?”
“Boredom from being alone too long?” she hazarded.
He shook his head. “I’m not bored. I’ll admit I’m getting a mite tired of this conversation, but I’m not bored. I’m never bored. I like being alone.”
“But you believe it’s 1860?” Somehow she managed to drag up a note of skepticism.
He was unimpressed by her derisive tone. Favoring her with a condescending look, he slid the newspaper from beneath the gunbelt and slapped it down on the table in front of her. “I know it’s I860,” he retorted, stabbing a long forefinger at the date printed on the paper.
Laura stared and stared at the date displayed beneath the newspaper’s banner, but no matter how hard she stared, the numbers didn’t change. Nor did the newspaper appear old or yellowed with time.
She drew a slow, calming breath; it didn’t work. She felt anything but calm. Niggling doubts nagged at her. There were the odd bits and pieces to be considered: the too-rustic appearance of the place; the crude, ancient-looking furnishings; the excellent condition of Jake’s gun; the absence of electricity and the most basic refrigeration; and of course that awful privy.
Her breathing grew shallow. Her heart beat faster. And incipient panic now wrapped its choking hands around her throat.
“What year did you think it was?” he asked.
She tore her gaze from the newsprint to confront the mockery blazing in his eyes.
“Two thousand and fourteen.”
He laughed in her face. “I knew there was something strange about you, with your odd clothes and all your talk about red Cherokee Indians with four wheels instead of legs and—”
“Dammit!” she exclaimed. “I’ll prove it to you!” Shoving her chair back, she jumped up and looked around the kitchen. “Where’s my backpack?”
“In the other room,” he said, making no move to retrieve it for her.
“Thanks,” she snarled, and dashed through the doorway.
The pack lay just inside the front door, on the bare, rough-hewn floor. Why hadn’t she noticed the floor before? She wondered.
Scooping the pack from the floor, she turned and marched back into the kitchen to where Jake lounged in his chair. He certainly looked bored now.
“You’ll see, you’ll see,” she muttered.
“I can’t wait,” he drawled.
After opening the pack, she dug to the very bottom, grunting in satisfaction when her fingers curled around her wallet, the map, and the guidebook she had bound together with a rubber band.
She slipped the band from the packet and slapped the articles on the table in front of him.
“Official Nevada state map issued for the current year, 2014. A historical guidebook for Virginia City and environs—likewise for the current year, 2014.”
Jake’s bored expression became a puzzled frown, but she didn’t give him time to respond. Flipping open her wallet, she pointed to the plastic window displaying her driver’s license.
“Read it and reconsider your ridiculous claim, Mr. Wilder,” she said, with more than a hint of self-satisfaction. “My Pennsylvania state driver’s license, which you will note expires later this year, in November, 2014.”
Jake looked stunned. Yet his obvious amazement only intensified Laura’s uneasiness.
“Say something.”
“I don’t know what to say,” he admitted, squinting as he peered down at the wallet. “Dammit, woman, I know what year it is, and it ain’t 2014.” He gave her a quizzical look. “What in hell is a driver’s license, anyway?”
“A state-issued permit to operate a motor vehicle.”
“And what in hell is a motor vehicle?”
_”A car, an automobile,” she said, her hand flailing, as if to pluck the answer from thin air. “You know, anything that runs on a motor.”
“No, I don’t know,” he said, looking again at the wallet. “If I’m reading this little card correctly, you were born in the year 2083 which makes you thirty-one if this is 2014. Is that right?”
“Yes.”
“Can’t be.”
“Why not?”
He snorted rudely, derisively. “Because you don’t look a day over twenty-two, that’s why.”
As exhausted as she was, Laura blushed at the left-handed compliment, though in effect Jake had called her a liar.
“Thank you... I guess. But I assure you I am thirty-one years old.”
“Then you must have had a damned easy life up to now.” He still looked skeptical.
“Easy! I’ll have you know I’ve worked hard for...” She broke off, struck by the pointlessness of the discussion. “What does my age have to do with anything?” she demanded, glaring down at him.
He shoved back his chair and slowly stood to tower over her. “It proves to me that, if you’ll lie about one thing, you’ll lie about another.” He smirked. “And, lady, this ain’t 2014 it’s 1860, and I can prove it.”
“How?” She jerked her head at the table. “With that paper? That doesn’t prove a thing. You can buy a reproduction of one of those at any souvenir shop.”
“Maybe so,” he conceded. “But then, if the paper’s a fake, maybe so are your map and your guidebook and that thing you call a license.”
Laura angled her chin and scowled at him. “Look, buster, you don’t have to prove a blasted thing to me. I’ll show you. I’ll take you for a spin in the Cherokee.” She hesitated, biting her lip in consternation. “I parked it on the outskirts of town. Is it far to Sage Flats?”
“Not too far. Five miles, give or take.”
“Okay, then. If you’ll take me into town, I’ll prove my case. Will you take me? Then we’ll see who’s right.”
“Yes, we will. I was planning on taking you into Sage Flats.” His upper lip curled. “We’ll see what your friends have to say when they see you with me.”
“I don’t have any friends there. How could I? The place is a ghost town.”
“Yeah, full of ghosts of two-bit miners, whores, and crooks,” he retorted. “Which group of so-called spirits do you belong to, the soiled doves?”
“Soiled doves! That’s a term used to describe prostitutes! How dare you? I’ll have you know I’m a respected botanist!”
“Like I said, we’ll see when we get into town.”
“Good. When can we go?”
“In a week or so.”
She started. “A week or so! Why not tomorrow morning?”
Jake merely smiled—a smug, infuriating smile— before replying. “Because I want to wait and see if your friends come sniffing around while they think you’re keeping my mind on other things.” He didn’t need to elaborate on what those “other things” were; the look he raked over her body said it all. “Now,” he said, turning away, “I’ve got work to catch up on around here, and I have to be up at first light.”
“When is that?” she asked wearily.
He dipped his fingers into a small pocket near the waistband of his pants, drew out an old-fashioned timepiece, and glanced at it. “Coupla hours.”
Automatically raising her arm, Laura looked at her watch. It read 3:18. No wonder she felt unequal to arguing in her own defense, she thought, lifting her hand to muffle a yawn. She had been up almost twenty-four hours, ever since her hotel wake-up call had roused her at four yesterday morning.
Life was just not fair.
“You look kinda funny.” Jake’s comment intruded into her thoughts. “Are you okay?”
“No.” She blinked against a sudden sting in her eyes. “I’m tired. I need some sleep.”
“Well, damn, you don’t have to cry about it.” He looked decidedly uncomfortable.
“I’m not crying.”
Eyeing her, Jake appeared indecisive for a moment before his strong features locked into lines of determination. Without a word he grabbed her hand.
“Hey!” she cried. “What do you think you’re doing?”
“I know what I’m doing.” He pulled her into the other room and crossed to the far corner.
“Look, Jake, enough is en—” She broke off when he stopped beside a narrow, metal-frame bed. Real fear sprang into her mind, leaped in her stomach. Was he going to throw her onto that bed and attack her? She thought, inching away from him. “Er ... Jake, you wouldn’t do anything rash now ... would you?’’
“What?” He looked at her as if she were insane. “What are you babbling about now? And where are you slithering away to?” He frowned. “I thought you said you needed sleep?”
“Yes, but...
“Well, there’s the bed. Sleep. I’ll get my bedroll and stretch out on the floor for a coupla hours.”
“Okay,” she agreed, relieved. “If you insist. But... I have nothing to wear.”
He didn’t respond, but sourly looked her up and down. As he turned away, she remembered a remark he’d made earlier.
“And what’s wrong with my clothes, anyway?” she demanded, stopping him in mid-stride.
He slanted a sardonic glance over his shoulder. “A lady don’t wear pants. Or loggers’ boots.”
“Doesn’t,” she absently corrected his grammar. “A lady doesn’t wear pants.”
“That’s what I said.”
“No, you said don’t.” She couldn’t believe she was pursuing this line of discussion; weariness must have turned her mind to mush, she decided.
“Lady, you’re loco,” Jake said, walking to a chest of drawers near the front door. “Plain loco.”
“I am not,” Laura replied, dropping to the bed and bending to untie the boot laces. “And these aren’t loggers’ boots. They’re hiking boots. Ladies’ hiking boots.”
“If you say so,” he muttered in a tone of patent disbelief, as he yanked opened a drawer and pulled out a shirt. “You can sleep in this,” he said, tossing it to her.
It landed on the floor near her feet. “You’ll never make outfield for the Phillies,” she said under her breath, reaching for the shirt.
“What?” He paused with his hand on the door and gave her a quizzical look. “What are you mumbling about?”
“Nothing. Thanks for the shirt. But another thing,” she persisted. “Ladies do wear pants. At least in 2014 they do. All the time.”
“Sure.” He pulled the door shut after him.
“Smartass,” she grumbled, making a face at the door. Then, realizing he probably wouldn’t be gone long, she got up. She removed the bracelet and slipped it into the velvet bag, then stuffed the bag into the bottom of her pack. Within moments she was out of her clothes, into his shirt—the hem brushed her knees, and the sleeves hung below her hands—and beneath the bedcovers. And not a moment too soon. Jake entered the room as she was tugging the covers up around her throat.
“I heard that last remark,” he drawled, crossing the room to drop his bedroll next to the opposite wall.
His voice was so dry that she couldn’t keep from smiling.
“Damned if you’re not even prettier when you smile,” he said.
She almost responded to his compliment, when a thought occurred to her. “We forgot to clear off the table.”
“Stay put. I’ll do it.”
“But...”
“I said I’ll do it.” He headed for the other room. “You get some rest.”
“Okay, but there’s one more thing I have to say.”
“Yeah? What’s that?” He stopped in the doorway.
“I’m not a soiled dove.”
“I know. At least,” he qualified, “I know you’re not the run-of-the-mill, dirty-neck-and-feet kind.”
“How do you know that?”
“I’m a smartass.”
Laura almost laughed, but her frustration at his assumption of her identity squelched it. “Yes, you are.”
“Uh-huh.” He walked into the other room.
“And it is 2014,” she called after him.
“Go to sleep,” he ordered.
She willingly closed her eyes.