Do You Sort and Eat M&Ms by Color?

https://books2read.com/Her-Scottish-Legacy

I’m so glad winter is over and the days are getting longer and warmer. I have spent my winter down the social media rabbit hole, answering questions on lists to see what I know, what I eat, where I’ve been, how old I am based on pictures of my youth, who I know and if I’m smarter than a fifth grader.

I will admit that I don’t answer online because nobody really wants to know whether I open my Oreos and lick the frosting while getting a tattoo, but I mentally answer and sometimes put my score in the comments section. I’ve found that you have to read the start-up sentence carefully, because sometimes it says “one point for each thing you’ve done, eaten, gone or recognize”, but sometimes they try to trip you up with the phrase “Never have I ever…”.

And while I try not to, every once in a while I read too much into the question. For example, “one point for every food you eat.” Does that mean the ones I like to eat or ones I’ve sampled but won’t eat again? (That’s definitely where liver comes in.)

The travel lists pose a similar problem. If it says “one point for every country (or state) you’ve visited”, what exactly constitutes a “visit”? Do you have to have stayed the night; eaten a meal, or can potty breaks as you drive through count as a visit?

I like the lists that give you extra points for more information. Take the picture quizzes where you get 1 point for identifying the item (like a wringer washing machine) and an additional point if you’ve actually used one. They should give you 3 points if you know it; used it; and still have it in your house! I think these lists were generated by Millennials, because they usually refer to the items as “antiques” but I never have any problem recognizing every one of them. Does that mean I’m old?

The random lists are the most fun. There’s no rhyme or reason to the items that might include-- have you ever gone zip lining, eaten armadillo, ridden on an elephant (camel). What is the weirdest thing you have seen on a list?

Now, back to the original reason for this post – spring. In honor of the new season, here is a short list of spring type issues. Give yourself 1 point for each thing you have done. If you only get 1-2 points, you’re still hibernating!

*Bought Easter candy the day after so it’s on half price.

*Put away your winter clothes and got out your spring/summer ones.

*Had an indoor egg hunt and the kids only found 11 of the 12 hard boiled eggs you hid.

*Already bought potting soil, seeds and new garden gloves.

*Like licorice jelly beans.

*Actually tried on your spring/summer clothes to see what still fits.

*Started spring cleaning and came across a book you haven’t read so decided to take a “little” break.

If you didn’t get a point for the last one, visit my website at Books We Love: https://bwlpublishing.ca/baldwin-barbara/ . You’ll find all things romance – historical, contemporary and time travel. Just because it’s spring, doesn’t mean you can’t read. Just do it on the porch or out in the yard or park. Enjoy the sunshine.

 

Barb Baldwin, who does sort her M&Ms by color

http://authorsden.com/barbarajbaldwin

 

 

 

Best historical of 2023; read an excerpt, by Diane Scott Lewis

 

On Sale, only 4.99. To purchase, please click HERE

I'm so thrilled my WWII novel won best historical of 2023. I hope you enjoy the excerpt, which changes Norah's journey as she's trapped in France after the Germans invaded.

At the sound of a boot scraping over stone, Norah peeked around the tall rock. Her pulse spiked. The Commandant stood a couple of feet away, straight as a steel beam, arrogant, gazing out over the Atlantic. His Nazi uniform was a terrible mockery to the village of Saint Guénolé.

She’d thought herself secluded here. Why had she taken the chance? She hunkered down and should slip away, since she could be apprehended for spying on the German officer. Though that’s not why she was there. Loathing coated with fear rippled through her.

Almost frozen with inaction, she slid down a little more into the cove of the rocks’ shadows. She glanced at her drawing book. The sketch of the Atlantic Puffin, delicate in its lines traced in colored pencils. The orange legs and strong red and black beak on a body of black, pale gray, and a white underside shimmered on the page. In profile, its eye shone with life, and the puffin looked about to take flight.

A gust of wind tossed her hair into her face, a thick sweep of strawberry-blonde in the scent of brine from the sea.

Did she hear his boots scrape closer? What if he peered over the rocks? Swiping her tresses aside, she shrank deeper into a cleft and glared over the ocean, longing for her home in Yorkshire, angry and upset at being stranded. But she must pretend to be calm, in control.

The Southern Finistère coast, with its rugged, rocky outline, was a buttress against the forceful ocean waves that slapped the stone slope two yards below her toes. The dark indigo of the Bay of Biscay reflected a blue spring sky. Spray filtered through the air, a mist that refreshed her skin—except today. If she could only sneak to the north coast and be capable of swimming the channel.

Inching to the side, Norah crept, head down, out from the semi-circle of tall rocks on the opposite side from the Commandant. Thankful she wore trousers and not a skirt, plus sturdy Oxford shoes, she brushed off her backside. She hurried past the monolithic-like stones with golden lichen clinging to their bases, across an open area of grass and into the bushes then woods. Her pencils rattled in the canvas bag. Her legs grazed against the orange and yellow wildflowers.

A sentry or two always patrolled this area. She tried to remain inconspicuous, but more soldiers had arrived in the last few weeks. The Germans had started to build ports somewhere along here and a special one, heavily guarded, right below the village. She must be more careful.

As she pushed her way through gorse bushes and scratchy plants, sharply fragrant, she pondered the German officer’s reasons for standing at the cliff, which he did often—but never so close to her cove. Was he waiting for reinforcements by sea? Or coveting England across the channel? But that view was on the northern coast of this peninsula that stuck like a fat finger out into the Atlantic.

The Nazis’ bombing raids had already decimated so much in London in the Blitz. They’d also dropped bombs on York, but with minimal damage so far. Her country had been attacked by German planes from September ’40 to last month—the worst raid ever on London. She groaned. Now June, would it start again?

Since last year, Hitler planned an invasion of England, but he had failed to land any troops.

Her stomach clenched with more anger she needed to temper. She increased her stride, sucking in the fresh air. Rustling behind her, footsteps—too close. Someone panting then a hand grabbed her shoulder.

Norah flinched and swung around. A baby-faced soldier in Nazi greenish-gray scowled at her. “What are you doing here?” he demanded in heavily accented, terrible French, two of his teeth jagged like a weasel.

She straightened, chin high, the pad pressed to her stomach. Inside, she trembled. “I live nearby. I was enjoying a walk. I draw birds.” Her French was passable after the year entrenched with her cousin, and her schoolgirl lessons from a decade ago. Her arrival happened only five weeks before the Germans invaded France. A desperate year because of that and for anguished, personal reasons.

The young man pointed at her book and bag, then shouted over his shoulder in German.

Was he alerting his superior? “Please, I’ve done nothing wrong.” She had no desire to come face to face with the Commandant. “You can search me…if you want.” She cringed at that idea.

“I have no choice but to report you.” The soldier shouted again. The officer’s heavy footsteps thudded closer.

He burst through the bushes, tall and broad-shouldered, his expression stern. The two Germans spoke in their guttural language.

Norah wanted to collapse to the ground but refused to show intimidation. Her spine nearly crackled as she held it firm.

The Commandant confronted her, his blue eyes penetrating. “What is your purpose out here at the shore?” He had distinct cheekbones, a handsome face, his lips full; a man of about forty. An iron cross hung at his high collar. “You don’t care to take instruction from we Philistines. Civilians are restricted.”

“I apologize,” she tried to keep the revulsion from her tone, though his near-teasing words —or perhaps a taunt—put her off-balance even more, “I was out for a walk and…I used to walk by the shore. Before—” Before you damned Germans arrived.


Diane lives in Western Pennsylvania with her husband and one naughty dachshund.

Excerpt from Powerful Destiny by Tricia McGill

Powerful Destiny began life as a short story, then went on to become a novella, and all the time cried out to be a full-length novel. Vikings have always fascinated me. Many stories and myths have been written with differing opinions and outlooks. During my research, I found that a lot of these stories were likely not true. Part of the reason so many myths were created over the years was because a lot of opinions were based on speculation. One fact that surprised me during my research is that the Vikings were very family orientated and a lot of thought and haggling went into finding the right partners for their offspring. Their marriage ceremonies went on for weeks and guests came from far and wide to join in the celebrations. Whether they knew the meaning of true love is something we will never know, but I like to think that a love such as Rolf and Brigid share in my story was found by just as many Vikings and Celts. They were also great believers in Destiny or Fate as some like to call it and most of their actions were guided by this belief. I have always believed in reincarnation, so that is mainly where the idea for this story came from. If you believe that love can span time then I hope you will enjoy Powerful Destiny, a destiny that brought my lovers back together over centuries.

Click this link to purchase this book

Powerful Destiny Excerpt

Chapter One

Part One, East Anglia, Britain—circa 850 AD.

Leaping into the sea alongside his longship, as he’d done many times before, Rolf looked to the sullen sky. A good night for battle, for the moon kindly hid behind lowering clouds. The murky water swirled about his lower legs, but he took no heed of the coldness of the sea. Hardened by the many days, and often months, aboard ship on the heaving waves he had no thought of such a trifle, or indeed fear of the coming battle.

Rolf gave a silent gesture to his chosen warriors, and they followed him up the beach. The rest of his crew dragged the longship onto the sands beyond the tide line, in preparation for their expected hasty getaway this night.

Surely, the red haze of battle with the Celts would see some of his valiant Norse companions travelling to Valhalla. Like him, they knew no fear, for had they not lived their lives in the knowledge there would be endless merrymaking, willing females and wine to help them on their travels through the afterlife that was their destiny as brave fighters.

Many Celts fled to the west of Britain before the invasion of his fellow Norsemen, but one band defiantly settled in this area on the east coast. For many seasons, the Celtic leader fought and won against Norse invaders. Certainly, other warriors brought many tales back to Rolf’s homeland. Nevertheless, this time he was intent on overpowering them, and for once and all ensure his proud place in history.

This time he and his fellow warriors would become legends, and be heralded as the fiercest fighters among Norsemen. Although the tales proclaimed this leader of his band of Celts as fierce as any Norse warrior, Rolf did not believe that for one moment. This night he intended to prove that he was the mightier in any fight.

As Rolf turned to shout orders to his men, a bloodcurdling yell split the night air and a charging mass of bodies surged down from the trees fringing the beach. His spear at the ready Rolf aimed at the nearest enemy, his weapon sending the man, a startled look on his face, forward into the sand. As Rolf retrieved his weapon from the fallen foe, around him others fell beneath the onslaught of the spears of his Norse warriors. Then it was hand-to-hand combat as their swords and axes took over. There was little time for thought, only time to defend himself while also ensuring his trusted men did not die unnecessarily.

To Rolf’s surprise, their enemy seemed to gain the upper hand for a short while, slowly but surely pushing the Norsemen back towards the sea. However, with a shrill shout of encouragement, Rolf surged on with his axe at the ready, determined his warriors would win despite the setback.

Rolf lost all sensation of the passing of time as the battle raged on. His mighty sword and axe were covered in the blood of his enemies as they fell before him, some screaming in agony, some silently stumbling to the ground as they breathed their last.

As the stench of death grew and the roars of his men, and those they fought, filled the air, a mist descended, darkening the sky even more. The numbers of Celts dwindled until there were none left standing. Rolf let out a yell to his men to gather behind him, and when they did, it was clear their numbers had not decreased by many. Through the mist, the bodies he could just see strewn across the stretch of blood-soaked sand were mostly Celts, their bodies gruesome in death as they lay with twisted limbs and distorted faces.

He gave a whistle to the men who stayed with the ship, and when they joined his valiant warriors, he motioned for them all to follow him forward. This could be a ruse, and there was every chance that more Celts lay hidden, waiting to catch his fighters off guard. But it soon became clear that the way ahead was safe. When a sea bird screeched out, it seemed a signal to the rest of the flock that the danger had passed and the birds began to settle once again in their roosting places.

Stealthily Rolf and his men made their way up the beach, stopping now and then to give a man who still moved or groaned the blessing of a swift journey to wherever Celts travelled in their afterlife. It became blessedly clear that very few of his own men died in this skirmish. Before they left these shores, they would bury them and wish them good speed on their way to Valhalla.

First, something of importance needed to be done.

Rolf knew as well as his crew did that the Celtic men would have their womenfolk secreted nearby. They all looked to him—the light of eagerness clear on their grim, blood-spattered faces—as they made their way with care through the undergrowth, and then beneath the overhanging trees that lined the beach. As Rolf pushed back a branch, a night bird let out a mournful hoot and then there was a flurry in the bracken as if a small animal scurried away in fright.

The mist was less dense here away from the ocean, so that he could make out a small clearing ahead. Pushing his bloodstained sword securely down into his belt, Rolf kept his axe ready in his hand as he gave a nod to his men before leading them across the clearing.

When a sudden cry splintered the silence, Rolf put up a hand to halt his men. “That was the cry of a child, not that of an animal,” he whispered, and immediately another plaintive cry followed, causing birds to fly off again in fright. As Rolf jerked a hand to his side—to the direction the cries came from, his men fanned out to form a line. Heads low, they crept forward.

The mist lifted even more, until Rolf could make out a sheer cliff face not far ahead of them. As he hissed a warning, a child of no more than perhaps eight winters came flying as if from the rock itself and, hands fisted, ran full speed at Rolf. One of his men brought his axe up high, prepared to slay the child, but when Rolf shouted, “No! We do not kill their children,” he dropped his arm to his side, while sending Rolf a defiant wrathful glare.

Rolf heard his mutter of protest and knew his men would likely think him strange in the head. More than a few of them had slain Celtic children in the past. Truth was, Rolf never had, and never would. It sickened him to see a female or a child killed for any reason.

The child seemed stunned by the shout and stumbled to a halt, now looking confused. When Rolf moved towards him, the boy stood his ground, an admirable trait in one so young. But Rolf had not missed the quiver of his lips as he sent a sneer their way. Then he began to yell, words Rolf could not understand, but guessed at their meaning well enough. The child's curses filled the night air as his small fists waved about in an unmistakable warning.

When the boy turned and began to run back the way he had come, Rolf motioned for Ragnar, his youngest warrior, to catch him. As Ragnar reached the boy, now struggling against his hold, a female appeared like a wraith out of the darkness of the cliff face. Rolf guessed she emerged from a concealed cave.

“Would you kill a child as well as our menfolk?” she challenged clearly, her voice ringing out across the distance, bouncing off the cliff and resounding with an echo.

Rolf stared as if struck, feeling suddenly as confused as the child, for her words were spoken in his native tongue. Then, as the moon drifted out from behind a cloud, Rolf let out a gasp.

The woman stood straight and proud, long hair as black as the night falling to her middle. A band around her forehead secured its flowing beauty. Her clothing was no different from that worn by any other Celtic female encountered in his past, but something about her bearing proclaimed that she was very different in some way. As she touched some sort of talisman at her belt, she muttered what could have been an incantation. Perhaps she was praying to her gods.

In all his life and many travels, never had he seen such a vision of loveliness. Then Rolf cursed beneath his breath. What was he thinking? This was a Celtic female, only fit for becoming a slave. Nevertheless, there was something about this female that told him she would be no man's slave, no matter how he tried to break her spirit.

Then a thought hit him like a thunderbolt. He had no wish to enslave her, but perhaps he could capture her heart. That idea astounded him so, that he turned away and took a few steadying breaths. As he did, he could clearly see that some of his men were casting odd looks his way as they awaited orders. Who could blame them?

What childish nonsense was this? Never in his many summers was his head filled with such ridiculous notions. Norse warriors did not bother with such fancies—so where did these thoughts spring from. For the first time in many moons, Rolf felt uneasy, more like a boy untutored in love and life.

Stiffening his shoulders, Rolf turned to face her and asked, more to conceal this confusion than anything else. “How is it you speak our language?”

Ignoring his question, she asked one of her own. “How is it you think it your right to invade our country and kill our menfolk?” As she moved a step or two away from the rockface, he noticed she carried a sword with confidence. A confidence unusual for a Celtic female. A few Norse women carried weapons with bravado and these shield maidens were well skilled in battle, but the Celtic women were not known to be so brave and capable in sword battles. In his curious fascination with her beauty, he had failed to see the weapon. Unwise in such circumstances. Celts were not to be trusted, be they male or female.

Rolf gripped his axe handle tighter, as he said curtly, “Perhaps if your menfolk did not put up a fight we might have learned to live side by side in harmony.”

Without flinching, she pressed the blade of her sword into the ground in front of her and as the cloud lifted further, he could see her expression. A small sound of disgust left her perfectly shaped lips. In fact, now he could view her clearly, Rolf wondered if she were a goddess—for she was nigh on perfect in every way. Surely only the gods attained such perfection. The Norse gods and goddesses dwelt in Asgard, so it was believable that the Celts possessed their own haven for their gods.

“You think we could ever reach such harmony?” Her beautiful mouth curved down into a smirk of disdain. “You kill our men; take our women and children as slaves.” Tugging the sword from the ground, she held it aloft. “We are prepared to die before we allow you to take us as your slaves.” At these words, she turned the sword until its hilt hit the sandy ground, and then bent forward until the blade pointed to her body, right below her breast. Clearly all she had to do was fall forward and she would be lost to him forever.

Rolf let out a cry. “No! Stay your hand.”

His men were all now grumbling, and cursing beneath his breath Rolf turned to glare at them. Although they quietened, their looks of resentment said they tired of this game. No doubt they were wondering why he stood discussing the situation with this female instead of immediately taking her and the others who obviously hid in the cave behind her as slaves.

As Rolf took a step towards her she bent more, ever closer to the tip of the blade. Would she take her own life? Rolf feared she would, for the Celts were mysterious people—well known to have beliefs and practices beyond the understanding of any Norseman or woman, and hard to imagine.

Suddenly the boy kicked Ragnar on the lower leg, surprising him by his childish strength. In his fascination for the woman Ragnar allowed the child his freedom then cursed his foolishness as the boy ran towards her screaming, “Brigid!” Rolf could not understand the string of words that followed, but it was clear that the child pleaded with the woman not to take her own life.

In the instant she turned her attention to the child, Rolf pounced, kicking her sword to the ground. He then pulled the woman named Brigid into his arms, her back pressed to his front. Her breasts heaved as she let out a string of words in her Celtic tongue. No doubt willing him to a disastrous and painful fate. His heart pounded in his chest at the feel of her young protesting body pressed against his.

“Let me go!” Although she was certainly tall for a female, he stood taller. Rolf had been the largest man in his clan since his father handed over his prized weapons to him, being his only son, while on his deathbed. Few men were stronger, and this woman stood no chance of escaping from him, no matter how hard she kicked, scratched and struggled. All three she did—in fact she put up a very good fight while sending him a string of Celtic, but well understood, curses that willed him to a fate worse than death.

“Be still woman and no harm will befall you.” Rolf loosened his hold, but instantly tightened his grip when, with another string of abuse from her tongue, she tried to escape. There would be no escape for her—he fully intended to keep this prize as his own.

His men now laughed and cheered, their words abusive, as befitted a victorious warrior. “Let us now take the other women,” one cried, waving his sword above his head, while Rolf thanked his gods that his men dared not make a move without his consent.

When Rolf pressed his mouth against Brigid's ear, she squirmed away, but relentlessly he held her fast. “Tell your womenfolk to come out willingly and no harm will come to them this night,” he said, taking the opportunity to taste her skin before she pulled away, twisting her neck aside. Her scent filled his nostrils. She smelled of bracken, lavender, but mostly female. His body reacted instantly, and she froze like a wild animal that knew it was in the sights of its hunter.

“You think they will believe that any more than I do?” she hissed, a tremble in her voice. “They have probably already taken their own lives.”

“And the lives of their children?” Rolf knew very well that Celtic women valued the lives of their children as much as any Norse mother did. Perhaps the virgins might be tempted to end their lives rather than submit to his Norse warriors, but he doubted a mother would leave her children undefended.

When he moved his arms until one hand rested beneath the soft swell of her breast, she spat another Celtic word at him. Rolf swallowed hard and closed his eyes at the rush of sensation surging through his blood. In all his life no woman had ever caused such a reaction. Usually he took what the willing females of his clan offered and shared the spoils of victory with his men.

But this was different. This woman would be shared with no man—he would kill them before they set a hand on her. He wanted this woman to succumb willingly. If it took him until his dying breath, he would make her his own.

When she kicked at the front of his lower leg, it caught him so off guard that he almost toppled sideways, but he held her fast and at the last moment righted himself. “Do that again and I will show you no mercy,” he lied.

“I will fight you to my last breath.” With that fervent vow, she twisted away from him and scratched at his arms. His clothing protected him from her nails, the sturdy fabric of his over shirt covering him to his wrists. Doubtless, the chains of his armour were hurting her tender skin, and his sword would also be pressing into her side.

Relaxing his hold, while still ensuring she could not escape, Rolf whispered, “Why fight?” His men were now shifting restlessly, while brandishing their weapons and mumbling curses, and Rolf knew he must do something—and quickly. “Accept your fate. Tell your clanswomen to come out peaceably and none will be harmed this night. We have no reason to fight you or harm your children.”

She made a small sound of derision before muttering, “You have already harmed us by taking away my father and our brothers and kin.” The forlorn note in her voice made him want to console her.

But even if he wanted to, Rolf knew that he must not show this woman tenderness in front of his fighting men. “We are men; it is our way to fight. Your men knew this fact also and fought valiantly. And be warned, my men will take what is rightfully theirs if you do not order your women to come out now. I am sure none wish to die, and you will find that Norsemen are not wicked.” Some were, but he was not about to admit to that. The other Celtic women must take what was their fate and make the best of it.

Men of any race were varied—some good, some with the darkest of evil souls. In his travels he had seen men commit many crimes—crimes far worse than any Norseman was capable of performing. All he cared about right now was claiming this female for his own.

“If you are a sensible woman, I suggest you do what is best for them.”

“What is best for them is for you to now set us free.” Although she said those words in a low voice, he knew the moment her decision was made. Like a wild animal that sensed imminent death, she wilted in his arms. She shouted a few words in her own tongue and then silence descended over the clearing before a woman came from the cave carrying a babe in her arms—then another appeared, a small boy clinging to her skirts. All their faces showed terror.

Keeping Brigid safely within his hold Rolf turned to shout to his men, “No man will harm any female. That is my order. Disobey it and you will die by my hand.”

A few of his crew muttered curses while one openly sent Rolf a defiant scowl, but he knew they would not disobey him—even while probably suspecting he had lost his mind. Rolf was aware he was known to be a fair leader, but unyielding when his orders were disobeyed, and hoped that was enough to curb any vicious urges they might feel right now.

Within a short time, a bedraggled group of women of all ages stood before them. A few cradled babes in their arms, while another two had children at their knees, crying as they clung to their mothers’ clothing as if it offered protection. Some children huddled together, obviously motherless. Every face clearly showed terror. Two of the females were not yet of child bearing age and a couple were long past childbearing, their wrinkled faces showing disdain along with their fear. If they were unable to work once back in Rolf’s homeland perhaps they could be sold on as slaves—although it was doubtful if they would be worth anything in the slave market as most buyers wanted young concubines or women able to work alongside the men.

“Tell your women that if they do not fight us, they will be treated with gentleness.” Rolf was not wholly certain that would be the case. Once they reached the shores of their homeland and his men left the longship, he would have less control. His crew were handpicked because they were mighty warriors and he could depend on them in a fight, but he could not expect every one of them to heed his warning once they returned home and were out of his sight.

Brigid turned her head to scowl his way, and then said a few words to the worried women, who now looked furtively around as if expecting one of their gods to appear and come to their aid.

Rolf shouted orders to three of his men to search the cave and they disappeared inside, brandishing their weapons. A short time later they came out, one shaking his head. “Some are in there dead,” he said, holding up three of his fingers.

Rolf shrugged. There was nothing to be done for them now. The woman in his arms let out a soft wail and some of the other captives huddled before them sobbed quietly. It puzzled him why there were not more females of this clan, but it could be that their leader saw fit to secure others in another hiding place. It would be useless to question this Brigid. He was certain she would lie or admit ignorance. There was little time to search for them anyway, for he was eager to be away from these shores. What he set out to do on this voyage was done, and that was enough for now. The Celtic woman who had captured his attention was prize enough to take back to his homeland. The others would likely prove a nuisance.

“Let us go.” Rolf gestured to the women and children. “Tell them to go before us and not to think of escaping,” he said to Brigid, giving her a small shake. “Be warned, my men will slay the first one who tries to run away. It is of little importance to us if they live or die.”

She passed this message on in a quiet and dignified voice. Rolf shouted the order to his men, who formed a line behind the women and children, herding them before them like dumb creatures. When Brigid stumbled, Rolf, who still held her captive, stopped her from falling. With a Celtic curse he knew well, she went rigid in his arms.

Chapter Two.

Brigid sent thanks to her God that he had at last stopped encircling her body, mercifully, but instead now had his fingers firmly gripping her upper arm. It did not hurt, but ensured she knew quite well that now she was his slave. Now the initial terror of their capture had dulled and there was time to think over the events of this day, it puzzled her why this leader did not allow his men to ravage the women of her clan as soon as they were discovered. From the many stories passed down about previous raids by the Norsemen, they were nothing but savages with no feelings of remorse, so who knew what the future held for them.

Glancing from side to side she realised it was too late now to consider thoughts of escape, and the children must be considered. These heathens would no doubt take out revenge on the innocent babes who were useless to them, if she or one of her fellow Celtic women took this last chance at freedom.

An immense sorrow filled her at the thought of the men who died this night, and fear for what lay before the survivors. Perhaps the large man who was the Norse leader was not as moderate as he appeared to be. What would happen to them once they were aboard his vessel? That did not bear thinking about. Fear made her want to vomit, and not just fear for her own safety. The women who lost their husbands or fathers of their children this day also had grief to add to their overwhelming heartache.

As they reached the line of trees fanning out along the edge of the beach one of the women let out a loud wail. It was Margret, and she took a few faltering steps before she fell across the body of her husband, her small son still clinging to her skirt. The boy snivelled, his round, dirty face crinkling until he looked like an old man. Another woman followed her and before long most had found their menfolk and soft keening sounds filled the air, along with the louder weeping of their children.

Brigid saw her father’s body and nodded to the lifeless man lying near the sea, beseeching, “May I go to him?”

Her captor hesitated, and then jerked his head. “But be warned. I have been merciful so far, but try to escape and you will be dragged back here and treated like a slave.”

Brigid did not doubt that for one moment. Still mystified at just why this Norseman had treated them so kindly thus far, she ran to kneel at her slain father's side. From all the tales she was brought up on, the invaders showed no mercy for their captives, ever. It was no lie when she said that rather than be taken as slaves most of the women of her clan—herself included—would rather die by their own hands and rot in hell than succumb to a Norse. It surprised her that only a few of the women chose to end their lives, but guessed that might have been because they were childless.

This man, called Rolf by his men, was quite different from the savages she had been led to believe were nothing but bloodthirsty animals, worse even. Then again, few men captured by them ever returned to their homeland, so the tales of savagery could be myth invented by the storytellers.

Blood was already drying on her dear father's garments, and below his throat the sand was dark with his spilled blood. He lay sprawled at an odd angle, and with difficulty she straightened his limbs. Sweet God, how she hoped his death was swift. Taking his bloodstained hand in hers, she bent to kiss it as her tears dripped onto his wrist. “Father. I wish you happiness now that you are with my mother, your dearly loved wife,” she whispered, sobs choking her. Glancing over her shoulder, she looked for the Norse leader. Perhaps he would grant them the chance to bury their dead.

A few of his warriors watched the women, on guard as if prepared to pounce should they take a chance on escape. Of the others, some were digging a large hole with their axes and bare hands just inside the line of shrubs at the top of the beach, while others were collecting rocks and large pieces of tree stumps. These collected logs were laid out around the hole in what Brigid realised was the shape of a ship, coming to a point at both extremes.

The slain Norsemen—far fewer than Celts—were carried to this tomb and then laid in with care, their weapons left at their sides or placed in their hands. How strange—why would they have need of them now they were dead?

Their leader watched for a while as his men covered the bodies with soil, and then rocks, she guessed to protect them from roaming wild animals. When he came across to where Brigid still knelt, she kept her face averted but said in a clear voice, “May we also bury our dead?” The thought of foraging creatures feasting on the bodies of their fallen kinfolk made her want to vomit. There were stories told of giant crabs marching from the sea to scavenge along the shoreline. She shuddered at the thought of this fate befalling her dear parent.

“No.”

Brigid jerked her head up at his abrupt answer.

“We have not time. Doubtless, others of your kind will find your menfolk where they lay and take care of them. We must go now. Say your final farewells and tell your women to walk to our ship.”

“But...”

His hand came up with a jerk to stem her plea. “Do not try my patience, woman.” He gestured for her to rise. “Come, we leave. Now.”

Brigid touched the face of the man who had been her teacher and advisor since childhood, whispered, “Goodbye and rest in peace, my beloved father,” and rose on legs that shook. Already his death mask and slashed throat made him appear more like a savage than the kind and gentle man he had been in life. Truly, the Norse leader had treated her with a certain amount of gentleness up to now—but she sensed an unrelenting band of iron beneath his exterior. Short of killing herself and leaving the other women to their fate, there was little she could do now but obey.

The longship sat in the shallows, looking menacing as they neared it. Brigid bent to wash the blood of her father from her fingers in the sea before, with little ceremony, the women and children were hoisted aboard by the crew. The heathens all seemed jubilant as they passed rude comments back and forth, while roughly handling their unfortunate prisoners. Brigid was glad that her clanswomen could not understand the language. She noted that their leader also washed the blood from his hands and weapons, something his crew did not bother to do. Doubtless, to carry the blood of the conquered on your body was, to them, a mark of a victorious battle.

Using hand gestures amid shouting, the prisoners were ordered to the middle of the ship and then to lie low. Some of the smaller babies, and the orphans, began to cry plaintively at the strange surroundings. Like herded cattle, they obeyed, for there was little else to do. Terror was clear on their faces. It was likely that most of them had never been aboard such a large vessel. Some of them may have spent time infrequently on the small fishing boats used off shore, but the men of their clan did most of the fishing. The women were the ones who did the cleaning and preparing of the catch.

Brigid tried to keep calm and show no fear in the hope it would instil them with courage—a courage she did not feel at all. Bjorn, the boy who risked his own life to save hers, kept close by her side, looking to her as his leader, she guessed, now that his father was dead. His mother journeyed to her maker some years ago after a difficult birthing where the baby also died. This was probably a blessing; in that she was spared this present torment. The other motherless children, one so young he was still unsteady on his small feet, also huddled near to her, his face streaked with dirt where he had wiped away his tears of anguish. Brigid encouraged them to sit and make themselves as comfortable as they were able in the confined space.

Thankfully, they were all clothed in the skins of sheep or goat that would ward off the cold, and wore their sturdy shoes made of cowhide. Winter frosts were ending and they were all preparing to welcome spring as news of the raiding party reached their small settlement a few miles inshore. The men wisely ordered them to carry as much warm clothing as they were able, in case they had to hide out for any length of time in the cave or later in the hills.

They barely had enough time to ensure all the children were safely with the women before being hustled out of their homes to follow the men to the secure hiding place they selected for them in anticipation of another raid. Brigid wiped at a tear as she thought how insecure this turned out to be. If their menfolk and her father especially, knew what the outcome would be, he would certainly have ensured them of a more secure hiding place, perhaps further inland towards the forest.

As they prepared to leave, one of the lads nearing manhood was sent off to their neighbouring settlement with a warning message. He was weak limbed and so not considered able enough to join them in battle. Brigid prayed that they were luckier and wiser with their hiding place and would eventually find Brigid’s father and clansmen before the wild animals got to them. Oh father, she moaned silently, I must keep up my strength to prove to be the daughter you always wished me to be.

Once the crew settled into their places along either side of the vessel, it took no time at all for them to clear the beach and shallows. Their rowing was carried out skilfully, but noisily. No doubt now that they were well away from the beach, they held little fear of reprisals. Full of the pride in their victory they boastfully shouted praise at each other across the width of the vessel, while their leader stood at the front of the ship, his eyes on the sea, not joining in their rejoicing.

When they reached deeper water, he shouted orders and the oars were downed and the sails hoisted. This they also did skillfully and with little fuss. Without doubt, these men were expert at their sailing skills. The vessel soon gained great speed, and as the longship ploughed headlong into the surging waves, Brigid truly wanted to die. Surely, she would.

True to all the tales Brigid garnered over the years about Norse ships, it moved swiftly through the water. Soon the waves that started out as a small swell were sending the ship rocking so hard she feared they would all perish before this night was over. Most of the children whimpered in fear and sickness, and the women were not in a much better condition, so had little strength to quieten or comfort their offspring. Brigid tried her best to comfort those children nearby but feared sickness would also render her useless to offer aid. Her best advice was for them all to lie down and try to sleep. Something she knew few would have the will or inclination to do.

The Norsemen were all unbothered by the rise and fall of the ship, in fact were jovial, some now singing loudly. The bawdy shanty they bellowed was about the sea and its peculiarities, which brought back memories of the old days when her father returned from scouting the area for attackers. If the trip proved successful then his fellow fighters would sing a boisterous ballad about their victory. She brushed away a tear, or was it sea spray? Now was not the time for self-pity, she must show a brave face to the other women sharing this horror voyage.

To give her mind something other to think about beside her roiling stomach, Brigid recalled her father once telling her that the Norsemen were skilled ship builders and sailors and this was the main reason they were able to attack and plunder parts of Britain with such success. Because their longships could tackle rivers with the same ease that they sailed the oceans, they could then be dragged onto beaches, which enabled them to attack with little warning. Something they achieved often according to stories she heard, and something that surely reaped them success this terrible night.

At least the lookouts provided them with enough warning to get the women and children hidden, but now Brigid began to wonder if that proved a blessing or a curse. No doubt her fellow captives were thinking, as she was, that death might have been more merciful than the present horror of this journey.

Brigid prayed once again to her God that the bodies of the brave clansmen would be found soon. It did not bear thinking about that they might lay where they fell until their bodies rotted, or became mangled and eaten by some creature, or worse still, until the tide washed them out to sea to be carried about like useless waste until a sea monster consumed them. 

Clouds rolled across the already darkened sky, obscuring the moon, and a fine drizzle began to fall. No part of the vessel provided cover of any sort and all the women and children huddled together in the centre, shivering with fear or possibly fever. Brigid shivered too as, despite her warm clothing, her body grew colder.

Each rower sat in his position on a box until the sails were unfurled. Now some of these chests were opened, and amid more shouting and hilarity the men dug out what Brigid soon realised were sleeping sacks. Of course none of these or any form of covering was offered to any of the women. After a while, some men climbed inside these sacks and were soon snoring and snorting like swine.

Their leader still stood at the front of the ship, his eyes searching for some sort of sign, perhaps from his gods. After giving a few commands, that she failed to hear above the noise of the wind, to the two men watching the sea alongside him, he made his way towards the cowering, shivering women. Their clothing, which protected them well against the weather onshore, had become little protection against the wind howling about the sails, its moans matching those of the captured women.

“How are you faring?”

Startled by the sound of the leader's voice, Brigid jumped, and stared up at him. His question was asked gently, as if he really cared for her feelings or for those of any of the other captives. The babies had long since ceased crying and were probably now in a stupor of sickness as were most of the smaller children. A couple of the mothers managed to breast feed their babes, keeping themselves well concealed as they did so, which had quietened them.

“I will likely throw myself off this hideous vessel of yours.” Brigid had to raise her voice to be heard above the wind. Lifting her head, she tried to read his expression, but it was impossible in the dimness.

“No, you will not.” He went down on his haunches beside her and Brigid flinched away. “Tell me, how is it you speak my tongue?” He patted the head of the child at her side and as the smaller boy whimpered in fear, the older boy Bjorn, pulled him into his arms and away from the Norseman.

The man’s beard and flowing hair were the colour of ripe corn, but in the darkness and with sea spray or rain dampening them, both looked almost as black as her own. Brigid was brought up to believe that the hearts of all Norsemen were as merciful as stone—but something deep inside told her that this man's heart was not like that. Would he have spared the life of a child if that were so? Because of him, the women now huddled in this vessel had not been dragged aboard and ravaged...yet. But what fate awaited them when they reached the foreign shore, the home of these savages? Up to now, the crew members were too preoccupied with ensuring the vessel was safely away from the shores of her homeland.

Determined not to speak to him, Brigid stared at the mass of overcast sky above the distant horizon, her mouth set mutinously. He made no move and she could feel his eyes on her. After a long stretch of silence, his sigh was audible. “You gain nothing by your silence and everything to gain by being civil towards me. I can understand you bearing feelings of hatred for me, but believe me it will serve you well if you do not upset me.” He glanced over his shoulder. “These men are warriors and it would take one simple word from me for them to take the first opportunity to attack your womenfolk and perhaps kill your children and toss them into the sea.”

Brigid gasped in horror, as with a shrug he prepared to rise. It was clear that although he seemed to have treated her kindly so far, there was truth in his words, for his men obeyed him slavishly.  This much she had gathered, and at a nod from their leader, they would not think twice about tossing the children and babies overboard, and taking what they wished from the helpless women.

“My father was the leader of our clan and a knowledgeable man. He taught me many things, one being the language of the Norsemen,” she said hurriedly. How she wished her dear parent had taught her how to be brave enough to kill herself rather than be captured by these heathens!

“But how did he learn our language?” He went down on his haunches again, and appeared interested in her answer. “I have heard of no Celt before with this knowledge.”

Brigid shrugged. “I have no notion.”

Of course she did. Her beloved mother spent a small part of her early years as a slave of the heathens. Her father rescued her and brought her back to her homeland. How Brigid loved hearing the story of how he found her starving on an island. While out fishing, a storm blew up, forcing them to take refuge on a small rocky isle to wait out the wrath of the weather. After her mother jumped from a Norse longship, the Norsemen presumed her drowned, and did not bother to take time to see if she was dead or alive. However, by good fortune she was a good swimmer and managed to get to the island without being seen. The isle was bare of trees and plants so without nourishment she was very near death when Brigid’s father stumbled across her hiding place.

One of Rolf's large hands reached toward her and Brigid shrank back. He muttered something beneath his breath, before saying, “Do not fear me. I will never harm you.”

“You have already harmed me by killing my father and kinsmen and dragging me onto this ship of yours.” After a wrathful glance about them at the cowering women and children, she glared at him.

He also looked at the huddled captives but then said, “Men fight battles—it is our way. Some come out victors, some must lose the fight.” His hands lifted in a small gesture of acceptance.

Did not her dear father say something like that to her years ago, after returning home from one fierce battle? Brigid let out a small sob. How she hated to show her cowardice in front of this Norseman, but the pain of her sorrow was almost too much to bear. Pressing a hand to her chest, she stared down at the now sleeping small boy beside her. Bjorn had also gone to sleep and he cradled the smaller child in his arms as they both slept fitfully.

Pointing to her belt, he asked, “What is this talisman you wear?”

It seemed this man was intent on learning all about her. Much as she had no desire to tell him anything more, Brigid sensed that it was to her advantage to go along with his wishes. She placed the intricately carved wooden cross that was attached to a chain around her middle onto her open palm. “My father gave it to my mother on their wedding day, and it was passed to me upon her death. It is meant to protect me from harm.” She sneered at him. “So it is useless.”

“Not so. You are alive, while your kinsmen are dead.” For a brief moment he looked as if he would touch her again but then he rose, stood looking down on her for a moment with a small frown on his brow, before striding back to his lookout spot at the front of his ship.

As Brigid pondered the strangeness of this Norseman who seemed so different to the stories she had heard most of her life about their vicious and plundering ways, a loud wail startled her. It came from Asa, a woman nearing old age who had not only lost her husband but also two of her sons in the battle that raged earlier. She stood shakily amid the other women, and as two of them tried to restrain her, the vessel pitched about and she stumbled. Letting out another pitiful howl of despair she pushed the women aside, and once free of their restraining hands, lunged for the ship's side, put one leg over the barrier and, as if time stood still, toppled into the sea.

Brigid cried, “No!” as she rose swiftly and headed for the ship’s rail. The children awoke and in their confusion started to scream along with all the women. Out of the corner of her eye Brigid saw Rolf racing from his position at the front of the ship and he too stared at the sea where Asa had plunged. A few of the men lifted their heads above their sleeping sacks, grunting their disgust before flopping back down just as suddenly, unconcerned. The other men shrugged with disinterest and turned aside.

Without further thought, Brigid tore off her cloak, pushed two stunned women who had joined her at the rail aside, and in one swift movement climbed onto the chest nearest Rolf and dived into the swirling ocean where Asa disappeared. When Brigid surfaced to drag in a deep breath, she heard one of Rolf's crew clearly shout, “Let her go,” before she dove again beneath the murky waves.

The sea heaved around her and her limbs felt as heavy as rocks, her movements slow and restricted. The water was icily cold and she realised that she could not feel her hands or feet. Her shift and kirtle were dragging her down, as were her water-filled leather boots. Frantic now, Brigid swam as best she could, thankful her mother taught her when young how to swim. Although she could stay afloat for a long time there was never a reason to swim in seas such as this, and she would never possess her mother’s skill in the water. She surfaced, drew in another deep breath and mumbled a short prayer before going under again.

Asa was nowhere to be seen. The water was so dark it was like swimming in mud and Brigid doubted she would see the old woman even if she were nearby. Perhaps Asa was right and this would be the best way. It would be so easy to just give in and let the sea take her to join her beloved parents and her baby brother who died soon after his birth.

As Brigid made the decision to let herself sink, a pair of arms clamped about her, and then she was being dragged to the surface. She fought for a moment but then allowed the foolhardy rescuer to drag her upwards. As they surfaced, gulping in air, she realised it was Rolf. Of course it was the leader—none of the others would spare a thought for a drowning Celtic woman. So why did he? His hair and beard clung to his skull and neck. Dragging in great mouthfuls of air Brigid clung to his shoulders.

“Fool of a woman!” He sounded annoyed but not angry.

Between gasps for breath, Brigid managed to cry, “Asa?”

“Gone. The woman was too frail and old to survive.”

His arms were about her middle still and he supported them both while moving his legs about in the water. Brigid could feel his hard chest beneath the wet shirt that was his only top covering. He must have discarded his armoured vest. Which was a good thing—surely, he would have sunk like a rock to the bottom of the ocean had he not thought to abandon it before diving in after her. Still puzzled, she stared at him. Would she ever understand this man?

Brigid let out a moan of sadness for the old woman. Forced to rest her head against his jaw while she struggled to gain her breath, she thumped at his shoulder, crying, “Why did you save me?”

His large hands about her waist tightened as he gave her a small shake. The waves were now tossing them about as if they were sea kelp. Brigid could see over his shoulder that the longship was now a fair distance from them. The sails had been lowered which meant that his crew would be using the oars to turn the ship around and come back for their master.

“Do you not know?” he asked. If she did not know better, she would suspect him to be clearly surprised that she asked such a question of him.

“Because you are a fool,” she muttered. Now he would probably let her go, let her sink to the bottom of the ocean.

“Perhaps I am.” A deep frown creased his brow. “But from the moment I set eyes on you I knew that it was our destiny to be together.”

Startled, Brigid pushed back far enough to get a clear look into his face. Yes, he surely was a fool, talking a fool’s gibberish. “I did not think Norse warriors gave thought to destiny and fate,” she spluttered.

“You truly do not know anything about us. We believe in the Norns. The Three Fates of Destiny are more powerful than our gods and goddesses, and likely more powerful than your Celtic gods.”

The moon rode high in the sky now and she could clearly see his eyes. Was that puzzlement she read there in their depths? Well, she was surely just as puzzled. And more than that—so stunned was she by his words she knew not what to say.

Then he did the strangest thing. He covered her mouth with his. The waves washed over them and Brigid clung to his shoulders. With his arms about her, he pressed her body to his, and the strength of him kept them both lifted above the water.

Although sure his mouth would be hard and ruthless, it was not so. His lips were soft, gently enticing her to open to him. Brigid knew in that instant that she would be tied to this man for the rest of her days—would follow him willingly into the gates of hell if he so bid her.

Brigid heard a shout and vaguely registered that it must be from one of his crew. Rolf drew back slowly and the smile that curved his mouth contained promise, joy and utter satisfaction—the satisfaction of a male who had found immense treasure. Bewildered, Brigid pushed at him. What foolishness was she thinking now? Because he saved her life and took one kiss, it did not mean that she was somehow tied to him forever. Perhaps she was suffering some sort of ague from swallowing seawater. She could not give her heart to one such as he. “You are wrong,” she spat.

Her defiance did not seem to worry him. “Did I not say it is our destiny to be together?” Before she could retort to that he turned her about and with his hands on her waist hoisted her high so that the man named Ragnar could haul her aboard the longship.

Once back aboard, the other women crowded round, sadness filling their features. Brigid rigidly went back to sit with the children. The crew were sending their leader odd glances, no doubt wondering at his sanity to waste time and energy saving a couple of slaves. He silenced the few comments with a slice of the hand and a reprimand, and they hastily prepared the ship’s sails once more and were soon again threading their way through the waves as if none of the past few events took place.

Soon after, the Norse leader brought Brigid a pair of breeches and a shirt, plus a woollen cape, of which she was grateful. These he handed to her silently before going back to his position at the front of the ship. Brigid was shaking as if with the ague now, no doubt with the cold, but she knew that it was also likely shock at what happened in the sea.

The women did their best to shield her from the eyes of the crewmen as she stripped off her sodden clothes and pulled on the garments. They were very large, and obviously belonged to Rolf, the strange leader. Doubtless no member of his crew would be so charitable towards her. She rolled the bottom of the breeches up, and also the sleeves of the shirt, and by the time she was clothed her wild shivers had not ceased so she lay down beside the children. Pulling the cloak over her in the hope that she would sleep for a while, she snuggled down with the boys held close, taking comfort from their little bodies.

Her last thought before she fell into a deep sleep was that perhaps Rolf was right and her God or his Norse gods surely did smile on them this day. Or, could his powerful Three Fates of Destiny have intervened.

 Purchase here

  

Prospecting For Love -- Time Travel, part 1

For purchase: Prospecting-for-Love

Being thrown back in time will take you out of your comfort zone. There are no modern conveniences such as microwaves, cell phones, or cars. Horsepower in the 1800’s was literal. None of your job skills or your MA in computer technology will help you as you try to find your place in a world long forgotten.

My heroines travel back in time, taking with them the knowledge of the future, which can often lead to misunderstandings, but fun interactions. Ellie, in PROSPECTING FOR LOVE is discovered with nail polish on her toes, which only the “working girls” at the saloon would do. She finds “real junk food” in the form of potato chips and Van Camp’s Pork and Beans in the general store in 1850, believing things like that had only been invented in her lifetime. The opposite side of the coin is that she doesn’t know how to cook without a microwave or start a wood fire in the stove.

There are challenges to writing time travel: (1) the methods I use to get the heroine back in time, (2) what can or can’t be transported with her when she goes, and (3) how and when she has an opportunity to return to her own time. The “rules” have to be established before I start writing and then they cannot be broken. I can’t decide half way through the book that the heroine needs her cell phone to convince the hero she’s from the future, so she miraculously finds it under a rock somewhere.

Now that being said, I can have different rules for different books. For example, in deciding how the heroine goes back in time, I use something different in each of my books. I don’t just have them fall and bump their heads. That would be far too easy. I’ve had secret doors, spinning carousels, dust storms and torrential rains and flooding. But in PROSPECTING FOR LOVE, two ghosts are responsible for what happens to Ellie, and the result is sometimes dramatic and sometimes rather funny. Below is an excerpt.

 PROSPECTING FOR LOVE – An Excerpt

 Prologue

 Peavine, Nevada Territory -- July 4, 1870

"You must undo the disaster that happened." A gravelly voice scraped against the dark cave walls, echoing in the frigid air.

Zeke literally shook in his boots, searching the gloom to locate the body that should have accompanied the voice. He could feel shivers shoot up and down his spine. Glancing at Lucky, he could see him, but he couldn't really see him. His brother shimmered against the dark walls of the mine, his scruffy beard and wrinkled face casting a glow such as it never had in real life.

Real life. That was the stickler, they had recently found out. Zeke and his twin brother, Lucky, had spent sixty years on this earth. Now it 'peared they both run plum out of any kind of luck. Else ways, why would they be shimmering in the dark hole of a mine, speaking to a body they couldn't see and having visions of the devil hisself rising up to take them to hell?

"Are we dead, Zeke?" Lucky always was slow on the uptake.

"Of course, we're dead. You think you glow like that 'cuz you took a bath last Saturday night?" Zeke growled at his brother.

"It doesn't appear to have sunk into your thick skulls just exactly what has happened." The voice came again, a blast of cold air against the old miners. Their worn flannel shirts did little to deflect the chill.

"We're dead, so I guess something pretty bad happened." Zeke figured if he was dead, he couldn't get no deader, so he might as well have his say.

"Your situation can be changed, if you decide to undo the disaster that occurred."

"What's he talking about, Zeke?"

"Jesse Cole's dead." Zeke didn't know how Lucky could forget that.

"We didn't mean for that to happen," Lucky said, tears springing to his eyes, for he had always been the emotional one. "It were an accident, pure and simple."

"I know," replied Zeke, "but we was his friends and we should've been watching his back." Nobody could feel worse about Jesse's death than Zeke, but he didn't see how nobody could change the facts.

"Jesse Cole is dead, and he shouldn't be. It wasn't his time, and plans had been made for him." The voice continued, gloomy as a hanging judge. "When something like this happens, it upsets the entire master plan, as well as the individual scheme of things. Numerous other incidents will occur which shouldn't, and those in turn cause other accidents, which in turn . . . You see what I mean."

Zeke wasn't sure he did, but agreed anyway.

"So you will just have to go back and fix it." The voice, now hard and unrelenting, grated on Zeke's nerves.

"How we going to do that?" Lucky questioned.

"Your current state of being allows you certain, shall we say, knowledge, and you'll know when and where."

"Oh, boy." Zeke didn't think he liked the sound of that.

"There's just one thing you must remember. You can't tell anyone in Peavine what actually happened."

"Now, how we going to manage that? Won't Jesse know he ain't dead no more?" Silence answered Lucky's question.

Zeke looked madly around. While he tried to find the source of the voice, at the same time, he almost hoped he couldn't.

"Hello?" Lucky's voice quaked.

More silence.

Zeke looked at Lucky, who stared back at him. Shrugging their shoulders in unison, they turned and trudged toward daylight at the end of the tunnel.

 Chapter 1

 Present Day -- northwest of Reno, Nevada

"Come back, damn it!" The girl kicked up dirt. "Curse your hide, you lousy --" she continued to shout and shake her fist at the cloud of dust until it drifted away at the end of the road leading from town.

She then curled her arms over her head in an angry gesture, turning in a circle. She continued to rant and rave, but Zeke knew she didn't yell at him or Lucky, since she couldn't possibly know they were there. After all, Peavine was a ghost town, and nobody lived there.

Zeke and Lucky glanced at each other, then back at the girl. "Boy, she's got a mouth on her, don't she?" Lucky asked.

The girl spun around and stared right at them, eyes wide and mouth open. Zeke hoped she didn’t start hollering. Other times, people had come to Peavine and Lucky had decided, on a lark, to spook them. Most times, Lucky was the one that got spooked, but sometimes the women would cut loose with screams like banshees.

Lucky jerked his arm, but Zeke didn't even notice how hard he pulled. He was staring at the girl.

"Do you see what I see?" Lucky jerked again and this time Zeke did feel it. He pulled away.

"Yeah, I see, but I don't think--"

"Why not? The voice said we'd know what to do when the time come, and I think over a hundred years is 'bout time enough."

"Let's get a closer look." Zeke took a step forward.

"I'll be danged and hog-tied." Zeke whistled through his teeth as he came face to face with the girl. The wind blew her blonde hair around an oval shaped face. He could see more hair, tied back with a scarf, though it weren't as long as Elizabeth's.

Well, a girl could cut her hair, couldn't she? Even as he thought it, he knew Elizabeth would never do that. She was always primping and patting her curls.

As they watched, the girl lifted slim-fingered hands to her narrow hips, scrunched up her eyes and turned slowly around. When she stopped, her gaze sliced right through the two brothers to survey one dilapidated old building after another.

"It's kinda fun when they can't see us, ain't it, Zeke?" Lucky chuckled as he stepped behind the girl and poked her in the ribs. She swiveled around, quick as a wink, her eyes growing wide.

"Look at them brown eyes. She's the spitting image of Elizabeth."

"I know," Zeke breathed softly. Finally, after more'n a hundred forty years floating around Peavine, watching it slowly fade to dust as the mines petered out and people moved on to other ventures, it 'peared the time had come. The voice had said they'd know what to do, and lord knows they'd already had plenty long enough to figure it out.

This here girl looked just like Jesse’s fiancée, Elizabeth Calhoun. He and Lucky’d had many a discussion ‘bout the explosion that killed Jesse back in '70, and they came to the conclusion Elizabeth must have had something to do with it. Proving that might be like holding a lit stick of dynamite, but prospects looked a mite better right about now. Even so, he hesitated.

"'Pears she ain't going nowhere, so let's just keep an eye on her for a spell."

"What for? Let's just take her and run. I'm mighty tired of living like this. I've a hankering for a good game of poker and a bottle of whiskey."

Zeke turned to his brother. "She might look just like Elizabeth, but she sure don't sound like her now, do she? S'pose we take her back and Jesse finds out real fast that she ain't the real thing -- what then?"

 * * *

Ellie's gaze rebounded wildly from one end of the old ghost town to the other. There was something spooky going on here. After that jerk of a guide had taken off with her camera, purse and cell phone, she had been just plain mad. Now, fear edged its way into her consciousness. She swore she heard voices a few minutes ago. And just as certainly, she thought she felt hands on her as she stood in the middle of the street. Perhaps it was the wind. She prayed it was the wind.

She dug in her jeans’ pocket for her cigarettes. Thank goodness those had been in her pocket instead of her purse. As she lit the slightly bent cigarette, her gaze flickered from ruin to ruin, stopping only when she thought she saw a shadow against the wall of the building across the dusty street. "Calhoun's Bank and Trust," she said the name out loud. "Doesn't sound like a mining name at all."

She sniffed and shrugged her shoulders. The joke was on her. Before she started this assignment, she knew nothing about mining towns. Even now, her research had barely scratched the surface. She had told Hartman, her editor, she didn't want to know anything about the old west, but that hadn't gotten her out of the assignment.

"I want a story on ghost towns and old mines," he had insisted that day in the offices of Hartman Publishing, whose specialty was in travel magazines. "You get paid to write stories. What’s the problem?"

"Why the old west? The closest I've ever come is liking the Eagles' song, Desperado," Ellie had replied. "You've always sent me to the eastern seaboard and on European tours. Why do you want to bury me under things old and dusty?"

"You know Jake is covering Civil War reenactments and Becky Sue is on maternity leave. That only leaves you.”

Becky Sue and Jake -- now those were names that belonged in the west, Ellie had thought miserably as her boss droned on.

“Our largest client, Gold Mine Casino, wants a bigger draw, but most tourists don’t go to Reno just to gamble any more. They want other things to do during the day. So, I figure we focus on hiking around nearby ghost towns, mines, panning for gold -- you know. Now, get a ticket and go west, young . . .woman."

So Ellie had spent days researching and digging around other old ruins in the hot, dry desert after landing in Reno a week ago. Last night, the cool, dark interior of the casino had beckoned, and she had spent most of the night playing Black Jack. Perhaps if she hadn't, she would have noticed the shifty eyes of the new guide who had been out front bright and early to pick her up. The casino had made the arrangements, and boy, would she let them have it when she got back.

Ellie sighed as she surveyed the old buildings. Regardless of whether she had wanted this assignment, she was still a professional and had done her background research. Peavine didn't look much different than Hunter's Station and Crystal Peak, two ghost towns she'd already visited.

She got up from the splintery boardwalk and sauntered around the buildings. She could almost visualize how it would have looked in 1870. Her gaze followed the line of old timber as she ticked off the buildings in her mind -- mercantile, hotel, bank, church. Unlike refurbished Belmont and Steamboat Springs, today's Peavine was totally deserted.

 In her meandering, Ellie came to a creek that ran along the back edge of town. Her research hadn't uncovered much information about the creek, but this would make her story even better. She reached down and scooped some crystal clear water into her hands. Not only could people dig through the rubble for artifacts, but they could pan for gold in the creek. Very touristy.

She snorted as she stood, ready to head back to the buildings and look for a way into town. "Hell, the only thing Peavine needs is a couple of grizzled, old miners."

 * * *

"Howdy, little lady." Zeke decided to make his presence known, figuring there was no other way they could get the girl’s cooperation. When she whirled around at the sound of his voice, her eyes wide with fright and screeching like a polecat, he changed his mind but it was too late. Knowing that becoming invisible again would only make a bigger problem, he gritted his teeth and continued.

"I heared you hollering and yelling and wondered if I could help?" As he spoke, she scooted back, slipping on loose gravel along the creek bed, but she didn't go down.

“Who are you?” She whispered. Her voice sounded much better than when she shrieked, but Zeke wasn’t a’tall sure she sounded like Elizabeth.

He stood still, hands at his sides, as she gave him the once over, staring at him so hard he almost blushed.

“Where did you come from? How come I didn’t see you before?” The girl managed to keep her distance, one hand up in the air as though to ward off danger. Zeke could tell she was a mite curious and more’n a mite scared.

“Well, I live here.”

She glanced around wildly. “Nobody lives here. It’s a ghost town.”

“Looky, Miss, I ain’t gonna hurt you. I was up in the hills ‘til I heared you.” He figured it'd take a few minutes for her to decide he meant no harm.

The girl continued to stare, then slowly allowed her gaze to shift side to side. Zeke figured she was looking for someone else to jump out and grab her. He just hoped Lucky didn’t show up yet.

She about made Zeke jump out of his skin when she sprung right up at him. "You have a car! You can get me back to Reno!" The girl was awful excited all of a sudden, waving her arms in his face.

"A wh … what?" Not seeing too many real people in the last century, the girl’s closeness and excitement caused Zeke to stammer.

"A vehicle -- jeep, car, motorcycle -- I don't care as long as it can get me back to town."

"Well, we ain't got one."

"You don't -- you have to. How could anyone live out here without a car?" She was hollering again, and Zeke scrunched his head into his shoulders.

"What sense do it make to have something that we can't work?" Zeke shrugged and turned. He had seen contraptions like the girl mentioned whenever tourists had come to the ghost town. But the few times people had wandered off to the creek and he and Lucky had tried to work the horseless wagons, they couldn't get them to move. "Heckfire, we don't even got a mule no more. Come on."

The girl sized him up once more. Zeke guessed since he was old as the hills and shorter than her, she figured she could outrun him if’n he tried anything.

She followed him to the porch of Murphy's. Zeke watched her light a cigarette. He sniffed appreciatively at the wisp of smoke. He couldn't remember the last time he'd had tobacco, though he usually chewed. He was just about to ask her if she had a plug when he saw Lucky running up from the direction of the mine. Zeke could tell by his shimmer that Lucky hadn't solidified hisself.

"'Cuse me, Miss," Zeke said hurriedly and jerked his head at Lucky as he scooted back into Murphy's, hoping his brother would follow.

"You talked to her." Lucky accused, poking Zeke hard in the belly with a bony finger. "You showed yourself."

"How else we going to get her to help us?"

Lucky didn't have an answer for that, and hung his head.

Zeke knew how to make Lucky feel better. "Make yourself visible, Lucky."

Together they moved back outside. Night had fallen and for a minute Zeke panicked, not able to locate the girl. When the flicker of a fire caught his eye, he breathed easier.

They hurried passed the alley to the hotel, where the girl sat huddled on the boardwalk, her knees hugged tightly to her chest. She glanced up as Zeke drew near, eyes widening at the sight of Lucky. She grabbed a piece of wood from the edge of the fire and swung it at them.

"Who's he?"

Zeke thought he heard a note of fear in her question, but at least she didn’t scream again.

Before he could answer, she chuckled and shrugged, dropping the wood back into the blaze. “Hell, I asked for two grizzled old miners, so what do I expect?” She looked from one to the other, an eyebrow raised. “You are miners, aren’t you, or is this some incredibly sick joke of Hartman’s?”

“‘Course we’re miners -- the best.” Lucky boosted, then his face fell and shoulders sagged. “Well, we used to be, a’fore the accident back in seventy--”

“Who’s Hartman?” Zeke interrupted, poking Lucky in the ribs before he could spill the beans.

“Never mind. I really doubt you two would know him.” The girl shrugged off his question. She tossed more wood on the fire, the flames now jumping and sparking several feet in the air.

"You trying to burn the town down?" Lucky demanded.

That brought a snicker. "Like it would make any difference?"

"'Course it would. Peavine's one of the richest gold towns in the territory."

The girl looked around. "Excuse me if I'm missing something here, but there's nobody in this town. Who’s going to care?" Although Lucky was dense at times, the girl's sarcasm wasn't lost on Zeke.

Lucky continued as though she hadn't spoken. "In 1870, why, there was over two hundred people living in this town. This here hotel you're hell bent on burning down had real leather seats inside." He turned and pointed across the street. "Calhoun's bank backed more'n one mining venture. There was even a church and post office called Poeville and a ten stamp mill."

"Well, la-tee-da." The girl didn’t act at all impressed.

Zeke had a feeling she was all bluster to cover up her fright.

"This here's Lucky, my brother." Zeke felt maybe knowing their names would help set her heart to rest. "I'm Zeke."

She looked from Lucky to him, back to Lucky then to the fire, ignoring them both. How would they get her to help them if she wouldn't even talk to them?

Lucky didn't take no offense and began chattering away. "We don't get us many visitors here. Why'd you come? What's your name?"

"It doesn't matter. I just want to get back to town."

"That'd be a feat, for sure, seeing as how we got no way to get you there."

Silence met his statement.

Finally, with an audible sigh, she said, "Ellie."

Lucky's face fell. "Your name ain't Elizabeth?"

The girl made a face. "God, no, although that would be better than Eleanor. That's why I go by Ellie."

"But can we call you Elizabeth -- since you don't 'pear to like your own name?" Lucky asked hopefully and Zeke got the feeling he was pushing way too hard.

Ellie's forehead scrunched up. "What is your problem? Why would I want to be called that?"

Zeke piped up when he saw Lucky's face scrunch into a frown. "I'll explain to Miss Ellie."

"Why can't I explain?" Lucky argued.

"'Cuz I'm the oldest, that's why."

"You always say that and it ain't fair. We're twins."

"Yeah, but I come out first."

"P-l-ea-se." The girl interrupted them, then proceeded to cuss. Lucky's eyes opened in shock and Zeke had an awful feeling even if they convinced this girl to help, it would only get them in more trouble.

Zeke turned to the girl and tried to explain. After all, the voice didn't say outsiders couldn't know. But, how could he explain that their friend, Jesse, was dead and they had to make him undead?

"Look, we can try to get you back to town, but could you maybe help us out first?" He took her silence for a good sign and continued. "We got us a friend named Jesse Cole that's in trouble. The only way to fix it is to keep something else bad from happening."

"I'm sorry about your friend, but I did lose a lot of equipment, not to mention my purse and ride back to Reno,” Miss Ellie replied, waving a hand off to the west, even though Zeke knew Reno laid to the south. “The sooner I get back and report it, the better chance they'll have of finding the guy. Besides, what's your friend got to do with me?"

"You look just like Jesse’s fiancée, Elizabeth, so we was thinking you could take her place 'til we find out who killed . . .uh . . .tried to hurt him." Zeke waited for that idea to soak in.

"Now wait a minute. I'm not doing any kinky sex games."

Zeke could feel his face flame. He cleared his voice. "No, no. Lucky and me think Miss Elizabeth had something to do with what happened. If you was to take her place, then we’d figure it out for sure this time.”

“You want me to play undercover cop? How’s that going to get my equipment back?” She raised a brow in question, looking just the same as Miss Elizabeth did whenever she had quizzed Zeke about Jesse’s whereabouts.

Zeke hoped God would forgive him for lying. It just seemed to him a man’s life was worth more’n a couple pieces of equipment. “We’ll get your stuff back, Miss, but first we gotta take you back to Peavine with us and make sure things go right this time."

"Back to Peavine? This is Peavine, and there's nothing here. What exactly do you mean?" Now she not only looked like Elizabeth, but sounded like her too -- always questioning him.

Before he could come up with a likely excuse, Lucky jumped right smack into the middle of things.

"If'n we take her back to Peavine, how we going to tell her apart from the real Elizabeth?" He asked.

Zeke thought, then said, "It's got to be something visible."

The girl held both arms in front of her, elbows bent, her fingers straight and close together. She widened her stance and braced her feet and Zeke thought she might try to hit them. She didn't look the least ladylike, and he began to doubt she'd be much help a'tall. Still, they had to try. He took a step toward her, and she raised a hand threateningly.

"Get away from me, damnit! I don't trust either of you and I don't believe your story."

"She has ear bobs," Lucky said, having ignored everything else since his earlier concern. "I'm dead sure Miss Elizabeth don't, cuz it just might hurt to have a hole poked in your ear."

"That might work," Zeke agreed, "but we gotta do something 'bout her swearing. Miss Elizabeth would never say words like that and how we gonna make sure this one don't?"

"I'm not going anywhere with you so what difference does it make?" The girl hissed at him through clinched teeth.

In the next instant, Zeke knew they were in trouble. His brother started shimmering and glowing 'til Zeke could hardly see him. One look at the girl's face told him she was having the same trouble. Lucky sometimes forgot to concentrate on being solid.

Zeke might have been able to explain the shimmer, but Lucky reached out to grab the girl's arm and his hand went right through her.

Zeke began to count. "One, two, three, four, five--" The girl fell forward in a dead faint and Zeke caught her under the arms. "Well, she lasted longer than most."

Lucky shrugged his shoulders. "I didn't mean to scare her."

"Might be the best thing you ever done." Zeke grunted as he turned the girl over. "Now concentrate and grab her legs." When Lucky caught hold, together they carried their burden to the mine.

"I guess we can worry 'bout her swearing once we get her back to Peavine." Zeke shook his head and sighed. He only hoped he’d be rewarded for his patience, for the Lord knows he was gonna need lots of it.

In the distance, where the mine shaft intersected with another tunnel, Zeke could see a bluish glow off to the right – the same light that had vanished the day Jesse Cole died.

"Come on." He motioned to his brother and grabbed the unconscious girl. They scurried towards the glow, never slowing down as the light became brighter and brighter until it appeared to swallow them right up.

Zeke dropped his burden when he felt himself falling, empty space all around as he tumbled head over heels. He couldn't shout, couldn't feel nothing as the brightness swirled around him. He only hoped his brother and the girl were following him through the spiraling emptiness.

Chapter 2

Ellie landed with a thunk in front of an old cabin. She rolled to her hands and knees, trying to catch her breath. A few minutes later, a man dropped to his knees beside her.

"Elizabeth, I glanced out the window and saw you sitting here in the dirt." There was a pause in which all Ellie could hear were her own frantic gasps for breath. "Where’s the buckboard? Are you all right?"

Ellie couldn't think, and the man's questions confused her. She looked around wildly, her gaze finally focusing on the two old coots from the ghost town.

They pointed a finger at her and the man, then patted themselves on the back as though they couldn't believe they were really standing there. They somehow looked different, too, but it took too much energy for Ellie to stay focused on them. She closed her eyes to stop the dizziness and tried to recall exactly what had happened.

They had asked for her help and she said no, she was sure of that. She scrunched her forehead, looking around, but all she could see were trees edging a small clearing. At the back sat a cabin. Where had the ghost town gone?

She shook a finger at the two men, sucking in a breath to yell, and immediately began to cough. The man patted her none too gently on the back, which didn't help at all.

"Elizabeth, where's the buckboard?" He asked again.

"Who?"

Zeke hurried up. "Jesse wants to know where the wagon is, Elizabeth." He stressed the names and Ellie realized that regardless of her wishes, these two crazy old men had managed to take her to their friend's home. Exactly where that was, she had no idea, but she didn't have to like it.

In anger, she pushed herself back on her haunches, turning to the man they called Jesse, ready to malign him for having such idiotic friends. The words died in her throat.

Plaid flannel covered incredibly broad shoulders, and while she couldn't tell his height because he squatted beside her, there was entirely too much of him to be short.

Stormy blue eyes scrutinized her to see if she was hurt. Even as she watched, their color lightened and crinkle lines appeared as he grinned. A scruffy growth of beard and tousled black hair framed his face and yet he looked great. Definitely not GQ, but he had a rugged appearance that ignited Ellie's basic instincts.

Perhaps she could manage a few hours as this man's fiancée. After all, she didn't have a ride back to town yet.

"Elizabeth, are you hurt?" The words came out deep and throaty. "How did you get here?"

Never one to be taken in by a man, Ellie now found herself mesmerized by his voice. But his eyes questioned her, and she suddenly realized she had no idea what he had said. On top of that, she didn’t know how to respond because she wasn’t Elizabeth.

Lucky rushed to her aid. "Maybe she decided to ride out here?"

Jesse chuckled. "Ride? A horse? This is Elizabeth, Lucky. She'd just as soon eat rattlesnake as ride a horse." He turned to her with a grin, apparently pleased with himself for defending her. "Isn't that right, Elizabeth?"

Ellie had finally caught her breath and could utter more than one word at a time, and now she was so mad she sputtered. She had never ridden a horse and had absolutely no desire to do so. However, she detested the smug expression on this man's face and his words that implied she wasn't at all capable.

She glanced around but could see no horse. Regardless, she jutted her chin out and lied defiantly. "As a matter of fact, I did ride out here, but the horse--"

"--got spooked and throwed her," finished Zeke.

Jesse scowled and looked at the three of them. Ellie doubted he believed them. She wouldn't believe a story like that. Then he shrugged, standing and extending a hand to help her up. "Perhaps that explains your clothes, then."

Ellie glanced down. What was wrong with Levi's and boots? Not much different from what he wore, except his sleeves were rolled up to show very muscular forearms, and the denim hugged his hips and crotch in an almost indecent manner.

"For a woman who's always lecturing me on upbringing and manners, you've displayed a little uncivilized behavior yourself today." Jesse's eyes twinkled as he spoke, and though Ellie thought he teased, she began to think she didn’t like him very much.

She dug in her pocket for her cigarettes. "Look, I only came here because--"

Zeke grabbed her hand before she could withdraw it, interrupting her in the process. "That fall musta jarred your brain." To Jesse he added, "I'm sure Miss Elizabeth could use a cup of coffee."

"You're right. I'm sorry, Elizabeth. My manners do sometimes desert me. Come along." He reached for her hand.

Again, Zeke stepped forward. "Just go on in and get it, Jesse. I'll dust Miss Elizabeth off and bring her to the porch."

Jesse arched a brow but then shrugged and turned toward the cabin.

"Damn it, Zeke, what's going on?" Ellie turned on the old prospector the minute Jesse disappeared into the cabin. “And don’t you dare touch me,” she added when it appeared he would swat her butt with his hat.

"Quit that swearing, Missy." Zeke growled at her, then muttered to himself, "Darn it all. This is gonna be a lot harder than we thought."

Ellie couldn't believe her ears. "You cart me off to Podunk City, or wherever the hell we are, and you think you have it rough? I told you I wouldn't help." Ellie was still searching her brain for some illusive thread of time she had lost in the process of getting from Peavine to here. "Besides, how can I act like this Elizabeth person when I know nothing about this. . . this man you have me attached to."

"Now, you're not attached, 'xactly. Miss Elizabeth hadn’t started making marriage plans or nothing like that. ‘Sides after what happened, I doubt Jesse'd marry her, anyway."

"Just 'xactly what did happen?" Ellie mimicked, but her sarcasm was lost on him. Zeke's face scrunched up in thought and Ellie sighed in exasperation. Lately, nothing in her life had been easy. "Out with it, Zeke."

"Well, seeing as how we're back now, and Jesse ain’t dead--”

“Dead?” Ellie definitely didn’t understand.

“Ah, dead on his feet from working,” Zeke added hurriedly. “Maybe it don't matter no more. What day is it, anyhow?"

"How would I know? It was Saturday when my gear got stolen, but why do I get the impression I've lost some time along with my belongings?" Ellie couldn't shake the feeling that something wasn't right. She looked around, trying to find a familiar landmark, but because of her lack of knowledge of the region, everything looked foreign.

"Say, where's Lucky?" She realized the other old timer had disappeared again.

"I sent him to get rid of the real Elizabeth."

"He's going to kill her?" She couldn't believe two old prospectors could be so callous.

"No, just get her out of the way so as our plan will work."

"If you have this Elizabeth person out of the way, she can't get Jesse into any more trouble. So why do you still need me? Just take me back to town."

"There's more to the problem than that." Zeke looked decidedly uncomfortable. “Look, just watch what you say. I’ll explain the plan . . .later.”

Somehow, Ellie doubted it. A churning started in her stomach. In agitation, she reached for her cigarettes. Zeke tried to grab them away, but Ellie was faster. However, seeing his crestfallen face, she stuffed them back into her pocket instead of lighting up. She looked at him as he nervously shuffled from foot to foot. "You don't have a plan, do you?"

Zeke's silence was incriminating.

"Damn your hide, and Lucky's too," she hissed just as Jesse came out on the porch with two steaming mugs of coffee.

"Elizabeth, are you coming?"

"Elizabeth?"

Zeke poked her in the ribs and whispered urgently, "That's your name."

Ellie narrowed her gaze, hoping to thoroughly mortify him with her anger, and to make him worry what she might do. Then, quick as a wink, she pasted on a sweet smile and turned back toward the cabin. "Coming."

She heard Zeke's frantic whisper behind her. "Remember, no swearing, no smoking, and your name is--"

"Ellie," she stated loud enough for both men to hear.

Jesse looked at her in surprise, then more thoroughly as she sat on the step and took the coffee he offered. A slow grin spread across his handsome features. "I tried to call you that from the time you wore pigtails, but you always said Elizabeth sounded more grown-up."

"Well, perhaps the fall from that horse did some good after all," Ellie replied, wondering if he already saw through their ruse. She began to feel guilty. While she hadn't wanted to help Zeke and Lucky -- she had only wanted to get her assignment done and get back to town -- neither was she a vengeful person. She wouldn't deliberately hurt another human being.

How would Jesse feel if he found out they were lying to him; that she wasn't who he thought she was? Zeke had said it was to keep him from getting hurt. Ellie didn't know what to believe. She did know that at the first opportunity she had some serious questions that Zeke better be able to answer.

 * * *

Jesse invited Zeke and her to remain for supper. While she would rather get on with whatever plan Zeke had concocted, she couldn't very well say no to her supposed fiancée. He took a pot from over an open fireplace, bringing it to the table along with a loaf of bread and a wicked looking knife. He dished up the meat stew and fresh bread and poured them some water in crockery style mugs.

Ellie traced a crack in the mug with a fingernail. Ellie Weaver, connoisseur of fine wines served in the best crystal all over Europe, sat in a rustic cabin in the woods drinking water from a broken cup. There was definitely something ironic here. Yet the man called Jesse didn’t look the least out of place in the one room cabin.

Ellie savored the rich broth of the stew and thought perhaps this guy had some talents -- like cooking -- that she could admire. Especially since she came from a family of microwave dinner gourmets. As she ate, even asking for seconds, she looked around the cabin.

It was definitely old, with a fireplace on one wall, a bed on the other, and the table in-between. Two shelves by the bed held a few books. Figuring this guy probably only spent weekends here and then returned to a nine-to-five job, she wasn’t surprised. She thought she might like a peek at his reading material, though, to see what he liked. With a shrug of indifference, she guessed financial manuals or e-commerce.

She ignored the men's talk as she continued to assess the cabin. Pegs on the wall by the door held clothes, and some roughly made shelves and a counter supported foodstuffs and a pitcher and basin.

Her brow crinkled as she took a second look. She didn’t see a coffee pot, toaster oven, or a ceiling fan. A single lantern sat at one end of the table.

How odd, she thought. Even modern rustic cabins had electricity. Another lesson learned about the wild west for her travel article -- leave your curling iron at home.

Thinking back on her reason for being in Peavine, she still didn't understand how she ended up at this cabin of Jesse's. The last thing she remembered was being on the hotel steps in the ghost town. She recalled Zeke saying he lived in the hills, and assumed this cabin also sat in the hills near the ghost town. Zeke and Lucky must have carried her here. The why of it evaded her.

She would rather they had left her in Peavine, just in case the sheriff came looking for her. Regardless of what the two miners had said about helping, all she wanted to do was get back to Reno in time to catch her plane.

After dinner, Jesse poured more coffee from a battered old pot and Ellie thought how nice it was to be waited on. She listened to them talk about mining, of all things. She supposed she should listen more closely for background material for her article.

Instead, she tried unobtrusively to study Jesse. The combination of black hair, blue eyes and ready smile made him devastatingly handsome. But more than his looks, she sensed a gentleness about him. Most of the men of her acquaintance were too busy being macho to be tender. In Jesse, his sweet smile didn't detract from his masculinity but rather enhanced it.

 His voice was somewhat cultured and Ellie wondered how he had ended up in a cabin in Nevada, even for the weekend. Momentarily forgetting her role, Ellie spoke up during a lull in the conversation. "So, what do you do when you're not playing woodsman?"

Jesse cocked a brow at her question.

Zeke jumped in. "Miss Elizabeth, maybe we’d best get you home to rest a spell. You know Jesse's a miner; he don't got no other job."

Ellie shook her head. She'd done enough research to know there were few active mines left, certainly not near Peavine, Nevada, and definitely not any that were privately owned. "The mines have petered out--”

Lucky came bursting through the door just at that moment, breathing hard as though he'd run all the way. Zeke cleared his throat shaking his head vigorously at Ellie when Jesse turned towards Lucky.

"Lucky, where'd you run off to?" Jesse questioned, and Lucky's face immediately turned even brighter red.

"I, uh," he stuttered, then shrugged. "I had me an errand to run." He pulled a plug of tobacco from his pocket and bit off a chew, grinning at his brother.

Ellie hid a grin behind her hand, seeing the agitated look on Zeke's face. Lucky, who always seemed to take orders from Zeke, had apparently stopped somewhere along the way to get himself a treat. Seeing it, though, made Ellie want a cigarette, but knew she couldn’t smoke in front of Jesse. Zeke had said so.

She only hoped a Quick-Trip was somewhere close because her pack was almost empty. Then she remembered she didn't have any money on her, and they were too far from town anyway, so it was all academic.

"I suppose we should be walking Miss Elizabeth back to town," Zeke said, scooting back his chair to stand.

"Town? You can walk me to town?" Ellie sprang up, instantly angry. Did Zeke mean the ghost town of Peavine or back to Reno?

Jesse touched her arm, his warm hand causing tingles to shoot across her skin. "Elizabeth?" At her annoyed look, he started again. "What is wrong? You've acted strange all day."

Ellie stood, hands on hips, glaring at the three men. Little did she realize her posture so exactly mirrored Elizabeth's that any charade they were trying to perpetrate was instantly cemented. If that hadn't done the trick, her words did. "What's wrong? These two old coots lied to me, that's what."

Ellie saw Zeke standing behind Jesse waving his arms and shaking his head, but that didn't stop her. She was mad. "They said you were in trouble and needed help. They forced me to come out here."

"Forced you? You mean you wouldn't come and see me on your own?" The hurt was unmistakable in Jesse's voice.

"Well . . .that is . . .I had things to do," Ellie tried to backpedal.

"I see. Then perhaps we should get you back to town so you can do them."

Ellie looked outside. "It's dark." She didn’t like the dark.

"Yes, it usually does that at night." Jesse's sarcasm gave Ellie pause. Was he so tenderhearted that her one comment had punctured his entire male ego? Then she saw his grin.

"I'm sorry." She stated simply.

In answer he extended his arm and Zeke and Lucky rushed to open the door, all the while arguing over the plug of tobacco Lucky kept in his possession.

Ellie allowed Jesse to lead her down the path. When they got to a creek, he led her to where flat rocks had formed natural stepping-stones to the other side.

Disappointed, she realized that this was probably the same creek she had seen earlier in the day. That meant they weren't very far from Peavine ghost town, but were too far from Reno to walk -- in the dark. At the moment, she thought she might prefer to stay at Jesse's cabin.

As soon as Jesse hopped the last rock, she clutched his arm again as he walked unerringly forward. She tried to keep from thinking of the blackness surrounding her and the very long dark night ahead in the ghost town. She searched her mind, instead, for anything to discuss so there was noise.

"I understand there are several Fravel mines in the area," she stated, and instantly Jesse's arm tightened beneath her hand.

"Elizabeth, you know I won't discuss anything having to do with Clayton Scott or his mines. Why would you bring it up?" His angry reaction was so startling, Ellie couldn't think of a response. "Is that the ‘something you had to do’ -- visit with Clayton Scott?" Jesse pulled away from her and stomped off ahead.

Ellie could hear Zeke and Lucky "uh-oh-ing" behind her, but she didn't know what she had said wrong.

"Wait," she called out to him. This was like performing in a play when everyone knew the script except her. She hurried to catch up with Jesse, turning to face him and walking backward since he didn't stop when she stepped in front of him. Trying to imagine how the unknown Elizabeth would handle this, and hoping to gain insight into the situation, she smiled sweetly and said, "Jesse, please don't be mad. I keep forgetting--"

"How can you forget Scott owns most of the rights to Fravel's mines on this side of the ridge? Did you also conveniently forget he runs your father's bank, which holds notes to most of those same mines?"

"He does?" Ellie questioned without thinking.

That stopped him. In fact, he stopped so abruptly that Zeke and Lucky just about collided trying to keep from bumping into him. Even in the dark, Ellie could see the questions in Jesse's eyes.

Think fast, she told herself. Being an independent, freethinking woman, she hated what she was about to do.

"Of course he does," she twittered, waving a hand aimlessly. She giggled, hoping she wasn't spreading it on too thick. "You know I have no head for business. Father would always handle that."

"Yeah, well, I wish he were still here to do it. I don't trust Clayton Scott any further than I can throw him." Jesse's tone indicated he was pacified, and as Ellie moved to his side, she shot evil looks at Zeke and Lucky. Boy, did they have a lot of explaining to do.

They broke through a line of trees and suddenly there were lights from town. Ellie blinked and shook her head, an unsettled feeling gnawing at her stomach. Her feet slowed. Soft glows came from several windows, as though fireplaces were lit or candles used instead of iridescent light bulbs.

Ellie’s gaze swiveled from side to side; her stomach plummeted and her chest heaved. She stumbled, a flash of realization screaming through her brain. If Jesse hadn't grabbed her, she would have fallen face first in the dirt.

"El, what's wrong?" It was a question Jesse had kept repeating all day, it seemed, but Ellie sure didn’t know how to answer him.

Buildings swirled in crazy patterns before her eyes. She hugged herself, squeezed her eyes shut, then reopened them, trying to focus on something solid. Newly painted signs hung over several buildings -- Calhoun's Bank and Trust, Murphy's Mercantile and Feed Store. Slowly, as she walked further down the street, she tried to make sense of what her eyes saw but her emotions refused to acknowledge.

The buildings on the main street were the same structures as she had seen earlier that day when her guide had left her stranded in Peavine -- with one major difference. These buildings were new; long years of wind and rain hadn't damaged their fixtures.

She struggled for breath, knowing she had to get away from the ghostly shapes that seemed to jump out at her in the dark. She didn’t want her mind to shuffle the fragments into a solid thought. All she wanted to do was get back to Reno, and home. This was definitely not what she had bargained for when she took this assignment.

Apparently Jesse noticed her pallor, for he hurried her along, turning down a side street to the second house. He led her up the two steps onto a wide covered porch.

Ellie looked from the door to Jesse. Why had he stopped here?

“You’re home.” Almost as though he read her mind, he turned the handle and the door opened beneath his grasp, squeaking slightly.

Didn’t people lock their doors around here, Ellie wondered idly? She looked into the dark interior. If she ventured across the threshold, would she be permanently tied here; would she never escape and get back to where she belonged?

Panicking, she turned around, looking past Jesse to where Zeke and Lucky stood. Lucky appeared quite pleased with the arrangement, but Zeke’s face was still apprehensive. At that moment, Ellie hated them both because they were the cause of her distress.

If not for them, she wouldn’t be in this predicament. For that exact reason, she had to depend on them, because they were the only ones who knew how she came to be here. And how to get her back to where she belonged. Conflicting emotions caused her to lash out in anger.

"You two, inside, now." Ellie pointed as she barked the command.

"What?" All three men clamored at once.

Ellie gritted her teeth and squeezed her eyes shut. She breathed deeply and counted silently to ten. She had to get past her fear and talk to Zeke and Lucky alone. She didn’t know Jesse at all, so she couldn’t predict what his reaction would be if she exploded in front of him. He might have her hauled off to jail or something; some place Ellie couldn’t escape from.

"Excuse me. Might I have a word with Zeke and Lucky, please?" She tried to sugar coat her words, but almost gagged on the effort.

"Why?" Jesse pushed his hat to the back of his head and a curl of black hair fell across his forehead.

Lord, he was a handsome guy, Ellie thought. But he's not yours, her other side countered. She reminded herself she didn’t even want to be here -- especially now that she had a vague idea of where here might be.

"Why? Well, let's just say they did me a mighty big favor earlier today, and I want to see they're properly rewarded." She hoped her gaze flashed fire at the two old prospectors.

"Shucks, Miss Elizabeth, it can wait for another day." Zeke replied, and Ellie figured he had caught her drift right away.

"What do you mean, wait?" Lucky asked, clearly confused. "Why can't we get our reward now?"

Ellie liked Lucky, for he was gullible enough to play right into her hands. "He's right, you do deserve something very special for what you did."

Jesse didn't seem inclined to linger. "Then the boys will see you in, Elizabeth." He nodded his head and touched the brim of his hat.

"Ellie," she reminded him, but he'd already turned away.

"Zeke, you and Lucky don't keep Elizabeth up too late, and get yourselves some shut eye. We've got a long day tomorrow and the two of you look a hundred years old."

The minute Jesse stepped off the porch and into the night, Ellie herded the other two inside, swinging the door shut behind her. Again, it creaked, making her think of ghosts and haunted houses. She had to find some light. Her fear of the dark overshadowed everything, even her anger.

Making out the outline of a lamp on a nearby table, her shaky hands managed to strike a match and light the wick. Immediately upon the lamp catching, she swung on the two men.

"What the hell have you gotten me into?" She shouted and instantly got a hand clamped against her mouth.

"Missy, you just gotta quit talking that way." Zeke pleaded, his shadowy gaze becoming more distinct as Lucky moved the lamp on the table closer.

She clawed until he let go.

"Look, I'll talk any da...damn way I want." Lucky's crestfallen face did nothing to abate her anger. "When you asked me to help -- and I distinctly remember saying no -- there were a few things you forgot to mention. What am I suppose to do now? Take me back this instant." Ellie stepped forward, hand on the doorknob. She would rather stay in the ghost town, in the dark, than here where she didn’t understand what was happening.

Zeke blocked her path and they stood nose to nose. "You can't leave."

"And why not?" She could do as she pleased.

Zeke ducked his head to the side, shifting his gaze away from her. "'Cuz we don't know how to get you back."

"You don't know . . .that's ridiculous. There's got to be a way.” Ellie’s heart was pounding with anxiety. She wiped her sweaty palms on her jeans, trying to make sense of all this.

“OK, calm down,” she muttered to herself. She lifted her hands, palms up, in a placating gesture, even though she seemed to be the only one upset. She closed her eyes for a moment and took a breath. “You said you had to keep Jesse from getting into any more trouble. How long is this trouble expected to last?"

Zeke shrugged. "I don't 'xactly know what part of the month it is."

She raised a brow and glared at him. "Do you even know what year it is, Zeke?" She knew her sarcasm hit home when he scrunched his shoulders and looked anywhere but at her.

"1870," he whispered.

She had made the comment mockingly, not ever believing what her eyes had seen. She just knew there had to be another explanation. Now, shock rippled through her. She shook her head, trying to clear it, clutching the back of a chair for support.

It was impossible to fathom that two old miners had somehow taken her back in time. And yet everything she saw, from the houses to the lanterns to the lack of any type of vehicle, assured her it was true. If it had been daylight, she would have walked right out of there and headed -- where? Without her maps or any money, how far would she get?

"How long do I have?" The question made it sound like Ellie was terminally ill, but at the moment, that was exactly how his news impacted her.

"Maybe a month, give or take a few weeks."

"A month?" She squeaked. Earlier today she had thought it might be a lark to be Jesse's fiancée for a few hours, but she definitely didn't want to be here a month. Not in 1870. She thought of the lack of electricity and modern conveniences. "I don't know how to live here."

"Do what ladies do." Zeke said, smiling slightly as though trying to make light of the situation. Ellie wasn't amused.

"Yeah, you know -- sew, visit, cook,” Lucky added, trying to be helpful.

“I can't. I don't know how,” Ellie moaned.

“Well, what can you do?”

"Play golf and racquetball; drive a car." She leered at them just to make Lucky sputter.

"Well, you can't do none of that, whatever it is, so you'd best learn some womanly things,” Lucky replied, sounding out of patience.

They left her then, totally alone with no TV or satellite news, no fridge full of ready to eat food. She found a candle in a drawer and lit it, then another and another, grabbing every lamp and candlestick in the house and lighting them, too. Once, she had thought candles were romantic -- used to set the stage for a sensual evening. Now, she wanted light to keep the ghosts at bay.

She wandered through the house, vaguely aware that it was really well made. Wood trimmed all the doorways and windows, glass on the windows revealed what little moonlight there was. Well, what did she expect -- rags over open holes and drafts through chinks in log walls?

She didn't know what to expect. That was exactly the trouble.

 * * *

 Jesse pondered Elizabeth's strange behavior as he silently walked back to his cabin by the Nightingale Mine. Something out of the ordinary had happened, but for the life of him, he couldn't quite put his finger on it.

He had known Elizabeth over half his life. Their fathers had been friends, moving to Peavine when copper and gold had been discovered in '63. He'd watched her grow from a gangly, long-legged girl into a beautiful woman. As a girl, she had told him that she would marry him when she grew up and when he struck it rich, and Jesse had always smiled and teased and asked her what if he didn't want to wait until she grew up.

As the years went by, Elizabeth had talked less of marriage. Then her mother had sent her back east to finishing school and she had changed. She hadn't even come home when her mother had died. If that wasn't enough to break her father's heart, when she did arrive eight months ago she'd been somewhat of a pain in the posterior.

She had brought home some highfalutin ideas from her schooling. Jesse didn't agree with a one of them, but he couldn't deny she had become a beautiful, if spoiled, young woman. He still intended to marry her, but she wouldn't give him a definitive answer until he had more in his pockets than a few ounces of gold dust.

Normally, he wasn't obsessed with Elizabeth. She was part of his life and he just got used to her being around, he supposed. Today, however, he noticed different little things about her. She had cut her hair, for example, and she seemed fidgety for some reason. He knew Clayton Scott had been visiting her quite often since her father's death, and now he wondered if it had been about more than business.

Her unusual comments didn’t really bother him for he attributed them to her schooling. All her years back east only seemed to have instilled in her a sense of flightiness, instead of anything useful. It was a good thing her father had left the bank in trusteeship, for he doubted Elizabeth had any idea what to do with the business.

Why was it too much to hope that her education had broadened her horizons? And why was he spending so much time thinking about her?

Perhaps one of the reasons he now contemplated Elizabeth so intently was that all afternoon he had found himself staring at her. It wasn't her hair or her nervousness. It was her eyes. There had been a sparkle in their brown depths he didn't recall seeing before.

When she had looked at him, her gaze spoke of anger and independence; but he had also glimpsed fire and passion.

Passion. For the first time in their acquaintance, Jesse's loins had tightened in response to her nearness. That had been the real surprise. He had always felt comfortable around Elizabeth -- comfortable and somewhat complacent. Tonight she had ignited feelings in him that were anything but indifferent.

 Chapter 3

Ellie paced through every room in the house, trying to figure a way out of this predicament. Seeing none, she tried to convince herself that she could survive a month. At times when she had gone to Europe, she had stayed in out-of-the-way, rustic places. Though most had electricity and phone service, she supposed she could endure without it.

She'd just pretend the airport and civilization lay on the other side of the mountain. Actually, no matter what she saw here, she couldn’t imagine that they didn’t. It was inconceivable that she could be in any time other than her own.

But if by some chance she had managed to traverse time from the present to Peavine in 1870, she could damn well reverse it and get back home. Zeke and Lucky knew the way and if she had to kidnap them, she would.

She sat on a bed in what she could only assume was Elizabeth's room. Frills and lace covered everything from the curtains to the bedspread and canopy. Carefully, she placed one lit candle on the small table beside her. It sputtered in its holder and she knew she would soon have to blow it out, because as much as she hated the dark, she was afraid of starting a fire even more.

Her fear of the dark was unreasonable, or so the doctors kept telling her. Being locked in a closet for hours when she was seven by a mean baby sitter shouldn't regulate the rest of her life, even to the point that at twenty-four years of age she still needed a night light. Regardless of what the experts said, however, her fear had never fully abated. There had even been times in college when she refused to go outside after dark.

Now, her hand shook as she pinched out the flame. Only the tiniest bit of moonlight came in through the open window, and she could only hope the moon was waxing instead of waning. Despondent, she sat in a huddle staring into the shadowed darkness until her eyes blurred.

Somewhere close to dawn, she collapsed from exhaustion. As she drifted off to sleep, she wondered how Elizabeth's father had gotten such fine furnishings across the mountains.

 * * *

"Hey, you gonna sleep the day away?"

Ellie squinted against the bright light coming through the window, groaning as she rolled over to bury her head under the pillow. She didn't want to put a name to that voice. Something prodded her in the arm and she swatted at it, but her hand met empty space.

"Zeke told me to come see how you are."

Oh, God, it was true. Ellie had hoped -- prayed even -- that the whole Peavine episode was only a dream. Though she had never before dreamed of ghosts and dropping through holes in history, or about a handsome miner named Jesse--

"Enough!" She tossed her hair out of her eyes and abruptly sat up on the edge of the bed when Lucky continued poking her arm. Leveling her meanest look at the unfortunate man, she reached for her cigarettes only to remember she had smoked the last one in the dark last night.

"Go away." Ellie wasn't a morning person, and used that as an excuse -- one of many -- for not marrying. She didn't want anyone to see her first thing in the morning; not before she'd had coffee and a shower.

"Can't do that. Zeke told me to keep a close eye on you." Lucky squinted one eye as he spoke, staring at her with the other. "You sleep in your clothes?"

Ellie glanced down at her wrinkled attire and decided his question didn't need an answer. "Do you know how to make coffee?"

"'Course, I do. Any fool can make coffee."

Ellie smiled, despite the early morning hour. She doubted Lucky even realized what he said. "Good. Make me some while I go take a shower."

"Go where? You can't leave the house. Not a’fore Zeke gets here." Lucky shook his head and held his hands up to keep her on the bed. "Zeke says you'll just get yourself in trouble."

Ellie couldn't debate even with Lucky this early and without a cup of coffee first; no matter how absurd his comments. "Where's the bathroom?"

"The what?"

Ellie sighed. Why was everything so difficult for him to understand? "I need to...brush my teeth and wash." She refused to tell even this man some things.

"Where you come from, you got a whole room to do that sort of thing?" Lucky said in awe.

"Lucky!" Her tone held a warning which even he was able to grasp.

"There's a chamber pot under the bed and a wash basin right over there. And," he glanced around wildly, probably afraid she'd go after him if he couldn't give her what she needed. "I'm 'fraid you gotta take a bath in the kitchen. There's where the water can be pumped and heated and where the tub is." Before Ellie could yell at him again, he disappeared through the door.

No shower? Ellie glanced skyward and wondered just how she was to survive any time at all, much less a month, without a shower. If this was a trial of virtue or some such thing to test her strength, she would fail miserably.

Ellie's morning routine was sharply curtailed without the necessary facilities, but she managed the best she could. She had stripped to her underwear to wash, but when she picked up her jeans to put them back on, decided they were beyond wearing.

A quick search of the room found a closet full of clothes, but no jeans. While Ellie had no aversion to wearing a dress, and did so quite often to attend the opera or opening night events in New York, she certainly didn't feel inclined to wear a dress for Lucky.

The dressing table drawers were full of frills and lacy handkerchiefs. Ellie held up a pair of long undies, the legs full of row after row of lace.

"Augh!" She tossed them aside. Next, she found a camisole, which wasn't bad, made of soft cotton without too much lace. In her time, these were bought with the express purpose of being sexy and enticing. Ellie had the feeling that in Peavine, Nevada, they were everyday wear.

She heard Lucky banging pots and pans in the kitchen as she buttoned a navy skirt over the white blouse she had pulled from the closet. The skirt hit just above her ankles, and she wondered if anyone would notice that she must be taller than Elizabeth. She shrugged, then dropped to her hands and knees with her head in the closet looking for shoes.

"Oh, no," she groaned as she plopped on her fanny. There were two pairs of lace-up-heeled boots neatly placed on the bottom of the cupboard where the clothes hung. No flats, no slip-ons, no tennies. Ellie's mouth twisted in consternation as she looked over to the edge of the bed where she had kicked her hiking boots.

With a sigh of resignation, she tugged on a pair of the lace-up boots, grunting as her toes slammed into the end. Apparently, there was more than height where she and this Elizabeth person varied. Of course, she doubted anyone would notice the size of her feet. A trip to the clothes store was definitely in order.

By now, the rich smell of coffee wafted through the house to Ellie's nose. She stumbled once finding her way to the kitchen when her skirts wrapped around her legs. Perhaps if she wore a slip beneath them, they'd not trip her up.

When she walked through the door, Lucky's mouth dropped and the skillet he had been holding fell back onto the stove.

"What?" Ellie was still aggravated with his wake up call so early this morning, and didn't need him staring at her. She found a cup and poured herself some coffee. "Ah," she sighed as the first mouthful of caffeine slid down her throat. Now, if she only had a cigarette.

"You look real nice all gussied up, Miss Elizabeth," Lucky finally sputtered, then blushed and ducked his head, avoiding her glare.

"My name is Ellie."

"Well, you look and sound just like her, when you ain't swearing," Lucky sassed her right back.

Ellie raised a brow, wondering where the reticent Lucky had acquired his nerve so early in the morning. Perhaps he had an independent streak after all.

"But you gotta do something 'bout your hair; and get rid of that thing strapped to your wrist. We don't got them either."

At his comment, Ellie glanced at her wristwatch. She yelped, "You woke me up at six in the damn morning."

As though in response to her uncharitable attitude, a resounding blast rattled the window panes. Coffee sloshed in Ellie’s cup as her whole body shook. Before she could question, another boom echoed through the valley.

“What the hell?” Ellie thumped her cup onto the table only to watch it shimmer and shake almost to the edge. She reached to catch it and everything stopped as suddenly as it started. She stood, arm outstretched, waiting.

“You ain’t never heared dynamite blasts?” Lucky questioned and Ellie guessed her face gave her away.

“Are they trying to blow up this house?” Her heart still thumped too fast.

“Nope. That blast come from the Golden Fleece, if I heared right. That’s clear up the slope to Peavine Summit.”

“How in he...heaven’s name do the people stand it? Don’t the walls tumble right in on them?” Ellie thought the noise and initial trembling was worse than the earthquake she had encountered in Chili several years ago.

“Sometimes worse than others -- ‘pends on how deep the shafts are and how many blasts at the same time. I suppose if’n all the mines blasted at once, it would fair ring the trees bare of branches. Most days is spent hauling ore and shoring up the walls so they can dig some more.”

Ellie shook her head in wonder. It seemed she’d better figure out a way to get home fast. She had no desire to be buried under a pile of rock if some match happy miner lit too big a fuse.

"I'm going out."

"You can't do that. Zeke said so," Lucky stated in a panic, waving the spatula at her like that was going to keep her in place.

"Zeke's not my keeper," she stated, walking back down the hall, Lucky right on her heels. Knowing she'd never get far if she couldn't get rid of him, she stopped and turned. He nearly smacked into her.

"Lucky. I have to go to the bathroom and do something with my hair."

He didn't move.

She sniffed. "Is that your breakfast burning?" That sent him back to the kitchen in a hurry. Ellie used the time to escape through the front door. She'd worry about her hair later.

Since it had been dark when they got to the house last night, she had no idea which way was which, but in glancing down the road, it appeared town lay to the right. Only Elizabeth’s house and one other faced the road she walked before she came to a cross street.

She closed her eyes trying to recall the layout of the ghost town. So many of the buildings had fallen down over the years, and she was sure some hadn’t even been built in 1870. In fact, she couldn’t remember having seen Elizabeth’s house before last night, but then she hadn’t gotten too far afield that day before Zeke found her by the creek.

Taking a chance, she turned and walked to the left. She figured Peavine couldn’t be that large and she could always backtrack. The buildings on the right side of the street were at least fronted by a sidewalk of sorts, so she stepped up onto the platform. Somewhere in the back of her mind, she hoped this was all a big farce, and she’d step back into the ghost town where she started and would calmly wait to be rescued.

She couldn’t help the sigh which escaped as she noticed the people out and about. There weren’t many; mostly men all wearing old fashioned typed clothes, but they were all gawking at her.

She hoped, having eluded Lucky, that the store would be open because she suddenly felt uncomfortable out in the open. Mentally, she reviewed her list of supplies until a sudden thought struck her and she stopped in the middle of the walk.

The bank sign across the street made her realize she was broke. How could she buy clothes and cigarettes with no money? She cocked her head and stared at the sign. Calhoun's Bank & Trust. Jesse had said Elizabeth's father owned the bank.

Ellie had no idea where Mr. Calhoun was; he certainly hadn't spent the night at the house. However, she decided as long as she had to play-act as Elizabeth, she was entitled to her money; or her father's money. Whatever. She just hoped they had heard of ‘charge it’ here in the hills of Nevada.

"Elizabeth?" Ellie didn't connect the name with herself until someone touched her elbow. Reflexes honed from living in New York made her jerk back and quickly turn around.

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to startle you, but you seemed in a daze. What are you doing here, anyway? I thought you left town." The suave gentleman standing in front of her came right out of a very old movie. Dark gray suit, white shirt with a starched collar and stick pin in his tie. He even had a handlebar mustache and a bowler-style hat swept off slicked-black hair as he nodded to her.

Ellie panicked briefly, wishing now that she had stayed put until Zeke had time to brief her. Who was this guy? How was he connected to Elizabeth? "Why would you think I left town?" She questioned out loud, hoping to glean some insight without giving the game away. Her question raised his eyebrows, and his explanation only slightly squelched her uneasiness.

"That crazy old coot, Lucky, sat on your porch when I came to pick you up for dinner at the hotel. He said you had left on the stage because an aunt had died in Belmont. I didn’t realize you had any other relatives.”

Ellie didn't like the insinuation in the man's voice and she definitely didn’t like his proprietary grip on her arm. She pried his fingers loose and took a step back. The conversation she'd had with Jesse last night echoed inside her head. This had to be Clayton Scott, the lascivious mine owner whom Jesse detested.

While the man now respected the small space she put between them, there was still something about him that Ellie didn't trust. Too many years in the big city, she supposed. His slick looks and mustache made him out of place in Peavine, but he conveyed the perfect villain for a melodrama. Somehow that description fit with everything else Ellie had been experiencing.

She decided to be cautious until she could find out more. She offered him a sugary smile and sorrowful words. "I realized too late that there was nothing I could do for poor Auntie, so at the first opportunity, I got off the stage. Fortunately, a farmer was heading for town to get supplies." Deciding to play on his sympathies, she sighed before adding, "There's just so much death...you know." She looked at him from beneath her lashes.

The man immediately took her hand and patted it. "My poor Elizabeth. It must have been extremely difficult thinking about attending another funeral when your father so recently--"

Ellie's gasp cut him off, and she knew her expression couldn't have been any more genuine if she were actually Elizabeth. Her eyes opened wide. Elizabeth's father was dead? Could his death be related to the trouble shadowing Jesse? Panic squeezed the breath out of her. What had she gotten into -- murder and mayhem?

She pulled her hand out of his clammy one and said without thinking. “I think I should get back home. I need to see Jesse.” As she turned to go, he grabbed her arm.

“I don’t want you around him.”

Ellie quickly thought over what Zeke had told her. “We are suppose to be engaged, after all.”

“You know that’s just a sham. Before I left New York, you had promised yourself to me.” He stepped closer and Ellie could smell his cologne -- a cloying musk. “In fact, you had already given me much more than a promise.”

Oh, boy -- murder, mayhem, and sex! Definitely things Ellie hadn’t counted on. She didn’t know the complete story and doubted that Zeke did either. Even so, she took a gamble. “If you want things to work out, you have to give me some space, and time.”

“Time?” The man sounded incredulous. “You’ve been back over eight months. That’s more than enough time to convince Jesse--”

“Morning, Miss Elizabeth.” Their conversation was interrupted by an old miner walking by.

Clayton glared at the intruder; Ellie smiled and nodded.

“I’m coming over tonight,” he whispered.

“No.” When he gave her a suspicious look, she hastily added, “Zeke and Lucky are sticking close for some reason. We need to act...innocent. Let things settle for a bit.”

She could tell he didn’t think much of her idea, but knew she couldn’t let him near her. “Besides, I need to convince Jesse--” She let the sentence hang, hoping he’d finish the cryptic line he had started, but he just scowled.

“Fine, but if this takes much longer, I have a plan of my own that’ll get the job done much quicker.” He didn’t wait for a reply, but turned and strolled across the street to the bank without a backward glance.

Ellie gapped after him, stunned at what he had revealed. She rewound the conversation and played it over in her mind. Actually, he had said very little, but insinuated a lot. They definitely had a plot hatched, and while Ellie didn’t think Elizabeth had anything to do with her own father’s death, she didn’t put it past Clayton Scott.

She shook off the morbid shadow and decided she would have to discuss what she had learned with Zeke and Lucky after she got her supplies. Regardless of not wanting to be here, she had been drawn into their lives, and she couldn’t walk out of this make-believe town and leave them in the lurch. Damn it, she was just too soft hearted.

Fortunately, though still early, the door to Murphy’s Mercantile and Feed Store opened beneath her hand. A bell tinkled overhead as she entered. She stood just inside the door, amazed at the sight which greeted her. Only once before, in a tiny hamlet in the mountains of Switzerland, had she ever come across a store that contained anything and everything needed for survival, and then some.

Bolts of cloth and all manner of clothes lay on tables; pots and pans, shovels and hoes hung from hooks overhead. Dried legumes filled bushel baskets on the floor. One side of the room stored barrels labeled pickles, whiskey, molasses, and vinegar. Shelves lined the walls from floor to ceiling and contained everything from coffee, spices and wine to jars and tins of food.

Since there weren't any other customers in the store at the moment, Ellie quickly moved to the clothes. A cursory glance at the inside waistband revealed no sizes, so she held up pants to find something that might fit. She had grabbed a few pairs of tan jeans and two flannel shirts before she realized that not only were there no customers in the store, there was no clerk either.

She tilted her head. There -- she heard humming. Someone was here; just in the back someplace. Strangely reassured, she scurried from area to area, grabbing things she thought she would need. She couldn't find any cigarettes, but found pouches of tobacco and papers.

"This is getting to be a real experience," she muttered under her breath.

"Elizabeth. My goodness sakes, you're out and about quite early this morning." The chipper voice soon attached itself to a body as a young, brown-haired woman came through a curtained doorway. "We normally don't see you until afternoon."

Ellie rolled her eyes. It appeared that she and Elizabeth actually did have something in common. Unfortunately, it wasn't knowledge of who all these people were. Ellie began to wonder how she'd fake her way through another conversation when Zeke came bursting through the doorway.

"Morning, Miss Sarah." He grabbed the hat from his head as he hurried over to where Ellie stood. "Morning, Miss Elizabeth," he repeated the greeting just as politely, then under his breath lectured her. "I thought I told you to stay put."

Ellie gave him a spiteful smile and replied sweetly, "It is a wonderful morning, Mr. Zeke. Why, I've already had a very delightful conversation with Mr. Clayton Scott." She took pleasure in seeing the shocked expression on his face before she turned back to the counter where Sarah stood.

"Mr. Zeke?" Sarah giggled. "I don't recall ever using that name on him before, although now that I think on it, I don't rightly recall ever knowing his last name."

Ellie lost the thread of Sarah's conversation as her gaze scanned the shelves. "Oh, my Go...goodness." She corrected herself just as Zeke coughed. "Potato chips; and pork and beans." She grabbed cans of Van Camp's Beans in Tomato Sauce off the shelf. Although she had never heard of Saratoga Chips, she recognized the potato chips by the picture on the front of the cloth bag. There was life in the 1870's after all.

She dumped her treasures on the counter before a startled Sarah. "Elizabeth," Sarah paused, apparently not sure how to address the pile of merchandise now laying before her. “I realize losing your father must be such a burden, and perhaps you sometimes forget?”

Ellie watched Sarah’s gaze float from item to item. Zeke poked her in the ribs. She glanced down, and this time saw her items through Sarah’s eyes. Geez. Potato chips were probably bad enough, but flannel shirts, jeans and tobacco? She offered a weak smile, her gaze beseeching Zeke even though she hated, really hated, to admit she needed help.

Zeke rolled his eyes to the heavens, but did pull her out of the fire. "I'm sure glad you 'membered all those things Jesse and us needed, Miss Elizabeth. My ole mind is getting feeble."

Ellie shot a glance at Sarah to see if she bought the story. If not, she was too polite to say so, and began writing down the purchases on a small pad. When she reached for the Pork & Beans by Ellie’s hand, she paused instead to finger her wristwatch. Ellie gritted her teeth for the quizzing she was sure would follow.

“Is that one of those new eastern fashion ideas? I must admit it’s a fair piece easier than always looking at my...chest.” Sarah fingered the watch pinned to her bodice and gave Ellie a grin. Ellie laughed.

“I keep telling Papa to let me go back east shopping to bring the styles to Peavine, but he insists Mr. Strauss’s jeans are radical enough.”

Sarah continued chatting away as she wrapped Ellie’s purchases. "I really am glad to see you, Elizabeth. I heard last night that you left town on the stage, and I couldn't help but wonder if you would have been back in time for the wedding."

"Wedding?" Ellie squeaked. The only wedding she had heard mentioned was Elizabeth’s and Jesse’s, and she sure wasn’t planning that. She gave Zeke a look.

Zeke politely smiled. "I plumb forgot about you and Henry getting hitched. What day’s that wedding gonna be, Miss Sarah? You know Lucky is awaiting to celebrate." Sarah blushed nicely, Ellie thought, and Zeke could be a real charmer when he wanted.

"Just a week from this Friday." To Ellie, she added, “You know how shy Henry is. He was half afraid to ask, but was so pleased when Jesse said he would stand up for him, since you were going to be my maid of honor."

Ellie didn't know how to respond, so just smiled as Sarah handed her the bundles. “I’ll just send this ticket over to the bank on your account.” Sarah slid the paper into a drawer and Ellie wasn’t about to argue.

Once they were outside the store, Zeke stopped Ellie. “Sarah's wedding to Henry was the biggest shindig Peavine had in awhile. I’m thinking the accident was after the wedding, so we got some time to figure out what really happened a’fore it happens all over again."

“Who’s Henry?” Ellie really did need to get everyone in this melodrama identified.

“Henry Jefferson. He works as a teller at your daddy’s bank.”

“Yeah, you really do need to tell me about daddy’s bank,” Ellie added, but Zeke already had his lips puckered up in thought.

He snapped his fingers and burst out, "Now I recall. The only other big doings in Peavine is the Independence Day celebration and picnic, and that's when Lucky and me got ourselves in trouble. And that means we got less than a month."

Ellie was feeling benevolent, having her arms wrapped around real clothes, real junk food, and the makings for real cigarettes. Besides, Zeke just said she had less than a month to rough it in Peavine before she could go back home. She gave Zeke the first genuine smile she'd felt since landing in this strange place and imitated his drawl. "Well then, Zeke, I think we'd best get back home and figure us out a plan." 

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You can find PROSPECTING FOR LOVE, as well as my other time travel, historical and contemporary romances at http://bookswelove.net/authors/baldwin-barbara-romance/. If you enjoy my stories, please leave a review at your purchase site. It certainly helps both my publisher and me as we look at marketing.

Barbara Baldwin

http://authorsden.com/barbarajbaldwin