8. Chapter 8
Chapter 8
J ames forgot about the pretty brunette for a moment—forgot about all of it, really—because there was no way in hell the elegant lady standing in the dust of a small town, five thousand miles away from her home, was his little sister.
“James,” she breathed again, and it really was her, and he ran and spun her in an embrace and finally set her down—still a whole head shorter than he was. Sylvia might have grown a little in other areas, but she was definitely staying at her five-feet-and-a-few-inches.
“What are you doing here?” He was vaguely aware of a well-dressed black-haired man standing close by, and there was the brunette, who might be a part of the expedition as well, but that didn’t explain a whole lot.
“The question is”—Sylvia dabbed at the bead of sweat he’d left on her cheek—“what are you doing here?” Her eyes ran over him, and her little nose wrinkled.
“Boxing. Don’t worry, it was just this once. One of the guys heard I’d been dabbling at it at Oxford, and you know how they get— ”
“James!”
“I apologize,” the black-haired man intervened. “You are Lord Haverston?”
“No, I’m not.”
“Yes, he is.” Sylvia set her hands on her hips.
“I don’t get it,” the voice of the brunette came from behind. She strolled over to the man. “Did we find him or not?”
“James Winters, at your service.” He offered his hand to the man.
“Will Marshall.”
“And the lovely lady is …?”
The brunette stared into nothing, her mouth slightly open. Pretty mouth, too, not too wide and lush, but just enough—
“Emily.” Marshall nudged her.
She shook her head and blinked a few times. “Huh?”
“This is my cousin, Emily Willburne,” Marshall introduced her instead.
“ Enchantée, mademoiselle. ” Cousins only—good.
She stumbled, then reached for his hand while looking at Sylvia. “Your name is Sylvia Winters?”
“That is my family’s surname.”
“Lord—uh—Mr. Winters—” Marshall began.
“Winters will do. Or James, or Jimmy, if you want.” James gave them both a broad smile.
“We’re glad we found you,” Marshall said. “Lady Ross is in need of your assistance.”
“Lady—” James turned to his sister. “You got married? Ross—not Richard?”
“He’s Sir Richard now.”
“Yeah, whatever. When? ”
“Last month.”
“Jesus.” His little sister, married. Silly. Married. And he wasn’t there for it. Any of it. The sun suddenly pressed a lot harder. “I’m sure you don’t like to stand out here in the heat. Why don’t we go to the saloon?” He strode toward the building, eager to leave a newly resurgent sliver of guilt behind.
“You know Ross?” Marshall asked, the first of the three to follow. Silly was right on his heels.
“Yeah. An old family friend.”
“He’s not that old,” Sylvia objected.
“He’s what, thirty-something? Good man, friend of Father’s, but—really, Silly?”
“Well, you hardly left me any other options, did you?”
“Oh, no.” In a few steps, James was at the counter and poured himself a glass of whiskey. “You could’ve married anyone. And I’m sure you didn’t have to marry yet.”
Miss Willburne was the last to enter. She paused by the door, smiled to herself, then made a grand fuss of her entrance, even whirling back around to check how the door swished behind her. James leaned on the counter and, amused by her behavior, for a moment forgot about his past catching up to him.
“How would you know?” Sylvia said, lowering her voice to a mere whisper. “You left us. Mama and I—we had to pick up the pieces. When you so vehemently defied Papa, defended your pride, have you ever thought of what it would do to my reputation?”
“So you came all this way to throw this in my face?”
“Sir Richard was already going to Boston. I thought I’d find you, see how you were doing … ”
“Well, you found me. And I can say I’m doing mighty fine. Now you can—” He narrowed his eyes at Marshall. The sun really was getting to him. “That’s not Ross.”
“Yeah, he sure isn’t,” Miss Willburne drawled.
“We are in a bit of a predicament,” Marshall said. “Lady Ross is avoiding her husband.”
“Oof.” James made a sip of his drink. “That bad between the sheets, huh? He did always strike me as a bit of a cold fish.”
Sylvia blushed bright scarlet. Behind her, Marshall followed in a similar shade. Miss Willburne choked on a laugh.
“He stabbed a man, James!” Sylvia replied once she recovered.
James deposited his glass on the counter with a loud cling . “He did what?”
“Sir Richard came here with some nefarious purpose. As we docked, a man came to see him. They argued about his work, and then Sir Richard stabbed him and deposed of the body.”
Holy shit. And he thought the West was wild.
“Lady Ross does not wish to return to her husband,” Marshall said. “We thought you might be able to help.”
“With dispatching him?”
“Good Lord, no.” Sylvia’s hand flew to her chest. “I need protection, James. He won’t dare to cross you, you still outrank him. We’ll return to England and—”
“Oh, no. No, no.” He picked up the glass again and made a sip. “I’m not going back to England. Ever.”
“She didn’t say she’d do that,” Miss Willburne whispered to her cousin. Marshall shrugged.
“But you must!” Sylvia insisted. “You are the rightful heir— ”
“I’m the rightful disinherited, despised heir,” he corrected her. “I’m sure Cousin Reggie has it all under control. I die without an heir, he gets the title, problem solved. If he’s lucky, it might even be soon.”
“Well, you still need to take care of me!”
He sighed. As much as he hated everything—and everyone—in England, and those stupid, fake morals of theirs, Silly was his sister. She wasn’t to blame, not for his mistakes, not for the way she was brought up, not for making the wrong choice of husband.
“I will.” He opened his arms. Sylvia hesitated, perhaps deciding if she’d care to make another contact with his sweaty clothes, then stepped into his embrace. “I will, Silly.” He smoothed her hair. “But you’ll have to stay here with me, all right?”
“But—”
“No buts. We’re staying here. For now. ” He’d let her have a bit of hope until she adjusted—or until they found another solution. “Now.” He looked at her companions. “How can I help you two?”
***
The problem, Emily thought, wasn’t that Lord Haverston was far from what she’d imagined. “Lord” made her think of portly old men with bushy mustaches and monocles. It wasn’t that James was closer to Will’s age and could be put on the cover of the GQ magazine. It wasn’t that she was hot and sweaty and really wanted a shower and a drink—and the first, at least, seemed a distant possibility. It wasn’t that they were so close to Sylvia giving them the device, and she could finally time travel for real.
The problem was in the name. Not James Winters .
Sylvia Winters.
Emily had heard it before. Or she’d read it, somewhere, recently. It was so damn familiar. While the discussion in the saloon continued, she tasted it on her tongue. Sylvia Winters. She focused, held on to the syllables, and scoured the depths of her memory for a match. She came up with one explanation, and she didn’t like it. At all.
She’d been going over the family tree recently, when she’d asked Harold Merryweather to help her. And she had a very uncomfortable feeling she’d seen the name on that tree. Sylvia Winters was Will’s wife.
No, no, don’t go there. You’re making it up. Sylvia, Winters—both names were not that rare. One, Will wasn’t married yet. Emily didn’t remember the date, but thought it was somewhere in the 1890’s—so he had a few years, at least. Two, Will would never, ever marry someone like her. He didn’t even like her! Emily didn’t like her.
And three, the best of all—Sylvia was already married. Top that.
Someone tapped Emily on the shoulder. She returned from her reverie, seeing the saloon was slowly filling up with people returning from the match. The man gave her a partially toothless grin and sat down by the counter. James, who now stood behind it, filled him a drink.
“… for a few days, at least,” Will was saying to him.
Like in a dream, Emily walked toward him. “What’s going on?”
“Looks like you two need somewhere to stay?” James said. “And Silly, of course.”
Sylvia carefully wiggled through the newcomers, keeping her arms wrapped around herself, like she was afraid of touching anyone. “If you can, James, I’d very much like to get out of here. And can you stop …doing that?”
James raised an eyebrow and a bottle of whiskey. “I can’t. It’s what I do. ”
“I thought you worked on a ranch,” Emily said.
“I did. And now I run a saloon. Although I do take care of an occasional filly.” His mouth turned up at the corner, and he winked at Emily before serving a drink to one of the men piling up.
“But you can’t … you can’t … work!” Sylvia threw her hands in the air. “It does not befit your station. And you can’t be here amongst these …” As she was looking around, the pretty woman from the boxing match entered. She turned to a man close behind her, pulled his loose scarf, and led him to the stairs. The man panted like a puppy.
“Half an hour, Molly,” James called. “We’ve got lunch to put out.”
“Oh, I think we’ll be done sooner.” The woman sent him a floating kiss and disappeared upstairs with the man.
“We were talking accommodations?” James turned back to his guests. “All three of you will be a little tough. Most folks here have but their own bed to sleep in.”
“It’s ‘people’, James,” Sylvia corrected him.
“Oh, I’m sorry.” James flashed a smile. “Most people here do not possess additional rooms that could accommodate you.” The slight drawl slipped off, and he spoke in a crisp English accent, much like Sylvia. “Old Joe owns a boardinghouse down the street. I’m not sure whether he’s fixed one of the rooms yet, but if he did, that’s two. And there’s one room free upstairs.”
Sylvia’s eyes flicked up, and she wrinkled her nose. “A room to which that woman—”
“Her name is Molly, and you will speak only well of her,” James’s voice was calm but strict.
“In any case, I’m not staying up there. You said there is a room at the boardinghouse? I’ll take that.” Sylvia didn’t look too cheerful at the prospect. Emily recalled the facade of the boardinghouse—the peeling paint and washed-out inscription. Not exactly Sanderson’s hotel, indeed.
“Good. The two of you can have the rest,” James said to Will and Emily. “One more in the boardinghouse, one here.”
Will’s ears started to burn. Emily sighed. “I’ll take the one here.” She ignored the little warning bell—that would put Will right next to Sylvia. Stop. They were leaving as soon as they got the device and rested a bit—tomorrow, if possible. She had to put the silly thought of his wife right out of her mind.
“Then we’re all set. I’ll check and clean the room when Molly is done.”
“Thank you,” Will whispered, so only Emily could hear him.
“Don’t mention it, Gramps. At least I’ll be far away from her.”
“Say, James, where do you sleep?” Sylvia asked.
A slow, mischievous smile spread across James’ face, and he stared straight at Emily. Oh, no. “Upstairs.”
James called for a man to take the visitors’ luggage while he offered them some refreshments. Emily quickly figured out every drink contained at least some alcohol; Will explained distilled drinks were safer than water. She didn’t get much to help her thirst, but she welcomed a wash, even if it wasn’t a shower. In the kitchen behind the main room of the saloon, James offered her a bucket of fresh water and a towel, then left her alone. A tin tub in the corner hinted at how one would eventually take a bath. Not that she wanted out of the Wild West—she hadn’t seen a single duel yet—but the current washing options were making a really good argument for going back to the present.
By the time she returned to the saloon, Will and Sylvia had already taken their leave, so she went to find her bedroom. Not so bad—the bed wasn’t quite a double one, but she wouldn’t have to worry about falling off, and it was nicely made with clean sheets. She had a dresser, a small table with a single chair, a rug to add some homeliness, and curtains for privacy. Based on how James spoke of the boardinghouse, Emily might have gotten the better end of the deal.
She popped open her bag, only to be greeted with a striped blue-and-cream fabric. Sylvia’s bag. Whoever brought the luggage must’ve messed it up. Emily searched through it until she reached the box with the device. She pulled it out, then hesitated. Sure, it belonged to her and Will now, but was it safe to leave it here while she went to exchange the luggage with Sylvia? With a sigh, she stuck the box back and covered it up. Sylvia had no designs on it, so she’d give it to them anyway.
Emily grabbed the bag and headed out of the saloon and down the street. An elderly man, smoking a pipe in front of the boardinghouse, introduced himself as Joe and told her where to find Sylvia. Emily skipped up the staircase and down the whitewashed, barren hallway to the door at the end, giving a lively knock. Soon, they’d be free of Sylvia. Wasn’t that great?
“Got your luggage,” she said as Sylvia opened the door.
“Ah, so that’s where it ended up. Good.” Sylvia turned her back and strode to the other side of the room, which Emily took as an invitation to enter. “I was worried I’d have to do with yours.”
“Yeah, that would really come back to bite you, huh?” Emily’s two outfits were much less fashionable—or at least excessive—than Sylvia’s. Back when they were shopping in Boston, Sylvia had put forward “budget” as an excuse, but Emily had a feeling she simply wanted to play Cinderella’s stepmother.
Sylvia waved to Emily’s bag, then put hers on the bed and sifted through it. She extricated a wealth of light blue embroidered and beaded fabric and moved behind a dressing screen, as worn-out as the rest of the room .
“Looking a little fancy, aren’t we.” Emily cocked her head and observed the end of the dress trail, peeking from behind the partition.
“James invited us to dinner. At the saloon.”
“So?”
“So,” Sylvia’s head peeked out the top, “I cannot wear my walking dress, obviously.” She disappeared behind. “You should change, too. It would be unfit to remain in that dress. Of course, we hadn’t bought you an evening dress …”
“Wait a second. Would that be the dress you said I wouldn’t need? ”
“I think it’s clear some unpredicted things have occurred. In any case, you can choose your other—ouch!”
Now what?
Sylvia yelped again. Emily rolled her eyes, then moved forward and peeked behind the partition. Sylvia had dressed down to her underwear—black silk stockings, drawers with two rows of lace at the bottom, and a cute corset with a light blue satin ribbon and a tiny bow at the top.
Way cuter than mine.
She was wearing another piece—a frilly, lacy shirt she’d referred to as a “corset cover”—but it was currently stuck halfway over her head.
“My necklace is caught up in the lace,” Sylvia muttered from behind the shirt. “I can’t—”
“I’ve got you.” Emily had a few inches on Sylvia, so it was easy enough to inspect the problem. She quickly noticed the silver chain running from under Sylvia’s chin to the shirt and around her hair. “It’s entangled in your hair. Hold on, I’ll yank it.”
“No!”
“It won’t hurt—”
“Miss Willburne, do not— ”
Emily pulled. The chain scratched her finger, but the necklace came off—and so did a healthy portion of Sylvia’s hair.
Emily screamed, dropping the hair.
Sylvia screamed, dropping the shirt.
“What the hell. What the …” Emily picked up the hairpiece and swiveled it before her eyes. Sylvia reached up to cover the remainder of her now very short curls. That intricate coiffure, always piled high at the top of her head—the bit she was constantly touching—was gone.
“I pulled out your hair,” Emily whispered in horror.
“Don’t be daft.” Sylvia ran a hand through her curls, then snatched the piece out of Emily’s hands.
“You have fake hair?”
“These are my hair. Well, were.” Sylvia turned the hairpiece around in her hands and frowned. Emily hadn’t been too gentle while pulling it, and a few long curls now flowed limply down Sylvia’s fingers. “I’d been ill,” she explained. “My hair fell out. We made it into a wig until it would grow again.”
“Oh. I’m sorry.”
“I’m fine now. Unfortunately, this isn’t.” Sylvia put the hairpiece on a table in the corner.
“Well, your hair’s not bad the way it is,” Emily said. “Short styles are cool, too.”
Sylvia showed her disagreement by turning away and shaking out the bodice of her evening dress.
“Oh, the necklace.” Emily searched the floor until she found the chain with a dark blue, tear-shaped pendant at her feet. She picked it up and handed it to Sylvia.
“Thank—aah!” Sylvia jumped away from Emily.
“Now what?”
With a shaky finger, Sylvia pointed at Emily’s hand. “Your finger …”
Emily looked down, half-expecting her finger to be missing, and wondering why she hadn’t felt the pain. Instead, something dark blue spread under her skin, beginning at the scratch she’d acquired while removing the necklace.
She quickly hid her hand behind her back. “It’s nothing. The color on my clothes ran.” Sylvia would find that easy enough to believe. Emily, however, had seen this coloration twice before—once on Will, once on her own hand. The skin turned that way for a brief moment when an open wound came into contact with almonite.
But there was no more working almonite in this time.
Emily’s eyes zoomed into the pendant Sylvia was holding up. Dark blue, polished, with a few silver specks that made it resemble a night’s sky.
Sylvia had almonite.