Chapter 8
CHAPTER 8
Early the next morning, roused by an obnoxious rooster and the sound of men’s voices from the nearby bunkhouse as the ranch hands went to work, Max washed and dressed in the guest cabin.
The James family may have called it a ‘cabin,’ but it was a good-sized house all on its own, Bart directing him last night across the front sweep to a large, two-story structure seated on a high slope above the curve of the river, where the water—having traveled behind the outbuildings—veered south toward the main house. Hidden from the main house’s view by the sweep’s line of tall, skinny juniper trees, it was originally built, according to Bart, to house his brother Kit and Kit’s new wife and his new wife’s family when they came to visit, the ‘cabin’ a spacious, gracious abode with four bedrooms, two bathrooms, a parlor, a formal dining room, and a large kitchen, all of it filled with elegant furniture and every luxury known to nineteenth-century man.
Fresh bedding and towels graced every bedroom and bath. The kitchen larder was stocked with food, and he could see a great deal of care had been taken in preparing for the anticipated guests that would arrive tomorrow.
Max had fallen asleep between soft, sleek sheets in a cushy featherbed, the river’s muted sound having lulled him into slumber.
And he’d needed the slumber. Time travel—or hallucination-filled comas—were exhausting.
His stomach growling with hunger, he staked a claim on his bedroom by placing the shaving kit Bart had loaned him on the blue matelassé bedspread—it was the only room with just one bed, and he had no intention of sharing sleeping quarters with Miss Calliope’s suitors. Tapping his borrowed cowboy hat on, he stepped outside into the dawn, wearing the borrowed jeans and red plaid shirt one of Mrs. Zandt’s assistants had kindly washed for him last night, and his now dry cowboy boots, some kind person having stuffed nineteenth-century newspaper inside them and brushed away the mud, and polished them until the leather shone.
A rim of light wavered on the eastern horizon, outlining the top of the hills in that direction, the ranch itself still pitched mostly in darkness. The air was cool, on the edge of cold, though he knew that would change once the sun became visible.
Pulling on the shearling-lined denim coat Bart had loaned him, he headed toward the scent of coffee coming from the part of the large bunkhouse that in the military would be considered the mess hall, which was on the side of the building nearest the guest cabin, a lantern illuminating the mess hall door.
Beyond the bunkhouse, the sight of a dim figure sitting on the top rail of a small, empty corral—Miss Calliope, his every sense told him—kept him walking, until he’d reached her side.
“Them are cottonwoods,” she said with a nod at the handful of tall, leafy trees that grew atop the steep bank of the river behind the corral, speaking in a voice as hushed as the early morning. The sky was more dark than light, just starting to turn the faintest of blues, the trees more shadows than substantial objects. Her lithe body was dressed in a light-colored riding skirt of suede and a matching lightweight coat that buttoned to her neck, the coat knee-length and split partway up in the back. The heels of her cowgirl boots were hooked around a lower rail, and he wondered if she was dressed to take her stallion out for a ride. Her long, dark hair was loose around her shoulders.
She gazed down at him from her perch on the rail, her body facing the corral and river, her eyes sparkling with vitality, though the rest of her seemed subdued. In her hand, she held a silver charm bracelet, the charms lined up along her smooth palm—a little silver house, he saw as the light to the east grew brighter, plus little silver horses and cows, and little silver dogs like the real ones he’d encountered around the ranch. “That’s the Summer River,” she said, her hand closing around the bracelet as she gestured with a jingle of the charms toward the rushing water, the water heard, not seen, from this viewpoint. “Can’t grow cottonwood without a nearby water source.” She nodded to the west, toward the low, dark, starless part of the sky that would show to be the Wind Dance Mountains when there was more light. “My brother Kit and his wife Sally live on the other side of the bluff, beyond the front drive.”
A brother’s wife who had no idea about the time travel, according to Livia.
“They’re expecting a baby soon, like Livie and Bart.” Miss Calliope turned the bracelet over in her hand, all but one of the charms bright despite the subdued light.
“A gift from one of your suitors?” Max asked, the taste of the peppermint toothpowder he’d brushed his teeth with—using an old-fashioned, wood-handled toothbrush—lingering in his mouth. “Looks like that little horse charm got smudged.”
“Not smudged,” Miss Calliope said. “Burned. I cleaned most of the bracelet up, but this one horse won’t clean.”
“Not a gift, then, I take it.”
“I found it along the cliff in back of the house,” she said, but he had the feeling she wasn’t telling him everything.
He leaned a shoulder beside her against the corral’s top rail, enjoying her company, the quiet pensiveness of her manner at odds with the go-get-’em energy from yesterday. “That’s a rather expensive piece of jewelry to be left lying around.”
“It weren’t left,” she said, the tomboy dropping strong into her voice, and he’d spent enough time in her company to know that it came and went at her pleasure. “I know who it belongs to. But they ain’t here anymore.”
“Dead?” he said gently.
“I suppose so.” Her tone was musing, and he wondered what she was pondering so deeply.
“Calliope,” her mother called from the house, the sound quiet against the morning, quiet but carrying easily across the chilly air.
Miss Calliope gave him a swift smile and spun and jumped down from the corral rail in one quick, elegant move before he could raise his hand to help her. “That’s Ma,” she said. “I reckon she wants me to get ready for our guests.” She leaned closer to him, her rose scent filling his senses. “Don’t tell anyone about the bracelet, prince. It’s a secret.”
“Of course,” he said, signaling his consent with a low bow.
With a bigger smile, Miss Calliope ran in her cowgirl boots through the long grass for the house.
The smell of frying bacon hit Max the instant he stepped inside the well-lit mess hall. The sound of it sizzling on an immense cast iron griddle hit him next, the kitchen visible at the back of the large room, beyond a wide counter on which huge platters of food stood ready for the hungry ranch hands.
And hungry princes.
The room grew warmer the closer he got to the kitchen—the immense cast iron griddle was cooking away atop an immense cast iron wood stove. The thirty or so men in the room, ranch hands, by their clothes, were seated at the long wood tables closest to the heat.
Not quite ready to sit down for a meal—scrambled eggs, golden-brown toast, juicy ham, grilled bacon, and perfectly round pancakes with butter and syrup, from what he could see, the cook behind the counter telling him it was the second breakfast shift—he wrapped his bandana around the handle of a hot tin cup of coffee and carried it outside.
Stopping at the top of the riverbank between the bunkhouse and guest cabin, he listened to the birds among the leafy cottonwood trees trill and call and dive for bugs in the water as the sun slowly rose, sending a golden cast over the ranch. He’d thought a lot last night as he’d readied for bed about what the hell was going on, what the hell had happened to him, and despite his certainty the day before that he’d traveled through time, he’d woken up wavering again between actual time travel and hallucination.
Hallucination was the likeliest, most rational explanation, he’d decided while still in bed, given yesterday’s sighting of Hugo. But now, outside in the growing light, the chill of the morning penetrated his denim jacket, despite the soft shearling wool inside. The heat of the strong coffee that tasted as different as could be from the special blend he usually drank nearly scalded his tongue.
The sound of the birds and river felt as real as the scent of food wafting from the mess hall.
Real or dream, he knew one thing for sure: Sheriff Sam Creede was here, and damned if Max wasn’t going to tag along on the legendary sheriff’s adventures.
He was still nursing the coffee, and pondering whether a lightning strike, combined with a flash flood, could actually send a man through time, when one of the stable boys from yesterday told him he was wanted at the main house, where he was apparently supposed to enjoy breakfast with the family.
Remembering how Bart had made it clear last night that Max was welcome at the Sky Top only because it was the least dangerous option for the James family to keep him close by until he went back to his own time, he doubted he was literally ‘wanted’ to join the family. More likely, he was to be warned again to stay away from the real guests, Miss Calliope’s suitors, who were scheduled to arrive today, and he wondered if he’d be directed to move into the bunkhouse.
The family was just sitting down to the large table in the bright, sunlit dining room when Max arrived, everyone dressed in everyday nineteenth-century ranch clothes, Bart in denim trousers and a forest-green Western shirt, Miss Calliope in her riding clothes, and Livia and Mrs. James in long dresses that covered everything but their feet, necks, heads, and hands. White platters of food similar to that in the mess hall—eggs, toast, meat—covered the yellow embroidered tablecloth family style, the scent of grilled bacon and ham in the air.
“Good morning,” Max said in a friendly voice, his stomach quietly grumbling.
The ladies smiled and greeted him.
Bart scowled.
Max remembered scowling that same way at his youngest sister’s latest beau, though there had been nothing truly objectionable about the young man. “Where are Doc and Creede?” he said, disappointed in the absence of the legendary sheriff. If he was to be warned by Bart to avoid the soon-to-arrive guests, he might as well spend that time riding shotgun with Creede, keeping an eye on Prince Hugo.
“Gone back to town,” Bart said, sitting down at the head of the table after sliding Livia’s chair in. Outside the tall, wide windows to Bart’s right, the river tumbled and sparkled in the new morning. The eastern edge of the Sky Top Mountains rose majestically in the sunlight, all of it calling to Max’s sense of adventure.
“Perhaps I could join them,” he said, seating himself in his chair from last night beside Livia, Miss Calliope across the table from him. “Sign up to be a deputy to the famous Sam Creede.”
There was that scowl again. “You’re staying here,” Bart said. “Out of sight.”
“Out of sight of whom?” Max said, taking the platter of bacon and ham Mrs. James—to his left—offered him and serving himself several slices of both. “Your ranch hands have conversed with me. Your friends know I am here.”
“Out of sight of Cally’s suitors, for one thing,” Bart said. “Out of sight of your ancestor, for another.”
“But, Bart,” Livia said, filling her plate with golden-brown pancakes. “We have to introduce him. People will wonder who he is. If they don’t know, they’ll talk more about him than if they do know.”
“Not if they think he’s one of the ranch hands,” Bart said.
Miss Calliope sent Max a skeptical look. “How’re you going to convince the ranch hands he’s one of them, Brother? It ain’t like they won’t notice how he talks. And he already told the men who rode with us yesterday to get him after the flood that he’s from Zalgravia.”
“I’m quite happy to stay out of everyone’s way,” Max said, ignoring the tug of attraction for Miss Calliope that was keeping his body busy at the moment. Perhaps he’d go on his own adventure in the nineteenth century. Perhaps he’d go stake out the Crown and keep an eye on Hugo.
“You’ll need to move out of the guest cabin this morning,” Livia said. “You can’t stay there once the suitors arrive. Not if we can’t explain who you are.” She sighed. “If only you didn’t look so much like the Evil Prince.”
“But he has all that facial hair,” Max said, adding eggs, then pancakes, to his plate. “I’m younger, too. Hugo has six years on me.”
“But you sound similar,” Mrs. James said, “from what Doc tells me. Your accents are clearly European, even if your voices are not precisely the same. People will notice the accent, or anything else that distinguishes you from the local folks.”
“Like you bein’ a prince,” Miss Calliope said. “Ain’t no getting away from that. It’s as clear as the nose on your face. The way you stand. The way you walk.”
“If I lose the accent” —Max proceeded to adopt a broad Texas twang, eliciting a giggle from Miss Calliope, and an outright laugh from Livia— “and change my posture” —he slumped a bit in his chair, taking on a meeker manner— “they’ll never know.” He and his siblings were old hands at disguising their appearance, in order to escape detection from the paparazzi, and he berated himself again for not having had a better one when he’d met Matthew and his wife. “Or we could tell them I’m one of Miss Calliope’s suitors.” He grinned at her. “Give them a run for their money.”
“A disguise could work,” Livia said to Mrs. James. “It’s only for two nights.” She turned to Max. “Then they leave here to go back to Mule Stop to join their families, who are traveling there for the parties June has arranged in town. She wanted Cally to meet the suitors here first, and see how they adapt to life at the Sky Top.” She turned back to the others. “If the Evil Prince pays us a visit, that’s when Max can hide.”
“But if he does visit,” Mrs. James said, “the suitors will surely notice the resemblance.”
Max swallowed a bite of buttery, syrupy pancakes, mentally praising the wonderful Mrs. Zandt. “Not if I do a good disguise. A better one than yesterday.” A better one than a tipped-down hat and a bandana over his chin. “Once, in France, dressed as a postman with a mustache, beard, and dark glasses, I directed several paparazzi…” He paused at the puzzled glances the others—all but Livia—gave him. “Paparazzi are photographers who hound celebrities,” he explained, “trying to get compromising photographs of them and in general being a nuisance. I directed several of these in the direction of the country of Monaco, where I said Prince Max was gambling in the casino, while I hightailed it in the opposite direction to meet up with friends in Cannes. The paparazzi never had any idea who gave them that false tip.”
He took a sip of the strong coffee that was as hot as the one from the mess hall. “I will require attire if I am to masquerade as someone other than a ranch hand.” He straightened his plaid cotton collar, which didn’t need it, but the gesture seemed somehow important. “I am known to be among the best dressed of my generation,” he said in a mock-haughty tone.
Bart frowned. “I suppose I could lend you more clothing.”
“I thank you,” Max said, “but I prefer to have my own.”
“And how are you going to pay for it?” Bart said.
How, indeed? “I shall work for it,” Max said, inspired. “Give me a job to do. That will be the best disguise of all.”
“But what can you do here, prince?” Miss Calliope said, eyes shining. “If you can’t be a guest, and you can’t be a ranch hand?”
Max’s eyes lit up. He fought a mischievous grin. “I could pose as your butler,” he said.