Chapter 5
Chapter Five
Megan turned into the Walmart parking lot and eased between two eighteen-wheelers.
The building loomed ahead, squat and endless under the gray sky, a monument to consumer excess.
Holden leaned forward, studying the massive sign over the doors, wide-eyed and open-mouthed. “That’s a store?”
“Yes.” She shut off the engine.
He let out a whistle. “Biggest one I ever saw.”
“They sell everything from groceries to clothing to hardware and decorations. You name it. Let’s get this done.”
They crossed the lot together, walking over scattered rock salt. Holden moved with that easy stride of his, like a man who commanded whatever space he entered.
Her heart gave a strange little flutter, and she power-walked like her life depended on getting in and out before someone spotted her with Wyatt Earp.
As they approached, the glass doors slid apart. Holden jumped back, hand dropping toward his hip as if searching for a six-shooter. “What in the blazes!?”
“Automatic doors. Motion sensors.” She tried not to smile at the genuine alarm on his face.
He eyed the threshold like it might bite him. “They see you comin’?”
“Something like that. It’s okay. Walk on in.”
He stepped through gingerly, his hands clenched by his side, as if expecting the doors to snap shut on him like a bear trap. When they didn’t, he glanced back with suspicion. “Witchcraft.”
“Science.”
“Same thing as far as I can tell.”
Inside, warm air and canned music wrapped around them. The sheer scale of the place jostled her fresh through his eyes, endless aisles stretching toward a distant back wall, fluorescent lights bright enough to perform surgery under, the checkout lanes lined up like soldiers at attention.
Holden stopped dead, taking it all in. “How many folks work here?”
“I don’t know. Fifty? A hundred?”
“To sell dry goods?”
“And groceries. And electronics. And—”
“You already said everything. Weren’t joking, were you?”
She nodded toward the stacked carts. “Could you grab us a buggy, please?” Us. Like they were together. Which she supposed they were. At least for now.
He frowned. “A what?”
“Those rolling metal carts.” She gestured at cart-pushing shoppers.
“Well, I’ll be danged.” He tested the handle, pushing it forward. “Easiest hauling I ever done.”
“Try not to run anyone over, okay?”
He grinned, something boyish breaking through his reserve. “No promises.”
She didn't expect him to appear that young when he smiled, and it felt as if the century between them loosened its grip. He fell in beside her, and they moved down the center aisle. He slowed every few feet, his gaze climbing the shelves that reached toward the ceiling.
“There’s more here than a man could use in ten lifetimes.”
“Welcome to modern life.”
A woman rushed past, cell phone pressed to her ear, chatting rapid-fire about holiday schedules.
Holden watched her go. “Was she talking to us?”
“She’s on the phone.”
“What’s a phone?”
“I’ll show you when we get back to my house.”
She didn’t have the bandwidth to explain phones, satellites, or data plans right now.
Not while she was trying to buy pants for a cowboy who’d never seen a zipper.
They passed the electronics section. A wall of televisions played the same commercial on every screen, the same ad for laundry detergent with cheerful people.
Holden stopped. Stared. “Wha—”
“TV. I’ll show you mine later.” Something else to dissect with him. At least they'd have something to do when they were back home...and alone.
He ran a hand along a line of boxed toasters, chrome and black plastic gleaming under the lights. “Back home, we fixed what broke. Here you’d need a map just to buy another one.”
She gave a small smile. “That’s capitalism.”
“Sounds exhausting.”
“You have no idea.”
They turned a corner into housewares. He tapped a plastic storage bin. “Resembles tin, weighs like air. What’s that made of?”
“Plastic.”
“What’s that?”
She hesitated. How to simplify this. “It’s made from oil.”
He stopped short, brows up. “Huh? You mean lamp oil?”
“Sort of. We’re blocking traffic.” She steered him aside.
He let her guide him but kept looking back. “Oil into boxes. What’ll they think of next?”
A woman with a toddler swerved around them and shot Megan a quick, disapproving glare before hurrying off.
The universal judgment of the harried shopper encountering people who dared to take their time.
Not that she could chide. How many times had she been impatient with others?
Guilt settled in, and she vowed to be more understanding in the future.
Holden lowered his voice. “Are folks always in this much of a rush?”
“Usually.”
They reached the men’s section. The air smelled of that particular scent of mass-produced clothing sealed in plastic. Megan stopped at a wall of denim stacked in neat cubes by size and cut. “We’ll start with jeans.”
Holden took in the endless options, then the steady flow of shoppers weaving through the aisles. “There’s this many men in Evergreen Springs now?”
“More than that.”
“Guess the world got busy in a hundred and forty-seven years.”
She estimated his size: thirty-four waist, thirty-four length if she had to guess, and yes, she was not thinking about how she assessed that. She selected three different sizes of jeans just in case and handed them over. “Here, try these.”
“What do you mean?”
“Put them on and see which pair fits.”
“Right here, right now?” He looked puzzled.
Yeah, she supposed they didn’t have fitting rooms in 1878. She pointed. “No, not here. There’s a little room you go into and put them on.”
He headed over, then paused at the entrance, reading the sign. “Maximum six items. Reckon I’m safe.”
Five minutes later, he emerged wearing the pair of 34x34s. They fit to perfection. The dark wash denim hugged his thighs and sat on his hips, and Lordie, what they did for his backside.
She whipped her gaze away, cleared her throat, and focused on a rack of thermal shirts. “Those work. You don’t have to try on the others.”
He glanced down. “I dunno. They feel a bit snug.”
“That’s how they’re supposed to fit.”
“Men walk around squeezed in like sausages?” He tugged at the thighs.
“It’s fashionable.” She refused to dwell on the fact that she now knew his waist measurement and precisely how much muscle filled out the denim. No thank you. She grabbed two more pairs of the same size. “We’ll take these too. Shirts are next.”
“I’m keepin' the hat.”
“We've established that.”
“Just makin' sure.” He touched the battered brim.
They added flannel shirts, thermals, thick socks that wouldn’t give him frostbite, a down puffy coat to replace the duster, and a pair of boots sturdy enough to survive Montana winters.
He picked up the package of boxer briefs she tossed in the cart and studied the picture on the front. “These replace union suits?”
“Yes.”
“Lot less fabric.”
“Technology improved.”
He snorted. “That’s what we’re calling it?”
“Do you want them or not?”
“I’ll take ’em, but I’m just saying, man catches a chill in important places; technology won’t help much.”
She bit back a smile. “It’ll be fine.”
They turned toward the front, the cart half-full, and two women near the floral section froze mid-conversation. One’s gaze jumped from Holden’s hat to his face to broad shoulders, and delight bloomed behind her eyes like she won the lottery.
Oh no.The last thing she needed was strangers ogling him like he rode in on a romance novel cover.
“Megan, why are they starin’ at me?” Holden asked from one side of his mouth in a muted growl.
“Because you look like you rode out of a Marlboro ad.”
He grinned. “A compliment, I think.”
“Let’s head in the other direction.” She put a hand on the cart he was pushing.
Too late. The braver of the two, a blonde in yoga pants and enough enthusiasm to power a small city, intercepted them. “Excuse me, are you with that Western movie? The one filming up by Whistler’s Pond?”
Megan’s pulse ticked faster. “Uh, yes. He’s an extra.”
The woman’s hand flew to her chest. “Oh my gosh. He looks amazing. Doesn’t he look amazing, Trish?”
Trish, struck speechless, nodded.
“Can we get a picture?”
Before Megan could manufacture a polite refusal, Holden tipped his hat. “Always happy to oblige, ma’am.”
He posed beside the cart while they snapped selfies, flashes glinting off freezer doors. He stood still, clearly unsure what was happening but too polite to refuse.
“What’s your name?” the blonde asked, breathless.
“Holden Reed.”
“That’s perfect.” Trish pulled a receipt from her purse and held it out with a pen. “Could you sign this?”
He took it, frowning at the paper. “You want me to write my name on this?”
“Please!”
He glanced at Megan, baffled, but shrugged and scrawled his name across the bottom with his left hand. Aww, he was a leftie just like her. “Here you go.”
The women bustled off, giggling like teenagers.
“Why did you do that?” Megan raised her eyebrows.
“Do what?”
“Preen.”
“I wasn’t preening. That was hospitality. They asked polite.”
“They’re going to post those pictures online.”
“Online?”
“The internet. Everyone in the county will see them.”
“Fine by me.”
She sucked in a breath. “Holden, we don’t want the whole world knowing you’re from 1878.”
He leaned in, unbothered, his voice dropping so only she could hear. “You brought me to a place the size of a fairground and thought no one would notice?”
“That’s not the point.”
He chuckled, and the sound did something unfortunate to her composure. “You sure fuss pretty when you’re nervous.”
“I’m not nervous.”
“Uh-huh.”
They reached the registers. While they waited behind a woman unloading what appeared to be a month’s worth of groceries, Holden studied the conveyor belt gliding items forward.
“It moves all by itself?”
“Electric motor,” she said.
He went quiet, watching the mechanism with the focus of a man trying to puzzle out magic tricks.
When their turn came, the clerk, a weary woman in her fifties, began scanning, the machine beeping with each item. The numbers climbed on the screen. Holden’s eyes tracked each addition, his expression growing tighter with every beep.
“That’ll be three hundred twenty-five seventy,” the clerk said.
His head whipped around. “Three hundred dollars!”
The clerk smiled, polite. Megan swiped her debit card before he could launch into whatever economic analysis he was forming.
How jarring it must be to leap a century and land in a world where even underwear costs a small fortune.
She dragged him into this, and now she was teaching him what it took to survive in her world.
He stared at the screen like it insulted his mother. “For clothes?”
“That’s what things cost now. Walmart is actually far cheaper than most places.”
“Better come with a dang horse.”
She suppressed a smile and collected the bags.
“Here,” he said, holding out his arms. “Let me carry those.”
“No need. I’ve got them.”
“They’re my clothes, not your burden.”
“All right,” she said and gave him the bags.
They headed for the exit. The doors sighed open again, and cold air rushed over them. Holden squinted at the gray sky and the sprawl of cars stretching across the lot. “All this, just for livin’?”
“That’s how it is,” she said.
“Sacrilegious.”
She didn’t argue. They loaded the bags into the trunk, and when she turned, she accidentally brushed his shoulder. They both jumped back and mumbled, “Sorry” simultaneously.
Breathlessly, she hurried around to the driver’s side, unlocking the door with the remote, and climbed inside.
Holden slid into the passenger seat. “Strangest place I ever been, but I ain’t sure it’s bad strange.”
“I can’t imagine how odd it is to find yourself in another century.”
He looked back at the building, at the stream of people pushing carts, loading cars, living their ordinary Sunday morning lives. “Still feels like standin’ in a dream where everything’s too big.”
“That’s America in 2025.”
He nodded. “Then you’re a rugged breed, built for endurance.”
“That’s quite the compliment coming from the man who saved Evergreen Springs.”
He studied her face. “You’re a powerful woman yourself, Miss Megan.”
The words weren’t romantic, just sincere, but something inside her melted. Like being seen, not just as Principal Collins or the woman trying to fill impossible shoes, mattered more than she wanted to admit. Sincerity like that could undo a person if she wasn’t careful.