Chapter 2 #2
“It’s May the 24th or 25th. I lose track.”
“No, the whole thing.” He fought to keep the urgency out of his voice. “Please.”
“Okay, it’s probably Tuesday, the 25th.” Then she repeated the year. “How’s that?”
“Fine.” He pulled out every ounce of control and managed to smile at her. One of them was crazy, and he dearly hoped it was Libby. “You got anything to drink around here besides that tea?”
She frowned for a moment. Then her face cleared. “Brandy. There’s always some downstairs. Hold on a minute.”
“Yeah, thanks.”
He waited until he heard her moving down the stairs. Then, cautiously, he rose and pulled open the first drawer that came to hand. There had to be something in this ridiculous place to tell him what was going on.
He found lingerie, neatly stacked despite the chaos of the rest of the room.
He frowned a moment over the styles and materials.
She’d said she wasn’t matched, yet it was obvious that she wore things to please a man.
Apparently she preferred the romance of past eras even when it came to her underwear.
Far from comfortable with the ease with which he could picture Libby in this little chocolate-brown swatch with the white lace, he shoved the drawer shut again.
The next drawer was just as tidy and held jeans and sturdy hiking pants.
He puzzled for a moment over a zipper, ran it slowly up and down, then shoved the jeans back into place.
Annoyed, he turned, and started toward her desk, where her computer continued to hum.
He had time to think it was a noisy, archaic machine before he stumbled over the pile of newspapers.
He didn’t scan the headlines or study the picture. His eyes were drawn to the date.
He was unarguably in the twentieth century.
His stomach clenched. Ignoring the sudden buzzing in his ears, he bent to snatch up the paper.
Words danced in front of his eyes. Something about arms talks—nuclear arms, he noted with a kind of dull horror—and hail damage in the Midwest. There was a tease about the Mariners trouncing the Braves.
Very slowly, knowing his legs would give out in a moment, he lowered himself back into the chair.
It was too bad, he thought dully. It was too damn bad, but it wasn’t Libby Stone who was going crazy.
“Caleb?” The moment she saw his face, Libby rushed into the room with brandy sloshing in a snifter. “You’re white as a sheet.”
“It’s nothing.” He had to be careful now, very careful. “I guess I stood up too fast.”
“I think you really could use some of this.” She held the snifter until she was certain he had both hands on it. “Take it slow,” she began, but he’d already drained it. Sitting back on her heels, she frowned at him. “That should cure you or knock you out again.”
The brandy was the genuine article and no hallucination, he decided. It was velvet fire coursing down his throat. He closed his eyes and let the fire spread. “I’m still a little disoriented. How long have I been here?”
“Since last night.” The color was coming back, she noted. His voice sounded calmer, more controlled. It wasn’t until her muscles relaxed that she realized how tightly they’d been tensed. “I guess I saw you crash about midnight.”
“You saw it?”
“Well, I saw the lights and heard you hit.” She smiled, continuing to monitor his pulse, when he opened his eyes again. “For a minute I thought I was seeing a meteor or a UFO or something.”
“A—a UFO?” he repeated, dazed.
“Not that I believe in extraterrestrials or spaceships or anything, but my father’s always been fascinated by that kind of thing. I realized it was a plane.” He was staring at her again, she thought, but there was curiosity rather than anger in his eyes. “Feeling better?”
He couldn’t have begun to tell her how and what he was feeling. Cal had an idea that that was all for the best. He needed to think before he said too much. “Some.” Still hoping it was all some bizarre mistake, he rattled the paper in his hand. “Where’d you get this?”
“I drove into Brookings a couple of days ago. That’s about seventy miles from here. I picked up supplies and a few newspapers.” She glanced absently at the one in his hand. “I haven’t gotten around to reading any of them yet, so they’re already old news.”
“Yeah.” He looked at the papers that were still on the floor. “Old news.”
With a laugh, she rose and began to make an effort to tidy the room. “I always feel so cut off here, more so than when I’m in the field hundreds of miles away. I imagine we could establish a colony on Mars and I wouldn’t hear about it until it was all over.”
“A colony on Mars,” he murmured, feeling his stomach sink as he glanced at the paper again. “I think you’ve got about a hundred years to go.”
“Sorry I’ll miss it.” With a sigh, she looked out the window.
“Rain’s starting up again. Maybe we can catch the weather on the early news.
” After stepping over books, she flicked on a small portable television.
After a moment, a snowy picture blinked on.
She dragged a hand through her hair and decided to watch without her glasses.
“The weather should be on in a—Caleb?” She tilted her head to one side, fascinated by his dumbstruck expression.
“I’d swear you’d never seen a television in your life. ”
“What?” He brought himself back, wishing he had another brandy. A television. He’d heard of them, of course, in the same way Libby had heard of covered wagons. “I didn’t realize you had one.”
“We’re rustic,” she told him, “not primitive.” She narrowed her eyes when he gave a choked laugh. “Maybe you should lie down again.”
“Yeah.” And when he woke up again, this would all have been a dream. “Mind if I take these papers?”
She stood to help him up. “I don’t know if you should be reading.”
“I think that’s the least of my worries.
” He discovered that the room didn’t spin this time, but it was still a comfort to drape his arm around her shoulders.
Strong shoulders, he thought. And a soft scent.
“Libby, if I wake up and find out this has all been an illusion, I want you to know you’ve been the best part of it. ”
“That’s nice.”
“I mean it.” The brandy and his own weakened system were taking over.
Because his mind felt as if it had been fried in a solar blast, he didn’t fight it.
She had little trouble easing him into bed.
But his arm stayed around her shoulders long enough to keep her close, just close enough to brush his lips over hers. “The very best.”
She jerked back like a spring. He was asleep, and her blood was pounding.
***
Who was Caleb Hornblower? The question interrupted Libby’s work throughout the evening. Her interest in the Kolbari Islanders didn’t even come close to her growing fascination with her unexpected and confusing guest.
Who was he, and what was she going to do about him?
The trouble was, she had a whole list of unanswered questions that applied to her odd patient, Caleb Hornblower.
Libby was a great listmaker, and a woman who knew herself well enough to be aware that all her organizational talents were eaten up by her work.
Who was he? Why had he been flying through a storm at midnight? Where did he come from and where had he been going? Why had a simple paperback novel sent him into a panic? Why had he kissed her?
Libby pulled herself up short there. That particular question wasn’t important—it wasn’t even relevant.
He hadn’t really kissed her, she reminded herself.
And whether he had or hadn’t wasn’t the issue.
It was gratitude, she decided, and began to nibble on her thumbnail.
He’d only been trying to show her that he was grateful to her.
Libby certainly understood that a kiss was—could be—a very casual gesture.
It was part of Western culture. Over the centuries it had become as unimportant as a smile or a handshake.
It was a sign of friendship, affection, sympathy, gratitude.
And desire. She bit down harder on her nail.
Not all societies used the kiss, of course. Many tribal cultures . . . She was lecturing again, Libby thought in disgust. She looked down at her hands. And she was biting her nails. That was a bad sign.
What she needed was to get her mind off Hornblower for a while and fill her stomach. Pressing a hand to it, Libby rose. She wasn’t going to get any work done this way, so she might as well eat.
Since Caleb’s room was dark, she passed it by, telling herself she’d check on him when she came back up. Sleep was undoubtedly more essential to his recovery than another meal.
There was a low rumble of thunder as she descended the stairs. Another bad sign, she thought. At this rate it would be days before she could get him down the mountain.
Perhaps someone was already looking for him. Friends, family, business associates. A wife or a lover. Everyone had someone.
She groped for the kitchen light as the sky cracked with the first bolt of lightning.
It was going to be another boomer, she decided as she opened the refrigerator door.
Finding nothing that appealed to her, she rummaged through the cupboards.
A night like this called for a nice bowl of soup and a seat by the fire.
Alone.