Rendezvous With Yesterday

Excerpt

Bethany Bennett and her brother Josh are bounty hunters in modern day Houston, Texas. While pursuing two bail skippers in the forests outside of Houston, Bethany and Josh are both wounded (Josh severely, Beth mortally). A dark figure crouches over her just before she loses consciousness, then she awakens in the scene below.

Something tickled her face. Reaching up to brush it away, Beth encountered a strand of her own hair dancing on the surprisingly cool breeze that wafted over her. Yawning, she tucked it behind her ear, then drew her hands above her head in a stretch, twisting first one way, then the other. A dull pain traveled from her back to her shoulder, making her wince.

Memory returned in a flash.

Beth bolted upright.

Looking down, she stared in dread at the red stain that covered most of her shirt and pants down to the knees.

She had been shot. Twice.

She frowned. But, other than a slight stiffness in her back and shoulder, she felt fine.

Parting her shirt, she examined her vest. Yes, there was the substantial hole the bullet had carved when it had exited her chest. And the smaller one that had entered her shoulder. Reaching around behind her, she found a second set of entry and exit holes.

But she felt fine.

Unfastening the velcro tabs on the vest, she opened it and dragged up the sticky tank top she wore beneath.

Aside from the blood, the only sign that a wound had ever marred her skin was a pale, barely visible . . . scar?

Confused, she pulled the top down and sat unseeing for several seconds. Her frown deepening, she yanked the tank top back up to double-check, then let it fall again and, for the first time, noticed her surroundings.

The forest in which she had been shot appeared to have vanished, as had the St. Louis Encephalitis and West Nile Virus carrying mosquitoes.

Dense, dark pockets of trees surrounded her, all beneath them a lush, beautiful green.

“What the hell?”

It was wrong. It was all wrong.

Texas was in the middle of a severe drought. The only place one could find lush green anything rested at the heart of an urban sprinkler system . . . and that was only if the water restrictions had been lifted. The healthy grass before her should be brown and brittle, a major fire hazard.

Come to think of it, there hadn't been any grass in the forest where she had died.

Well, almost died.

Had she died?

The trees differed, too. And the sky. The sky was supposed to be dominated by the harsh, blinding light of a summer sun, not completely hidden by a blanket of soft gray clouds. The temperature should be topping a hundred degrees, not pleasantly cool, bordering on cold, and lacking the usual cloying humidity.

Where was she? How did she get there?

She gasped suddenly.

Where was Josh?

Beth quickly refastened her vest and rose, staggering slightly as dizziness assailed her. Okay, so she was a little weak. That still didn’t explain how her bullet wounds had disappeared or healed or . . . changed into scars or whatever. It just confirmed that she hadn’t dreamed it all.

Picking up the Glock 9mm that lay conveniently by her side (actually, all of her belongings lay conveniently by her side, even her backpack), she ejected the empty clip and replaced it with a full one from her pocket, advancing the first bullet into the chamber.

“Josh?” she called hesitantly, looking all around her.

No answer came.

Backing away, she turned toward a stand of trees several yards distant.

“Josh?”

Somewhere a bird stopped twittering.

“Josh, where are you?” she yelled, feeling increasingly more frantic. “Josh!”

The forest beckoned. Turning this way and that, she started toward it, sometimes walking forward, sometimes backward, searching for some sign, any sign, of her brother.

Why did everything look so unfamiliar to her? Had she gotten lost in the forest? That forest? The one in front of her? Maybe she had succumbed to delirium after she had passed out and stumbled away from her brother, through the woods, to . . . wherever she was now.

Grasping that small shred of hope, she took off into the trees, racing through them as fast as she could, praying she would zip past a tree trunk any minute and run smack into Josh’s chest.

“Josh, where are you?”

Her initial burst of energy began to dwindle. “Josh!” Her voice grew increasingly hoarse and fearful. “Josh!”

She didn’t know how long she ran, tripping over fallen branches, crashing through shrubs and ferns and vines, always calling his name, before she saw light up ahead.

Another clearing? The clearing?

Hope reviving, breathing hard, she stumbled out of the trees and skidded to an astonished halt. Four men on horseback stared down at her with equally stunned expressions as they pulled back on the reins to keep their mounts from plowing into her

Falling back a step, Beth raised the 9mm and gripped it with both hands, aiming first at one man, then the next, not knowing upon whom to settle. “Where is he?” she gasped, so out of breath she could barely speak.

Three of the men looked to the one in the center -- their leader, she supposed -- so she transferred her aim to him. “Where’s . . .” Her voice trailed away as she got a good look at them. “. . . Josh?” she finished weakly.

Lowering the gun, Beth gaped.

They created quite a picture, lined up before her, side by side on impressively large horses with gleaming coats. Every single one of the men was incredibly attractive, especially the leader, with broad shoulders and muscled bodies that must surely be a challenge for the horses to carry. But more startling than that was the fact that all four men wore what appeared to be chain mail, with astoundingly long broadswords strapped to their trim waists, and looked as if they had just ridden off the pages of a medieval history book.

Or a movie set.

Shoving her gun into her shoulder holster, she eagerly moved forward. “Hey, are you guys actors? Is there a set nearby? Does it have security? HPD? Because--”

The one on the far left indignantly barked something she couldn’t make out. The oldest of the four, he boasted rich brown hair that was graying at the temples. “You think us mummers? We are not mummers!”

“Aye,” the redhead on the right added with a scowl. “Can you not see we are knights.”

They spoke English, but it was so bizarre and garbled that she could barely understand them.

“Knights?” Beth parroted. “Oh, wait! I get it! You’re one of those reenactment groups, right?” Middle English! That’s what they were speaking! No wonder it sounded so weird. Thank goodness her mother had made her read Chaucer aloud in Middle English or she wouldn’t have understood them. “Where are the rest of you?”

“There are only the four of us,” the leader responded shortly, eyebrows colliding as his gaze traveled over her. He had shoulder-length wavy black hair and bright blue eyes that seemed almost to glow in comparison to his bronze skin. “Are you in--”

“No, I mean where is the rest of the reenactment troupe? Do you have a club around here or something? Is there a paramedic there?”

“I know not what a reenactment troupe is, nor a paramedic for that matter. I am Lord Robert of Fosterly--”

“Look,” Beth gritted, raw nerves and fear for Josh’s safety rapidly eroding her patience as she regained her breath, “now is not the time to be stubborn, okay? I realize you guys are supposed to stay in character, but this is an emergency. How far are we from . . . wherever it is you meet with everyone?”

“If you mean Fosterly,” he said slowly in his remarkably authentic accent, “’tis almost a day’s ride from here.”

Yeah, right. So was Florida.

Her fists clenched. “Damn it! This is serious! Quit foolin’ around!”

The fourth man -- blondish-brown hair and chiseled jaw -- bristled. “’Tis the Earl of Fosterly you address, girl. ‘Twould be wise to--”

“Michael,” the leader interrupted softly. “She is injured and likely out of her head with fever.”

“I am not out of my head. I’m just trying to get some straight answers from you!”

“And I have given you them.”

Beth paused, futilely attempting to calm herself. “Okay. I don’t know what game it is you’re playing, but let’s put it on hold for a minute and just take a step back. I am standing here, covered in blood, asking for your help.” Plucking her sticky shirt away from her body, she fanned it a few times. “This isn’t fake, okay? This isn’t studio blood. It isn’t caro syrup mixed with food coloring and whatever else it is you guys use in your little fake tournaments and reenactment wars. It’s human blood. It’s my blood. And Josh is still out there somewhere” -- she motioned wildly to the forest around them -- “either bleeding to death or killing himself trying to find me. And that’s if the damned criminals we were hunting down didn’t have any friends. I passed out right after the second one went down.”

As one, the men drew their swords, startling her into jumping back.

“You were attacked by criminals in this forest?” the leader demanded.

“Yes. No, I . . .” She took a deep breath. “Josh and I are bounty hunters. We were down here looking for those two guys who were charged with the south side rapes. You know who I’m talking about: Kingsley and Vergoma. It’s been all over the news. But something went wrong and . . . Well, to make a long story short: They shot me, then shot Josh and--”

“With arrows?” the man with the graying temples interrupted.

“What?”

“You said they shot you. Do you mean with arrows?”

“With bullets, Einstein.”

“I am Sir Stephen, not--”

“I don’t care what your friggin’ name is!” she shouted, losing it completely. “I told you this is an emergency and all you seem willing to do is sit up there and pretend we’re in friggin’ medieval England or something while Josh could be dying!”

Robert stared at the woman in silence whilst she proceeded to rant and rave, furious with them. She seemed to think they were toying with her in some way; but they had done naught but try to understand and help her.

She was obviously gravely wounded. Possibly nigh death.

Despite her assurances otherwise, the woman must truly be out of her head. Many of the words and phrases she used were unfamiliar to him. All but the most colorful, that is, and those were increasing in frequency as her agitation magnified.

It was not just her language and accent that seemed odd, though. Her appearance confounded him as well. She was garbed in pale blue breeches and a strange, darker blue tunic that parted down the middle, revealing an even shorter black tunic beneath it. Odd brown boots encased her small, almost child-like feet. An empty leather pouch of some sort hung from a belt at her waist. A similar pouch dangled beneath her left arm. That one contained the weapon (at least, he assumed it was a weapon) that she had initially pointed at them, believing them a threat. Strapped to her slender thigh was a large knife unlike any he had ever seen.

Her brown hair was pulled back into a long, disheveled braid, her face blotchy with dirt parted by clean streaks carved by tears. Blood coated her chin and cheeks, either coughed up or vomited he guessed from his experience on the battlefield. And most of her clothing was completely saturated with the crimson liquid.

What injuries had she sustained? Who had done this to her?

His fists clenched. And on his land?

Dismounting, he motioned to the others to follow suit.

Her words halted. Her expression lit with inspiration. “Hey, do any of you have a cell fone?”

He frowned. A cell fone? What was a cell fone?

“A what?” Michael asked beside him.

“A cell fone. I promise I’ll reimburse you if you’ll let me use it.”

All four regarded her blankly.

“None of you have one?” she asked incredulously. “Wait! I have one in my backpack. Josh makes me carry it for emergencies.”

Spinning around, the woman took off running back the way she had come.

Well, not running exactly. ‘Twas more of a stumbling jog.

“Michael.”

Michael easily caught up with her and took her by the arm, drawing her to a halt.

Robert applied himself to retrieving the bag of healing herbs tied to his saddle. Alyssa had prepared it for him and insisted he carry it with him at all times. He only hoped it would be enough to save the woman.

The sounds of a scuffle broke out behind him.

Frowning, Robert turned in time to see Michael knock that strange weapon from her hand. Undeterred, she brought her heel down on his boot, then slammed the base of her palm up into his nose.

“Hold her still, Michael,” Stephen barked as Adam started forward. “If she continues to struggle, she will be dead ere Robert even touches her.”

The woman stilled, her face blanching.

Pouch in hand, Robert slowly approached them.

She was as pale as winter snow now. Her eyes, glazed with fear, flitted from one to the other, then locked on him.

His stomach clenched at the desolation he saw there.

“She trembles,” Michael murmured, wiping a smear of blood from beneath his nose.

“I just want to find Josh,” she said in a small, choked voice.

“You will,” Robert assured her, taking another step forward. “We will. But we must see to your wounds first.” So saying, he held up his pouch.

She studied it. “What is that?”

“Herbs,” he said simply.

“You mean like . . . medicinal herbs?”

“Aye. ‘Twill stop the bleeding and speed the healing of your injuries, whatever they may be.”

“I’m not injured.”

“You said you had been” -- how had she phrased it? -- “shot.”

She said naught, only watched him uneasily.

“If you vow you will not flee, Michael will release you and I will tend your wounds.”

“There are no wounds.”

“Do I have your word you will not flee?”

She bit her lip, looking so lost and vulnerable that, for a moment, he wanted to sweep her into his arms and hold her until she felt safe again.

“All right. I promise I won’t run.”

“Release her, Michael.”

As soon as she was free, she sidled away from his friend and rubbed her arm.

Michael’s brow furrowed. “Forgive me if I held you too tightly. ‘Twas not my intent to harm you.”

She made no response, merely surveyed them all distrustfully.

Robert took another hesitant step toward her. “If you will show me where you are injured, I shall do what I can to--”

“I’m not wounded,” she interrupted with a quick, nervous glance at the others.

“There is no point in lying when all here can see--”

“I’m not lying.”

Robert sighed. She had no color to speak of and swayed where she stood. “You are covered in blood.”

Her chin dropped to her chest. Frowning, she dragged one hand down the front of her tunic as though just recalling its condition. “It isn’t mine.”

“You have already admitted otherwise.”

She eyed him uncertainly.

Did she not remember? Considering the excessive amount of blood that streaked her face and saturated most of her clothing, he wondered if the trauma she had suffered truly had damaged her mind.

If so, he could afford to waste no more time. “Enough foolishness,” he said, his tone harsh enough, he hoped, to ensure that she would speak the truth this time. “Answer me truly. Where did the blood originate?”

She bit her lower lip. “My wounds.”

Opening his drawstring bag, Robert closed the distance between them. It pleased him mightily that she did not flinch away from him. “Show them to me.”

“I can’t. They’re gone.”

He paused. “What?”

Eyes firmly focused on his face, she nervously licked her lips. “They’re . . . they’re gone. My wounds are gone. They disappeared.”

Robert dropped his gaze to her clothing. “You lie.”

“I know how it sounds,” she said miserably. “But it’s true.”

If proof to the contrary were not all over her clothing and skin, he might believe her.

“Remove your tunic.”

“But--”

“Please. I wish only to help you.”

A little crinkle formed in her brow, making her appear even more vulnerable. She was so small. The top of her head did not even reach his chin.

“Y-You guys are really on the up and up, right?”

He had no idea what that meant, but knew by the inflection in her voice that she hoped for confirmation. “Aye . . . You have not given us your name.”

“Bethany.”

“Aye, Mistress Bethany. We wish only to help you.”

A long moment passed after which she nodded warily. “Okay.”

Her tunic clung to her in sticky patches as she peeled it off with trembling fingers and dropped it to the ground. Beneath it, her slender arms were bare. There was a small patch of pale, pale skin visible on her right shoulder, skin that looked incredibly soft from where he stood. The rest, however, was varying shades of red, sticky with congealing blood.

Shrugging out of the strange leather pouch under her arm, she let it fall to the ground as well.

Another unfamiliar garment covered her torso. It was flat, black and had neither the strange round fastenings of her tunic nor the ties that graced his own garments. In sooth, he could not see how she had donned it, for it fit her too snugly to have been pulled over her head. Its surface, he noticed, was marred by two ragged holes: one in the shoulder and one in the chest, just beneath the place where her breasts would be if she had any.

He motioned briefly to Michael with his hand.

When Michael started to walk around behind her, the woman hastily took a step away, nearly tripping over her discarded tunic and the straps of her leather pouch.

Michael stopped and glanced at Robert.

The woman’s leery gaze darted from one to the other.

“I wished him to see if there were holes similar to those in the back,” Robert explained, not bothering to hide his concern. Three years ago his brother had almost died from injuries similar to these. He would have died, in fact, had Alyssa not healed him in time.

“There are,” she confirmed. “If he’ll stay back with the others, I’ll show you.”

Robert didn’t know why he should be so satisfied that, of the four of them, she had chosen to place her trust in him, but he was.

At his nod, Michael obligingly retreated.

Keeping one eye on the others, the woman slowly turned partially away so that Robert could see her back.

Adam, Stephen and Michael moved to stand behind him at a distance, where they would have a better view.

Mistress Bethany swiveled back to face them.

“Where are the arrows?” Robert asked whilst she stood, perusing them anxiously. “Did you remove them yourself?”

“Arrows?” The spark of anger that had illuminated her eyes earlier unexpectedly returned. “You mean bullets? I didn’t have to remove them.” She motioned impatiently to the holes. “I think it’s fairly obvious that they removed themselves.” Fingering the hole beneath her breasts, she scowled. “They must have used high-caliber rifles, or black talons -- those so-called cop-killer bullets -- because they went straight through my vest.”

“What are bullets?” Michael murmured.

Robert shook his head. He could only assume, due to her strange, foreign speech, that that was her word for arrows or quarrels. But the force it would have taken for them to go straight through her body and the damage they would have inflicted whilst doing so . . .

How could she possibly have survived?

“They entered you there?” he questioned, nodding to her front.

“The shoulder one did. The other one hit me in the back.”

His jaw clenched reflexively as his outrage grew. His men spat a slew of curses that did not come close to expressing the fury that heated his skin.

“Remove your vest.”

Obediently, she tucked her fingers under the edge of a rectangular cloth patch on one side of it and ripped it away. She did the same with another above it and two more on the opposite side.

The vest was sewn together?

It remained fairly stiff as she peeled it away from her body.

Robert’s breath left him in a rush as she dropped it to the ground.

One of his men gasped. Another swallowed audibly.

Beneath, she wore a gray tunic that was molded to her flesh by the blood she had lost. It had no sleeves. Only two narrow bands of material over her shoulders. The neckline dipped enticingly low and clung to her full breasts like a second skin. Breasts that had previously been undetectable beneath her vest. Without releasing its possessive hold, the tunic then shaped itself to her small ribcage and narrow waist before disappearing into her breeches.

She had a beautiful body.

The only thing that kept him from losing his train of thought entirely was the hole that had been shredded into the material just beneath those incredibly distracting breasts.

His gaze went to her shoulder, where a smaller hole appeared in the garment.

“It’s gone,” she spoke into the silence.

His eyes met hers. “Gone?”

“The wound. It’s gone.”

What did she mean it was gone? “The other one . . . ?”

Without further ado, she peeled her . . . tunic . . . away from her skin and dragged it up to just beneath her breasts.

The skin on her flat stomach was mottled with drying blood, but no wound appeared to mar it. She slid her hand across the place he would have expected one to be as though she could not quite believe it herself. “It’s gone, too.”

Robert stared. She seemed even more confused than they were.

“But there were wounds,” Michael persisted.

“Yes.” She bit her lip. “I-I know it sounds crazy, but it’s true.” Tugging her shirt down, she took a hesitant step toward Robert. “I was hit, okay? I felt the bullets go in. I-I-I went down and . . . I was lying there, choking on my own blood and . . .”

Forgetting her fear, she closed the distance between them, speaking in a voice that grew faster and more agitated as he listened.

“I think something happened to me after I blacked out because when I woke up everything was different. I-I wasn’t in the same clearing. My wounds were gone. Josh was gone and the men who shot us . . . I don’t know. I can’t remember.”

She stood so close to him now, her head tilted back as she stared up at him.

“Let me see your back,” he said softly.

“Why?”

“Ere we decide what did or did not happen, I want to be certain no wounds linger where you cannot see them.”

She took a moment to consider, then nodded. Turning, Mistress Bethany reached for the hem of her shirt and pulled it all the way up to her neck in back, her arms crossed over her breasts in the front.

Robert swallowed.

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