Back to Tomorrow Read online

  Back to Tomorrow

  by

  Gwynn Morgan

  NovelBooks, Inc.

  Douglas, Massachusetts

  This is a work of fiction. While reference may be made to actual historical events or existing locations, the characters, incidents, and dialogs are products of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright (c) 2003 by Gaye Walton

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and review. For information, address NovelBooks, Inc., P.O. Box 661, Douglas, MA 01516 or email [email protected]

  NBI

  Published by

  NovelBooks, Inc.

  P.O. Box 661

  Douglas, MA 01516

  NovelBooks Inc. publishes books online and in trade paperback. For more information, check our website: www.novelbooksinc.com or email [email protected]

  Produced in the United States of America.

  Cover illustration by Linnea Sinclair

  Edited by Courtney Mroch

  ISBN 1-59105-067-7 for electronic version

  ISBN 1-59105-092-8 for trade paperback

  Special thanks to my 'critters' Sue Ellen, Margot and Karin who provided wonderful feedback and suggestions as this book was being written.

  This book is dedicated as always to my partner and soul-mate, Seumas an Arth,

  to special friends who also believe that "anything" is possible,

  and to the memory of Nellie Cashman

  who was a very real and wonderful part of Tombstone's history.

  PROLOGUE

  October 10, 1999

  Briar Vale, New Hampshire

  "Damn you, Rich, how could you do this to me? Oh, I could just kill you..." The ludicrous threat to kill someone already much too dead stopped Emily's whispered soliloquy, but it didn't stop her rage. She fought an uncharacteristic urge to smash her fist through the rain-streaked window. Where did all this violence come from? It wasn't like her at all.

  The dismal landscape outside perfectly echoed her mood-sullen as the low-hanging clouds, dreary as the gray, sunless day. Although the counselors at the bereavement center told her that her anger was perfectly normal and natural, she could not reconcile herself with her feelings.

  Rich hadn't asked to die. He hadn't planned the horrible accident on the German autobahn that had ended his trip home to the States for their wedding. He was the one who was dead, and she'd loved him. Why should she be angry with him for something over which he'd no control? But she was.

  She should be in Jamaica today on her honeymoon, not here in New Hampshire watching the cold autumn rain. She shouldn't blame Rich, but she did. He hadn't quit his job in preparation for moving to Germany, hadn't canceled the lease on an apartment that would have to be vacated in three days, hadn't turned his life inside out only to be left with nothing.

  She was the one with the great hole in her world where love and plans had been. It felt so damned unfair. What was she going to do with the rest of her life? If this was the first day of it, she didn't see anything to offer encouragement. She almost wished she were dead too. How could the future hold anything but endless bleak days, each one exactly like the previous day, stretching into infinity?

  Growing up as a military brat, she'd always had trouble making new friends each time the family moved. Still, she'd managed to entertain herself with books and daydreams, not really minding a rather solitary existence. Although she had spent much time alone, never before had she felt so lonely. Too many new dreams had died along with Richard Crandall, her Air Force officer fiancé. How could she dare to dream again?

  CHAPTER ONE

  April 24, 2000

  Hardwick, Vermont

  "The postman just came, Em. Run out and see what we have today, would you? I can't leave off stirring this fudge yet."

  Aunt Faith's cheerful voice cut through Emily's gloomy thoughts. Leaving the window, which looked out into the rainy afternoon, she moved to obey. Her heart wasn't in the small task, nor in anything she could imagine doing. Pausing on the back porch to tug on overshoes and a mackinaw, Emily grabbed an old umbrella and forged out toward the mailbox that stood beside the highway some fifty yards from the house. Driven by a biting wind, icy raindrops stung her cheeks, as if nature wept with her. Six months, and so little has changed. It almost feels as if time is standing still.

  Although most of the mail seemed to be addressed to Faith Dennison's business, Maple Leaf Confections, the last item, a thick brown envelope, bore Emily's name. Moisture smudged the return address, but the handwriting looked like that of her friend, Carol Hodges.

  Emily hurried back to the house, curiosity over what she had received temporarily overcoming her depression. Almost anything would be welcome if it took her thoughts away from the ache of loss and the pressing issue of what she should do with the rest of her life.

  She'd come here to Aunt Faith's last fall after leaving New Hampshire, stayed to help with the rush of business prior to the holidays, and somehow had not managed to move on. She kept delaying just one more day, unable to find a new direction for her life.

  Carol was now nearly seven months pregnant -as Emily herself might have been, had the planned wedding taken place last October. They were still best friends, four years past their two-year stint as roommates and their college graduation. Carol had sympathized with Emily's loss through several long phone calls, but that offered no clue as to what she might have sent.

  While Faith went through her mail, Emily carefully pulled the heavy tape off the flap to unseal the envelope. She upended it, gave the envelope a slight shake. A single sheet of paper filled with Carol's scrawling handwriting and a small, leather bound book slipped out into her waiting hand. Emily quickly scanned the scribbled lines, the erratic sizes and shapes of the letters reflecting Carol's volatile personality.

  "Tom and I found this fabulous old trunk in Tombstone which we thought would make a wonderful toy box for Junior. In the process of cleaning it up, we discovered this little book in one corner. Remembering how you love old tomes, I decided to send it to you right now. Maybe reading will while away some otherwise dreary hours.

  Please think about coming out to Fort Huachuca for a visit. Spring in Arizona is lovely and I'd so enjoy your company while I wait the last few weeks before this rowdy child makes his appearance. All I can do now is sit and talk, but then, I was always good at that, wasn't I?"

  Emily smiled, recalling their many late-night conversations, sometimes one or both falling asleep in mid-word, too drowsy to go on. She could use a dose of her bubbly friend's enthusiasm now. Maybe she'd accept the invitation.

  She turned her attention to the little book. Holding it gently, she absorbed the aura of age, let her senses appreciate its special value. The soft binding of red leather was cracked and worn, marred in spots by traces of mildew, but basically still intact. The book exuded a musty scent, which she found vaguely comforting. Old books had always fascinated her. The odor brought to mind only pleasant memories.

  As she held it, the book fell open to reveal hand-scribed lines, the ink faded to a sepia tone but still clear. The writer had a neat, elegant hand, the delicate copperplate penmanship of a bygone era.

  "April 24, 1889. Arrived in Tombstone. To actually see a place of such notoriety triggers a thousand fantasies. I can scarcely wait to begin my explorations, although my primary purpose in coming here must take precedence. The place is not wholly as I expected, being both more rustic and more cosmopolitan. The country around is stark and empty, miles of ragged, pal
e hills and scraggly bushes too small to be counted as trees. One wonders how anything can live in such an inhospitable environment, but local people assure me the desert teems with life. Other than some birds and a few lizards however, I have seen little so far."

  For a moment the book, the cozy room, and all else faded. In its place, the described landscape appeared, vivid in every detail. The harsh glare of mid-day sun burned Emily's skin and made her squint. She wrinkled her nose at the sulfurous dust on the creosote-scented breeze, which carried the muffled sound of distant gunshots.

  Afterwards Emily decided she must have seen a postcard or a photograph, perhaps something Carol had sent when she and her husband first arrived at Fort Huachuca. The fort was only twenty some miles from Tombstone. No other way could she explain the curious vision, hallucination, or whatever it was. When she came out of the odd trance, her aunt was peering at her with an expression of concern.

  "Em? Are you all right, dear? You looked so peculiar for a moment. You haven't received more bad news, have you?"

  "Oh no, nothing like that. It's a note from Carol, my old roomie, you remember? She and her husband bought an antique trunk in Tombstone to make a toy box for the baby. They found this diary or journal in it, which she's sent to me."

  Still feeling slightly dizzy and displaced, Emily shook her head. This was the strangest sensation she'd ever experienced. She snapped the book closed, deciding not to look at it any more until later. A curious paradox of wishes warred inside her. She wanted to put the small tome away and never see it again but also to sit down at once and read straight through.

  Since her aunt still looked worried, Emily continued. "Carol invited me out to visit. Her baby's due in June, and she sounds as if she's running out of patience. Her doctor has prescribed rest, staying off her feet as much as possible until she gives birth. I expect that's a real trial for her. She's always so full of energy and activity."

  Faith set her mail aside and resumed her work. "Why don't you? It would be a nice change of scenery and a break before you decide what to do next. I know life is dreary here right now, and that can't help pull you out of your grief."

  Although Faith seemed to address her remarks to the bowl of fudge she spread onto a baking sheet to harden for cutting, Emily heard the sincere concern in her aunt's words. Inhaling deeply to absorb the rich, sweet scent of the warm candy, Emily hoped the aroma would dispel the lingering sting of acrid desert air.

  Belated, Emily remembered to reply. "Perhaps I will. There isn't much more I can do here to help out, really. In all honesty, you have everything down to a gnat's eyebrow. Except for doing the books, when I try to help, I only wind up being in the way."

  "It's an old lady's habit, Em. I'm too used to working alone to adjust now. Not that I don't enjoy your company, but life's too slow and quiet here for you. You're used to the bustle of a college town, your library, friends around, and young folks. Twenty six is far too young to settle into an old maid's quiet routine."

  This time Faith's keen gaze sought Emily's, as if demanding her attention. "You really ought to go. Call your friend tonight and start making plans."

  ~*~

  Late that evening, after placing the call to Carol, Emily bade her aunt good night and climbed the steep stairs to the loft bedroom she'd been using. She snuggled under the fluffy comforter on the old-fashioned sleigh bed and settled a pair of plump down pillows behind her back. The aroma of lavender drifted up from the linens when she moved, while the refitted hurricane lamp on the nightstand cast a gentle glow over the bed. Its light softly illuminated the small, slant-ceilinged room.

  The nightstand also held the little red book. Emily almost feared to take up the journal again but she couldn't resist. This time she opened the cover to the flyleaf and read the inscription there. "Property of Zachary Tremaine, Philadelphia, Pennsylvania. Journal of my trip to Arizona Territory, begun April 1, 1889."

  With a fingertip, Emily traced the flowing letters, lingering over the name, scribed a bit more boldly than the rest. Zachary Tremaine. It had a nice sound, a masculine, comfortable yet old-fashioned ring to it. What did he look like, this Zachary Tremaine?

  She doubted he'd describe himself in his own journal, but she felt an unexpectedly sharp wish to see him, just one time. She needed to know whether his eyes were brown, hazel or blue, whether his hair was dark or fair and whether he was tall or short, handsome or homely.

  If I were psychic, maybe I could key on this book and bring his image into view. The sudden wry thought brought a fleeting smile. Normally she scoffed at such notions as nonsense, but at the moment it seemed not only desirable but even possible.

  Emily placed her right hand flat over the inscription and let her eyelids drift shut. Zachary Tremaine, let me see you. Nothing happened. Of course. She hadn't really expected a sudden vision, had she? Opening her eyes, Emily turned back to the page to which the book seemed to fall open and began to read. She picked up where she'd left off before.

  "As I scrambled down from the Butterfield coach, I immediately sank ankle-deep in floury, pale dust. Arizona is a phenomenally dusty place. The sharp alkaline scent triggered an urge to sneeze. But with this wonderful panorama surrounding me, who cares for the dust? Tombstone, Arizona Territory-I'm really here! Even Ned Buntline's stories hardly equal the reality. After having experienced Tombstone, surely I will be able to scribe such tales myself.

  Each graying clapboard building along the boardwalk calls to me to explore its depths. The graveyard that the stage passed coming into town similarly lures. However, before I can succumb to the siren song of curiosity, I have promises to keep.

  Somewhere in or near this town, I'm told, Mary Ann lives in a tumbledown shanty, virtual prisoner of a scalawag gambler who goes by the name of Joker Jake McEuen. I swore to Mamma that I'd find her, rescue her and get her safely home, whatever it takes to accomplish that goal. I'd rather die than break my promise. Mamma has endured more than enough grief in her lifetime. She doesn't need this added burden."

  The homey, old-fashioned bedroom faded. Emily stood in the dusty street, watching as a tall, slender young man stooped to collect the worn valise the stage driver handed down from the boot. Stepping onto the planked walkway, he followed it past a shop or two and several saloons to a door overhung by a sign which read "Rooms-Clean and Economical."

  At the door, he paused, turned, and looked up and down the street. He was tall, at least eight inches above Emily's five foot three. His mahogany-dark hair curled down against the celluloid collar of his pale blue shirt, which lent a blue tint to his gray eyes. He had nice even features, just ordinary enough not to be too handsome, but the laugh lines at the corners of his mouth and eyes indicated good humor. Above his mouth, a neatly trimmed moustache curled, its color matching his hair. His shoulders were comfortably wide while the rest of him seemed slim, and he moved with a quick, light agility.

  As the image faded, Emily expelled a shaky breath. Wow. Was that for real or only an illusion built on her imaginative wishes? If the vision actually were Zachary Tremaine, he truly fit the image Carol would call "a hunk."

  Turning back to the journal, Emily continued to read, slipping into a scene that seemed as vivid as any movie or television program. She could feel Zachary's excitement, absorbing the vibrant energy of the brawling mining camp. The white dust stung her nose. The glaring sun made her squint. Stamping hooves, jingling harnesses, and hurrying footsteps along the boardwalk all rang in her ears.

  The "rooms" sign hung over the double front doors of a two story structure which appeared sturdier and better-kept than the average Tombstone edifice. In the windows fronting the street, clean, lacy curtains lent the place a genteel home-like air. Entering the parlor-lobby, Zachary rented a room for a week. A young Mexican girl led him to a second story chamber at the front corner of the building, overlooking the two main streets. Though small, it was clean and airy, furnished with a double bed and a chest of drawers topped by a lace-edged runner and a b
asin and ewer. A small desk and matching straight chair stood in one corner.

  He crossed the room to look out of the corner windows, nodding in satisfaction. Sitting at either of those windows, he'd have a grandstand seat on all that transpired below. He tossed his valise into a corner. After swiping the dust off his face, he sauntered back downstairs and out into the midday sun.

  Even this early in the year, it had a heat and brilliance no eastern resident had ever experienced. A brisk wind blew out of the west, carrying the scent of a nearby stable along with wilder odors that he could not identify from beyond the town.

  On the street corner beneath his room, Zach paused to watch a troop of Cavalry canter by. Clad in dusty blue uniforms, the men rode nearly identical tall bays. Men and horses alike bore sweat stains and trail dust attesting to hard travel. Someone on the stage had said they were still chasing renegade Apaches out in the Dragoon Mountains, visible to the east as a ragged heap of pinkish boulders.

  Although she wasn't quite in the stranger's head, Emily could almost sense his thoughts, as if bits of his memories and ideas were trickling across to mingle with her own. A chill washed over her, half fear and half eagerness. She continued to read, only she wasn't actually reading...More and more, she merged into the stranger's mind, losing herself in his visions.

  Even before the troopers' dust settled, Zach forged on across the street. Where would be the most likely place to encounter Joker Jake? Probably one of the saloons. A twinge of unease crossed his mind as he approached the swinging doors to the Crystal Palace.

  Two decades of listening to his preacher-father's sermons on the evils of demon rum could not be totally erased in a few years as a man-about-town. Though he had been in others, a saloon still seemed a den of inequity, and even though he knew the real world now, old habits died hard. Squaring his shoulders, he pushed the twinge aside with the doors as he entered.