A Little Time In Texas. Joan Johnston
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me against that rock.”
“Look, maybe I’d better get you to a doctor.”
“I don’t need a doctor,” Angel insisted. “You do.”
“Yeah, well, maybe—”
Dallas had been urging Angel forward beyond the hills that framed the cave opening. As the terrain leveled, she stopped dead at the sight of something extraordinary in front of her. “What’s that?”
“What?”
She pointed. “That thing. What is it?”
Dallas looked worried. “Look, maybe you bumped your head in there worse than you thought.” He reached out to the small lump on her forehead.
“No. I’m fine,” she insisted. “It’s just a scratch.” She stared at him expectantly, then looked over at the strange black object.
“You really don’t know what that is?”
“No. I really don’t. Do you?”
“It’s my pickup truck.”
“So? What is it?”
Dallas stepped away and looked long and hard at her. “If this is some kind of joke, it isn’t funny.”
“Why would I joke about something like this?” she demanded.
“Where have you been living? This is the twentieth century. Everyone knows—”
She grabbed his arm so tight her nails dug into his flesh. “Did you say the twentieth century?”
“Yes. So?”
Angel swallowed hard. “That isn’t possible.”
“Why not?”
“Because it’s 1864.”
This time it was Dallas’s turn to stare. “It’s 1992.”
Angel shook her head in denial. “You’re wrong. When you dragged me into that cave, it was October 3, 1864,” she insisted.
“When I stepped in from this side, it was April 14, 1992,” Dallas countered.
Angel’s eyes went wide as she backed away from him. “How could that be?”
“I don’t know,” Dallas said. His lips flattened into a thin line. “But if what you’re saying is the truth—” he paused, and it was clear he wasn’t sure whether to believe her or not “—there’s sure as hell no going back the way you came. If you are from the past, it looks to me like you’re trapped here with me—in the future.”
Angel felt the sunlight dimming around her, forming a single tunnel of darkness. It sucked her down, like a whirlpool, and she felt herself surely, inexorably sliding into it.
2
Dallas had faced a loaded gun with calm, but when Angel fainted, he panicked. Somehow, in the time they had spent together in the cave, she had touched some inner part of him that had been held inviolate since his youth. When he saw her collapsing, it was as though something dear to him, something necessary to his very existence, was threatened. Adrenaline flowed, and with superhuman effort he leapt forward and caught her before she hit the ground. Unsure what had caused her to lose consciousness, terrified that she had hurt her head far worse than either of them had suspected, he lifted the slight weight of her limp body into his arms and held her close.
“Angel?”
As he stood staring down at her, he realized that he was in serious danger of stepping over some invisible boundary. He felt the threat. And the temptation.
He fought his inclination to succumb and managed to bring himself back to a more objective state of mind. She was just another victim he had rescued from the forces of evil, nothing more and nothing less. She meant nothing to him. No woman did. No woman ever would.
Still, he couldn’t shake his concern when she didn’t immediately regain consciousness. He quickly carried her to his pickup, and after one-handedly arranging a blanket, he lowered her onto the back seat of the extended cab of the truck. He smoothed the hair off her forehead, exposing a bruise.
When you dragged me into the cave it was 1864.
Either she was the best liar he’d ever met, or she’d hurt herself worse then either of them knew. It was impossible to think she had somehow crossed over a threshold from the past. Wasn’t it?
Right now he had to get her to a doctor as quickly as possible. As he slid behind the wheel and headed the pickup toward San Antonio, he realized he was in something of a dilemma. No doctor was going to believe Angel if she told him she was from the past. Most likely she’d end up committed to some mental institution. And if the doctor did believe her? She’d end up under a microscope in some top-secret government laboratory.
The possibility that Angel had come from the past seemed slight to nonexistent. The only thing in her favor was the quaint language she used. It had been in evidence long before there had been any discussion of where—or when—she had come from.
Unfortunately the cowboys who had surrounded Angel hadn’t looked much different from cowboys today. It was unusual that they’d been on horseback, but not entirely unlikely even in this day and age. Dallas tried to remember distinguishing features about the men who had held Angel at bay. It was hard because once he had caught sight of Angel, he hadn’t been able to drag his eyes off her.
Then he realized that there had been an usual yellow stripe down the outside seam of two of the men’s trousers. Gray trousers. Confederate trousers? His memory must be playing tricks on him. He realized that he wanted to believe her, because he didn’t want to contemplate the fact that she was really hurt or crazy.
It was too bad Angel had lost the rucksack he had seen her set down outside the cave. Maybe there would have been something in it either to prove or disprove her claim. Dallas hadn’t thought to check the pockets of her trousers, but he would have her do that—or do it himself—as soon as he got her home.
Home.
Dallas shoved a hand through his hair in agitation. Where had the idea come from to take her home with him instead of directly to San Antonio? He had no business even considering it. He made the turn to take him west to his ranch on the Frio River outside Uvalde, even as he told himself it was a dumb thing to do.
“Where am I?”
Dallas looked over his shoulder and felt relieved to see Angel sitting up.
“You’re in the back of my pickup—my truck,” he explained when she looked confused.
She winced as her fingertips found the wound on her forehead. “I wasn’t dreaming?”
He shook his head ruefully. “I’m afraid not, Angel.”
Angel’s attention had been focused on the man; now it shifted to her surroundings. Her jaw dropped in amazement. She swallowed hard and said, “We’re moving awfully fast.”
“No more than sixty miles an hour.”
“That isn’t possible! What’s making this…truck…go?”
“Nowadays the horses are under the hood,” Dallas said with a wry smile. He caught a glimpse of Angel’s horrified expression in the mirror. This was no time for an explanation of the internal combustion engine, so he said, “A mechanical contraption inside the front of the truck makes it go.”
Angel waved a hand at all the dials and knobs in front of him. “What do all those buttons do?”
Dallas punched a knob and a country and western tune started playing. “Radio,” he said.
Fascinated, Angel asked, “How does it work?”
“Don’t ask me,” Dallas said, shaking his head. “I don’t understand the innards of most of the modern