Wakening the Past: A Time Travel Romance (Medicine Stick Series Book 2) by Barbara Bartholomew Page B
Authors: Barbara Bartholomew
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Hudson, so I can tell you in person. We got word today from the state. They’ve confirmed that the bones found in the lake matched your family’s DNA. It seems very likely that the murdered woman was your mother’s sister.”
Serena’s face contorted with distress, but Hart quickly looked from her to Bobby. The girl gave a little cry, th an fell in a dead faint.
Alistair didn’t want to talk about anything weird. He was a practical man who believed in the reality around him and didn’t go in for spooks or spirits nor tales of either so he busied himself with starting a fire in the grill and beginning to cook hamburgers for supper. Certainly neither Serena or her granddaughter was in shape to drive on out to the lodge in the darkness and there was no other hostelry in the immediate area, so they were stuck with them as guests for the night.
Hart slipped a frozen blackberry cobbler into the oven to bake for dessert and put together a salad to go with the hamburgers.
Bobbi, seeming recovered from her fainting spell and unwilling to discuss the incident, ate two hamburgers, a pile of salad, and a large helping of cobbler with vanilla ice cream while her grandmother nibbled at her dinner. Having not taken time to eat all day, Alistair ate hungrily, but didn’t protest when the two women took over the dishes and cleanup, telling him he looked exhausted.
He found himself in the living room with the television on to a cable news network and only Bobbi for company. “You all right?” he asked gruffly.
She nodded, apparently intent on a news story that he was quite sure would have no interest for a girl her age.
So she was going to ignore him. His debt to civilized behavior to ward a guest in his home satisfied, he picked up the newspaper that had been published in Wichita today and read of the futile search of the junk shop, ending with the orange jump suit as the only bounty. Various townspeople were briefly interviewed to round out the story and expressed their fears that the escaped murderer offered a threat to the community.
The story of that long ago murder was repeated. Jeffers, a friend of the victim’s teenaged son had gone into an irrational rage and, in front of the younger son, had beaten the disabled older Maxwell to death. It had been a brutal killing and, in those days, little ground was given for the youth of the attacker. Nolan Jeffers, the only child of a widowed mother who died of grief after his incarceration, had pleaded his innocence, but nobody believed him. The testimony of the Maxwell child had been heart-breakingly convincing.
He supposed Hart had to know this latest happening, but he preferred to tell her himself and he wanted to spare her reading the cold hard facts of Jeffers’ original crime. She was fond of the old man. Crumpling the newspaper, he tossed it toward the fire and strode from the room.
He didn’t see that behind him, a frowning Bobbi took the iron poker and fished the newspaper from the ashes. The ebbing fire was only beginning to crisp the edges and she la id it on the stones in front of the fireplace and blew out the fire. Then, giving it a couple of minutes to cool, she began to read the story that Alistair had tried to obliterate.
Bobbi didn’t much like Alistair Redhawk; she didn’t know why. But if he was trying to keep a secret from Hart, then it was her job to know why.
For some reason, she felt protective toward Hart, kind of like she was a sister or something. She brushed the idea aside, vaguely uncomfortable with the notion. This was all part of the strangeness that had become a part of her life lately.
Though come on, Bobbi , she told herself. You’ve always been strange. Up to now, you’ve just been good at hiding it.
She glanced at the front page. The top story, left hand above the fold, was about a high school basketball game. The one on the right was about some old man who had walked away from prison.
Didn’t seem to be anything in either
Serena’s face contorted with distress, but Hart quickly looked from her to Bobby. The girl gave a little cry, th an fell in a dead faint.
Alistair didn’t want to talk about anything weird. He was a practical man who believed in the reality around him and didn’t go in for spooks or spirits nor tales of either so he busied himself with starting a fire in the grill and beginning to cook hamburgers for supper. Certainly neither Serena or her granddaughter was in shape to drive on out to the lodge in the darkness and there was no other hostelry in the immediate area, so they were stuck with them as guests for the night.
Hart slipped a frozen blackberry cobbler into the oven to bake for dessert and put together a salad to go with the hamburgers.
Bobbi, seeming recovered from her fainting spell and unwilling to discuss the incident, ate two hamburgers, a pile of salad, and a large helping of cobbler with vanilla ice cream while her grandmother nibbled at her dinner. Having not taken time to eat all day, Alistair ate hungrily, but didn’t protest when the two women took over the dishes and cleanup, telling him he looked exhausted.
He found himself in the living room with the television on to a cable news network and only Bobbi for company. “You all right?” he asked gruffly.
She nodded, apparently intent on a news story that he was quite sure would have no interest for a girl her age.
So she was going to ignore him. His debt to civilized behavior to ward a guest in his home satisfied, he picked up the newspaper that had been published in Wichita today and read of the futile search of the junk shop, ending with the orange jump suit as the only bounty. Various townspeople were briefly interviewed to round out the story and expressed their fears that the escaped murderer offered a threat to the community.
The story of that long ago murder was repeated. Jeffers, a friend of the victim’s teenaged son had gone into an irrational rage and, in front of the younger son, had beaten the disabled older Maxwell to death. It had been a brutal killing and, in those days, little ground was given for the youth of the attacker. Nolan Jeffers, the only child of a widowed mother who died of grief after his incarceration, had pleaded his innocence, but nobody believed him. The testimony of the Maxwell child had been heart-breakingly convincing.
He supposed Hart had to know this latest happening, but he preferred to tell her himself and he wanted to spare her reading the cold hard facts of Jeffers’ original crime. She was fond of the old man. Crumpling the newspaper, he tossed it toward the fire and strode from the room.
He didn’t see that behind him, a frowning Bobbi took the iron poker and fished the newspaper from the ashes. The ebbing fire was only beginning to crisp the edges and she la id it on the stones in front of the fireplace and blew out the fire. Then, giving it a couple of minutes to cool, she began to read the story that Alistair had tried to obliterate.
Bobbi didn’t much like Alistair Redhawk; she didn’t know why. But if he was trying to keep a secret from Hart, then it was her job to know why.
For some reason, she felt protective toward Hart, kind of like she was a sister or something. She brushed the idea aside, vaguely uncomfortable with the notion. This was all part of the strangeness that had become a part of her life lately.
Though come on, Bobbi , she told herself. You’ve always been strange. Up to now, you’ve just been good at hiding it.
She glanced at the front page. The top story, left hand above the fold, was about a high school basketball game. The one on the right was about some old man who had walked away from prison.
Didn’t seem to be anything in either
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