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"Fine."
"Yes, precisely. But 'fine' isn't good enough. God, in His infinite wisdom, makes sure everyone gets one happy life before they move on. So, hon, you get another chance."
"I don't understand."
"It's simple. Your first life was so-so. Now you get to choose another. I studied your history very closely, and I think I know the problem. Your childhood in the foster care system left something to be desired. What you need is someone special and a family of your own. I've chosen a dozen suitable candidates. Each one needs you as much as you need him. All you have to do is push the button when one of them strikes your fancy."
Tess smiled wryly. "Sort of a 'Dating Game' for the dead? What's next?'Bowling for Celestial Dollars'?"
"Hey, that's good! But?oh, shh. The show is starting. Just push the button when it feels right. I'll do the rest."
A single red button appeared on the chair's stark black arm. Pale red light throbbed against the dark fabric. "It's a dream, right?" Tess said to the voice. "I'm sedated now and in surgery. Am I right?"
"Shh. Watch."
The stars sprayed out in front of Tess slowly melded together, becoming a huge white rectangle wreathed in jet black nothingness. A screen.
She leaned forward. Even though she knew it was a dream, she couldn't help feeling a quick rush of suspense. Her fingers curled nervously around the tufted armrest.
A dot of color appeared in the exact center of the white screen. It started small, no larger than a nickel. For a heartbeat it quivered, silent and alone. Then whaml it exploded into a full-color picture of a man in a gray flannel suit waving for a cab.
He was an attractive man. Young. Obviously affluent.
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Tess settled deeper in her chair. Her finger moved toward the button, but she didn't push. Instead, she studied him with the critical, detail-sensitive eyes of a woman used to relying on sight for her impressions of the world. The man was clutching an Italian leather briefcase as if it contained the plans for a nuclear bomb. Or, more likely, a summer house in the Hamptons. His hair was precisely combed, maybe even moussed. There were no laugh lines around his eyes. No earring marred his conservative image. His tie was a regimental blue stripe, his shirt plain white.
Her finger eased off the button.
The scene switched to a snowy hillside. A man in faded blue jeans and knee-length duster was shoving hay into a long wooden feeding bin. Breath billowed in white clouds from his mouth. Behind him was a whitewashed, porched farmhouse that looked a hundred years old.
Tess let the cowboy pass. Someone else could ride the range.
Next came a man playing volleyball on the beach. His body was well muscled, browned to tanning bed perfection. Pale blond hair clung to his sweaty face as he spiked the winning shot. Several women on the sidelines cheered loudly, and he gave each of them a playboy wink. Tess winced. Yuck.
The stud was replaced by a knight in shining armor. Literally. He moved woodenly, clanging with every step across the stone floor, muttering words in a language Tess couldn't understand. The scene looked exactly like a production of Macbeth she'd once seen at a theater for the deaf in Boston.
Tess's finger didn't go anywhere near the button. Egotistical actors weren't for her. She had no desire to be the wind beneath his wings. Men and lives merged into one another, became a hyp-
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notic blur of color and questions and possibilities. Still Tess sat there, her finger hovering over the red button that would supposedly grant her another life. She didn't believe a word of it, of course, but somehow she couldn't hit the button?even to play along. Especially not with the kind of men who kept showing up. (Currently there was a man in a space suit hovering in front of her.)
The spaceman melted away. Slowly the color onscreen softened. A man appeared, standing alone and in the shadows. He was standing beside an old wooden crib, staring down at a baby wrapped in a bundle of woolen blankets. His big shoulders were hunched, his fingers were curled tightly around the crib's top rail. The quiet strains of his breathing reached her ears, filling her senses like long-sought-after music.
Tess felt his quiet desperation like a noose around her neck.
He moved forward, and the shadows fell away, revealing a once handsome and now haggard face framed by jet black hair badly in need of a trim. He stared down at the child. One finger at a time, as if each motion were fraught with danger, he lifted his hand and reached toward the baby's cheek. Halfway there, he froze. His fingers trembled. Tears glistened in the corners of his eyes, and he yanked his hand back.
God, how he loves that child.
Then he was gone.
Tess slammed her palm down on the button.
"He's the one?" Carol's voice sounded soft and deceptively close.
Tess nodded slowly, shaken and confused by the intensity of the emotions she'd felt. As someone who'd spent a lifetime isolated and alone, watching, she knew little of stormy passions and wrenching heartache. And yet, when she'd looked into his eyes, she'd seen pain, real pain, and
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something more. Some dark, aching emotion that ripped past her natural optimism and frightened her.
There had been something about him, something in his defeated gaze that cut like a knife blade through her heart. She'd learned long ago to read people's eyes and see beyond their words, yet never had she glimpsed a soul in such agony.
"I don't know," she murmured. "I felt such ... pain."
"I understand, hon. You've always been a healer at heart. Good luck. You'll need it with that one."
There was a wisp of rose-colored light, a scent of smoke, and then nothing. Tess knew without question that she was alone again.
"What now?" she asked of no one in particular, and flopped back in her chair.
Except there was no chair. No chair, no floor, no walls. There was only an immense sky of midnight black spack-led with stars so bright, they hurt the eyes.
Tess whizzed by the moon and kept falling.
Chapter Two
Pain. Immense, incalculable pain.
Tess lay perfectly still. She tried to breathe and found that even that simple action hurt. Every square inch of her body felt battered and broken. Even her breasts ached.
Why? Why did she feel like this?
She'd been hit by a bus.
The memory came at her like a hard right punch, catching her square in the gut. Her breath expelled in a sharp rush. Her lungs burned at the effort. No wonder she hurt. She was lucky to be alive.
Or was she?
Am I dead?
She remembered uttering that small, quiet question, remembered the endless star-spangled night sky and Carol's barroom voice. Yep.
Just as she'd thought. It had all been a dream. Or a painkiller-induced hallucination. Or one of those near-death experiences inquiring minds loved so much.
She moved a fraction of an inch and immediately regretted it. Red-hot pain twisted her midsection, brought a surge of nausea so strong, she thought she'd vomit. All thoughts of life after death vanished.
She felt as if she'd been hit by a bus.
It had all been a dream. There was no second chance for 15
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Tess; no family to join or ability to hear. No man standing by a crib, reaching out.
She was surprised by the sharp regret that flashed through her. She'd really wanted that second chance at life. At love. No one in this life would have missed her.
Disappointed, she closed her eyes and sank back into the darkness of oblivion.
She was dreaming she could hear. "... blood loss ... don't know ... not good ..." Tess clawed her way to consciousness. The pain was still there, gnawing with dull teeth at her midsection, but it was more manageable now. She said a quick prayer to the God of anesthesia and coaxed her eyes open.
She was in a huge bed, looking up at the floor. She frowned in concentration, willing her tired eyes to do their job, and h
er equally tired brain to function. Blinking, she tried again.
It wasn't a floor. It was a ceiling built of oak boards. "Dead? Don't know . . . possible."
Tess gasped. She'd heard that! She struggled up to her elbows. The effort left her shaking and winded and in inconceivable pain. Her head pounded. She found a stationary lump of black and focused on it.
The lump became a shadow, the shadow became an old man. Sparse gray hair studded his pointed, balding head. Thin wire-rimmed glasses perched precariously on his beaklike nose. Rheumy eyes stared into her own.
"Mrs. Rafferty? Axe you okay?"
Tess glanced around for Mrs. Rafferty.
He scooted his stool closer. The wooden legs made a squeaking, scraping sound. He laid a skeletal, blue-veined hand on her shoulder and squeezed gently. "Welcome back."
This was no dream. She could really hear.
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"Whaas?" Tess tried to speak, but her throat felt as if she'd been screaming for hours. She signed her question instead: What's wrong with me?
The man glanced over his shoulder at the shadows in the room's corner. "It's like she's trying to say something. ..." He leaned closer and peered into her eyes. "I'm Doc Hayes. Do you recollect me?"
She shook her head no.
He frowned and pushed to his feet.
Even in the midst of her pain, she marveled at the slow, tired shuffling of the doctor's footsteps. After so many years of silent nothingness, the common, everyday sound of his bootheels scuffing across the floor was indescribably wonderful.
He melted into the shadows by the door. "I don't know, Jack. It's the damnedest thing I've ever seen. I was pretty sure she was dead. This ain't the sort o' thing one sees ever' day. She might be sort o' ... different for a while. Who knows? Appears her memory's shot to hell."
"What can we do for her?" It was another male voice, softer and richer. The warm, brandy-soft sound of it sent a tingle slithering down Tess's spine.
"I don't know," the doc answered. "But if she gets a fever or takes a turn for the worse, send someone for me."
The shadows moved. The door creaked open, then clicked shut. She was alone.
Confusion swirled about her like a thick, gray fog, drawing her into the mists. Tiredly she glanced around her hospital room, but the shadows were so thick, she couldn't make out much beyond her own bed. Yet something about the darkened room felt weird. Apprehension tingled along the back of her neck. She'd been in enough hospitals to recognize one, even in the dark. Where was the familiar antiseptic smell and muted buzz of fluorescent lighting? And docs hadn't made house calls since Welby.
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Minutes ticked by, quietly, without the marching tick of a clock to herald their passing. She stared up at the strange ceiling, feeling the warmth and light from the lamp beside her bed. The acrid scent of a burning wick teased her nostrils.
So strange, she thought. Everything was so damned strange.
Before she could figure out why, she was asleep again.
Tess tried to force her eyes open, but the painful throbbing behind them made it impossible. She tossed uncomfortably.
Something cool touched her forehead. It felt unbelievably good. A soft sigh of relief slipped past her parched lips.
After a few moments she was able to open her eyes. The first thing she saw was that weird floor/ceiling again.
"Oh, crap," she mumbled. She thought for sure she'd waken to the comfortingly familiar sight of white acoustical tile and long tubes of fluorescent lighting.
The cool, damp rag on her forehead vanished. A flesh-tone smear wobbled in front of her eyes. She blinked, tried to focus. Gradually the blur coalesced into a man's face that seemed both familiar and unfamiliar at the same time.
He shoved a too long lock of black hair out of his eyes and bent closer. Tired, bloodshot eyes peered questioningly into her own. Stubbly, dark hair accentuated the hollowness in his cheeks and the hard, masculine line of his jaw. Tess frowned. A wisp of memory winged through her head, and she tried desperately to chase it down. Somewhere she'd seen this face before.
It came to her in a flash. He looked sort of like a young Sam Elliot ... on a very bad day.
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But why did the man look so utterly exhausted, as if he'd sat vigil by her bed for endless hours? There was no one who cared about her so much.
An intern, she realized suddenly. He had to be the intern assigned to her case. She'd seen that ragged, haggard look before?it was a surgical intern on the tail end of a three-day round.
"Amarylis?"
"No, thanks, I don't drink." The moment the words were out of her mouth, she realized that something was wrong with her voice. It sounded ... southern. / doan draank.
"What?"
A headache jackhammered across her head. She squeezed two fingers against her temples. "Forget the liquor. What I need is an Excedrin the size of Baltimore, and a look at my charts."
"Charts?"
It took a supreme effort to remain civil. "Just tell the doc in charge of my case that I'm conscious and I'd like to consult about my condition. Okay?"
"H-He's not here."
One eyebrow cocked upward. "Golf day at the club?"
"Golf?"
Tess clamped her dry lips together and didn't say a thing. It was best that way.
He offered her a tense smile. "Do you want to see the baby?"
Tess frowned. She thought he'd said "baby."
She was about to suggest he get some sleep when a question crept cautiously into her consciousness. What if Carol hadn't been a dream? What if?
She chewed nervously on her lower lip and stared up at him. "Baby?"
"You ... don't remember?"
r
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She winced. The last time someone had asked her that question, Tess had forgotten getting run over by a bus. That kind of memory lapse did nothing to inspire confidence. Cautiously she said, "No."
"Yesterday you had a baby. Our son."
She started shaking, and all of a sudden remembered where she'd seen this man. He wasn't an intern. He was the man she'd chosen in the theater of second chances.
"Oh my God ..." She clamped a hand over her mouth.
It had been real. Real.
The bus had killed her. She'd died in Seattle and been reborn in the body of a woman who'd died in childbirth. Questions and concerns and hopes and fears tumbled one after another in her mind. What did one do at a time like this? Laugh, cry, scream?what?
One thing at a time, Tess. Only one.
She took a deep breath and offered him a tenuous smile. "I?I need some time here. To think. How about getting me that aspirin?" At his utterly blank stare, she added, "Acetaminophen is fine, too. Whatever you have. That and a glass of ice water would be great."
"Aceta?what?"
"Tylenol."
He shook his head. "I don't understand, Amarylis. What are you asking for?"
Tess shoved her hand through the bunched-up sheets in search of the nurses' button. Except there was no button; no button, no metal railing, no utilitarian food tray. There was only a splintery, old-fashioned wooden bed.
The woman had given birth at home?
Tess shivered. No wonder the poor woman had died.
She glanced around the room for a bottle of something?anything?that would take the edge off her migraine. Sunlight spilled through a small, thick-paned window and splashed across a dull, planked floor. Blue
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gingham curtains hung listlessly on either side of the small window, their hand-hemmed edges bleached from too many days in the sun. No flowers peeked through the glass or brightened the sill. Against the far wall, standing alone and unadorned with photos or knick-knacks, was an oaken washstand with a tilted mirror. A white crockery ewer and basin sat dead center on a wrinkled white scrap of lace.
A prickly-hot feeling crawled through Tess. Reluctantly she shot a look sideways, and immediately winced. The bedside table was a fruit crate turned
on its side, and the lamp was a small, triangular glass jar with a wick sticking out of the narrow top. Tucked beside the crate was a pink porcelain chamber pot.
Horror rounded her eyes. She thought of the cowboy and the knight in shining armor, and shook her head in denial.
No, Carol wouldn 't do that to me....
"What is it?" the man asked anxiously. "Should I call Doc Hayes?"
"Where am I?"
"At home ... on San Juan Island."
Tess felt a tiny stirring of relief. At least she was still in Washington; she could get home from here.
But her location wasn't really the issue, and she knew it. She took a deep breath and squeezed her eyes shut. It took every scrap of courage she possessed to ask the next question: "What year is it?"
There was a heartbeat's pause before he said quietly, "It's 1873."
"Oh, no." She covered her mouth with her hand. "Oh, shit ..."
Eighteen seventy-three.
No television, telephone, electricity. And that was just
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for starters. How was she supposed to live without showers, razors, tampons?
"No way." She curled her hands into fists and screamed at the top of her lungs. "CAROL!!!"
Chapter Three
Carol? Jack thought. Who the hell is Carol?
He stared at his wife in confusion, unable to think of a single damn thing to say.
She looked ... different. The hard, calculating look usually in her eyes had softened. She looked frail and frightened and alone.
He had an inexplicable desire to brash the hair from her face and tell her everything would be all right.
His mouth twisted into a grim parody of a smile. God, how she would laugh if she could read his mind right now.
She would never accept comfort from him, and the realization that even now, after years of silence and hurt, he still wanted to be in love with her was enough to make him sick.
His broad shoulders hunched in defeat. Jackson Rafferty, you 're a goddamn fool.