Page 46 of Killing Time

Far off, I heard the sound of a school bell ringing and guessed we wouldn’t be alone in the park for too much longer. “What did Charles say?” I asked, and Seth’s mouth twitched a little.

“Not much,” he replied. “It seemed obvious to me that he was also worried about the various operators along the line listening to our conversation, so he only said he was glad we’d gotten here safely and that it sounded as if we were having a good time. He did ask about the weather, probably because he knows the deeper we get into November, the greater the chance that we might have to contend with some storms.”

And wouldn’t that be fun, somehow managing to rescue Ruby and then white-knuckle our way down the switchbacks at Oak Creek Canyon in a snowstorm, driving a car that didn’t have modern traction control and an adjustable suspension and all the thousand and one things the engineers had come up with to ensure driving in bad weather was as safe as possible.

At least it’s not a Conestoga wagon,I told myself.Could be worse.

True. Although I would have preferred to have landed in the twenty-first century, 1947 was still far better than the 1800s.

Except for the part where I’d much rather be dealing with Jeremiah Wilcox than his great-grandson Jasper any day of the week.

“Think good thoughts,” I said brightly. “At least now Charles knows we’re okay, and he can send word to the elders and Abigail.”

Word that I assumed would spread from there to the rest of the McAllister clan. I wouldn’t pretend that they cared much about me individually, but Seth had barely returned before he vanished again, and obviously, everyone would be worried about Ruby. If theirs had been a bigger clan, they might have decided to go up against the Wilcoxes anyway, even if such a venture would be doomed from the start, but there was no way in the world a clan of only a few hundred people could succeed against a witch family that outnumbered them at least four to one.

“Which means we’re free to do what we like for now,” Seth said, and I looped my arm in his.

“Then let’s get a drink,” I replied with a grin. “No Prohibition, remember?”

His blue eyes laughed down into mine. “I’ll definitely drink to that.”

The rest of the afternoon was decidedly relaxed, as if we’d both realized we had to trust Adam Wilcox to ferret out the information we needed, and therefore we couldn’t do much except be the tourists we’d already been pretending to be. We wandered the streets of downtown, visited several galleries and a small art museum, and had an early dinner in one of the restaurants there, a place that appeared extremely unpretentious from the outside but served local game meats and had a marvelous wine list.

And afterward we went to our room and fell into one another’s arms, seeking the connection we knew we both needed to reassure ourselves that we were safe and everything was going as well as it could, given the circumstances. Just like the first time we made love, we fell asleep snuggled together, glad that at least we had this sanctuary…and one another.

The next morning, though, we ran into a little hiccup when we talked to the front desk clerk about driving up to the Grand Canyon.

“Oh, the roads are already closed to tourist traffic for the season,” he informed us. “Now the only way to go in is with a guide, and our people here are already booked for today and tomorrow. I could put you down for something on Thursday if you like.”

I wasn’t terribly thrilled by that idea, mostly because I knew I’d been hoping we’d get all this wrapped up before then and be safely back in Jerome. However, there was no real way to know when — or if — Adam would find a clue that would lead us to Ruby, and that meant in the meantime, we needed to keep acting like tourists.

“That would be fine,” Seth said, stepping in while I was hesitating. “What time does the guide leave?”

“Nine-thirty on weekdays, ten on Saturdays,” the clerk replied as he picked up his pen, pulled a ledger notebook toward him, and made a small notation. “I have you and Mrs. Richards down for nine-thirty on Thursday. It’s best to be in the lobby about ten minutes early, though, just so everyone has time to gather.”

More and more, this was sounding like a shore excursion on a cruise, where you had to stay with your guide and couldn’t do as much exploring on your own as you would have liked. Or rather, it lined up with some of the things I’d read about cruises, since obviously, I’d never been on a cruise in my life, land-bound within the territories shared by the Arizona clans as I was.

But I smiled and told the clerk that was fine, and with our business handled, Seth and I headed outside. The clouds that had hovered over Flagstaff the day before had disappeared, and the sky was the same sharp, sapphire blue it often tended to be in the autumn before the real storms of winter began to close in.

“Now what?” I asked.

Seth didn’t appear too worried. “We’ll explore somewhere else. We have a car, after all…and we talked about visiting either Winslow or Williams. Which one sounds better to you?”

We’d visited Williams back in 1884, so I didn’t see as much point in going there. True, it had probably changed a good deal over the decades we’d jumped, but still, Winslow seemed like a better idea.

Besides, we could visit the La Posada Hotel. It was a gorgeous historic compound that had been built as one of the “Harvey” hotels in the early twentieth century, and my family had driven out there numerous times for lunch, just for a change of scenery. In my time, it had been beautifully restored, and I figured this would be a perfect chance to visit it in its heyday, when it was still serving the passengers who rode the Santa Fe rail line or traveled along Route 66.

I suggested this to Seth, and he brightened up right away. “Yes, that would work. How long a drive do you think it is?”

Honestly, I had no real idea. When we could zip along at seventy-five miles an hour, the trip used to take my family a little more than thirty minutes. Now, driving on what I assumed was a much slower Route 66, we’d probably better budget more time.

“Maybe an hour?” I said, ending my reply with an upward inflection so Seth would know I wasn’t entirely sure. “Since we don’t have any kind of real schedule, I don’t think it matters too much.”

“Probably not,” he agreed. “All the same, I’ll make sure we gas up before we leave Flagstaff. I don’t want to get stranded in the middle of nowhere.”

A very real concern. Yes, there were small settlements between Flagstaff and Winslow, but I had no idea whether they even existed in 1947, and if they did, whether they had gas stations. There certainly wouldn’t be anything like the big rest stops of my time, which once dispensed fuel but now were filled with bank after bank of rapid-charge stations so people could pull in, top up their vehicles, and be on their way.

Because we figured it would be simpler, we had breakfast at the same place where we’d eaten before, then strolled back to the hotel, climbed into the big blue Chevy, and got on Route 66 heading east. Some of the first parts of the trip didn’t feel too different to me, even if the buildings that lined the roadwaymight not be the same, since I’d driven this route plenty of times before.

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