Page 61 of Killing Time

“Time travel will do that for you,” he said weakly, and Louise smiled.

“I suppose that’s one way of looking at it,” she said. “But where are my manners? I was just getting dinner ready, and I’d be happy to put out another plate for you, Seth.”

“No, that’s fine,” he said hastily. “Thank you, but I need to go home and wait for someone.”

“Then you do what you need to,” Louise replied. “Just know that you’re always welcome here.”

He smiled at both women, ducking his head in acknowledgment, and said a quick goodbye before he headed back down the porch steps. Behind him, the door shut, and he wondered if he’d been an idiot for turning down a good home-cooked meal. After all, Devynn still wouldn’t be here for more than two hours at least.

But he couldn’t bear the thought of him stuffing his face at Louise’s house when Devynn might arrive early and find the bungalow empty, so he forced himself to continue. Most of the fresh items they’d bought last weekend wouldn’t be good anymore, even after being refrigerated all this time, but there was still some canned food.

Not that he was sure he’d be able to eat at all, what with the way his stomach felt as though it hadn’t just been knotted but forced into some kind of intricate intestinal crochet.

Better to have some water and wait.

He went inside and turned on several lights in the living room, along with the one that had been installed on the front porch sometime during the years he’d been gone. At least now it would be very obvious that he was home — and besides,with the porch light shining out into the darkness like that, the illumination would help guide Devynn into the driveway.

Satisfied that he’d done pretty much everything he could do, he wandered from room to room, restless, knowing he could only wait…and knowing he was physically incapable of just sitting there in the living room and watching for the headlights of the big Chevy to shine into the picture window as she pulled onto the property.

Most of their clothes were in the suitcases they’d put in the Stylemaster’s trunk, but they’d each left one or two items behind here in the bungalow. He ran a finger along the sleeve of a pretty dark green dress that hung in the wardrobe, telling himself he’d see Devynn wearing it soon enough and that everything was going to be fine.

Soon they’d be sleeping in that bed, holding each other and reaffirming their connection, losing themselves in some long, languorous lovemaking. And afterward, they’d chuckle at how they’d pulled one over on Jasper Wilcox, and how he would now have to think twice about messing with the McAllisters ever again.

It was a good image, one Seth wanted to hold in his mind for as long as possible.

He walked back into the living room and stared at the clock on the mantel.

Eight fifteen.

Still far too early, right? Charles had said it would take Devynn the greater part of three hours to get to Jerome, probably more. Seth had to admit his older brother knew the road better, as he’d driven out that way on store business at least three or four times a year, whereas Seth had only been to Payson a couple of times.

But….

No alcohol in the house, which was probably a good thing. At the same time, he couldn’t help thinking about the brandy Jeremiah had given him back in 1884, how it had seemed to quiet his nerves as he waited to hear whether Devynn would survive her gunshot wound.

Well, he didn’t have brandy in the house, but he did have the tea they’d bought at the general store in Cottonwood. It would probably help settle him a little to go through the ritual of heating the water and then making a nice pot of English Breakfast.

And if not, at least the whole process would use up some time.

He got down a chubby brown teapot and its matching cups, telling himself how happy Devynn would be to have some tea waiting for her when she arrived. Yes, they’d sit down on that angular couch he still wasn’t used to and talk about their various adventures, and she’d prove that all his worry had been for nothing.

Headlights went past the front window, and he all but ran from the kitchen — to be fair, in his bungalow, nothing was terribly far away — and hurried over so he could peer outside.

But no, that wasn’t the Stylemaster, but a big, bulbous truck he thought was either dark blue or black, rumbling its way past his house and up to Main Street.

Doing his best to ignore the disappointment surging in his chest, Seth returned to the kitchen as the water in the kettle was just beginning to boil. He turned down the gas and went to the pantry, where the packet of loose tea and the little perforated tin tea ball waited on a high shelf.

Fragrant steam began to slip past the teapot’s lid, and he realized how tense he was, how every single muscle in his body felt like a spring that had been coiled too tightly and was about to let loose at any moment.

It’s going to be fine,he told himself.

Except it didn’t feel fine. He didn’t pretend to be psychic or anything close to it, but his gut was telling him that something had gone horribly wrong.

Eight forty-five. Still way too early for Devynn to have reached Jerome, although at least the time was inching its way past.

He poured a cup of tea for himself and went back into the living room, forcing himself to sit down mostly because pacing around the damn house hadn’t done him a bit of good. Hands wrapped around warm ceramic, gaze fixed on the cold hearth, as though he thought he might jinx the whole thing if he kept staring out the window.

Nine o’clock.

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