Page 18 of Killing Time

“Thank you,” he said simply. “We’ll let you get back to your Saturday.”

With Devynn’s arm still looped through his, he made his way along the ground floor of the big house. However, he had no intention of walking all the way back to his bungalow.

“Hold on,” he told her, and she nodded at once, obviously understanding what he was about to do.

The blink that took them back to his house was no more than that, a bare split-second which hardly registered. Once they were standing in the middle of the living room — a space he still hadn’t gotten used to, with the angular furniture thathad nothing of graceful curves in it and that stupid white paint covering all the warm wood trim — he released his arm from Devynn’s, but only so he could take her hands in his.

“That could have gone better,” he said, and she looked up at him, a lopsided smile tugging at her full lips.

“I suppose so,” she replied. “I have to admit the information they gave us about the amulet wasn’t much fun. I wonder why Jeremiah never mentioned anything to us about the history of those sorts of charms. He must have known something, right?”

Seth had been pondering the same question. However….

“Oh, I’m sure he knew,” he said. “Jeremiah Wilcox probably knew more about magic than everyone else in his generation combined. But I have a feeling he wouldn’t worry too much about where something like that had come from or how it had been made. What mattered to him was whether it worked or not.”

“Well, it definitely works.” She paused there and went up on her tiptoes so she could press her lips against his mouth — not too forcefully, so she could avoid leaving lipstick on him again, but just enough to show him she was there. “And that means we really need to sit down and get this thing figured out so we can get on the road tomorrow morning.”

His body had stirred when she kissed him, but he pushed the urge away as best he could. Time enough for that later.

Right now, they needed to plan.

5

RECONNOITERING

I wasa little surprised that the route we took was so similar to the one I still drove in the twenty-first century when I wanted to be surrounded by the beauties of Oak Creek Canyon rather than using the interstate.

Then again, a canyon was a canyon. There wasn’t any real way for the highway to go anywhere except where it had always intended to be built.

We had to go back down to Cottonwood again so we could scrounge up a couple of suitcases since there weren’t any stored anywhere in the house, and even if we’d wanted to bug Charles again — which I knew I sure as hell didn’t — the mercantile wasn’t open on Saturdays. But we found two modest cases at the general store that I thought should work. In fact, because neither of us was exactly working with a substantial wardrobe, all our clothes would fit and still leave room to spare in case we picked up a few extra pieces in Flagstaff.

Not that I really wanted to think about staying there that long. But, as our experiences in 1884 had taught us, we didn’t always have as much control over our circumstances as we would have liked.

The night before, we’d made dinner together — the pork roast we’d bought at the butcher, scalloped potatoes, and sweet peas with butter — and then made slow, leisurely love before falling asleep in one another’s arms. It was good to wake up on that fateful Sunday morning and know I wouldn’t have to face this alone, that Seth would be there with me every step of the way.

Because there was no internet to help with hotel reservations and Flagstaff phone books were in short supply in the Verde Valley, we’d decided to wing it and drive straight up there and hope for the best. After all, even going the slow way, the drive would only take a little over an hour, so if we couldn’t find a place to stay, we’d simply turn around and come home and try to regroup.

An ignominious hiccup, sure, but it wouldn’t be the end of the world.

We’d still have time to get this fixed.

Or at least, that was what I kept telling myself.

A few clouds had gathered overnight, but they didn’t seem like the type that would drop any precipitation, not even up in Flagstaff. Still, I was glad that I’d picked up an overcoat at the mercantile on the day we’d arrived.

I had a feeling I’d need it.

Once we got past Old Town Cottonwood and the neighborhoods of historic homes that had been built in the teens and twenties, the landscape opened up, became farms and ranches. It was strange to see the places where the local Safeway and other stores had been located now nothing but empty fields, their harvests already gathered in against the coming of winter. I supposed those parcels of land had been sold off to developers piece by piece, until finally almost all of this country had become tracts of homes and strip malls and big-box stores.

Odder still was Sedona, which had a small smattering of shops and a couple of motels clustered near what would become the super-touristy Uptown but in 1947 wasn’t much of anything yet.

The red rocks were the same, though, as was the glowing gold of the cottonwoods along the banks of Oak Creek. And when 89A began to wind its way into the canyon, that felt even more familiar, since I was surprised to see that the trout farm along the creek existed even now, as did the Indian Gardens general store, although in the current era, it appeared to be mostly a shop and a Texaco gas station rather than a place people went for breakfast and lunch, as well as to stock up on local wines and honey and other goodies.

After that, the road really began to rise, and I was glad we were in this big, sleek Chevy rather than Seth’s old convertible. True, that vehicle had done a pretty good job of going up and over Mingus Mountain, but still, this car felt much more powerful and was a hell of a lot quieter as well.

“None of this has changed very much,” I said, and Seth allowed himself to glance away from the road to take a look at me.

“It hasn’t?”

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