Finally, soaked with sweat, she straightened and breathed a sigh of relief. She had no idea how much time she had to make her escape. Micah would be after her the moment he awoke to find her gone. Peering in a hand-held mirror she gauged her reflection. The wig! She needed the wig.
Taking it out of the bag she worked to secure it to her head like Lucy had shown her. It looked a bit lopsided, but there wasn’t much she could do about it now. Once she arrived in 1880, she would find a place to improve her appearance. Stuffing everything back into the valises she took a deep breath, placed them in the transport station. Quickly she rushed to the control panel, setting the required calculations into play. With only a few minutes to spare before her luggage went to Kansas without her, she penned a note to her husband.
Micah my love,my darling man, forgive me. Cara
The bright rednumbers on the gigantic clock on the wall were running down. There were fifteen seconds left when she crossed the threshold and stood on the built in metal platform. For a moment she glanced at her clothes, left scattered around the room and realized she should have picked them up. They would raise questions should anyone enter before Micah, but there was nothing she could do about it now.
A breeze stirred her hair, the long dark ringlet hanging over her shoulder swayed. Then the room faded, and she knew she was gone. The refrain, you’re not in Kansas anymore, filed through her mind, knowing that in seconds she would be.
The grove Morganand Mead had spoken of was nothing like she’d imagined, but maybe that was because instead of standing on the ground, she was six feet up in a tree. Clasping the nearest branch, she held on tight. The last thing she needed was a broken limb.
Her luggage at the base of the tree was still intact, and she tried to figure out if her body was. There didn’t seem to be any damage, despite her awkward landing, and she was grateful. Now how to get down was the next priority.
Thoughtfully, she considered jumping, but it didn’t seem like an especially smart option. She supposed she could holler out in the hopes a passerby would hear her, but then again, she was not in a situation that was easily explained.
Despite swimming, hiking and horseback riding, Cara did not consider herself particularly athletic. Still, just as she decided to hang from the branch and drop the rest of the way to the ground, she was extremely happy to see a handsome young man ride into the clearing.
“Well, what have we here?” he asked, leaning forward, his arms on the pummel of his saddle and grinning. “It seems you’re in a pickle.”
“Yes, I am,” Cara admitted honestly. “If you would be kind enough to help me down, I’d appreciate it.”
“I might, if you can explain what you’re doing up there in the first place.”
“Um, I…like to climb trees,” she babbled out with no rational explanation at hand.
“Really? In a dress you like to climb trees?” he inquired, still grinning.
“Yes,” she snapped back, glaring at him.
“Well then, if you’re so good at it, why don’t you just climb on down?”
“Don’t you think I would if I could?” she demanded.
“Most likely,” he agreed. “Still, this is a might peculiar situation. I can’t help feeling you’re keeping something from me,” he stated, taking off his Stetson and scratching his head.
“It is,” Cara admitted. “Honestly, I don’t know how I could explain it in a way that would make sense, so why not help me down? There’s a mean little twig poking my ass, I mean my backside.”
Matthew climbed down for his horse and approached, but did not offer assistance.
“What’s your name?”
“Car…Caroline,” she stammered out. “Caroline Whi...Whitmeyer.”
She watched the somewhat amused expression on his face change to one of suspicion in a heartbeat.
“And where do you come from, Caroline Whitmeyer? Where are your people from?”
“Does it matter?” she snapped as her frustration rose to a new level.
“It might,” he replied thoughtfully. “I think maybe I should just leave you here and go get the marshal.”
“What?”
“Well, in my humble opinion, when a situation makes the hairs on the back of my neck rise, it’s usually a sign that something is not quite right. You could be a criminal or a renegade. Maybe there’s a husband around who you’ve run away from who will turn up with a shotgun. He might think I’ve helped you and shoot me dead.”
“Oh, for the love of God, will you stop fantasizing and help me?”
Flustered, in pain, and having had enough of this man’s excuses, she became rattled and let her tongue get away from her. After having decided only recently that the best persona to adopt upon arriving in Kansas would be that of a southern belle, far from home, with her very gentle nature producing sympathy…she blew it. Instead, she sounded more like a high-tone eastern bitch. Fuck!
