CHAPTER1
PRESENT DAY
Cara Whittaker sat at her desk staring at the newspaper clipping. Slightly nauseous and with the beginnings of a headache, she tried to ignore the apprehension that sent a chill through her body. This is what happened when you handed off important research duties to a subordinate, you got half-assed results. Not that the young woman who’d completed her request had any idea how critical the issue was, but she still should have done a more thorough job.
The information Cara had forwarded on to her husband, Morgan, who was currently occupying space in 1880s Kansas, had been a mistake and off by nearly two weeks. Type was set by hand in those days and newspapers were notoriously inaccurate. The assistant brought her a copy of just the article on Callie Mae Walker’s death. Upon further investigation and after looking at the entire page of the newspaper, Cara found the discrepancy in the dates. An obituary could not be dated the 29thwhen the date of publication was well before that.
Rubbing her forehead, she fingered the fragile clipping as she absently tapped her pen on the surface of the desk. He was going to be furious. While she didn’t know what was involved, the fact that he’d asked for specifics regarding Miss Walker indicated some kind of interest. The poor woman was likely already deceased if he’d gone by the information she’d given him. In all reality, it was probably for the best, she thought sighing. Altering history was dangerous and maybe her mistake had saved all of them a lot of heartache in the future.
Morgan,
I’m sorry, the information I sent you regarding Miss Callie Mae Walker was…
Suddenly light-headed,Cara picked up the clipping and as a roaring began in her ears, it disappeared. Gone! The paper evaporated into thin air. Frantically, she searched her desktop, unable to believe what her eyes had seen.
“Damn you, Morgan,” she yelled, slapping her desk. He’d done it! He’d altered history. Whatever was supposed to happen to Miss Walker had been averted. The fool must have interfered and he’d promised her he wouldn’t, the bastard. Dropping her aching head on her arms, she kicked the leg of her desk.
“Hey now,” a stern voice said, entering her office. “You know I don’t approve of cursing. It’s really beneath you, my dear.”
Cara stood on shaking legs.
“Oh my god,” she breathed in shock, clutching the edge of her desk.
“Darling, you do not look well,” the man replied, concern obvious in his eyes. Coming around her desk, he slipped a strong arm around her and eased her into her chair. “What is it?”
Cara shook her head, speechless. He resembled Morgan, tall, muscular, the same dark hair and warm eyes, but he was different too. His voice had a different cadence and was not quite as deep.
He was wearing a white lab coat and she glanced at the badge around his neck.
Dr. Micah Whittaker,Director.
“Holy shit!”she exclaimed. “Where did you come from? You weren’t here five minutes ago.”
“Of course not,” he replied. “I told you this morning over breakfast that I had an important meeting. What’s wrong? You don’t look well.”
Frowning, the man took her hands in his and squeezed her cold fingers. Looking at his well-manicured nails, she noticed his wedding ring; then she noticed hers. Platinum, they were a matched set except for the large marquise diamond that topped the engagement ring nestled beside her band.
Instantly, her mind was flooded with memories. This man clapping as she received her PhD. A wedding in a cathedral with her wearing a beautiful white gown, the church full of people she couldn’t put names to. A honeymoon in Paris, naked arms and limbs entangled as incredible pleasure left her breathless. There was a house, a huge mansion with pillars on the portico. She could see them in the pool, naked, laughing as he chased her down and kissed her.
There were stables. This man was on a horse and she was shaking her head no before he reached down and plucked her from the ground, placing her on his lap facing him and galloping away as she clung to him. More disturbing images followed, sexual images, images where she was over his knees and he was spanking her, a formidable expression on his face as she pleaded with him.
His fingers moved to her wrist, taking her pulse as he watched her carefully. “Do you need medical attention?” he asked worriedly.
Cara stared into space, her eyes unfocused as she tried to untangle the swirling jumble of memories. Could she still remember Morgan? Yes! She could still remember their wedding at the courthouse, the terrible fire that took his parents’ lives, the shadow of a man who returned from active duty, and their disastrous union plagued by death and heartache, mistrust and indifference. The man kneeling beside her was obviously real. He was solid, and something Morgan had done well over one hundred years ago had changed her entire life.
“Come along, darling. I’m taking you home to rest and if you’re not feeling better, I think we’d better cancel for tonight. You won’t enjoy the opera in this condition,” he said kindly as he helped her to her feet and wrapped an arm around her.
“No,” Cara cried looking up into his eyes. “I have work to do here,” she continued, glancing at the letter she’d been writing on her desk.
“There’s nothing that can’t wait until tomorrow,” he insisted firmly, patting her ass. “You’re going home to rest and don’t argue with me, or you’ll be napping with a sore bottom. I’ll decide if we’re going out later. There’s nothing more important than your well-being, darling.”
Cara felt her heart flutter as she allowed him to lead her from her office.
Her heart skipped a beat.Witt turned over and sighed. She stood beside the bed, perfectly still until she was sure he was sleeping soundly. Then she grabbed her clothes and left their suite as silently as possible. Dressing in the guest room, she then went downstairs, grabbed her keys and slipped out the garage door. Thankfully, her husband was a fanatic about things working properly, so the garage door opened like the well-greased unit it was. She took the Prius. It was quiet and therefore highly unlikely to wake Witt. She didn’t turn on the lights. It was still dark and the motion lights would be enough of a risk as she drove down the long driveway. Once she passed through the gate, she headed for the lab. Hopefully, she could get back before he woke up. It was hard to be silent when she was so royally pissed off, and as soon as she was well away from the house she cranked up the radio.
An hour later she walked down the hall of the top-secret facility as the doors of the transfer room silently whisked shut behind her. In her hand she clutched a letter. He was coming back! How could he? She’d warned him time and again not to tamper with the fragile fabric of time, but the damn man had done it anyway. Her bull-headed, time-traveling husband had ignored her words and rescued Miss Callie Mae Walker, but he’d obviously done much more than that.
Suddenly, there was an entire branch added to the Whittaker family tree. He had, or would in the near future produce children, and Callie Mae would more than likely be the mother of those offspring. Oh, it was getting complicated, she thought, holding a hand to her temple as she entered her office at the institute.
