Our Time Is Now

Book 2: A Time Wanderer Novel

by Chloe Douglas

Genres: Romance; Romantic Suspense; Time Travel Romance; Time Travel

Synopsis

When her controlling husband refuses to grant a divorce, Jessica Bragg doesn't get mad - she gets even. Taking a hidden stash of cash from his desk, she starts a new life as a reporter in West Virginia. Covering Civil War reenactments isn't exactly headline-making until an eerie flash of light brings her face-to-face with a living, breathing, strapping hunk of a Confederate soldier . . . Colonel Thaddeus MacAllister can't explain how he ended up in his old homestead after 150 years-or why its beautiful new occupant reminds him of his own beloved wife. But when Thaddeus takes Jessica into his arms, it's as if he's known and loved her forever. Soon these star-crossed soulmates must fight for every moment together . . . before time runs out again.

Release date: December 2, 2014

Publisher: Forever Yours

Print pages: 352

Sample

McLean, Virginia

March 2014

Like duelists on the field of battle, they faced one another from opposite sides of their king-sized bed.

“ ‘Until death do we part.’ Or have you forgotten?”

“It’s just that we’re not… I mean, I thought it would be better for me… for us, that is, if—” Jessica stopped in mid-plea, knowing that beneath her husband’s eerily calm exterior, there lurked a very angry man.

“I’m only going to say this one time, Jessica. I have no intention of ever letting you go.”

“Richard, please hear me out.” She took a deep breath, hoping to steady her faltering nerves. “I don’t want any alimony. There will be no scandal. And no divorce lawyers to—”

“Obviously, I need to remind you that, seven years ago, we took a vow before Almighty God, pledging ourselves in holy matrimony,” Richard intoned as he stepped toward her.

Staring at her husband, she noticed that the tips of his ears were bright red. Had his ears always been that color? Surely, she hadn’t pledged herself in holy matrimony to a man with terra cotta-colored ears?

Jessica choked back a hysterical laugh, knowing that if she remained in the room with Richard much longer, she might go off the deep end. After weeks of nail-biting vacillation she’d finally gotten up the courage to ask him for a divorce, and he’d shot her down with no more effort than it took to swat a fly.

Unable to look her husband in the eye, Jessica dropped her gaze, noticing the small, precise monogram stitched onto the cuff of his Brooks Brothers shirt: RB. Richard Bragg. The “wonder boy” of the ultra-right wing, he was the chief spokesman for the Traditional Family Movement, able to make or break political careers with a single, glib sound bite.

“Perhaps it would help things… um, our marriage, that is, if you would be willing to—”

Jessica didn’t see the blow until it was too late; the force of Richard’s backhanded slap whipped her head to the right. As she gasped for breath, her cheek felt like it had just been blowtorched, the pain radiating along her jawbone and up to the top of her skull. It was the first time that Richard had ever hit her, Jessica was stunned by his show of violence.

Knowing that her husband despised any type of emotional display, she hastily wiped at the tears that rolled down her cheeks.

Richard stepped over to the nightstand and snatched a tissue out of the box. “You drove me to that,” he said without apology as he handed her the Kleenex. “After all that I’ve done to provide for you, I can’t believe this is how you repay me.”

“I… I’m sorry, Richard.” Despite the ready words of contrition, Jessica knew there was no reason to apologize. She’d always been a dutiful wife.

“Being an understanding husband, I’m willing to overlook your irrational behavior. Dr. Metzer mentioned that the drugs might have some ill side-effects.”

The drugs. By that he meant the pharmaceutical cocktail that was supposed to change the indicator on the home-pregnancy test from pink to blue. It had been Richard’s idea to send her to an infertility specialist. A woman incapable of bearing children had little to no worth in his carefully scripted world. As the barren months had slipped past, the deprecating glances at her midsection had made Jessica feel like some worthless abomination. Richard didn’t want a wife; he wanted a womb. And yet he refused to divorce her to seek out more fertile fields. Because he was one of the more visible leaders of the Traditional Family Movement, Richard would never willingly grant her a divorce. The pundits would skewer him alive on the flames of public opinion if that ever happened.

“Did you take your temperature this morning?”

Hesitantly, she nodded, fearful of what that loaded question portended.

Without so much as a glance in her direction, Richard began to loosen his silk tie, causing Jessica to inwardly cringe at the thought of his pale, brittle hands perfunctorily moving across her body. Years ago, she’d stopped pretending to enjoy it, even as Richard had stopped acting as though it was anything other than a reflexive biological act. Place part A into socket B. The bodily symbol of a loveless marriage. Until death do we part.

Resigned to her fate, Jessica automatically started to unbutton her blouse, stopping in mid-motion when her husband’s wristwatch emitted a high-pitched chirp.

Brusquely, Richard pushed at the buttons that rimmed his expensive timepiece. “I’ve got to catch a flight to New York,” he muttered, yanking his tie back into place.

Knowing that she’d been dismissed, Jessica hurriedly left the room. Grateful for the reprieve, she headed to the living room to await Richard’s departure.

When, several minutes later, she heard the heels of Richard’s Italian loafers rhythmically click against the polished marble floor as he strode down the hall, she steeled her emotions, telling herself that he’d soon be gone. Plastering a demure smile onto her face, she watched as he set his garment bag down before he approached her.

“I haven’t previously mentioned it, but I made arrangements for a contractor to come by tomorrow morning to install a wall safe in my study.” As he spoke, Richard jingled the coins in his pants pocket. Merely annoying in the early years of their marriage, his habitual coin jingling had begun lately to grate on Jessica’s nerves with a wracking intensity. “I need a place to store the deed to the house, wills, that sort of thing.”

About to point out that was why they had a safe deposit box at the bank, Jessica held her tongue. She’d learned long ago never to contradict him.

“And don’t forget to pick up my dry-cleaning,” Richard continued. “I need my tux for a fund-raiser on Friday night.”

“No, I won’t forget,” she replied dutifully.

Placing a hand on her shoulder, Richard leaned over and kissed her on the cheek, the same cheek that he’d earlier brutalized with the back of his hand. “While I’m gone, I want you to reflect on the reasons why we committed ourselves to one another.”

“Yes, Richard. I will do that,” she acquiesced without argument, willing to say anything to get him out the door.

Moments later, as she watched the gray Lexus back out of the driveway, Jessica clutched her stomach and moaned, assaulted with waves of pent-up anxiety.

Well, there’s one surefire way to cure that, isn’t there?

Like an addict in search of a fix, she made a beeline for the kitchen. As she reached for the cookie jar, she caught sight of a framed picture with the embroidered words “Home, Sweet Home.” Averting her gaze, she sank her teeth into a double-fudge cookie, needing the comfort that only chocolate could provide.

Admittedly, it hadn’t always been like this. There had been a time, early in the marriage, when she’d believed that if she tried hard enough to be a good wife, Richard would reward her with affection and respect. She didn’t require love—merely the occasional kind word.

Who am I kidding? Everyone needs love.

As that thought crossed her mind, Jessica wondered when she’d become so pathetic. On days like today, it was hard to recall that she’d once been a free-thinking college graduate bent on a career in journalism. Particularly since she now guarded her every word, her every gesture. Richard had long ago sapped the joie de vivre right out of her, like some blood-sucking parasite.

Glancing at the crumbs littering the floor and countertop, she angrily shoved the cookie jar away from her. Unable to even enjoy the simple pleasure of a sugary treat, she stepped out of the kitchen to retrieve the vacuum cleaner from the hall closet.

As she walked past the oversized mirror in the foyer, Jessica came to a standstill. Shoving a hank of shoulder-length, auburn hair behind her ear, she stared at her reflection. Her hazel-green eyes were red-rimmed, and her left cheek was splotchy from where she’d been hit: a visible reminder that something had dramatically changed in the dynamic of their relationship. It wasn’t simply the fact that her husband had struck her; it was that some dark, malevolent force had finally bubbled to the surface. Before today, Richard’s abuse had always been verbal in nature; the man was an expert at battering her to a pulp with a disparaging turn of phrase. Now that the abuse had been ratcheted to the next level, she feared what he would do next, well aware that there was nothing she could do to protect herself from—

No. That’s not true. I can walk away from the marriage.

Longingly, Jessica stared at the front door, imagining the freedom that beckoned from the other side. While the will was there, she had no means with which to leave. Unlike the average person who could simply go to an ATM machine or get a cash advance on their credit card, she had no direct access to monetary funds other than the household allowance that Richard doled out at the beginning of each week. That would buy her an airline ticket and a night’s hotel room, but little else.

Suddenly inspired, her gaze darted to the closed door of Richard’s study. On numerous occasions, she’d seen him exit from there with her weekly cash allowance in hand.

Galvanized into action, Jessica rushed down the hall and flung open the door to her husband’s home office. With a confidence she didn’t necessarily feel, she walked over to Richard’s imposing antique desk and yanked open the center drawer. At a glance, she could see that it contained nothing more valuable than a few pens, some pencils, and several rolls of antacids. The next two drawers were equally disappointing.

Not about to retreat, Jessica tugged on the bottom drawer, surprised to find that it was locked. Certain that was where Richard kept his petty cash, she dashed out of the room, quickly making her way to the attached garage next to the kitchen. A few seconds later, rummaging through the tools stored on a shelf affixed to one side of the garage, she found what she was searching for.

With the tool clutched to her chest, Jessica made her way back to Richard’s office. Unraveling the cord, she plugged it into the wall socket behind his desk. The electric pruning saw jerked slightly against her tightly clutched hand.

“Carpe diem,” she murmured. Time to seize the day.

Pressing the saw blade against the wooden drawer, Jessica felt a giddy burst of excitement as small chips of wood flew up at her. It gave her a sense of empowerment that she was unaccustomed to feeling, unable to stifle a peal of hysterical laughter at the sight of the metal blade working its way through her husband’s hundred-year-old mahogany desk.

It didn’t take very long to saw through the locked drawer. Setting the tool aside, she thrust a hand into the butchered opening, her fingers making contact with a metal strongbox. Anxious to see what it contained, she placed it on top of the desk. Then, taking a deep breath, she lifted the lid.

The moment she did, Jessica’s mouth fell open.

Oh, my God… can all of this money be for real?

Trembling, she slid a hand across the neatly stacked rows of green and white. “Yep, it’s real, all right.”

Picking up one of the banded packs of crisp hundred-dollar bills, Jessica guesstimated that she was holding $10,000 in her hand. Given that there were many more packs of similar size and denomination still in the box, Richard must have over a million dollars hoarded in his desk drawer.

No wonder he wanted a wall safe installed.

Where in heaven’s name did all of this money come from? Richard surely didn’t accrue it by putting his loose change in a jelly jar every night. Was he skimming from the coffers of the Traditional Family Movement? Was he taking bribes from lobbyists? Did she even care? She wanted her freedom, and here it was staring her right in the face.

Because she’d entered into her marriage with $300,000—the inheritance that she received after her parents, Benjamin and Glenda Reardon, were tragically killed in an auto accident—she decided that she would take half that amount. A fair settlement by anyone’s standard.

After grabbing fifteen banded packs of hundred dollar bills, Jessica hurried back to the kitchen, retrieving a canvas shopping bag. After dumping her booty into the sack, she snatched the framed piece of embroidery from the wall.

“Home, sweet home,” she snickered before smashing the frame against the granite countertop. Twisting her wedding band off of her finger, she carefully placed it on top of the broken glass. Then, removing a banana-shaped magnet from the refrigerator, she retrieved a numbered receipt, which she carefully placed beneath the gleaming gold ring. “Heaven forbid that I should forget Richard’s dry-cleaning.”

As she marched down the hall a few moments later, canvas bag in hand, Jessica brightened at the thought that, at thirty-one years of age, she was about to become her own woman.

Greenbrier County, West Virginia

September 2014

“Give ’em hell, boys!”

Although it was late in the day, the sulfurous tang of gunpowder hung thickly in the air as volley after volley of intense firing raged between the two battle lines. Trying to rally his troops, a blue-clad officer scrambled over a rocky ravine waving a bayonet. A group of soldiers followed close behind, the thrill of combat gleaming in their eyes.

Rising from an earthen embankment, a line of gray-uniformed skirmishers met them head-on, yelling raucously as they fired their muskets.

Jessica Reardon jerked like a puppet on a string, startled to find herself in the path of a charging cavalry trooper. Before she could leap out of the way, the soldier’s mount came to an abrupt halt, showering her sneakers with a layer of dirt. The uniformed rider thrust his arm in her direction, the elaborate gold braid on his gray coat sleeve glistening in the fading sunlight.

“Miss Reardon, the 4th Cavalry under the command of General Sitwell is preparing to charge. Are you ready to shoot?”

Jessica removed the lens cap from the camera that hung around her neck. “Ready to fire at will, Captain Stoddard.”

It was the 150th anniversary of the Battle of Lewis Creek, and as a reporter for The Greenbrier Dispatch, Jessica was there to cover all the action. The event had drawn throngs of Civil War reenactors, intent on recreating a bit of West Virginia history—although, one hundred and fifty years ago, it’d been hotly contested as to whether this area of the eastern Alleghenies belonged to the Commonwealth of Virginia or to the newly formed state of West Virginia.

“Ma’am, would it be impertinent to ask if you will be in attendance at this evening’s regimental ball?”

Jessica gulped, unnerved to discover that beneath Captain Stoddard’s nineteenth-century uniform and courtly manners, there lurked a twenty-first century man on the make. “To tell you the truth, Captain Stoddard—”

“Please, call me Bruce.”

Jessica nervously fumbled with the menu button on her camera. “Um, as you can see, Bruce, I left my hoop skirt at home.” Hopefully, her would-be admirer had the smarts to know that no self-respecting southern belle would dare dance the Virginia Reel garbed in khaki shorts, a T-shirt, and an Orioles baseball cap.

“Without your fair beauty to grace this evening’s festivities, I shall be a lonely cavalier, indeed.” With a theatrical sweep of the arm, Bruce removed his plumed hat. “Farewell, dear lady! I am afraid that duty calls.” That said, horse and rider charged across the battlefield.

Watching Bruce Stoddard disappear over a grass-covered knoll, Jessica exhaled a pent-up breath. She was there on a journalistic assignment and not to fill her dance card for some ridiculous reenactment ball. To prove, if only to herself, that she really was a newspaper reporter-at-large, she raised the digital camera and took a few snaps.

Admittedly, “reporter-at-large” primarily meant doing the human interest stories that no one else at The Dispatch wanted to do. Last week, she’d interviewed Okie Phelps, head of the Greenbrier Turkey Shoot Club, who was kind enough to go through his entire repertoire of wild animal calls. The week before that, she’d gotten the big scoop on how Mrs. Lucy Albright, 87, resident of Big Stink Lick, kept raccoons out of the cornfield.

While she’d never win a Pulitzer reporting on how pumpkin vines deter furry trespassers, working as a journalist—even if it was for a small town paper that only went to press three times a week—was reward enough. And if the editor liked her piece on this weekend’s reenactment, she had a shot at getting bumped from freelance reporter to full-time news writer. She could certainly use the extra money.

Turning away from the battlefield, Jessica retrieved her car keys from the zippered pocket on her knapsack before making her way down a well-worn footpath toward the rows of parked cars in the lower field. It was late in the day, and she’d already gotten enough interviews to write a story for next week’s paper.

As she neared her vehicle, Jessica inwardly cringed at the sight of her sixteen-year-old Ford Bronco sandwiched between a luxury SUV and an aerodynamically designed mini-van. No doubt about it, her three-thousand-dollar clunker stood out like the proverbial sore thumb.

Opening the car door, she readjusted the faded T-shirt that covered the ripped driver’s seat before easing herself behind the wheel. As she did, she wrinkled her nose at the Bronco’s musty smell, a permanent odor that no amount of air freshener could alleviate.

Fingers crossed, she turned the ignition key. “Okay, Houston, all systems are go,” she chirped happily at hearing the engine roar to life. The Bronco was less than perfect in the reliability department.

After shifting into reverse, Jessica slowly backed out of her parking space, ignoring the noxious, gray smoke spewing from the tail pipe. Once clear of the parking area, she made the turn onto Route 219.

Jessica knew that she’d eventually have to fork out the money for an auto mechanic: the Bronco was in desperate need of a tune-up. As well as a new starter. And though money woes were a regular obsession, she didn’t mind living hand to mouth. Tucked away in the back of her mind was the memory of the alternative. So while she was currently strapped for cash, at least she was forging her own life. Footloose and fancy free. Or at least she would be once her divorce was finalized.

“Holy crackers! Where did that come from?” Flipping on the windshield wipers, Jessica glanced at the dark clouds suddenly storm-trooping across the western sky, a doozy of a storm that had just rolled over the mountains with no advance warning.

When, in the next instant, the engine suddenly stalled, she let the Bronco coast to the side of the road as she berated herself again for not having bought a new car battery when she’d had the extra money. Fortunately, she didn’t have too far to walk because the Bronco had petered out only a hundred yards from the turnoff to the house. From there, she only had to traverse half a mile to reach dry clothing, freshly brewed coffee, and a warm meal.

With a resigned sigh, Jessica pulled the keys out of the ignition, depositing them in the pocket of her khaki shorts. After tucking her ponytail into her baseball cap, she stepped out of the vehicle. The moment she did, a logging truck, heading in the opposite direction, splashed a sheet of water across the front of her body.

“Just what I need,” she muttered, the misery index instantly compounded.

Long minutes later, catching sight of her house through the grove of sugar maple and oak that timbered the hillside, Jessica’s shoulders sagged with relief. Barely able to put one foot in front of the other, she had a whole new appreciation of why her hilltop residence was called Highland House.

Six months ago, she would never have guessed that she’d be living in a two-hundred-year-old house that actually came with its own name. And it was all hers—lock, stock, and barrel—bought at auction on the Greenbrier County courthouse steps for the sum of $125,000. Paid for in cash. Although there was no getting around the fact that the ramshackle, two-story, red brick house was in desperate need of some TLC. Which, loosely translated, meant another $125,000 would be needed for essential repairs. It would take at least three times that amount to bring Highland House back to its former glory.

Feeling an ache in the back of her calves, Jessica slowed her pace. As she did, she glimpsed a lightning strike in the near vicinity, the stentorian crackle followed by a stereophonic boom. Then, as though it was hurled by Zeus himself, another bolt plunged from the sky. Stunned, she watched it make contact with an ancient maple tree, a heavy limb crashing to the ground, fissured by nature’s most merciless slayer.

Terrified of being struck by lightning, Jessica tucked her head and sprinted in the direction of the house.

She was almost to the front porch when, out of the corner of her eye, she saw a flash of motion in the trees. In the next instant, she heard a spine-tingling, lion-like roar. Curiosity getting the better of her, Jessica came to halt and stared at the stand of maples. Unnerved, she had the distinct impression that some sort of otherworldly creature with glowing red eyes was peering at her through the foliage. Which was a totally preposterous notion. Given the large deer population in the area, it was probably a doe or a buck.

But could a doe or a buck have made that bone-jarring roar?

Since she didn’t think it likely, Jessica wondered if it wasn’t a bear. Or perhaps a—

Suddenly, without warning, a burst of orange flames jettisoned across the wooded grove. The fiery blaze lasted for several seconds, as if it had been shot from a gigantic flame torch.

“Oh my God!” she screamed, petrified.

Worried that this was fast turning into a storm of biblical proportions, she rushed toward the porch, making a beeline for the front door. Yanking it open, she lunged inside the dimly lit foyer. After bolting the door, she fumbled for the light switch.

“Could things get any worse?” she muttered, disheartened to discover that there was no electrical power. Since it would soon be nightfall, there was no time to wallow in self-pity. She needed to locate a flashlight and some basic emergency provisions before it turned pitch dark.

Several minutes later, flashlight and candles in hand, she decided to set up camp in the library. It had more furniture than any other room in the house and boasted a beautiful set of French doors that would provide ample daylight if she was still without power come morning. It also happened to be her favorite room in the house.

With the toe of her wet sneaker, Jessica pushed open the library door. The flashlight cast a golden beam that illuminated the room’s peeling wallpaper and cracked plaster ceiling. Buster, her recently adopted Maine Coon cat, lazily stretched his orange and white body along the back of the sofa.

“Hello, big guy. Hope you don’t mind the company.”

After setting the flashlight on top of the mantel, Jessica placed several candles in strategic places out of Buster’s reach. The constellation of flickering lights created a soft, romantic ambiance. She only needed Mister Darcy to walk through the door to complete the fantasy.

Oh, be still my heart.

Just then, Buster lurched from his cozy perch and Jessica was surprised to see that the fur on the back of his neck was standing on end.

“Hey, what’s the matter, fella?” When her question met with a feline growl, she smiled and said, “Surely, a mighty hunter like you isn’t afraid of an old thunder—”

Jessica’s breath caught in her throat when she suddenly heard the unmistakable sound of the porch floorboards creaking and groaning under a heavy weight. When she next heard a loud, rattling sound, her heart forcefully pounded against her breastbone.

Someone is trying to open the front door!

Terror-stricken, she rushed over to the mantel and grabbed the flashlight, clutching her pitiful weapon to her chest. Long seconds passed as she stood rooted in place, the rattling sound eventually ceasing.

On the verge of giving the “all clear,” Jessica instead shrieked as the French doors suddenly swung open. The swoosh of cool, moist air caused the candles to erratically sputter. In the next instant, a tall, soaking wet man stepped into the library.

Seized with a burst of unadulterated fear, Jessica let the flashlight slip through her fingers, and it shot frenetic beams of light onto the baseboards as it rolled across the floor.

Deciding to make a run for it, Jessica spun on her heel.

Only to pull up short when she saw that the intruder had a gun in his hand. And it was pointed directly at her.

Terrified, Jessica opened her mouth to scream, but the shriek was so firmly lodged in her throat that she barely produced a tinny squeak. The fact that the gunman’s face was obscured by a wide-brimmed hat and thick, overgrown beard amplified her fear, inducing a full-body paralysis.

“What are you doing in this house?” the intruder demanded as he lowered his revolver and shoved it into the holster belted around his waist.

He wants to know what I’m doing in my own home?

Quite frankly, she didn’t know how to reply. Particularly since the fiend could rape and murder her, in her own home, and it would be days before she would be missed by anyone.

Because the intruder had the advantage of size, standing several inches over six feet, her only hope was to land a perfectly executed kick to his testicles.

About to launch her attack, she was thrown off-kilter when her assailant unexpectedly staggered toward her. Doing a fair impersonation of a Weeble, he wobbled to and fro before crash-landing on the sofa with a heavy thud. He rolled his head as he made one of those uniquely male sounds, midway between a groan and a grunt. After that, he went eerily silent.

In a state of total shock, Jessica hurriedly retrieved her flashlight from the floor and shined it over the intruder’s prone body. At seeing the Confederate uniform jacket, she exhaled a gusty sigh of relief.

“Oh, for Pete’s sake,” she huffed. Not only was he one of those Civil War reenactors that she’d seen earlier in the day, he was also stinking drunk. Why else would he have passed out on the couch like that? Given that the house had been vacant and abandoned for several years, her Confederate intr. . .