Nichole Harris
Nichole held the damp washcloth to her face and groaned. The time overlap threatened to wreck her mind. The pace and emotion of everyone around her were distant and out of step with her memory. In her mind, she had experienced today’s events with Amy and Jim weeks ago. The Highlands barbeque, the dawn escape from the ranch, and even Jones's brutal ambush were less immediate to her than the flight from Dallas and finding the photo of Merril. Her recollections needed to be reordered, and she had more than one set of memories to prioritize.
Nichole's experience advised, “You'll just have to make do. Collect yourself and keep going.”
While Courtney's muttered, “Holy-shit! Did this just happen?”
She required time to put herself back together in perspective with—this life. Courtney and Nichole weren't separate.
They're both me.
Past and present. A few days should settle her senses, align her with this time, this body, and distance herself from her past.
My future?
She fought the impulse to confide her newfound realizations with Merril and Amy—to continue the conversations started with half-understood truths.
I have those answers now. At least, some of them.
She wouldn't be at peace until those conversations were finished, but she also knew those would have to wait. The emotional momentum of here and now had to take precedence.
When Merril had brought her trunk, he hesitated to leave her alone, but she encouraged him to help Jason. She assured him she wanted privacy to wash and change, when in truth, she needed this time and solitude to acclimate her time-lanced senses.
The water in the basin turned pink when she wrung the washcloth. She removed the torn, blood-soaked blouse, along with the shredded camisole, and tossed them aside. Her breasts and shoulders were speckled and smeared with blood.
Movement in the small dresser mirror caught her attention, and she stepped closer to peer at her reflection. The blood in her hair hadn't had time to harden and dry. She rolled her fingers over the hair beside her temple, and then she looked at her red-stained fingertips.
Is all this blood mine?
She searched her face in the mirror, checked her nose and teeth. If she lost this much blood, shouldn't there be some evidence? Some injury?
She wiped her body clean and rinsed what blood she could from her hair, and then dried herself with the last towel. There were no injuries on her body that would account for this amount of blood.
Speculation is useless.
Merril and Amy would know. They were both with her when she awoke.
She turned to the trunk and paused. Her thumb slid over the initials engraved above the latch.
N.H.
Her thumb came away clean, but she rubbed it against her finger anyway.
So weird.
As Courtney, she had pried the rusted latch open this morning—over a hundred years from now.
This time, the clasp opened easily. Still, Nichole hesitated to lift the lid.
Don't be silly.
She closed her eyes and opened the trunk. Breath held, she looked down. In the center of her lavender skirt laid the photograph of Kevin, Merril, and herself. When she lifted the photo, her hand trembled, and she gripped the frame with both hands.
This is the photo she'd found in the attic—this item led her back to Merril. If she unpacked it, would that change what Courtney found when she came looking? If she didn't discover the photo in the attic, would she not have opened her eyes in Merril's arms today?
Before she changed her mind and had the trunk along with all its contents hauled to the attic, she placed the photo on the mantelpiece. Her gaze shifted from the photo to the closed bedroom door.
I'm still here.
She stood still for a few minutes, but nothing changed.
Would I know if it did?
With a shrug, she returned to the case for clean clothes. She bypassed the lavender outfit, and instead, chose the dark blue skirt with a white camisole and blouse.
While she dressed, her mind traced loops of time and possible alterations she'd made to the timeline from her visit before. There was no way to know, and no value in obsessing over it. She ran the brush through her damp hair and looked at her reflection in the mirror.
Suck it up, Veau, and get on with the life you died for.
Despite her intention to slip back into Nichole's life—her life—unresolved questions haunted her.
As afternoon slipped to evening, she convalesced beside Jimmy Leigh at the kitchen table, trapped in a haze of emotional anxiety. An internal dialog played in her head as she watched the day wind down from the sidelines.
The police chief knocked at the recently repaired back door and stepped into the kitchen. He spotted Amy coming down the stairs and removed his hat. “After speaking with your husband, I've determined the break-in, and death of the intruder, a consequence of a robbery gone awry.” He glanced at Nichole and Jim. “Your unexpected return home resulted in a most unfortunate confrontation.”
Nichole raised an eyebrow at his choice of words.
Unfortunate? Yeah.
“I find no need for further investigation.” The officer tipped his hat and left the kitchen.
She exchanged glances with Jim and Amy, but nobody spoke.
An unidentified intruder. Tidy. Less paperwork.
Jason and Albert Fielding came in and went upstairs to look at the damaged wall.
Merril stayed downstairs and accepted a cup of water from Amy while he waited for Jason and Albert. “The undertaker just left.” Merril informed them. His gaze turned to Nichole. “He and his helper tossed Jones in the back of their wagon.” He set the empty cup on the counter. “Jones will have an unmarked grave at the edge of the city cemetery.”
Nichole clenched her teeth and looked at the table.
Better than the prick deserved. Whatever.
She looked up as the sound of boots echoed down the stairs.
“We're off to the lumberyard.” Jason planted a quick kiss on Amy's cheek as Merril and Albert left the kitchen. “Albert knows several contractors. He said he would contact a mason and a glazier to schedule repairs, if I approved.”
If Jason approved?
Nichole ground her teeth but held her silence.
Albert Fielding's plump wife, Wilma, dropped off a casserole and a bag of warm biscuits for their supper. She apologized for not coming inside, but Albert would still want dinner at home tonight. The beef and vegetable casserole filled the room with a mouth-watering scent. Nichole's stomach growled.
Albert hurried home to his dinner after the men boarded up the front bedroom.
Merril and Jason took seats at the table while Amy unwrapped Wilma's casserole.
Tom Baker arrived at the town house just as Amy set plates and utensils on the table. Tom filled his plate, took a biscuit, and wedged himself into the corner.
Nichole watched Amy scoop a serving onto her plate, then pull a chair from the corner to sit at the counter. Perhaps Amy preferred to eat by herself rather than sit close to Jason.
Can't say I blame her.
Jim, Jason, and Merril sat at the table with Nichole. She watched Jason eat as her annoyance built and her appetite fled. Jason could have prevented everything. Although he took no active role in the threat—that either Nichole marry Kevin, Merril's brother, or be committed to an asylum—his apathy had allowed it to happen. Anger ignited in the pit of her stomach, and she thought she might be sick. No one noticed her hard stare at her cousin, and the conversation went on around her.
“Midnight and Sadie.” Merril looked up at Tom with hesitation and regret in his green eyes. “Are they... all right?”
Tom swallowed and split his gaze between Merril and Jason. “You're damned lucky you were near someone who had enough sense to take care of your animals.”
“Tom,” Jim’s low voice held a reprimand.
Tom looked to Jim, then down at his plate. “Yup. They're dehydrated and exhausted, probably wind-broken, but they'll live.”
Merril dropped his fork and rubbed his face with both hands. “Thank the Lord. I'll go by the livery in the morning and check on him—on them both.”
Nichole glanced around the table, when Amy caught her attention. Amy tipped her head toward Jason, then nodded at Nichole. Her meaning clear—ask him now.
“So—Jason,” Nichole's soft voice began conversationally, and then rose with resentment. “Explain to me just what the hell you were thinking.”
Jason's head shot up, and their ice-blue gazes locked. “Mind your language, please.”
Indignation brought Nichole to her feet. “You will not tell me what to do.” She clenched her teeth. “Not ever again.” She pointed her fork at Jason. “You were going to let them put me in an asylum.”
Jason indicated her abandoned chair. “Calm down. I would never have allowed that to happen.”
“Really? You turned your back while Clemens and Renata drugged me.” Nichole fought back angry tears.
I will not cry.
“I had no idea what they intended. They acted before I could stop them.”
“So, you weren't going to let them send me away? You only used that threat as leverage to force me to marry Kevin.”
Jason nodded, his face scarlet beneath his fair hair. “Renata and Kevin wanted the marriage.” He glanced up at Nichole then back to the table. “I never agreed to participate. I warned Renata if you refused to marry Kevin, I wouldn't force you.”
“How noble of you.” Anger throbbed in her head. She tossed her fork onto her plate, placed her hands on the table and leaned toward her cousin as her voice rose. “And how unfortunate you failed to mention that small detail to me.”
Jason's jaw clenched. “You’re mistaken. I never intended—”
She pounded her fist on the table. “Then why didn't you stop them?” Tears filled her eyes.
“Renata blackmailed me,” Jason whispered.
“What could Renata possibly know that’s worth all of this?” Nichole looked at Jim and Amy, then back to Jason.
Jason sighed and shook his head. “All right. I'll tell you everything. If you want a full confession, and a list of all my sins, then you'll get it.” He looked around the table. “You're all aware of the bank failures?”
“Weren't they caused by the fire?” Amy's voice softened as she stared at her husband.
“Not entirely, but both the Boston and Chicago fires played a role in the downward economy. The Boston fire is where everything began for me.” Jason and Amy exchanged glances, then Jason turned back to the group at the table. “There were many factors—Grant's Coinage Act, the railroad failures, reconstruction, and inflation, among others. They all contributed to my personal economic collapse.”
“Now you've lost me.” Nichole lowered herself to her chair and pushed her half-eaten dinner to the center of the table.
“A brief explanation then.” Jason sat back and looked around the table. “President Grant moved the States from a silver and gold standard for valuing our currency, to a pure gold standard in '73. My investments in three silver mines proved a substantial loss.
“Until two years ago, railroad bonds seemed a sure investment, but their value had been over-inflated. Railway expansion appeared a foregone conclusion, until Grant raised interest rates to slow inflation.” Jason shook his head. “Banks with large debt, especially those with investments in railroads, went bust. Over fifty railroads failed. They're just gone. Sixty more have filed bankruptcy since the stock market’s ten-day close, two years ago.
“Unemployment is above eight percent. New construction is down, except for this area of the country. Real estate values have plummeted, to say nothing of corporate profits. The country—” Jason spread his arms wide, “—the world is in a great depression, and all my personal investments have failed.”
No one spoke as everyone in the room considered Jason's words.
Nichole shifted in her seat and folded her hands on the table. “You lost a lot of money.”
“All of it, and more.” Jason shot a quick look at Amy. “I borrowed capital from an investment firm, Pierce & Peabody, to reinvest—in an attempt to mitigate so many losses.”
“Let me guess.” Nichole rolled her eyes. “They had a few 'just can't lose’ opportunities for you.”
“Yes.” Jason nodded. “But those failed as well.”
“How much do you owe them?” Nichole asked.
“Twenty thousand dollars, before interest,” Jason admitted. He cast another brief glance at Amy.
Jim let out a low whistle.
Merril shook his head and muttered, “Twenty thousand dollars?”
Amy gasped. “Jason, how could you?”
“It gets worse,” Jason said when the exclamations quieted. “P&P put pressure on me to do unethical things for them in Boston. If I worked for them, they would pay down a portion of the interest I owed.
“I didn't know what to do, and then I received an invitation from Uncle Quincy to come West and help with The Highlands’ bookkeeping. I jumped at the opportunity.” Jason's voice trailed off, and the room fell silent. After a moment, he shook his head and continued.
“P&P followed me here, or their letters and threats did. They demanded payment, but implied they would reduce the interest rate if I provided them with certain... information on potential investments out west.” He shrugged and looked around. “All I knew about running a ranch I learned from Uncle Quincy. I'm ashamed to say, I sent P&P information on both the Shilo and Highlands’ ranches.”
“What kind of information?” Merril asked and sat forward.
“The number of head, wages, expenses and income on The Highlands. Rough estimates of the same for The Shilo. I’ve no idea why they valued this information. It isn’t as though your ranches had stock options with curbstone brokers or the Boston Stock Exchange.” He shook his head. “Their interest is unimportant now. What does matter is Renata learned of my correspondence with P&P. She threatened to expose me as a spy. That alone wouldn't have been enough, but she knew more.”
He didn't look up when he paused, and the room remained silent. With a quick inhale, he raised an apologetic gaze to Nichole. “After Uncle Quincy died, I reinvested a large portion of The Highlands’ assets, to diversify our portfolio.”
“You'll explain how my ranch, is now our portfolio,” Nichole replied sarcastically.
“All right then, your portfolio. After what happened in '73, I knew it to be the height of foolishness to have all of your money tied up in one asset. I even spoke to you about it, but I doubt you remember.”
“Oh, I remember,” Nichole replied. “But I didn't understand what it meant, and you knew I didn't.”
“You're right.” Jason hesitated. “I—didn't put the new investments in The Highlands’ name. I hold those in my name alone.”
“You what?” Anger brought Nichole to her feet. “My father trusted you. I trusted you. You're a liar and a thief.”
“Embezzler is the actual term and, in my defense, I did speak to you about my objectives. Uncle Quincy and I discussed which investments he favored before his accident.” Jason rose and faced Nichole across the table. “Both of you were aware of my goal, and I have every intention of paying The Highlands back, plus interest.”
“Your good intentions turn to shit, Jason, in case you haven't noticed.”
Jason's jaw flexed, and he balled his fist. “Mind your language.”
Nichole’s lip curled. “Kiss my ass.”
Merril's chair scraped back as he came to his feet. “Jason, sit down before you do something you'll regret.” Merril turned to Nichole. “This isn't the best time to have this conversation. It's been a rough day for everyone.”
Jason resumed his seat, but Nichole remained standing. If she sat, she might not get back up. Fatigue heightened her emotions, and she only wanted to curl up beside Merril and fall asleep.
She heaved a sigh and spoke down at Jason. “You'll transfer everything back to The Highlands’ name.” Nichole paused until he nodded, then continued. “You'll no longer have unrestricted access to The Highlands’ accounts. Every transaction will require my signature.”
“You're not putting me out?”
“I should, but I won't.” A yawn caught her by surprise and she covered her mouth. “Oh, excuse me. If you have more confessions, they’ll have to wait until tomorrow. I can't stay awake any longer.” Nichole circled the table toward the stairs and held out her hand to Merril.
“What rooms will you be in?” Amy asked. “We've more people than beds.”
“We'll be in the far back bedroom. The one I changed in.” Nichole grasped Merril's hand and followed him up the stairs.
“Nichole, you can't share a room with Merril. You're unwed.” Jason came to his feet and tossed his napkin on the table.
Nichole turned and looked at Jason from the bottom step. “Are you serious?” She released Merril's hand and stepped down onto the floor.
“Let it go, Nic. I can sleep down here.” Merril offered.
“No,” she said softly to Merril, then turned to Jason. “You have no authority over me. I can, and I will, do as I please.”
“He's concerned for your reputation.” Amy stood and looked from her husband to Nichole.
“My reputation?” Nichole matched Jason glare for glare. “He should have had more care for his own.” She turned to Amy and her face softened. “For you, I'll offer him this.”
Nichole reached back and took Merrill’s hand, then cast her gaze around the room. “Merril and I were married the night we spent with the Cheyenne. Gifts were exchanged, and I was given my Indian name by their shaman, White Eagle. You may address me as Lost Wind, wife of Dark Moon.” She narrowed her eyes at Jason as she performed a slight curtsy, and then turned her back and mounted the stairs.
“Legally, I don’t believe that counts,” Jason called.
Nichole would have turned back, but Merril didn't release her hand. “Let it go, sweetheart. You can fight with your cousin tomorrow. I have other things in mind for tonight.”