Matthew leaned against the counter in the Martin’s kitchen, holding a towel to his throbbing nose and doing his best not to think about all the violent things he wanted to do to Miss Lacey Guarder.

"Gotcha a little riled, does she?" George asked. He was sitting at the table and the lit lantern in front of him reflected off his broad smile.

“That woman could rile a glass of water,” Matthew retorted.

"I don't s'pose you got out of her where she's from?"

“George, I was lucky to get her name."

The man nodded thoughtfully. “Our Miss Guarder is of the tight-lipped sort.”

Matthew brought the towel back from his face and checked his blood loss. “People with secrets can’t be trusted.”

“Tight-lipped don’t necessarily mean a person’s got somethin’ to hide. The bleedin' stop yet?"

Matthew nodded. “Surprised it isn’t broken.”

George chuckled. “Not for lack of tryin’, I’m sure.” He leaned back in his chair and lifted his boots up onto the edge of the table. “How are things goin' for you here in Tranquility? You regret stayin' yet?"

"Not as much as Reginald Sterling regrets it.”

"Ah, Mayor Sterling’s just got his undies in a bunch over you and the pretty schoolteacher. Until you came along Sterling didn't have much in the way of rivals for Miss Simmons affections.”

Matthew could understand that. The town population was made up mostly of lumberjacks; dirty, smelly men weren't exactly Amanda Simmons's type.

He set the towel on the countertop. "I've been meaning to thank you for your vote of confidence this morning."

“No need to thank a man for following his instincts. Your daddy and I were the best of friends, crossed the plains and the mountains side by side to reach this territory. He'd be damn proud of what you're doin' here. You'll get that money back, son. And, as for that pretty little schoolteacher, she's a gift from heaven if she can keep you here permanently. You and the little lady talkin' weddin' bells yet?"

Matthew hesitated. Marrying and having children were what respectable men did, but he’d been living so far off from respectable for the better part of his life that he needed a little more time to get used to the idea.

George smirked knowingly. "Still got a few oats in ya?"

“Maybe a few.”

“Well, don’t take too long. Sterling’s liable to swoop in and steal her right out from under ya.”

That possibility nagged at Matthew. He didn’t much care for the idea that the only woman he’d set his hat on might be so fickle that she’d run to the next available man if given half a chance. A fella liked to think he was special in some way. “My biggest concern right now is getting that money back in the bank by next Wednesday."

George arched his bushy gray brows and nodded. “Amen to that. Our esteemed mayor would like nothing more than to run you outta town on a rail, and if Tranquility takes a nosedive toward bankruptcy I won’t be able to keep the other council members from helping him do it.” He sighed. “They just had to rob the bank. Sterling wouldn’t have given two shakes of a thistle if it had been Owen’s general.”

"And not a window broken,” Matthew commented. “The Rawlins family strolled right in the front door—didn't even have to blow the safe to get the money out."

"Sterling blames you for that, you know. He told the council that a town should feel safe enough to leave their front doors open at night—that includes the bank.”

“What kind of banker doesn’t keep his safe locked?”

“Sterling, that’s who.” George snorted. “Man's a nincompoop."

“You’ll get no argument from me,” Matthew grumbled.

George stood and skirted the table toward him. "Don't worry, Matthew. I was the first to stand behind your appointment as our new marshal, and I don't intend to budge anytime soon."

"Thanks, George. You're a good friend. And I will find that money."

George gave him a bolstering clap on the shoulder. "I know you will, son." He broke into a smile. “If Miss Guarder doesn't kill ya first.”

Matthew groaned at the reminder that he had more than stolen bank money to worry about. "Maybe I'll get lucky and she’ll vanish just as mysteriously as she arrived."

"I wouldn't count on it. She’s the kinda woman sent by the good Lord to keep rascals like you and me in line."

As if on cue, Hazel called from the front room, "George? What are ya doin' back there, roastin' a turkey? Bring the pie and some plates already.”

"I hear ya, honey," he called. He gave Matthew a direct look. "See what I mean?" He gathered up some plates from the cupboard, scooped up the tin of pie on the counter, and turned for the hallway. "Buck up, son. Unless the young lady plans to knife ya in your sleep tonight, you oughta make it to mornin'."

* * *

With just the light from a kerosene lamp lighting the small bedroom, Lacey stood in front of the large wooden armoire and chose a fresh nightgown. There was a biting chill in the air, so she quickly pulled the garment over her head then hurried to the bed for a quilt to wrap herself in.

She sat down on the edge of the lumpy mattress and took a deep breath to calm her nerves. Marshal Matthew Brady was testing her patience. The Martins were friendly enough, but Lacey had been holding her breath all afternoon, waiting for the marshal to finally leave—only to find out that he’d be staying the night.

The man would be suspicious of a nun—never mind that he was right on target where she was concerned—and it was just plain rude!

She reached for her purse, needing a dose of reality, and pulled out her wallet. The soft suede was full of twenty-first century money that was useless to her now. She popped open the side flap and stared at her driver's license. Yes, she was Lacey Guarder. Yes, she was born in 1993. Yes, she was completely sane.

She heaved a heavy sigh and put the wallet back in her purse beside her small can of pepper spray. Then she tucked the purse under the bed and out of sight. Stifling a yawn, she took a moment to check out her room.

Besides the armoire, there was a short dresser against the far wall with a porcelain pitcher and washbowl resting on top. Lacey stared at the washbowl, with its painted rose design, and knew she was looking at her bathroom. The toilet itself was, no doubt, outside somewhere, well out of smelling range of the house—which meant she'd have to trudge through a blizzard to reach it. Considering how much water she’d downed at dinner, she figured it was best not to think about toilets at the moment.

The bed beneath her creaked. It was the old-fashioned wrought-iron type with a half-moon headboard. The two fluffy pillows looked pretty inviting, as did the bed's mound of thick blankets, but Lacey resisted the urge to lie down. She had too much to work through and couldn't afford to rest.

She had to find that little woman—that spiritual guide. What was that, anyway, some sort of angel? And how in the world did a person get in touch with one? 1-800-ST. PETER?

A soft knock sounded at her door. "Lacey, honey? Did you find everything all right?"

It was Hazel Martin. Hazel was a nice woman. A bit doting, but nice. She’d taken Lacey’s side against the marshal and that had endured her to Lacey for life.

"Lacey?"

"Just a minute,” Lacey called back. She checked to be sure her purse was under the bed and out of sight, and then shrugged off the quilt and went to the door.

Hazel was standing on the other side, smiling. “Everything okay?”

“Just fine. I found everything I needed, thanks.”

"Then come on out into the drawing room and have some pie and clotted cream with us."

She followed Hazel into the drawing room where the fire in the hearth was now well contained. The leather chair that Lacey had been sitting in all afternoon had been turned to face the sofa, and Hazel sat down in it now to serve from a tin of pie resting on the coffee table. George Martin was perched beside his wife, on a stool next to the fire, poking at the logs with a stick. The marshal was sitting on the sofa and he glared at her as she entered the room.

"Any permanent damage, Miss Guarder?" George asked as his wife handed him a piece of pie.

"No," Lacey replied. She intended to stay a good five feet away from that hearth at all times.

"Did Hazel tell ya about the time she singed her hiney over a brandin' fire?"

"It was mentioned, George," Hazel retorted. She turned to Lacey, "Have a seat, dear,” and handed her a small plate of pie.

"The missus couldn't sit down for a week," George continued. "All she did was whine about how much her feet hurt from havin' to stand all the time. That wasn't the worst of it, though. She had to let the air get at the burns for 'em to heal proper, so I'd come home from a hard day's work and find my glorious wife lyin' face first on the bed with her backside stuck up in the air, glowin’ like a ripe radish.”

A glob of cream flew through the air and hit George in the side of the face. Hazel burst into laughter. Lacey had to bite her bottom lip to keep from doing the same.

"Goodness, George," Hazel quipped. "It looks as if you've been castigated by a large seabird."

"More like an old hen, my love.” He gave her a playful wink and wiped the mess from his cheek.

Hazel looked over at Lacey. "Sit, sit," she coaxed.

But the only place left to sit in the room was beside the marshal on the narrow sofa. and Lacey felt a tad uncomfortable plopping herself down beside him after what she’d done. She couldn’t blame him for being pissed about her karate-kicking him in the nose, but, considering she'd been ablaze at the time, the least he could do was cut her some slack.

"Go on," Hazel prompted her. The woman handed the marshal a plate of pie."Cream, Matthew?"

"No, thank you," the marshal responded.

Plate of pie in hand, Lacey steadied her nerves and sat down beside him on the sofa. She let out a tiny sigh of relief when he propped his ankle on his knee and, for all intents and purposes, ignored her as he ate his pie.

"So, Lacey,” Hazel began, “how long ya intendin' to stay in our fair town? Dare we hope you might make it your permanent home?”

Lacey could have sworn she actually felt the sofa shift as the marshal's ears perked. She chewed the bite of apple pie in her mouth and swallowed. "I haven't decided yet," she answered. Let him gnaw on that for a while, she thought gleefully.

"Lord knows we could use a few more women around here," Hazel put in.

"Yep," George said. “Might tame the men down a bit if there were a few more females to go around."

"Who said anything about the men?” Hazel retorted. "I could use another female ear to jabber off. And our Lacey, here’s, got spunk.” Her expression twisted into a look of uncertainty. “Not like our newest female citizen. That Amanda Simmons is the sweetest thing, wonderful teacher, but she's got the constitution of a bunny rabbit. How that timid thing is gonna survive through one single winter up here in the mountains is beyond—" George cleared his throat, and Hazel shot a look at the marshal as if suddenly remembering he was in the room.

Lacey angled the lawman a curious look and found him staring silently at his empty plate. Just what was this Amanda Simmons to him?

Hazel tried to cover. "That…that is to say…she's such a—a tenderhearted young woman. Such a gentle soul. Say, how are things goin' between you two, Matthew?"

“Just fine,” he answered tightly.

George grinned. “Matthew might be makin' an announcement soon.”

"Really?" Hazel replied. Lacey wasn’t sure if that was surprise or bewilderment she saw on the woman’s face.

"Maybe in a while," the marshal replied,

"An announcement about what?" Lacey asked.

George's grin broadened. "Matthew, here's, been courtin' the new schoolteacher. He's workin' up the courage to ask for her hand.”

“Oh. Well. Congratulations. Or my deepest sympathies. Whichever best applies."

“You have a problem with marriage?” the marshal inquired.

"I just don't understand why women get so excited about the idea, when all it really means is that the man they're involved with is tired of doing his own cooking and cleaning."

Hazel snickered, and she and Lacey shared a conspiratorial smile.

"And how about what marriage means for a woman, Miss Guarder?” the marshal answered. “Security. Protection. Support."

"I provide all those things for myself."

"Is that why you were out lost in a snowstorm?” he asked. "Is that why you're relyin’ on the kindness of strangers? If you were my wife, I'd blister your backside for wanderin off alone."

"If I was your wife," Lacey retorted, “I’d have gotten lost on purpose."

"Now, you two," Hazel chided. "Matthew, why don’t you bring Amanda on over for supper on Saturday." She picked up the pie tin from the coffee table. “Let me just run these dishes into the kitchen and then we can discuss the particulars."

“Here.” Lacey stood. "Let me get those. You've been on your feet all day.” She hadn't seen the poor woman sit down for anything other than dinner and a quick slice of pie since she'd arrived.

Hazel thanked her, and Lacey took the dishes into the kitchen. She set them in the dry sink, and then turned to find the marshal standing behind her. She cried out in alarm and barely restrained herself from hitting him again. “Don’t sneak up on me like that!”

He held up his dirty plate, and then set it in the dry sink. "Didn't mean to startle you.”

"Like hell you didn’t,” she grumbled.

He folded his arms. “How ‘bout the two of us stop this dance and get to the meat of the matter between us."

"And what would that be?"

He gave her a hard stare. “I know you from somewhere."

Lacey blinked, stunned that she wasn’t the only one who’d felt it.

"And it's only a matter of time before I figure out exactly where that somewhere is," he added.

"That sounds a little paranoid."

"The circles I've traveled in have been distinct, Miss Guarder. If you've traveled in them, too, then I've got good reason to be paranoid."

“Sounds like maybe I should be worried about you, Marshal.”

“You aren’t foolin’ me and you can’t distract me. My daddy used to say that if it looks like a duck, walks like a duck, and quacks like a duck, it's a pretty safe guess you've got a duck. And you, Miss Guarder, are about as fowl as they come.”

She smirked. “I see what you did there.”

He didn’t even crack a smile.

“So, what if you're right? Maybe I am some nefarious criminal.” She shrugged. “What do you intend to do about it?"

He leaned closer, until she could see the tiny gray flecks of color in his green eyes. "The second you cross the line in this town,” he whispered, “will be your last second of freedom on this earth." His gaze lingered on her face, then he turned and left the kitchen.

Lacey narrowed her eyes on his departing back. The man was a walking menace—with a loaded weapon. For some strange reason, he'd made her his next crime-fighting target, and worrying about him worrying about her was the very last thing she needed.

Hazel Martin came bustling into the kitchen and set her apron on the counter. "Me and the mister are headin' for bed," she announced.

Lacey frowned at the clock on the wall. "But it's only seven."

"We usually go down with the sun, but we've enjoyed your company so much this evenin’ we hated for the night to end. See you bright and early in the mornin’, Lacey.”

Bright and early? Lacey never went to bed before one, and she never woke up before ten. She planned to spend her morning in bed with the covers pulled up over her head, hoping this had all been a bad dream.

“Be sure to turn the lantern off when you leave the kitchen,” Hazel told her. With a final smile, the woman headed off down the hallway.

Lacey heard the thud of George and Hazel's bedroom door close and reached for the lantern on the counter. With the marshal lurking about, she preferred to spend the rest of the evening in her own room. She lowered the wick until the flame flickered out, and then followed the light in the hallway back toward the drawing room. The marshal was standing with his back to the fire. He looked up as she passed.

"I'll be sleeping on the sofa, Miss Guarder,” he called after her.

“I’ll alert the media,” she called back.

“Just in case you decide to go skulkin’ around in the middle of the night."

Lacey turned to glare back at him. “Are you insinuating that I would steal from these nice people?”

“Lady, I have no idea who you are—you’ve made sure of that. I plan to stick to you like sap on a bear's butt as long as you’re in my town.”

“Well, aren’t I a lucky girl.” She turned for her room.

“And don't get any bright ideas about throwin’ the covers over your head and sleepin’ in in the mornin’. The Martins are going to need help shovelin’ the snow off the porch."

Lacey gritted her teeth. “Wouldn't dream of it,” she called back.

She stepped into her room and barely restrained herself from slamming the door behind her. "Self-righteous bastard," she muttered.

"Hello, Miss Guarder."

Lacey looked up to find the spiritual guide sitting on the edge of the bed in the glow of lantern light.

“It is about time.” Lacey strode toward her. "Just who the hell do you think you are leaving me in a place like this?!”

"Young lady, if you are going to be difficult—"

"Difficult?” Lacey dropped down beside her. “Difficult is being abandoned in the middle of a snowstorm to freeze to death!"

"You didn't freeze to death."

“I certainly could have."

The woman sighed. "What is, is. What isn't, was never meant to be."

Lacey shook her head at the mumbo jumbo. “Just tell me what I'm doing here.”

“Everyone has their destinies, their missions in life, and you are now finally in the midst of yours."

“Okay. Well. It’s been loads of fun. When do I go home?”

"You don't."

Lacey leaned closer. "I'm sorry?"

"Unless you wish to go back to the exact place you left.”

"Are you saying you would really put me back in jail?"

"If you return to the twenty-first century, then you will have to live with the life you created for yourself there.”

"So my choices are life in prison or life in the nineteenth century? That's like asking somebody whether they'd rather be shot or stabbed!"

"Come now, Miss Guarder. Granted, this place is a little antiquated—"

"A little antiquated? We're talking before sliced bread, here!"

"But it is certainly better than prison, wouldn’t you say?”

"Come on. Be serious. How am I supposed to live in this place? I don’t have a job. I don’t have any money. I don’t even know anybody here.”

“I’ll be here to help you."

Lacey grunted. “There's a great comfort. My own personal Jiminy Cricket."

The woman gave her a serious look. “I will be watching you very closely, Miss Guarder. This second chance did not come easily. You are going to have to prove to me that you deserve it, and that you will use it wisely."

“So, not only am I in hell, I have to earn the right to stay in here?”

Lacey was beginning to feel panicked by the whole situation. It had taken her years to learn how to survive on her own. How was she going to survive on her own in the nineteenth century?

Her panic must have shown because the woman reached out to take her hand. Lacey jerked away instinctively, lurching up from the bed.

The woman gave her a sympathetic look. "I'm sorry," she said softly. "I forgot that you don't like to be touched. It's a very reasonable reaction, you know, considering what you went through as a child."

Embarrassed, Lacey moved further across the room. “Forgive me, but I really don't care to hear your armchair analysis of my childhood."

"You must let that pain go, Miss Guarder. You must overcome your fears."

“Thank you, Doctor Phil.”

"You are no longer that vulnerable child,” the angel persisted. “You are a woman in control, a woman with choices. You have within you the same capacity to love that exists in every human being. But you have built a wall of protection around yourself that is so high and so thick nothing can get in or out."

“If I'm so pathetic, how 'bout you forgive me my transgressions, and just send me back to good old 2018 and let me get on with my life?"

The woman shook her head. "The moment you knew the difference between right and wrong you were held accountable. Nothing and no one has forced you to do the things you've done. You've chosen to lead a life of dishonesty, and if you return to 2018 you will have to pay the price for that choice.”

“If I’m so terrible, then why are you letting me stay here?”

“I am correcting a wrong by putting you back where you belong in the fabric of time. Consider yourself lucky to have this opportunity."

Lacey grunted. “I guess the gratitude comes later.”

"As I said, you will have to prove to me that you deserve this second chance."

"And what, exactly, do you expect me to do?"

"Fulfill your mission."

“What mission?”

"Every human being has one. Some complete them by simply being born. Others by accomplishing greatness in their lives."

"And mine?"

"Yours is somewhere in between. Do you remember me telling you that the town of Tranquility went bankrupt in 1879?"

"Yes…”

“The reason behind its bankruptcy is you, Miss Guarder. You weren't here to save it. Originally you were to be born in Chicago, Illinois, in 1853, and travel here with your family."

Lacey blinked. “I save a whole town?"

"In a roundabout way."

She narrowed her eyes. “How roundabout?"

"The problem, Miss Guarder, arose when you weren't here to help the person who is intended to save Tranquility."

"And that person is…?”

"Now, please remain calm. I know—"

"Who is it?” Lacey demanded.

The woman paused, then sighed. "Matthew Brady."

“No way, lady! Not on your life! Not on my life! I am not helping him! That man hates me!”

“You’d rather go to prison?"

"Oh, that's dirty pool. I never thought I'd see the day when I'd be blackmailed by an angel!"

"If Mr. Brady does not find the money that the Rawlins brothers stole from the city bank, he will lose his job—the town will lose it’s marshal. Lawlessness will reign, no new citizens will settle here, and when the loggers move on to find other timber, there will be nothing left but a few ramshackle buildings and a stray dog."

“So?"

The woman pursed her lips. “Do it for this town or do it for yourself, Miss Guarder, but help Mr. Brady find that stolen money. He will not be able to recover it without you. If you can accomplish your mission within one week, I will allow you to stay here. If, on the other hand, you create problems…you will go back to twenty-first century jail."

"Wonderful,” Lacey grumbled.

“Miss Guarder…Lacey…if you would simply lower your guard—just a bit—and stop trying to aggravate the man, you might actually be surprised by what you find.”

Lacey gave her an eager smile. “You mean like opening a present?”

“Yes.” The woman smiled back. “Just like a present.”

“I hate presents.” And Matthew Brady was not a package she had any interest in unwrapping.

The woman sighed and stood from the bed. "Get some rest, Miss Guarder. Hopefully you’ll feel better about all this in the morning."

"And where will you be?"

"I have other duties, but, rest assured, I will be checking up on you frequently."

“So, it’s probation all over again."

"Just keep in mind that things could be worse. Much worse." And with that, the woman vanished.

Lacey walked over dropped down onto the edge of her bed. She closed her eyes and tried to warm up to the idea of helping Matthew Brady save his job, but quickly realized she’d rather help him off a tall cliff instead. She doubted the marshal was going to be anymore thrilled with the idea of her helping him than she was, and wondered what would happen if they killed each other before her great "mission" even got off the ground.