Along the banks of the Mississippi

1714

"If you're going to kill me, do it now."

Lightning flashed and thunder shook the earth. Vaughn Dupre squinted through the blinding rivulets of rain washing over her and cowered among prickly brambles beneath the branches of a hickory tree.

An ancient white-bearded Indian dropped to his knees in front of her and stared into her eyes. His breath brushed her skin.

Vaughn clenched the valise holding her carefully folded wedding dress. She had been on her way to Fort Rosalie to meet the stranger she was to marry when the Indians attacked.

She had watched in horror as the Indians killed those in her traveling party, one by one. Only her best friend and companion had survived nearly as long as she had. Now she could see Mary's brutalized body several yards away.

"Please," she pleaded, "do it quickly."

The old man shook his head and spoke slowly - deliberately. "There is only one way you can possibly survive. You must travel.”

He placed a roughened finger beneath her chin and waited a heartbeat for her eyes to focus on his. “You must travel,” he repeated, “through time. I must send you to a different time."

Vaughn took a deep breath, fear searing her throat. He spoke in French, but she understood him. He was trying to help her. Though he was dressed like the other Indians, his skin tone was lighter and his kindly features were more like those of the French familiar to her.

"I can run," Vaughn whispered, her throat closing as she spoke.

"It would do no good. The Natchee will seek you out and slice your throat as they did the others."

An image of her childhood home in the countryside of France flashed through her mind. It was followed by a memory of the orphanage where she had spent the last ten years of her life. She had nothing to leave behind and no one to miss her. The man awaiting her would find another wife easily enough. There were plenty of desperate girls on their way who could take her place. She could only pray to God that they would fare better than she and Mary had.

Though it was incomprehensible that she could be sent to another time by this man, or anyone else, the alternatives were bleak, at best.

She knew only one thing - she did not want to die.

"I beg you… do whatever you can to help me."

Now that he had her permission, the old man hesitated. "There is no guarantee. I know not where you will go or for how long. You may not even live through it."

Looking back at the carnage of her friend and former traveling companions, she grasped his sleeve, ready now, to take the risk. "If you don't try, I am certain to die."

"I have seen strange things since I've lived with the Natchee." He spoke slowly, as though his native language suddenly fell unfamiliar on his tongue. "Very well. I can help you, but I must warn you.

"Once the rip in time is made, it may take centuries for it to heal itself. Not only you, but those of your blood may pass through it. It will happen without warning. I warn you to be prepared."

Her ragged breath scratched her throat. "How will I know?"

"You won't."

Suddenly the French Indian lifted his arms and stretched toward the Heavens. He chanted words she couldn't understand and didn't want to. The wind whipped around them in a fury. He held his arms high and yelled to the sky.

Vaughn looked around her. The Indians would find them now. There was no doubt. The old man's incantation had to work.

The fierce wind sent debris flying. The clouds darkened. Thunder crashed over their heads. His focus was unaffected by the rain or the wind as his deer-hide robe was assailed by the fury of the wind.

Vaughn squeezed her eyes closed.

I am going to die.

She should never have come to this new world. Should never have listened to the call of adventure in her blood. Only by a twist of fate would that very blood not be spilled upon the ground of this wild, untamed territory.

Her ears rang, blocking out the commotion. Then she felt something that felt like the warmth of the sun on her skin. She opened her eyes. There was no sign of rain or wind or brambles... or the strange Indian.

Her clothes were soaked and her hair sodden. She still gripped her valise with the wedding dress in her hands. She stood up slowly and turned around.

She gasped. A young gentleman on a large black horse towered over her.

She blinked, clearing raindrops from her eyelashes. He was smiling.

"You seem to have had some sort of mishap. My name is Nathaniel Becquerel. Perhaps I can be of assistance," he said, stretching his hand out to her.