Читать книгу Past Destinies - Constance Ruth Clark - Страница 10

Chapter 5

1868

The bang of a door closing startled Doug awake. Puzzled, he sat up and found he was naked on a prickly feather mattress on a small, uncomfortable double bed. It took seconds to realize that he wasn’t in his own bedroom anymore. Where the hell was he? For a second he thought he’d been kidnapped. But no, there was no one in the room with him, and he wasn’t tied up. Weird. Shivering, he pulled up the blankets to cover himself and could see his breath. Damn, what happened to the heat?

“I’ve got to stop drinking so much before I go to bed,” he said out loud.

Looking around, he noticed a tall narrow window opposite his bed, decorated with a simple red curtain. The hardwood floor boasted nothing more than a round rag rug. A very plain room, overall, especially compared to the lavishly decorated, not to mention warm, room he had fallen asleep in.

While he sat there, wondering where exactly he was, a sharp rap sounded on the door, scaring the hell out of him. He lived alone and any hired help he had to cook or clean would have never dreamed of disturbing him.

“Mr. Coleman, are you out of bed yet?” a feminine voice inquired.

“Why do you want to know?” he threw back, hoping to find out who she was.

“It doesn’t concern me one way or another, it’s your life. If you wish to laze about in bed while the sun is high in the sky, it’s no concern of mine. I just thought you might want some breakfast. It seems I was wrong.” Each sentence was punctuated with a loud sniff, the woman’s voice sounding sharper and more annoyed with each word.

“I’ll be right down,” he said, bemused. Apparently, sarcastic women came with this strange room.

“Don’t be too long. I have more to do today than wait around for you.” Above her retreating footsteps he heard her muttering about lazy men.

Several things became obvious very quickly, the first being that he had no idea how he had arrived at his present location. The second, that he wasn’t all that worried about it after hearing the voice on the other side of the door. Maybe he should have been more concerned, but at least something unusual and interesting was happening. He’d been stagnating for a while in his career and life, waiting for something better to come along. He couldn’t argue that his current situation was better, but it was definitely different. And right now, different sounded pretty darn good to him.

He got out of bed, wincing as his feet touched the cold hardwood floor, and looked around. Shivering, he noticed he could see his breath every time he exhaled. He’d been in cold like this before but never inside, and certainly never naked. He had to find some clothes before he froze his pecker off. Even his morning wood retreated from the cold, something that had never happened before.

Pulling on a pair of pants he found tossed across the back of a hardwood chair, he felt slightly better but wished he could jump in a hot shower. His mind was still a little fuzzy from the over-imbibing he’d done last night, and he hoped the steamy water would help clear his head.

A small, old-fashioned washstand stood beside his bed. The white porcelain pitcher inside the washbasin was filled with water. Poking in a finger to test it, he found the water still hot. He guessed this was what he would have to use to wash and shave. Why else would it be here? It wasn’t a shower, but he wasn’t going to be fussy.

Picking up some soap from the soap dish, he proceeded to wash up with the washcloth and towel provided. There was a funny-looking razor blade which turned out to be sharper and more dangerous than any he’d ever used before, and some thick, foamy soap in a cup, which he guessed to be shaving cream. Using the mirror above the bureau, he carefully shaved, nicking himself only a couple of times. But he was proud of the job he did overall. He could easily have slit his own throat.

Rinsing off the razor, he put everything back where he’d found it. If only he could find a toothbrush. He cupped some of the water from the pitcher in his hand and quickly rinsed his mouth. Not as fresh as Scope but better than nothing.

He was beginning to get really cold, so he pulled on the undershirt and a thicker shirt with a stiff collar that had also been thrown on the chair. They weren’t his, but he was too cold to care. Glancing out the window, he was shocked to see patches of snow on the ground.

I don’t think I’m in Los Angeles anymore, he thought, laughing to himself.

Clearly he was in a primitive place. Maybe an Amish farm? There weren’t any telephone poles outside, he noticed as he dressed, unsure what the significance of that fact might be.

The clothes fit as if they had been tailored to him, and he found a pair of thick socks and boots under the bed which were also just right. Leaving the room, he noticed a heavy coat hanging on a hook and grabbed it as he walked out the door.

Looking around curiously, he walked down the hall and descended the stairway into the wonderfully warm kitchen. The room was extremely neat but sparsely furnished. Its warmth felt like heaven after his freezing room.

A small thin woman stood at the old-fashioned black cook stove, stirring something in a pot. Her hair was wound tightly into a bun on the top of her head, and she wore a floor-length dress of dark blue covered with a lighter blue apron. She was by no means pretty, and she had an air about her that made him think of a military commander. He knew as soon as he saw her that he’d never seen her before.

She turned to look at him with a frown.

“I’m glad to see you have finally decided to grace us with your presence, Mr. Coleman.” She sniffed, confirming the source of the earlier voice at his door. “My name is Miss Waters.”

Doug was startled. She knew his name! “Uh, yes…good morning, Ma’am.” He gave her a tentative smile, feeling about six years old. Her attitude brooked no questions, so he held back and decided to go with the flow, wherever that might lead.

“You’ll find a place to eat at the table in the next room,” she said as she handed him a bowl of porridge.

“Th-Thank you,” Doug stuttered, hoping like hell he didn’t forget his manners, and went into the next room. There he found a table crowded with two other men and another, less fierce-looking, woman. They were all dressed so strangely that Doug could hardly keep from staring. He suddenly felt like he’d stepped into a movie set and had been the only actor not given the script.

“Good morning,” one of the men who looked to be about his age greeted warmly. He had several days’ growth on his face and had a stocky look about him that said he was used to hard work. “I understand you arrived here rather late last night.”

Doug nodded briefly. “Uh, yeah, I guess,” he answered, sitting down in an empty seat. “I don’t think we’ve been introduced. I’m Doug Coleman,” he said with a smile, and the man who had spoken to him nodded and shook his proffered hand.

“Jack Green,” he said, revealing a crooked smile. “I work for the Washburns, down the road a piece. Don’t mind Brooksay. She’s always got a bug up her ass about something.”

The last bit was said in an undertone, out of the corner of his mouth. Doug grinned and started to eat his breakfast.

“Would you like me to put in a good word for you at the Washburn estate?” Jack pressed. “Miss Waters told us you’ll be needing work”

“Sure, why not?” Doug shrugged.

He guessed it wouldn’t hurt, and he would have to do something with his time while he figured out where he was and what he was doing here. He bit back a curse as he burnt his tongue on the hot oatmeal. This definitely was not a dream!

Playing a hunch he asked, “What’s the date today?” in what he hoped was a casual manner.

“It’s the twenty-ninth of April, I believe,” the woman at the other end of the table answered. “1868,” she added as an afterthought.

The rest of them went back to eating as Doug tried not to choke on the food he’d just put in his mouth. Were they playing some kind of sick joke? But it all seemed so legitimate. The clothes, the way they spoke and acted, the style of furniture, the lack of telephone poles. Looking out the window he could see a horse and buggy coming down the road. It was a lot to take in without warning, and for a moment he felt overwhelmed.

He needed to find out how real this was. Not that he would panic if he found himself in the past. Doug never panicked. Ever. He was a doctor and had been trained in how not to panic. Ever. He wasn’t going to start now. Nope. No sir. No panicking. Not happening. He took a deep breath and concentrated on breathing. And not panicking. Then Doug recalled his dream and the feeling of being pulled as it had ended. Remembering the old woman he’d seen last evening and how she’d said he was the one, he again wondered if something bigger than he could have imagined was happening to him.

Time travel. Was it even possible? From where he was sitting it almost seemed so, but then again it could be a practical joke. A very elaborate and realistic practical joke. What was that show with Ashton Kutcher? Punked? Nah, even Ashton couldn’t have come up with this amount of realism.

Either way, his current circumstance was something different and definitely not mundane. It made him curious about what was outside the house. Now that he wasn’t panicking, he wanted to explore this unfamiliar world.

“Do you think Mr. Washburn would mind if I came to work with you this morning?” Doug asked Jack.

“I don’t see why not. He always needs help with the horses.”

Luckily Doug had some experience with horses, having ridden a lot on his grandparents’ ranch while he was a kid. His grandfather was a big believer in taking care of your horse in every way, so Doug had plenty of experience in mucking stalls, exercising and caring for tack. His knowledge might be rusty, but it was there.

After finishing breakfast, the men left the table, and Doug walked with them down the road to the Washburn Farm. The air was nippy, but the sun shone bright, and it looked like it was going to be a beautiful day. Breathing deeply as he walked, Doug thought he’d never smelled such clear air. He could smell the wood smoke from the buildings along the road and occasionally the pungent smell of manure from a passing horse but no smog or vehicle exhaust anywhere. He also realized he could hear more birds than he remembered. Wondering why the world seemed so quiet now, it occurred to him there were no airplanes overhead. The only sounds were those of the men’s conversation and the crunch of their boots on the hard, frosty ground as they walked.

“Will you be here long, do you think?” Jack asked.

“I don’t know. I guess I’ll play it by ear.”

He’d decided to be as close-mouthed as possible about where he’d come from and where he might be going, especially since he wasn’t sure himself.

Doug had no problem getting a job from Israel Washburn. The problem, as far as he could see, would be keeping the job. He told everyone that he was from the city and not used to farming but wanted to learn and was willing to do whatever needed to be done. They seemed to accept that as a good reason for why he didn’t know most of the basics when it came to farming.

“Aren’t afraid of hard work, are ya boy?” Mr. Washburn boomed out in his large voice, clapping him on the shoulder.

“No sir!” Doug replied with certainty, liking that he was being treated the same as any other man.

“Well then, don’t see what you have to worry about,” Washburn chuckled. “You can start by plowing the back field with Jack there. He’ll be happy to show you the ropes.”

“Yes sir,” Doug said to his retreating back.

This might even be fun, he mused as he caught up with his new friend, busy hitching the oxen to the plow.

Four hours later he wasn’t sure ‘fun’ was exactly the right word to describe what he had done all morning. It seemed Mr. Washburn was right when he had said ‘hard work’ because that’s exactly what it was. Making sure the plow ran straight and deep in the ground while controlling the oxen was no easy task, but Doug was determined that neither Mr. Washburn nor Jack would have a reason to laugh at him. He continued on, uncomplaining and unwavering, as the sun grew hotter and hotter and sweat poured off his head like a waterfall.

When it finally came time to go in for supper, Doug gratefully trudged behind Jack as he drove the oxen back toward the barn, stinking like an overripe apple. On the way back to the boarding house he mentioned wanting to clean up. He really wanted to shower but Jack laughed, actually laughed, when Doug questioned him about a bath. So he asked about the location of the nearest body of water.

“It’s down the road about a mile or so. You’ll find a river, but it’s mighty cold this time of year,” Jack said with a shiver.

“I don’t care,” he said, wiping his sticky face. “I can’t stand my own stench.”

Putting the small piece of soap from his washstand into his pocket, he set out looking for the river.

“Be back for suppah,” Miss Waters called after him.

Minding her warning, he set out at a jog in the direction Jack indicated. He didn’t plan to take long, just long enough to wash off the filth of the day. He wasn’t looking forward to the cold river water, but his modern sensibilities wouldn’t allow him to consider not bathing.