Page 52 of Stolen Time
It made sense, in a way; all witch clans needed to intermarry with civilians to avoid the dangers of inbreeding, and even though I might have been a little problematic to some of them due to my memory loss, I was still a young, healthy woman who would make a good addition to the family. Also, as time wore on and no one appeared to claim me, they were probably thinking it was clear that whoever I was, I certainly didn’t have a husband or even a fiancé, or surely they would have heard of someone trying to find me.
That would never happen, of course, for the simple reason that anyone who knew of my existence wouldn’t be born for decades.
We climbed into Seth’s ’24 Dodge — which was a sweet ride, no matter what century you were in — and headed up the highway. Because we’d be out after dark, I brought a borrowed wrap of Ruth’s along, although it currently rested in my lap along with my purse.
Between the wind noise and the rumble from the car’s flathead engine, there wasn’t much use in talking. That was allright, though. For me, it was enough to be sitting there with Seth only a foot or so away, to see his fine profile caught by the light of the late afternoon sun whenever we moved out of the shadow of a stand of trees or a rocky outcropping.
We went past the little picnic area where we’d shared a meal nearly a week ago, but it slipped by quickly enough as we continued to climb, now surrounded by a ponderosa forest that again didn’t seem all that different from how it looked in my own time. The real change I noticed was when we came down the western side of the mountain and into Prescott Valley, which didn’t seem to contain anything except some widely scattered farms and ranches. In the twenty-first century, it was filled with tracts of homes and the inevitable mini-malls and shopping centers, but now all I saw was miles of dry golden grass punctuated by the occasional split-rail fence and grove of trees, all of which appeared to indicate a nearby homestead.
I had to admit this version of the landscape was a lot prettier.
Prescott itself hadn’t sprawled nearly as much, either, and consisted mainly of the neighborhoods of older homes close to downtown I remembered from the time when I’d visited with my parents when I was around ten. Of course, those houses now were shiny and new, some of them so freshly built they didn’t have trees planted yet.
The courthouse was the same, though, as were a lot of the buildings in the town’s historic section, even if the businesses that occupied them were utterly different.
Well, except the venue where we appeared to be headed.
Seth pulled up to the curb and parked in front of the Palace Restaurant, the same place my parents had taken us kids when we visited Prescott. As far as I could tell, it didn’t look much different, although I noticed the word “bar” was conspicuously missing from the signage.
Another casualty of Prohibition, I supposed.
I must have been staring, because Seth asked, “Is this place familiar to you?”
Surely it couldn’t hurt to say it was. In fact, it might help to let a few details start to leak out, if only to give everyone hope that my memories might begin to come back at some point. After all, if I was going to entertain even the slight possibility of remaining here in the past, I’d have to figure out some way of telling him the truth about who I was and where I’d come from.
No matter how awkward such a conversation might turn out to be.
“Maybe,” I allowed, then looked around the street, from the row of buildings to our right to the imposing courthouse and its park to our left. “Something makes me feel as if I’ve seen it before, although I can’t say for sure.”
Even that measured response appeared to be enough to cheer him, because he was smiling as he came around to open my car door. “Well, then,” he said, “let’s go in and see if anything else jogs your memory.”
He took me inside, which again didn’t seem all that different from the restaurant I remembered. Possibly a few of the details about the enormous carved bar weren’t quite the same, and the waitresses wore black dresses with white aprons rather than the replica-Victorian getups that seemed to be the restaurant uniform in my day, but still, my surroundings weren’t too dissonant.
Even though it was nearly eight, the place was still busy enough. We had to wait a few minutes for a table, but soon enough, we were guided to a nice, quiet booth in a corner, a spot where I thought no one would pay too much attention to us.
“What do you think of Prescott?” Seth asked after the maitre d’ left us to peruse the menus.
“It’s bigger than I thought it would be,” I replied.
His mouth quirked. “Is that because you’re comparing it to Jerome and Cottonwood?”
“Possibly,” I allowed. “Or maybe I do come from here, but because I can’t remember for sure, something about it doesn’t feel quite right.”
“I suppose I could see that.” He stopped there, as if searching for what he should say next. Then his expression brightened and he added, “Maybe you’ll see someone here who recognizes you.”
Absolutely zero chance of that happening, but I wouldn’t tell him that, not when he was looking so hopeful. It sure seemed as though he also believed I didn’t have any kind of significant other, thanks to the way no one had shown up in Jerome in search of their missing fiancée or wife.
Which meant Seth must believe no barriers stood in the way of us pursuing a relationship. Not exactly true — this wasn’t my time, even if it was sort of my place, at least in an adopted sort of way — but since it didn’t seem as if my powers wanted to send me back where I belonged, why should I try to fight the connection between us?
For all I knew, I’d zapped myself to 1926 because my often wonky gift had somehow realized the only man for me was alive back then, and not in my present.
Stranger things had happened in the witch world, after all.
“Maybe,” I allowed. “I suppose we’ll just have to see what happens.”
Seth seemed satisfied with that response, because he nodded and then looked down at the menu.
Meaning I should probably do the same thing. Just like the restaurant where we’d eaten in Cottonwood, this place seemed to heavily favor steaks and pork chops and fried chicken. I supposed I shouldn’t have expected anything else, but still, I found myself craving a salad or pizza or even some Indian food.