Erin's Rebel - Chapter 2
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Erin's Rebel
Time Travel Romance
The Wild Rose Press
Time Travel Romance
The Wild Rose Press
A long strand of red-gold hair flowed over her shoulder. She reached up and realized it was attached to her head. The close-cropped
style she normally wore was gone. Her fingers brushed over long, loose strands tumbling over the nape of her neck. She pulled out
hairpins stuck in the thick, tangled mess.
Alarmed, she pushed herself to her feet. The momentum caused her to sway, and a bout of nausea made her stomach churn.
Doc reached out to steady her. "Whoa there, ma'am. Don't go running off so all-fired fast." He pressed her back into a seated position
on the cot.
Through the haze of pain, something clicked in her memory. "Did you call me Mrs. O'Connell? My name is Erin... Erin Branigan."
The doctor frowned. "Your Christian name is Erin, but your married name is O'Connell. Could Branigan be your maiden name? Hitting
your head could have caused a lapse in your memory."
"There's nothing wrong with my memory. I'm Erin Branigan. I've never been married. I was in a car accident on my way home."
"Railcar? That don't make a lick of sense. Far as I heard, you never left camp."
"No - I mean - I don't understand any of this." A knot formed in her stomach.
"The blow to the head has affected your memory. Just rest a spell, and everything will come back to you."
"I don't know who the hell you think I am. I just want to know where I am and how the hell I got here. I have to get back home."
The man backed up a step and raised his hands, palms out. "Calm down, ma'am. There's no need for cussing. And what happened to
your brogue?"
"My what?"
"Your choice of words is odd, too. I'm having a hard time catching your meaning."
Is this guy for real? He obviously understands English.
But another thought sent a chill down her spine. What had happened to her car? It could still be back on the road, or already been
towed. The vehicle would be traced to her, and her mother would be notified as next of kin. Her mom would be frantic when the police
can't locate her.
Her cell phone must still be in the car, along with the rest of her belongings. But where were her clothes?
"Listen, Mr. - ah - Doc," she said. "I need to make a phone call. My mother will be worried sick. I guess I should call the local police, too."
His brow furrowed. "I thought you said your mother lived in Ireland. And what in tarnation is a phone call?"
She sighed in exasperation. "Don't you have a cell phone?"
A blank expression took over his face.
"I've heard you reenactors can be strict, but there must be a pay phone somewhere around here."
He shook his head. "You should rest, ma'am. I'll mix up a headache powder for you. You'll feel a mite better once you get some sleep."
After lifting her ankles onto the cot, he pushed against her shoulders, forcing her to lie down.
As he walked away, she glared at him. No way could he force her to stay.
While he occupied himself with the colored bottles on the table, she rose and steadied herself as a wave of pain coursed through her.
Her head spun, and she nearly plopped back down. But sheer determination pushed her forward. Edging toward the open tent flap, she
peered outside. Until her vision refocused, everything appeared fuzzy.
Where the hell am I?
After glancing back to be sure he wouldn't try to stop her, she eased through the canvas flaps. Rows of different sized tents surrounded
her in the rosy glow of dawn. A large tarp overhead shielded the tent's entryway. Two black cast iron grates sat a few feet beyond the
tarp. Burnt logs nestled among cinders sent wafts of white smoke into the air, while cast iron skillets and pans sat atop one of the
grates. The scent of wood smoke reminded her of nights spent beside a cozy fireplace in her grandmother's house in Candor.
Tents were lined up in a partially cleared area with a few trees standing among them. A handful of men dressed like Doc, in loose
shirts and gray or tan trousers held up with suspenders, milled about. This had to be a reenactment. If one of them could drive her back
to her car... but on second thought, the car would be in no condition to drive. She had to get hold of her mother.
One man with straight, copper-colored hair touching his collar and a full beard crouched over a grate where flames crackled. The
contents of his pan sizzled. The smell of bacon sent a wave of nausea through her. She doubled over, afraid she might retch.
"Ma'am," someone called, startling her. "I'm mighty pleased to see you're up."
She turned in the direction of the deep voice. Am I dreaming? She licked her lips as she stared into the dark eyes that had haunted her
dreams.
"Ma'am? You look a mite peaked."
As he moved closer, her knees turned to jelly. Strong, hard-muscled arms embraced her, offering support. Her head spun. She lifted a
hand to stop the motion and encountered wool, a double row of metal buttons and a rock-hard chest. The enticing aroma of
sandalwood mixed with a musky, masculine scent, plus a tinge of wood smoke invaded her senses. Had she hit her head harder than
she'd thought?
She gazed at his lightly tanned faced. Firm lips tilted upward slightly at the corners surrounded by a thin chocolate-colored mustache
curving into a neatly-trimmed beard covering only his chin. Thick, dark hair brushed his collar and curled from beneath a
broad-brimmed black hat. Her pulse raced as she leaned against his long, solid frame. Night after night in her dreams she'd run her
hands through those curls.
"How can you be here?" she murmured.
"Pardon me, ma'am?"
"I don't understand." She tried to wrench from his grasp, but he gathered her close, lifting her into his arms. "What are you doing?"
"Taking you back where you belong." He carried her to the tent entrance where Doc peered out.
"Will, what the devil is going on?"
"I assume you didn't give Mrs. O'Connell permission to leave."
"I did not." He scowled. "I told you to rest."
The dark-haired man carried her inside and laid her on the cot. She propped herself on an elbow to get a better view of the man Doc
called Will. Broad shoulders tapered into a narrow waist accentuated by the cut of his gray frock coat trimmed in gold braid.
"Who the hell are you?" she asked.
"Pardon me, ma'am?"
His gaze chilled her blood. He looked exactly like the man in the antique photo she'd found between the pages of her grandmother's
Bible. If he were the man in the photo, where was she? Maybe the crash had killed her, and she was now in the afterlife. And like the
man who called himself Doc, this man had also called her Mrs. O'Connell. Grandma Rose's great-aunt. Something wasn't right.
Unable to voice her fears, she stared open-mouthed at the man.
"Will," Doc said. "I think Mrs. O'Connell's having trouble with her memory."
"Her memory?"
"The fall from the horse," Doc explained, "seems to have affected her memory - even her speech. Her nose was bleeding a bit, and she
has a fair-sized lump on the back of her head."
Will frowned.
Erin's mind reeled. This couldn't be the same man she'd researched.
The men looked at her, waiting for a response.
"How many times do I have to tell you?" she said. "I was never on a horse." She squeezed her eyes shut as the pain increased, then
blinked furiously so she could focus.
Doc glanced at Will as if to confirm his diagnosis, then pressed a cool, damp towel against her forehead.
"Ma'am." Will removed his hat. "I would advise you to stay put until Doc says you can go back to your tent."
"I don't have a tent," she grated between clenched teeth.
The men exchanged glances.
"It's worse than I thought, " Doc said.
"You say the fall affected her speech?" Will scowled.
"There's no other way to explain it."
Click here to purchase from The Wild Rose Press.
style she normally wore was gone. Her fingers brushed over long, loose strands tumbling over the nape of her neck. She pulled out
hairpins stuck in the thick, tangled mess.
Alarmed, she pushed herself to her feet. The momentum caused her to sway, and a bout of nausea made her stomach churn.
Doc reached out to steady her. "Whoa there, ma'am. Don't go running off so all-fired fast." He pressed her back into a seated position
on the cot.
Through the haze of pain, something clicked in her memory. "Did you call me Mrs. O'Connell? My name is Erin... Erin Branigan."
The doctor frowned. "Your Christian name is Erin, but your married name is O'Connell. Could Branigan be your maiden name? Hitting
your head could have caused a lapse in your memory."
"There's nothing wrong with my memory. I'm Erin Branigan. I've never been married. I was in a car accident on my way home."
"Railcar? That don't make a lick of sense. Far as I heard, you never left camp."
"No - I mean - I don't understand any of this." A knot formed in her stomach.
"The blow to the head has affected your memory. Just rest a spell, and everything will come back to you."
"I don't know who the hell you think I am. I just want to know where I am and how the hell I got here. I have to get back home."
The man backed up a step and raised his hands, palms out. "Calm down, ma'am. There's no need for cussing. And what happened to
your brogue?"
"My what?"
"Your choice of words is odd, too. I'm having a hard time catching your meaning."
Is this guy for real? He obviously understands English.
But another thought sent a chill down her spine. What had happened to her car? It could still be back on the road, or already been
towed. The vehicle would be traced to her, and her mother would be notified as next of kin. Her mom would be frantic when the police
can't locate her.
Her cell phone must still be in the car, along with the rest of her belongings. But where were her clothes?
"Listen, Mr. - ah - Doc," she said. "I need to make a phone call. My mother will be worried sick. I guess I should call the local police, too."
His brow furrowed. "I thought you said your mother lived in Ireland. And what in tarnation is a phone call?"
She sighed in exasperation. "Don't you have a cell phone?"
A blank expression took over his face.
"I've heard you reenactors can be strict, but there must be a pay phone somewhere around here."
He shook his head. "You should rest, ma'am. I'll mix up a headache powder for you. You'll feel a mite better once you get some sleep."
After lifting her ankles onto the cot, he pushed against her shoulders, forcing her to lie down.
As he walked away, she glared at him. No way could he force her to stay.
While he occupied himself with the colored bottles on the table, she rose and steadied herself as a wave of pain coursed through her.
Her head spun, and she nearly plopped back down. But sheer determination pushed her forward. Edging toward the open tent flap, she
peered outside. Until her vision refocused, everything appeared fuzzy.
Where the hell am I?
After glancing back to be sure he wouldn't try to stop her, she eased through the canvas flaps. Rows of different sized tents surrounded
her in the rosy glow of dawn. A large tarp overhead shielded the tent's entryway. Two black cast iron grates sat a few feet beyond the
tarp. Burnt logs nestled among cinders sent wafts of white smoke into the air, while cast iron skillets and pans sat atop one of the
grates. The scent of wood smoke reminded her of nights spent beside a cozy fireplace in her grandmother's house in Candor.
Tents were lined up in a partially cleared area with a few trees standing among them. A handful of men dressed like Doc, in loose
shirts and gray or tan trousers held up with suspenders, milled about. This had to be a reenactment. If one of them could drive her back
to her car... but on second thought, the car would be in no condition to drive. She had to get hold of her mother.
One man with straight, copper-colored hair touching his collar and a full beard crouched over a grate where flames crackled. The
contents of his pan sizzled. The smell of bacon sent a wave of nausea through her. She doubled over, afraid she might retch.
"Ma'am," someone called, startling her. "I'm mighty pleased to see you're up."
She turned in the direction of the deep voice. Am I dreaming? She licked her lips as she stared into the dark eyes that had haunted her
dreams.
"Ma'am? You look a mite peaked."
As he moved closer, her knees turned to jelly. Strong, hard-muscled arms embraced her, offering support. Her head spun. She lifted a
hand to stop the motion and encountered wool, a double row of metal buttons and a rock-hard chest. The enticing aroma of
sandalwood mixed with a musky, masculine scent, plus a tinge of wood smoke invaded her senses. Had she hit her head harder than
she'd thought?
She gazed at his lightly tanned faced. Firm lips tilted upward slightly at the corners surrounded by a thin chocolate-colored mustache
curving into a neatly-trimmed beard covering only his chin. Thick, dark hair brushed his collar and curled from beneath a
broad-brimmed black hat. Her pulse raced as she leaned against his long, solid frame. Night after night in her dreams she'd run her
hands through those curls.
"How can you be here?" she murmured.
"Pardon me, ma'am?"
"I don't understand." She tried to wrench from his grasp, but he gathered her close, lifting her into his arms. "What are you doing?"
"Taking you back where you belong." He carried her to the tent entrance where Doc peered out.
"Will, what the devil is going on?"
"I assume you didn't give Mrs. O'Connell permission to leave."
"I did not." He scowled. "I told you to rest."
The dark-haired man carried her inside and laid her on the cot. She propped herself on an elbow to get a better view of the man Doc
called Will. Broad shoulders tapered into a narrow waist accentuated by the cut of his gray frock coat trimmed in gold braid.
"Who the hell are you?" she asked.
"Pardon me, ma'am?"
His gaze chilled her blood. He looked exactly like the man in the antique photo she'd found between the pages of her grandmother's
Bible. If he were the man in the photo, where was she? Maybe the crash had killed her, and she was now in the afterlife. And like the
man who called himself Doc, this man had also called her Mrs. O'Connell. Grandma Rose's great-aunt. Something wasn't right.
Unable to voice her fears, she stared open-mouthed at the man.
"Will," Doc said. "I think Mrs. O'Connell's having trouble with her memory."
"Her memory?"
"The fall from the horse," Doc explained, "seems to have affected her memory - even her speech. Her nose was bleeding a bit, and she
has a fair-sized lump on the back of her head."
Will frowned.
Erin's mind reeled. This couldn't be the same man she'd researched.
The men looked at her, waiting for a response.
"How many times do I have to tell you?" she said. "I was never on a horse." She squeezed her eyes shut as the pain increased, then
blinked furiously so she could focus.
Doc glanced at Will as if to confirm his diagnosis, then pressed a cool, damp towel against her forehead.
"Ma'am." Will removed his hat. "I would advise you to stay put until Doc says you can go back to your tent."
"I don't have a tent," she grated between clenched teeth.
The men exchanged glances.
"It's worse than I thought, " Doc said.
"You say the fall affected her speech?" Will scowled.
"There's no other way to explain it."
Click here to purchase from The Wild Rose Press.
Chapter Two (continued)
"O'Connell? No. I think you've made a mistake, Doctor." She scrutinized him. "You are a doctor,
aren't you?"
He grinned. "Now I know your mind has been affected. I'm Doc Matthews. We met two weeks
ago when you first came to camp."
"I've never seen you before in my life."
Prickles of fear shot through her. When she made to rise, her legs tangled around mounds of
material. She stared down the length of her body. Was she wearing a long dress?
"Where am I?" Leaning on one arm, she glanced around and studied the walls of the spacious,
white canvas tent. With the pain in her head making it difficult to see, she blinked to bring things
into focus. Only then did she fully notice her surroundings. She lay on a canvas wood-frame cot
while other, empty cots stood in rows along one wall of the tent. A long, wooden table with
spindle-back chairs occupied the opposite corner. An oil lantern on the table illuminated the
interior. Assorted corked bottles of colored glass, in various sizes and shapes sat beside - what
looked like - antique medical instruments. Had she stumbled into some kind of reenactment? A
friend of hers from the paper had been into Civil War reenacting. She'd visited his camp, and it
had looked a lot like this.
Cradling her aching head between her hands, she blinked, squeezing out tears that obscured
her vision. On the edge of the table sat a pile of cream-colored ceramic plates, bowls, a few
teacups, two pitchers, and an assortment of wood-handled utensils.
"Where am I?" she repeated. She struggled to untangle her feet from the skirts and reach the
floor. She gasped. Not only did she wear a dress, but her white sneakers had been replaced
with black leather lace-up boots. "Why am I dressed like this? Where are my clothes?"
"O'Connell? No. I think you've made a mistake, Doctor." She scrutinized him. "You are a doctor,
aren't you?"
He grinned. "Now I know your mind has been affected. I'm Doc Matthews. We met two weeks
ago when you first came to camp."
"I've never seen you before in my life."
Prickles of fear shot through her. When she made to rise, her legs tangled around mounds of
material. She stared down the length of her body. Was she wearing a long dress?
"Where am I?" Leaning on one arm, she glanced around and studied the walls of the spacious,
white canvas tent. With the pain in her head making it difficult to see, she blinked to bring things
into focus. Only then did she fully notice her surroundings. She lay on a canvas wood-frame cot
while other, empty cots stood in rows along one wall of the tent. A long, wooden table with
spindle-back chairs occupied the opposite corner. An oil lantern on the table illuminated the
interior. Assorted corked bottles of colored glass, in various sizes and shapes sat beside - what
looked like - antique medical instruments. Had she stumbled into some kind of reenactment? A
friend of hers from the paper had been into Civil War reenacting. She'd visited his camp, and it
had looked a lot like this.
Cradling her aching head between her hands, she blinked, squeezing out tears that obscured
her vision. On the edge of the table sat a pile of cream-colored ceramic plates, bowls, a few
teacups, two pitchers, and an assortment of wood-handled utensils.
"Where am I?" she repeated. She struggled to untangle her feet from the skirts and reach the
floor. She gasped. Not only did she wear a dress, but her white sneakers had been replaced
with black leather lace-up boots. "Why am I dressed like this? Where are my clothes?"
Copyright 2009 by Susan Macatee