“I don’t understand.” Petra slowly shook her head. True, Emory’s healing from that sword wound had been miraculous. She didn’t know how that had happened. She guessed it had something to do with Rohan and the faith healing, or whatever it was, that she’d seen him do for the gypsy. It was one thing to know someone had healed way too quickly and another to see it happen right before her eyes, like a trick of television editing or computer animation.

“Come,” he said. “It isn’t safe here.” He uncurled away from her, standing slowly, but clearly without pain. Upright, not favoring the side where he’d been shot. She let him pull her to him, feeling that perhaps she shouldn’t, that maybe she should scream. Her mind reeled. She touched his bloody, tattered shirt, and smooth, unblemished chest. At her feet, a metal gun-ball covered in gore lay in a puddle of blood. The bullet, her mind reasoned the unreasonable.

Emory held her elbow with a vice-like grip, and she staggered in his wake.

At the edge of town, Emory put his fingers in his mouth and blew out a long whistle. A big Arabian horse trotted toward them from a thicket of alders. Moments earlier she’d worried that Emory would die in her arms, and now he easily swung her in his arms and placed her on top of the horse. When he tossed her the reins she considered, for only a moment, riding away and leaving him. She’d ride and ride until she found her home—and her own century.

She couldn’t let Emory just carry her away. Not without explanations. With her arms around his waist, she jostled against him the way her thoughts jostled and bounced as the horse carried them further and further from the town’s sights and sounds. Every lurch should have caused Emory great pain. She touched where he’d been shot and he stiffened beneath her hand.

“You must wonder…” he said over his shoulder.

“And you have to tell me.” Petra leaned against his back and spoke into his ear.

“In time.” He kept his face turned toward the road.

Petra knew she shouldn’t allow herself to be swept away, yet she couldn’t muster the nerve to slide off the horse and demand answers. She didn’t know what else to say or ask, so she kept quiet, thinking.

“It will not be long before they regroup and come after us,” Emory said.

“Why?”

“Because we thwarted their plan. Dorrington won’t be safe for us for a long time.”

“Time.” That word again.

The horse slowed, picking his way along the narrow dirt track that skirted around rocks, stumps and trees until it came to a stream.

The storm had blown itself out, leaving only gray clouds and a cold morning drizzle. The horse flicked its tail at the flies that swarmed along the marshy banks.

Maybe the guy who didn’t die belonged with the girl who time traveled, because a more unusual pair couldn’t exist. They were meant to be together. Obviously.

“Tell me your secret,” she said, wishing she could see his face.

He shook his head. “I want to see you when I tell you. I…want to watch you hear what I’m going to say.”

She considered this. “Fair enough, but—”

“Yes?”

“What if after I learn your secrets, I don’t want to go away with you?”

He laughed softly.

“Tell me now.” A realization made her voice hard, and she pulled away from him, which wasn’t easy while riding a horse bareback. To keep from falling, Petra had to hold onto Emory and hug the horse with her thighs. Her legs bumped and rubbed against Emory’s. “Stop this horse. I need to know right now.”

Emory chuckled and clicked the horse into a gallop. Petra’s frustration rose with every clip-clop as sweat formed on the horse’s bridle and the animal’s heat radiated through her. The faster Emory rode, the tighter Petra held on. She told herself she didn’t want to cling to him, but as they flew across the meadow, destination unknown, she decided holding on was the smartest thing to do.

When the late afternoon sun glinted off the distant hills, Emory pulled the horse alongside the river. Boulders lined the bank, stacked like a giant game of Jenga. Emory reined the horse to a walk before sliding off.

“My lady.” He held out a hand. Again she had the chance—she could take the reins and ride far, far away, but where would she go?

“My lady?”

“Where are we?” Petra looked at the wild and craggy landscape.

“Half a day’s journey from London.”

“Where are we going?”

“We have arrived. Further decisions can be made in the morning.”

“We’re going to stay here?” Her voice broke. “Like camping? But we don’t have…”

“We are safe.” He continued to hold out his hand. “What more do we need?”

Petra hadn’t spent a lot of time camping, but she remembered going with her cousins and a truck full of stuff. “How about sleeping bags, a propane stove, freeze-dried food, insect repellent, a tent, a flashlight for starters.”

“I’m sure those items, whatever they may be, would be nice to have, but they are not necessary.”

Necessary? She looked around. Of course, there wasn’t a restroom or even a port-a-potty. Necessary suddenly seemed relative.

Emory dropped his hand and turned away.

“Where are you going?” she called after his back.

Slowly he pulled his shirt over his head and continued toward the river. Petra slid off the horse, following. Emory sat on a rock and tugged off his boots. Standing a few feet away, Petra’s heart began to hammer as Emory stood and undid his belt buckle. She let out a small sigh when she saw he left his pants on. He dove into the river, and the water swirled red and brown around him. Seconds later he surfaced. His chest that been torn and bloody, looked clean and new.

Petra closed her mouth and turned away so that Emory wouldn’t catch her staring.

“Join me?”

Dying sun sparkled on the current pulling the water to the sea. Petra hung back. In 2014 her bra and panties would be considered modest on most beaches, but what did women wear swimming in 1614? Bloomers? Or maybe Elizabethan women didn’t swim. Undressing in front of Emory was nothing like undressing in front of Mary. Turning her back to him, she unbuttoned the blood crusted shirt and hung it on a low branch. Sitting on a rock, she pulled off her boots. Then she slipped off the pants that reeked of horse sweat and worse.

Emory had his back turned as she waded into the water. The rocks were slippery and she had to catch herself a number of times as the river’s current pushed at her legs. She waded out to where the water covered her shoulders, pulled out what remained of her hairpins, lowered her head into the water and let her hair fan out around her. The river washed away the stench of horse, sweat, smoke and ash, and the knot between her shoulders loosened a bit. She rose from the water and saw Emory watching.

“In truth, who are you?” His voice carried over the water.

She’d been waiting for this. What if he didn’t believe her? Yet his own story had to be so incredible; hers would probably seem boring in comparison—what’s time travel compared to the ability to miraculously heal from lethal bullet and sword wounds? She trusted him enough to know he wouldn’t abandon her in the middle of nowhere, even if he didn’t believe her.

“I’m Petra Baron from Royal Oaks, California,” she began. “About five days ago I went into a fortuneteller’s tent at a Renaissance fair. The year was 2014.” She took a deep breath, watching his impassive face for a reaction. “When I left the tent, I found myself in Dorrington, England year 1610.”

He stood three feet away, not close enough to touch. She thought about wading over to him and taking his hand. Instead, she added quietly, “I don’t blame you for not believing me, but it’s the truth.”

The sun dimmed quickly, slipping behind a cloud in a pink haze. Trees overhanging the creek cast short shadows on Emory. Standing in the sun and water, Petra didn’t feel cold, but she wondered if Emory was cold in the shade. She wondered if he felt cold, if he ever felt tired or hungry. She wondered what he felt about her.

Emory gave a small nod, as if he understood the illogical and impossible. How could anyone buy her story? She didn’t understand and it had happened to her. “Who are you?” Petra asked. “Or, maybe I should ask, what are you?”

“I’m Emory Ravenswood. In the fourteenth century, when I entered my eighteenth year, my life…changed. Forever.”

Petra let out a small gasp and a wave of relief washed over her. “You’re like me. We’re both time travelers!”

Emory went forward and she went backwards. How amazing that they met in the middle, that they shared this rare and phenomenal experience together, that she didn’t have to be alone, that she’d been given someone to share her life with.

“I’m not like you.” Emory interrupted her thoughts. “I did not travel through time like you. I am like most men.”

“Like most men?” Petra slipped on the rocks. She treaded water until her feet hit sand which shifted as she wrestled with what Emory had told her. “Most men don’t live for hundreds of years. Are you saying you’re two hundred years old?”

A cold wind picked up, shaking the trees. Leaves danced from the branches and landed in the water. Petra shivered.

Emory, taking note, waded toward her and took her hand. “I’ve been on this earth since the fourteen hundreds, but my body is eighteen years old. In that, we are the same.”

Petra’s arms and legs were growing stiff in the cold water. She wanted to drown in disappointment. “We’re not the same.”

He pulled her to him and held her. She felt lulled by his warmth; she wanted to lean into him, let him take her, but she felt wooden and hollow.

“I’ve been alone a very long time. It’s very difficult to watch the people I love grow old and die.” He brushed the wet strands of hair off her face. “Until you, I’ve managed to keep my distance.”

“But Anne? Rohan?”

“I’ve known Anne since she was a babe. She’s the last of my family, the daughter of my brother’s grandchild. I could not stay away.”

“And Rohan?”

Emory laughed. “Rohan is different. I’m afraid he will always be a part of my existence.”

“Why would you say that? Eventually--”

Emory reached one finger out to tilt her chin so that their eyes met. “For Rohan and for myself, there is no eventually.”

“What do you mean?”

He stepped away. “It’s a very long story best told over a camp fire.”

“I’ve had enough of fires.” She didn’t want to be led away or distracted from his story. “I want to hear about you and Rohan.”

“Come, Petra. It’s getting cold.” He pulled her toward the riverbank and she followed relunctantly while the river’s gentle current pulsed around her legs. He retrieved her shirt and wrapped it over her shoulders. She shrugged into it, despite its smell and filth. It hung past her thighs.

“I’ll make a fire and then I’ll tell you all you want to know,” he said, buttoning a few of her buttons. “And much more that you probably do not.”