Talking to him was like pulling teeth.
“A publicity stunt?” he inquired, confused. He had been staring out the window, perplexed. He turned and stared at her instead, handsome features furrowed.
She shook her head. “A publicity stunt. Something to draw the attention of the media. Something to get your name in the papers.”
“My name is in the papers,” he said.
“Okay. Good start. What is your name?”
“Jake Mallory,” he said.
She shook her head. “I’ve never heard of you.”
“No?” He looked resigned and a little saddened. “I’ve written for the Boston papers and the New York City papers.”
“And I read the papers. I’ve never heard of you. So, what do you write?”
“Treason—according to the British. Well, actually, I haven’t written in quite some time. I wound up being a soldier. I went to war, but I was being hanged for treason.”
“What war?” she asked sharply.
“You should have read a few of my pieces. Some were considered brilliant. Rousing. I’m not a warmonger, not at all. But the colonies couldn’t be used like a Royal Exchequer forever. If we’re to pay taxes, then representation must be absolutely fair. I tried to explain what was happening to us, and why it’s so important that we part ways with Great Britain. I wrote about a central government, and about the rights of each colony. Even General George Washington read what I was writing.”
Lunatic.
“Okay,” she said calmly. “So—you were a soldier in the Revolutionary War. Right before I found you on the road?”
“Right before you struck me down,” he reminded her.
So that was it. In a sneaking and conniving way, he was going to bleed her for what she had done to him.
“Right before I struck you down, yes. You were a soldier. In the Revolutionary War? ”
His eyes hadn’t wavered from her face. She was making a point of keeping them on the road now, but her peripheral vision allowed her to be keenly aware of his steady assessment.
“Yes. Where am I?”
“Gloucester, Massachusetts,” she snapped. “Almost at my house. But I can take a detour to the police station or the mental hospital.”
“I’m very sorry. Truly. I didn’t mean to offend you,” he said.
“Fine. We’ll start over. What were you doing in the twenty-first century?” she demanded.
“The twenty-first?” he asked her.
She let out a long sigh. “Yes, the twenty-first.”
“Who won?” he asked.
She was startled by the sudden intensity in him; she didn’t just hear it in his voice, but felt it in the constriction of his body as he leaned closer to her.
“Who won?” he demanded again. He was even closer. Practically breathing down her neck.
Lunatic. Serial killer. A madman–serial killer. She needed to humor him.
“The United States of America. And the federal forces won the Civil War, too.”
He hunched back into the passenger’s seat. “Thank God. Civil War?”
“The American Civil War, or the War Between the States, or, as it was referred to in the South, the War of Northern Aggression. We are one country.”
He stared out the window at the white world beyond the car. “How sad, how excruciatingly sad. We won the Revolution, and fought a civil war.”
“All war is sad.”
“And there is a war now?” he asked sharply.
She hazarded a glance at him. “The War on Terror,” she said. “Oh, there have been lots of wars. Before the Civil War, the War of 1812—those pesky Brits again, though we’re just like this now.” She crossed her fingers for him with her right hand, keeping the left firmly on the wheel. “Spanish-American War, World War I, World War II, the Korean War, Vietnam, Desert Storm, and all kinds of actions. Actually, I don’t think there has been a time when some part of the world hasn’t been involved in an action of some kind.”
“Amazing,” he said.
“Right. War is amazing.”
“Man’s inability to refrain from it is amazing,” he said softly.
She couldn’t hate him. Okay, so he was seriously more than just daft. There was a dignity to the tone of his voice, and a certain sincerity in too many of his words. Maybe she had hit him on the head, and he believed everything that he was saying to her.
“And it’s…Christmastide?” he asked.
“Nearly. At the end of the week.”
He nodded. “Rose petals.”
“What?”
He half smiled, glancing over at her. “Do you believe in magic? ”
“No.”
“Neither did I.”
“Look, I really don’t know what you’re talking about. But… I don’t want to have to take you to the police. You may be hurt. But my mom was a nurse. She retired recently but she can take a look at you. I mean, seriously, if I have injured you, I’d want to pay the bills. But…wow, I don’t know. You should really go to a hospital—”
“Please, no. I’m not injured.”
She should dump him by the side of the road then.
It occurred to her that while Mark would order her to do that kind of thing, her brother would never consider such an action.
Where did she stand herself?
“So, I’m going to take you home with me. I don’t know who you are, if you’re crazy, or whether you sustained a blow to the head. I’m going to have faith that you’re not a dangerous maniac.”
“I’m not a dangerous maniac, I swear.”
“God help me, I’m going to believe you. But there are a couple of things you’re going to have to get straight first,” she said firmly.
“Honestly, I’m just trying to get home,” he assured her.
“So where is home?”
“Gloucester,” he said.
“Fine. I can
