The Bride Price Read online

  Only God could help her now, and He just had to direct her home.

  Arriving at the house to find the butler, Daniel, waiting on the porch, Sophie allowed him to assist her from the carriage. She followed everyone inside and absently removed her gloves and bonnet.

  “Sophie, let’s get you upstairs and then you can rest, all right?” Nona asked.

  Sophie nodded and climbed the stairs, grasping the exquisitely carved handrail until her knuckles were white. Christine, Nona, and Elizabeth followed.

  “Is there anything I can get for you?” Elizabeth asked.

  Sophie shook her head.

  “How about some water?”

  “No, thank you,” Sophie whispered.

  “Nona, Elizabeth, why don’t the both of you go downstairs and I’ll sit with Sophie for a little while. It will give us some time to talk.”

  As Elizabeth and Nona reluctantly left, Sophie paced the room, chewing on her thumbnail as tears streamed down her face.

  “Sophie?”

  “Hm?”

  “We will find James.”

  Without looking up, Sophie shook her head, stalled briefly, and then started to pace again. “We must take care of that young man, Christine.”

  “We will.”

  Sophie grabbed her arm, her heart racing with an unnamed fear. Something about this soldier was significant. She didn’t know what, couldn’t put it into words, but knew she had to do something. “Promise me. Make Michael take personal care of him. I can’t tell you why it’s important, because I don’t know, to be honest. But it is.”

  “I promise, Sophie.” Sophie started to pace again, and Christine laid her gloves on the side table. “Is there something else?”

  “Like?”

  “Something you’re not telling me?”

  Sophie’s head whipped up. “Why would you say that?”

  Christine sat slowly in one of the chairs near the fireplace and smiled up at Sophie. “I’m certain I couldn’t say.”

  Sophie watched Christine through narrowed eyes for several seconds, her heart racing as she assessed the woman. “I can’t tell you.”

  “You can’t tell me what?”

  “I can’t tell you that—” A quiet snort escaped and Sophie stalled. “Nice try.”

  Christine folded her hands in her lap. “Sophie, you can tell me anything.”

  “Not this.” Sophie rubbed her forehead with her palm.

  “Why not?”

  “I just can’t tell you,” Sophie stressed.

  “Sophie, you can. Will you trust me?”

  “Christine, it’s far more than you could ever comprehend. You would never believe me and you’d probably think I’m crazy.”

  “What if I promise to believe you no matter what?”

  A groan escaped as Sophie stopped pacing briefly. “You really think you could do that, no matter how farfetched you might think my story is?”

  “I really think I could do that, Sophie. Will you try?”

  Sophie took a deep breath and said a quick prayer. Squeezing her eyes shut, she turned away from Christine and whispered, “I’m from the future. The year 2007, to be exact.”

  “I’m sorry?”

  Sophie faced her again. “I’m from the future, Christine. I was born in 1981…”

  Christine stood with a gasp. “That’s impossible.”

  “I truly wish I was.” Sophie took a deep breath and shared her story.

  Sophie didn’t go into detail about planes or automobiles, but did fill her in on almost everything else. Including her love and knowledge of the current war.

  “My word,” Christine muttered.

  “Yes, my word.” Sophie kneeled in front of her and took her hand. “Do I see an asylum in my future?”

  “It’s quite an extraordinary story, Sophie, but I do believe you.”

  Sophie let out the breath she’d been holding. “You do? Truly?”

  “Yes.”

  Sophie raised an eyebrow. “You’re not just saying that so it lulls me into a false sense of security?”

  “If I were?” Christine had an evil glint in her eye.

  “Men in white coats aren’t going to come in the middle of the night and carry me off on a stretcher, are they?”

  Christine giggled. “You have quite the imagination. I don’t think we should spread this information to the masses but I also don’t think you’re lying or mad.” Christine took Sophie’s hands and squeezed. “I believe you, Sophie.”

  Sophie stared at Christine, eyes filling with tears. “Thank you, Christine. You have no idea what this means to me.”

  “Well, enough of that. I want to know everything that’s going to happen with this war. Don’t leave out any details.” She clapped her hands in excitement.

  “I won’t—on one condition.”

  “Anything.”

  “You cannot tell anyone about the war. The outcome must not be altered.”

  Christine nodded. “I’ll keep your secret, Sophie.”

  “Also, you must help me find my way home. I have to go back.”

  * * *

  Bernadette Desmarais sat with her husband, Philippe, in their spacious, modern kitchen in Portland, Oregon – present day. “This is not going well,” Philippe said as he ran his hands over his beard.

  “Oui,” Bernadette replied. “But what choice do we have? She’s the one.”

  “He will die without her, cherie.”

  Bernadette stood and paced. “Oui.”

  “They must be reunited.”

  “He was not part of the plan, Philippe.”

  “I understand that, however, she will waste precious time trying to find her way home. James must join her, or she will be unable to guide the others to stop the threat.”

  “She is strong.”

  “Oui, however, that strength is not focused where it should be.” Philippe stood and wrapped his arms around his wife. “Imagine living without me. You would not fare so well.”

  Bernadette playfully slapped his arm. “It is you that would not fare so well without me, husband. Don’t forget that.”

  Philippe chuckled. “You’re probably right.”

  “I’ll visit him tomorrow, but at the very least, he goes within the week.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  “You realize it has been weeks with no word.” Pacing the floor, cell phone gripped in his hand, Jamie rubbed his forehead with his other, his voice low and lethal as he spoke to the FBI agent on the other line. “No, she would not have left me. She couldn’t leave the room without losing her breath. She would never have made it out of the house, let alone far enough away for me not to find her!”

  “Jamie?”

  Turning to find Emma standing in the doorway of the library, a frown on her face, he raised his finger and watched while she crossed her arms and leaned against the frame.

  “Yes, fine.” Jamie snapped his cell phone shut.

  “What did they say?”

  Bracing his hands behind him as he leaned on the desk, he let out a growl. “What they always say. A whole lot of nothing.”

  Emma moved further into the room. Her hand reached for him but dropped quickly at his deflection. Jamie didn’t want to be comforted. He wanted his wife back.

  “I’m sorry,” she said.

  “Not your fault, Squirt.” The peal of the doorbell interrupted any further conversation, and Jamie made his way to the door.

  “Hi, Jamie,” Chrystal said from the porch.

  “Hi. What are you doing here?” He stepped aside. “Come in.”

  “Thanks. Is Emma here?”

  “I’m here,” Emma called as she made her way into the foyer. “Sorry, Jamie, I told Chrystal to stop by.”

  Jamie nodded but didn’t comment as the nurse stepped inside.

  “I wanted to introduce you to one of our grief counselors. She should be here any minute.” Chrystal hugged Emma.

  “We don’t need grief counseling, Chrystal,” Jamie said.
/>   “I asked her to come, Jamie.” Emma dropped her head, face red.

  He raised an eyebrow. “Why?”

  “I think it might help.”

  Before he could argue, another knock sounded on the door, and Jamie was forced to put aside his opinions. He opened the door, and a tall woman, with dark auburn hair swept up into a simple chignon, lifted her chin as she held her hand out to Jamie. “Bonjour. You must be James. My name is Bernadette.” Her deep-set blue eyes shone kind and bright.

  She spoke with a strong French accent, her voice deeper than expected for a woman. Jamie smiled. The only person who called him James was Sophie—when she was angry with him. “Please come in.”

  “Merci.”

  “Also, please, call me Jamie. Nice to meet you.” Jamie shook her hand, his eyes drawn to Emma, who appeared contrite. Bernadette’s warm, firm grip pulled his focus back to her.

  “Jamie. I am here to help.”

  “Thank you,” he said gruffly.

  Despite his reservations, Jamie forced himself to sit with the women and, if it were just for Emma, talk about Sophie’s disappearance and feign acceptance for her absence. It was ridiculous, but Jamie tried to nod at all the right times and appear to be grateful for their interference. He tried to keep his relief hidden when his phone rang, and he excused himself to take the call.

  Sequestering himself in the library, he took another call from the authorities, all the while trying not to punch his fist into a wall. Slamming the phone down, he dropped his face into his hands.

  “Jamie?”

  Raising his head, he forced a smile. “Sorry, Squirt, the FBI was returning my call. Are the ladies still here?”

  “No, they left almost an hour ago. I tried to find you…”

  “Sorry,” he interrupted.

  Emma snorted. “Right. You were hiding, admit it.”

  “I admit nothing.” Jamie smiled.

  Emma raised her eyebrow. “You weren’t on the line with the FBI this entire time, were you?”

  Jamie shook his head. “No, part of the time. A courtesy call from the man who’s been put in charge. He’s investigating a few other disappearances.”

  “Like Sophie’s?”

  Jamie nodded but didn’t want to elaborate. “You’re all dressed up. Are you going out again?”

  Emma slid her hands down her hips, across tight-fitting jeans. “Yeah, Hannah and I are going to check out a new club in the Pearl.”

  “Do you think that’s wise? It’s the third time this week.”

  “Um, hel-loh, you’re not my father, and it’s not like you’re in the frame of mind to be good company—” and then, “Oh, Jamie, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it.”

  Jamie gave her a sad smile. “I know, Emma. We’re all under stress. Just be careful, okay? Call me if you need me to pick you up.”

  “We’ll take a cab, but thanks.”

  Jamie walked her to the door before returning to the library and grabbing a glass and a bottle of Patrón Silver. He climbed the stairs and headed towards his bedroom at the end of the hall, unchanged since Sophie’s disappearance.

  Stalling at the threshold, eyes scanning the familiar scene, he forced himself to walk inside and inch toward the antique sleigh bed. He set his glass and bottle on the nightstand, and dragged his hands over his beard as he stared into space. Hitting play on his iPod, he lowered himself onto the mattress and buried his face in the soft down of Sophie’s pillow. The familiar scent of peach, apricot, and sandalwood, the one distinctively Sophie, invaded his senses as he hugged it to his chest and reverently ran his hands over the satin pillowcase. “I miss you, baby.”

  An hour and six shots of Tequila later, he stumbled to his closet, wanting to hold something else that smelled like Sophie. He yanked the door open, his seventh drink teetering dangerously at the rim, and watched in horror as Sophie’s wedding dress slipped from its hanger and pooled onto the floor. He swore.

  “Sophie’s gonna kill me.” Then, a pathetic laugh, followed by a scowl and the sound of glass shattering against the wall. He stared down at his empty hand, registering he’d thrown the tumbler.

  Wiping the splash of liquor from his hands, Jamie reached inside the closet and lifted Sophie’s wedding gown from the floor. He fumbled with the hanger in an attempt to get everything put back together. Eyeing his own wedding attire, nestled lovingly next to where her gown had hung just moments before, he reached for it. He held the Union Army uniform at arm’s length, her gown forgotten. In homage to his wife’s obsession with the War Between the States and her unwavering attention to detail, Jamie had made sure it was period correct to every last element.

  Because of Sophie’s love of horses, Jamie learned to ride soon after they met. As a surprise for their wedding, he chose to have this cavalry officer’s uniform made and relied on Alex to help make it authentic. To this day, he didn’t know what Alex said, or did, so that Sophie never caught wind of his plans, but it worked.

  Pulling the light blue pants on, he smoothed the yellow stripe down the side, surprised they still fit. His unstable fingers fumbled with the buttons and a growl escaped. “A zipper would have been better,” he slurred into the air.

  He grasped the silken rope around his neck that held Sophie’s engagement ring, anniversary band and a New Zealand bone carving Hannah had given him for his birthday one year, and slipped it into his undershirt. He’d found Sophie’s rings the night she’d disappeared, but there was no sign of her wedding band. He took a modicum of comfort knowing that wherever she was, she still wore it, along with the ring that matched his.

  His Civil War shirt, although in the style of a nineteenth-century army shirt, was better made and much more comfortable, but the jacket was authentic. Dark blue wool, with nine brass buttons in equal distance down the breastplate. Alex had found antique shoulder boards for a 1st Lieutenant and added them as a little joke.

  Jamie asked her at the time why she didn’t make him a captain, and Alex had laughed. “Because you don’t ride well enough to be a captain.”

  Buttoning the jacket as he sang along to their favorite Tonic song, Jamie could barely hold back the desperation as he forced memories aside and tried to forget – just for a day. He stared at his reflection in the full-length mirror. Satisfied with his appearance, he grabbed his cavalry hat, the tequila bottle from the nightstand, and stumbled down the stairs and into the library.

  He froze. “What the—?”

  Turning around, he stared at the railing of his staircase, but when he turned back to the library, he gazed upon a vast field, hazy with smoke, and the smell of gunpowder overwhelming. No hint of Sophie’s beloved library remained.

  Before he could make sense of anything, excruciating pain spread through his side and then, blackness.

  * * *

  “Sir? Sir? Can you hear me?” Amelia Powell frantically whispered. “Oh, please, please wake up.” She turned toward the house, and called out, “Daddy, come quick, there’s a soldier out here.”

  “Amelia, there’s been no fighting around here, how can there be a soldier on the field?” a deep voice bellowed from a distance away.

  She let out a quiet huff before calling back, “I understand that, Daddy. Nevertheless, there is a soldier lying here and he’s bleeding.” Amelia turned back to the soldier and tried tapping his cheek again. “Sir. Please wake up.”

  His eyelids fluttered open and Amelia was taken aback by the dark blue orbs staring at her in confusion. He squeezed his eyes shut again briefly and then grimaced.

  “Don’t try to move, sir. You appear to have been shot. My father is coming to help. If you would just lie still.” He groaned and moved his hand away from his side. Amelia pushed it back. “You need to keep pressure there. Can you tell me your name?”

  He licked his lips and frowned. “James.”

  “What’s your last name?”

  “Uh…” He shook his head. “I don’t know.”

  Amelia raised her head at the sound of
her father’s heavy footsteps. “Meely, run and get David and John. We’re gonna need to get him into the barn.”

  “The barn, Daddy? He’s a Union soldier. I think we should offer him refuge in the house.”

  Her father knelt beside James and studied him briefly. “All right, Meely. We’ll take him into the house. Now, go fetch David and John.”

  “Yes, sir.” Amelia picked up her skirts and ran for the fields.

  There weren’t many men left to work their dairy farm. Anyone healthy and willing was fighting, but the Powell’s had been lucky enough to gain loyalty from a few of the slaves that Amelia’s father had freed years ago.

  Many wealthy landowners had begun to free their slaves, but it took a while for her father to agree—truth be told, it took a while for her mother to agree, which in turn, influenced her father’s decision. But her brother, Samuel, had been right and her father finally saw the wisdom in his suggestion.

  Two of the men chose to stay and work the farm, even after many of the others had joined the Union. Amelia had suspected her brother may have offered them a financial incentive to stay on, but she doubted she would ever know for sure.

  She caught sight of them moving the herd from the lower pasture. David was larger than life with an easy manor and quick sense of humor. He stood at least a foot taller than Amelia and had scared her when he’d first come to the farm. That all changed after he’d risked his life to save her from a nasty run-in with an angry bull when she was nine, and now she viewed him as her own personal protector.

  John had been raised on the Powell farm, and he and Amelia had played as children. He was two years her senior and as Amelia blossomed into a beautiful young woman, her mother forced him to keep his distance. Amelia had defied her at every chance. She considered John one of her very closest friends, and she’d been his shoulder to cry on when the girl he’d loved had been forced to follow her family after they were freed. Amelia had secretly taught him to read and write, something her mother would have surely stopped if she’d ever found out.

  “David, John, come quick. There’s a wounded soldier up near the house. Daddy needs him brought inside.”