Here With Me Read online

  What Others Are Saying About Here With Me

  “This book makes you remember why you first fell in love with romance. . . The elements by themselves might seem standard, but the author folds them together so beautifully you cannot resist being swept up into the story . . . This is a deeply satisfying read..”

  Bunny Callahan--Romantic Times

  “George and Melody are believable, enjoyable characters with a story that is both heartwarming and engaging.”

  Wendy Keel--The Romance Reader’s Connection

  ***

  Here With Me

  By Beverly Long

  Copyright 2012, Beverly Long

  Smashwords Edition

  Smashwords Edition, License Notes

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, and settings are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual names, events, locales, organizations, or persons living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  ***

  CHAPTER ONE

  Present Day

  George woke up flat on his back, feeling like he’d eaten a bad egg. He opened one eye, then the other, and with the last bit of strength he had, he rolled to his stomach, pushed himself up to his hands and knees, lifted his head, and in the fading light of day, saw what had to be the ocean.

  It was just as he’d heard it described and yet, altogether different. More gray than blue. Bigger, for sure. It went forever, until it reached a point where it bumped up against the setting sun and was sucked up into the violet and pink-streaked sky.

  He hadn’t expected it to be so noisy, or so angry. Tall waves rushed the beach, slapping against the rocks, churning and foaming over the sandy shore. Birds, big silver-white ones with wings spread wide, swooped low, letting loose with high-pitched plaintive screeches. One erratically changed direction and George turned his head to follow its path.

  He winced when the strap of his camera, which had somehow become wrapped around his neck, tightened. He untangled himself and rested his hand on the sturdy case, feeling doubly grateful—one, that the damn thing hadn’t strangled him along the way and two, that it had come through time in one piece. It was tangible proof that he hadn’t left everything a hundred-plus years behind.

  The beach, a patch of sand fifty yards wide and stretching as far as the eye could see, was empty save a solitary figure at the edge of the water. Three hundred yards separated them, and the dwindling light of day combined with the white straw hat on the person’s head made it difficult to tell if it was a man or woman. All George knew is that given how close the person sat to the rolling waves, his or her trousers had to be long past wet.

  His own trousers were dry although there was a fresh hole in the knee, and they were stained with dirt. His heavy shirt had rips that hadn’t been there when he’d slipped it on just as the wicked bitch of a storm had started.

  His journey had not been an easy one. He had jagged memories of being sucked into utter blackness, of whirling and banging into objects he couldn’t see or identify, of feeling like his insides were being ripped from his body.

  Just when he’d been sure he couldn’t take another minute, he’d seen the hand, somehow visible in the darkness. He’d recognized it immediately, because at one time he’d held it in friendship, claimed it in love, and clasped it in passion. His Hannah had not deserted him and he’d been desperate to feel his wife’s touch one more time, to hold her in his arms, close to his heart.

  But when he’d attempted to reach for her, his stupid arms and legs had refused to obey. His limbs had hung from his body, useless. Hannah had tried. She’d wrapped her long, slender fingers around his arm and tugged hard. However, the dank and greedy darkness, a worthy enemy, had fought back and as seconds had turned to minutes, her touch had grown cold and weak. Hope had faded and a terribly emptiness had loomed.

  Then, from out of the darkness, another hand had appeared. Not Hannah’s. This one was that of an old woman’s, with fingers bony and bent with age, and skin lined and spotted from the sun. It had brushed up against Hannah’s hand, passing through it in a flash of silvery light, and the sudden heat that flowed from his wife’s fingers, into his upper arm, had warmed him to the bone.

  Then the old hand, its grip stronger than he’d imagined possible, had grabbed his other arm, and working together, Hannah and the Other had pulled him to the light.

  Then they’d disappeared.

  And it had been like losing Hannah all over again. Only this time worse than that terrible day he’d buried her in the cold North Dakota ground. Because this time, he’d known, had felt it all the way through his battered soul, that she was leaving him forever.

  Her work was done. She’d brought him safely into his new world, into this strange place, this strange time. He was on his own to make of it what he would.

  He guessed he best get to it.

  He sucked in a breath, gathered his strength, and stood up. And promptly fell flat on his ass again. He felt dizzy and stomach sick and he thought he might have cracked a rib or two on his journey through time. It hurt like a son of a gun to breathe.

  Damn it to hell and back. He’d promised Sarah Tremont that he’d come forward to her time and help eight-year-old Miguel Lopez but he wasn’t going to be able to help himself, let alone a sick child, if he couldn’t keep standing.

  Keeping his breaths shallow, he stood up, a little slower this time, and while the dizziness didn’t leave him, it did fade and he remained standing. He situated his camera, letting the leather strap loop over one shoulder and the heavy box rest at his hip.

  He gave the person at the water’s edge one more lingering look. He or she was huddled over bent legs, head down. It dawned on him that the person had no doubt come to the beach, expecting solitude, and he had no right to intrude. Plus it wasn’t like he didn’t have any of his own business to attend to. He’d come to this time so that Sarah Tremont could stay with John Beckett. The love between those two had been so real that only a fool could have missed it. But Sarah had been torn, believing that she had to leave, had to come back to her own time, to fulfill her promise to the Lopez family. She’d had information that the family needed, information that would help the young boy.

  George had come in her place. Somehow. Someway. And he’d managed to survive it. Now, he needed to find Miguel and his mother. He shifted his eyes, looking upward at the sky. It would be dark soon. He needed to get the lay of the land before the light was completely gone. Before he’d left Sarah, she’d told him about her house, saying it wasn’t far from the beach.

  He turned away from the person and walked toward the rocky cliff at the back edge of the beach. He found the steep steps leading skyward. Halfway up, his boots heavier with each passing second, he had to stop to catch his breath.

  And coming from behind him, he heard a scream. He whirled around, so fast he almost slipped. The beach was empty and he caught a glimpse of white tossing around in the dark waves.

  George scrambled down the stairs, his arm clenched to his side, holding his aching ribs. He ran and tried to keep the person in his sight. His camera banged against his hip and he dropped it in the sand along the way. He charged the water like a mad bull, not stopping until the water was waist-high and pushing at him, like it hoped to drag him under, too. Just when he thought he was too late, the wild beast of an ocean tossed up its bounty and he saw a
flash of pale skin.

  George dove into the water and grabbed. The person’s arms were kicking and flailing and Christ, if he wasn’t careful, he was going to get knocked silly. He grabbed the person tight into his body and kicked his feet hard. Three more kicks and he’d made enough progress that there was sand beneath the water. He staggered toward the beach, crawling the last three feet on his knees.

  His eyes burned, his chest hurt, and his ribs ached worse than the time he’d been kicked by a cow. He ignored it all and sank back onto his haunches to look at what he’d dragged out of the sea.

  Mother of God. It was a woman. With long dark hair plastered flat against her head. Her eyes were closed, her face pale, and she wasn’t breathing.

  He deposited her on the beach, rolled her over to her side, and rapped her sharply between the shoulder-blades. It seemed to take an eternity but water gurgled out of her mouth and she started coughing and sputtering. He thought he’d never heard a more beautiful sound.

  “You’re safe,” he assured her and felt bad when her body jerked and she fell flat on her back. Her wide-set eyes were open now and dark with fear.

  “I mean you no harm, ma’am,” he said. He braced his hands on his knees and tried to catch his breath. She wore dark trousers and a white blouse and both were molded to her body. She put her hand over her stomach, her eyes flashing wildly, and he saw the slight swell of her stomach. “Oh, Jesus,” he whispered. “You’re with child.”

  She licked her lips and swallowed. “I’m five months pregnant.”

  He started to shake. Felt like a damn fool but couldn’t stop. He wrapped his arms around his body and prayed that he’d stay upright and not embarrass himself further by falling face down in the sand. He had saltwater rolling around in his stomach and fear chilling his blood. It made for some severe unpleasantness.

  “You saved my life,” she said. “My baby’s life.” Her soft voice trailed off at the end.

  The thought of what might have happened if he’d been even a minute later made him shake all the more.

  “I was so stupid. I got too close to the water and this huge wave came and it just wouldn’t let go.” She looked at him like she had just noticed his shivering. “You must be freezing,” she said.

  “I’m not cold,” he said. “You scared me,” he admitted.

  She laughed, a light musical sound that drifted above the heavy dampness of the evening air. It calmed him. If she could laugh, surely she and her babe were not hurt.

  She sat up and pushed her wet hair behind her ears. He saw how fine-boned her hand was and it made him worry that he’d rapped her back too hard, that he’d hurt her.

  “I’m sorry if I was rough with you,” he said.

  “Oh, please,” she waved her hand, dismissing his concern. She extended her arm, almost hesitantly. “I’m Melody Song, by the way.”

  It was an odd name and he had the strangest sensation that he’d heard it somewhere before. It was the kind of name that stuck with a person.

  He gave her small hand a gentle squeeze. “George Tyler, ma’am.”

  He could feel the tension in her small hand relax and when she smiled at him, the genuineness of it reached her eyes. “It’s a pleasure to meet you,” she said. “You know, you could have drowned right along with me.”

  He supposed if he’d taken time to think about it, he could have reasoned that out. When he’d heard the scream and realized what had happened, he’d known time wasn’t a luxury the person had. “I suspect that’s true enough,” he said.

  “Well, I’m sorry that my carelessness almost got you killed.”

  He didn’t respond. He’d stopped caring six months ago whether he lived or died so it didn’t seem right now to pretend to be worried about what might have happened.

  “I really should have known better,” she said. Her voice dropped and he could hear something in her tone that hadn’t been there before. “Especially here,” she added.

  Here was the place Sarah Tremont had traveled from and he had traveled to. Did she know something about that? The hair on the back of his neck stiffened. “Why’s that, ma’am?” he asked.

  She shifted her gaze and stared past his shoulder, out toward the ocean. He turned his body and settled down in the sand next to her. Just the tip of the setting sun remained visible and the violet and pink had turned into a smooth dark blue with just a hint of purple.

  He’d been close enough to her to know it was just the color of Melody Song’s wide-set eyes.

  “A little over a year ago my best friend drowned at this beach,” she said. “You might have read about it in the paper. Her name was Sarah Jane Tremont.”

  George was grateful that he was sitting, otherwise he’d have disgraced himself by falling down again. He knew where he’d heard the odd name. This was the Melody that Sarah had told him about, the woman who had been her coworker, her best friend. But a year ago?

  Sarah had been in his time for just weeks before he’d placed his boots in the footprints that were to take her back to her own time.

  Christ, he thought his head might just split in two it ached so badly. How could this have happened? Hannah had been there. She had guided him and she would not have led him wrong.

  Melody put her hand on his arm. “Are you all right?” she asked. “You don’t look so good.”

  No. His heart was racing, he couldn’t think straight, and his stomach churned, making him think that his lunch would be on his boots soon.

  Hell. He hadn’t eaten for over a year.

  Impossible.

  “What happened?” he managed to ask. He needed to find out what he could. Needed to figure out what had gone wrong.

  She didn’t respond right away. When she did, he could hear the emotion of loss in her voice. “There was a big storm and the ocean was rougher than usual. As best we can figure out, she got caught up in the waves and washed out to sea. Her body was never found.”

  There’d been no body to find. It was safe and sound in 1888 Wyoming Territory.

  “She was my best friend,” she went on. “We were both social workers at the same grade school.”

  The school where Sarah had met Miguel Lopez. Perhaps Melody knew Miguel, knew where he could find the child and his mother. He couldn’t just ask outright. “Were there many students at this school?” he asked, hoping that he could steer the conversation in the direction he needed it to go.

  “Hundreds. But Sarah and I didn’t work with all of them. There were a few special ones,” she said, and he could hear a change in her voice.

  “Like who?” he asked.

  She gave him a half smile. “Tonight, the one I’m thinking about is Miguel. Probably because I’m here.” She pointed to a large boulder that sat about thirty feet back from the water’s edge. “Sarah’s cell phone was found on the beach, wedged behind that big rock. When the police investigated her disappearance, they traced all the phone calls that she’d made. The last one was to a customer service representative at an insurance company. When the police told me that, I called him. He gave me some information that would have been important to Sarah, important to Miguel and the Lopez family.”

  Sarah had explained much the same before he’d left her and John Beckett in Wyoming Territory. She’d said that Miguel’s mother wanted to care for her sick child at home, but that would have required special machines and nurses. A company, the one that had sold her something called insurance, had refused to pay for these things. They had said that Miguel must go to a hospital but the only hospital they would pay for was many miles from Miguel’s home. Miguel’s mother had no way to travel there and even if she did, she could not leave Miguel’s younger sisters alone.

  Sarah had accepted that Miguel was going to die. She could not accept that he would die alone. She had fought for Miguel and his mother and finally the company had agreed to pay for Miguel to be cared for at home, surrounded by his family. But Sarah had been swept off the beach before she’d gotten to tell Miguel’s mothe
r. “What did you do?” George asked.

  “I did what Sarah would have done. I helped Miguel and his mother.” She shrugged her delicate shoulders. “We became friends,” she added, her voice very soft. “I stayed with them often. It was a difficult time. Especially toward the end.”

  Toward the end. He leaned forward, urgency ripping through him. “What happened to the child?” he demanded.

  “He died. Five months after Sarah did.” She said it simply but he knew from the way her shoulders tensed and the set of her pretty mouth that it hadn’t been simple at all.

  The water in his stomach surged upward and he had to work to keep from vomiting. Miguel was already dead. He’d come for nothing. Had left everything for nothing.

  Melody stared at the ocean, oblivious to him. “You know, it’s been more than six months now and I can still hear Miguel teasing his sisters,” she said. “Or reading the newspaper to his mother. He desperately wanted to teach her to read and write English.”

  Sarah had told him that, too. George focused on breathing in through his nose and out his mouth and when he felt able, he asked, “And did his mother learn?”

  “She did. Rosa Lopez knew that learning to read was her final gift to her child.” She turned to look at him and he could see the sheen of tears in her pretty eyes. He understood why she was unaware of the affect of her words. She was dealing with her own pain and had no reason to think that what she was saying would be important to him.

  “It was a horrible time but there were days that were wonderful,” she said. “Days that were so full of love. In the end, he died in his mother’s arms, and I think he was content.”

  George closed his eyes and prayed for the child who had fought the final battle and the mother who had watched him go. It made him remember the desperation he’d felt when Hannah and their unborn child had been killed. It made him remember the rage, the absolute sense of loss.