Faithfully Yours (The Forever Time Travel Romance Series, Book 1) (23 page)

Trista seemed to have the same ease about her as a hunter with a prize buck as his latest kill.  "What do you think will happen when Aidan finds you missing?" she asked.

There was no doubt in Faith's mind what Aidan would do.  He had searched for her before they had married; he would certainly look for her now.  After what she had told him about Hank, she knew he would not stop until he found her. 

"Aidan will look for me," Faith stated boldly.

"And he will most likely go to Hank's farm at some point, angry and frustrated."

Faith nodded. 

"Hank wants the property Mr. Valentine owns, and unlike you, he will do anything to get what he wants." 

Faith closed her eyes.  There was no need for Trista to continue.  A mental picture formed in her thoughts, the action restarting each time Aidan's body fell to the ground.  Across from his lifeless remains, an older version of Hank stood facing him, smoke from a spent rifle clouding his face.

"Why are you telling me this?" Faith asked.  She sat motionless.  A helpless feeling blindly tied her wrists.  "There is nothing I can do to stop it, not in this time nor in the future."

Trista leaned forward, her breath hot.  "Yes, there is."  She moved to the herbal case and lightly rubbed the side of a brown pot.  "In order for your man to live, Hank must die.  It's that simple.  Saving something good by destroying the bad, is not an evil act.  Wouldn't you shoot a rabid dog if it stalked your home or family?  Of course you would."

Faith winced at her logic.  "You cannot compare the two."

"Hank is a disease that will destroy everything.  He cannot be controlled or contained.  He must be removed."  Trista slammed her balled fist on the herbal cabinet, rattling a cup and saucer left over from breakfast.  "I would do it myself if it were possible, but I cannot.  You are the only one who can prevent Mr. Valentine's death."

Faith walked to the door and opened it.  Leaning against the frame, she rubbed her temple.  She would never risk Aidan's life, but there was no proof that Hank even lived forty years in the future.  If she killed him in this time, how could his death be considered anything but murder?

"Which is more soothing to your conscience?" Trista asked.  "You allow Hank to live, a miserable man, who you know from firsthand experience, is capable of murder, or you end his life in order to save your honorable and upstanding husband.  It surprises me that you have such reservations of knowing which the better choice is."

Faith squeezed her eyes closed.  She could not risk Aidan's life.  As much as she fought against her principles, there was only one way to ensure his safety.  She would have to stop Hank in this time.

Trista stepped up behind her, her shadow extending into the yard.  "When Hank is dead, you will return to your future and to Mr. Valentine.  Stop him now and everything will be as it should have been from the start."

Trista returned to the fireplace.  She looked down into the pot as though she peered into the future.  "Dinner is ready.  You can leave as soon as you've eaten."

Faith's stomach rolled, doubtful she would have much of an appetite for either.

Chapter 24

Faith made her way back down the mountain.  She knew each turn, rise, and fall that lay ahead of her.  Nearing the halfway point to the base, she didn't dare look behind her.  She could feel Trista's gaze burning into her back as easily as she could feel the wind blowing against her skin.  Of course, once a breeze had passed on by, it was easily forgotten.  Trista and their earlier conversation, however, would not be so easily dismissed.

She pulled a leaf from a cherry tree and chewed on the stem.  Although she had barely touched the food Trista had placed in front of her, she wasn't hungry.  She would need more than appetite to face Hank.  He had tried to kill her, there was no denying that.  If she lived to be as old as Trista, Faith would never understand what had spared her life.  She wished fervently that she had not survived the fall.

Hank had claimed jealousy over seeing the marks on her neck and breasts.  While he did have reason to be upset, he seemed more than anxious to drag her up the hill.  Without any pause or thought, he had pulled her along after him as though he merely followed a well thought out plan.  She wondered what he would think when seeing her for the first time since leaving her at the base of the ravine.  Regardless of his reaction, he would not harm Aidan, not now nor in the future.

Heading across the field, she would be within view of the farm within a few minutes.  At this time of day, Hank was most likely in the barn.  She would look for him there before going to the house.  With any luck, she would be with Aidan by nightfall.  Her next few hours were not going to be easy.  She would focus on Aidan and nothing else.

Chickens ran across the yard, scattering in all directions in front of her.  The birds' coop was the closest out building near the barn.  The peaked, two-story structure behind it looked the same as when she had last seen it.  Hay poked out from the open loft.  Her thumb absently rubbed the fading calluses on her palms.  Sweeping the loft had always been one of her jobs.  From what she could see, this duty still belonged to her.

When she had worked with Aidan on their farm, he had taken upon himself the barn related chores, leaving her with the house and garden.  Hank had insisted Faith match the amount of work he did in the fields while keeping up her household chores.  She raised her hand to her throat and rubbed her neck.  This time, she hoped to not only equal his skill, but to best him at it.  

Trista had found her at the bottom of the cliff.  From the location of her home, she would know if Hank had come looking for Faith.  According to Trista, there had not been one sign of him at any time since her fall.  He had to think her dead.  She glanced upward to the loft and shook her head at the ludicrous thinking of the man.  Her work still awaited her attention even in death.

The barn's shadow spread out before her like a rug.  Before stepping closer, she took one last look around.  The hinged door hung open, and the tobacco wagon sat under the eave.  Bits of brown leaves still clung to the wood floor of the cart.  Faith crossed her arms over her chest and balled her fists.  She did not want to touch, even out of habit, any part of the plants.  She refused to make contact with anything that would connect her to Hank.  She had one last thing to sever, and she hoped she had the courage necessary to do it.  Her legs stood stiff as though her joints were frozen soundly in place.  Her heart sped up, heating her body.  She pushed forward, breaking through the band of solid ice, and forced herself to enter the building.

Hank stood with his back to her.  She wasn't sure what he worked on, but from the way he grunted and slammed tools on the worktable, he was not having much success.  A twig snapped under her foot, and he stiffened in place.  Sweat beaded on her upper lip, and she swallowed hard, removing the thick ball at the back of her throat.  He turned sharply to face her, a hammer held tightly in his raised fist.  Maybe she would return to Aidan sooner than she had planned.

"Faith," Hank said.  Blood drained from his features, and Faith's fingers tingled with her own loss of flow.  He tilted his head, a thoroughly perplexed look on his face. 

Faith worked her hands, pumping blood back into her body.  She cheered inwardly, congratulating herself on her small victory over Hank.  It was too bad that her advantage faded with the diming light.  Although similar, there were only two ways to return to her future.  Her death or Hank's would send her back to Aidan, and she wasn't sure which she preferred.  If she waited the forty years it would take to meet him, she would be useless to help him.  She steeled herself for what was to come and fought against every urge to flee. 

Hank's expression darkened as she moved toward him and away from the door.  She needed her limbs to deny their desire to run, and bring her closer to destruction.  Although Hank looked as though he had seen her ghost, he also seemed to chastise himself for not completing the job he had started up on the cliff.  She would give him his chance to finish what he started now.

"You seem a little surprised to see me, Hank," Faith said.  She lifted her chin, and walked with slow, exact movements.  Her gaze flicked to the hammer in his hand, and her stomach rolled, her decision no longer hers.  Although the tool would be more than adequate to end her life, it seemed to be a most painful method of death.

He lowered his hand, the implement hung at his side.  "So you've decided to come back to me, have you?" he asked.  His voice hitched as though he tried to sound concerned.

Faith didn't bother looking around for something she could defend herself with.  She hoped he would complete the act in an expedient manner. 
Make him kill you, good and proper, Trista had said.
 It was too bad he hadn't been more thorough the first time.  If he had, she would still be with Aidan, and Hank would never have to know she had survived.

"Returning to you wasn't something I chose to do," she said.  "If I had been given a choice, I would have stayed where I was."

"He demanded you leave, did he?" Hank asked with a laugh.  He turned back to the table, and Faith jumped as the hammer fell from his hand and onto the workplace.  He whirled around.  His arm drew upward, and his fist tightened into a ball.

Faith flinched, but the full stroke of the blow caught her across the cheek.  She reeled backward, falling against a branding iron.  Keeping the tool within easy reach, she righted herself.  Her heart pumped faster, giving her the added strength she needed to run.  She gulped short, shallow breaths, trying to convince her body that she was responding correctly to its demand.  In her mind, she raced from disaster, but in actuality, she would have to confront the beast in order to slay it. 

Her future stood in front of her, dressed in suspenders and old clothes.  He wore a dirty, white shirt, with the sleeves rolled up to the elbow.  Starting at her feet, his eyes slowly rose to the top of her head.  He seemed to inspect every inch of her frame.  Faith shivered, feeling as though she had been skinned alive.

"I don't know how I survived that fall," she said.  "I'm sorry to disappoint you."

He placed his hand on his hip, his gaze resting on her eyes.  Although he looked straight at her, he stared as though he looked through her.  His tongue licked across his lips, and he wiped the back of his hand across his chin.  A sickening smile pulled at each side of his mouth.  She swallowed and hoped her heart would fail to pump.  Could death by natural causes create the same results she needed? 

Aidan's face flashed to the front of her thoughts.  Even when frustrated by her aloof behavior, compassion had never left his eyes.  She had spent several days in their home as his wife.  The time had passed by as quickly as a breeze through the trees.  She could only imagine what a lifetime spent with Aidan would be like.  To be cherished and cared for was a type of love she would sacrifice anything to keep.

Hank grabbed her by the upper arm and shoved her against the stall.  Faith winced, wondering if her return to Aidan would be quick and painless or slow and excruciating.  From the pressure Hank applied to her torso, he was as uncertain as she was.  She wondered what it would take to anger him to the point of madness.  All the while she had known him, it took next to nothing to spark his temper.  Now she needed it to explode.

He leaned in, his breath, hot and wet on her skin, smelling as though he had eaten radishes.  Faith turned her face away and tried to breath into her blouse.  Hank laid the flat of his hand against her cheek and pushed her head into the wood, grinding her skull into the post.  She closed her eyes, impulsively protecting her vision from possible splinters. 
Cower, she told herself
.  Like most bullies, Hank was no different.  The more she begged and pleaded for her life to be spared, the more violent he would become.  Exerting his strength over her seemed to give him an enjoyment that she had failed to provide in any other manner.

Faith pushed against him and kicked at his shin.  She needed to be convincing.  He laughed at her efforts, and grabbed her by the arms, pinning her limbs to her side.  No longer fearful, she squirmed against him, hoping to give a believable performance.  She breathed hard.  It was almost as exhausting to encourage his wrath as it was to fight him off.  Over his shoulder, lay several large heavy tools.  She wasn't sure what most of them were used for, but any number of them could be used as a blunt object. 

He lowered his head, and his mouth pressed down on hers.  Caught off guard, Faith fought nausea and pushed against him.  Hank had better not reach for her waistband, or he would confront a vicious battle.  Her struggle was becoming more real than she had imagined it would need to be.  She had expected pain and abuse, but rape had never entered her thoughts.  She may return to Aidan with bruises and cuts, but she refused to carry that added pain back with her. 

Hank's legs spread as he positioned himself for possible leverage.  She didn't want to leave him rolling on the floor, writhing in pain.  It was her hope that a well placed knee to a sensitive area would be enough to discourage him from his original intent.  After a blow of that nature, he would certainly entertain a more lethal thought.  She would have to hurry, his hand had moved to his waist.