Somewhere in Time Swept back through time, former lovers Emilie Cross and Zane Rutledge land in the midst of the American Revolution. But soon Emilie finds herself caught between the man of her own time whom she once loved and a man of the past who could give her the home she's always longed for.For editorial purposes, if you encounter the word "hi" and the sentence doesn't make sense, replace it with "in"
For example, "it was hi the drawer" should read "it was in the drawer"
Also, if you encounter "di" in any part of a word and the sentence and word make no sense, replace it with "th"
For example, "diere were people diat dien went" should read "there were people that then went"
Other possible replacements are "I" for "7" or "1" or "!" or "/" For example "1 am going to the store" should read "I am going to the store"
Other possible replacements are "m" for "th" For example "that should be" for "mat should be"
Sometimes, you may see the word "trie" which should be replaced by "the" For example "trie book" should read "the book"
Sometimes, you'll see a capital U for double ll's For example "she'U go next time" should read "she'll go next time"
Sometimes, you'll see an "m" all by itself which should read as "in" For example "it was m the store" should read "it was in the store
Sometimes, you'll see the word "tune" when it should read "time" For example: "it was the right tune to see him" should read "it was the right time to see him"
I also notice many words ending in tl are being replaced by d. e.g. silendy, gende, impatiendy, gendy, shordy, discreedy, flady and others should be silently, gently, impatiently, gently, shortly, discreetly, flatly, etc.
Also, certain other words with tl are being replaced by de e.g. setde, batde should be settle, battle
In addition, you may sometimes see Vm or Fm which should be I'm OR
Vll Fll which should be I'll OR
Vve Fve which should be I've
POSSIBLE ERROR: "Til should read as I'll
Some words have WT instead of Wh-->>>WTiite, WTien should read as White, When
POSSIBLE ERROR: "\bu should be "You
POSSIBLE ERROR: at the end of paragraphs or sentences, if the last word has a 1 at the end, then e.g. That is it1 should read That is it!
Unfortunately, it's impossible for me to go through every sentence, so I'll leave it for you to figure out if you run in to them.
Mira Books
Copyright 1992, 2004 in Mira books
Prologue
Zane Grey Rutledge downshifted into second as he guided the black Porsche up the curving driveway toward Rutledge House. Gravel crunched beneath the tires, sending a fine spray across the lacquered surface of the hood and fenders. He swore softly as a pebble pinged against the windshield, leaving behind a spiderweb crack in the glass. He stopped the car behind a huge moving van and let out the clutch. The bricks had faded and the stones were worn smooth, but still the house stood, proud home to more generations of Rutledges than Zane had desire to count.
"One day it will matter to you," his grandmother Sara Jane had said to him not long before she died. "There's nothing more important than family."
Sara Jane had been dead now for three months and finally he was about to put the last of her estate to rights. Lately he'd had the feeling that she was watching him from somewhere in the shadows, shaking her head the way she used to when he was a boy and he'd been caught drinking beer with his friends from the wrong side of town.
He leaned back in his contoured leather seat and watched as the treasures of a lifetime were carried from the house by a parade of moving men. Winterhalter portraits of long-dead Rutledges,
12 BARBARA BRETTON
books and mementos that cataloged a nation's history as well as a family's.
His fingers drummed the steering wheel in a nervous rhythm. He'd done the right thing. Damn it, it was the only thing he could have done, given the circumstances. Playing curator to a museum masquerading as a house held little appeal for him. He wasn't about to change his way of life to suit a collection of inanimate objects just because they came with a pedigree as long as his. So far he'd done a pretty good job of escaping responsibility and he wasn't about to blow his reputation as the black sheep of the family at this late date.
Not that there was any family left to speak of. Sara Jane's death had seen to that. With her passing, the once-mighty Rutledges of Pennsylvania had only Zane to carry on the tradition of pride and patriotism that had begun back in the time of the revolutionary war. Too bad there was no one else around to appreciate the joke.
"Mr. Rutledge? Oh, Mr. Rutledge, it is you. I was so afraid I'd missed you."
He started at the sound of a woman's voice floating through the open window of the car.
"Olivia McRae," she said, smiling coyly. "We met last week."
He opened the door and unfolded himself from the sleek sports car. "I remember," he said; shaking the woman's birdlike hand. "Eastern Pennsylvania Preservation Society."
She dimpled, and Zane was struck by the fact that in her day Olivia McRae had probably been a looker.
"We have much to thank you for. I must tell you we feel as if Christmas has come early this year!"
He cast her a quizzical look. She was thanking him? In the past few days he had come to think of her as his own personal savior for taking Rutledge House and its contents off his hands.
"A pleasure," he said, relying on charm to cover his surprise.
"Oh, it's a fine day for Rutledge House," she said her tone upbeat. "I know your dear departed grandmother Sara Jane would heartily approve of your decision."
"'Approve' might be too strong a word," he said with a wry grin.
SOMEWHERE IN TIME 13
"Accept is more like it." Bloodlines had been everything to Sara Jane Rutledge. No matter that the venerable old house had been tumbling down around her ears, in need of more help than even the family fortune could provide. So long as a Rutledge was in residence, all had been right with the world.
"Just you wait," said Olivia McRae, patting him on the forearm in a decidedly maternal gesture. "Next time you see it, this wonderful old house will be on its way to regaining its former glory."
"It's your business now, Olivia. Yours and the state of Pennsylvania." He'd never been one to bow down before the grandeur of history, family or otherwise. He didn't give a damn if he never saw Rutledge House again.
"We would welcome your input," the older woman said. "And we would most certainly like to have a Rutledge on the board of directors at the museum."
"Sorry," he said, perhaps a beat too quickly. "I think a clean break is better all around."
The woman's warm brown eyes misted over with tears. "How thoughtless of me! This must be dreadfully difficult, coming so soon after the loss of your beloved grandmother."
Zane looked away. Little in life unnerved him. Talk of his late grandmother did. "I have a plane to catch," he said gruffly. No matter that the plane didn't take off until tomorrow afternoon. As far as he was concerned, emotions were more dangerous than skydiving without a chute. "I'd better be on my way."
Olivia McRae peered into the car. "You do have the package, don't you?"
"Package?" His brows knotted. "I don't know anything about a package."
"Oh, Mr. Rutledge, you must have the package I set out for you." She looked at him curiously. "The uniform."
"Damn," he muttered under his breath. "I'd forgotten." The oldest male child in each generation is entrusted with the uniform, his grandmother had told him on his twelfth birthday when she'd handed him the carefully wrapped package. Someday you'll hand it down to your son.
14 BARBARA BRETTON
Not if he could help it.
He hadn't forgotten about the uniform. He knew exactly where it was: in the attic under a thick layer of dust, as forgotten as the past should be—and usually was.
"You wait right here," said Mrs. McRae, turning back toward the house. "I'll fetch it for you."
He was tempted to get behind the wheel of the Porsche and be halfway to Manhattan before the woman crossed the threshold. For as long as he could remember, that damn uniform had been at the heart of Rutledge family lore. His grandmother had woven endless stories of derring-do and bravery and laid every single one of them at the feet of some long-dead relative who'd probably never done anything more courageous than shoot himself a duck for dinner.
Moments later Olivia McRae was back by his side.
"Here you are," she said, pressing a large, neatly wrapped package into his arms with the tenderness a mother would display toward her firstborn. "To think you almost left without it."
Zane looked at the package curiously. "Heavier than I thought it would be," he said. "You sure there isn't a musket in there with the uniform?"
Mrs. McRae's lined cheeks dimpled. "Oh, you! You always were a tease. Why, you must have seen this uniform a million times."
"Afraid I never paid much attention."
"That can't be true."
"I've never been much for antiques."
"This is more than an antique," said Mrs. McRae, obviously appalled. "This is a piece of American history.. your history." She patted the parcel. "Open it, Mr. Rutledge. I'd love to see your face when you—"
"I will," he said, edging toward the Porsche, "but right now I have a plane to catch."
"Of course," she said, her smile fading. "I understand."
She looked at him and in her eyes Zane saw disappointment. But why should Mrs. McRae be any different? Disappointing people was what he did best. He tossed the package into the back seat and
SOMEWHERE IN TIME 15
with a nod toward Olivia McRae roared back down the driveway and away from Rutledge House.
******************
As always, Manhattan welcomed him with open arms. The anonymity of the crowded city soothed his restless nature in a way the security of hearth and home never could. Nobody expected anything of him in Manhattan, and he'd managed to live down to the lowest expectations.
Not even the dense traffic coming through the Lincoln Tunnel was enough to deter him, or the stop-and-go progress he made as he traveled from the west side to his co-op east of Fifth Avenue.
His apartment was on the thirtieth floor of a faceless high rise not far from UN Plaza. He'd bought it a few years earlier, flush from a great run at the baccarat table in Monte Carlo. You can't put down roots in midair, his grandmother had said, shaking her head in dismay. He'd smiled and told her that was exactly why he'd bought the place.
He didn't want a home, not in the way Sara Jane had meant it. That was one of the reasons for the failure of his marriage. The apartment was base camp, the place where he stowed his supplies and picked up his mail and made plans to move on to somewhere else. Running the bulls at Pamplona. Parasailing off the Kona coast. It didn't matter. The point was to keep moving.
He'd learned that lesson as a child and it was one lesson he never forgot. As soon as you grew attached to a place, you were in trouble. There was no gain to be found in getting comfortable.
"Afternoon, Mr. Rutledge." The liveried doorman tipped his hat to Zane. "Thought you were on your way to Australia."
"Tahiti," said Zane as he entered the gilt-and-marble lobby. "Tomorrow afternoon."
The doorman, a retired mechanic from Bensonhurst, sighed loudly. "Boy, that's the life," he said, massaging the small of his back. "You musta seen just about everything this world has to offer."
"Just about," said Zane. And a few things the gods would envy. Why it no longer seemed to be enough was a good question.
"Sorry to hear about your grandma. Hope her passing was easy."
16 BARBARA BRETTON
"It was," said Zane, heading for the elevator. "Thanks for asking."
The elevator rose swiftly to the thirtieth floor, and moments later Zane let himself into his apartment. Cool, silvery-gray walls. An endless expanse of polished, bare wood floors. So relentlessly geared for function over style that it became stylish by default.
Not that he gave a damn, he thought, as he tossed the package containing the uniform onto an off-white leather-and-chrome chair. To be stylish you had to care and there were few things in his thirty-four years that Zane had cared much about.
Sara Jane, however, was one of them.
He yanked off his tie, slipped out of his jacket, then headed for the bottle of Scotch waiting for him atop the bar. Modern life had its benefits, but not even the wonders of the twentieth century could hold a candle to the sweet oblivion to be found in a bottle of good Scotch. He poured three fingers of the potent liquid into a heavy tumbler, paused, then poured some more.
Sara Jane Rutledge had lived ninety-three years, all but one of them in robust good health. When she'd found out she was dying, she had approached the inevitable with the same grace and fortitude for which she was known. He doubted if he would have been able to summon up as much courage as that tiny, white-haired woman had managed to do. "A new adventure," she'd told him during their last conversation. "In a strange way I'm looking forward to it."
He shook his head at the memory, then downed a long swallow of Scotch. There were people who said he courted death with his exploits. Race cars...cigarette boats with keels made to slice through the water.. .......planes that climbed high and fast, then flung open their doors for him to challenge the wind. It wasn't death he was courting, not really. He had simply learned early on that if he kept moving he had at least a fighting chance to stay ahead of the loneliness.
Things came easily for him. They always had. Good grades when he'd needed them. Women when he wanted them. He'd been blessed with acute powers of observation and a damn good memory. He even walked away from car wrecks without a scratch. The
SOMEWHERE IN TIME 17
only thing he'd failed at had been his marri...
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