The Mammoth Book of Time Travel Romance

Sara Mackenzie Stepping Back

1905

Victoria, Australia

She lifted her long skirt away from her riding boots with one hand, and stepped up on to the mounting block. Her horse waited patiently as she settled herself on the side saddle.

Helen glanced up at the sky.

It would be a fine day, one of those crisp, clear autumn days, perfect for riding. And she desperately needed to clear her head, to decide what she was going to do. What had seemed impossible only weeks ago was now dangerous reality.

She could not remain here.

But if she was to save herself then she must plan carefully, she must choose her moment, and she must not make any mistakes.

She set off at a slow trot along the lane that passed between the paddocks, soon increasing to a gallop. The chill wind whipped away any lingering doubts, crystallizing her determination.

“ Tomorrow we will leave this place,” she told her horse. “ Tomorrow we will go.”

2010

Sunrise turned the dry, brown land gold and for a moment there was beauty in the valley. Claire sipped her coffee and squinted her eyes against the light, watching as the shifting sun touched the roof of Niall McEwen’s homestead. Now that the water in the reservoir was so low, the old homestead was completely exposed, although still unreachable. A deep moat kept the curious at bay.

Claire hadn’t slept at all well. Once she used to fall into darkness every night, her dreams barely more than a surface ripple. Now instead there were vivid images in her head, nightmares, sending her tossing and turning, struggling upwards to wakefulness. And wondering if they really were just dreams, or memories of the past she couldn’t remember.

Last night, as she forced back the smothering folds of sleep, the usual doubts crowding about her, Claire had heard the dog barking. Sharp jarring barks that had her peering from the windows. The sound was coming from the reservoir, but just as she thought she had pinpointed it, the barking moved on. And then vanished altogether.

Claire had not felt this unsettled since she woke up in hospital four years ago. That had been like being reborn, painfully. Apart from the physical injuries, there had been no identification on her and she could not remember who she was or where she had come from. One of the doctors had a daughter called Claire and so the patient had become known as Claire too, and Claire she remained.

Claire tried not to think about the past. The hospital seemed to think that some trauma had befallen her and her previous life had been stolen — severed like a falling climber’s rope — so there was no point in longing for it. Either it would return when it was ready, or it wouldn’t.

Besides, this was her home now, she told herself firmly. The house above the reservoir, and the newspaper where she worked, and her friend Gabe. Before didn’t matter.

Now, as though to underscore the point, Claire stood up and tipped the remains of her coffee over the verandah railing on to the long-suffering roses.

The drought had been going forever and most of her garden was dead, but the roses persisted. Maybe it was their morning dose of caffeine that did it, she thought, with a smile.

She lifted her face and allowed the sun to bathe it. The air was already hot and dry, taking all the moisture. Summer was stretching into autumn and there was still no sign of a let-up. After five years of drought people were beginning to wonder if it would ever rain again. The town had been carting in water for months, and the reservoir was down to puddles. Unheard of in living memory.

Again, Claire narrowed her eyes at the view in front of her, and reminded herself she should take some photos for the Bugle — the local newspaper, and her employer. The homestead had not been visible like this since the valley was first flooded in 1910. Some years it had come close, but this was by far the most exposed it had ever been.

Every morning, sitting on her verandah, looking out over the reservoir, every morning watching the waters recede, as the homestead slowly revealed its secrets.

She’d begun to dread stepping out of her house. There was a curious sensation in her stomach, a tangled skein of fear and longing, that made no sense. And as the waters receded, the nightmares had definitely got worse.

Now it felt as if she were waiting. As if each passing day was another day ticked off on her way to … something.

But if she were waiting, she didn’t understand why.

Or maybe it was simply that she couldn’t remember.

The waiting seemed endless as the evening dragged on. All she wanted to do was go to bed and lie there, awaiting midnight. And then he made some excuse to come into her private parlour, eyes everywhere, threatening her by his very presence.

“You’re mine,” he said. “I don’t care what anyone else thinks, we both know the truth.”

“Go away.” And then, her voice shaking, “Please.”

He smiled then, knowing he had her measure. But he didn’t know about her plan, and thank God for it. Because if he knew then he’d stop her. She wouldn’t put any evil past him. And he’d already told her that if he couldn’t have her then no one could.

Work was much the same as it always was. Today it was Claire’s job to write up the sport section. It was Gabe’s newspaper now, but it used to be his grandfather’s, and everything was still done in the same old-fashioned way.

“Professional, as always,” Gabe said, when he read her piece. “Thank you, Claire.”

He allowed his gaze to rest on her a moment, blue and intent, and as usual Claire felt as if he could see much more than the tired circles under her eyes. Gabe was her saviour — he had found her bruised body and driven her to the hospital — and when she was well enough, he’d given her a job and helped her relearn the myriad details of life she’d forgotten. For a time she’d felt like a stranger in a strange land, surrounded by the terrifyingly unfamiliar.

“Will you come to dinner tonight?” she said, surprising herself.

He smiled. “I’d love to. Any special reason?”

Just to say thank you, she thought, but didn’t say it. Gabe didn’t want her gratitude, he’d told her often enough. What did he want then? Her love? She thought she might be in love with him but Claire knew that somewhere in her past love had been a threat to her life and she found it difficult to trust anyone. And Gabe didn’t pressure her in any way. He was willing to wait.

“Just because,” she said now, with a shrug, and left it at that.

During the afternoon she found time to visit the newspaper archives and look up the file on the old McEwen homestead. There was a photograph of the building as it used to be, before the valley was flooded to provide water for the town and district.

Claire stared at the tattered old photo and tried to imagine the house and land as it had been then. She closed her eyes — that was better. Now she could see long stretches of paddock, with horses running beside a wooden fence, and men gathered by pens where sheep were being rounded up by working dogs. A woman servant in an apron was carrying laundry in a basket, her dust boots peeping out from beneath her long drab skirts.

A door slammed.

A man came striding along the homestead verandah and down the steps. He was tall, with thick dark hair, and he was wearing a brown jacket and trousers, with boots up to his knees. The way he walked, with his head up and his back straight, the way he looked around him. Well, it was as if he owned the whole world.

It must be Niall McEwen. There was no one else it could be.

With a start Claire opened her eyes. She felt dizzy, her head woozy, light, as if she’d been asleep. She had been daydreaming, that was all, and yet the dream had been very real.

“The curse of a good imagination,” she told herself with a laugh.

She let her gaze drop once more to the old picture of the homestead. It would be good background for her own photo, and whatever story she could cobble together. And yet, niggling away in her mind, was the knowledge that that wasn’t the only reason she wanted to find out about Niall. There was something more. If only she could remember what it was.

“Do you remember how low the reservoir was four years ago?” Gabe waved his wine glass in the direction of the view below Claire’s house.

“Not this low, surely?”

“Almost. And then there was a thunderstorm, gallons of rain. It kept raining for weeks. We thought the drought had broken but it was only a brief respite.”

“I was in hospital then, Gabe.”

“Of course.” His gaze rested on her, calm, gentle. She felt safe with Gabe. “Has anything come back to you? Do you remember?”

Claire shook her head. “Sometimes I get a sense of. of dread.” She laughed, to lighten the word. “But nothing concrete.”

Gabe was silent a moment, and when he spoke again he’d moved on. “There was a bad drought in the 1930s. My grandfather was just a boy then, ten years old. He told me how he’d come down here to take a look at the old McEwen homestead, and then something very strange happened. He spotted a horse swimming across the reservoir. It reached dry land and shook itself and stood a moment, as if confused. He coaxed it with some sandwiches he’d brought with him and took it home. No one claimed it. He ended up keeping it.”

“Where had it come from then?”

Gabe shrugged. “Another odd thing. My grandfather swears that some of the old people alive then told him they remembered that horse. It belonged to Helen McEwen. And it disappeared the same night she did.”

Claire smiled. “A ghost horse then.”

“A time-travelling horse,” he retorted.

When it was time to go, she walked Gabe out to his car.

“I worry about you up here on your own,” he said, staring down at the homestead in the reservoir below.

“Why? I’m perfectly all right, Gabe.”

When he kissed her his lips brushed hers rather than her cheek, and before she knew it her arms were tight around his neck. The kiss deepened and if Gabe had let her she might have led him back into her house and her bed, but he drew away.

“I want you to be sure,” he said, his palms cupping her face, his eyes intent on hers. “I wish—”

But whatever he wished remained unspoken. Claire watched him drive away, feeling emotional and confused. If only she could remember her past. No wonder Gabe was cautious. What if she had six kids and a biker husband waiting somewhere? The thought made her smile despite herself, and then yawn.

Time to get some sleep before she rose early tomorrow morning to take some photographs of the homestead in the pre-dawn.

Helen waited until it was well after midnight before she began her escape. Her bag was packed, just a few things, and Moppet was sleeping on the end of her bed. The little dog looked up at her as she dressed, head tipped to one side, aware something was out of the ordinary. Helen knew she couldn’t leave Moppet behind.

“You must be very quiet,” she murmured against his warm body.

Her horse was waiting and quickly she readied the saddle and tied on her bag. Moppet was at her feet and she tucked the little dog under her arm. A moment later she was riding out into the starlit night, moving towards an uncertain future.

Claire climbed out of bed in the darkness, wondering whether her job was really worth it. She slipped into jeans and a loose, long-sleeved shirt. Her camera bag was ready, and she opened the door and was outside before she knew it. The world was silent, black and empty, and as she looked down on what was now a valley of baked bare earth, Claire experienced a shiver of unease.

Quashing it, she pulled on her gumboots — there were still muddy patches and debris to negotiate — and found her flashlight. Pointing the circle of bright light before her, Claire walked more jauntily down the gentle slope than she felt. The sun wasn’t up yet, but the scene was certainly creepy enough. It would make the perfect set for a horror movie.

The idea slid through her mind and away again. She let it go. No point in frightening herself any more than she had already. She slung her camera bag more securely over her shoulder and began to pick her way out towards the homestead.

The few patches of water between her and her destination were shallow, but there were obstacles like the old fence posts. She trudged towards the rise where the homestead stood. From her window each morning, the building had appeared small, a doll’s house. Now, the closer she got the larger it seemed. The more real.

Several times she stopped and took some photos, but the silence and sense of isolation compelled her to keep moving. She glanced over her shoulder, towards the light left on in her home, as if to remind herself she wasn’t so very far from safety. There was another flicker of light, further down the valley, where the spillway had been built. Startled, Claire stopped, staring towards it.

Someone is watching me.

Just for a moment her heart began to beat hard, and then she told herself not to be stupid. It could be anyone — a maintenance crew at the spillway, or Merv, her neighbour.

She walked on, her steps ever more reluctant, until eventually she had to stop. The puddles around the homestead were still too deep to walk through, forming that strange circular moat. As if Niall McEwen was protecting his property from trespass, even beyond death. Claire stood, surveying the glint of water, and knew she couldn’t risk it, didn’t want to. Give the drought another week, she decided, and the water would be gone. Then there’d be nothing between her and the homestead.

From where she stood now she could see the gaps of the windows and a doorway, no glass or door, of course. All the fittings were gone. Nothing left but a shell, and even that appeared twisted and warped. One wall was leaning far more dangerously than she had realized. Could be, she thought, as she moved slightly nearer, that the homestead would not be around much longer. Best take the photos while it was still standing.

As Claire lifted the camera to her face she could hear the faint drip, drip of water.

The body of Niall’s wife Helen was never found. Was it still somewhere under the mud beneath her feet?

The nasty thought entered her head like a sly whisper and she lowered the camera. Her heart was pounding and she didn’t like that; she didn’t like not being able to hear. But what was there to listen to, apart from the dripping water?

Once again, Claire lifted the camera and this time took a series of shots looking down the valley towards the spillway, capturing the old verandah in part of the frame. She adjusted the lens and stepped back, preparing for the next shot. But her heel landed in a deep hole in the mud and her knee buckled. Off balance, she tried to save herself, and then realized there was nothing she could do — she was going to fall. The camera! She held it against herself protectively as her side hit the ground. Mud squished beneath her hip and shoulder, but although soft the ground still managed to jar her unpleasantly. Her breath came out in a whoosh.

She saw stars, or at least she thought she did. For a moment the sky danced around her, and then a shadow moved over her and a man’s voice said, “Helen?”

And then she was up on her feet again. Rigid. Staring at the empty old house and listening to nothing at all.

Claire got her photos. The sun came up eventually, and she took several from further along the valley. But she did not go back to the homestead. The moment when she had fallen was as clear in her mind as the memories she no longer had, but she did not want to think about it. She could not think about it.

But as she trudged home, ignoring the prickling urge to glance over her shoulder, that voice reverberated in her head. Deep, hoarse and despairing.

Helen.

Someone was following her. She was hardly beyond the gate when she sensed she was not alone after all. Moppet struggled and began to bark and she was forced to set the dog down. It ran back the way they’d come, barking steadily.

Helen didn’t know whether to go on, and while she hesitated, torn at the prospect of leaving her pet behind her, he came out of the darkness.

“Where are you going?”

There was no point in lying. He would know.

“I’m leaving.”

He steadied his horse, blocking her path, body tense and ready if she tried to sidestep him. “I don’t think so. That was never part of the bargain, Helen. ‘Till death us do part’, isn’t that what the vicar said?”

“I made a mistake.”

“I knew you were up to something. You’re not very good at lying.”

“And you’re an expert.”

“You’re not leaving.” His face was implacable.

She knew then, even as she tried to ride past him. Even as he caught her reins and grabbed her arm, hauling her from her saddle. She knew he was going to hurt her.

The following morning Gabe and Claire met as usual in the cafe to discuss upcoming stories for the Bugle.

As soon as she sat down Claire became aware of the weariness in her body, and at the edges of her mind. She hadn’t slept well. There had been the usual nightmares, of course. The faceless stranger watching her. An endless fall into darkness.

Perhaps the nightmare was symbolic of her coma, or perhaps it really had happened, perhaps someone had hurt her deliberately and left her for dead. The police had said her head injuries could have been sustained in a fall, and there were other bruises, old and new. But they couldn’t tell her for certain and she could not remember, so how could she ever really know?

As well as lack of sleep from the nightmares, Claire now found herself replaying in her head, over and over again, the moment out in the reservoir when she had slipped and fallen. It was like a clip from a bizarre movie, only this wasn’t a movie. Real or fantasy? A figment of her imagination or an actual happening? No wonder she was tired.

They had gotten quiet, Gabe reading and Claire eating her breakfast. She didn’t know she was going to ask the question until the words came out.

“Tell me what you know about Niall McEwen?”

Gabe seemed startled, although he took his time putting down his paper and looking up at her. “Probably as much as you.”

“Oh, come on, you’ve lived here all your life. I’ve only been here for four years. You must know more than me.”

Gabe seemed to be gathering his thoughts. “Niall’s grandfather was the younger son of an aristocratic family in Scotland, and there’s some debate whether he came to Australia to make his fortune or because he was being disinherited for some misdemeanour. Anyway, it hardly mattered, because he struck it rich on the goldfields and used the money to buy land. Set himself up, and formed a dynasty.

“Niall was the favoured grandson. He was a bit of a scoundrel, with plenty of money and a handsome face and probably no one in his entire life had ever said no to him. So, when he set eyes on Helen, he wanted her, and for Niall that was it, really. He wanted her and so he had her.”

“Gabe, you make him sound appalling,” she laughed.

“Helen wasn’t as well bred as Niall, but far more respectable. She held out for marriage, and eventually he proposed. It was a big wedding.”

“You sound as if you didn’t like Helen,” Claire said.

Gabe looked down at his coffee cup. “Do I? My grandfather had a photograph of her in his desk drawer — I think he was half in love with her despite the fact she was long gone before he was born. She was beautiful, and she used her looks to get what she wanted. A bit like Niall used his charm. It made them well suited.”

“Was it a happy marriage?”

“Niall was a womanizer but despite that he always insisted he loved his wife. Then Helen disappeared. Vanished completely.”

“They searched?”

“Oh yes. Looked everywhere. The police believed she’d run off with a lover — although who that lover was was never discovered. But the people around here thought differently. A rumour started that Niall had murdered Helen and hid the body. The rumour was never substantiated but it was enough to make Niall’s life unbearable. He sold up and left the district. The valley was flooded and that was that.”

Claire was quiet, mulling over his words. She knew the story, of course, but somehow Gabe’s blunt retelling of it made it all more real to her. “What do you think happened to Helen?”

“I don’t know, Claire.” He was frowning, and now he pushed his coffee cup aside. “Why this sudden interest?”

Something stirred in her mind but she couldn’t grasp it. Tantalizingly it remained just out of reach. And there was that niggling feeling in her stomach again, that urge to find out what really happened. That sense that something wasn’t quite right.

Claire met Gabe’s intelligent eyes and for a moment she was strongly tempted to tell him what had happened last night, but almost immediately she knew she wouldn’t. Gabe was a rational man and what Claire had experienced, if it wasn’t an auditory hallucination, wasn’t rational.

“Last night I walked across the reservoir, closer to the homestead, and took some photos,” she admitted.

“By yourself?” Gabe’s frown deepened. “Claire, it’s dangerous out there!”

“I was alone.”

He shook his head. “That’s my point. You were alone and the ground is treacherous. You could have fallen. been hurt. anything.”

“I was fine,” Claire said firmly.

Gabe seemed to know it was time to back off. He rearranged his teaspoon. “Are they good?”

“The photos? I think so. I haven’t developed them yet.”

“Why don’t you use one for the front cover on Thursday?” A peace offering.

“Thanks. I will.”

Gabe nodded, and then his mouth quirked up into a smile. Claire smiled back. I do love him, she thought. That’s why I don’t want to burden him with any more of my problems.

“Do you still have your grandfather’s photo of Helen?” she said.

Gabe hesitated. “Somewhere.”

“I’d like to see it some day.”

“I’ll look it out,” he said casually.

Helen’s body was one long ache where she’d landed on the ground when he pulled her from the horse. She opened her mouth to scream but he was already on her, hand covering her face, dragging her towards the barn. She kicked and struggled, but then he raised his fist and struck her hard on the jaw, and everything went dark. When she came around she was lying on the ground just inside the barn, her head throbbing and her vision woozy.

Was he gone?

But no, even as the hopeful thought entered her head she heard his steps as he made his preparations. Helen knew she was going to die and anger and regret filled her. A single foolish mistake had brought her to this violent end.

“Niall. ” she groaned.

He laughed. “Too late to be sorry,” he mocked. “Far too late for that.”

Claire had an assignment with a local farm-machinery supplier, taking details for a paid promotion. Afterwards, on a whim, she drove out to the town cemetery, where the gravestones spoke of past joys and sorrows, good times and bad.

The iron gate clanged shut behind her. Heat shimmered from the ground and the smell of eucalyptus filled her nostrils and cleared her head. High among the drooping leaves a bird rustled and then flew off with a slow, lazy flapping of its wings.

The McEwen graves were in the older, pioneer section. Her gaze slid over Niall’s grandparents and parents, but there was no stone for Niall. Wherever he’d died it wasn’t here. There was nothing for Helen, either.

It would be impossible to bury someone whose body had never been found, but there could be a memorial with her name and a brief rehash of the circumstances of her disappearance.

No body, no memorial and no way to put Helen to rest.

The heat was getting worse, the air so still and hot Claire found it difficult to breathe. Still no hint of rain. Sometimes Claire wondered if it was ever going to rain again. Drought, with its accompanying water restrictions and daily worries and irritations, had become a way of life. Nothing stirred, nothing moved, and yet there was that sense of watching.

Hastily Claire turned back.

It was late by the time she began to transfer her photos on to her computer. They were good, especially those where the homestead sat lonely within its moat, the water reflecting the first dawn light. Claire began to set aside the ones she thought would make a good front page for the newspaper, turning her full attention to each new shot.

One of them puzzled her until she realized that the camera must have gone off when she fell over. A dark, confusing shot, with a partial view of the front of the homestead, some of the sky, and the gleam of light on the water. All shadows and angles.

She was about to move on when something else caught her eye. Reaching for the zoom button, she leaned closer to the computer screen. Her heart seemed to stop.

There was a face, barely visible within the gloom of the doorway. Had there been a door? Claire didn’t remember. The face was only half a face, the gleam of an eye, the shine of cheek and lips, but it was a face. Surely she could not be mistaken?

No, she wasn’t. Something or someone had been there. Watching her. She hadn’t been alone out there after all! Some stranger had been waiting, observing her, hiding from her. Then the voice; the word “Helen” had been spoken by a real man and not a ghostly presence?

She felt relief fight through her fear. Claire peered more closely at the photo, but it was impossible to accurately make out the features in the dark and light smudges that mingled to make up the man’s face. She could show Gabe, see if he recognized anything about the man, but Gabe was protective enough. If he thought she was in any sort of danger he’d be here, babysitting her. Better if she kept it to herself, at least until she knew what she was dealing with.

It was probably nothing to worry about.

Helen could hear Moppet barking. A warm wet tongue woke her from her half-conscious state. She murmured reassurance, but when she tried to take the little dog in her arms she found her ankles and wrists were bound with cord. The barn door was closed, too, and it was dark inside.

At least she was still alive. For now.

Moppet barked again and she tried to hush him, discovering that her mouth was also bound with some sort of cloth gag.

Helen wriggled on to her back, wincing, and sat up. He’d tied her hands in front of her and it only took a moment for her to find a pitchfork among the bales of hay. She rubbed the cord against the prongs until they frayed enough for her to break them. Even so, her skin was raw and bleeding. Hurriedly she removed the gag and then the cord about her ankles, then staggered to her feet.

Moppet ran to the back wall and Helen followed, realizing there was a gap in the boards, half hidden behind a barrel. The little dog darted through and Helen began to follow, ignoring the stabbing pain behind her eyes and the queasiness in her stomach.

Behind her the barn door opened.

Angus had once been a big man but age had bowed and shrunk him down into something less formidable. Angus ran a small museum in an old house in the main street.

Claire knew she should be working but she still had that squirmy feeling in her stomach and she needed distraction. It was more than that, though. The idea of solving the mystery of Helen and Niall had taken hold of her. It wouldn’t restore her own lost self, but it would help. It would give her the self-confidence she needed to tell Gabe she was in love with him.

“Do you have any photos of Niall McEwen’s homestead?”

“I do have a few photos. Why do you want to see them, Claire?”

“I thought I’d do a story on Niall. Now that the homestead is no longer under water, people are interested.”

“Are they?” Angus looked sceptical. “There was always something nasty about that whole Helen thing.”

Nevertheless he went and found the photos, packed in a cardboard box. When Claire asked if she could take them with her he gave her a hard stare.

“I’ll be very careful,” she promised.

Reluctantly he put the box in her arms and she carried it out to the car, closing the trunk just as her cell phone rang.

“Claire? Merv here, how you doing?”

Merv was her neighbour further along the reservoir towards the spillway.

“You haven’t lost a dog, have you Claire?”

“A dog? I heard one barking one night in the reservoir. I thought it might be yours.”

“Well, it’s here but it’s not mine. Not yours either then?”

“No.”

“Just turned up in the middle of the night. Strange thing was it was covered in mud and all wet. Must have been in the water, I reckon.”

Claire felt a prickle of unease. What about the man who had been in the homestead, the man in the photo? Was the dog his? And if so, why had he left it behind?

“Claire?”

She realized she’d fallen silent, standing by her car, the phone pressed hard to her ear. “How about I come over and take a look at it now? I’m about to drive home anyway.”

“See you then.”

Merv, man of few words, hung up. Claire climbed into the car, telling herself that it was probably just a stray dog, dumped on the highway further out of town. Animals could smell water for miles, couldn’t they?

Merv was waiting for her, his shock of white hair even wilder than usual. Inside a dog was barking. Short, sharp yaps. It sounded like the dog she’d heard the other night. As Merv opened a door a small bundle of newly washed white fur ran past him and straight at Claire. Before she could stop it, the small dog was jumping at her, blunt claws scrabbling at her legs as it barked hysterically.

“Whoa there, boy!” Merv caught the sturdy little animal up, holding it away from her, but it continued to bark. Bright eyes peered at her through a mop of white fringe, and a pink tongue lolled as it fought to catch its breath. Merv looked at Claire. “You sure you haven’t met before? He seems to think you’re his.”

She shook her head, laughing, and reached out to rub the dog’s head. It was white and woolly. This wasn’t the sort of dog that an owner dumped on a highway; this was a pet, healthy and well fed.

“I wonder where he came from?” she asked, smiling as the animal licked at her hand, little tail wagging so violently its whole body shook in Merv’s arms.

“Your guess is as good as mine. He’s an intelligent little fellow, and friendly.”

Claire gave the woolly head another pat. “I’ll put something in the paper for Thursday. Perhaps we can find his owners.”

The dog seemed calmer now, and Merv put it down. It trotted over to Claire and sat, gazing up at her with adoring eyes.

“Love at first sight,” Merv quipped.

“I’ve never had a dog,” she said, stooping to tickle the animal under the chin. “Well, not that I can remember, anyway.”

Merv leaned against the doorjamb. “Nothing’s come back to you then?”

Claire grimaced. “Nothing. It’s as if I never existed. As if I’m nobody.”

“You’re somebody in this town, Claire,” Merv reminded her levelly.

It was nice of him to say so, and Claire smiled.

“I hear you’re digging into Helen’s disappearance.” The humour had gone from Merv’s eyes.

“Yes, I am. Do you think Niall killed Helen? Is that what everyone thinks?”

He shrugged. The little dog barked, breaking the tension.

“Do you want to take him? Might be company for you until his owner’s found.”

The dog was watching her, panting, and she nodded. Why not?

But as she drove away, the dog sitting proudly in the back seat, questions began to fill her head. If the dog belonged to the man in the homestead then why had it run away? Could. could the man have fallen? Claire’s heart began to pound. Was he still out there, inside, too hurt to call out? Trapped and injured and expecting her help.

Guilt swamped her. The other night all she had wanted to do was get away from the place, and it hadn’t occurred to her that the man might need her help, that she was running from an injured man and not a ghost.

“Damn it,” she muttered to herself, and pressed down hard on the accelerator.

He was coming closer. She heard him throwing aside hay and tools and empty crates, anything in his way. Helen reached through the gap in the wall, fingers like claws in the earth, and pulled herself through. A moment later she was on her feet and running towards the homestead. There were people there. She could get help. Someone would help her.

The water had receded some more, leaving a line of newly formed crusts over the mud around the edge of the moat. It was still too deep for Claire to wade across despite her gumboots, but she could see the bottom now and from the feel of the sun scorching her back, it wouldn’t be long before it had dried up enough.

She shaded her eyes and squinted up the slope towards the homestead. The barns and other buildings that must once have encircled the main house were long gone, either rotted into the mud or dismantled before the water covered them. In daylight the homestead had lost its poignancy and looked forlorn, with one wall leaning dangerously, the boards buckled and warped, and the window frames empty dark squares staring inwards.

“Hello!”

The word seemed to stop, as if it came up against something solid. No echo, no carry. She called again. There was still no real sense that anyone who might be in the structure would be able to hear her, or that she could hear them. Especially if they were injured and unable to answer loudly.

She should have gone back for Merv. But she admitted that she wasn’t sure enough to risk making a fool of herself — the amnesiac who imagined ghostly voices. Claire would just love for that rumour to begin to circulate.

Cautiously she stepped closer, her gumboots sinking into the mud with an evil squelching sound. The heat of the sun stung her skin and perspiration dripped down her back. Everything was so still, the air wavering like steam from a kettle, but it was an uncomfortable tranquillity. And the sense of being watched was back, and with it a feeling of menace.

Ignoring her unease, Claire focused her gaze on the ground leading up to the homestead. No footprints that she could see, nothing to show that anyone had ever walked or crawled up there. Not even the little dog.

And yet they must have. She had proof in the photo.

“Hello! Are you all right?”

Again that odd sense that her voice had not carried as far as it should have.

Claire began to make her way around the edge of the moat, grimacing as her boots sank in the sucking mud. Finally she found a shallow causeway that looked crossable. Slowly, gingerly, she walked out into the warm water, feeling her gumboots begin to fill, but she plodded on. When one of her boots sank into the mud and stuck fast, she cursed, tugging at it and balancing on her other leg. All of a sudden it came free with a horrible sucking sound, and she lost her balance, staggering forwards. Before she could stop herself she fell, landing on the ground on the other side of the moat.

But where she expected to land on rock-hard earth her hands touched grass. Soft, sweet, green grass.

She thought she must have passed out.

Slowly she lifted her gaze from the grass — so green it hurt her eyes — and up the slope that was stretching in front of her. There was a long sweep of garden. An orchard to her left and borders of perennials. Lavender grew around her in big untrimmed shrubs, the spikes heavy with bees.

Horses stood in a railed yard, their tails swishing at the flies, and a couple of men were unloading a wagon, while a girl with a white apron was carrying a bucket awkwardly towards the rear of the house.

Still stunned, lying frozen upon the grass, Claire stared up at the homestead. A moment ago it had been a ruin but now curtains fluttered from the open windows and smoke rose from the chimneys and a door banged shut as someone strode across the verandah.

Claire shook her head. No. It wasn’t possible. It wasn’t true.

A man was striding down the front steps. He was dark haired and wearing a brown jacket, riding breeches and boots. He moved with such an air of authority that Claire knew who it was without seeing his face.

Niall McEwen.

A moment ago she had been too frozen to move, but now she dug her fingers harder into the soft green grass beneath her and pushed herself up. The scent of the lavender, the sounds of life about her, the utter impossibility of it all, made her head spin as if she were drunk. Claire swayed, trying to catch her breath, trying to keep her grip on the shifting reality about her, as she stood waist deep in lavender.

Just as Niall McEwen turned his head in her direction.

His body went rigid. His chin lifted. He quickened his step. In a moment he’d be running.

Terror ripped through her.

She stumbled backwards. Water washed over the heels of her boots and, as they sank a little into the mud of the causeway, the scene in front of her faded. Like a photo that has been overexposed. Niall was still moving towards her but there was no sound and she knew he would never reach her. She backed away another step and into the hole that had claimed her boot previously, toppling into a pool of water. Her head went under.

Helen! The voice was in her head, a cry of anguish and need. When she surfaced and pulled herself out on to the mud, she was spluttering and choking. Her wet hair hung in her eyes and she pushed it away with a trembling hand and turned back towards the house.

It stood drunkenly above her, a ruin baking in the sun. No garden, no horses and certainly no Niall McEwen. Nothing but bare ground and warped timbers and a harsh blue sky.

He was gaining on her. She tried to scream but the sound was breathless and barely louder than the other night noises. She ran to the side, towards the garden, where flower stalks rose starkly. She’d insisted on tidying them herself and now she would never finish.

He reached for her arm but at the same moment Moppet ran between his feet and tripped him. The dog yelped, the man cursed and Helen ran on. Before her was the lily pond. Would he follow her in? He couldn’t swim, she knew that much. It was one of the only weaknesses he’d admitted to her. He was afraid of water.

Perhaps she could save herself after all?

By the time Claire had showered and changed daylight was fading. Sunset was a glorious crimson and orange affair, and Claire sat on her verandah and watched it, a glass of cooled wine in her hand, the dog at her feet.

He had forgiven her for shutting him up in her house earlier and now seemed content to rest by her side, following her with his eyes whenever she moved, clearly intent on attaching himself to her.

Her own eyes continually drifted to the old homestead, as if she expected any moment it might transform itself. She had no explanation for what had happened. If it was a hallucination, it was a pretty good one, but she knew it wasn’t a dream. She wanted to discuss it logically, but who would listen to her? Gabe? He might, or he might just ring for the doctor.

Perhaps the most disturbing part of it had been the sense of familiarity. Her daydream had already shown her what to expect and when she stood in the lavender it had not seemed foreign at all. And he had not seemed a stranger.

But still her rational mind argued, needing proof.

Claire got up abruptly and hurried out to the door, the dog trotting along behind her. She came back with the box from the museum and set it down on the kitchen table, then poured herself another glass of crisp white wine.

A quick search found mostly junk. There was a photo album, however, and she eased it out and opened it up, expecting great things. She found disappointment. The first photo had been eaten away by mildew, the faces unrecognizable. The next page was worse. Claire turned another page and then another, but it was all the same. The damage to the album had been extensive and irreversible. Even a master restorer could do nothing with this mess, there was simply nothing to restore.

Claire had come to the end of the album. The last photo. And it was undamaged. She stared down at it. A man in a high white collar, his handsome face stern and still, a lock of dark hair falling over his brow. His gaze was intense but it was also faintly amused, as if he knew the effect he had on those around him — especially women.

Claire shivered.

It was him. The man she’d seen.

Niall McEwen was alive. He lived in a place that could be reached through a moat of water that surrounded the homestead. He existed in the past, but he also existed in the here and now, and only Claire knew it.

Only Claire could reach him.

But that was madness, impossible! Wasn’t it?

There was only one way to prove it. She had to go back there and do what she’d done earlier. She had to cross the causeway and step on to the island where the homestead was. She had to go and face her fears.

The knock on her door almost gave her a heart attack.

Gabe’s smile faded when he saw her face. “What’s happened?”

Claire knew she could tell him. She could burden him with everything and he would help her, look after her, as he had before. Or she could solve her problems herself and come to him as an equal partner.

“I had a headache. It’s gone now.”

He appeared to accept her word.

“I didn’t expect to see you tonight, Gabe.”

By now he’d taken in the box from the museum and the photo album. She closed it before he could see Niall McEwen, some sense of self-preservation driving her.

“You were talking about Helen,” he said. “I thought you might like to see the picture of her that belonged to my grandfather.”

“Oh. Yes, thank you.” She found a glass and poured him some of her white wine. “How did he come by Helen’s photo anyway?”

It was just idle conversation but Gabe seemed to find the question awkward. “Belonged to an uncle of his, a cousin of Niall McEwen’s who worked as Niall’s foreman. He was fond of Helen, and when she vanished. ” He shrugged. “He kept the photo.”

They sat down in the lounge and Claire tucked her feet up under herself. She remembered how, after she had left hospital, she always sat so straight and formally, feet together on the floor, hands clasped in her lap. Gabe had teased her, gently, and gradually she had learned to relax.

She realized Gabe was talking about his grandfather again.

“He believed there were places in the world where the veil between our time and the past was thinner, more able to be breached. The valley was one of them, according to him.”

Claire tried not to let him see how much his words had affected her. Thankfully the room was dimly lit with candles, her preferred form of lighting.

“Why did he think that?”

“He was told things and he saw things himself, things he shouldn’t have been able to see. His belief was that the past and the present ran at different speeds. For instance, whereas a hundred years might have gone by here in the present, only a day might have gone by in the past.”

Claire took a gulp of her wine, her fingers trembling.

“You haven’t been down there again, have you, Claire? To the homestead?” And, when she didn’t answer, he added, “It’s not safe. Promise me you won’t go alone.”

“You worry too much about me, Gabe. You shouldn’t have to worry about me. I feel as if I’ve become a weight around your neck.”

He stood up and crossed to her, then took her wine glass from her hand and set it down. She looked up at him.

“Claire, I’ve been in love with you since I first saw you. I wanted to wait until you were. better, so that you could be sure about your future, but now I think I’ve waited too long.”

She went into his arms. It seemed foolish to deny herself any longer. Gabe’s mouth closed on hers. His body felt familiar against hers, but only because this was Gabe. And he showed her how he felt with every touch, every caress, every stroke. For the first time in her life Claire knew what it was to be with the man she loved, and who loved her.

The water was chill against her thighs as she waded deeper. Her skirts dragged about her and she was gasping for air. He stood on the bank, watching her, his face full of fury.

For a moment she thought it would be all right. She almost believed she was safe. But then he stepped down into the pond, the water rising over his boots and up his legs, and she knew.

Stumbling, trying to hurry, she moved towards the far bank. Her foot slipped and she went under. The murky water closed over her head, and suddenly everything was quiet. Like a church. She couldn’t breathe, her lungs were bursting, but she couldn’t seem to find the surface.

The next moment she rose up from the water, gasping and spluttering, crying out. But when she opened her eyes she was somewhere else. He was gone, the valley was gone, and when she turned back to the homestead, it was nothing more than a derelict ruin.

Claire opened her eyes, confused. She’d fallen asleep in Gabe’s arms, content and happy. Now the sound of the dog barking was sharp and clear in the night, and for a moment she felt as if it was all still a dream. That she was Helen, running for her life, coming through Gabe’s grandfather’s thin veil in time.

And then reality clicked in and Claire eased herself out of bed, careful not to wake Gabe, and took her clothes into the lounge. She dressed, then went out on to the verandah. The sky was a marvel, full of starlight, and beneath it the empty reservoir echoed with the intermittent sound of barking. Something small and white was bobbing about, just outside the moat.

Somehow the dog had escaped the house while she slept and was now running back and forth outside the ring of water.

A terrible sense of excitement, of anticipation, gripped her. As if she had been waiting for this moment for a very long time. And at the same time fear flooded through her body, lifting every nerve to a new state of anxiety.

The air was like warm silk against her skin, heavy. She plodded along in her gumboots, her gaze fixed on the homestead, the occasional flash of lightning and rumble of thunder warning of an approaching storm.

The dog had noticed her at last and came running towards her. Jumping up, paws scrabbling at her legs and whimpering a greeting. She reached down to pet him, ruffling the thick, curly coat.

“Where did you come from, boy?”

The dog looked up at her, its eyes gleaming darkly, tongue lolling. He knew a secret and he wasn’t telling.

“Be like that then,” Claire murmured.

She picked the dog up and tucked his firm little body under her arm. He felt warm and solid, and comforting. The water of the moat sloshed against the toes of her boots, then up around her ankles, her calves. Did she really want to do this? She knew that some part of her did, some part of her was hungering to see the past again, to understand what it all meant. The rest of her was just plain terrified.

The water had evaporated even more since yesterday and soon there wouldn’t be a moat at all. What would happen then? Would the past spill into the present like an unstoppable tide?

Claire moved out on to the causeway, the dog still clasped in her arms. The little animal seemed quite content to remain with her, quietly, trusting her, and besides, he was only a companion on this strangest of journeys.

Claire thought she might even manage to cross without getting wet feet, but the water was just deep enough to slosh over the tops of her boots and run down inside. With a grimace she found her way to the shallow water on the far side and took one step out and on to the bare desolate ground of the island.

It happened the other way around this time.

The overexposed picture began to come into focus, quickly gaining colour and definition. It was night-time here just as it was in the present, but there was a sense of life, of movement, all about her. The scent of lavender was strong in the air and she realized that once again she was standing among the thick bushes. An owl hooted and something snuffled in the flowerbeds, small feet running swiftly. The little dog whimpered in her arms and she hushed it, gently holding its muzzle so it couldn’t bark.

She was back.

Claire moved forwards, along the path that wound through the fragrant garden and up towards the homestead. Above her the same storm she’d just left behind — or was it a different one? — was rattling the heavens. That sense of waiting sent shivers across her skin. The homestead was in darkness but it wasn’t deserted, it wasn’t empty.

It was waiting.

Waiting for her?

A candle flickered in one of the windows, as if someone was still up, but there was no sound. She stepped onwards, reaching out her hand towards the verandah post, to touch, to feel.

“It’s you. You’ve come back.”

The voice came out of the shadows before her. Claire stood, frozen, as he stepped towards her, his face a pale blur beneath his dark hair. The dog struggled, sensing that something was very wrong, but Claire held on to it.

“Where did you go?” There was something threatening in his voice. “Everyone has been searching for you, Helen. They’re blaming Niall.”

Because this wasn’t Niall. As if a shattered window suddenly began to reform in her mind, bit by bit, she saw the truth. This handsome man was Maurice, Niall’s cousin and his foreman, and she’d been stupid enough to spend one night in his bed. She’d done it in revenge for all the women Niall betrayed her with, but this man would not accept that. He’d always been jealous of Niall and one night made her his. He threatened to tell Niall, to blackmail her, he threatened to make her life a misery if she did not give him what he wanted.

So she was leaving him, and Niall.

“Helen?” he groaned. “You know if I can’t have you then no one can.”

“Yes. I am Helen.” Her voice was a whisper.

The dog struggled again and he noticed it for the first time. “Moppet?” he said angrily. “You came back for Moppet?”

Of course, this was Moppet, her dog. “I could never leave Moppet.”

Her placing her dog above him seemed to infuriate him even more. “Where have you been? Tell me the truth.”

“Through time,” she said, and laughed.

His features went hard, and suddenly he was no longer handsome.

Fear streaked through her, and Claire turned and ran. Back down the path, back towards the line of water that separated his world from hers. His boots thumped on the path behind her, his breathing heavy and gaining.

His hand closed on her shoulder, fingers pressing hard into her skin, imprinting themselves upon her. He pulled her around and into the hard grasp of his arms. Moppet leaped to the ground and Claire was dragged against his chest, aware of the faint scent of cigars and leather.

She’d returned to the past only to die here.

“Claire!”

Faint, desperate, a voice she knew like her own heart.

She began to fight Maurice. A flash of lightning showed his face and the determination to finish what he’d started all those years ago — or was it only an hour or two?

“Let her go!”

Suddenly Gabe was ripping her out of Maurice’s grip, knocking him backwards so that he fell heavily into the shrubs. Claire was gasping, stumbling into his arms, and Moppet was barking wildly. The little dog had been barking all along, she realized, but she’d been too occupied to really hear its cries for help.

“Come on,” Gabe said, voice rising against the growl of thunder.

And then Gabe was leading her through the water of the moat and the past was fading away behind her. A moment later they were standing on the baked surface of the reservoir, lightning and thunder creating havoc around them.

“He’ll be able to come into the present,” Claire said, wild-eyed, shaking uncontrollably. “The moat is drying up and soon he’ll come.”

Gabe reached down to pick up Moppet and put the dog into her arms. A big fat drop of rain plopped on to the ground beside them. And then another.

She turned her face upwards in amazement and joy. The drops were falling faster now, painful against her skin, but wonderful too.

“No, he won’t,” Gabe said confidently.

Later, as they sat on the verandah and watched the world through a curtain of rain, Gabe told her his story, which was her story, too.

“My grandfather had a photo of you. It belonged to his uncle Maurice. There was something secretive about the man, and my grandfather always had a suspicion it was to do with Helen. When Maurice died he told my grandfather that he and Helen had been lovers and that he’d tried to kill her, but she’d vanished. Just. vanished.”

“And your grandfather began to work on his time theory.”

“Exactly. Although I didn’t really believe in it until I found you four years ago. I knew who you were. I recognized you from the photo, and I remembered what he’d told me. It was you, Helen, but I was the only one who knew it.”

Claire rubbed her forehead. “The photo. ” She went into the kitchen and found the old album, then carried it back to Gabe open at the photo in the back. “I thought this was Niall.”

Gabe shook his head. “Maurice. They were alike. Must have made it even harder for Maurice to end up working for the man he wished he could be.”

“If he couldn’t have me then Niall couldn’t either,” she whispered.

“I found you down in the reservoir. You were dressed in old-fashioned clothing, like something from a costume drama. I got rid of the clothes, pretended I’d found you up in the hills. I didn’t want them poking around the homestead with so much of it exposed, but it started to rain about then anyway. I hoped it would keep raining but it didn’t, and. ”

“And I decided to find my past,” she said, reaching for his hand. “I wish I’d trusted you, Gabe.”

“I wish I’d trusted you, but you see my difficulty? When you couldn’t remember anything it was a blessing for me, really. But I always knew that eventually your memory would return and then we would have to deal with it. I thought I’d tell you everything then.”

They sat a moment in silence, contemplating the incredible truth.

Gabe smiled. “I meant what I said before. I’ve been in love with you all my life. I feel like I’ve known you all my life.”

Her own smile trembled at the edges. “But who am I, Gabe? Helen or Claire?”

“Who do you want to be?”

“Claire,” she said. “I’ve grown up from Helen, I’m different now. I want to be Claire.”

“Then Claire you shall be. And just in case someone tries to make trouble. ” He slipped a photo from his pocket and handed it to her. Claire looked down into her own face, held stiff and unsmiling as the old-fashioned equipment recorded her image. She held one corner to the candle flame and watched it burn, turning the past and all its bad memories into ash. She raised her chin and kissed Gabe’s lips.