Somewhere in Time (The Crosse Harbor Time Travel Trilogy) by Barbara Bretton Page A

risk such an enterprise," he said. "My presence here cannot be revealed."
    "I can risk it," said Emilie. "Tell me the best place to moor the rowboat and I can find my way into town."
    "Over my dead body," said Rutledge, gritting his teeth. "I'm fine."
    McVie slid his knife back into the waistband of his breeches and approached. "You are a fortunate man," he said, looking at Zane's right forearm which had sustained a fracture. "If the bone had broken the skin, the cause would be lost."
    "You're the local hero," Zane growled, "not the doctor."
    "A physician would tell you same as I, Rutledge. You and your arm would be parting company."
    Zane gestured toward McVie. "Keep him the hell away from me," he said to Emilie.
    "We have to set that arm, Zane."
    "I'll do it myself."
    "You're talking like a fool."
    "I'm not the one who says a balloon dropped us into the middle of the Revolution."
    Emilie started to laugh. She couldn't help it. Maybe it was lack of food or the jet lag to end all jet lag. She didn't know. But whatever it was, the whole thing suddenly struck her as so absurd, so funny, that the laughter bubbled up and it wouldn't stop.
    It took Zane all of about five seconds to catch the wave. He laughed until his sides hurt as much as his broken arm.
    Emilie was draped over the bench, tears of mirth rolling down her cheeks, while Zane leaned against the wall and roared. McVie stood in the doorway, his expression perfectly dead-pan. Each time they looked at him they laughed all the harder.
    "I'm starving," said Emilie, holding her sides. "Let's call out for a pizza."
    "Great idea," Zane managed. "Think it'll get here in thirty minutes?"
    "Oh no!" cried Emilie, wiping her eyes. "I left the water running in the kitchen."
    "I can go you one better," said Zane. "I left the Porsche running."
    Andrew watched them patiently from the doorway. He knew the words they spoke were English but the meaning behind them was impossible for him to comprehend. All this talk about por-shuh and peet-zah--what manner of world did they come from?
    He glanced out the window then cleared his throat. "It grows dark soon. We should tend to business while we can."
    Both Emilie and Zane grew abruptly silent as reality once again rushed in on them.
    "We have to do something about your arm," Emilie said at last. "The longer we wait...."
    "I am no physician," said Andrew, "but I am skilled in certain basic remedies."
    "I don't have a choice, do I?" asked Zane.
    No one argued with him.
    In silence they filed down the winding staircase to the front room where the blue light of dusk had begun to soften the stark simplicity of their surroundings.
    Emilie borrowed McVie's knife and proceeded to rip into one of the beautiful quilts. They would need lengths of fabric to serve as a sling, as well as to bind the makeshift splint to Zane's forearm.
    Andrew found a sturdy branch outside which he quickly broke down to a more manageable size.
    Zane watched the proceedings with detached curiosity. The whole thing was beginning to take on an almost Kafka-esque quality and he half expected the alarm to ring and wake him up from the strangest dream he'd had in his entire life.
    The two men locked eyes.
    "The pain might be considerable," said Andrew, taking the other man's measure.
    "Do it," was all Zane said.
    McVie motioned for Emilie to stand at the head of the trundle bed. "Keep his shoulders down, Mistress Emilie."
    She nodded, biting her lip nervously. McVie placed one hand on Zane's wrist and another at his elbow. It was she and not Zane who cried out at the sound of bone against bone as McVie urged the broken pieces into the proper position.
    Quickly he laid the splint along Zane's forearm, then instructed Emilie to bind the splint tightly in place. Zane's face was pale and his eyes were closed. A small muscle in his jaw worked furiously but that was the only sign he gave that all was not right.
    "You're very good at this," she observed as McVie finished his