And once she’d known what could wrong, she’d been highly motivated to know how to fix it.
She pulled her shirt down—on the opposite side from where her tracker had been, and studied the device strapped to her upper arm.
All she had to do was push the button.That was supposed to be all she could do.And she wasn’t supposed to take it off.
With only a slight hesitation, she removed it and then tensed.It didn’t release a gas or anything.It just lay there on the bed, button-side down.
She left it there, stood, and started pacing again.She stopped at the window and stole a look.Red wasn’t in sight.Did that mean he’d decided on something?
He should ditch her, but she hoped he wouldn’t.
Exhaustion suddenly clawed at her.She’d slept in the plane, but it hadn’t been a restful sleep, more an attempt to escape the discomfort.
She crossed back to the bed, put the recall device on the tiny nightstand and flopped back, staring at the ceiling.
She needed to sleep while she could.
Her body thought it was the perfect time to remind her how annoyed they were with her.
Con came face to face with Rita when he was coming out of the bathroom.She looked sleepy and rumpled and adorably grumpy.He knew better than to say that to her.He had to step back so he wouldn’t step closer as the urge to hug her almost overwhelmed him.
She managed a grimace that could have been an attempt at smiling, then slipped into the bathroom closing the door decisively in his face.
He grinned and headed across the small living room with its very small couch.His gaze was caught by the newspaper that Joe had clearly set to one side of a plate that must have once been filled with food.He picked it up, curious to see if the Roswell incident had reached this far out.
It hadn’t.The headline was about an airline strike?An airline strike?He checked the date and the air in his lungs froze, his heart stopped.
July 8, 1966
What the heck?There’d been nothing about randomly moving through time in his briefings.Alice had told him about her experiences with time, but he’d never been anywhere but in his own time until he joined Jack’s outfit.
He heard a step outside and quickly folded the newspaper and replaced it on the small table.He recalled Joe’s words last night, that it had been a long time since he’d seen a Pitts.That should have been a warning flag.The Pitts had been designed in 1942.No one would consider seven years a long time.
He’d been so tired…he remembered being worried about making it to the landing strip.And the horizon had appeared to waver in front of them, creating a brief halo around Rita’s head.He would have liked to think about it some more, but Joe came in.
“I can give you a hand filling ‘er up,” he said.“There’s coffee on the stove and I’ll rustle up some breakfast before you leave.”
“Thanks,” Con said.He knew better than to say he didn’t need help.And he was glad to for the personal refuel before taking to the air again.
Neither of them spoke until the plane was dealt with and Con had done his external check.
“I packed some lunches for you both,” Joe said, he turned to leave, then stopped and said—without looking at Con, “You should keep the girl out of it.”
“I’d like to,” Con said, “but she’s the reason I’m in it.”
Joe was silent, then he nodded and went inside.
It was the truth, though it was also true he’d stayed in because, well, because.
He could trigger his recall—leave the rest of his cash for her—and Joe would help her.If Joe could help her.
Instead of leaving, Con took out the piece of paper giving him the rights to the Pitts.He didn’t look at the names, but at the date.
1960.
When had they traveled to 1960?He thought back to walking down the road toward the farmhouse.The horizon had kind of wavered then, too, but he’d chalked it up to the head.
1960.He’d been kind of back in his own time when Henry’s wife wrote this.Had he out there somewhere doing a stunt?That thought made his head hurt.According to Mel, time travel did that a lot.
