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“Sleeping already?” Jones asked.

“Pushing the ‘Go button’ doesn’t sound hard. I’m sure you can handle it.”

By the sound of Jones’s chuckle, Doyle figured he was down for the job. The truth was, Doyle didn’t want his nerves to show, and if his heavy boots, crossed legs, secured arms, and face weren’t arranged just so, he’d probably be a bumbling mess. It was the old “I can’t look” feeling as his heart stampeded in his ribcage.

“And we’re off!” yelled McGovern. “Yeeeehaw!”

Doyle tensed as the telltale shift of balance almost convinced him to grab hold of the chair. But even as the world tilted, he stayed still in his position. His muscles were so taught that he’d probably be sore later, but no need for Jones to know that.

A quick peek proved the tech held up as the air around him swirled with bright pinks and golds. Something told him if he reached out and touched, it would feel like jelly, but the strange pressure and dizzying sensation kept him anchored in his seat. As they slowed to a halt in the late 1800’s, things began to shift back to normal, the glowing colors fading into nothing and the pull dipping low in his center of gravity, sort of like being seasick. Doyle counted down to the gentle halt of the engine in his mind’s eye.

3…2…1…

The world jerked and bobbed like a car had sideswiped them, dumping Doyle from his chair. A horrible scraping sound vibrated from beneath followed by a crunch and another jolt. He gripped the edge of the console, righting his hat so he could see the problem and not just hear and feel it, like somehow that might make it better.

What he saw was chaos. All the screens showed furniture, objects, and people being tossed around like kernels in a popcorn machine. Jones lay on the floor, bleeding from his head where he must have banged it against the edge of the console. Doyle swore under his breath and fell to his knees by his side, applying pressure with shaky hands, even as the floating resort continued to bounce and sway before coming to a complete stop.

“Engineering to Medcenter,” Doyle yelled into his wristband. “Man down. Jones is bleeding and unconscious.”

A woman’s voice crackled back at him, the sound in the background filling in the audible anarchy missing from the viewscreens. “Dr. Cantor here. Is there a pulse?”

Doyle watched Jones’s chest rise and fall, felt a solid thump beneath scarlet fingers. “Yeah, doc. But there’s a lot of blood.”

“Shit. Fine. I’ll send someone down there. I’d tell you to bring him up here, but navigating through all the turmoil is another issue. What the fuck happened down there?”

Doyle choked on the lump in his throat. What had happened? Everything had been fine on the test run not twenty-four hours prior.

“Not sure yet. We have to assess the damage. Just hurry up and get over here so I can start working on it. I’m not taking my hand off this wound until someone’s here.” He cut off the communication with a sharp tap on his wristband.

The second he hung up, McGovern’s voice exploded through. “What the hell happened to my ship?”

It’s a fucking time machine,was what he wanted to say, but Doyle swallowed back the first thought that popped into his head.

“Jones is injured,” he said instead. “I can’t check yet. I need a medic to relieve me.”

“Did you call one?” McGovern asked in patronizing way.

“Of course I did!” This time, Doyle’s temper got the best of him, and he let it out.

“You need to check the instruments, Walter.” McGovern’s voice was low and even now, steady like he’d leaned in to speak only to him. “We need to protect one-hundred-twenty-seven patrons and crewmembers. I need you to Do. Your. Job.”

Doyle licked his lips and nodded. McGovern was right. If they’d landed in the wrong time or worse, it could be bad. Very bad. But his assistant’s life was just as important as those rich guests on the other level. Looking down at Jones, he remembered his first-aid training. The head bleeds a lot, sometimes making the wound look worse than it is, which meant he could probably let go so long as he wrapped the wound. He took the red kerchief from Jones’s neck and tied it around his head. It would do until a medic arrived.

“Right.” Doyle stood back up and shoved the chair out of the way so he could read the smoking console. Warning lights flashed, and a worrisome, high-pitched sound came from one of the control panels to his rear.

His fingers flew deftly over the controls, first checking the time destabilizer. When he saw it did in fact read 1888, he emptied his lungs of the breath he’d been holding then tipped up the hat to wipe sweat off his brow. Damn thing was hotter than he’d expected.

Next, he checked navigation. They’d come in too low and off course by…that can’t be right. They were miles south of Tucson, which put them right in the middle of a tree and near a field of Saguaro cacti. Doyle winced, picturing the collision from the outside. How had the nav gotten so messed up? He’d checked the coordinates himself just that morning. He’d ask Jones about it, but…

“Computer!” Doyle yelled. “Where is the nearest town?”

The soothing female voice answered, “Devil’s Creek, population sixty-seven as of August 24, 1888.”

Shaking himself, Doyle checked the cloaking device. His muscles tensed again, his neck cramping. That couldn’t be right either. His fingers flew as the doors behind him opened and two people came in, rushing to Jones’s side. Doyle slammed his hands down on the console just as three more people entered the room.

Swinging around to face the new crowd, Doyle let out an exasperated groan. The heat boiling up the back of his neck threatened to explode out of his head like a volcano. McGovern and Nicole Bennet, his boss—two of his least favorite people. The man accompanying them fell immediately to Jones’s side to help the medics as the other two glared daggers at him.

“Report,” Nicole barked. Her demeanor clashed violently with the pastel and ruffles that covered her. Even under the circumstances, it was hard for Doyle to keep his gaze off her heaving bosom tied into the corset-like top.