Chapter 5: Britney places the humming blue stone on the breakfast table, its unnatural glow casting eerie shadows as she demonstrates its time-warping abilities by making a biscuit rapidly age to dust then return fresh.
The loft was a cave of deep, dreamless black, the kind of sleep that felt more like being gently erased. Britney surfaced from it slowly, pulled not by dawn’s light but by a sound—a soft, distressed whimper from below. She was on her feet and down the ladder before her mind fully registered she’d moved, her surgeon’s instincts overriding conscious thought.
In the grey pre-dawn murk of the main room, little Carrie was tangled in her blanket, her face scrunched, tiny fists pushing at some unseen discomfort. Britney knelt beside the trundle bed. “Hey,” she whispered, her voice rough with sleep. “You’re okay.”
Carrie’s eyes fluttered open, swimming with vague fear. She blinked at the unfamiliar face, and for a heartbeat, Britney expected tears. Instead, the child simply reached out, her small hands latching onto Britney’s shirt with surprising strength, and pulled herself close, burying her face against Britney’s neck with a contented sigh. The whimpering ceased.
Britney froze, her arms hovering awkwardly. The weight of the child was insignificant, but the trust it implied was immense. She slowly settled onto the floorboards, her back against the side of the big bed, and allowed the grip. Carrie’s breathing deepened almost instantly, returning to the slow, even rhythm of secure sleep. The warmth was profound, a simple animal comfort Britney hadn’t realized she was starved for. Her own tension bled away, her head nodding forward, and she followed the child back into the dark.
From the kitchen doorway, Charles and Caroline watched, having been drawn by the soft sounds. Mary and Laura peered from behind them, and Larson and Almanzo, early arrivals for breakfast, stood silently on the porch looking in. No one spoke. They simply witnessed the hardened sniper, the time-lost surgeon, dissolve into a protective shape around the little girl, both of them slack with peace. Caroline’s hand found Charles’s arm and squeezed, her eyes bright.
Caroline’s hand found Charles’s arm and squeezed, her eyes bright. The moment held, fragile as a held breath, before the kitchen stove crackled and broke the spell. They all moved quietly, letting the two sleep on as dawn bled pale light across the floorboards.
The smell of frying salt pork and brewing coffee finally drew Britney awake. Carrie was gone, back playing with a cornhusk doll by the hearth. “She had a bad dream,” Mary offered softly, passing Britney a steaming mug. “She doesn’t usually settle for anyone but Ma.”
Britney just nodded, the ghost of the child’s warmth still on her skin. Around the crowded breakfast table, the unspoken question from the night before hung thicker than the woodsmoke.
Around the crowded breakfast table, the unspoken question from the night before hung thicker than the woodsmoke. Charles finally pushed his plate away, the scrape of china loud in the quiet. “You said there was more to tell, about after… the ocean.”
“Charles,” Caroline said, a gentle warning in her tone as she glanced at the children. He followed her gaze and gave a tight nod. “Maybe we finish this after,” he conceded, his voice low.
Once the plates were cleared and the girls sent outside to play, the adults reconvened in the main room. Caroline hesitated, then touched Britney’s sleeve. “That shirt is nearly worn through,” she said softly. “I have a dress that might fit you, if you’d like something… different.”
Britney looked down at her own clothes, the modern fabric indeed fraying at the seams. A strange vulnerability flickered across her face. “Yeah,” she said quietly. “Okay.”
She returned from the loft a few minutes later. The simple calico dress, a faded pattern of cornflowers on a cream background, fit her slender frame perfectly. It was the transformation that stole the breath from the room. The harsh lines of the soldier and the eerie vulnerability of the lost girl were gone.
Instead, she looked disconcertingly, heartbreakingly at home. The dress softened her shoulders, and the way she unconsciously smoothed the skirt was a gesture from a different life. Larson’s pipe halted halfway to his lips. Almanzo’s eyes widened before he quickly looked down, a faint flush on his neck.
Charles simply stared, his earlier resolve momentarily unmoored by this vision of ordinary womanhood. “Well,” Caroline said, her voice pleased but oddly tight. “That’s better.”
Britney looked down at the dress, the fabric both foreign and strangely comforting against her skin. “It is better,” she agreed, her voice quiet before it firmed with purpose. “But what comes next… it’s easier to show you than to tell you.”
She met each of their gazes in turn, her expression serious. “To show you, we have to leave this house.” A beat of silence passed, heavy with anticipation. “Where we’re going won’t be entirely safe,” she added, her tone leaving no room for doubt about the reality of the threat.
“But I will protect you,” she stated, the simple declaration carrying the weight of her impossible resume. Charles exchanged a long look with Caroline, whose face was a mask of wary curiosity. Larson scratched his chin, his eyes narrowing. “Show us what, exactly?”
“An adventure,” Britney said, a flicker of her old, sharp energy returning to her eyes. “You ever seen a cave system that breathes? A valley hidden behind a waterfall that shouldn’t be there?” She leaned forward, the calico dress rustling softly. “There’s a place that defies every map you own.”
She let that image hang in the air between them. “If we go, we can’t go empty-handed. We’ll need proper supplies—rope, lantern oil, dry goods that won’t spoil.” Her gaze swept the room, assessing them. “That means a trip to town first.”
The group looked at each other, a silent conversation passing between Charles, Caroline, Larson, and Almanzo. Larson gave a slow, definitive nod. Almanzo shrugged, a grin tugging at his mouth. Caroline’s expression was wary but she acquiesced.
Charles stood up, his chair scraping back. “Then we’ll go,” he said, his voice leaving no room for debate. He looked at Larson and Almanzo. “Let’s hitch the team.”
The three men moved toward the door, the morning light swallowing their forms. The sound of their boots on the porch was firm and purposeful, followed by the distant creak of the barn door and the calm, low murmur of their voices talking to the horses.
The wagon rocked, its wooden wheels finding every rut in the thawing road. Britney sat stiffly between Charles and Larson on the bench, the calico dress feeling like a flag of surrender in the open air. “Itchy,” she muttered, plucking at the collar.
“You get used to it,” Larson said, not unkindly, his eyes scanning the treeline. The town revealed itself in pieces: a rusted stovepipe, a raw lumber wall, the distant clang of a blacksmith’s hammer. It was less a settlement than a stubborn stain on the prairie.
He helped her down, his hand firm under her elbow. “Stay close,” he said, his gaze lingering on a group of men lounging outside the saloon across the dusty street. Their conversation died as they watched the newcomers, eyes lingering on Britney’s unfamiliar face and the way she moved, too alert for the dress she wore.
The bell above the mercantile door jangled, a shrill announcement. The air inside was thick with the smell of coal oil, dried beans, and slow dust. A man with spectacles perched on his nose looked up from behind a counter piled with bolts of cloth. “Charles,” he nodded, his eyes flicking to Britney.
“Morning, Nels,” Charles said, his voice a careful neutral. “We’re needing supplies.” The man, Nels Oleson, wiped his hands on his apron, his gaze not leaving Britney. It wasn’t hostile, but deeply, uncomfortably curious.
“Heard there was a newcomer,” Nels said, stepping out from behind the counter. He stopped a few feet from Britney, his expression troubled. “I, uh, I need to say something.”
He took a breath, his shoulders slumping slightly. “My wife, Harriet. Her mouth often operates without any consultation from her brain or her heart.” He met Britney’s eyes, his own tired and sincere. “Whatever she said or did when you first arrived, I am truly sorry for it. It was uncalled for.”
Britney studied his face, the genuine weariness in his eyes, and a small, understanding smile touched her lips. “You have nothing to apologize for, Nels,” she said, her voice clear and firm in the quiet store. “I harbor no ill feelings towards you, and you can’t control your wife.”
The directness of her statement, both forgiving and blunt, seemed to lift a physical weight from the storekeeper’s shoulders. He let out a breath he’d been holding, his stiff posture softening. “Well,” he murmured, adjusting his spectacles. “That’s… kind of you to say.”
Charles watched the exchange, a knot of protective tension in his own chest beginning to loosen. He gave Nels a curt, approving nod. “We’ll need twenty feet of good rope, two lanterns topped with oil, and a sack of hardtack,” he said, shifting the moment back to business.
“We’ll also need dry goods that won’t expire,” Britney said, her voice cutting cleanly through the store’s dusty silence. She ticked the items off on her fingers, her clinical tone at odds with the calico dress. “Sturdy cloth, boots for rough terrain, and oil slick canvas bags if you have anything like that.”
Nels let out a low, appreciative whistle as he mentally tallied the list. “That’s a specific kind of outfitting,” he said, eyeing her with renewed curiosity. “Gonna be pretty pricey, pulling all that together.”
Britney didn’t blink. She simply reached into a deep pocket of the dress and pulled out a folded stack of paper bills. They were crisp and unfamiliar, but their denomination was unmistakable. She placed the stack on the counter with a soft, definitive tap. “This should cover it,” she said, her tone leaving no room for haggling.
Nels stared at the money, then at her, his earlier weariness replaced by pure shock. He carefully picked up the stack, his thumb riffling the edges. “It’ll cover it and then some,” he finally admitted, his voice hushed.
He moved then, a sudden burst of efficiency, calling for his stock boy and beginning to pull bolts of heavy denim and waxed canvas from the shelves. The sound of his boots on the wooden floor was quick and sharp. Charles watched the transaction, a cold knot tightening in his gut.
Charles watched the transaction, a cold knot tightening in his gut. That kind of money asked questions in a place like this, questions with dangerous answers.
As Mr. Oleson gathered the supplies, his wife Harriet came in from the back room, her eyes immediately fixing on the strange stack of currency. “Well, I never,” she breathed, her voice slicing the air like a dull knife. She zeroed in on Britney, her gaze sweeping from the calico dress to the modern boots peeking beneath its hem.
“That’s a peculiar pattern of dress,” Harriet announced, not to anyone in particular. “And paying with stage money, how… inventive.” Her smile was a thin, bitter line. Nels froze, a coil of rope in his hands, his shoulders slumping in anticipation.
“Harriet,” he said, a warning woven into the single word. She ignored him, taking a step closer to Britney, who simply stood still, her expression going flat and neutral. “We don’t get many new faces, so of course we’re all simply dying to know,” Harriet chirped, her tone sugary with false warmth. “What brings a woman of such… particular means… to our little corner of nowhere?”
The store felt suddenly airless. Charles moved then, a half-step that placed his body slightly between the two women. “She’s a guest of ours, Harriet,” he said, his voice low but carrying the hard edge of a plow blade cutting sod.
“A guest with more dollars than sense, it seems,” Harriet retorted, her eyes glittering with the thrill of the confrontation. She leaned in, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper meant to be heard by everyone. “People are talking, Charles. They’re saying strange things happened out at your place last night.”
Britney’s head tilted slightly, her surgeon’s calm settling over her features. “What kind of strange things?” she asked, her voice devoid of any emotion at all. The directness of the question seemed to throw Harriet momentarily off-balance.
“Lights,” Harriet stammered, recovering quickly. “Unnatural lights in your yard. And Larson’s been seen coming and going at all hours.” She squared her shoulders, her accusation now public. “It’s causing a stir. This is a decent community.”
“It’s causing a stir. This is a decent community.” Nels winced, visibly shrinking behind his counter. Charles felt the heat rise in his neck, his fists clenching at his sides. Before he could speak, Britney did.
She looked directly at Harriet, her gaze steady and unsettling. “A community’s decency is measured by its compassion, not its gossip,” she stated, the words clean and precise as a surgical incision. Then she turned back to Nels, dismissing Harriet entirely. “Are my supplies ready?”