my entire life in the Four Corners area of the Dinetah, and no farther west than Nevada, he was no doubt right. I was excited to see the Pacific. Mick had already shown me the Atlantic coast, in Maine, and the remarkable Bay of Fundy with its unusual tides. But for some reason, seeing the ocean on the western edge of the country stirred great anticipation, as though it would be a turning point of some kind for me.
I both remembered this excitement, and was feeling it for the first time. The juxtaposition of my old life and flashes of the new, though they became fewer, made me a little dizzy.
I tried to relax and go with the flow, reasoning that Mick in the future would somehow wake me up again, but a small doubt gnawed me. What if he couldn’t?
What if? a little voice inside me asked. You get to be with Mick again, living in as much reality as the first time. If you never wake up … so what?
I had no idea. Would I simply live my life over again? I had an advantage this time—I knew what stupid mistakes I’d make—that is, unless everything faded as it was doing already.
Would I leave Mick this time, meeting up with him five years later in Magellan? Or would I decide to stay and continue this life, happy in his shadow, my big bad biker who took care of me?
In the days we’d traveled to get here, however, the memories of my future life ceased to trouble me. By the time Mick closed the door of the Coeur d’Alene motel room against the night, I no longer cared about my hotel at the Crossroads, the mirror, Emmett, choices. I didn’t care about anything but wrapping myself around Mick and hanging on to him.
We made love all through that evening and into the night, Mick at once gentle and exciting. A cold wind began blowing through the mountains, warning that winter was on its way.
I woke with a start as the sharp breeze rattled the windows. It was still dark, the sliver of sky I could see through the gap in the curtains lit with moonlight.
Mick was dressed, sitting on the arm of a chair near the door, pulling on his boots. I glanced at the clock, which told me it was half past twelve.
“Hey,” I said softly. “Where are you going? Fishing?” I propped myself on my elbow and sent him a smile. Mick didn’t understand the point of fishing, he’d said often enough.
Mick’s face took on the blank, patient look he’d used often on me, always when he didn’t want to tell me something.
“I have to go away for a little bit, Janet,” he said carefully.
I sat up, clutching the sheet to my bare body. On the table next to him I saw a folded piece of paper, the motel’s stationary. A glimmer of memory came back to me. He’d left me a note, which I’d found when I’d awakened after his departure. I wasn’t supposed to have seen him leaving.
“Go away where?” I asked in alarm. While my memories of my future had dissipated, I knew that Mick striking off on his own always meant trouble.
“Just a little business I need to take care of, baby.”
Whenever he’d used this phrase on me, I’d thought, and hoped I was wrong, that he was some kind of criminal. I knew now that he was a long way from that, but in my half-aware, half-remembering state, I was awash with fear. He was taking himself into danger.
“Let me come with you,” I said quickly, starting to slide out of bed.
Mick was across the room and pushing me back down faster than I thought he could move. His eyes were turning black. “No, sweetheart. You can’t.”
“Why not? Tell me where you’re going.” I couldn’t keep the pleading note from my voice.
“You’ll be fine here. I’ll be gone a couple days, but you can rest and shop or do whatever. No one will bother you.”
They wouldn’t, because while Mick was friendly, nobody wanted to mess with him, or his woman. They didn’t understand that “his woman” could flatten this entire motel if she had a good enough storm, but that was beside the point. Guys here would leave me alone from fear of and respect for Mick.
I gripped his forearm. “Don’t go. I don’t like what I’m premonit .. premonishing … is that a word?”
“It is,” Mick said. “It’s from praemonere, meaning