Citizen Daisy (A Time Travel Romance, Novella)

By Deb Stover

You will never look at an MRI the same way after reading how a United States Congressman finds himself transported to the past, where he is accused of being a spaceman by locals who have recently read the latest Jules Verne novel. His adventures include falling in love with a young lady branded a witch by the superstitious townsfolk, and she believes she "wished" him to the past. Can these two lovers find a world they can share?

• Language: English
• Publisher: ePublishing Works
• Release date: Jan 4, 2012
• ISBN: 9781614171652

Deb Stover

After declaring her candidacy for President at age four, Deb Stover veered off course to play Lois Lane for a number of years. After she refused to blow Clark Kent's cover, she turned her attention to her own Real American Hero and married him. Considering her experience with Heroes, redirecting her passion for writing toward Romance Novels seemed a natural progression. Since publication of Shades of Rose in 1995, Stover has received dozens of awards for her work, which includes over twenty titles in a variety of languages and formats. For more information, please visit www.debstover.com.

Book preview

Citizen Daisy

A Time-Travel Romance

by

Deb Stover

Published by ePublishing Works!

www.epublishingworks.com

ISBN: 978-1-61417-165-2

By payment of required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this eBook. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented without the express written permission of copyright owner.

Please Note

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

The reverse engineering, uploading, and/or distributing of this eBook via the internet or via any other means without the permission of the copyright owner is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author's rights is appreciated.

Copyright © 2002, 2012 by Debra S. Stover. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions.

Originally included in the anthology titled Some Enchanted Evening, by Zebra Books in September 2002

Cover by Deb Stover

Cover Background Photo by Martin Yaslowitz Photography.

www.debstover.com

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eBook design by eBook Prep www.ebookprep.com

Thank You.

Novels by Deb Stover

Shades of Rose

A Willing Spirit

Some Like it Hotter

Almost an Angel

Another Dawn

Stolen Wishes

A Matter of Trust

A Moment in Time

No Place For a Lady

Mulligan Stew

Mulligan Magic

The Gift

Novellas by Deb Stover

The Enchanted Garden in A Dangerous Magic

Keeper of the Well in Murder Most Romantic

Citizen Daisy in Some Enchanted Evening

Punkinella in Vengeance Fantastic

Skin Deep in Irresistible Forces

Witch Stitchery in Enchantment Place

For honest politicians... wherever you are.

Chapter 1

Crooked Creek Country Club—Present Day

Is that a pistol in your pocket, or are you just happy to see me?

United States Congressman Jack McCullough adjusted his Robin Hood tunic and cursed his aide for her lack of taste in Halloween costumes. Why couldn't she have found him a pirate, or Zorro, or any costume that didn't include tights? He definitely was not a Merry Man at the moment.

Of course I'm happy to see you, Roxanne, he lied. Pity she was the daughter of his biggest campaign contributor. Twin mountains of milky flesh curved above the almost non-existent neckline of her costume. Any man unfortunate enough to let her get on top would probably suffocate before actually achieving orgasm. He could see the Washington Post now:

CONGRESSMAN ASPHYXIATED

BY MUTANT MAMMARIES

Suppressing a shudder, he popped an antacid to give his teeth something to gnash besides each other, and to douse the fire in his gut.

Roxanne looped her arm through his. Do you have a tummy ache, sugar? She pressed her breast against his arm and patted his tummy...a lot lower than any anatomy book would've indicated.

Jack held his breath to prevent the sigh that threatened to escape. Heartburn. And the headache from hell. Nothing to worry about.

In fact, Jack's head had ached since this afternoon when Roxanne's jet landed at a private air strip near the country club.

Of course, Jack's head always ached when he came home.

The Rocky Mountain town he'd grown up in had been little more than a ghost town before the legalization of limited stakes gambling. Now it was a bustling gambling town, complete with fancy hotels and fancier people.

Why should he care? He was the golden boy of his party—being groomed for the White House. Yeah, right.

He squeezed his eyes closed as a particularly brutal pain stabbed through his skull. I'm sorry, Roxanne. He squinted enough to blot out most of the light. I need some aspirin.

Poor baby, she cooed. I'll get you some.

She kept his arm and escorted him past vampires, werewolves, Julius Caesar, Marie Antoinette, and at least four other men in tights. Poor bastards. He never should've put in an appearance at this gig, but his re-election was only a few days away. He couldn't afford not to socialize—especially on home turf.

A lightning bolt flashed behind his eyes. He grabbed his head with both hands as the room became a frigging carousel.

Even with his eyes closed, the kaleidoscope persisted. Clutching his skull, he surrendered to the pain and vertigo.

Nausea...

If he died now, he'd go to hell for sure.

But he didn't die—at least not yet. He remained semi-conscious and in excruciating pain as the paramedics loaded him onto a helicopter and transported him to Crooked Creek Hospital—built from gambling money, no doubt.

Gambling money had made Congressman McCullough, too.

Cut the crap. Thinking like that was what had his gut burning and his head pounding already. He didn't want to die—not yet. There were too many marks against him. Too many things he needed to fix.

And one thing he couldn't. Bryan.

He kept his eyes closed, trying to blot out the noise of the chopper. He concentrated on sensations that reminded him he was still alive. The excruciating pain, the blood pressure cuff, the cold stethoscope pressed to his chest, the peeling away of his frigging tights. Well, at least something good had come from this mess.

A storm had kicked the wind into a howl by the time the chopper landed and they wheeled him into the bright emergency room. When he tried to open his eyes, the pain stopped him. A familiar voice made his heart skip a beat.

Jack, it's Doc Randall. Can you hear me, son?

Oh, God—don't call me that. Something burned behind Jack's eyes—the tears he'd never shed at his best friend's funeral.

I... I hear you, he croaked. Bryan... my fault.

Bull. Dr. Randall asked the nurse to dim the lights. He checked Jack's pupils with his penlight. "Equal and reactive.

Looks okay here, but your BP is elevated. I ordered some blood work."

Why? Jack drew a shaky breath. The pain had eased, and he forced his eyes open, shading them with his hand.

Headache's better.

Why did Bryan Randall's father have to be on call tonight? Why? To compound Jack's guilt? To torture him a little more? Hadn't he done that enough all by himself?

As soon as we get some lab results, I'll order a cocktail to take the rest of the edge off that headache. He smiled and patted Jack's shoulder. Humor me. I want the MRI.

Suspicion slithered through Jack. His heart surged ahead, launching the pounding in his head into renewed frenzy.

Why?

Healthy men don't keel over at Halloween parties unless drugs or alcohol are involved. Dr. Randall cleared his throat.

And your lady friend assured us you hadn't even had a drink yet.

No. Nothing.

Good. Let's make sure there's nothing serious going on inside that hard head of yours.

Jack eased his eyes open again to face his best friend's father. Though older now, Doc Randall still had the same twinkling gray eyes and smile he'd worn thirty years ago when Jack's baseball had found his office window. "How serious?

What are you looking for?"

The older man didn't smile this time. His expression turned solemn. Though my exam doesn't indicate this, I want to make sure there are no masses or—

Tumors? Jack let his eyes close again, and chased away the sudden fear cloying from all sides. I guess we'd better do it then.

Good. The storm stranded our technician here. None of us are going anywhere. Doc Randall gave Jack's shoulder a squeeze. Want me to call your folks?

No. Jack tried to smile, but that made his head hurt worse. Don't worry them.

I'll wait. Doc Randall gave Jack's shoulder another squeeze. They're ready for you now.

Someone released the brake on the gurney and Jack reached for Dr. Randall's arm. Wait.

What is it, son?

There it is again—son. I... I need to talk to you after this is over. Through the pain and fog, he kept his gaze pinned on the doctor. About Bryan.

It's not neces—

Yes. Yes, it is.

All right, then. Doc Randall's expression was solemn. "After the test."

Jack had been a shitty excuse for a congressman. Though he hadn't taken any direct bribes, he'd definitely allowed himself to be influenced. That was just as bad. Worse. He'd turned away from Bryan when he'd asked for help over a simple zoning issue.

And now Bryan was dead. All Jack's fault.

He kept his eyes closed as the pain increased again. The room where they wheeled him felt like a deep freeze, and the backless hospital gown sure as hell didn't help. The orderly heaved him onto a cold, metal table and left him there.

I'm going to give you some medication through your IV, Congressman, a woman said. And we have nice, quiet music for you to listen to during the test.

She put headphones over his ears and slid him into the tube. Jack felt the closeness and opened his eyes. The top of the tube was mere inches from the end of his nose, so he closed his eyes again.

He had to get through this. His dad claimed the phrase crooked politician was redundant, but Jack would prove him wrong. He'd make Dad proud of him. He'd beg Dr. Randall's forgiveness, though he would never forgive himself.

I'm sorry, Bryan, he whispered as the hammering started.

Now he knew the purpose of the headphones. No one had told him that having an MRI was like being inside a metal coffin while someone shot at it with a semi-automatic. Even with nice soft music playing through the headphones, the racket persisted.

Weightlessness came over him so suddenly he pressed his hands against the sides of the tube. The spinning resumed and the pain in his head escalated from unbearable to nuclear before he drew his next breath.

He heard a scream as the blackness swallowed him.

His.

* * *

Daisy Mae Peabody came into this world on a moonless night—the eleventh hour of the eleventh day of the eleventh month, with an owl hooting outside the cabin window, just as a star streaked across the sky. Being born feet first could have labeled her an oddity all by itself, but with all this evidence, plus the star-shaped birthmark on her shoulder, the citizens of Crooked Creek, Colorado declared her a witch. At the spinsterish age of twenty-three, she'd given up expecting the good citizens of Crooked Creek to treat her any differently.

After serving Papa a plate of ham and eggs, Daisy refilled both their coffee cups and sat across from him. He was talking nonsense. I don't love Mr. Randall, she said for at least the hundredth time as she spooned molasses into her coffee.

"Set your mind