Dancing with Billy the Kid: In Time, #2

By Terri Meeker

The Good, the Bad, and the Morally Ambiguous

Bonnie Borle finally has the missing piece for her history dissertation in her hot little hands. What she must do for it is chilling-go back to 1881 to fix a hitch in Billy the Kid's timeline.

Sneaking her 2016 purse through the portal is easy. Resisting the temptation to tweak a few events surrounding the Kid's famous jailbreak is impossible. So is resisting Billy's dancing eyes and devil-may-care charm.

Though Billy's spooked by Bonnie's seeming ability to read his mind, he falls a little more in love every time she cuts loose with her blue-streak vocabulary. But it's what's in that fancy mochila of hers that fascinates him the most. Things that light up, play music-and foretell a future that doesn't end as pretty as his Jules Verne novels.

As they run from the posse, Bonnie loses the battle to keep her hands off Billy. But at all costs she has to keep her hands off his future. Because Billy's got a grim date with destiny. And erasing it could erase Bonnie-permanently.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Terri Meeker
• Release date: Apr 5, 2016
• ISBN: 9781619234239

Book preview

Prologue

History is written by the winners.—Old Adage

Billy’s stocking feet kicked up a puffy dirt cloud as he padded along the familiar path through the peach orchard. His stomach gave a pull of hunger and he tightened his grip on the small kitchen knife. The side of beef hanging on his friend’s front porch would be just the thing to knock his stomach grumblings back for a spell.

He pushed out of the row of trees and continued up the dusty street. The moon hung low, casting the Maxwells’ yard into deep shadows. A light breeze skipped through the branches, carrying the cloying scent of overripe peaches. When he reached the familiar long, white house, he hopped the picket fence in a practiced gesture, then sauntered toward the porch.

Billy had just reached the top of the stairs when he heard it. A subtle noise, coming from his right. Not quite a creak. The sound of a body carefully changing position.

He darted a glance to the side. A strong sense of something—no, someone—watching from the dark. Shadows shifted and Billy could just make out the silhouettes of two men against the far porch rail.

Who is it? Billy took a sideways step toward the front door.¿Quién es?

He waited for a response, but the shadows didn’t move. The only reply was the sound of the wind stirring the leaves in the orchard.

Billy kept his eyes on the figures and fumbled for the door handle. He opened the door and sidled into the house.

When he turned his head toward the big front bedroom, he called out, Who’s outside, Pete?

No one replied.

Billy walked toward the room and lifted the latch. He stepped inside. Though he was familiar with Pete’s room, it was too dark to make out any details. Shadows flickered near the bed and Billy jerked his head toward whoever it was.

"¿Quién es?" he asked again.

He heard two words in reply, very quietly. It’s him.

Then the whisper of metal on leather. A gun being drawn in the dark.

Billy scrambled backward toward the open door. His socks slipped on the floor. The click of the hammer being pulled back filled his head. A bright flash exploded from the muzzle of a pistol. Blam, blam.

A fist of heat punched his chest, just above his heart.

He stared down at the impotent little kitchen knife in his hand. It would be damned funny if he weren’t about to breathe his last. After a lifetime of being one quick step ahead of the law, at long last Billy was just a heartbeat too late.

The heat in his chest rose like a red tide—simultaneously drowning and burning him. His legs gave way. As he pitched to the ground, a man ran past him. Just before Billy hit the floor, face-first, recognition dawned on him. It was Pat Garrett.

Pain blossomed in Billy’s chest and crawled up his throat. He tried to breathe, struggled to move, but only had the strength to fight the pain. When he opened his mouth to speak, it was full of blood and he could only gape wordlessly, as helpless as a fish thrown on a riverbank.

The absurdity of it all was almost too much to bear. He felt as though he was watching himself in a play. A strange kind of detachment rushed in to replace the pain. He heard the knife clattering to the floor and noticed that his fingers had gone limp. Footsteps rushed into the room along with the sound of men’s voices and a woman, wailing. Deluvina, most likely. The sounds were rapidly growing faint, however. As though he were on a train pulling out of the station.

The room darkened quickly and he closed his eyes. His last thought was that if history remembered him at all, it would be as some fool who hadn’t been carrying a gun. Billy the Kid didn’t even die with his boots on. Shot in the dark by the hero of the tale, Pat Garrett.

It had all happened in just moments. When death wrapped its tendrils around him, Billy didn’t have a lick of fight left in him. Out of options, he smiled, then released himself into the void.

Chapter One

The Americans are certainly hero-worshippers and always take their heroes from the outlaw classes.—Oscar Wilde

You’re running out of time. Dr. Points gave Bonnie a weary glance over the top of his office desk. Your dissertation is due in less than a month.

Thin gray hair and a tweed suit coat with worn leather patches at the elbows. If Central Casting needed a stereotypical history professor, Points would be their man.

I know. Bonnie twisted her purse strap and forced herself to look her advisor in the eye. Maybe if I could get an extension?

Another one? You can’t be serious. He gave her a look reserved for puppies who’d just piddled on new carpet.

I’m afraid I am.

Why?

It’s the topic, she confessed. I changed it again.

You can’t keep doing this. Not when you’re this close to your presentation.

She bit her top lip, nodded.

Dr. Points lifted his glasses just enough to pinch the bridge of his nose.

Bonnie took a step toward his desk. If I could just have until the end of summer quarter, I’ll have the whole presentation ready to roll.

He looked at her and pursed his lips, considering. And you’ll be fully prepared this time?

You have my word.

Good. He nodded but didn’t smile. Because I’m afraid this is your final extension. Our department is backed up as it is. It’s unfair to others in the graduate program when a single candidate clogs up the system.

He talked about her as if she were something blocking his toilet. However, she knew she wasn’t in the position to complain.

You’ve got it. It’ll be ready by the end of August. I swear.

I hope it is, Bonnie. But the flat tone of his voice sounded rather hopeless to her ears.

She smiled, but only a little, and composed her face to look competent and professional. I’ll send you an email for topic approval by Monday.

Fine. He nodded to her in dismissal and turned his attention back to the small pile of papers on his desk.

Bonnie spun around and let herself out of the office before he could change his mind.

She walked down the hall and stepped onto the quad where a fine drizzle hung in the air—typical weather for spring in Seattle. She shielded her cell phone against the damp as she checked for messages. There were four. Two were from her roommates about rent being due and one from her mom, carefully inquiring about how her meeting with her advisor had gone. Her parents’ patience with her long slog through grad school was stretched about as thin as Dr. Points’s had been.

The final text put a smile on Bonnie’s lips. It was from Archibald York—the odd proprietor of a curio shop she’d recently begun to frequent. She wasn’t so much a collector of antiques, but the sweet old man kept a lookout for old books, which had been a boon to Bonnie’s research.

Dear Miss Borle, the text began. Bonnie grinned widely. York didn’t have the slightest idea about how to text. All his messages ended up sounding like the love child of a thesaurus and Charles Dickens. They charmed her socks off.

I’ve had the good fortune to acquire an article which may pique your interest and aid in your scholarly pursuits. A superannuated diary just arrived amongst a shipment from Albuquerque. It purports to belong to a member of the Maxwell household in Fort Sumner, New Mexico during the later nineteenth century. I believe this particular item should prove to be inestimable to your work. I shall hold it for you, awaiting your response. Sincerely yours, A. York.

Not a book, but an actual diary? And from the Maxwell household?

Bonnie swallowed. The Maxwells were huge players in New Mexico back in the day. Lucian Maxwell had owned more than a million and a half acres—making him the largest landowner in the history of the country at that time. A diary from someone in the household would be a huge find, bordering on unbelievable. Like those articles where some Average Joe buys a yard sale picture of dogs playing cards and finds an original Rembrandt underneath.

Bonnie’s pulse raced. Besides being wonderful on a historical level, something like this would make her dissertation a guaranteed success. She could finally, at long last, get out of grad school.

On my way, she texted, resisting the urge to put it in all caps.

York responded before she got to the parking lot. Dear Miss Borle, I eagerly await your arrival. I shall put the kettle on. Most sincerely, A. York.

Bonnie knew the route to the shop well since she tended to drop by on a weekly basis. She was drawn by his rare books as well as the old man’s warmth and willingness to chat over a hot cuppa. Luckily, it was early enough in the afternoon that she didn’t have to dodge rush hour traffic.

The little shop was one step away from being invisible on the narrow side street in Capitol Hill. Even the Google Maps car might have missed it. Times Past read the sign above the small brick store. The window was so crammed with assorted antiques, customers couldn’t catch a glimpse beyond the clutter.

Bonnie adjusted her big, lime-green bag and entered the building. A tinkling bell, just above the door, announced her arrival. The shop’s cramped interior was as disordered as the display window had been. There were piles of depression glassware on antique tables next to what appeared to be rusting farm implements. When she inhaled, the scent of dust and old books filled her head.

Archibald York was perched on a stool behind the front counter—his usual spot. With white mutton chop sideburns and a vintage suit, he looked like when he left work he’d drive straight home to Downton Abbey. Maybe in a carriage.

Upon seeing Bonnie, York smiled kindly. Miss Borle. How lovely that you could stop by.

She smiled in return. Mr. York. Always great to see you.

I rather expected you’d be interested in that diary. It’s quite pulchritudinous. His smile widened and he stepped around the counter toward the front door. Shall we take our tea in the back room today?

Sure, Bonnie answered. Though she’d seen Mr. York disappear into the rear on occasion, she’d not been invited into the inner sanctum as yet. She had to admit the invitation made her feel important. Like she was being invited into the Exclusive Club of the Very Best Antiquity Experts. After that disappointing meeting with her advisor, she’d take her ego boosts where she could get them.

York flipped the sign on the door to closed and locked the door. Might as well close up for teatime, he said. I’ve purchased biscuits for the occasion and I’d rather not be interrupted.

Sounds good. Bonnie followed him toward the rear of the shop.

And I’ve invited my partner to join us, York said over his shoulder.

You have a partner? In Bonnie’s six-month acquaintance with the old man, she’d never heard a whisper of a partner.

He’s something of a…silent partner, York said.

Silent and invisible.

York parted a pair of red, velvet curtains and entered a small office. It was as pristine and elegant as the front portion of the store had been a jumbled mess. Though small, it was tastefully furnished with an antique settee and the floor was covered in a Persian rug. A mahogany roll top desk was tucked against the back wall, just in front of a large work of art covered by a black cloth.

A strikingly handsome man sat behind the desk. He wore a crisp black suit as old fashioned as Mr. York’s. With raven hair, strong jawline and aquiline nose, his appearance was a strange combination of hot and haughty. He stood as Bonnie entered the room, dipping his head slightly in acknowledgment.

James, this is Miss Bonnie Borle, York said, turning to her. Miss Borle, may I present my partner, Mr. James Lancaster.

Mr. Lancaster. Bonnie had to fight the inexplicable urge to curtsy.

Miss Borle, he murmured.

Bonnie perched on an antique satin loveseat that looked to be worth as much as she made in a year. York bustled over to the sideboard and retrieved a silver tray. He then placed it on the end table at Bonnie’s elbow. It was filled to overflowing with delicate cookies.

Thank you. She smiled and took one. York nodded, then returned to the counter and fussed around with the teapot. Lancaster continued with his cool, inquisitive stare.

So, this diary you were talking about? she called over her shoulder to York. She might as well get directly to it. The silent partner seemed as stern as York was sweet and she didn’t relish the thought of spending any more time with him than necessary.

You’re certainly to the point, Lancaster said. His tone made it clear that this was not remotely intended as a compliment.

One lump? York asked. Or two?

One, Bonnie said. York hadn’t had to ask how she took her tea since her first visit to his shop. He was obviously trying to distract her from Lancaster’s rudeness.

York returned bearing a bone china teacup and saucer, which was edged with gold paint. It had to be worth a few hundred.

You’ve been holding out on me, Mr. York. She took the cup and grinned at him. If this diary is worth breaking out the good china, it must be something else.

He blinked a few times, then nodded. Oh, I think you’ll find it to be most impressive, Miss Borle. Most impressive indeed.

York fetched tea for himself and his partner. After he positioned himself at Bonnie’s side, he watched his partner with a look of anticipation.

Lancaster took a slow sip, then arched a brow at her. I understand you’re a professor of history?

Assistant professor, Bonnie said. Finishing my masters. Well, once I hand in my dissertation.

Lancaster nodded thoughtfully. What is the subject nature of your dissertation?

When Bonnie didn’t rush in to answer, York replied for her. Racial issues in the latter half of the nineteenth century, wasn’t it, dear?

That was last month, Bonnie admitted. I’ve switched to Wyoming’s role in the women’s suffrage movement. Both men simply looked at her. They were the first state to grant women the right to vote.

Lancaster blinked at her, his lips pursed in disapproval. You’ve changed the subject matter of your dissertation?

Bonnie nodded. Several times. It’s hard to settle on just one thing with so many fascinating choices.

Makes her a Jill of All Trades when it comes to history, York said.

Lancaster gave his partner a smug smile. Jill of All Trades, Mistress of None?

Bonnie shook her head. She was interested in the diary, sure—but Lancaster’s snottier-than-thou attitude was wearing extremely thin. Was it too much to ask that he live up to the cultured and understated Englishman stereotype?

So you study the entirety of history? Lancaster swept a hand through the air.

Kind of a requirement in a history professor, she said, eager to discourage any more chitchat than she had to from the man.

How about the American West?

That too. She nodded. Why are you so curious?

Just idle conversation. Lancaster sniffed.

Sure it was. At best, his questions felt like an interview and at worst, an interrogation. She looked over to see York nervously blowing over the surface of his tea.

Forgive my partner. York flickered a glance to Lancaster. His manner can be off-putting, I know.

He wants to make sure I’m really an expert before we talk money?

Something like that, York said.

What can you tell me about the Maxwell family of New Mexico? Lancaster asked. Again with the inquisition.

Lucian Maxwell was the patriarch of a Hispanic family and kind of a big deal. He owned so much land that he—

Pete Maxwell, Lancaster interrupted.

He was the son, Bonnie continued confidently. From what I remember, he pretty much devoted himself to spending his daddy’s fortune. Pete settled in Fort Sumner and rubbed shoulders with all the big players of the day.

York popped up and returned to the sideboard. He pulled open a cupboard and retrieved a worn, leather book. As he approached her, he held it out, like a ring bearer striding to the altar with a pillow atop his outstretched palms.

This is the diary in question, York announced.

And it belonged to… She turned to face York. Pete Maxwell? No way!

A member of his household, York replied with a smile.

He offered the book to her and she lifted it with reverence. The journal was bound in old, cracked leather. She opened it cautiously to see a messy scrawl, all in Spanish, as she knew it would be. Hispanic families had settled New Mexico and most spoke little English. She snuck a peek at York. I don’t speak Spanish. I took French.

Let me guess, Lancaster said. You were writing your dissertation about the French Revolution for a time?

The storming of the Bastille, actually, but she wouldn’t admit that to the arrogant asshole.

A few words were written on the inside cover of the diary—a kind of dedication. Though she was hopeless at interpreting, one word caught her eye. Bonney.

William Bonney? She gaped at York. Billy the Kid! Of course! He was killed in Pete Maxwell’s bedroom. In fact, the youngest daughter, Paulita, was supposed to have been one of Billy’s lovers. Bonnie closed the book carefully and handed it back to York. If this thing is dedicated to him…I can’t even imagine what might be inside.

York blinked at her owlishly.

A new photo of Billy was discovered last year. It’s worth millions. They even did a TV special about it. A diary related to the Kid would be worth… she trailed off, unsure how to finish the sentence. More than I can imagine, she added after a moment.

I assure you, it is quite legitimate. Lancaster’s tone was affronted.

No disrespect. She waved a hand at him.

York surprised her by reaching over to pat her shoulder. None taken, Miss Borle. I assure you, we have affidavits which attest to this diary being very much the genuine article.

Bonnie swallowed and tried to gather her thoughts. Then I have to ask—and again, no offense—but why would you come to me with this?

Because I thought it would help with your dissertation, York said simply.

Bonnie laughed. Well, sure, but I couldn’t begin to afford such a thing. Not an expert here, but it’s got to be worth at least five or six thousand.

Lancaster gave a derisive snort. Rather in the neighborhood of twenty.

Bonnie turned to look at York, utterly lost as to what they expected.

York took a sip of tea, then raised his brows. Would you like it, dear?

You don’t even have to ask, Bonnie said. But how could I pay for it? You guys would be okay with an installment plan for the next…oh, hundred years or so? Or maybe I could rent it?

York shrugged and stared down at his teacup contemplatively. There are methods of payment other than monetary.

Bonnie jerked her head back. What do you mean, exactly? Her stomach sank a little. York had seemed like such a grandfatherly type. Surely he couldn’t be proposing some kind of kinky payment plan.

York shot another one of his increasingly frequent glances to Lancaster.

Bonnie gripped her purse strap tightly and stood. Thanks for the tea. Her voice was falsely high. She’d intended that she sound perky, but she just sounded frightened. But I really think I should probably be going now.

Leaving before hearing our offer? Lancaster asked. That doesn’t seem to be a wise course of action.

Bonnie shrugged. I have a hectic life. Lectures to prepare, papers to grade, a dissertation to write. She edged toward the door.

York stood up, looking sheepish. Please, Miss Borle. You’ve indulged us this far. Won’t you give me just a few more moments? I feel quite certain you won’t regret it.

Bonnie paused.

If you’d just look at one more artifact? York tilted his head toward his partner. James?

Lancaster gave a reluctant nod. Very well. He stood and took a step back—toward the covered rectangle behind his desk. He tugged on the cloth, revealing a large mirror.

Her reflection blinked back at her and she self-consciously straightened a little.

Bonnie smiled politely. The Maxwell Family mirror?

No. Lancaster gave an exasperated sigh.

Let me, James. York nervously cleared his throat then took a step toward her. Appearances can be deceiving. What better object to illustrate that simple truth than a mirror?

Bonnie twisted her purse strap, waiting for him to continue. To offer an explanation.

Lancaster and I—our appearances may be a bit deceiving as well.

All this talk of deceiving isn’t doing much to ease my mind, Bonnie said.

We’re not, in fact, merchants, York said. Well, strictly speaking, we are, but that is not our primary occupation.

What is? Bonnie asked, bracing herself. Not that she expected him to burst out with white slavery, but the afternoon had taken so many odd turns, she slipped a hand inside her purse and fumbled around for her little can of mace.

In time, in time. York held his hands up. First, let me show you this mirror. It’ll only take a moment.

York stepped around the desk and Lancaster moved aside, casting a worried glance toward Bonnie. Once York approached the mirror, he held his hand up to the surface. Nothing happened at first, then the reflection began to ripple, like a pond responding to a light breeze.

Oh my god, she muttered.

York concentrated on his strange task, holding his hand against the static surface for another moment, just until the scene started to take shape. Then he dropped his arm to his side.

Instead of a mirror passively reflecting the office, a sunny scene came into focus. The high desert of the American Southwest. Where a lamp had been reflected, a small adobe home now stood. In place of the back wall, a squiggly line of mountain peaks rose in the distance. The tasteful office carpet had been replaced by scrub brush growing from red dirt.

Bonnie took a step toward the mirror, bumping into the desk and nearly spilling her purse. Well, shit. Maybe you boys have a pretty cool artifact after all.

Lancaster favored her with a Very Offended Gentleman Glare.

She leaned down, fingers extended to where the glass ought to be. Warmth radiated from its surface. As she tilted her head toward it, she could smell a vague scent of dust and sagebrush.

What is this thing? She reached out, intending to place her palm against the surface. Her hand met no resistance, however, and went right into the scene. She lost her balance and tumbled forward, landing in a heap near the baseboard.

She sat up, and pulled her tangled hair away from her face. It’s not a mirror at all, is it? It’s a doorway.

That’s it precisely, York said happily. You got it in one.

And it goes to…another place?

York nodded. Not just the place, but the time as well.

She pivoted around to get a second look. A pair of horses was tied up at the far end of the adobe structure, flicking their tails lazily. No way. Her jaw hung open.

She shot a look to Lancaster before turning to stare again at the mirror.

If I were to step into the frame, I would…?

Find yourself in the territory of New Mexico, 1881, Lancaster said.

She shook her head, feeling as if her world had tilted on its axis, tumbling her usually tidy mind into a jumbled mess. A perfect match for the front end of the odd little store.

Would you like to? York asked.

Would I like to… She faltered. …go to 1881?

York nodded.

She narrowed her eyes for the briefest moment before returning his nod. I can’t imagine any historian saying no to such an offer. Of course I would.

York clapped his hands together. Wonderful!

Assuming, she continued, this whole thing isn’t some kind of elaborate joke. She quickly scanned the corners of the room for hidden cameras.

Allow me to reintroduce ourselves, York said, bowing from the waist. We are York and Lancaster—Repairmen of Time.

Huh?

Lancaster extended his hand, helping her to her feet. We are Lancaster and York—Agents of Stability. Forgive my partner, please, Miss Borle. He has all the subtlety of a fishmonger selling his wares. Lancaster gestured toward the desk chair. She collapsed onto it, her eyes not leaving him.

But you agree with him that the mirror really is a portal through time.

Well, naturally, Lancaster said, apparently oblivious to how extremely unnatural the thing appeared to be. I simply would have taken a somewhat more nuanced approach.

And are you really—what was it?—time repairmen? What’s this all about?

Lancaster perched on the edge of the desk and folded his arms. There are forces at work throughout history, Miss Borle. Forces of chaos and forces of stability. Sometimes, in their struggle, they will create a tear in the timeline.

And you…repairmen…are one of these forces?

We represent the forces of stability. He pursed his lips. "We are, as you might term it in your vernacular, the good guys."

"And what do you mean about a tear in the timeline?"

Occasionally, in the struggle between these forces, an alternate reality will pop up. Some small event will occur which will cause the timeline to deviate. This seemingly small event will ripple through the years to disastrous effect. Something like that has happened here—in 1881. And we need your help to set things straight.

And why can’t you just fix it yourselves?

York cleared his throat. We are forbidden from directly intervening.

By whom? Bonnie asked.

Lancaster only glowered at her. An uncomfortable silence seeped into the room. Bonnie crossed her arms and kept her gaze on the intimidating man.

After releasing an overly dramatic sigh, Lancaster cleared his throat. We’re under very strict parameters, unfortunately. We are unable to give you too many specifics about our duties nor can we release the precise details regarding your mission. But your knowledge about the real history of the West will make it very obvious to you.

"Can’t you give me any more to go