No Time Like the Present: Partners in Time Series
Book 1

By Kristen Sheley

Sam Foster is a fairly typical modern American teenager-who just invented a time machine. Sam didn't mean to bring back anything from his first trip to the past, but he returned home to 2005 with more than he bargained for, in the form Meg Clayton, a spirited pioneer girl from Oregon.

Sam would be only too happy to obey Meg's demand the she be taken home at once, but he encounters technical difficulties-and a stranger who may threaten more than just Meg's life.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Oct 14, 2002
• ISBN: 9781469717128

Kristen Sheley

Kristen Sheley grew up in the city of Beaverton, Oregon, and has been writing stories since the age of nine. Partners in Time is her first published series. She can be reached electronically at: [e-mail]

Book preview

Contents

C h a p t e r 1

Meg

C h a p t e r 2

Sam

C h a p t e r 3

Meg

C h a p t e r 4

Sam

C h a p t e r 5

Meg

C h a p t e r 6

Sam

C h a p t e r 7

Meg

C h a p t e r 8

Sam

C h a p t e r 9

Meg

C h a p t e r 10

Sam

C h a p t e r 11

Meg

C h a p t e r 12

Sam

C h a p t e r 13

Meg

C h a p t e r 14

Sam

C h a p t e r 15

Meg

C h a p t e r 16

Sam

C h a p t e r 17

Meg

C h a p t e r 18

Sam

C h a p t e r 19

Meg

C h a p t e r 20

Sam

C h a p t e r 21

Meg

C h a p t e r 22

Sam

C h a p t e r 23

Meg

For my parents, who didn’t laugh at the nine-year-old who boasted she would write a novel.

Special thanks to my long-suffering and ever-helpful friend and writing mentor, Mary Jean Holmes, and my sharp eyed copyediting chum, Kimberly Casey, with her meticulous marks and blunt (but amusing) comments. Also, extra special thanks is due to Nicholas Murchison for his fantastic cover art and incredible patience in catering to my obsessive details.

My undying gratitude also goes to those loyal pals—my beta read-ers—who helped me with the early drafts and who contributed plenty of needed editorial criticism and support. Aside from the trio above, this special club also includes: Erika Bearss, Nicole Dekrell, Melanie Dewey, Kiyo Endecott, Jenny King, Sam McCoy, and Dave Reed. Thank you, thank you, thank you!

True friendship is a plant of slow growth, and must undergo and withstand the shocks of adversity, before it is entitled to the appellation

—George Washington

C h a p t e r 1  

Meg  

Saturday, July 20, 1850

Today has thus far been terribly hot and dry, and without an ounce of surprise. Now that it is midafternoon, we have hit another lull and the heat is simply all I can think about. The sun burns into my clothes and skin, without the mercy of clouds to bring any relief. I find it queer that it hasn’t rained for months. After our first winter here, I would have believed it rained year round in Oregon Country.

Although I promised to try and not sulk about that which I cannot change, I miss Boston, still. The life here is not what I had hoped, and nearly everything I dreaded. I can scarcely believe that two years previous we were still in Massachusetts, with our friends and family so close. I don’t understand why Mama and Papa uprooted us to this wild place. All that we knew and loved was in Boston. Mama grew up there; her grandparents were the ones to settle there from Ireland. And yet she agreed to Papa’s ridiculous idea to join the Oregon Trail. Why? Why would Papa give up being a successful banker for homesteading and farming? Why do Mama and Papa think O’Hara is such a quaint little town? It’s scarcely a town! Our closest neighbors are miles distant!

I was listening to them speak last night, once more, about our move. I know it isn’t proper or polite, but I couldn’t help myself. They only speak about the reasons for the journey when they believe all of their children to be asleep. What words I could catch has given me plenty to puzzle over.

Oh, I shall have to put this down later. Mama has just reminded me that it is time to feed and water the livestock. She’s unable to do much, as the arrival of the new child grows nigh. Perhaps that shall yield some excitement, in this dull existence in the middle of the wilderness. Yet I harbor many doubts.

Until tomorrow,

M.C.

Meg!

At the sound of my mother’s voice, once more interrupting my thoughts, I sighed and slammed shut my leather-bound book. From across the room where she sat sewing, Mama dropped her needle on her mending and frowned at me.

"Margaret Clayton, you must learn to shut books quietly, she scolded as she retrieved the needle. You are fifteen, now, and no longer a child."

I frowned at her remark, unhappy at the reminder. Under her disapproving gaze, I swallowed the expression and managed a wan, polite smile. Sorry, Mama. I set aside my journal and pencil on the dining table and stood, smoothing out my long summer dress. The fabric of my clothing was lighter than the garments from the winter, granted, but I still felt dreadfully hot and uncomfortable in the stuffy cabin air. The summer was so hot here! In Boston, we could feel a cooling breeze from the ocean at our house. I tried to stop thinking that way then and there, recalling my vow of not pining for things that I couldn’t change.

Will you be all right while I’m in the stable? I asked my mother, concerned by her condition.

I’ll be just fine, Meg. If that changes, I’ll send one of the girls to fetch you.

I turned to leave—only to hesitate in the doorway of the cabin, a strange sensation sweeping over me. My skin prickled and rose, despite the stifling dry heat of the day, and I felt a quick chill on the back of my neck.

Why do I feel as if something bad is going to happen? I wondered.

Searching for the source of my feelings, I looked to my mother, examining her from across the room. Her round face was caught in an expression of concentration as her fingers carefully moved the small sewing needle in tight, clean stitches, mending my father’s trousers. With a bit of shock, I realized that Mama’s vivid red hair, pinned up as usual, was now showing the first touches of white near her ears. Yet her belly was swollen with child, ready to bring forth a new Clayton in only a matter of days. She did not seem old to me, not my mother, but I wondered if my unease was related to the unborn baby.

I love you, Mama, I said suddenly. There was a curious intensity in my voice for a simple goodbye.

My mother caught it; she looked up, pausing in her needlework, a touch of surprise on her weary face. Well, I love you, too, Meg, she said softly. Now you’d best tend to the animals. It’s a hot day, and they are no doubt thirsty.

I nodded, finally turning and hurrying to the barn perhaps five hundred feet from our four-room cabin. I ran, despite the heat and my heavy skirts, and reached the building that housed our livestock in only a minute or two. I wrinkled my nose at the pungent odor of manure and animal as I slipped through the large double doors of the barn, the smells all the more potent from the heat of the day. I passed the pigs in their pen, the two goats, and the cow, only slowing when I reached the stalls of the four horses our family owned: Midnight, Brownie, Chalky, and Lightning. Two of them—Chalky and Midnight—were out for the day, having pulled the wagon that my father and brothers had taken earlier.

I halted when I reached Lightning’s stall. Of all our horses, he was my favorite. When we had arrived at our homestead in O’Hara, a fifty person settlement in Oregon Country, my father had bought him as a colt. I had immediately fallen in love with the dark brown horse, and had been allowed to select his name. Lightning had always been unusually calm during the thunderstorms that would sometimes pass in the summers and springs, and he was very fast. I believed it was an appropriate name, though my mother felt it was far too dramatic.

Hello, Lightning, I said, peering into his stall. Lightning snorted softly at the sound of my voice, coming over and sticking his head through the doorway. I rubbed his nose in greeting. Sorry, I don’t have any treats for you today, I added softly. But I’ll take you out for a little walk instead, once I finish my work in here. How do you fancy that?

Lightning tossed his head back, as if nodding to my suggestion. I stepped away from his stall and began my chores—filling up the water troughs for all the animals from the well outside, and then giving them their feed. It was far better than mucking out the stalls, a task assigned to my older brother.

Twenty minutes later, after completing my chores in the barn, I stepped outside for a breath of air and to look over the land. As far as I could see, no one was around. Mama was still in the cabin with my younger sisters, Elizabeth and Sarah. My father was with my brothers, Patrick and Peter, at the Johnson farm two miles away, helping with the construction of a barn for Charles, Nora, and their small three children.

I smiled, satisfied with the solitude, then returned to the barn and went straight to Lightning’s side. Letting the horse out of his stall, I lifted one of the saddles off the wall, and in only a few minutes had fitted him with the saddle, bridle, and reins. My horse knew what was to come and whinnied softly in anticipation.

I led Lightning out of the barn and circled around to the back of the building before mounting him. Here, I was out of sight of the cabin. The last thing I wanted was for Mama or one of my sisters to catch sight of me doing this. I feared not punishment, but unnecessary worry on Mama’s behalf. My parents felt that young ladies raised and educated in Boston society, such as myself, should not ride horses—let alone like a boy! But I adored riding, and found sidesaddle too restricting. One could not travel fast perched in that awkward fashion. Perhaps my family knew what I did with Lightning almost every afternoon; perhaps not. Yet boldly going against their wishes before their very eyes was a bit too brazen for me. Better that they could at least pretend to look the other way.

Come on, Lightning, I murmured, nudging him with the heels of my boots. Let’s go to the woods, where it’s cooler!

Lightning lunged forward hard enough to rattle every bone in my body. Yet I smiled at the sensation, clutching the reigns tightly. As my horse traveled faster, I threw my head back and laughed, loving the feel of wind against my damp face and the ground rushing by under me. My weariness from the heat, boredom, and the day’s work faded the farther I fled from my cabin.

When our farm was but a dot on the horizon behind me, Lightning and I reached the thick grove of woods. As we passed into the shade under the trees, I felt the temperature drop and sighed with relief. Lightning, used to this route, slowed from a gallop to a more leisurely walk, his sides heaving from the run and his coat damp with sweat. I leaned back in the saddle, my curly copper-colored hair hanging heavy down my back. It had tumbled from the pins, unable to take the jostling from Lightning’s speed, but I did not mind that in spite of the heat of the day. I was still trying to get used to wearing my hair up, as it had only become required of me six weeks earlier, when I had turned fifteen. A brief reprieve from the confines of the pins was most welcome, as I would have to put it back up before returning to the cabin.

My horse and I moved down the narrow path through the thick, cool forest, and I found myself growing more relaxed. My mind began to drift, to consider once more the strange turn of events over the past couple years of my life. The move West, from Boston, that my family had undertaken in the spring of 1849. The suddenness of that decision, made by my parents without a word or warning to any of their children until a week before the departure. Our eventual settling on the other side of the continent, far from the city life that we were all accustomed to. I missed the friends and family we had left behind something dreadful—yet I believed that I might have accepted our move much better if I simply knew why. Why on earth had Mama and Papa become possessed by such an idea? What had made them leave everything we knew and loved for a new start? They never discussed it with their children, but late at night I had begun to listen to their words in the next room, because I had heard things that—

Crack!

I was snapped out of my thoughts by the sound of twigs crackling from the underbrush. Lightning stopped his walk, his ears standing all the way forward, attentive. I frowned, puzzled more than anything else, and leaned forward in the saddle. I heard another twig snap, and the sound of leaves rustling from the same location. I squinted at the spot, straining my eyes for any flicker of movement. I was not in suspense for long. Mere moments after staring at the place from which the noises were coming, something emerged from the shadows.

It was a wildcat—a cougar. The animal surveyed us a moment, eyes glittering, then growled threateningly, baring pointed teeth.

My heart began to skip at first sight of the beast. Quickly, I yanked on Lightning’s reins to turn him around. The horse was either frozen with fear or wanted to face the cougar; regardless, he didn’t move.

I dug my boots into Lightning’s sides as hard as I could, eager to get away. That particular action did get a reaction, but not quite the one I had hoped for. Lightning whinnied and reared back, his front legs leaving the ground a good four or five feet. I gasped in horror, utterly unprepared for this. My grip on the reins slipped and I fell off my horse, tumbling back head over heels before I hit the ground with a mind-shaking jolt. Lightning returned to the ground, then galloped off until he was out of sight.

My heart began a quick plummet and I took in a shallow, rapid breath. Lightning, no, stop! I yelled, sitting up. I began to stand, to go after him—and moaned as hot, fiery pain bolted through my left ankle. I fell back to the ground quickly.

My ankle! I realized in horror, feeling cold all over. Something is wrong with it

I twisted my head around, recalling why I was on the ground at all. The cougar was where I had last seen him, standing in the middle of the forest path. The wildcat growled again, saliva dripping from the very pointed teeth. He began to approach me, slowly. I tried to stand again, but the pain was so bad that tears filled my eyes. I was utterly trapped!

Yet he last thing I intended was to go peacefully. I grabbed a large branch from the foliage nearby, waving it menacingly at the hungry animal. Get away! I shouted as loudly as I could, hoping my voice would frighten him off. Although inside I felt jittery and watery, I was pleased to hear my voice come out strong and firm. Scat! Get out of here! Go kill something smaller than yourself!

The cougar did not fear my words, or the branch. With a speed I could scarcely comprehend, he lunged forward, bit down on the end of the branch in my hand, and tore it from my fingers with a quick shake of his head. As I stared at the wildcat, rather numbly, he paced about, eyeing me as he growled softly in the back of his throat. My own throat seemed to close up at this terrible turn.

No! my mind screamed as the animal suddenly surged towards me, jaws open wide. I snapped my eyes closed and turned my face away. I didn’t need to see anything more.

C h a p t e r 2  

Sam  

Wednesday, July 20, 2005, could actually become a red-letter date in the history of science, I thought with a grin. After months of preparation and experimentation, and years of hard work and dreaming, I was currently down to the final countdown of the sixth and latest incarnation of The Project. That was how I’d come to think of it, a Great Project that would shock the entire world over—if it worked. I wasn’t sure if it would…yet…but eventual success did seem to be inevitable in my mind.

"If this does work now, I muttered aloud as I did a final examination of things, today’ll be a day that all scientists’ll celebrate—the day that Sam Foster was the first person to travel through time!"

I grinned again as I thought of my name somewhere in a big, fat history book, especially since the first person to travel through time would only be fifteen years old! Some of the world’s most brilliant scientists had been trying to find a way to unlock the time barrier for centuries, and a kid who couldn’t even get a driver’s license yet might be the first to actually do it. I liked the irony.

As excited as I was, however, I knew that this was serious business. I shoved the childish fantasies out of my head as I checked my project over again. There was a chance it would fail, naturally. Five previous attempts hadn’t worked out; the charred remains of those were stacked in the garage. I wasn’t a super pessimistic person, but I wasn’t an optimist, by any stretch of the imagination. I classified myself as simply a realist, basing my beliefs and hopes on statistics and facts rather than on wishful thinking. Maybe I was born that way; maybe my parents’ divorce when I was seven helped modify that part of my personality. I had no idea. Psychology wasn’t really my thing.

The telephone rang, shattering my concentration. I almost dropped the device in my hands, and that could’ve been disastrous. A little irritated by the interruption, and the close call, I reached across my desk and punched the speaker phone button. Yeah?

A familiar voice answered me. Hey, Sam, it’s Alex.

Alex. Alexander McCoy. We’d been best friends since we were five. He was the one person who probably knew everything about me, both the good and the bad. From the time we’d built a fort in the woods nearby when we were ten, and almost got killed when it collapsed, to the time we had both been after the same girl—Jennifer McClain—in the seventh grade.

The only thing Alex didn’t know about, actually, was The Project. We may’ve been close, but something inside just told me it would be a bad idea if I told Alex about it—at least before I had a working prototype. Since this would be my sixth try, I saw no point in giving him reason to have me committed somewhere for my own mental health if I didn’t have immediate proof to back up my claims. After all, I wasn’t sure things would work this time, myself. There was also the possibility about Alex making smartass remarks about it to other friends. His sarcasm and sense of humor could get out of hand sometimes. He’d always looked at my science interests with some amusement, and maybe the amusement was justified. Alex had seen a lot of past experiments and creations literally explode in our faces.

What’s up, McCoy? I asked as I fiddled with a wire.

A bunch of us are gonna go out for pizza tonight, on account of Matt getting his driver’s permit. Wanna come?

I was tempted, but…. No thanks. I’m busy tonight.

I heard Alex sigh at the other end of the phone. Jeez, man, seems like you’re busy every night, now. What, are you getting too cool to hang with us?

Right, Alex. You nailed it. I just have some important work to do.

Hey, Foster, news flash: School let out over a month ago!

I know. But what I’m doing doesn’t have anything to do with school. It’s—it’s a project of sorts.

Not another weird invention, is it? Alex groaned softly, in good humor. Jeez, Sam, you’re fifteen years old—you should be having fun now, not spending all your time locked in your house tweaking weird electronics and messing around on your computer.

"This is fun for me, I insisted. I don’t understand how you can spend so much time playing hockey. All the pain and pressure to win and getting slammed into the wall multiple times by guys twice your size…."

Okay, fine, Alex conceded. But, really, you should get out once in a while and into the fresh air. You know what they say ‘bout all work and no play.

Point taken, I said. Maybe I’ll hook up with you guys later tonight. Give me a call after pizza, okay?

All right. Later, then.

Sure. I thumbed off the phone, staring at it for a moment before taking the cord and unplugging it from the wall. The last thing I wanted now was another call—especially ones for my older sister, Zoey, who was currently working at the mall. I hated having to take messages for The Goddess.

I turned my full attention back to my latest creation, a crooked smile tugging at my mouth as I thought about Alex’s potential reaction if I told him the truth over the phone. "I can’t go out tonight ‘cause I’m trying to finish a time machine." He’d think I was putting him on, especially since he knew all about my odd interest in the subject of time travel. I think it started when I saw the movie Back to the Future on video, at the age of six, when a sitter had brought it by in the hopes of entertaining me while she did homework. It worked, probably too well. For weeks after, I would secretly pretend that I could travel through time in my dad’s sports car. But soon, pretending started getting a little old.

So when I was ten, I started reading all I could about time travel—fact and fiction—and rented every single movie on the subject I could find. The Bill & Ted movies, the Terminator movies, Time After Time, The Philadelphia Experiment, Timecop, Somewhere in Time, 12 Monkeys, The Time Machine, Time Bandits, Frequency, Clockstoppers…and, of course, the Back to the Future trilogy. During all my research, I came across a few technical, non-fiction books on time travel. Even back then, I was able to get it pretty well—unusual for someone of my age, probably, since the physics can be so daunting.

And so I started to design my own time machine. As much as I loved the idea of building a time machine into a car, as Doc Brown had done in the Back to the Future films, I knew it was an unrealistic dream. I didn’t have the money to buy a car, let alone a license to drive one! But the idea of converting an everyday object into a time machine really appealed to me, so I started looking into other smaller and cheaper devices to modify. My first five attempts—made between the ages of eleven and fourteen—all failed, due to either a poor design or shoddy workmanship.

Finally, though, last September, I hit upon a new solution that let me use one of my better talents: computer programming. I’d written a program over the course of the last ten months where one could input a destination date and location, burning the information onto a CD. A couple of months after I’d started