Chapter Text
As the edge of the ravine rushed closer, the sun beating down overhead, a voice at her back cried out, “Here!”
Turning, she saw a man on horseback beside the cart, his arms outstretched; and she understood what he was asking, but found herself too panicked to move. “I can’t –”
“Yes, you can!” he said. “Jump! C’mon!” For a final heart-stopping moment, she was frozen. Then summoning up all her nerve, she let go of her death-grip on the bridle and threw herself into his arms.
The cart carried on without her and as his horse skidded to a halt – perilously close to the edge of the cliff – she watched numbly as it sailed into the open air beyond. There was a moment of silence, followed by a terrible crashing of wood.
Clara breathed out. She felt his arms relaxed around her waist. “Good Lord,” she remarked.
“What did you think you were doing, madam?” he said.
She was tired. Her heart was till hammering. She was, extremely pressingly, sweaty, her hair clinging to her forehead and the synthetic fabric of her shirt sticking uncomfortably to her skin. Mouth opening, she turned to face him. “Don’t you madam me, sir,” she said. “I had that under control.”
“You could have been killed,” said Emmett. “If I hadn’t been here –” He stumbled to a halt, unwilling to put voice to it. “And what are you doing here, for that matter?”
“Well –”
“I told you in my letter to go back to 1985,” he said. “I was very specific that you weren’t to follow me –”
“Something came up.” She shifted uncomfortably in his grip. It was her first time on a horse since the riding lessons her father had insisted on in her teens and it was not proving to be a pleasant experience. Emmett was holding the reins in one hand and had the other arm around her waist in a manner that was getting more awkward with each passing moment. In the rush to get to safety there’d been no time to organise their limbs in a sensible manner. “Could you put me –”
“What in the world are you wearing?” He surveyed her outfit. She tugged self-consciously on one of her sleeves, adjusting it. “Whose idea was this get-up?”
Clara smiled at him primly. “Yours, actually,” she said. “Listen, we ought to round up those horses before they run off for good – I owe some very nice people an apology for the cart as it is –”
“Ah – good thinking.” Mercifully, he relaxed his grip. “Now –”
“And then,” she interrupted firmly. “We need to talk.”
*
“Shot in the back? By Buford Tannen?” Emmett read aloud, his voice steadily raising in pitch to a kind of wild panic. “Over a matter of a hundred dollars?” She heard him wheel around to face the screen. “I don’t owe him that kind of money!”
“Well, it’s a few days away,” said Clara helpfully as she stripped off her ridiculous dress. “Maybe it hasn’t happened yet.”
Emmett grumbled something she couldn’t fully make out. “There was some business over his horse last week,” he said. “But a hundred dollars? That’s absurd.”
“Remind me how much that is in today’s money?” She reached for the more practical dress that had been very kindly lent to them by the owner of the general store.
“1985 money,” he corrected. “At least a thousand dollars.”
“Ouch.” She put back the dress and reached for the petticoat. Clothing in the eighteen-hundreds was so tiresome. She deeply envied Emmett his pants. “Well, I suppose that’s enough to get someone mad.” She pulled the petticoat over her head and wriggled around inside it in search of the head and arm holes. “Oh, dear.”
“You alright back there?” Emmett said.
“Fine – fine.” She located an armhole. Hopefully she wouldn’t be in the time period long enough to have to worry about doing laundry.
He muttered again. “And who’s this Martin McFly person?”
“Huh?” The neck hole was proving to be a problem.
“Erected by his dear friend Martin McFly.” He sounded pretty affronted. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Oh – I assumed he was a friend of yours,” she said. “You don’t know him?”
“No, I don’t know a Martin,” he said, still sounding vaguely offended. “There’s a Mr McFly in the area, but that’s not his name.”
“Could be a middle name or something.” She pulled the dress over her head. It was, thankfully, proving easier than the petticoat. “Or maybe he goes by a middle name or a nickname and that’s his Christian name – are you two close?”
“Hm? Absolutely not,” he said. “I’ve avoided making any close personal connections. My presence here is already enough of a risk to the timeline, I can’t take the chance of interfering too heavily in anyone’s life. Say I –”
Cutting off whatever long-winded explanation he had planned, she remarked, “That sounds awfully lonely.”
“It’s a matter of strict necessity,” he said. “You ought to know even better than I do how vital it is not to interfere with the timestream – you remember what happened in 1955 –”
“Yes, I know.” Her attempts to protect her younger self form harm had, with the benefit of hindsight, been deeply ill-thought out. It had been an act of wild passion. An attempt to save herself from the weeks in the hospital and years of lonely recuperation following the spinal injury. In the heat of the moment the fact that without all that time alone she’d never have turned to her books and developed the extended obsession with the likes of Jules Verne and H.G. Wells that had sparked her interest in science had never crossed her mind. Really, what kind of a person would see a little girl about to fall out of a tree and start worrying about temporal paradoxes?
“Not to mention all that business with the investments –”
Sourly, not wanting to be reminded that their current predicament was largely her own fault, she said, “I really don’t see how either of those situations compares to you making even one friend here. What’s the worst that can happen?”
“Well, it doesn’t matter now,” he said, ignoring her. “We –” Clara checked herself one last time in the spotted mirror and stepped barefoot out from behind the screen. “Oh.”
“What?” She adjusted the dress. “Is it okay? I feel very silly.”
“No, it’s – it’s, ah.” He floundered desperately. “It’s very – nice. You look nice.”
“Thank you.” She touched her hair. She probably ought to put it up. “Where are my shoes?”
“Just over here,” he said, motioning.
Grabbing them, she settled down on a stool to lace the blasted things on. “What were you saying?”
“Oh, yes,” he said. “Just as soon as I’ve checked the time machine is in working order we’ll be long gone – so I don’t see that it matters.”
Clara’s hands stilled on the laces, her heart sinking. “Oh,” she said. “Oh, no. Emmett, I’m sorry – I forgot to tell you.”
“What?” He looked up from the polaroid photo, eyes going even larger. “What’s wrong?”
She bit the bullet and confessed. “I busted the fuel line just after I arrived,” she said. “Emmett, I – we’re out of gas.”
He stared at her. “But we can’t –”
“I know,” she said.
“So we won’t be able to –”
“I know, Emmett.” Rising from the stool, laces trailing from her boots, she went over to lay a steadying hand on his arm. “It’ll be alright,” she said, trying to sound far more confident that she felt. “We’ll put our heads together, okay? We’ll – we’ll put our thinking caps on, and we’ll come up with something.”
Breathing out, Emmett looked once again at the photo of his own grave. “I hope you’re right.”
*
“I don’t know, Emmett,” she said. “This seems pretty risky.”
“No – no, it’s perfect.” Emmett stood near the cliff edge, his hands on his hips, surveying the empty vista. “The bridge will be complete in 1985. So long as we hit eighty-eight hours per hour before reaching the end of the track –”
“I understand the principle.” She adjusted her grip on the reins. Riding horseback was just like riding a bike, she told herself. So what if she hadn’t done it in twenty years. “I’m just a little concerned about what happens if something goes wrong.”
“Don’t think about that part,” he said with his usual unshakeable confidence in his own intellect. “The principle is sound – that’s the important thing.”
With the aid of a time machine, Clara reflected, one could theoretically go back to the year 1980 and tackle one’s past self to the ground before one made the terrible mistake of knocking on the door of a local scientist to ask if he might be willing to do a presentation for her high schoolers. Wistfully, she imagined the ensuing conversation. Don’t do it, Clara – he’s a nightmare – he’s going to get you killed one day and I’m not exaggerating.
Beaming to himself as he turned whatever absurd plan he was concocting over in his mind, Emmett said aloud, “We shall have to hijack a train.”
Gazing down at him, standing upon the edge of the cliff, the breeze tugging at his hair, bright and animated and wildly over-confident, Clara felt the same swell in her chest that she’d felt the first time she’d looked him in the eye. He was the most ridiculous person she’d ever met. He was going to be the death of her one day; and she would follow him anywhere. Even if it hadn’t been for the gravestone, she knew in her heart she’d still have followed him back in time.
“Yes,” she sighed. “I suppose we will.”
On the ride back to town, she amused herself trying to pick out features of the landscape that she recognised. A tree still standing in the twentieth century. The rise of the ground. The hills, in the distance.
“Ah – no,” Emmett said. “Laundry isn’t as troublesome here as you’d think – clothes in this era don’t need to be washed nearly so often, so you can put it off a good long while so long as you have enough, ah, undergarments –” He caught her eye and looked away, suddenly bashful. “Though you’d, hm.” He cleared his throat. “Need to speak to one of the local ladies about that – I, I imagine.”
“I’ll try the general store,” she said. Her hope of being able to get by without dealing with the issue of undergarments had proved in vain. Her single set of regular, non-ridiculous 1980s underwear was already drenched in sweat.
Up ahead, there was a shout; a burst of distant laughter. “What’s that?”
“I’m not sure,” said Emmett. He sounded nonchalant, but she noticed his hand creeping towards his Winchester.
They passed over the rise; and not too far off, beneath a wiry tree, there was a group of men and horses. At first all she could see was a confusion of movement. Squinting, shading her eyes against the sun, she tried to make sense of what they were doing. Two of the men seemed to be lifting a third onto their shoulders – something about the way he was moving, it was –
It was only as they let him drop and his body swung freely in the air that she understood and her chest seized with sudden horror. “Oh, my God –” she breathed.
Beside her Emmett spurred his horse into a canter and she followed, her heart in her mouth. The man was still moving, she told herself. So long as he was struggling, that meant he was alive, and – as the tree lurched closer, and closer, his legs kicked, and jerked – and went limp.
A gunshot rang out. For a wild panicked moment she thought the men were shooting at them; but then the hanging man dropped, the rope sheared clean through. He hit the ground and lay there, not moving.
It was Emmett. He was ahead of her, his gun raised, angled steadily, grimly at the men around the tree. They had been laughing but now they’d quieted, reaching for their own weapons.
“It’ll shoot the fleas off a dog’s back at five hundred yards, Tannen!” Emmett called out. “And it’s pointed straight at your head!”
Drawing level with him, breathing hard, Clara scanned the little group. It wasn’t hard to pick out Tannen. The family resemblance was pretty unmistakeable, even before he motioned for his gang to stand down. “Mad Dog,” she said under her breath.
“You stay outta this, blacksmith!” he yelled. “This here runt’s gonna pay what he owes.”
“He owes you his life, huh?” Emmett’s aim hadn’t wavered for a moment. Being stranded a hundred years out of his own time seemed to have done wonders for his confidence. In better circumstances it might have had a certain appeal.
“He owes me twenty dollars and he knew what’d happen if he didn’t pay up.” Tannen jerked his gun at the man still on the ground.
To Clara’s desperate relief, he’d begun to move. He was struggling up into a kneeling position, hampered by his bound hands.
“Walk away, Tannen.” Emmett, at last, lowered the gun, though he made no move to put it away. “You’ll get your money a lot sooner if he’s still alive.”
“What, you offering to take on his debt?” Tannen shot back. “Don’t think I’ve done forgotten the money you owe me.”
“I don’t owe you anything,” said Emmett.
“Wrong,” Tannen spat. “My horse threw a shoe. Since you was the one that shoed the horse, I figure you’re responsible.”
Clara reached out a hand, helplessly, to Emmett, trying to get his attention. “Emmett,” she said. “Just –”
“Since you never paid me for the job I’d say that makes us even!” Emmett retorted.
Just say you’ll pay up, she wanted to say. This is how it happens – for God’s sake, just pay him off and walk away –
“I was on my horse when he threw his shoe and I busted a perfectly good bottle of fine Kentucky Redeye!” said Tannen. “So the way I figure, blacksmith, you owe me five dollars for the whiskey and seventy-five dollars for the horse. And with the twenty the runt owes me, that’s, uh –” He stumbled.
“One hundred dollars,” piped up one of his thugs.
“Yeah, that’s right!” said Tannen.
Emmett looked as if he was about to argue. Clara made another desperate grab for his arm. “Emmett, please,” she hissed.
For a moment, he met her eyes. Then turning, resolute, he called out to Tannen, “If your horse threw a shoe, bring him back and I’ll re-shoe him!”
“I done shot that horse!” Tannen yelled.
“What, that’s your problem!” Emmett yelled back.
“That’s your damn problem, blacksmith!” Tannen jabbed a furious hand at him. “You meddled in my business for the last time! From now on you better be looking behind you when you walk, cause one day you’re gonna get a bullet in your back!” Turning away, he jerked his head at his assorted thugs. “Move out.”
“One hundred dollars, Emmett,” Clara said as they mounted up.
“Yes, I heard,” he hissed back; but before she could argue any more, Tannen and his gang moved off and there were more pressing matters to attend to.
Sliding out of the saddle she hitched up her ridiculous skirt and made at a job for the man on the ground. He looked up at her approach and for the first time she got a decent look at his face and she thought Jesus Christ, he’s just a kid.
“It’s okay,” she said, dropping to her knees beside him in the dirt. “It’s okay, honey – are you okay?”
“Uh-huh,” he rasped as she eased the noose from his neck.
Emmett joined them, heaving the poor boy to his feet. “Easy does it.” He produced a pocket knife and sawed through the rope cutting into his wrists. “Are you alright?”
“I think so.” The rope fell away. He rolled his shoulders, touching his wrists. He was shaking like a leaf; there was blood streaked down his face. He looked like he’d recently bene punched in the nose. By the distant expression on his face she wasn’t sure he knew what was going on.
Emmett laid a hand on his shoulder. “You sure?”
Collecting himself, gaze growing steadier, the young man said, “Yeah – I’m alright.” He wet his lips. “Thank you for – doin’ that. I can handle myself from here. I just need to.” He took a fumbling step away from the tree. “Find my hat –”
His legs gave out under him. Only Emmett’s timely intervention saved him from faceplanting into the dirt. “There we go,” he said, steadying him. “Careful, now.”
“I think you ought to sit down, okay?” Clara took his elbow and together they guided him backwards towards the tree.
“I’m fine – really – just fine –” he protested; but he made no further attempts to resist. Emmett’s big hands landed on his shoulders, coaxing him gently but firmly down.
The boy sat on the ground, his back to the tree that he’d so recently been hanged from, guzzling water out of Clara’s canteen. “Ohh, God,” he said between gulps. “Oh, Jesus Christ, that’s good.” Clara thought she detected a hint of an accent. Irish, maybe?
“You don’t have any water?” said Emmett.
“Ran out,” said the boy, and guzzled some more.
“Easy, now.” Emmett laid a hand on his shoulder. “Don’t make yourself sick.”
“Uh-huh.” The boy lowered the canteen and rolled his head back against the tree trunk. “Oh, God. I really thought I’d had it.” He looked at them as if taking them in properly for the first time. “Where’d you pair come from?”
“Ah,” said Emmett.
“Uh,” said Clara.
“Well, we –”
“Over there,” she settled for, pointing back up the rise.
“Ah – yes – over there,” Emmett agreed.
The boy nodded as if that was the kind of answer he’d been expecting. He drank another gulp of water. “You came outta nowhere,” he said, dazed, sagging against the tree. “Thank you. Wow. I don’t – I don’t feel so good.”
Clara laid a hand on his forehead. “You feel a little hot.” He brushed her off.
“Touch of heatstroke, maybe?” said Emmett. “How long have you been out here?”
“I’ll be alright,” said the boy, dodging the question. He handed Clara’s canteen back. “Thanks, ma’am.”
She held out her hand to Emmett for a handkerchief, and dampened it. “How’d you end up in that mess with Tannen, anyway?”
“Hey – no,” he protested as she dabbed at the dried blood on his face. After a second, he relented. “I lost twenty dollars I didn’t have playing cards,” he admitted, his shoulders sinking. “He said if I ever showed my face around here without the money he’d string me up. I didn’t think he meant it literally.”
“He’s a man of his word,” Emmett sighed.
Something about the situation began to nag at her. A vague sense of déjà vu. This was all, somehow, dimly familiar. She wiped away the blood from beneath his nose.
“M’clean.” He nudged her hand away and levered himself to his feet. “I just – need to –” They followed him upright. He wheeled around, trying to get his bearings. “I’m just a little – turned around.”
“Are you out here all by yourself?” said Clara.
“Nuh-uh, I’m,” said the boy, still wheeling about. “On my way to visit my brother – I know I had a hat.”
“Over here,” said Emmett, spotting it. He went to pick it up.
“Are you sure you’ll be alright?” Clara asked. “You don’t look well.”
“I’m fine.” He pointed off towards the hills. “I’m going – this way. I know where I am now.”
Emmett came back with the hat. “Here.”
The boy put his hat back on and adjusted it. He seemed to feel a lot better with it on. Maybe it was the protection it offered from the heat. Maybe it was just the confidence boost. Either way, he tipped it to them. “Thank you, sir,” he said. The accent she’d noticed before had vanished entirely. “Ma’am. Thank you for your help. I owe you one. But I’m gonna get gone.”
He seemed resolute. Clara fetched the horses over and mounted up, while Emmett dithered. She didn’t like it either – the boy looked about the age of one of her students – he had no water and seemed to be planning to leave on foot – even without angry outlaws hunting for him, it wasn’t the safest situation. But evidently he’d made up his mind and they were, after all, virtual strangers.
“You sure I can’t change your mind?” Emmett said as he mounted his own horse. “We could give you a ride back to town.”
“Thanks, but I’m not going back to town, sir,” said the boy. “I’m going to see my brother, as I said.”
“Oh?” said Emmett. “We can give you a ride there, so long as it’s not too far out of our way – where is it you’re headed?”
The boy notched his thumbs into his belt, and said, “I’m headed to the McFly farm.”
It was one of those uncanny moments that, realistically, only a time traveller could experience. Emmett and Clara exchanged a look. Oh, she thought. Oh, dear. Going to visit his brother, on the McFly farm.
“What did you say your name was?” said Emmett slowly.
“I didn’t,” said the boy; and then, before she could stop herself, Clara blurted out,
“You’re Martin McFly.”
The boy’s mouth twisted. “My reputation precedes me, huh?”
“I didn’t –”
“Did Seamus tell you about me?” he said. “Cause, uh. Whatever he said, I swear it ain’t true.”
They exchanged another look – and then both began to speak at once.
“Oh – no, no,” said Clara, who had never spoken to Seamus in her life.
“He didn’t –” said Emmett.
“I was only –”
“He just mentioned your name,” said Emmett. “In passing. That’s all.”
“Oh.” The boy seemed a little taken aback at the strength of their reaction. “Alright, then.” He rocked back on his heels; and then he offered his hand up to Emmett. “It’s Marty. To my friends.”
Tentatively – no doubt thinking of the inscription on the gravestone that was still, undoubtedly, in his immediate future – Emmett returned the handshake. “Good to meet you,” he said. Remembering his manners he added, “I’m Doctor Emmett Brown – this is Clara, my, ah –”
“It’s good to meet you,” Clara put in before he could come out with something idiotic like associate or scientific collaborator.
“Ma’am,” he said.
“You know, we really don’t have anywhere to be today,” said Emmett. “We’d be more than happy to give you a ride –”
“I’ll be just fine,” said Marty. “Don’t worry.”
“It’s not all that far out of our way –”
“I don’t mind walking.”
Emmett pressed his lips together; and then, with a fervency that surprised her a little, he thrust out a hand and said, “Oh, for Pete’s sake, kid. Will you just get on the damn horse?”
*
The McFly farm was about an hour out of their way – really not so far, in the grand scheme of things, though she’d honestly rather not have spent so much time horseback. Her poor backside wasn’t used to it.
Marty hopped down from Emmett’s horse at the gate and shot him a grin. “Thanks for the ride.”
“Oh, any time,” said Emmett.
“And thanks for.” Marty ducked his head to the side. “You know. I appreciate it.”
“I’d say any time, but I’d rather not have to that again,” Emmett told him very seriously, which got a laugh. “You look after yourself, alright?”
“I’ll do my best.” Marty slouched back against the gate. “I guess I’ll see you in town, huh?”
“Oh – yes, of course,” Emmett said. “I’ll see you around.”
Marty nodded. Then he cleared his throat, and said, slightly, bashfully, “You’re, uh. You’re real nice people.” He shrugged. “See ya,” he added, and scrambling over the gate he was gone.
Clara watched him wander off down the dirt track towards the distant farmhouse. She counted the seconds, till she was sure he was out of earshot. She breathed in, and out. Then she turned to Emmett.
“Well,” she said. “I suppose that’s another piece of the puzzle, huh?”
“Hm?” he said. “Oh – yes, yes.”
He didn’t go on. She pressed him. “You’ll see him around?” she said. “What’s that supposed to mean? We’re leaving town on Monday.”
“I might see him before Monday.” He turned his horse about face. She followed him.
“Emmett,” she said. “Emmett.”
“Hm?”
“Why couldn’t you just have paid him off?” she said. “For God’s sake. You have the money, don’t you?”
Emmett’s face had gone tight. Then, breathing out, he reined in his horse and faced her. “I’m – oh, Clara, I’m sorry,” he said. “I just saw red. They were hurting that poor boy –”
“Oh, I’m not arguing with you there,” she said. “But why did you have to, to – was that little stand you took really worth risking your life?”
He rubbed a hand across his eyes. “You’re right,” he said. “You’re right. I lost my mind. I’ll – pay him the next time I see him.”
“I don’t think he’s gonna give you another opportunity, Emmett!” she said, appalled.
“It’ll be just fine,” he assured her. “We’ll be out of here first thing Monday, and then –”
“Assuming this insane plan of yours even works!” she said. “You had a chance to get out of this mess, and you –”
“You’ll forgive me for not wanting to reason with a man who, who was about to hang a boy over a game of cards!” he snapped back.
She was going to argue – but her retort died on her lips, as she abruptly, belatedly remembered why the whole horrifying situation had felt so familiar.
A days ago – or seventy years in the future, depending on how you looked at it – in the Hill Valley library, with a younger, less sociable version of Emmett, raking through all the books and newspaper archives for information on Mad Dog Tannen.
“Didn’t he hang someone?” she remembered musing aloud. “Isn’t there a story about him hanging someone over a game of cards?” It was something she’d picked up from a local history book – or something she hazily remembered from school – or maybe just some scrap of local legend.
“Can we focus on the matter at hand, please?” Emmett had said, understandably twitchy.
And then had come the rollercoaster of the last few days and the whole thing had fallen out of her head – but – “Oh, no, Emmett,” she said. “I just remembered.”
“What?” he said. “Just remembered what?”
“I think I’ve heard of him,” she said. “Not by name, but – there’s a story about him – about Mad Dog Tannen stringing someone up from a tree because of a card game –” The colour was draining from Emmett’s face as she spoke. “It was supposed to happen. Wasn’t it?”
“Great Scott!” he exclaimed. “You’re right. Oh, Clara, I think you’re right. We may have seriously altered history.”
The idea hung, uneasily, in the air between them. It was hardly a first – they had made alterations, both subtle and dramatic, to the timeline before – but this felt, somehow, like it was on another level.
“I’m sure it’ll be fine,” she said weakly. “He’s just one person. It’s not as if he’s likely to invent anything important, or – or start any wars – anything like that –”
“We both know it’s not that simple,” he said. “The tiniest change could have rippling consequences throughout the timeline – a whole human life, it, it’s –” He stumbled to a halt. “We couldn’t have left him there to die,” he said, weakly, in place of whatever he’d meant to say. “Could we?”
“Of course not,” said Clara. Would they have, if they’d realised sooner – that was another question, and one that, frankly, didn’t bear thinking about. “Well,” she said. “I suppose we’ll find out back in 1985. Won’t we?”
“Yes.” Emmett spurred his horse on. “I suppose we shall.”
*
“You know,” Clara remarked. “I suppose today’s business does explain what he was doing on your gravestone. Doesn’t it?”
It was late in the evening, the room lit by a handful of oil lamps. She was at the table in his workshop, checking over their calculations concerning Monday morning’s operation. In theory he ought to be doing likewise. In practice he had his feet on his footstool, his own journal open in his lap, and a mind filled with troubled thoughts.
Her question caught up with him. “Hm?” he said. “I don’t follow.”
“Presumably you saved his life in the original version of events,” she said. “Though I can’t imagine what you were doing all that way out in the desert. But it would explain why he was so determined to honour you.”
“I suppose so,” he agreed, adding, “I go out that way to exercise the horses fairly often – it wouldn’t be all that strange for me to be there.”
“Still, though,” she said. “Dear friend. That seems a bit fast – don’t you think?”
His mind strayed, for the hundredth time, to the memory of that poor boy dangling on the end of a rope. To his eyes, turned up towards Emmett in startled relief at the sweet mercy of his rescue. It was a curious feeling, to look at someone and know that in another life, you had been friends.
With a sigh, he closed the journal. “I don’t see that it matters,” he said. “As you said. We’re leaving down on Monday. I won’t be seeing him again. I certainly won’t make any effort to seek him out. We’ll just – lie low here until we can get back to our correct place in the timestream.”
“I see,” said Clara. “And what if he seeks you out?”
“I can’t imagine why he’d do that.” Rising, he shuffled over to the table where his scale model of their escape plan was coming together. He thumped down his journal and began to adjust the wheels on the model DeLorean. “You’re right that there’s a certain element of risk here. We’ll have to make sure we have all the kinks out.”
“Of course,” she said.
“If there’s any risk at all of not achieving eighty-eight miles per hour,” he said. “Then –”
There was a sudden, sharp knock on the door that got both of their attention. Their eyes met, and they experienced one of those silent moments of communication that he’d only ever been able to achieve with Clara. He was certain they were both thinking the same thing.
“Maybe don’t answer that,” she said.
“It – might be a customer,” he mumbled. He went to the door.
Outside, on the darkened road, stood Marty. On some level Emmett had known it would be him. “Marty,” he said, deeply aware as he spoke of Clara’s disapproving gaze boring into his back. “This is, ah – what brings you here?”
Marty shifted his weight. “Sorry to bother you,” he said. “I know it’s late. I, uh – can I come in?”
“Of course – of course.” Emmett opened the door for him fully.
Stepping inside, Marty nodded politely to Clara. He looked around himself, taking in the workshop and the living area and the forge as if sizing it all up. He didn’t say anything.
“What can I do for you?” said Emmett.
Marty breathed out, his shoulders slumping. “I really hate to ask, sir,” he said. “And I don’t want to impose – I really don’t want to be imposing on your – if you want me to go, I’ll go –” Emmett met his eyes and he cut to the chase. “Doctor Brown, uh. Can I stay here tonight?”
“Stay here?” Emmett exchanged a look with Clara. He didn’t care for how knowing the look he got back was. “I, ah,” he said. “I thought you were staying with your brother?”
Marty shrugged and smiled sheepishly. “I was,” he said. “But we had a – disagreement – and he asked me to leave – and I don’t have any money and a lot of the folks here in town, they don’t, uh – and you two were so kind to me earlier, I thought perhaps – I can go,” he finished. “If I’m imposing I’ll just go. I’ll find somewhere else to sleep, it’ll be no trouble.”
He looked once again to Clara. She shrugged as if to say your call. And it was, after all, his house. “Of course you can stay here tonight,” he said. “We’ve got plenty of room – I’m sure we can make up a bed for you –”
“You don’t need to do that.” Marty ducked his head in the direction of the horses. “You got a stable through there, I figured I’d just –”
“Oh, don’t be ridiculous.” In a sudden burst of enthusiasm he hurried over to the living area in search of spare blankets. “You don’t have to sleep with the horses – we’ll sort something out, won’t we?”
At the table, Clara had gone back to her notes. “It’s your house,” she reminded him.
“Yes it is,” he said, arms full of blankets. He beckoned Marty over. “C’mon – we’ll get you sorted out.”
*
There was really nothing like taking in the morning air, watching the world go by and the clouds move across the sky and listening to the birds, in the full knowledge that one might be three days away from death.
Really. Nothing in the universe like the tangible spectre of one’s own grave to make one feel so vividly alive.
There was a scuffling in the workshop behind him and turning he saw Marty, stumbling blearily away from his makeshift cot near the stove, boots dangling from one hand.
“Ah – good morning.” He stepped back inside. “How’d you sleep?”
“Uh, fine.” Marty looked around as if he’d forgotten where he was; then he dropped himself down on the nearest chair and began to lace his boots on.
Hands on his hips, Emmett hovered there, watching him, wondering what to say. It was a curious thought, that in some fourth dimensional sense that morning had already happened. Another iteration of himself had, most likely, hovered there, and maybe being free of the burden of knowledge of his immediate future had been less uncertain about how to proceed.
He’d walked Clara to the general store earlier that morning and they had been directed to the local seamstress; he’d opted to let her go that one by herself. She was, no doubt, having an awful time.
He cleared his throat. “Would you like to get washed up? I have water heater rigged up.”
Marty glanced at him, one boot on and the other off. “A what?”
“A water heater,” he said. “It – heats up water more quickly than the stove – if you want a proper bath.”
Staring at him, Marty laced up his second boot. He got to his feet. “Nah,” he said. “I’m good.”
“Are you sure?” Emmett looked him up and down, trying not to look like he was doing so. It had been dark enough the night before that he hadn’t really noticed, but in the fresh light of the morning it was impossible to miss that the kid was covered in dust from the desert. He had visible grime on his neck and hands. There were still traces of blood on his face. You – look like you could use one,” Emmett settled for.
“Hm.” Marty tugged on his collar and gave his shirt a sniff. “No – I think I’m good for another couple of days,” he said, and flashed Emmett a smile.
Emmett pressed his lips together and considered how best to go on. “Now, Marty,” he said. “I really hate to say this but if you’re going to stay in my house any longer I’m going to have to ask you to – well, to be blunt,” he gabbled. “If you’re going to stay here I’m going to need you to stop smelling like that.”
Marty sniffed his shirt again, this time with a self-conscious air. “It’s not that bad.”
“I’m very sorry, but it is,” said Emmett. “Do you want a real bath? I can sort one out for you – it’ll only take a jiffy –”
“I don’t want to be any trouble –”
“Oh, it’s no trouble.” Closing the gap between them Emmett took him by the shoulders and ushered him towards the tub. “C’mon – let’s get you cleaned up.”
A few minutes later, he listened to the very welcome sounds of water splashing on the other side of the screen he’d rigged up for Clara and nodded, satisfied. He went to his dressed and began to sort through his clothes. “I can lend you a clean shirt, if you want.”
“That’s alright,” Marty called back from the tub.
“I don’t think any of my pants are going to fit you –”
“You don’t have to give me your clothes,” said Marty. “It’s fine.”
Emmett eyed Marty’s shirt, slung over the screen, visibly streaked with sweat and blood. “Are you sure?” he said. “I really don’t mind. If you don’t mind sticking around for a while maybe we could wash your pants –”
“It’s fine,” Marty cut him off. There was a further splashing sound, as he shifted in the tub. “I guess a fresh shirt would be good.”
“I’ll get you one.” He had a good rummage. “So, what was this argument with your brother about?”
“We didn’t have an argument.” The response came very quickly. “We had a disagreement and he asked me to leave. As I said.”
“I see.” Emmett selected a shirt and an undershirt. “Can I ask what the disagreement was about?”
“You may not,” said Marty.
He tugged out a pair of his pants and considered them. Absolutely no chance, he decided. Marty didn’t stand much taller than his shoulder. “Must have been a pretty big disagreement for him to kick you out of his house.”
“He didn’t kick me,” Marty said, once again very quickly. “There was no kicking. He asked me to go. He was very polite about it.”
“Hm,” said Emmett – although in truth, based on his previous interactions with Seamus McFly it was a plausible series of events. He’d never known the man to so much as raise his voice. “Family business, I suppose.” He ambled across the room with his armful of clothes.
“Damn right it was,” said Marty.
Emmett rounded the screen. “Well, I won’t pry anymore –”
“Whoa!” He was aware of a frantic splashing. “Hey! Hey!”
Lowering the bundle of shirts that had been half-obstructing his vision he saw Marty standing up in the bath, desperately fumbling to cover himself with a towel. “What are you doing?” he said. “Get outta here!”
“I was just bringing you –” He proffered the clothes.
“You can’t just come back here!” Marty scrabbled at the towel to keep it from falling, wrapping it more securely around his chest. “What are you doing back here?”
“I’m – I’m sorry,” Emmett stammered. “I didn’t think you’d mind –”
“Well, I do!” Marty’s shoulders heaved, breathing hard, his eyes very wide. Emmett wasn’t sure, but he thought he detected an inexplicable hint of fear.
He was imagining it, he told himself. “I’ll just – put these down here.” He dropped the clothes on the chair by the tub. “And –”
“Turn around,” said Mart.
“I –”
“Turn around!”
“Alright!” He turned about face, laughing a little. “There – I’m not looking.”
“It’s not funny,” Marty said behind him.
“Oh, relax,” said Emmett. “It’s not like you’ve got anything I haven’t seen before.”
“You don’t know that!” Marty squawked. “God in heaven! Leave me alone, old man.”
“I’m gone.” He rounded the screen. “I’m – very sorry – I didn’t mean anything by it.”
“I sure hope not!” Water splashed as Marty sat back down. Emmett went to tidy up his dresser, studiously not listening to the sounds of Marty settling back in. At length, the kid said, “You didn’t see anything just now. Did you?”
“I assume by anything you mean your family jewels?” said Emmett. “I was spared the sight.”
There was an audible sigh of relief. “Good,” said Marty. “Don’t ever do that again.”
Emmett doubted very much that he’d have the opportunity. “Of course I won’t,” he said. “Relax.”
*
Given the unique circumstances, she really shouldn’t have been surprised that Marty was still there when she came back from the seamstress. He was at Emmett’s table, absolutely gulping down a bowl of oatmeal like he hadn’t eaten in a week.
Though she shouldn’t judge, she reflected, sitting down opposite him with a mug of tea. For all she knew he hadn’t. “Did they not feed you at the farm?”
“No, they did,” he said between rapid spoonfuls. “I just – like to eat.” He caught her eye and wiped self-consciously at his mouth.
Emmett wandered over to join them. “How was the seamstress?”
“I would prefer not to discuss it,” she said.
They lapsed into uneasy silence. The preferred topic of conversation would, of course, be their return trip, but that was impossible when they weren’t alone. The silence was broken by the sound of Marty’s spoon scraping around the inside of the bowl.
“Sorry,” she said at the look she gave him. He pushed the bowl aside and said, “Listen – Doc.”
“Hm?” Emmett blinked, seemingly startled at being so abruptly nicknamed.
“I really hate to ask,” said Marty. “But I don’t have anywhere to go tonight, so I was wondering if –”
“Oh – oh, of course.” Emmett slid into the seat beside her. “You can stay as long as you like.” Clara cleared her throat as pointedly as she could. “Ah, I mean –”
“I think what Emmett means to say,” she put in before he could dig himself any deeper, “is that you’re welcome to stay until tomorrow night, because that’s when he and I are leaving town.”
“Oh.” Marty looked a little disappointed. Evidently he’d been hoping to keep his free bed and meal ticket a little longer. “Tomorrow night would be wonderful,” he said. “I can find somewhere else to stay by tomorrow.”
“Do you have any friends in town you could stay with?” Clara asked – but right away, she realised she’d made a misstep. His face dropped and reaching for his mostly-empty bowl he toyed with the spoon.
“Uh – no,” he said. “No, ma’am. Sorry.”
There was an uncomfortable lull in the conversation.
“Well,” Emmett said. “I suppose that’s settled, then, isn’t it? Marty can stay here until tomorrow night, when we leave for our – business trip.”
“I like this plan.” Marty proffered the empty bowl. “Is there more of this?”
“Ah – I think there’s a little in the pot–” Emmett glanced at the stove. Clara laid an insistent hand on his arm.
“A word, please?” She shot a significant look at Marty and nodded at the forge. “Over there?”
She ushered him away from the table, to the most distant spot in the forge that she could find. “Now, Clara –” he began; but she didn’t let him finish.
“You know what they say about feeding strays, Emmett,” she hissed.
“Really, I –”
“He is not going to leave.”
“So what?” he said. “We’re only here for a few more days.”
“And if something goes wrong with your escape plan?” she said. “Then what? Are you going to let him stay here indefinitely?”
“So what if I am?” he said. “It’s my house, isn’t it? He seems like a nice young man –”
“You don’t know anything about him,” she said. “I understand not wanting to turn him out on the street. I do. I wouldn’t want to do that either. But can’t we just send him back up to the farm?”
“They threw him out,” said Emmett. “Who’s to say they won’t do it again?”
“That’s their problem,” Clara said. “Listen, I realise you feel an attachment to him due to the – you know – but he’s a stranger, Emmett, and to be blunt I don’t know if he’s trustworthy –”
There was the sound of a chair scraping across the dirt floor. “Uh,” Marty called across the room. “You know I can hear you? This place – doesn’t have walls.”
She opened her mouth to speak, but Emmett was giving her a hard look so she wisely shut it. “Yes,” he said, taking her by the arm and leading her back across the room. “Clara was being very rude. Weren’t you, Clara?”
“I – yes,” she said, a little sulkily. “That was rude of me, Marty. I’m sorry.”
Marty got out of his chair. “Listen, I know when I’m not wanted,” he said. “I can just leave –”
“No – no, you don’t have to leave –” said Emmett.
“Actually,” said Clara to him softly, “we really do need to talk business.”
“Oh.” Emmett coughed nervously. “We, ah. If you don’t myself and Clara need to have a private conversation.”
“Fine by me.” Marty grabbed his hat from the table. He headed towards the door and relieved Clara went to sit back down. “Oh – huh,” he said, most of his way to the door. “Will I see you at the town festival tonight?”
“Ah,” said Emmett. He looked to Clara.
“I don’t know,” she said. She’d only been dimly aware that any such event was happening. She didn’t have anything to wear.
Emmett looked from one of them to the other, seemingly mildly flustered. “Of course,” he said. “We’ll see you there.”
Marty smiled – a big, genuine smile as if earnestly delighted. “Alright,” he said. “I’ll see you tonight.” He tipped his hat to them, and left.
Clara waited, as the door rattled closed. She looked up at Emmett. “We’ll see him there, will we?”
“Ah, it’ll be fun.” He shuffled over to the covered DeLorean. “Don’t be so antisocial.”
“I’m not being antisocial,” she said, though in truth even if it had been at twentieth century party she’d probably have preferred to be home with a good book and her cats. “I just think perhaps we should be lying low right now.”
“Ah, c’mon,” he said. “How bad could it be?”
*
She really did not have anything to wear that was suitable for a party. She had to make a further visit to the seamstress, who directed her back to the general store owner’s wife. Lucy was roughly her height and build but rather larger in the hips and though Clara said she didn’t mind, the pair of them insisted on pinning her securely into her borrowed dress and then fussing over her hair. They were both extremely concerned as to how she’d come to be arriving in town alone, without any proper clothes or any kind of chaperone. They were highly concerned about how she meant to wear her hair.
Clara didn’t have a lot of girlfriends back in the twentieth century. She was not used to this level of fuss over her hair.
It was almost worth all the trouble and indignation and girlie talk, for the frankly bug-eyed look it got from Emmett. “You look, ah,” he said, sounding downright choked, “very nice.”
He had a way of getting all flustered around her sometimes – and that had a way of setting her heart a little fluttery – like they were a couple of teenagers or something. But of course it was Emmett who, once upon a time, had said I think we ought to keep our relationship strictly professional. She was probably reading too much into things.
Emmett gestured towards the party. “Shall we?”
“Let’s.” She took his arm, and they walked. She remembered her manners. “You look very nice too, you know.”
“Oh, I, ah,” he said. “No, I don’t.” He nodded at the refreshments table. “Punch?”
It was a beautiful evening, stars already shining overhead. They had the pleasantly surreal experience of watching the town clock start up, and had their photo taken with it. There was a band playing and people were dancing. Mostly young couples; but she spotted Lucy and her husband.
Emmett touched her lightly on the arm. “I’m going to, ah, mingle.” He nodded across the party at the mayor. “I need to –”
She didn’t get the impression that she was invited. “Oh, yes, go,” she said, waving him away. “I’ll see you later, okay?” He smiled at her breathlessly and wandered away, leaving her alone.
Alone, in the year 1885, surrounded by perfect strangers. She stood at the edge of the proceedings, her smile growing a little strained.
Then, at her elbow, a surprisingly welcome voice said, “Evening, Mrs Brown.”
It was, naturally, Marty. He was face deep in what look to be a very large slice of pie and was still wearing the shirt he’d borrowed from Emmett. She doubted very much that it was going to be returned. Well, it was no matter. They were leaving anyway.
“Good evening,” she said. “That’s Clayton.”
“Huh?” he said around the pie.
“It’s Clayton, not Brown,” she said. “Miss Clayton, as it happens.”
Chewing thoughtfully, it seemed to take him a second to cotton on to what she meant. His eyes flicked to Emmett, still talking to the mayor. “Ohh,” he said, and swallowed. “So just living in sin, huh?”
“Ex- excuse me?” She almost choked on her punch. “No – no! Christ, no we –” She breathed in, composing herself. “Myself and Emmett,” she said. “We are not – romantically involved.”
“Oh.” He stuffed more pie into his mouth. “Alright.”
He didn’t sound convinced. “We are not,” she re-iterated.
“I never said you were,” he said, though technically he had.
“We’re good friends,” she said. “I’m currently staying with him as a matter of practicality only. Back home, we – we live in separate houses.”
He chewed on his pie crust. “That’s nice, ma’am.” He didn’t go on, but she did not like his tone.
“Now, look –” she began.
It was probably for the best that they were interrupted. “Ah, there you are,” said a woman, bustling over. A curly-haired woman with a baby in her arms and a sharp Irish accent. She looked Marty up and down as if judging every aspect of his being. “I see you’ve scrubbed up.”
“Evening, Maggie,” said Marty wearily.
The woman – Maggie – bounced the baby in her arms and said, “Are you not going to introduce me to your ladyfriend?”
“Oh, I,” said Clara.
“Not my ladyfriend,” said Marty. “Uh, this is Miss Clayton. She’s a friend of the blacksmith. Miss Clayton, this is my brother’s wife.”
He didn’t sound exactly enthused. “Maggie McFly,” she said. “It’s a pleasure to meet you. I hope Marty here wasn’t bothering you.”
“Oh – not at all,” said Clara. In truth he kind of had been, but she didn’t like Maggie’s tone. Bothering her. Honestly. They’d been having a conversation.
“Well, good.” Maggie turned back to Marty. “Listen, would you hold William for a moment? I’m in need of a drink.”
“I, ah –” said Marty, but it was too late. The baby was already being pressed on him. He pulled a face, but relented.
“I’ll only be a moment, now,” said Maggie. “Don’t go dropping him on his head.”
“I’m not going to –” She was already gone. Marty pressed his lips together in exasperation. “Ah, never mind.” He raised up the baby – William, evidently – and said to him in sweet tones, “I’m not allowed in the house, but I still get baby duty, don’t I? Oh yes I do – yes I do.” William had begun to giggle and Marty lowered him with a sigh. “Ah, at least you still like me.”
A trace of that accent she’d detected in the desert was coming out again. She opted not to comment. “She seems like a very,” she said, “forceful woman.”
Marty cradled the baby closer. “She hates me.”
“Oh,” said Clara, taken aback at his forthrightness. “I’m sure that’s not true –”
“No, she does.” Bouncing the baby in his arms, Marty said to him, “Don’t go dropping him. Honestly. As if I’d ever. You my only nephew.” He dropped a kiss on the baby’s little head.
Watching him there, holding his baby nephew in his arms, a tender smile upon his face, it was impossible not to feel a jolt of – something. An emotion she couldn’t fully put a name to. The image rose up in her mind of his legs kicking helplessly as he was hanged. In another iteration of the timeline, she and Emmett hadn’t been there. In another iteration of the timeline he’d be dead now, his body still hanging from that tree or dumped out in the desert, waiting to be found by some unwary traveller.
The baby palpably adored him. Baby William was at the most formative age imaginable and with every passing second he was having experiences that history said should never have happened. In the unaltered timeline he’d have grown up with no memory of his uncle. Now he would know Marty and if the McFlys were to have more children they would too. Heck, Marty might well have children, now, who shouldn’t exist. The changes of Marty having a serious impact on history might be slim, but that none of his descendants would? Not ever?
The implications didn’t bear thinking about. She could only hope they wouldn’t arrive back in the twentieth century to find it irrevocably altered.
“You look real thoughtful.” She glanced over at Marty. He was cheerfully tolerating the baby’s attempts to tug on his left ear. “Something the matter?”
“Oh – no, no,” she said hastily. “I was just thinking about – business.”
He nodded, but she didn’t think he believed her. Fortunately Maggie was coming back over. “Here we go, now,” she said, taking the baby back and ignoring his squawk of displeasure at being removed from his favourite uncle. “You come back to Mammy, now.”
*
The band was taking a break between songs. Emmett hovered not far away, scanning the crowd for Clara. There – at the refreshment table. She looked just fine.
“Good evening, blacksmith,” said a voice at his elbow.
It was Seamus McFly. Emmett knew him only in passing; seeing him now, he was surprised he hadn’t figured out Marty’s identity straight away. The family resemblance was striking. “Oh, good evening,” said Emmett. “Nice party, isn’t it?”
“It is, so,” Seamus agreed.
He shifted on the spot, setting his hands upon his belt. Emmett nodded politely. The band was starting up again.
“I understand our Marty’s been staying with you,” said Seamus.
“Oh – yes, that’s right,” said Emmett. “He asked for a bed for the night.”
Seamus nodded. He had a stern look on his face and stepping in closer he said, “Listen. I appreciate you taking him in – I truly do – but I can’t say I’d recommend it.”
“Is that so?” said Emmett in carefully measured tones.
“He’ll sweet-talk you and then rob you blind,” said Seamus. “I’m ashamed to say it, but it’s true. I wouldn’t trust him if I were you.”
“Well,” Emmett said tersely. “He’s been no trouble so far.”
“Hm.” Seamus adjusted his stance once again. He must have picked on something of Emmett’s discomfort, for he said, “Please don’t think I don’t care for him.”
“I didn’t –”
Seamus spoke over him. “I love my brother,” he said. “I truly do. But I’ll not coddle him any longer. I told him he wasn’t to come back to my house just to ask for money. He didn’t listen.”
“Ah, I see.” So that had been the source of their disagreement. “I understand that he needed the money pretty badly.
“He could get an honest job any time he wants,” Seamus said firmly. “He’s choosing not to.”
Privately Emmett wondered if it was really as simple as that – but he shouldn’t butt his head in where he so clearly wasn’t wanted. He had, after all, known Marty only a day. if he hadn’t been planning on leaving so soon perhaps he might have offered Marty an honest job himself.
In fact, it crossed his mind, maybe he already had, on some other fourth dimensional plane.
“There you are, Seamus.” It was his wife, bustling over to join them, a baby in her arms. “Mr Brown,” she said, nodding to him.
“Doctor Brown,” he corrected automatically; though he knew he shouldn’t bother. The nuances of a doctorate that had nothing do with medicine were, frequently, lost on the residents of Hill Valley circa 1885.
“So it is,” she said brightly.
“And – who’s this?” He nodded at the baby.
“This is our William,” she said. “Will you say good evening, William? Hm?” William stuck his fingers in his mouth, and said nothing.
“A little young for that, I think,” Emmett laughed.
“Well, as I was saying,” said Seamus. “Thank you for giving him somewhere to stay, but please don’t feel obliged.”
Before Emmett could explain that he in no way felt obliged, Mrs McFly jumped in. “Oh, were you talking about our Marty?” she said. “A bother and a nuisance, frankly. Such a shame – she used to be such a sweet young girl.”
Emmett blinked, momentarily lost at the apparent wild non-sequitur. It took him a long, baffled couple of seconds to piece together what she was trying to say. In that time, Seamus cleared his throat. “Maggie,” he said softly.
“Oh – yes,” she said, though she didn’t seem especially contrite. “So it is.”
He remembered the wild look in Marty’s eyes that morning, when he’d stumbled in on him bathing. It had, in hindsight, undoubtedly been genuine fear. He remembered the frantic way he’d covered himself from the chest down. He thought, ah.
“Well – thank you for the advice, Seamus,” he said. “As it happens, myself and Miss Clayton was leaving town in a few days so this is a temporary arrangement.”
He bid them goodnight and went to find Marty.
The kid was loitering around the side shows, looking a little shifty and finishing up a slice of pie from the refreshment table. “Oh, evening, Doc,” he said, licking pie crumbs off his fingers. “Say, you gotta try this pie.”
“Later,” said Emmett. He cleared his throat. “How’s it going?”
“Can’t complain.” Marty shrugged. “There’s food. Elsie Jackson’s been giving me the eye all evening.” He looked around Emmett, setting his sight on her.
Emmett glanced at the crowd and spotted Elsie, her fair hair drawn back in thick braids, her eyes shining. She looked away. “She’s a nice girl,” he offered.
“I just want a dance,” Marty said, though Emmett hadn’t accused him of being after anything else.
He had some – questions. Questions it would probably be rude to ask. But he had to say something. If nothing else he owed Marty a proper apology for his blunder with the bath. He cleared his throat. “Listen, Marty –”
A blaring voice interrupted them. “Step right up, ladies and gentlemen!” called out one of the vendors at his sideshow. “Test your mettle with the latest product from Colonel Samuel Colt’s Patent Firearms from Hartford, Connecticut. Now, take this model –” Marty turned away from Emmett, evidently intrigued. “The new, improved, refined, Colt Peacemaker. Available to you tonight for the low price of $12 – you there, sir.”
He was pointing in their direction. “Hm?” said Emmett, startled.
“Me?” Marty gestured at his chest.
“Yeah, you there, boy.” The salesman ambled over, proffering the gun. “You wanna give it a try?”
Marty’s eyes went to the peacemaker, unimpressed. “No thanks, sir.”
“C’mon,” the salesman drawled, proffering the gun still more forcefully. “Every man needs to know how to handle a sidearm – you not man enough, sir?”
Emmett winced. Beside him Marty bristle. “Hey, I’m plenty man enough –”
“Then step right up here, son.” The salesman pressed the gun into Marty’s hands and ushered him up to the booth. With a sense of trepidation, Emmett followed. “Now, what you do,” the salesman was saying as he joined them. “Is ease that hammer back and squeeze off a round – no no, not like that.” He corrected Marty’s stance. “Right on out there. Be real smooth.”
Marty’s first shot went high. Emmett cringed. Not the kind of sideshow that would fly in the nineteen-eighties. Handing people loaded guns in the middle of a party. Honestly.
The salesman and other spectators were chuckling. Marty’s face twisted in distaste. “Listen – can I try that again?”
“Sure,” said the salesman, still laughing.
Straightening up, Marty took aim. He fired off a shot – and another – and Emmett watched, eyebrows climbing higher and higher on his face, as every one found his mark. A smirk on his face, Marty lowered the gun.
The salesman and his assorted friends had gone quiet. As Marty made to turn away, he grabbed his arm. “Where’d you learn to shoot like that, son?”
“Oh – around,” Marty breezed. He offered Emmett the gun. “You want a try?”
“Ah, no – no thank you.” Emmett held up his hands.
“You sure? You’re a good shot –”
“Really,” said Emmett. “Not for me.”
Marty shrugged and handed the gun back. “Thanks.”
“I, ah.” The salesman cleared his throat. “Don’t suppose you’re interested –”
“Sorry, sir,” said Marty. “I don’t have twelve dollars.” He turned away.
“Goodness,” said Emmett as they drifted away from the booth. “You’re one hell of a shot.”
“You aren’t so bad yourself.” Marty shot him a half-smile. “I can’t stop thinking about what you did yesterday. You just came out of nowhere.”
“I was – passing –” Emmett protested.
Marty was smiling up at him. “Like my guardian angel or something.” Emmett looked at his feet. “I should be dead right now.”
“Yes – you should,” Emmett agreed. He made the mistake of looking Marty in the eye, and at the perplexed expression on his face opted to change the subject to something safer. They were approaching Lucy from the general store; he tipped his hat to her. “Ah, good evening, ma’am.”
“Emmett,” she said by way of greeting. Then she gave Marty an absolutely filthy look and went to join her husband.
Emmett blinked, startled. He hadn’t known Lucy to be so brusque. She was whispering to her husband now, shooting them another dirty look as she did so. “What was that all about?”
Marty rubbed at the back of his neck. “She doesn’t like me.”
“What?” said Emmett. “Why not?”
“Broke all her windows,” said Marty with a sheepish grin. At Emmett’s mortified expression he added, “I was drunk,” as if that explained anything.
“Good grief,” said Emmett, which got a laugh; though Marty did seem at least a little contrite. Teenagers, he thought. Then it crossed his mind that he didn’t strictly know that. “How old are you, by the way?”
“Hm?” Marty glanced up at him. “Twenty-one,” he said smoothly. “Why?”
Emmett studied his face, not fully buying it. “No reason.”
“I know – I know, I don’t look it,” said Marty with a smirk. “Everyone’s always telling me. I’m finishing growing – I promise.”
“I don’t doubt it,” Emmett said. A little way ahead, Herman from the meat market was studying them, giving Marty a highly suspicious and unpleasant look. Emmett got Marty’s attention and nodded in his direction. “What’d you do to upset him?”
“Uh.” Marty looked from Herman to Emmett and back. “I’d rather not say,” he said with a grimace. “It involved his daughter.”
Emmett snorted. “Oh, dear.”
“She’s a very sweet girl.” Marty held up his hands. “We had a lovely time. It’s not my fault her pa didn’t like it.”
Rubbing his temple, Emmett wondered what he’d got himself into. Then he reminded himself that he wasn’t getting into anything. In a couple of days he’d be gone and in a hundred years the time machine would be dismantled.
In a hundred years, of course, Marty would be dead, regardless of his intervention. It was a sobering thought.
A sound broke through his sobering thoughts; Clara’s laugh, carrying from a nearby side show. His gaze wandered.
“She seems real nice,” Marty remarked.
“She is,” Emmett agreed absently. “We’ve been friends a long while.”
“Hm,” Marty hummed. “I thought for sure you were married.”
“What?” Emmett shot him a look. “Don’t, ah – why – of course we aren’t. Absolutely not.”
“I see.” Marty nodded, very seriously. Then he nudged Emmett and said, “You should ask her to dance.”
“Wh-what?” Emmett sputtered. “That’s – absurd – out of the question – she, she,” he drew breath, “she doesn’t want to dance with me.”
“I’ll be you good money she does,” said Marty. “She was giving you the eye earlier. I saw.” Emmett scoffed. “She was! Trust me, sir, I know what the eye looks like.”
“This is – none of your business,” said Emmett. “It’s a complicated situation. We have a professional relationship. It would be wildly inappropriate.”
Marty nodded. “I see,” he said. “Ask her anyway.”
“Shut your mouth,” Emmett hissed. “She’s coming over.”
There she was, walking over to him. She looked – he always thought Clara looked nice, even when she was in overalls with her hair pulled back and grimy hands – but still, nineteenth century apparel was a good look on her. He wondered, absently, if she liked the way he looked in his get-up and then squashed the thought back down.
“Good evening,” he said.
“Ma’am,” said Marty politely.
“Emmett,” she said. “I lost track of you for a little while there.”
“Oh, I was just – mingling – as I said.”
“Yes, you said,” she said. “Enjoying the party?”
“Oh – yes – it’s very nice,” he said. “Very, very nice.” He couldn’t think what else to say. Conversation between them was usually more – free-flowing than this. Usually they stuck to safer, more scientific topics, but still. He cleared his throat.
Marty nudged him firmly; and then to his horror said, “Uh, Miss Clayton, the Doc here was just wondering if you’d like to dance.”
Emmett gaped. “I – ah –” he stuttered; but Clara’s face had lit up in a way that made his heart positively swell, so he couldn’t exactly deny it – and it wasn’t as if he didn’t want to – “I, well,” he said. “That is, I – I only meant –” She was giving him an expectant look, still smiling, and he gave up. “Well,” he said, offering her his arm. “Would you?”
Clara’s smile, if such a thing was possible, grew still wider, and somewhat to his astonishment, she said, “Of course.”
As they stepped out together to join the dancers, his heart was in his mouth. But really, he told himself. What’s the worst that could happen?