Time and Again

absurd to believe that, almost as absurd as it was to believe the date in the book.
    "Maybe I'm losing my mind."
    "No." Her fear forgotten, she lifted her free hand to his face, soothing him as she would have anyone who seemed so utterly lost. "You're hurt."
    He closed surprisingly strong fingers over her wrist. "Jolted the memory banks? Yeah, maybe. Libby-"
    His eyes were suddenly intense, almost desperate. "What's the date today?"
    "It's May the 24th or 25th. I lose track."
    "No, the whole thing." He fought to keep the urgency out of his voice. "Please."
    "Okay, it's probably Tuesday, the 25th." Then she repeated the year. "How's that?"
    "Fine." He pulled out every ounce of control and managed to smile at her. One of them was crazy, and he dearly hoped it was Libby. "You got anything to drink around here besides that tea?"
    She frowned for a moment. Then her face cleared. "Brandy. There's always some downstairs. Hold on a minute."
    "Yeah, thanks."
    He waited until he heard her moving down the stairs. Then, cautiously, he rose and pulled open the first drawer that came to hand. There had to be something in this ridiculous place to tell him what was going on.
    He found lingerie, neatly stacked despite the chaos of the rest of the room. He frowned a moment over the styles and materials. She'd said she wasn't matched, yet it was obvious that she wore things to please a man. Apparently she preferred the romance of past eras even when it came to her underwear. Far from comfortable with the ease with which he could picture Libby in this little chocolate-brown swatch with the white lace, he shoved the drawer shut again.
    The next drawer was just as tidy and held jeans and sturdy hiking pants. He puzzled for a moment over a zipper, ran it slowly up and down, then shoved the jeans back into place. Annoyed, he turned and started toward her desk, where her computer continued to hum. He had time to think it was a noisy, archaic machine before he stumbled over the pile of newspapers. He didn't scan the headlines or study the picture. His eyes were drawn to the date.
    He was unarguably in the twentieth century.
    His stomach clenched. Ignoring the sudden buzzing in his ears, he bent to snatch up the paper. Words danced in front of his eyes. Something about arms talks-nuclear arms, he noted with a kind of dull horror-and hail damage in the Midwest. There was a tease about the Mariners trouncing the Braves.
    Very slowly, knowing his legs would give out in a moment, he lowered himself back into the chair.
    It was too bad, he thought dully. It was too damn bad, but it wasn't Libby Stone who was going crazy.
    "Caleb?" The moment she saw his face, Libby rushed into the room with brandy sloshing in a snifter.
    "You're white as a sheet."
    "It's nothing." He had to be careful now, very careful. "I guess I stood up too fast."
    "I think you really could use some of this." She held the snifter until she was certain he had both hands on it. "Take it slow," she began, but he'd already drained it. Sitting back on her heels, she frowned at him.
    "That should cure you or knock you out again."
    The brandy was the genuine article and no hallucination, he decided. It was velvet fire coursing down his throat. He closed his eyes and let the fire spread. "I'm still a little disoriented. How long have I been here?"
    "Since last night." The color was coming back, she noted. His voice sounded calmer, more controlled. It wasn't until her muscles relaxed that she realized how tightly they'd been tensed. "I guess I saw you crash about midnight."
    "You saw it?"
    "Well, I saw the lights and heard you hit." She smiled, continuing to monitor his pulse, when he opened his eyes again. "For a minute I thought I was seeing a meteor or a UFO or something."
    "A-a UFO?" he repeated, dazed.
    "Not that I believe in extraterrestrials or spaceships or anything, but my father's always been fascinated by that kind of thing. I realized it was a plane." He was staring at her again, she thought, but there was curiosity rather than anger in his eyes. "Feeling better?"
    He couldn't have begun to tell her how and what he was feeling. Cal had an idea that that was all for the best. He needed to think before he said too much. "Some." Still hoping it was all some bizarre mistake, he rattled the paper in his hand. "Where'd you get this?"
    "I drove into Brookings a couple of days ago. That's about seventy miles from here. I picked up supplies and a few newspapers." She glanced absently