Time and Again

self-sufficient, seeing other people only on their monthly trips to Brookings for supplies.
    They might have continued just that way, but the sixties had become the seventies. An art dealer had discovered one of Libby's mother's wall hangings. Almost simultaneously her father had found that a certain mixture of his homegrown herbs brewed into a soothing and delicious tea. Before Libby's eighth birthday her mother had become a respected artist and her father a successful young entrepreneur. The cabin had become a vacation hideaway when the family had moved into the Portland mainstream.
    Perhaps it was Libby's own culture shock that had steered her toward anthropology. Her fascination with it, with society's structures and the effects of outside influences, had often dominated her life.
    Sometimes she nearly forgot the times she was living in with her avid quest for answers. Whenever that happened she came back here or took a few days to visit her family. That was all it took to ground her in the present.
    Starting tomorrow, she decided, if the storm was over, she would turn her computer on and get to work.
    But only for four hours a day. For the past eighteen months she had too often worked triple that.
    Everything in its time-that was what her mother had always said. Well, this time she was going to get back a little of the freedom she'd experienced during the first five years of her life.
    Peaceful. Libby let the wind rush through her hair and listened to the hammering of rain on rock and earth. Despite the storm and the rocketing thunder, she felt serene. In all her life she had never known a more peaceful spot.
    She saw the light race across the sky, and for a moment she was fooled into thinking it might be ball lightning, or perhaps a meteor. But when the sky lit up she caught a vague outline and a quick flash of metal. She stepped forward, into the rain, instinctively narrowing her eyes. As the object rushed closer, she raised her hand to her throat.
    A plane? Even as she watched, it seemed to skim the tops of the firs just to the west of the cabin. The crash echoed through the woods, leaving her frozen to the spot. Then she was running back into the cabin for her slicker and her first-aid kit.
    Moments later, with the thunder rolling overhead, she clambered into her Land Rover. She'd noted the spot where she'd seen the plane go down, and she could only hope her sense of direction was as keen as it had always been.
    It took her almost thirty minutes of fighting both the blinding storm and the rain-rutted roads and logging trails. She gritted her teeth as the Land Rover plunged through a swollen stream. She knew all too well the dangers of flash floods in the mountains. Still, she kept her speed just above the point of safety, negotiating the twists and turns as much from instinct as from memory. As it happened, she almost ran over him.
    Libby hit the brakes hard when her headlights beamed over a figure crumpled at the side of the narrow trail. The Land Rover skidded, spitting mud, before the wheels grabbed hold. Grabbing her flashlight, she scrambled out to kneel beside him.
    Alive. She felt a surge of relief when she pressed her fingers against the pulse in his throat. He was dressed all in black, and he was already soaked to the skin. Automatically she tossed the blanket she was carrying over him and began to probe for broken bones.
    He was young and lean and well muscled. As she examined him she prayed that those facts would work in his favor. Ignoring the lightning racing across the sky, she played her flashlight over his face.
    The gash on his forehead concerned her. Even in the driving rain she could see that it was bleeding badly, but the possibility of a broken back or neck made her reluctant to shift him. Moving quickly, she went back for the first-aid kit. She was applying a butterfly bandage to his wound when he opened his eyes.
    Thank God. That single thought ran through her mind as she instinctively took his hand to soothe him.
    "You're going to be all right. Don't worry. Are you alone?"
    He stared at her but saw only a vague outline. "What?"
    "Was there anyone with you? Is anyone else hurt?"
    "No." He struggled to sit up. The world spun again as he grabbed at her for support. His hands slid off her wet slicker. "I'm alone," he managed before he blacked out again.
    He had no idea just how alone.
    Libby slept in snatches most of the night. She'd been able to get him inside the cabin and as far as the