In Another Time

  Copyright © 2017 Cate Buchanan

  Digital Edition: November 2017

  Editors: HB Inc.

  Cover image licensed by Shutterstock

  Cover Photo design by Jada D’Lee Designs

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without the written permission of the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review. This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locations is entirely coincidental. All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior express, written consent of the author

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Epilogue

  Prologue

  July 25, 1943

  The headsets crackled, “Man down! Waist gunner down! Left waist gunner has been hit!”

  After alerting the ten-man crew aboard the B-17F Flying Fortress, the right waist gunner threw off his headset and rushed over to the crumpled body of his crewmate. He pressed his right hand firmly against his shrapnel-pierced neck until he could reach the emergency bag and apply pressure bandages to the gaping holes. Gathering him in his arms, he yelled, “Kid! Stay with me, kid! You’re going to be okay. Look at me! I’ve got you!”

  After the first hail of enemy flak had sent hot chunks of sharp metal raining through the left lateral opening where the left waist gunner was positioned, he’d collapsed on the catwalk of the B-17F. The co-pilot left his place in the cockpit and hurtled over both men. Tossing the medical kit, he grabbed the 50-caliber left waist gun and took up where the downed soldier had left off. Frantically tugging at the blood-doused dog tags that were threatening to insinuate themselves inside the gaping wounds of his comrade’s neck, the right waist gunner roughly threw them around his own neck then adjusted the bandages over the crimson wounds. Their B-17F Flying Fortress bomber’s far right engine received more flak from a German 109 G6 fighter plane and their plane rocked turbulently over the skies of the Blohm and Voss shipyard in Hamburg, Germany, as the number four engine sputtered then died.

  They’d just gotten their bombs away over the target when a round from the ground-based anti-aircraft guns made contact with the now thrashing tailfin that was literally dangling by the threads of snaky wires and cables. It banged and clanged against the starboard and port tailplanes. The downed gunner coughed on the churning, black smoke and dust. Trying to speak, although his mouth worked, only popping noises came from his dry, flaccid lips. He’d been gripping the pocket of his co-gunner’s fatigues so intensely, but then his eyes fluttered and rolled back in his head, his hand dropped like a sack of potatoes and his body went limp.

  “NO! NO! buddy, stay with me!” The soldier shook the inert body of his crew member as the plane was assaulted by another clattering blast of ground fire. Regaining his balance after the plane leveled, the gunner dipped his head and rested his ear against the gently rising and falling chest of his fellow gunner. He felt faint vibrations of a beating heart.

  “That’s it, buddy! Fight! Stay with me! We’re going to get you to the hospital,” the loyal crewmate promised as he numbly cradled the gunner in his arms and rocked. Squinting through the dusty, smoke-filled fuselage, he followed the pattern of sunlight glinting through the holes that had penetrated the entire left side of the fuselage. As the sounds of the strafing grew fainter, he knew they’d left formation and were flying back to the English Channel. The tailfin whacked into the starboard tailplane one last time before it detached with a thwack. The plane shuddered and propelled their huddled bodies forward. Trying to acclimate to flying without the tailfin, the plane lurched savagely thrusting the right waist gunner through the air like a rag doll. He squeezed his eyes shut defensively. As he whomped into the side of the fuselage in a head first hammering blow, he felt a sharp pain, saw shooting sparks against his eyelids, and then nothingness.

  Chapter 1

  Monday Evening, October 1988

  Sam Evanston was disgusted with himself. He’d been looking forward to this day for months, dreaming about reuniting with Lillian, his true love. But a few minutes before, as he’d been enjoying a leisurely nostalgic walk around Harmony Glen’s town square and surrounding neighborhoods, he’d suddenly been gripped by fear and doubt, lost his nerve, and scurried back to the inn like a dog with tucked tail.

  Upon reaching his room, he’d yanked off his scarf, shrugged out of his jacket, and slunk despairingly into the bedside chair, recalling the circumstances that had led him to this point in time.

  It’d been a gray, drizzly, late February day in northern California when he’d thought, What the heck? It’s worth a shot. Reaching for the phone, he’d lifted the handset off the receiver, dialed 0, and asked the operator to connect him to information. After two tries, the operator connected him to the electronic recording that gave him the number in King’s Landing for Willie Carter, his childhood friend. Boy, had Willie been surprised to get his call! Being out of touch for nearly forty-five years had certainly given Willie pause. So, of course, it’d taken copious amounts of convincing on Sam’s part before Willie had accepted that he was actually who he said he was. During their conversation, Sam had learned that at one time Lillian had owned a bookstore in Harmony Glen.

  Two weeks later Sam had received a call from Chris Jennings, his parents’ attorney. Both calls had led to the perfect excuse for Sam to show up today at Lillian’s bookstore in Harmony Glen, New York. That is, before he chickened out.

  Now, as he hid out in his rented room, chiding himself for being such a coward, he thought maybe he shouldn’t have come. He felt like an old fool. He felt like throwing up. It would have been easy enough to handle his family’s affairs through the mail and over the phone, but he’d eagerly agreed to meet with Mr. Jennings, the attorney, because he’d wanted more than anything to revisit his past. The past he’d lost all memory of until the accident.

  A little over a year before on his family’s Christmas tree farm when the jammed tree baler had slipped a gear and shot a tree squarely at a spot just above his left temple, the memories of the life he’d lived before being injured in World War II had all come rushing back. Memories from another life.

  His other life.

  Knocked out for just a few seconds, he’d teetered in and out of consciousness.


  “Sa-!“ He’d heard as if someone was calling to him from the depths of a well. Then nothing. “Sa-!” This time it was closer, but the horrible roaring noise that accompanied it pushed him back into the void. Finally, summoning all his strength, he’d squeezed his eyes tightly and gingerly touched his aching temple as he focused on the frantically uttered words that felt like daggers shooting through his ears. “Are you okay? Boss? Boss? Can you hear me?”

  “Yes. I can hear you. Please…quit yelling at me and turn off that obnoxious engine,” he’d moaned in response.

  “Oh, thank God. I thought we’d lost you,” Jeremy said and blew out a breath. “Man, you gave us quite a scare. Do you think you can sit up? Here, let me help you.” He clasped Sam’s upper arm, helping him as he struggled to a sitting position. Sam meekly opened his eyes, then scanning the worried faces of the men gathered around him, he frowned. He was on the tree farm, not in a B-17 flying over Hamburg, Germany?

  “What the—?” his strangled words broke off as he squinted his eyes shut and shook his head in confusion. Grimacing from the pain of moving his head, he groaned then rested his chin on his chest. Jeremy knelt beside him and grasped his shoulders to steady him.

  “Alex, get Donald on the radio and tell him to get over here. Robbie, go to the office and call 9-1-1!” Jeremy barked.

  “No, no, don’t call 9-1-1,” Sam implored. “I’m okay. Just let me sit here for a couple of minutes. I’m not bleeding, right?” he asked as he pressed lightly on his temple.

  “No, you’re not bleeding, but you took quite a smack to the head,” Jeremy replied as he gently swiveled Sam’s head to inspect his temple. “It’s a pretty angry looking welt.” Then, glancing at Robbie who stood staring in disbelief at the two men, he snarled, “Robbie, I said call 9-1-1. Now!”

  Fixing his bewildered gaze on Jeremy, Sam saw Robbie snap out of his stupor and yell, “On it, boss!” Scrambling behind the steering wheel of the four-wheeler, he’d gunned the engine and flew off in the direction of the office making Sam groan and cover his ears.

  Recalling the big to-do over his accident, Sam now shuddered.

  The after-effect of this head injury was so different from the one he’d experienced forty-five years earlier. The first one had caused him to lose all of his memories. In essence, his entire life. This time he’d felt like a psychic, a reincarnate, a voyeur. If it was possible, he’d felt even more confused and disoriented than he had after his first head injury because the regenerated memories that rushed at him were frightening, overwhelming and exhausting.

  At first, he’d thought he was hallucinating. The visions that maniacally assaulted his sensibilities he described to the doctors as frenzied, blurry clips from a movie he’d never seen before: disjointed, static, and confusing. They made no sense, and they scared him. Then slowly as their clarity and duration were heightened, they began to feel strangely familiar, and he discovered that he was able to assign names to the faces and places he was seeing. Gradually, it dawned on him that the visions were his memories. Memories from a past life. A past life that had been locked away for almost half a century.

  Sam’s doctors were stupefied, saying they’d never encountered a case the likes of his. Sure, people had suffered from temporary memory loss or even longer bouts of amnesia as a result of head injuries. But there were no records of anyone who’d had such a complete and enduring memory loss such as his. He was a scientific anomaly, an oddity. A weirdo. At least that’s how he’d felt after enduring weeks of tests and sessions with doctors. CT scans, EEG topographies, numerous, monotonous discussions with a neurologist and a psychiatrist, and still, no explanation for the miraculous recovery of the latent memories of his past life.

  From his newly recovered memories, he discovered that he’d lived another life in another time, and Lillian had been the most important thing in that life. Seeing her again had absorbed him. Since the visions had become crystal clear, every thought, every conversation, every waking minute ended in visions of Lillian, the love of his life.

  But now, here he was, a grown man, on the verge of coming face-to-face with her and he was the equivalent of a scared little boy. Scared that the countless hours he’d spent fantasizing about spending an idyllic future with her would not be amenable to her. Afraid that she’d forgotten him. Worse still, fearful that she hadn’t forgiven him.

  Before Jeanette, his wife of nearly forty-forty years at the time, had revealed the whole truth about the life they’d built together, his reawakened feelings for Lillian had caused him profound feelings of guilt. Because when Jeanette confessed to her part in deceiving him so many years ago, she was barely clinging to life. The cancer that eventually consumed her was in its final stage. But she’d confessed that because of her desperation, she’d made the choice to deceive him, and everyone else for that matter, and had ultimately altered all of their lives forever. Her decision, that one split-second, desperate, heartrending decision, had led to what he now bitingly referred to as his counterfeit life.

  Sitting there, on the corner of the bed in his rented room, scrubbing his hands up and down his face, he had to make a decision. In the mirror, his reflection mocked him. Coward, old fool. It was almost six o’clock and Lillian would be closing the bookstore in a few minutes. He was running out of time. If he was going to catch her, he had to go.

  Now.

  Chapter 2

  Monday Afternoon

  As he’d approached the small hamlet of Harmony Glen, Sam had noticed that there were quite a few new areas that’d developed during his long absence. On the outskirts, just off the highway, he’d passed chain stores and strip malls that were characteristic of the time. Two new car dealerships: Bollinger Cadillac/Chevrolet/GMC and Flanders Toyota joined the old Wilson Ford house. Several fast food chains were scattered among the cluster of inevitable mini-mart gas stations.

  The sentimental side of him had hoped the town would be the same as he’d remembered it. Of course, he knew it was pure folly. As with all things, society’s desire to alter structures until their past appeal was no longer recognizable, had infected the once quaint, desirable vacation spot, too.

  He’d come to that realization that morning soon after renting a car in Albany International Airport. Upon reaching the edge of his old stomping grounds, King’s Landing, he’d quickly realized he barely knew his way around the town any longer. It was shocking how much it’d grown and changed since his childhood; it was at least twice the size it’d been in the 1940’s. Of course, he’d reminded himself, it was silly of him to expect it to have remained unchanged. It had been over forty-five years since he’d last seen it.

  Recalling all the street names of the town as he drove, he thought that even as a boy he’d found it amusing that all the streets in town had royal names—Duke Avenue, Duchess Lane, Earl Boulevard, Prince Street—because nothing about the place remotely suggested royalty. At best, it was a blue-collar to middle-class working community. Except for the few professionals in town, most of its citizens could claim no more than a high school diploma.

  His biggest surprise came when he’d turned the corner onto Noble Road and saw his childhood home. The house looked so small. There was nothing noble about it. He’d never thought of it as a huge house, but now it looked tiny especially when compared to the new homes being built down the street.

  So far, his trip down memory lane had done nothing to sustain his sentimentalism, so finding his way back to the highway, he’d headed toward Harmony Glen.

  The first thing he’d done upon arriving inside the city limits of Harmony Glen was search for The Harmony Inn on Chestnut Street. Driving through the town he’d visited so often during his high school days, he’d been fairly confident that he could locate the inn from memory alone, but written directions were on the seat beside him, just in case. Luckily, his memory hadn’t failed him. Once inside the town proper, he’d driven directly to the inn and pulled the car under the stately porte-cochere. Shutting off the engine, he exited t
he rental and massaged his lower back while stretching his legs.

  “Well, this looks pretty much the same,” he’d said appreciatively as he surveyed the familiar structure that had originally been the residence of a prominent surgeon. The stone and brick exterior seemed to have held up nicely. It’d certainly been spiffed up some, but its authenticity was intact.

  Grabbing his bags from the backseat, he’d headed toward the inn’s massive entry. Inside the grand foyer, it was obvious that a lot of love and attention to detail had been used when restoring the old place. The furnishings and decor bolstered the nostalgic feel of his trip which had him smiling.

  Approaching the friendly looking gentleman behind the front desk, he’d settled his bags on the floor then nodding, said, “Good afternoon. My name is Sam Evanston. I have a reservation.”

  “Good afternoon, Mr. Evanston. Welcome to The Harmony Inn. We’re pleased that you’ve chosen to stay with us. I trust you had a pleasant trip?” The receptionist replied warmly as he pulled paperwork from the drawer on his right.

  “Yes, it was very pleasant. Thank you,” Sam acknowledged. “When I booked the reservation, I spoke with someone on the phone and explained that I wasn’t certain how long I’d be staying in town.”

  “Ah, yes. I remember our conversation.” The man smiled and nodded. Extending his right hand, he’d said, “I’m the owner, Joshua Reynolds. After we spoke I placed your reservation under an open booking. All we ask is that you let us know at least a day in advance of your departure.” Sam shook his proffered hand and nodded his agreement with the arrangements. After signing the reservation form, he accepted the room key Joshua handed to him. “Your room is up the stairs, first door on the right. If you’ll leave your car keys with me, I’ll move your car to the parking lot in the back then bring your key up to your room. Is there any more luggage in the car I can bring up for you?”