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Page 290
She had to rest, yet she had insisted on talking to him. On assuring herself that her prediction of raiders had made him believe in her incredible tale of coming from the future.
Foolish woman! Brave, yes. And beautiful, and strong, and unique. Lovable.
He snorted aloud. He was the one who was foolish.
For despite all his self-admonishments, he did love her.
Worse, his brain must be addled, for he wished he could give credence to her strange claims. Perhaps he could comfort her with his conviction.
But how could he accept that she had come from the future? If anything, he would find it easier to believe she had read a play that
That was it! The play! If there were such a thing, would she not have it among her belongings? He strode toward her room, intent on doing something to keep him from dwelling on his fear for Mariah.
His fear that she would die.
Inside the stable, the sole horse was the roan that belonged to Ambrose. He would need to replace the others, which the Indians had loosed. Was his friend Ambrose truly alive somewhere?
After passing the horse stalls, he entered Mariah's small chamber. Inside, he closed his eyes in pain. The clothes tree held garments he recognized from her wearing of them. The aroma Mariah had assumed since arriving there hung in the air: the sweetness of baking bread mixed with a touch of candle wax and the tang of burning wood. He inhaled it, drinking it in. "Mariah," he whispered into her empty room. "You must get well."
He gave his head a mighty shake. No time for such sentimentality. He had undertaken a mission.
Where might she have hidden the play?
The room was small and sparsely furnished. It contained few places for concealment.
He looked beneath the chipped washbasin upon the small table. Not there. He knelt on the hard wooden floor. It was spotless. He smiled wistfully, imagining Mariah here, scrub-

 
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