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against his solid one. “Shh, don't cry. It's going to be all right."
    "No, it's not.” She lifted her face to peer at him. Tear drops glistened in the sun. “I'm pregnant,” she whispered. “I can't have a baby in eighteen-eighty-two. Women die during childbirth in this century."
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Chapter Three
    If his solid arms hadn't been holding her, she would have collapsed to the ground. Her trembling knees knocked harder than a Jehovah's Witness with a station wagon full of Watchtower flyers to distribute. The beat of her heart pounded in her ears. Lila wrapped both arms around his tall, brawny body, holding on for dear life. High school history lessons, long lost in the caverns of her brain, leaped forward. More pioneer women lost their lives during childbirth than anything else. Not Indian raids, not diseases, not accidents, snake bites, gun shots...
    She twisted her face, knowing her tears were soaking the front of his shirt. His hand, firm, yet gentle, ran over her hair, pressed her cheek back in place. “Shh, don't cry.” He settled his chin on the top of her head. “It'll be all right. I promise."
    It was as if he was a tall oak, and she a little sprig, sprouting near its roots, protected by an encompassing shelter. Her emotional breakdown began to ease. Feeling a tad foolish for falling completely apart in front of such a wonderful man, she took a deep breath, and eased her grasp on his waist. His hands slipped to her hips, the hold soft and reassuring.
    Unable to meet his gaze yet, she wiped away tear residue with both hands. Glancing down she realized her hands were quite grubby from crawling through the tunnel. Fearful dark streaks covered her face she rubbed the backs of her hands across her cheeks.
    "Come on.” His hold tugged at one of her hips as he twisted about.
    Head down, she fell into step beside him, and they walked toward the cave. One of his strong arms remained wrapped around her waist. The cooler air inside the cavern was a needed relief. Her shoulders drooped in acceptance. With a gentle but reassuring squeeze, he left her side, and she snuck a peek as he walked toward the fire pit.
    Skeeter Quinter was the picture of an ultimate man. Not modern-day, fitness-club built, but naturally formed into a body so perfect Hercules would be jealous. Broad, bulky shoulders looked as if they could easily carry the load of the world. Lean hips swaggered as he walked with an old west flare, yet, he stood straight and tall.
    And his charismatic face—she pressed a hand to the rapid thud behind her breast bone. His five o'clock shadow would make any woman swoon, and his bedroom eyes... There isn't an actor out there whose lashes could match his, and the way his hazel-green eyes twinkled she wondered if they were flecked with real gold.
    Lila closed her eyes, trying to gain some resemblance of control. How could she be agog over her rescuer, when his rescue had sent her a hundred and twenty-six years in the past? Her lids snapped open, and her gaze floated about the cave. Was it all a ruse?
    There wasn't a modern trinket in sight.
    "Here.” Skeeter set a wooden bucket down near her feet. “It's fresh water. There's a natural spring in the back of the cave.” He tugged her elbow, forcing her to turn his way. A small square cloth dangled from his fingers.
    "Thank you.” She took the washcloth, dipped it in the water. “Maybe the tunnel didn't cave all the way in.” Wringing the water from the cloth, she added, “Maybe it only caved in in the future, but not in the past."
    He looked at her, his gaze sad.
    She pressed the cloth to her face.
    His hand brushed her shoulder. “You wash up, I'll go check."
    The material, though wet, absorbed the tears slipping out of her eyes. She pressed the cloth harder against her face, trying to force any more from flowing. It was all too much. There was no way she could live in the past. She was a child of the twenty-first century. A millennial.
    When