Read Online Ricochet Through Time (Echo Trilogy Book 3) by Lindsey Fairleigh - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Lindsey Fairleigh
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climbing among the dense trees. Before them, a massive wooden longhouse stretched along the top of the beach. I had to be looking at the Port Madison Indian Reservation, a Squamish settlement so unobtrusive in this time that it was barely visible from across the Agate Passage.
I stopped and stared out across the water, dumbfounded. So far as I could tell, I’d landed exactly where I’d been on the northwest tip of Bainbridge Island, just a hundred and fifty years in the past. I’d walked this beach dozens of times. I’d been closer to home than I’d thought; I’d been right on top of it.
“My canoe’s just there, around the bend,” Tex said, pointing down the beach. “There’s a feller who sometimes trades at Port Madison—calls himself the Collector. He makes his rounds out here, going from reservation to reservation, trackin’ people who come out here to get lost. He ain’t no Indian, but he’s darn near as good as one when it comes to trackin’, and he keeps his ear to the ground where civilized affairs is concerned. Makes a good deal of money off huntin’ people, I reckon he does.” Tex glanced at me over his shoulder. “Might be worth asking around about him. And iffen he’s in the area, it might be worth tracking him down to see if he’s willin’ to help you find your Egyptian . . . for the right price, of course.”
“Of course,” I said, taking a deep breath and letting it out slowly. I would allow myself a full freak-out later. I could ugly-cry and hyperventilate for days. Once I found Marcus. I just had to stuff my panic and fear and terror and worry somewhere deep inside me until then.
Picking up my foot, I jogged after Tex, thinking how lucky I’d been that our paths crossed.
7
Honey & Vinegar
“You just wait here, Miss Larson.” Tex climbed out of the canoe and dragged it up onto the rocky shore, me still in it. “I’ll ask around about the Collector. He don’t linger much when he passes through, so if he’s in the area, you ain’t got time to waste dillydallyin’ around here.”
I nodded absently as I stared around at historic Port Madison. Technically, I specialized in “Old World” archaeology, mostly studying those ancient civilizations bordering the Mediterranean Sea, but that didn’t decrease my interest in this slice of “New World” history. I’d known almost as much as there was to know about ancient Egypt when I’d traveled back to that time; comparatively, I knew next to nothing about the history of the peoples native to my beloved Pacific Northwest, beyond what I’d leaned in my single PNW archaeology course. I was both humbled and mortified by my ignorance.
“Just wait here,” Tex repeated. “I’ll return momentarily.”
I watched him walk away, heading straight for the enormous longhouse up shore, then sort of climb-fell out of the canoe. This “Collector” guy might’ve been my best bet for finding Marcus in the here and now, but he sure as hell wasn’t my only option.
I watched Tex disappear through the longhouse’s left-most door as I climbed the beach, heading toward the myriad of tents and wooden structures erected all around it, most covered with woven mats made from some plant fiber that reminded me of the reed mats that were everywhere in ancient Men-Nefer. I wondered what they used—some sort of bark? Or dried cattail, maybe? This village felt just as ancient as Men-Nefer; the absence of modern technology was just as glaring, the noises just as pure, devoid of the hum of motors and the buzz of electricity. And the people were just as busy, bustling around, carrying out daily tasks.
They wore an unexpected combination of Western and Native clothing—long cotton dresses or skirts with high-collared white blouses for the women and woolen trousers with white button-down shirts and suspenders or vests for the men, all accessorized on varying levels with woven belts, pouch purses, or shawls. Most of the men wore Western-style
I stopped and stared out across the water, dumbfounded. So far as I could tell, I’d landed exactly where I’d been on the northwest tip of Bainbridge Island, just a hundred and fifty years in the past. I’d walked this beach dozens of times. I’d been closer to home than I’d thought; I’d been right on top of it.
“My canoe’s just there, around the bend,” Tex said, pointing down the beach. “There’s a feller who sometimes trades at Port Madison—calls himself the Collector. He makes his rounds out here, going from reservation to reservation, trackin’ people who come out here to get lost. He ain’t no Indian, but he’s darn near as good as one when it comes to trackin’, and he keeps his ear to the ground where civilized affairs is concerned. Makes a good deal of money off huntin’ people, I reckon he does.” Tex glanced at me over his shoulder. “Might be worth asking around about him. And iffen he’s in the area, it might be worth tracking him down to see if he’s willin’ to help you find your Egyptian . . . for the right price, of course.”
“Of course,” I said, taking a deep breath and letting it out slowly. I would allow myself a full freak-out later. I could ugly-cry and hyperventilate for days. Once I found Marcus. I just had to stuff my panic and fear and terror and worry somewhere deep inside me until then.
Picking up my foot, I jogged after Tex, thinking how lucky I’d been that our paths crossed.
7
Honey & Vinegar
“You just wait here, Miss Larson.” Tex climbed out of the canoe and dragged it up onto the rocky shore, me still in it. “I’ll ask around about the Collector. He don’t linger much when he passes through, so if he’s in the area, you ain’t got time to waste dillydallyin’ around here.”
I nodded absently as I stared around at historic Port Madison. Technically, I specialized in “Old World” archaeology, mostly studying those ancient civilizations bordering the Mediterranean Sea, but that didn’t decrease my interest in this slice of “New World” history. I’d known almost as much as there was to know about ancient Egypt when I’d traveled back to that time; comparatively, I knew next to nothing about the history of the peoples native to my beloved Pacific Northwest, beyond what I’d leaned in my single PNW archaeology course. I was both humbled and mortified by my ignorance.
“Just wait here,” Tex repeated. “I’ll return momentarily.”
I watched him walk away, heading straight for the enormous longhouse up shore, then sort of climb-fell out of the canoe. This “Collector” guy might’ve been my best bet for finding Marcus in the here and now, but he sure as hell wasn’t my only option.
I watched Tex disappear through the longhouse’s left-most door as I climbed the beach, heading toward the myriad of tents and wooden structures erected all around it, most covered with woven mats made from some plant fiber that reminded me of the reed mats that were everywhere in ancient Men-Nefer. I wondered what they used—some sort of bark? Or dried cattail, maybe? This village felt just as ancient as Men-Nefer; the absence of modern technology was just as glaring, the noises just as pure, devoid of the hum of motors and the buzz of electricity. And the people were just as busy, bustling around, carrying out daily tasks.
They wore an unexpected combination of Western and Native clothing—long cotton dresses or skirts with high-collared white blouses for the women and woolen trousers with white button-down shirts and suspenders or vests for the men, all accessorized on varying levels with woven belts, pouch purses, or shawls. Most of the men wore Western-style
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