He felt wired even though he'd only slept two or three hours before he'd gotten up and gone into work. While at the station, Ryan had learned from an irritated Ramiro that Jim Donahue was still at Cook County Hospital. Apparently the gunshot wound itself was fairly superficial but had triggered other complications.
"Apparently he's got unmanaged diabetes," Ramiro had explained with a scowl. "Makes it hard for him to heal. With our luck, the jerk'll finagle his way into staying forever in the hospital and never see the interior of a jail cell."
"You know," Ryan had said slowly, "you might be a hundred percent right about that."
"What do you mean?"
Ryan had just shaken his head, but he'd been thinking about Diamond Jack Fletcher. He'd also weakened after a gunshot wound that shouldn't have been mortal, but inevitably had been. It was possible Jim Donahue would suffer a parallel fate.
Ryan couldn't say he was sorry.
He waved at Warren from the open doorway. The driver returned the wave before he opened the sedan and Hope's dark brown boots appeared from the backseat. One of the many fascinating paradoxes about Hope was that she had no compunction about displaying her gorgeous breasts in low-cut gowns, but the idea of showing her bare legs in public absolutely scandalized her. Eve's gift of a pair of boots and several calf-length skirts quieted Hope's concerns, but Ryan still thought she might have felt more comfortable in the sexy rose-colored gown than she did wearing a "short" skirt.
He couldn't read her expression from a distance but as she neared the limestone front steps Ryan saw the exultant, blazing look in her dark eyes. She flew up the stairs and into his arms. He lifted her instinctively, laughing when she dropped several enthusiastic kisses along his neck, jaw and cheeks.
"What did I do to deserve this?" he asked.
"You're just you." Her eyes radiated joy when he set her back down on the ground. "I'm so happy, Ryan. He's so wonderful. Why didn't you tell me? Why didn't you tell me that my father's spirit exists here in this time in the body of Alistair Franklin?"
"I wanted you to be the one to decide if that were the case or not, honey. I suspected it was true, but only someone who loves him as much as you do could ever be really sure."
Her expression sobered. "He doesn't realize, you know. He knew from the secret documents that had been passed down to him from the former guardian that I was from the past. He doesn't understand about who he was, though. But it's strange . .. sometimes, the way he looked at me ... I wondered if he really did know."
Ryan nodded. "It was the same with Jim Donahue. Maybe they don't have the specific memories, but part of them knows the truth."
"Yes. I think that's true. And it's so strange . .. the patterns, the synchronicity. Alistair told me that he had a wife and daughter, and that he lost both of them in a car wreck when the girl was only ten years old. He showed me a picture of her, Ryan. She had dark hair and dark eyes. I think ... I think when he looked at me he thought of her ..." She trailed off pensively, looking a little sad. But then she rallied with her characteristic ebullience.
"When did you begin to suspect the connection between Alistair and my father?"
A brisk lake breeze blew a gleaming dark brown curl into her face. Ryan pulled her inside the house, closing the door behind them.
"When I heard him talking on the staircase that night when we were here with Mel. I remember thinking his voice sounded familiar. I pictured him holding a crowd of people enthralled with that powerful voice and thought of your father's church and the speeches he gave for political purposes. But I didn't realize until I spoke to Alistair the o
ther day it was his voice and charismatic speaking that I was recalling. He was incredibly popular among the students when he taught at the University of Chicago."
He grinned.
"What?" Hope asked.
"He made history come alive."
Hope's smile widened. It did something to him to see her literally brimming over with happiness. He grabbed her hand and pulled her into a loose embrace.
"Alistair said you were his best pupil."
Ryan rolled his eyes. "His best pupil would have gone on to become a scholar. Not a cop."
"That's not true," Hope defended hotly. "Alistair and I have discussed it and agree completely."
"Have you?" Ryan asked wryly, amused by Hope's automatic tendency to ally herself with Alistair in stating her opinions just as she used to do with Jacob Stillwater.
"Yes. Alistair says that you could have become a fine historian and an excellent lawyer, but that you have a very practical nature. He says that you possess a first-rate intellect, but that you wouldn't be happy theorizing about problems or hashing them out in a courtroom. You want to go out and deal with them firsthand, as they're occurring. I understand that perfectly, because that's how I felt about the white slavery problem in my time. My father could deal with things on the political front, but me—I just wanted to help those young women one by one. Alistair says I'd make a very good social worker and when I told him I already was, he just laughed and said I was right. What?" Hope asked, apparently noticing the intensity of his expression.
Ryan just shook his head. He saw Hope's eyes go wide in surprise just before he kissed her hard.
"Where are we going?" Hope muttered several seconds later as he carried her up the grand staircase, taking two steps at a time.
"To bed."