Mathew frowned. This study was going to be so traumatizing that he'd move in his sleep? "No electrodes though, you promised."
"No electrodes. Here's the last thing you need to know. It's part of the project, you see. Find a woman named Verity Arris. She's in trouble. You need to prevent her from being captured or she will be murdered."
"What?" he asked in disbelief. "What does this have to do with me dreaming?"
"It's a quantitative measurement for my research."
Mathew remembered stats from undergrad. That didn't make sense, but whatever, he was fine crashing on the couch for a night. He wasn't sure he'd sleep anyway. But tomorrow Kiko promised to help him at the police station, so this weird project was just a minor inconvenience.
"Anything else I should be aware of?"
"Be careful. Things are not as they seem. Now, close your eyes. Any queasiness is a normal part of the process."
With blackness under his eyelids and dusty cushions under his head, his stomach quivered as his uncertainty and consciousness drifted away.
Chapter Six
Astor, Wisconsin
1853
THE BUSINESS END of a shotgun pointed at her face, but Verity didn't flinch. Jonathan could be possessive and a little mad, but he always underestimated her. Plus, he'd never blown her head off before. She supposed there were many reasons he should, but only one he shouldn't. And that reason would win.
"You've undermined my authority again. You cause me more trouble than you're worth." His eyes were spears of fire, and his knuckles whitened against the stock of the shotgun. His finger wasn't on the trigger yet. "Give me one good reason I shouldn't end my troubles right now."
Love was the right answer, family a winning second, but she was feeling extra spicy.
"You'd be stuck cleaning up the mess. And with that caliber firearm—you'd be cleaning for weeks to get all the shattered bits of brain matter out of the couch and curtains, picking chunks stuck to the fibers, scrubbing with a brush over and over." She shivered for effect. "Not a job I'd volunteer for, but if that's your prerogative, go for it." Verity placed her hands on her hips in challenge.
He growled. She didn't flinch, only waited for him to lower the muzzle.
"You know what they wanted, right?" he asked.
Perez planned to extort the family, she'd heard that much, but she shook her head to learn any new information.
"You used to get around plenty. Didn't you hear about farmer Joseph Van Cleeve last year? Or Brandon O'Connell? Those men"—he nodded at the front door to indicate Perez's visitors—"are claiming to have a protection ring for the locals, but at a steep price. Van Cleeve and O'Connell plus how many others refused in Bridgeport? They were all murdered—some quietly, some publicly. Everyone knows Brandon didn't commit suicide, and Perez hung Joseph at Common Square. I refuse to be bullied by thieves or my little sister."
"What makes you so confident you can stop them from killing you, too? Joseph and Brandon were capable men."
He ground his jaw in irritation. She stared down the barrel of the shotgun and tracked his trigger finger. So far, she was safe.
Verity continued, "You aren't understanding here. If we don't pay, Jaime Perez himself will come knocking to convince you. He has every reason to, because he needs commerce to continue to make his own living. So that means he'll strong-arm you into paying. As for me, you know what will happen if he finds out I'm here. The world doesn't revolve around you and your selfish pride."
"Dad would've refused."
"Dad isn't here. Mom neither. You're supposed to be protecting all of us and blowing my head off is in direct violation of that promise." Verity struck an arm out and slapped the barrel away. She admitted her and Graham's actions stressed her big brother. But they were not Jonathan, and Jonathan wasn't Dad. She turned her back on her brother and sat at the table. The dinner she worked so hard for in the steaming heat was disappointingly cool. She tore a wedge of bread and buttered it while he trained the gun on her head again.
"Eat your food," Verity said. "Waste is unacceptable. Then find those men and agree to pay before Jaime shows up."
Jonathan roared in anger, knowing she was right. His finger found the trigger and squeezed. The bang echoed through the house. Hogs squealed in fear. Verity winced from the pain in her eardrums. He shot through the open kitchen window and across the cornfields.
She stood from her meal, and her chair scraped against the floor. Verity marched up to her brother, yanked the gun from his hands, and pointed it at him with the stock pressed snug against her shoulder.
"I don't have to aim at this distance. Now listen to me. I'm done playing little child with you. I'm a grown woman, and I'm not stupid. I don't want Perez or his men crawling all over this place any more than you do. A simple payment each week is the lesser of two evils here until you can figure out some grander plan to stop him. Sit down and eat. Then get moving."
"Next time someone comes knocking, you hide like we agreed and don't come out. Understand?" His finger pointed at her face. She wanted to shoot it off, but then he'd be less productive in the field.
"I do what's best for all of us," Verity said. "You think you can protect this farm? I just stole the shotgun from your hands. What kind of protector are you?"
And…that was one too many of his buttons. In a guttural rage, Jonathan lunged for the shotgun. She threw it across the room, and it clattered to the hardwood floor. He'd have to reload it, anyway. She dashed to the back door before he had a chance to do something he regretted. She wished he weren't such a stubborn ass. The screen door banged against the frame, and she jogged down the wooden steps, heading for the field workers. They would sing for her until Jonathan cooled off. She'd even help them to pass the time.
Chapter Seven
Astor, Wisconsin
1853
MATHEW'S STOMACH stopped quivering. What a weird sensation. He didn't remember dreaming at all. Guess he screwed up that experiment. Mathew opened his eyes, and straight ahead, clouds broke the afternoon rays of light. Um, where was his ceiling? Mathew craned his neck around and found himself in a corn field, knee-high plants in neat rows spanning all the way to the forest's edge. To the north stood a two-story farmhouse with shutters, either painted brown or just unpainted. So, he must be in the dream. He didn't remember falling asleep, either, which would've been difficult with an intimidating woman staring at him. Exhaustion must've pulled him down. A vacation sounded great.
Mathew stood and brushed the debris off his gray dress pants and striped button-up shirt and ignored his black dress shoes. They would get dirty again before he got out of the dusty field. Besides, he was dreaming anyway. When he woke, he'd be clean—well, dusty from his old couch, but cleaner.
He marched through the rows, passing workers, who were singing ethnic songs, and nearing the source of manure. The telltale hog oinks came from a pen, and a small narrow barn with a smokestack—perhaps a toolshed—leaned next to it. The July heat burned the back of his neck and sweat beads formed. He rolled up his sleeves, exposing his forearms, and unfastened the top two buttons at his throat.