OverTime 03: Slipping (First 70 Chapters)

Chapter 37: Hashtag Fort Laramie (Lillabit) - WARNING - Language

Dearest Lil (read my letter).

You did it! You made it as far as Fort Laramie, or you wouldn't be reading this. Woo hoo! Go Lil! Go Lil! (Imagine me dancing here).

I could imagine it very well. A willowy blond from California, Maddie was the kind of person who'd either been a cheerleader or studied interpretive dance... or possibly both.

So guess what Ted and I did? Never mind, you'll never guess. We hopped a fucking train to fucking Omaha, which is half a day away via Union Pacific and a big city (considering), and we shopped 'til we dropped. The result? Behold this care package of epic proportions! We wrapped most of the items individually, so if you want to spread out the fun you can, and we tried to label the pieces that are NSFW--or, ya' know, for husbands--so you can hide them.

You are still insane. You get that, right? But you're insane for love, and that's what matters. BTW, when we get home, we're so selling the movie rights. ;-)

I hope the honeymoon is everything you want it to be and more, wink wink nudge nudge. And OMFG I miss you! So, so much. How is that possible, after knowing you only a week? Maybe you meet people during the Big Moments of your life and they imprint on you or something.

"Or something," I whispered down at the letter. I could practically hear her husky voice, and see her wide smile. For a moment, her written words blurred and I had to blink back tears.

Then I laughed, a wet gulp of a laugh, because she'd written:

Unless you're saying to yourself, 'Who is this Maddie person again?' in which case, screw you J JK, I know you miss me too.

Speaking of which, you do know that Fort Laramie has a telegraph, right? Of course you do! Get thy butt to the fort proper and send for us and we'll rush to town so we can do some Old West IM'ing, 'kay?

I closed my eyes, and felt some of my worst fears ease from my shoulders. They really were waiting for my telegrams. They really meant to cable back.

Mitch has given up on us trying to get us home until we hear from you, because I told him no way am I leaving this time zone without knowing that you at least made Wyoming and aren't suffering any kind of buyer's remorse. If you are, there's a stagecoach that connects Fort Laramie to Cheyenne, and Cheyenne is hardly half a day by train from Julesburg. Come back to us, and we'll have the best runaway bride story evah!

In the meantime, this is as good a reason as any for us still not having managed to slip, right? Between you and me, I'm a little worried that maybe we've anchored here too well, and can't get home at all! Can you imagine the three of us being stuck here for good?! On the bright side, that would mean I get to see you again. But as much as I love you, Lil, I love electricity, equal rights, and Ben & Jerry's ice cream more.

Because Mitch wants us home before winter and is pushing us to meditate harder (counterproductive, much?) we've arranged another surprise that didn't fit in your care package. The O'Malleys shipped the piano as far as Cheyenne, where it's being held at (and used by) the Inter-Ocean Hotel. Our deal is, if you don't pick it up within a year, they get to keep it. Your proof of claim is with this letter.

I checked--sure enough, there was a kind of long-form receipt signed by someone named Barney. Behind that I found pages of legal-looking paperwork also granting me ownership of--holy crap!

I mean, um... goodness gracious?

That paperwork, addressed to a New York stockbroker, transferred all but 5% of the Castaways' investments to me in the case of their disappearance or by January 1879, whichever came last. The other 5% went to their on-the-ground go-between, Ted's ancestor Hiram Phelps, whom I'd once threatened at gunpoint. Phelps was the man taking photographs that would be used to create virtual reality landing spots for future time travelers--and he only got 5%?