It was not every day that someone turned twenty.While the age of twenty-one was widely memorialized as being the legal drinking age -- at least for those in the U.S. -- the age of twenty was more notable, but less celebrated, as being the age that one left the teen years behind for good.

For Marty McFly, the day's distinction was due more to the odd circumstances that encircled that particular birthday. Very few people, he thought as he stared up at the ceiling above his bed, turned twenty a full eighty years before their actual birth. Such quirks were one of the hazards of time travel -- or, in his case, of being unable to return back home after the time machine he had been in had been irreparably damaged.

Maybe, he thought without much conviction, today will be the day. The day that Doc would give him the best gift he could've asked for: a new, working time machine in which to travel ninety-seven years in the future...or three years or so in the past to undo the mess that had kept him back here in the first place.

Marty sighed and rolled onto his side, checking the face of the windup alarm clock next to the bed. It wasn't even seven A.M. yet; sunlight was barely beginning to glow around the edge of his window shade. And yet he felt wide awake. He almost wished he could stay where he was for the day. Birthdays were something he preferred to forget about right now; they simply reminded him that time was passing, he was getting older, and he was still stuck in the past of his hometown. It was downright depressing. He knew, however, that wallowing in his bedroom would not be permitted. Doc's wife, Clara, had spent yesterday evening frosting a cake for today's festivities, and Doc and Clara's seventeen-month-old son, Jules, had been toddling around in a state of excitement at the idea of "pwesents," though no one had clarified that he wouldn't be at the receiving end of them.

It would be best to simply meet the date head on and ride it out, rather than make it miserable for the others in the same house. There was, after all, nothing that could be done to change the current circumstances of the moment.

Marty closed his eyes, trying to will himself to fall back to sleep. Perhaps it was the heat of the late spring, but he had not been sleeping very well as of late. It was hard to relax, hard to just lie there, when one wanted to keep working in order to go home. After putting in a day in town helping out Doc in the blacksmith trade, the two of them would have dinner and then go out to the lab in the barn to spend a couple hours working on the new time machine.

Doc was always the one to dictate when to call it a night, much to Marty's frustration. It seemed to him that as soon as they were getting somewhere, they had to stop. The inventor was determined, however, that no mistakes be made out of fatigue and that he was provided a chance to spend an hour or so with his son, usually putting him to bed, so that Clara could have some time to herself. Considering the nature of the work, Marty could not soldier on unsupervised, so he would follow his friend back into the house, itching with frustration when he thought of the delay this would mean for his return home.

Lately, Doc hadn't been spending as much time working on the new machine. He had seemed preoccupied and rather distant. Marty's few queries to him if he had anything on his mind were brushed aside briskly. It was, Doc said, simply the usual matters on his mind -- finances, the responsibilities they had in keeping the past of their hometown intact, the health and well-being of his family, so forth. Marty couldn't help thinking there was something more going on, but he honestly had no clue what it could possibly be and took it upon himself to keep his friend focused on the here and now with the time machine construction.

That urge to keep working on the machine would keep him up until well-past midnight most nights, his mind hashing over what still needed to be done before the project could be finished, even though his body would ache with fatigue. And then the whole cycle would begin anew around six A.M., when Doc would wake him up for the drive into town.

But today...today he was just awake on his own. And Doc seemed to be running late, considering he hadn't yet rapped upon the door to get him up. It was lousy of his body to deprive him of sleeping in, even a little.

Marty rolled over and opened his eyes again, sighing once more. He hated this. It was no use. He was up for the day, like it or not. He sat up and leaned forward, running his hands back through his already-mussed hair, wishing that his body and brain could sync up the energy and alertness he felt. After a moment, he threw the bedcovers aside and climbed out. He walked over to the window, nudging back a corner of the shade to peer outside. Marty squinted at the bright daylight and blue sky that lay beyond the covered porch outside the window. It looked like it was going to be another hot day.

Marty withdrew from the window and reached for his clothes, lying draped over the footboard railing of the bed. He emerged from his room a few minutes later, dressed for the day, wondering idly why no one had yet come to rouse him. He paused when he reached the end of the hall that spilled into the foyer, listening for signs of life from the other occupants of the house. Faint sounds of movement from the back kitchen were audible, and he veered in that direction.

When he reached the closed kitchen door, he realized that someone -- well, a pair of someones, at least -- was speaking softly from within the room.

"I think you should go back to bed," he heard Doc say. "Don't tax yourself. You were up half the night with Jules."

"I am fine, Emmett," Clara said, her voice pitched low with a sort of weariness. "I have lived through this before. This should be no different than last time."

"It is different. You're older, for one. You're busier, for another. I don't like how pale you are."

"It will pass soon. Really, Emmett, stop fussing so much." There was a pause. "Shouldn't you wake Marty?"

"I will, I will. Since today's his birthday, I thought I would allow him to sleep in a little, and we can go into town mid-morning."

"That is very generous of you. Is that your only reason for delaying a departure?"

"Absolutely." Marty could tell Doc was lying through his teeth, even sight unseen. "Although if the opportunity presents itself, I'll get Jules dressed and fed."

"Perhaps, but only if he awakes on his own. He didn't drop off until almost 3 A.M. last night, crying each time I tried to leave the room. He seems so clingy as of late."

"I wonder if he somehow knows?" Doc said, rather ominously. There was a pause. "I'll go check on him now."

Marty hastily took a step back away from the door. Seconds later, it swung open and Doc nearly collided with him. The scientist hopped back, startled. "Marty! You're up?"

"Yeah," Marty said, not elaborating to his friend about his slight problem with insomnia. "What's going on? Is something wrong with Clara?"

"No," Doc said immediately. "Of course not. What gave you that idea?" His gaze burrowed straight into Marty's eyes.

"I dunno.... You sounded concerned about her in there."

Doc's eyes narrowed. "How long were you eavesdropping?"

"Not long, sheesh. Why are you jumping on me about that?"

Doc didn't answer the question. "Breakfast is almost ready," he said instead. "Go on ahead. I'm going to check on Jules and see if he's still asleep."

Marty remained standing where he was as Doc stepped past him, heading for the stairs. That's weird, he thought, shaking his head a little. He waited until he heard the inventor's footsteps reach the second floor before going into the kitchen. Clara stood near the stove, clad in a robe cinched tightly around a nightgown, her hair hanging in a long, frizzy braid down her back. She turned her head slightly at the sound of Marty's arrival. Doc was right, the young man thought. She did look pale and worn out, like she wasn't feeling well or had pulled a few all-nighters in a row. He had thought that the worst was over with Jules being up all night -- at any rate, he hadn't been disturbed by any crying or whatnot for months, and the kid's bedroom was directly above his.

"Good morning, Marty," Clara said, giving him a wan smile. "Happy birthday to you."

"Thanks. How are you this morning?"

"Fine, thank you." If Doc wasn't going to say anything, it became immediately clear that Clara was going to rebuff questions just as much as her husband. Of course, she had downplayed whatever it was to Doc, too, who was something of a worrywart when it came to his wife's health and sanity. Marty was more willing to take her at her word, and immediately wrote off the conversation he had heard as Doc being Doc.

"I'm almost done mixing batter for pancakes," Clara said as Marty sat down at the table. "Once the stove is a little hotter, I'll pour them out to cook."

"Do you need any help?"

Clara frowned suddenly. She turned her head slightly to gaze at Marty for a moment. "No, I am fine," she said, rather crisply. "You seem rather alert for so early an hour."

Marty shrugged. "I just woke up on my own. That helps."

"Oh? Did Jules disturb you last night? I didn't think he was crying loudly enough for that."

"No, that's not a problem." Marty didn't really know what the problem was -- it certainly wasn't anything new, anyway. He decided not to elaborate on his answer, and Clara did not pry deeper.

The former teacher set down the mixing bowl that was in hand and reached for the coffee pot that rested on the stove. Without a word, she poured a generous mug for Marty and brought it over to the table. As she set down the china on the tabletop, a peculiar expression danced across her face. Her lips tightened, her eyes closed, and her hands suddenly wrapped themselves tightly around the back of a kitchen chair. Marty hesitated before lifting the coffee to his lips.

"Is something wrong?" he asked.

Clara shook her head marginally and opened her eyes. "Excuse me," she said, her voice strained. Without another word, she stepped away from the kitchen table and walked rapidly across the floor. Marty watched as she opened the back door, stepped through it, and slammed it shut behind her. He stared at the door for a moment, feeling as if he was missing something. Without thinking about it, Marty started to stand, intending to walk over to the windows that overlooked the yard behind the house, but before he could get more than a step away from his chair, the teakettle on the stove began to whistle.

Startled, he stepped over to the stove and hastily moved the kettle off of the burner. By the time he had done that and turned around, Clara had opened the door and was stepping back into the kitchen. Her skin was covered in a layer of perspiration, and she wore a pained look on her face. She looked, in a word, ill.

"What's wrong?" he asked at once.

"Nothing," Clara said, closing the door. She stood there for a moment, her back braced up against the wood. Marty watched her, feeling inexplicably edgy. Clara she shut her eyes, drew in a deep breath, and exhaled slowly. She did this a few more times before abruptly opening her eyes once more. They met Marty's gaze, still locked on her from where he stood next to the stove. A tiny, wan smile creased the corners of her mouth.

"Some tea sounds good," she said lightly. "The stove should be ready for those pancakes now, I think." Clara stepped away from the door and crossed the floor slowly. She glanced at Marty as she stopped next to him. "You can sit down, Marty."

The young man hesitated before following orders, returning to his seat at the kitchen table. Clara picked up the bowl of pancake batter and began to stir it anew with the wooden spoon. Marty felt like he was missing something, big time. After a few moments of thought, however, he gave up.

He had just moved his mind onto other things -- like the fact he was another year older in a time long before his birth -- when Clara abruptly leaned against one of the kitchen countertops. "Oh, dear," Marty heard her say softly, one hand drifting to her forehead. The other moved the bowl towards the counter.

The following happened in rapid succession: Clara let go of the bowl too soon and it fell to the floor, shattering with a crash and splattering pancake batter over most of the kitchen floor and furnishings. The din from that had hardly faded when the former teacher suddenly sagged back against the counter and slid slowly to the floor.

Marty jumped to his feet so fast that he spilled his cup of coffee on the table. "Doc!" he hollered as he sidestepped the table and attempted to avoid the batter mess to reach Clara's side. Her eyes were closed and her complexion a ghastly ashen shade as she slumped down to the floor in a most ungraceful way. Marty slid a little in a small puddle of batter as he finally reached her and knelt down. With one hand he grabbed her limp wrist, the other he felt her forehead. Her skin was clammy and her pulse was skipping at a light, rapid rate.

Doc burst in no more than thirty seconds after Marty had shouted for him. His head whipped around as he looked about the room, not noticing the occupants on the floor at the far end. "Doc," Marty said helpfully. The inventor's head snapped over to look at him. A soft sound of dismay escaped his lips as he strode across the floor, seemingly oblivious to the smears of batter he was both stepping in and leaving in his wake.

"What happened?" he demanded as Clara's eyelashes began to flutter. He quickly nudged Marty's hands aside as he reached to check her pulse himself.

"She was just mixing batter and suddenly keeled over."

Doc bent over his wife's face as she seemed to swim back to consciousness. She was groaning, anyway, and looked like she was trying to open her eyes. Her legs shifted on the kitchen floor, splaying her nightgown open in a way that made Marty automatically avert his eyes. "Clara?" Doc said softly, running a thumb down the side of her face.

Clara's eyes opened, looking glassy and unfocused. She blinked a few times, her forehead creasing in confusion. "What happened?" she murmured.

"I think you fainted," Marty said. Clara turned her head at the sound of his voice, her eyes resting on him for longer than seemed necessary.

"Fainted?" she echoed. "Don't be silly." Her eyes moved quickly to her husband's face. Doc frowned.

"How do you feel?" he asked.

"Fine," Clara said simply, her voice sounding stronger with every word. She struggled to sit up properly from the slouched semi-sprawl against the cabinets.

"'Fine' people do not simply faint for no reason," Doc said.

Clara once more gave her husband a deep, penetrating look. "You know there is no reason to fret about this, Emmett."

"No reason?" Marty echoed, expecting Doc to immediately argue against that. Instead, the inventor frowned again but said nothing that sounded like a denial.

"You should lie down," he said instead. "You're probably exhausted after tending to Jules last night."

"Who will fix breakfa--"

"I will. We can be a little late to town today. There are no pressing appointments that need my attention when we arrive."

Marty's head turned between Doc and Clara as the conversation progressed. Something was very, very weird here. Why wasn't Doc freaking out more? His friend usually went into full-blown panic mode if someone in the house came down with a sore throat or a runny nose. Marty would have expected that Doc would have sent him off to town to fetch the doctor by now, not sit around and tell his wife to just lie down for a while.

"You aren't going to call the doctor?" he finally had to ask, incredulous.

"Not for something like this," Doc said, not looking at the young man.

"Doc, your wife fainted. I saw it happen. You freak out over colds. How is this not bothering you?"

"I am fine, Marty," Clara said. "Emmett is right. I am simply exhausted." She carefully climbed to her feet, Doc helping her do so. When she was erect, she turned to her husband. "I'll feel better after I lie down for a bit."

"Most definitely," Doc agreed. He escorted her across the floor, pausing long enough to say to Marty, "Can you mop up the mess in here?"

"Sure," Marty said dully, still completely baffled by his friend's behavior. What the hell was going on?

* * *

Doc tried not to move too fast, but he couldn't help it. He very nearly carried Clara out of the kitchen and down the hall to the stairs at the front of the home by the time Clara had regained enough of her strength to fight him a little.

"Emmett, really, I am fine now. You don't need to hold on to me so tightly."

Doc cast a glance down the hallway in the direction of the kitchen door. It remained closed. "You need to lie down, Clara. You promised me that you would try and rest, follow the doctor's orders."

"I am...I will." Clara reached out and grasped onto the railing, turning to face her husband. Doc once more noticed the shadows under her eyes and the pale, pinched look of pain in her features. "Don't fret so. This happened last time."

"Yes," Doc said softly, his eyes again darting towards the kitchen door. He lowered his voice even more. "But for a woman of your age, in a place like this...."

"Oh, posh." Clara turned and began to ascend the stairs slowly. "This will pass soon enough."

Doc hurriedly followed her up the stairs. "Not soon enough for me."

Clara stopped abruptly and turned around three steps from the top. "Emmett, we can't keep this from Marty much longer," she said in a low voice. "If he was not suspicious before, he must know by now that something is going on."

Doc shook his head immediately. "He'll forget it soon enough," he said softly, after a cautious glance over the bannister. The hallway below was empty. "Today is his birthday. I don't want him to hear the news on today of all days. I'll tell him, don't worry about that."

Clara looked at him skeptically before turning back around to finish climbing the stairs. "I think you are underestimating him," she said as she walked down the hall to their bedroom. "The longer you put this off, the worst he will take it."

Doc suspected she had a point there, but he remained stubborn on the subject. "Not today, Clara."

"Or tomorrow, I imagine." There was a trace of scorn in the words. "You don't seem very pleased by this situation yourself."

"Clara!" Doc was stung by the accusation.

Clara nodded curtly as she entered their bedroom. Doc hastily shut the door behind him as he followed her in, just on the chance Marty could hear them. "You're not denying it," she said at once. "I know you're not happy about this."

Doc sat down on the foot of the bed as Clara shed her robe and climbed onto the mussed covers to lay down. "I am...I was...surprised. You had to have been, too."

"Not when I heard the news. I think I knew already. I'd felt the same way as last time." She exhaled slowly as she lay back on the pillow. "Marty needs to be told, Emmett. You've already put it off for two months."

"I will. I give you my word."

Clara smoothed out the fabric of her nightgown over her stomach. Doc saw a distinct rise and protrusion of her belly. "My figure is already changing. I will not be able to hide it much longer, particularly in nightclothes." She let her hands fall to her sides and looked at her husband once more. "If Marty asks me directly, I will tell him the truth. I don't like fibbing to him."

"Has he asked anything?" Doc asked immediately.

"No...but I believe it is just a matter of time after this morning. He's not a fool; he'll put things together on his own. If you do not tell him before he connects everything, he is going to be furious with you and with me...and I don't blame him."

Doc grimaced as he recalled Marty's reaction when he discovered -- by accidental eavesdropping -- the fact of Clara's first pregnancy with Jules. While the news of this one had reached the couple's ears after a trip to the doctor in mid-April, Doc had deliberately postponed telling his friend. At first, he told himself that he wanted to make sure Clara's pregnancy would stick. A woman of her age, in a time like this, could just as easily miscarry. Then, as the days turned into weeks, and the weeks became months, it became a matter of "waiting until the time was right." Clara was four months along now, give or take, and into the second trimester. Miscarrying seemed less and less likely, as did concealing the secret much longer.

But on Marty's birthday, which was already a stressful and emotional time for him? No, Doc could not do that to him. Absolutely not.

"Yes, he may be, but we can keep this from him for one more day. It is his birthday, Clara. You wouldn't want to spoil it, would you?"

Clara sighed and closed her eyes, raising a hand and pressing it to her forehead, as if she had a headache. "No, I would not want to do that."

Doc rose from the bed. "I'll finish breakfast and let you get some rest now. Just relax. I'll take care of everything."

* * *

Between Clara's fainting, cleaning up the kitchen, and feeding Jules when he woke, it was midmorning before Doc was ready to leave for town. Marty, as Clara had pointed out, was incredibly suspicious now. Doc caught him more than once giving the inventor scrutinizing looks, and Doc was careful not to give his friend a chance to start in on any type of verbal interrogation. He rode ahead of him on their trip into town, using their tardiness as an excuse for his rush. He wound up arriving at the shop ten minutes before Marty.

I've got to keep him busy today, Doc realized as he dismounted Newton and led the horse around to the pasture out back. Even if it is his birthday today, the busier he is, the less likely he can ask questions.

Before the young man arrived, Doc hastily composed a list of duties to throw at Marty throughout the day: running deliveries; creating some horseshoes and nails; restocking the feed and cleaning out the stalls of the horses; sweeping out the barn's living and waiting area; and so forth.

When Marty finally caught up with him, the first words out of his mouth were, "Why the hell did you ditch me back there?"

"I didn't 'ditch you,'" Doc said innocently. "I was merely in a hurry to get the shop opened up for the day. I thought you were right behind me."

"I was...way, way behind you." Marty shot him another look of intense suspicion before shedding his hat. He was starting to shrug off his coat when the scientist stopped him.

"Keep that on. I need you to run a few errands for me before you do anything else."

"Now?"

"Yes. We're running late as is. The packages that need delivery are over there." Doc gestured in the direction of the large double doors where he had stacked the brown paper-bundled items. "Once you do that, I'll need these items picked up from the mercantile." He gave the young man a list of items, some that were indeed needed right away and others that he simply thought he would get now to keep Marty busy. "They'll add it to my account."

"Sure," Marty said, somewhat dubiously. A few minutes later, he was out of the barn and Doc heaved a sigh of relief already feeling tremendously better now that he was alone again. He hurried over to the forge, stoking it up and adding a few of his specialized so-called Presto Logs to the coals. He would have to make some new ones soon, he realized. Maybe he could show Marty the ropes of that and add the task to the young man's list of chores.

Clara, Doc reflected as he worked, had brought up several very good points that morning. Marty needed to be told about the impending arrival of another Brown. Indeed, he should have been told days after the news had been given to Clara from the doctor...but it had seemed so easy to let sleeping dogs lie. The moody weather of spring had generally made life a little more uncomfortable for all, and it had seemed like a bad time to lay a new weight on his already overburdened friend. After all, the scientist was why Marty was even back here in the first place.

Clara was right, however. He had put this off for far too long. When he shared it with the young man, there were going to be some fireworks. The situation was not going to go away, and as Marty was his friend, Doc felt strongly that the news should come from him and not Clara. Besides, he did not want to add any stress to Clara. Having her be the one to tell Marty would definitely do that.

"Emmett?"

Doc straightened up so fast that the back of his head collided with the iron flume positioned above the forage. He cursed softly and turned around, tenderly rubbing the point of impact. In the doorway of the shop stood Seamus McFly, Marty's great-great-grandfather. The younger man looked horrified as Doc approached him, wincing.

"I'm so sorry," he said, his Irish brogue coloring his words. "I didn't mean t' startle you."

"Don't worry about it. That's what I get for not paying attention to my surroundings." Doc let his hand drop to his side and did his best to ignore the throbbing on the back of his skull. "What brings you out here today?"

Seamus glanced out the ajar door. "It's me horse. I think he needs new shoes. The old ones're well worn down. He's outside if ye want a gander."

"Sure, that shouldn't be a problem. I can have that done by this afternoon if he needs it."

"That'd be kind of you."

Doc stepped outside and had a look at the horse -- Lucky, Seamus said his name was. The farmer's guess was right on -- the animal needed new shoes. Privately, Doc was delighted with this development. Although Marty was not very savvy with shoeing horses, he could be of great help in the process, and it would keep him nice and occupied. He told Seamus to return around four in the afternoon to pick up his animal and then he stabled Lucky until the horse could be re-shoed.

Marty returned about half an hour later from the errands that Doc had sent him on, ladened with boxes and bags from the general store down the road. The scientist directed him to put away the supplies before getting started on tending to the feed of the animals, followed by mucking out the stalls.

"I thought it was supposed to be my birthday," he said when Doc rattled off the list of chores. "Don't I get a day off from all this?"

"What would you do with your time instead?"

"Work on the time machine," Marty said at once.

Doc shook his head. "Not without my supervision, and I cannot do that during a workday. If we want to fund the machine, I've got to keep running the business."

Marty sighed. "You ever think of doing something that doesn't require you to work?"

"You mean become a career criminal? I'm a little too old to start robbing banks and trains."

"No. I mean use what you know about the future to maybe invest in things when they're getting started...or make something that hasn't been invented yet."

"You want me to take advantage of my knowledge of the future to benefit financially?" Doc was more offended by this idea than the last. "Didn't the incident with the sports almanac teach you anything?"

"Yeah -- mixing Tannens with gambling can come to no good. Seriously, Doc, you're not some egomaniacal bully...you'd just be funding a life back here and a time machine so you can go home."

"And I could possibly alter future history to make the home that you want to return to so badly be completely unrecognizable. No thank you, Marty."

Marty frowned but said nothing more, turning to start in on the jobs assigned to him.

Doc's plan worked well as the morning transitioned into afternoon. After lunch, he used Marty's assistance in shoeing Lucky, the job physical enough that the young man could not bother to begin any interrogation. The scientist congratulated himself on averting a near disaster, surmising that if Marty had not begun a flood of questions now, he was probably safe for a little bit more.

He figured wrongly.

* * *

Marty knew something was up...the only problem was that he was not entirely sure of what it was. He mentally reviewed the facts as he cleaned up that afternoon in preparation for closing up the shop.

Doc was acting a little weird. He was definitely preoccupied and a little jumpy. He had been like that for a few weeks, at least. Yet, weirdly, he wasn't at all concerned by his wife fainting that morning, brushing it off like it had been of minor importance.

Clara, meanwhile, seemed like she was sick to Marty. Or at least she was that morning, what with the fainting and running outside to possibly throw up. (If her peaked expression when she had came back inside was any indication.)

The only thing he could think of was that Clara was seriously ill -- like, she had more than a flu bug -- and that Doc and his wife were, for whatever reason, keeping this information away from him. That part confused Marty. If Clara was sick with something, why would they not tell him? Were they afraid he would panic? It would've made a lot more sense to Marty if such news had been kept from Doc, being that the inventor would definitely worry and freak out.

Marty had bided his time most of the day, but he wasn't going to wait any longer. When he finished the latest chore of putting all the tools away in the work area, he tracked down the inventor where he was rechecking the shoes on the McFly's horse.

"Done," Marty announced, leaning into the stall.

"Good," Doc said after a moment, his back to the young man as he examined the horse's rear right shoe. "Now I need you to start an inventory of the nails and shoes we already have."

"Are you kidding me? Aren't we leaving soon?"

"Yes...but you can begin the inventory today."

Marty gritted his teeth, frustrated. He had hoped to find an in to subtly broach the subject of Clara's health, but Doc wasn't going to give him a decent chance. He decided to cut to the chase.

"Doc, what is up with Clara?"

The scientist did not turn around with the query or even pause in what he was doing. "What do you mean by that?" he asked.

"She's sick, isn't she?"

Doc eased Lucky's hoof back down to the floor and finally straightened up, turning to face Marty. "She is just tired," he said.

"It's more than that, Doc. I'm not stupid. What's wrong with her?"

Doc bent back down. "Nothing," he said.

Marty's certainty that something was up increased, purely based on the fact that his friend would not look him in the eye. He reached over and unlatched the stall door, letting himself in. "Does she have some kind of disease? Is she dying?"

Doc glanced at him over his shoulder as he lifted Lucky's other rear hoof for inspection. "No. She will be fine, Marty."

"Will be," Marty said under his breath. A new possibility occured to him and he almost laughed out loud as he said it. "What is she, pregnant or something?"

He expected an instant denial or a rebuke, perhaps a chuckle from Doc. He got only silence. That silence said volumes to Marty. His mouth fell open. "Oh my God, she is? Clara's pregnant? Again?!"

Doc let the hoof drop and turned around. He sighed heavily and said nothing.

Marty felt his temper start to stir. "Doc, tell me the truth! She's pregnant, isn't she?"

The inventor stared at him for a moment. "Yes," he finally said.

Marty backed away a few paces, leaving the stall. "What the hell?" he cried. "How long have you known?"

Doc didn't seem like he was going to answer for a moment. He left the stall himself, allowed the door to close behind him, and said softly, "We've known since the middle of April."

"The middle of April? So she's, what, three months pregnant?"

"Four. Four months. The baby is due in November."

Marty's head spun. A mixture of hurt, anger, and shock left him temporarily speechless. "So, when were you planning on telling me?" he finally burst out, his voice heavily sarcastic. "When Clara showed up one day with a new kid?"

"Marty--"

"How the hell could you keep this from me for two months, Doc?"

The scientist neatly dodged the question, saying instead, "I was going to tell you the news tomorrow, after your birthday."

"Oh, right, I'll bet you were." Marty turned around, walked several steps, and ran his hands through his hair, agitated. "How could you let this happen? How could you have another kid? Isn't screwing up history with one enough for you?"

"Marty!" Doc looked genuinely shocked. He took several steps towards the young man.

Marty had to get out of here. He snatched up his coat and hat and strode towards the door. "Where are you going?" There was a note of sudden weariness to Doc's question.

Marty did not answer the query, shoving the door open to storm outside. He paused a dozen steps out of the livery stable, not entirely sure of his destination. He didn't want to go back to the farmhouse, that was for sure. His eyes lit on the wooden sign of the Palace Saloon after a moment and he smiled humorlessly.

I'll show Doc, he thought, heading for the business. As he walked and shrugged on his hat and coat, the full weight of what he had just learned hit him.

Holy shit...Doc and Clara are going to have another kid! How could they do that?!

Doc had vowed that he and his wife would never have one baby...and then along came Jules. After that, there was a new promise that Jules would remain a single child until they had left the past and returned to 1985. The risk of a child who had not been around in the original timeline altering history was too much of a chance to take.

Three broken promises, Marty thought, furious again. Why should I believe anything he tells me anymore?

The fact that Doc and Clara had left him in the dark about this for two months made him even madder. They had known for weeks! Why the silence? Were they hoping the problem would just go away, or were they wanting to surprise him by showing up one day with another baby? He knew that they were a married couple, had a part of their relationship that was exclusive of him, but this seemed to cross the line. He lived with them; he had a right to know if another person was going to be showing up at the place.

Marty pushed open the swinging doors of the saloon and stepped inside, ready for warfare. No one looked up at his entrance save the bartender, Chester. The older man looked only mildly surprised to see him, which was to be expected. Marty did not typically drop by, especially on weekday afternoons.

"Afternoon, Clint," he said. "What brings you here?"

Marty stepped up to the bar and gave him a thin smile. "It's my birthday today," he said. "I want a drink."

Chester blinked and squinted at him. "You sure you wanna be doin' that now?"

And leave me alone, he added to himself.

"Yes," Marty said without the slightest hesitation. "Give me...." His eyes roamed the array of multicolored bottles and liquids that resided behind the bar. "I dunno, just gimme something strong. Leave the bottle." And leave me alone, he added to himself.

Chester sighed. He bent over, rummaged around, and emerged a moment later with a clean shot glass and a bottle three-quarters of the way full with an amber-colored liquid. "Y'know, far be it for me to pry, but sometimes a man may feel better if he talks rather than drink."

"Well, that's great," Marty said flatly. "But it's none of your business, is it?"

Chester raised his hands in surrender and took a step back. "All right, Clint, I tried."

Marty yanked the cork out of the mouth of the bottle and filled up the shot glass. He held it up before his eyes, considering the consequences as he studied the liquid. He'd be sick later. Tomorrow would be miserable. And Doc would probably get pissed at him.

Serves him right, Marty thought, angry all over again.

"Happy birthday to me," he murmured, bringing the glass to his lips and tilting it back.

Serves him right, Marty thought, angry all over again.

"Happy birthday to me," he murmured, bringing the glass to his lips and tilting it back.

* * *

Well, that didn't go very well.

Doc frowned as he paced around the workshop and former living area of his business, his mind rehashing the unplanned confrontation with Marty. Why hadn't he denied the young man's guess? Why had he hesitated? Why hadn't he handled it better once Marty realized what was going on?

And God knows where he is now, Doc thought, glancing out the ajar barn door. Already, a half hour had elapsed since his friend had left, and so far there had been no sign of him. Last time, when the news of Clara's first pregnancy had broken, Marty had taken off and wound up at Shonash Ravine. Doc had glimpsed a wilder, angrier look on his friend's face this time around and didn't want to imagine what that might mean for Marty's destination. He somehow doubted that the young man would simply walk home in order to calm down. Although he had shown progress in the area, Marty's emotions and temper would still get the better of him sometimes. When that happened, reason and logic were carelessly thrown aside.

There was a soft creak of hinges from the door. Doc spun around, hopeful. "Marty?"

The head that popped into view, however, was not that of the twenty-year-old. "I beg ye pardon?" Seamus asked, perplexed.

Doc inwardly winced at his slip of the tongue. He hadn't stopped to consider that one of the townspeople would stop by, even if he had been expecting Seamus. Of all the people to hear Marty's true name, the McFlys would be the worst. "I'm sorry, I thought you were someone else," the scientist said quickly. "Ah -- you haven't seen Clint around, have you?"

"No, not today. Why?"

"He...." Doc hesitated, feeling torn. He certainly did not want to burden one of Marty's ancestors with any bit of their problems, being they were not here in the original timeline. On the other hand, if Seamus was to see him, perhaps he could persuade him to return to the house. From what Doc had witnessed over the last couple years, Marty did seem to have some level of respect for his ancestor. He could be an ally in this situation.

"He's a little...angry with me right now and left about half an hour ago."

"Oh?" Seamus looked curious, and though it wasn't expected of him to elaborate, Doc found himself doing just that.

"Clara...she is...we are...well...." Even after a few years in these more conservative times, Doc wasn't quite sure how to share the news. "We are going to have another baby," he finally settled on.

Seamus smiled at the news. "Are you, now? Well, congratulations, man!"

Doc couldn't stop himself from smiling. "Thank you. Clint just found out. I had postponed sharing this with him, and he's a little...upset." That was a gross understatement. "If you happen to see him, please let him know I am concerned about him."

"Of course," Seamus said, looking taken aback. He changed the subject after a moment of awkward silence. "Is me horse ready, or do you need him for a bit longer?"

Doc blinked. "Your horse? Oh, yes, quite so. It's just the usual charge, nothing more."

While Seamus got out his billfold, Doc fetched Lucky from the stall and brought him over to the farmer. "Thank you," Seamus said as he paid Doc and took the reins of his animal. "I appreciate you fittin' 'im in like that."

"It was not a problem. You'll pass my message on to Clint if you see him?"

"Aye," Seamus said. He looked worried. "Sure'n he'll turn up soon. Y'know, me brother had a temper to him. Clint reminds me of him sometimes. Tis queer."

Doc attempted to smile and failed miserably. Marty had told him about Martin McFly before and the fate that had befallen him. "I see. Well, hopefully Clint will be back soon. We've got to get back to the house before sunset."

"I'll check 'round main street," Seamus said with a nod.

"Thanks. I'll wait here for a little while longer in case he returns."

As soon as Seamus left, Doc resumed pacing around the premises, wondering what he would do if Marty did not come back.

* * *

Marty had taken four burning shots of the foul-tasting booze before he realized this would go a lot faster if he simply drank directly from the bottle. He wasn't sure why he felt the need to hurry, but something told him that there wasn't much time before Doc would catch up with him. Already, it had been half an hour, and he suspected that it was just a matter of minutes before the scientist found him. But Marty didn't intend to leave until he was ready, no matter what.

This is really stupid, a rational part of his brain told him as he tipped the bottle back and took three big gulps. You're gonna be the one to pay the price with this, McFly, not Doc. Chester stared as Marty slammed the half-empty bottle down on the bar top and underwent a brief struggle to not cough the liquid back up. It felt like a trail of fire had blazed his throat. "That's no way to drink," the bartender warned, sounding concerned. He began to stretch a hand out for the bottle but Marty snatched it back and held it out of Chester's reach.

"No," he said, his voice raspy from the harsh alcohol. "I bought it. It's mine."

"Actually, you haven't paid for it yet," Chester said.

Marty reached into his pocket and pulled out a bill, throwing it down on the bar top. "There. Now lemme 'lone, I know what I'm doing." He turned around and headed for an empty table on the opposite side of the room, next to one of the windows. As he made his way across the floor, a numbing, muddled sensation began to creep into his head.

He had barely taken a seat at the table when he saw his great-great-grandfather enter the saloon. Seamus paused a step into the business, glancing around, before continuing towards the bar. He did not seem to notice Marty, and the young man was relieved. He didn't want to talk to anyone, especially his ancestor.

Marty lifted the bottle to his lips again, watching as Seamus leaned against the bar and spoke to Chester. After a moment of low conversation, he saw Seamus turn around and look directly at him. Shit, Marty thought. The farmer looked back to Chester and said something else. The bartender nodded once before Seamus turned around and made his way towards Marty's table.

Marty took a couple more hasty swallows from the bottle, his eyes watering a little, before setting it down on the table. The bottle was down to one quarter. Marty felt a brief, panicky sensation settle in his chest as Seamus drew closer to him. There was no obvious way of escape, and he didn't want his great-great-grandfather to see him like this.

"Good afternoon, Clint," Seamus said politely when he reached the table. "May I join you?"

Marty suspected a flat no would be rude. He shrugged instead, which Seamus took as permission. The Irishman smiled at him once he was seated. "How are you, lad?"

"Fine," Marty said curtly. He pulled the bottle closer to his side of the table, a move that did not go unnoticed by Seamus. The farmer glanced at the beverage and frowned faintly.

"What brew is that?"

"Dunno. Don't care."

"Mind if I see it?"

"Yes," Marty said, beginning to feel some of the effects of his rapid consumption trickle in. A sense of apathy was settling in, combined with an urge to speak what was genuinely on his mind...no matter the consequences. He drew the bottle to his chest, out of reach of his great-great-grandfather.

For a moment, it looked as if Seamus would reach out and grab it. Perhaps it was a trick of light or Marty's imagination, for seconds later Seamus leaned back in the chair, an utterly bland expression on his face. "You aren't the drinkin' type, are ye?" he said.

Marty narrowed his eyes, not understanding the comment. "Huh?"

"Tis rare for me to see ye in here...at least with a bottle o' hard liquor in hand." Seamus studied him a moment with blue eyes that reminded Marty unnervingly of his father's own. "You aren't hopin' to cope with life by the bottle, are ye, Clint?"

"It's none of your business," Marty said bluntly. He boldly took another drink from the bottle, although the liquid he had consumed was beginning to slosh around uncomfortably in his stomach.

Seamus abruptly changed the subject. "The blacksmith is lookin' for you. He's worried 'bout you."

"So what?"

The farmer stared at him, a crease forming in his forehead. "Don't y'think you owe it to 'im to hear 'im out?"

"What do you know about it?" Marty began to raise the bottle once more to his lips when Seamus' hand suddenly slid across the table and rested on the twenty-year-old's wrist, applying a faint pressure to no doubt encourage him to set the bottle down.

Marty reacted without thinking, a sense of rage surging to the surface: He yanked his hand away and threw the bottle towards his great-great-grandfather. Seamus ducked quickly, and the bottle sailed into the glass window beside him. The pane shattered, spraying glass onto the wooden sidewalk outside.

Marty shot to his feet so quickly that his chair tipped over. He could feel the stares directed his way by everyone in the place. "Leave me alone!" he snapped, his temper mingling with the alcohol in his blood and distorting his voice to become something unrecognizable. "I don't need this from you!"

Silence greeted his words. Seamus simply stared at him, shocked. Marty turned, intending to flee the saloon and the looks of pity he glimpsed in the eyes of the others. By the time he reached the door, a familiar figure had moved to stand in his way and block the exit.

"Wait, Clint," Doc said.

* * *

When Chester, per the request of Seamus, had sent his nephew, Joey, over to let Doc know that Clint Eastwood was in the saloon, the scientist immediately walked over there with the intent of grabbing his friend and taking him back to the farmhouse. Joey's additional detail that Marty was working his way very quickly through a bottle of bourbon was most troubling. The sooner he hustled his friend away, the better. Doc just hoped he could restrain his own temper, which was beginning to kindle at the young man's obvious, outward defiance, coupled with a healthy dose of concern. He had thought they had gotten past this issue of alcoholic coping.

Is this a symptom of a larger problem? he wondered as he walked over. Was it something more than homesickness or an inability to cope with the current reality? Of course, beyond the handful of times Doc had known him to binge, he had never noticed or observed Marty drinking.

When he reached the wooden sidewalk before the saloon, he was startled by a bottle bursting through a large pane of the business' window and shattering near his feet. He heard Marty shouting something, his tone brittle and angry. Sensing trouble, Doc quickened his step and arrived in the doorway of the saloon seconds later. He arrived just in time, as Marty was barreling his way, clearly bent on escape.

"Wait, Clint," he said immediately, holding his hands up. Marty stopped abruptly and looked up at him, his cheeks flushed with color. He glared coldly at the scientist.

"What are you doing here?" he spat out. doing here?" he spat out.

The scientist managed to keep both his face and tone neutral, though it took some effort to do so. He approached Marty slowly, the clomp of his boots the only sound in the deadly quiet room. Even the old grizzled card players had set down their game and were giving the scene before them their full attention. Anything that would be said or occur here would no doubt be broadcast to the farthest reaches of town by sunset.

"I need you to come with me now," Doc said, his tone even. "We need to talk."

"Ha!" Marty burst out, amused by the very suggestion. "Now you wanna talk. Now, when you should've told me weeks ago about what's been happening."

Doc broke eye contact with him for a moment to deliberately look at the dozen pairs of eyes trained on the both of them. "I don't think this is quite the place to discuss the matter."

"Oh, I think it's the perfect place. Aren't you excited about it? Don't you wanna share the news?" Marty turned to look at their audience, staggering as he did so. Doc gathered his face was flushed for another reason beyond anger. "Everyone listen up: The blacksmith and his wife are gonna have another baby. This calls for a drink, don't you think?"

There were a few feeble chuckles from some of the observers. Beyond that, though, there was nothing. It was plain to Doc that their audience was regarding Marty with pity more than anything.

Doc tried again, taking another step towards his friend. "Come on," he said softly to Marty. "Let's go back to the house."

"No," Marty said. "Get out of my way! I don't want to talk to anyone -- especially you." He stumbled even as he stood still.

Doc was not about to let him go off in his current condition. He stepped forward and laid a hand on Marty's shoulder. "I need to talk to you fir--"

The sentence remained unfinished as Marty suddenly jerked his arm away from Doc. In a flash, before the scientist could really react, his friend drew his fist back and punched the inventor square in the jaw. Doc staggered back, pain bursting in his mouth. His hands flew up to his face and his vision blurred with an automatic rush of tears, but not before he saw the wild, frantic look on Marty's face. He heard his footsteps suddenly dart away and felt a breeze as he skirted past Doc to reach the exit.

Doc blinked rapidly, hearing the swinging doors fly back as Marty fled the saloon. His gaze met Seamus' eyes after a moment. The farmer was pale and an expression of horror was frozen on his face.

"Go after him," he said, his voice muffled through his hands. "Please."

Seamus nodded once and got to his feet, hurrying for the door. He left perhaps thirty seconds after Marty -- Doc thought he would succeed in catching up to him, though he hoped when he did, Marty wouldn't turn around and hit him.

"Emmett?" Chester asked, coming around from behind the bar. "Are you all right?"

Doc found himself nodding. He withdrew his hands from his mouth and saw a small stain of blood on his fingers. He gingerly touched his mouth and after a moment surmised the bleeding was caused by a split lip. It could have been worse.

"C'mere," Chester said, grabbing him by the arm and guiding him towards the bar. "Lemme get you something to clean that up."

Doc nodded again, feeling numb. "How much did he have to drink?" he managed to ask after a moment.

"Most of a bottle of bourbon," Chester said at once. He glanced at Joey, standing nearby. The younger man nodded.

"T'was the bottle that went through the window," Joey clarified.

Doc glanced at the clock nearby as Chester handed him a damp towel for his injury. Approximately forty-five minutes had passed since Marty had left the barn. In that amount of time, his friend had consumed almost an entire bottle of strong, crudely made bourbon. With Marty standing at five-foot-four and about a hundred and twenty pounds, Doc was immediately worried...very worried.

"Do you know the proof on it?" he asked, pressing the rag to the cut on his lip.

"'Bout ninety," Chester said. He looked worried himself. "He's gonna be ill, Emmett. I've seen men twice his size keel over from a brew of that strength. I warned 'im 'bout that."

"And I'm sure he ignored you," Doc said grimly. "I certainly don't blame you." He lowered the rag and touched his throbbing mouth, thinking through the puzzle. "Do you think I should should summon the doctor now?"

Chester shrugged, plainly perplexed. "If he goes to sleep with all that in him, then maybe y'should. We could make 'im some wake up juice here, if that's the case."

Doc's mind worked over the problem. If Marty was able to expel some of what he had consumed before inevitably passing out, his risk of permanent harm would be cut back. From bitter experience, Doc knew that the concoction that Chester mixed to bring drunks back to life worked mostly in making the drinker sick and thereby purging the system from some of the poison. (Even with just one shot during his experience with it, he had woken with a nauseating headache that had persisted for a few hours. He could only imagine how much worse it would be the more alcohol one had consumed.)

It suddenly became even more critical that Seamus catch up to his friend.

Doc felt a brief, blinding wave of anger as he dabbed at his aching lip again. After everything he had done for Marty since his arrival that day in 1885, after his efforts in trying to make the transition to living in this time as painless as possible, after putting a roof over the kid's head...after all of this, what a way to be paid back! The scientist knew that the drinking had a lot to do with it, but he suspected that it simply lowered Marty's inhibitions enough to vent something he'd wanted to do for a while.

"I've got to find him," he said, setting the rag down on the bartop. And when I do, I cannot kill him. "Can you prepare the wake up juice now? I'm going to make sure that gets in him one way or another."

"Of course," Chester said with a nod. His nephew was already helping him get the ingredients together when Doc left the saloon, hellbent on retrieving Marty from wherever it was he had gone.

He had traveled only about five steps away from the Palace when he saw Seamus at the far end of the street, crouched over something...or someone. Doc started to run, expecting the worst. When he reached the farmer a minute later, he saw he was bent over a semi-conscious Marty, trying to pull him up to his feet.

"What happened?" Doc asked immediately, the sound of his voice causing Marty to turn his head.

"I chased 'im out to 'ere," Seamus explained, trying to grab the young man under the arms. Marty twisted meekly, still bent on escaping. "He got sick then, o'er at the side of the street, and after that just seemed t'lose all strength. I been trying to get him up an' back to you, but he's still not havin' it."

Doc bent close to Marty's face, studying him. Marty's eyes were half closed and he stared at Doc with a glazed expression on his face. But in spite of the lethargy, the scientist still glimpsed a hot anger simmering in Marty's gaze. "Lemme go," he mumbled, the words tumbling out in a tangle. Doc smiled grimly.

"I think you forfeited your freedom when you drank that bottle of bourbon." He looked at Seamus. "Can you help me get him back to the saloon?"

"Aye, I think it may take two men," Seamus agreed.

Indeed, for in spite of the alcohol clearly taking effect, Marty was still fighting, trying to turn loose both Seamus' and Doc's hands. It was, of course, impossible for him to get very far, his reflexes too dulled by the bourbon to be any match for two sober, strong men. In fact, after traveling halfway down the street, Doc decided to save all of them the trouble and picked Marty up, balancing him over one shoulder and turning a deaf ear for his weak pleas to be put down and left alone.

In the Palace saloon, Chester had a glass of the foul homemade concoction waiting on the bar top. Doc set Marty on his feet and pushed him down into a chair before he could topple. Marty glared at him as Doc braced him in the seat by the shoulders.

"Why are you doin' this?" he demanded, trying to push the inventor's hands away.

"I honestly don't know," Doc said, allowing his irritation to leak into his voice. He turned his head to look at the barkeep. "Is the drink ready?"

"Yes...but are you sure you want to give it to him now?"

"If we don't get more of that alcohol out of his system soon, he could be in big trouble later." Doc looked back at Marty, who was scowling at him as fiercely as he could at the moment. "You're going to need to drink that," he said, tilting his head towards the waiting drink on the bar.

Marty's eyes drifted over to take it in. "What is it?" he asked, suspicious.

"Wake up juice."

"But I'm...I'm awake." Marty's brow creased in confusion. "I don't need that."

"I beg to differ," Doc said. "You won't be awake for much longer. If you want us to wait until you're unconscious, we can."

Seamus said he got sick outside...let's hope that's already made a difference to his system.Seamus said he got sick outside...let's hope that's already made a difference to his system.

Marty's lips moved, but no response came. He looked perplexed. "Well, you're gonna wait a while," he finally said thickly.

"So be it." Doc remained standing over him, keeping his hands pressing down on his shoulders, preventing the young man from escape. Several minutes passed in virtual silence. Marty continued to blink, though it became abundantly clear to Doc that it was getting more difficult for him to keep his eyes open. The inventor kept one eye on the clock in the bar. It had been an hour since Marty had fled, an hour that had seemed to span twice that.

Maybe we shouldn't wait, Doc thought uneasily. Every moment that passed, Marty's system absorbed more and more of the bourbon.

He was about to open his mouth and suggest they proceed when he felt the strain that Marty was putting up against him suddenly disappear. Doc immediately looked at his friend saw him slumping over in the chair, his eyes now closed, suddenly as limp as a rag doll. He had finally passed out.

"Lay him on the floor," Chester said, grabbing the glass of wake up juice along with a metallic funnel. "It'll be easier to get this in 'em."

Seamus grabbed Marty's legs and helped Doc ease the young man onto the weathered floorboards. As he knelt next to his friend and removed his coat to pillow beneath Marty's head, the scientist became aware of all the eyes watching them from around the saloon. The locals had enough sense to not move closer to the situation near the bar, but Doc suddenly wished he had thought to take Marty into another room or even back to the stable. What happened next, he knew, would not be pretty...and, he suspected, this could impact history in simply altering the course of someone's day.

"Can we do this in the back?" he asked Chester in a low voice.

The bartender frowned and looked up. He realized at once what was bothering Doc. "I suppose this could be bad for business. Let's get 'im outside."

Doc brushed aside Seamus' offer of assistance in carrying the young man, picking him up and toting him out of the main room of the saloon and through the door that led to the side alleyway -- the very same exit that Doc recalled taking the morning of the showdown with Buford Tannen. Once outside, Doc carefully set his friend down on the raised wooden porch. Chester and Seamus were right behind him, the former carrying the glass of wake up juice and the metallic funnel.

Chester handed him the latter object. "Stick it in his mouth and raise his head up," he said.

Doc didn't like the idea very much. "What if he chokes?"

"Pour it slowly...he'll be fine. I've not had anyone choke to death when I've been doing it. This is how we got it in you that one time, y'know."

The inventor grimaced slightly at the memory of his experience with this stuff and felt a brief stab of guilt. Marty got himself into this, he thought, steeling his resolve. With luck, he'll never do this again.With luck, he'll never do this again.

Doc carefully poured the rust-colored concoction down the funnel. Chester was correct; Marty reflexively swallowed it. When the glass was empty and the funnel removed, the three of them -- Seamus, Chester, and Doc -- peered down at the still-unconscious Marty.

"What now?" Doc asked after several seconds.

"Give it a moment," Chester said. "Oh, and you better roll 'im over on his side, towards the railing."

Doc hastily complied with the verbal afterthought, easing Marty over onto his left side so that he faced away towards the dirt alleyway. Seconds after he did this, Marty's eyes suddenly popped open. He sucked in a breath, propped himself up on his elbow, and up came the wake up juice and what looked like most of the bourbon, right over the porch, splattering noisily on the dirt below.

Next time I'm in here, I am going to give Chester a very big tip, Doc thought, glancing over at the bartender. He appeared unfazed by the situation.

Marty promptly passed out once his stomach had emptied, his head drooping over the edge of the porch. Doc dragged him away a few inches, making sure that he wasn't about to fall over the side and into the mess below, before looking once more at Chester.

"You need to get some water in 'em," the bartender advised. "That'll help clear out his system, too, and keep a watch on 'em as he sleeps it all off."

"All right," Doc said. He realized with a somewhat sinking feeling that he would not be going back home tonight. Moving Marty all that way would be possible, he supposed, but caring for him all night was a burden he was not going to share nor trouble Clara with. Nor did he want to risk exposing Jules to this, not with the way he clearly admired Marty. Besides, if something did happen in the night, the doctor would be just down the road.

Doc glanced over at Seamus waiting in the doorway of the saloon. "Seamus, could I ask one more favor from you?"

"Sure'n," Seamus said, though his agreement sounded tentative.

"Can you stop by my house on the way back to your home and let Clara know that Marty and I will be spending the night in town? I don't want her to worry."

Seamus seemed relieved. He nodded at once and slipped past Marty's sprawled legs to descend the stairs to the ground. "Aye. I'll go right now."

"Thank you."

Doc felt slightly better once the farmer was out of sight and off on his errand, having no desire to drag Marty's ancestors into this situation. He turned back to Chester. "Could I get a room for tonight?"

"Sure, I think we got a vacancy. You want help takin' him up the stairs?"

Doc glanced up at the balcony above where the hotel rooms were located. "I think I can manage it myself, if someone could unlock and open the room's door for me."

Several minutes later, Doc carried Marty's limp, unconscious body up the stairs to the second floor and into room 114, which one of the saloon girls unlocked for him. Doc set his friend down on one side of the double bed, on top of the covers, and stepped back with a sigh. He nodded his thanks to the saloon girl. She handed him the brass key before leaving the room and closing the door behind her. Doc slipped it in his pocket and walked over to the window. Their view overlooked the main street. He frowned, the simple move causing his now-swollen lip to give a brief stab of pain.

"This cannot continue," he said softly, turning back to face the interior of the room. "This is the last straw." Doc ground his teeth together for a moment as his anger and frustration at his old friend -- was that even the right term anymore, friend? -- cascaded over him again. If Marty had been awake and in his right mind right then...but he was not, and wouldn't be for likely the rest of the night.

Doc stepped over to the pitcher of water sitting on a stand nearby, found a glass, and filled it halfway with the tepid liquid. He crossed the floor and sat on the edge of Marty's side of the bed. The twenty-year-old was sprawled awkwardly on his back where Doc had set him down. The inventor set the glass of water down on the bedside table and shoved one of the pillows up against the wrought iron headboard. Then he grabbed Marty by the front of his shirt and propped him against the pillow into a half-sitting position. That done, he took the water, placed the mouth of the glass against Marty's slightly parted lips, and slowly tipped the glass back. Doc succeeded in getting about half of the liquid into his friend, the rest sloshing and soaking the front of the young man's shirt.

When the glass was emptied, Doc set it back on the bedside table and lit one of the lamps next to it. With the added glow in the room, he leaned close to Marty's face, placed a hand on the kid's forehead, and brushed back his bangs. He used his other hand to carefully peel back one of his eyelids and peer under it, checking the pupils. After that, he checked Marty's pulse and respiration. They seemed slow, but not alarmingly so.

As he leaned back, Marty began to stir. Sensing what was coming, Doc darted a few steps, grabbed the empty bowl from the pitcher stand, and shoved it under his friend's chin. Marty sat up all the way, bent his head over the bowl, and purged more of the poison from his stomach. When the spasm had finished, he sunk back to the covers with a low, pained moan, his eyes still shut. Doc set the bowl down on the floor, intending to deal with it in a moment, and quickly refilled the glass with some water.

"Stay with me, Marty," he said sharply, hearing his friend groan again. "I need you to drink some water before you do anything else."

When he returned to the bedside with the beverage, Marty had one hand braced against his forehead. Beads of sweat stood out on his skin. Incoherent mumblings and fragments of words were falling from his lips. Doc set the water aside for a moment to prop him back up against the pillow and headboard, then put the glass of water to his lips. After choking on it for a moment, Marty gulped it down. By the time Doc had gone to refill it to try and get more in him, he had passed out cold again.

The scientist sunk down into the armchair nearby and sighed deeply, already worn out. If this was how the next several hours were going to go -- and he had a feeling that it was -- then it was going to be a long, long night.

Marty opened his eyes and found himself staring at a dim, shadowy wall covered in pink flowered wallpaper. He blinked once, twice. The image remained a few feet before him, not shifting to something new. He had no idea where he was, no idea what time it was.

The physical sensations came first: A headache was pulsing behind his eyes; his stomach was sore and unsettled. His mouth was dry and had a sour taste to it, and his throat ached dully.

Something happened, he thought fuzzily.

After a moment of staring at the wall, Marty realized that he was lying down on his side in a bed. He turned, rolling onto his back. The room gave a lazy spin around him as he did so, and he closed his eyes, waiting for the sensation to subside. As he raised a hand to his head, and his elbow bumped into something on his right.

He was not alone.

Marty's eyes flew open in surprise and he turned his head to see Doc stretched out on the covers next to him. The scientist's face was tilted away from him and away from the lamp burning on the table beside Marty's side of the bed. When he did not react in any way from Marty's accidental nudge, the twenty-year-old realized he was asleep.

Okay...so where the hell are we? And why do I feel so shitty?

Marty started to sit up, intending to solve the location puzzle first. The sickening throb in his head escalated and his stomach gave a sharp twinge. He stopped and groaned softly, something about these sensations oddly familiar.

Am I hungover? I feel like I'm hungover!

Marty gritted his teeth and sat up by degrees. Once semi-upright, he slowly swung his legs off the covers of the bed and sat for a moment with his head in his hands. He took several deep breaths, noticing once more how bone dry his mouth was. On the table next to the oil lamp was a half full glass of water. He picked it up and took several sips from it. Room temperature water had never tasted so good.

When he had sipped the glass dry, Marty set it back down and really studied his surroundings. He was in an unfamiliar bedroom of some kind, one window set in the wall behind him. The window was open several inches, allowing a cool, refreshing breeze to waft through the room. Through the window glass, Marty saw only darkness. He guessed it was sometime in the middle of the night, before sunrise.

Marty absentmindedly rubbed his forehead head with the back of his hand, his headache spiking up with every beat of his heart. Hung on the wall closest to the foot of the bed was a mirror. He stared at his reflection for a moment, taking in his puffy, red-rimmed eyes and askew hair. His skin was shiny pale, and Marty suddenly craved both a shower and a toothbrush really badly.

What happened? he asked himself again, not feeling any closer to puzzling out that answer. He could have woken Doc and asked him, of course, but Marty somehow sensed that he wasn't going to like anything the inventor would say to him. Better to put it off, at least for a little while.

Marty stood slowly, keeping one hand on the bed for support. The room tilted, and he felt weak, lightheaded, and nauseated. When the worst of it passed, he took a step forward. His foot -- still clad in his boots -- knocked against something that clattered loudly across the floorboards. Marty looked down and saw an empty washbowl, which -- for some reason -- had been on the floor next to his side of the bed. As he tried to puzzle that out, feeling like he was just about to reach some answers, he heard a faint movement behind him and a creak of bedsprings.

"What are you doing up?" he heard Doc ask from behind, his voice tired.

Marty turned around slowly, not want to reawaken any vertigo. The inventor was still lying in bed, raised up on his elbows, squinting at him and looking more than a little grumpy.

The twenty-year-old cleared his throat. Even so, his words came out in a sort of croak. "I wanted to see...where are we, Doc?"

"You don't know?" The inventor's tone was as dry as Marty's mouth. "What do you remember?"

"About what?"

"About yesterday. About what happened before you woke up in here."

"Uh...it was my birthday?"

"And?" Doc's voice continued to sound gruff. He sat up all the way at simply stared at Marty, his gaze sharp.

Marty swallowed hard, craving another drink of water. Thinking made his head hurt more, but he stubbornly foraged on. Something had happened to Clara, he realized. And it was because she was...she was....

"Clara's pregnant," he realized aloud.

"Yes, she is. Do you remember what you did after I told you that?"

Marty had a dim recollection that the scientist had told him the news in some manner, but beyond that he had no clue. He shook his head once, causing a moment of dizziness.

"You became furious with me. You ran off before I could stop you and went to the saloon. There, you consumed almost a full bottle of strong bourbon under one hour...for what reason, I'm not sure. Stupidity, perhaps?"

Marty heard loud and clear an underlining note of anger in Doc's words. The terse summary of events prior to the dark blotch of the young man's memory stirred up echoes of his own feelings. He had been angry, he knew, because not only had Doc vowed that there would be no more children after Jules, but because he had concealed the news of Clara's pregnancy for a couple of months.

"Stupidity was getting Clara knocked up again," he blurted out.

Doc's mouth tightened into a hard line. "Frankly, I think that is none of your business," he said flatly.

"It is if it's going to mean we stay in the past longer," Marty said. He took a breath, feeling dizzy again. He had to sit down if he was going to have this conversation. He staggered over to the armchair and eased down into it.

Doc turned away for a moment to climb off the bed. "I am doing the best I can back here," he said, beginning to pace over to Marty's side of the room. "I don't know what you expect from me anymore."

"I want you to get us back home and stop being a hypocrite."

Doc lifted his eyebrows. "A hypocrite? Elaborate on that."

"'Don't do anything that can change the past.' Then you go out and get married, have a kid, and now you're going to have another one. How is that not changing anything in the past?"

The scientist narrowed his eyes at him, answering his query with one of his own. "Do you trust me at all, Marty?"

That was an interesting question. Marty leaned back in the chair as he mulled it over. "I don't know," he finally admitted. "I used to, but...you keep breaking promises, Doc."

"What promises are those? You cannot possibly hold the fact that I haven't finished the time machine as evidence against me. These things take time!"

Marty privately disagreed, but even he realized that to say so would just not be wise at the moment. Besides, there were hosts of other reasons to share. "Promising you and Clara wouldn't have kids...you've broken that twice now."

"Forgive me, Marty, I am not perfect." There was a bitterness in Doc's voice, a tone so strange and unfamiliar in him that the young man felt his face suddenly flush in embarrassment. "I will never again promise you anything...after all, nothing in life or science is certain."

The words seemed to linger in the air. Marty couldn't think of a response and so he changed the subject slightly. "What else aren't you telling me, Doc?"

"What do you mean?"

"You waited so long to tell me about Clara...what else are you keeping from me?"

"Nothing," Doc said. "Nothing at all." The response sounded genuine enough. "If you had let me explain yesterday, I waited to tell you only until I was sure that Clara was past any danger of miscarrying...and then, I admit, I procrastinated the chore. I'll take responsibility for that. I was afraid of you reacting...well, like you did, although I didn't think you'd try to kill yourself or assault me in the process."

"What?" Marty didn't think he had heard right.

Doc ticked off the details on one hand, pacing as he did so. "First of all, consuming almost an entire bottle of a ninety proof beverage in under one hour put you in danger of poisoning by alcohol...especially considering your size. I've been up all night making sure that wouldn't happen to you, and believe me, it was not a task I would wish on anyone. I'm going to guess you have no memory on how many times you threw up last night nor how much water I had to literally pour down your throat to help alleviate severe dehydration."

Marty shook his head once, feeling secretly relieved by that. He felt miserable enough now, and he suspected that recollections of getting sick repeatedly would enhance that.

"And I'm going to assume that you don't remember punching me." Doc's voice was flat.

"No -- no," Marty stammered, horrified. "I punched you?"

Doc nodded once and pointed to his mouth, which Marty now noticed looked slightly swollen and bruised. "Right here, when I tried to stop you from leaving the saloon. Seamus caught up with you and helped me bring you back here."

Marty swallowed hard, feeling dizzy for reasons unrelated to his hangover. He had been pissed at Doc, yeah, but hitting him? It was so far out and so disturbing that he felt sick inside. He took in a deep breath and exhaled slowly, nervously rubbing the palms of his hands over the arms of the chair. "I'm sorry I slugged you," he said softly. "I didn't know I did that."

Doc echoed his sigh and sat down on Marty's side of the bed, facing him across the brief span of floor between the bed and the chair. "Thank you for the apology," he said stiffly. "But it doesn't solve much, you know. You should not be drinking like that -- you have no control over your actions. I don't want you to touch any more alcohol for the rest of the time we're back here."

"Wait a minute--"

"No, Marty, just listen to me. First of all, you are still underage according to the laws of home. Second of all, it is no way to deal with anything -- disappointment, anger, sadness, things like that. It solves none of your problems and can make them worse. Thirdly, you surely remember your mother from the original timeline and what turning to the bottle did to her. And, finally, it's obvious to me that it makes you irrational and counters any control you have on your temper. It enhances every flaw in your character."

Privately, Marty didn't have a problem with Doc's stipulation. He didn't even like the taste of alcohol, and he recalled now that the only reason he went to drink at the saloon in the first place was because he really wanted to get back at his friend, hurt him in the way that he had felt hurt by the belated news of Clara's pregnancy. He hated that he was forbidden, though, that Doc was drawing a hard line in the sand. Doc wasn't his dad; true, the scientist was the closest thing to the role right now, but he still wasn't Marty's father and the young man felt that, as a friend, he didn't quite have the power to create rules like that.

Marty studied the inventor shrewdly. "Does that mean that next year I can drink, since I'll be twenty-one?"

Doc shook his head. "While you are back here, while I am responsible for you, no. Once you're back home and living with your family again, do what you want."

Something about Doc's choice of words disturbed him. "So is that what you see me as? Just a responsibility now, some duty?"

"You're making it difficult for me to feel much different right now," Doc said bluntly. "We started out as friends, Marty, and I am aware that things have shifted a little in the time since your arrival here. I would like us to return back to the future on the same note, but I have to admit that yesterday's little escapade has given me serious doubts about the matter."

Marty nodded, feeling even more miserable now. If Doc kicked him out here, he didn't know what he would do. The young man suspected that Doc wouldn't do that, not with his supposed sense of responsibility, but losing the inventor's friendship before they returned home was not Marty's goal.

On the other hand, there was a difference between being kicked out and leaving on one's own terms.

"Maybe I should move out," he said in a low voice. "Especially since you guys are going to have another kid."

"Ridiculous," Doc said at once. "Where would you go?"

"Well...the stable, I guess."

Doc shook his head. "It worked as a temporary solution, not a permanent one. The building needs serious weatherproofing and re-roofing if it was to act as a year-round home, and I don't want to waste my time or money undertaking that sort of project. Do you?"

"No, but...I just feel...out of place at your house."

Doc folded his arms across his chest and stared at Marty. "Is there any place in this time where you

Doc folded his arms across his chest and stared at Marty. "Is there any place in this time where you don't feel out of place?" he asked.

"No," Marty admitted. "I guess not."

"You'll stay with us until we leave. It's less damaging to history that way, anyway. You have brought up another concern of mine: What is your attitude towards my family?"

"What? What do you mean?"

"I sometimes wonder if you think that Clara and Jules and...well, now this new child...are the enemy. They're not, you know."

"The enemy?" Marty would have laughed at the idea if Doc hadn't looked so serious and he wasn't suffering from a hangover. "The enemy of what? Me?"

"You tell me."

"I don't have a problem with them as people," Marty said honestly. "I have a problem with you blowing off working on the time machine. That's it." There was, too, the fact that Marty was increasingly sure that Clara did not like him, that she held the snatching of Jules when he was in Marty's care against him, but the young man knew that if he were to bring it up, Doc would just wave that off and tell him he was being paranoid. It was yet another reason why he wondered if moving out might be the best idea.

"There is not much more I can be doing for the time machine," Doc said. "I think we're making fine progress under the circumstances and considering the technology. We could be out of here in a few more years, barring any setbacks."

Marty shrugged. "Fine. Great. Maybe by that point you'll have three kids."

"I already feel like I do," Doc said with a meaningful look at Marty. The twenty-year-old felt his face flush and dropped his eyes to study the floor. After a moment of uncomfortable silence, Doc spoke again. "I'm going to head over to the shop now and get things ready to open a little early today so we can return home sooner in the afternoon. If you want to stay up here and rest, so be it. If you feel up to helping me in the stable, I would welcome that as well."

Marty glanced around the room. "Are we at the Palace hotel?"

"Yes. I didn't think Clara should have to deal with the stress of this, and if you were showing signs of a medical problem, I wanted to be close to the doctor."

Marty nodded numbly, leaning forward and burying his face in his hands. He heard Doc move around a little, then the inventor's footsteps headed away from him. There was the sound of a door opening, the creak of a hinge, and then the door closed behind him. Doc's footsteps faded off down the hall, leaving silence in their wake. The young man remained where he was for a while, in spite of his thirst, in spite of the pounding in his head.

He had never felt so alone in his entire life.

* * *

Around three in the afternoon, Doc decided that he had put in what constituted a full day's work and began to clean things up for the day. Marty helped him a little. The young man had remained in the Palace all morning and appeared around lunchtime looking pale and wan. If he was still suffering from the side effects of the night before -- and Doc would have wagered he was, considering how ill he had been all night long -- he offered no word of complaint. Actually, he didn't say much at all, turning down any offers of food to simply sip some of the cold well water and working mostly in inventorying the nails and running a couple errands in town.

On the ride back to the house, Doc reflected on what to tell his wife about last night's debacle. He didn't want to lie to her, but he didn't want to stir up any anxiety for her, either. Clara's perspective of Marty had shifted somewhat a year ago, and though she said nothing about it to him or to the young man, Doc sensed that a barrier had been erected, a friction of some kind that could later explode. Marty, perhaps, felt the same thing; at any rate, he rarely wanted to be left alone with Clara now and spent a lot of time in his room by himself, so Clara said, if the inventor wasn't around.

The truth would suffice, he supposed, but he would refrain from telling her anything more than she asked.

When they returned to the house, Clara met them on the front porch with Jules held on her hip, having spotted their arrival from one of the windows. Even from a distance as he walked towards the home, Doc could see the crease of concern embedded in her forehead.

"Are you all right?" she asked anxiously, her eyes darting over to Marty to include him in her question. The young man had the brim of his hat pulled low, no doubt to keep as much of the sun out of his overly sensitive eyes. He looked at Doc to answer the question.

"Yes, fine," he said to his wife, which was the truth. He dismounted Newton and looked at Marty. "Can you take the horses out to the pasture?"

"Sure," Marty said. He got down off his own ride and took Newton's reins from Doc to lead both animals around back. Doc watched him until he rounded the corner and was out of both sight and earshot. Clara gave her husband a puzzled look as he ascended the porch steps.

"What happened, Emmett?" she asked.

Doc took Jules from Clara. The dark-eyed toddler grinned at his father and wrapped his arms around his neck as he moved between parents. Doc kissed his wife distractedly before answering her question with one of his own.

"What did Seamus tell you last night?"

"He said that Marty was sick, and you were staying with him in town overnight." She looked worried. "Is it safe for him to be around Jules?"

"Oh, yes, quite. What he had is not catching."

Doc hoped she would leave it at that, but he was disappointed. "What do you mean? What is going on, Emmett?"

With a reluctant sigh, Doc summed up the general events of the day before, choosing to omit a few little things, including Marty's punch to his face. Clara's face darkened and she looked almost angry when her husband had finished.

"The nerve of him to put you through all that," she said.

"I've already talked to him about it, and he seems genuinely contrite. I'll take care of everything. You don't need to worry."

"Of course," Clara said, her tone a bit cool. "I've heard that before." Before Doc could ask her to elaborate on that a bit, she turned and headed for the ajar front door. "I've got to work on supper. Can you watch Jules until then or take him out to the lab with you?"

"Certainly. Oh, and here's a letter from your family. Marty picked this up at the post office today." He reached into his pocket and pulled out the envelope that had inched its way from New Jersey. Clara accepted it and studied the postmark for a moment.

"Mailed in early May," she mused. "Amazing how fast the post moves now, isn't it?"

Doc hid a smile as he thought about the way things were in his time; it would take days, not weeks, for a letter to cross the country. He watched Clara go inside and then looked down at his son as he circumnavigated the house via the porch, not wanting to track any dirt through the house. "What have you been up to today, son?"

Jules smiled shyly. "Mama did wash t'day," he said. At just a year and a half old, he already had a fairly extensive vocabulary. Clara seemed to think it was extraordinary and Doc -- who had never had much experience with small children or babies -- took her word for it. "I help-ped."

"Did you?"

"I added snowflakes," Jules announced proudly. He had meant soapflakes, but Doc didn't correct him. A shadow crossed the toddler's face and he turned his head about. "Where's Marty?"

"He's putting the horses out back. He'll be along shortly."

"I wanna see 'im now. He never opened his pwesents." Jules said this as if it was a great tragedy.

"Well...perhaps he will tonight." Doc wasn't sure how well that would go over, though, all things considered. He went down the back porch steps and crossed the backyard towards the lab. Halfway to his destination he met Marty as the young man was returning from the pasture. Jules smiled at his arrival and stretched one arm out towards Marty, clearly wanting to be held by him now. Marty gave him a terse nod in greeting before looking to Doc.

"I'm gonna lie down a little, if that's okay," he said. "My head is still killing me."

"Why don't you come out to the lab with me?" Doc suggested, not wanting to send his friend in the house and into the path of his wife...not without fair warning, anyway. "I was going to do some work before supper on the machine."

Marty frowned. "I dunno if I'll be much help with that right now," he admitted.

"You can lie down on the cot out there if you want."

Lines of confusion etched themselves across Marty's forehead. "What's wrong with me going to my room?"

Doc sighed, shifting his son's weight a bit. "Nothing...but Clara may want to speak to you on your way in."

Marty blinked, his brow smoothing out in sudden understanding. "Oh. So she's mad at me now, huh?"

"No," Doc lied. "Not really. I just thought you might want to rest before walking into that conversation."

"I'll stay out in the lab with you," Marty agreed flatly.

Doc nodded once. He resumed his walk to the former barn. "Are you going to be eating with us tonight?"

"I dunno. My stomach is still a little messed up from everything. What the hell was in that wake up juice, anyway?"

"I wasn't paying much attention to the ingredients. I thought you had seen Chester make the concoction before?"

"I was a little distracted at the time...and I'm lucky I remember anything from that day." Marty absentmindedly touched his head, suddenly looking sad. He arrived at the barn first and leaned against the wall by the door as Doc set his son down and reached into his pocket for the keys.

Jules promptly went over to Marty and stretched his arms over his head. "Up," he said forcefully. "Up, Marty."

"Not today, kid. I don't feel so hot."

Jules pouted. "Why?" he asked.

"Because I...had a bad night." He looked up at Doc. "Does he know about...what you told me yesterday?"

"No," Doc said. "He's so young. I'm not quite sure how to explain it to him at this point, and I certainly didn't want to tell him before we told you." The inventor imagined what might've happened if Jules had let the cat out of the bag. "We'll share it with him soon."

Doc finished unlocking the bolts on the door and pushed it open. He scooped up his son and carried him inside, setting him in a playpen that he had constructed, stocked with both toys of the day and little devices that Doc had cobbled himself. "Your father's got some work to do," he said to Jules. "If you play quietly with your toys, I'll give you a cookie after supper."

"I want cake," Jules said immediately, his dark eyes drifting over to Marty. "Bird-day cake."

"Ah, yes, there's that, isn't it? All right, cake, then. Do we have a deal?"

In response, Jules sat down and reached for a wooden train that Clara had found in the mercantile last Christmas. Doc smiled, satisfied, and turned around. Marty had taken a seat at the worktable and watched his friend with his chin resting in his hands. "Hangover or no, I think your birthday will still be celebrated tonight after supper. Jules will be awfully disappointed if he has to wait another day."

"Sure, I don't care," Marty said, his tone void of any enthusiasm. He tapped a finger on the desktop with his free hand. "What are you going to do today?"

"I thought you wanted to lie down?"

"The more I help, the sooner I can go home, right?" Marty said. "As long as it doesn't involve any hammering, I can handle it."

It would not. In fact, Doc didn't want to do anything too complicated; he was fighting his own exhaustion from the night before. He set Marty up with the dull but necessary task of wrapping up yards of copper wire with a fabric he had soaked in a concoction to be inflammable for insulation. While Marty did the chore, the inventor worked a bit in refining the blueprints for the time circuits.

When the clocks in the lab struck five, Doc put the work aside for the day, collected Jules from where he had fallen asleep in his playpen, and went back to the house with Marty. The young man stuck close to him when they went into the house, even trailing him through the kitchen and to the stairs at the front of the house before he veered off to his room down the first floor hallway.

It took Doc a few minutes to settle Jules down in his bed and set up his homemade baby monitor, constructed with some help from the remains of the old walkie-talkies, in order to know when he woke from downstairs. He carried the receiver with him to the dining room where Clara was pouring water into the glasses on the table.

"Jules is napping," he said. "Did he go down at all today?"

"No," Clara said, sounding distracted as she set the pitcher of water down. "I tried, but he refused. I don't know if he should be napping this late in the day, so close to his bedtime."

"I'll go wake him then," Doc said easily, turning around.

"No, Emmett, leave him be. Perhaps he'll sleep straight on through the night tonight." Clara's voice sounded tired and strained. She picked up the empty glass near her place at the table and began to fill the it with water. As she moved to set it back down, her fingers slipped and the glass fell down on top of the table, spilling a wide swath of water that darkened the fabric of the tablecloth. Clara bit her lip at the accident. "Oh, darn!"

Doc picked up the cloth napkin closest to him and began to wipe up the water, moving a couple plates and the floral centerpiece that Clara had made for the week out of the way. "It's just water," he said. "Sit down. I can clean it up."

Clara settled the pitcher on the table and lifted her hands to her hair, tugging at it. Springs of curls were struggling to escape from the knot she had piled it into, and she looked frazzled. "Emmett, there is something I need to speak to you about."

Doc's heart suddenly began to skip. He exhaled slowly and suddenly stopped mopping up the spill. "If this is about Marty--"

"No," Clara interjected. "It isn't." She reached into the pocket of her apron and withdrew the letter that had arrived earlier that day from her parents. "My mother and father have decided they are coming to visit us."

Doc blinked, the news a complete surprise. "What was that?" he asked, thinking he may have misheard.

"My mother and father are coming to visit us in July," Clara said. "They purchased their train tickets in April. They aim to stay for a month."

"A whole month?"

"That isn't terribly uncommon when you consider the distance they have to travel," Clara said. She folded and unfolded the envelope nervously. "I'm as surprised by this as you are."

"Where will they be staying? With us?" Doc suddenly felt panic tighten around his throat. He had never met his in-laws before. They certainly did not know anything about his origins, and the idea of trying to hide that from them for four or five weeks did not sit too well.

"Well...yes. They are family, after all. Do you think Marty would give up his room for them?"

Doc winced at the idea. "I really don't think that's a good idea. Where would he sleep?"

"Your study," Clara said at once. "We haven't a bed anywhere else in this house. He could use the cot you have out in your lab."

His wife brought up an excellent point -- unless Doc wanted to go out and purchase a new bed, there was nowhere else to put the couple. Marty, he knew, was going to have a fit, and Doc honestly couldn't blame him. It was extremely poor timing, all things considered.

"He won't like it."

"Well, then, I'll speak to him about it," Clara said. "No need to trouble yourself over this issue. It's my family that is coming, after all." She continued to fuss with the envelope. "Are you angry with me, Emmett?"

"Angry?" Doc didn't understand the question. "Why would I be angry with you?"

"Well, for my family coming and for telling them to visit sometime. After Papa fell ill a couple of years ago, I didn't think...well, it's quite a ways to travel for a visit. I know you prefer privacy here, but--"

Doc waved his hand and Clara stopped. "Clara, I'm not angry. These people are your parents. They are Jules' grandparents. I would love to meet them and get to know them a little bit. I'll admit it will make things a bit...complicated, but we have plenty of time to prepare. What date are they supposed to arrive?"

"July eleventh, on the three o' clock train. They're to depart on August fifteenth on the seven A.M. train."

Doc took a breath and exhaled, thinking of everything that would need to be done. "All right," he said. He stepped to his wife's side and gave her a kiss. "I'll send a cable first thing tomorrow to let them know that we got their letter and will be expecting them next month. And I'll tell Marty about it myself," he added quickly. The news would be better coming from him, he sensed. "I'll be right back."

* * *

It had been a hell of a day.

Marty lay on his bed, one arm draped over his eyes, his head still aching horribly from the bourbon of the day before. The idea of going into the dining room to try to shove down some food into a stomach that still felt queasy, and then feigning some smiles and happiness for birthday cake and gifts, was almost too much to bear. Maybe if he fell asleep -- or pretended to be asleep -- he could simply skip all that and put a premature end on another too-long day.

He was starting to drift a little towards that sweet oblivion of sleep, his mind lazily cycling through familiar and soothing images of home, when a soft knock sounded at his door. The sound yanked him fully back to earth, but Marty did not move or speak. Not even when the knock came again, more insistent this time, and he heard the door creak open a few inches.

"Marty?"

Hold still, Marty told himself. Breathe deeply.

Footsteps approached the bed, and a hand touched his shoulder, shaking him gently. "Marty, I need to talk to you right now."

"Go away," Marty said, not moving anything more than his lips. "I'm not hungry. I just want to sleep, okay?"

"In a bit." He felt the mattress sag a little as Doc sat down at the end of the bed. "You wanted to be informed of things that would have an impact you in this house, didn't you? Well, there's something I need to share with you."

Curious and suspicious, Marty moved his arm off of his eyes and opened them to blink blearily at Doc. "What?" he asked. "Is Clara going to have twins now?"

"Good Lord, I hope not! No. Clara's parents are going to be coming to visit us."

Marty was a little confused. "Don't they live back east somewhere?"

"Yes, in New Jersey."

"Isn't that a little far? Won't that take them months to get out here?"

"No, just a week or so. The railroad spans the entire country, you know. They'll be arriving near the middle of July and remain here for about five weeks."

The length of the visit boggled Marty. "Where will they stay? The Palace?"

"No. They will stay here with us. They're family -- well, Clara's family and my in-laws. It wouldn't be very hospitable of us to turn them away."

Marty rolled his eyes. "If my grandparents tried to stay with us for a month, I think my parents would go completely nuts. Good luck with that, Doc."

Doc gave a grimace that may have been an attempt at a smile. "Well, I was hoping to meet them before we left this time period. Now I have my chance." He paused. "There is one favor that, ah, we need to ask of you, and I cannot see another way around it."

Marty suspected that he would not like what that favor would be. He sat up slowly, staring at his friend. "What's that?" he asked warily.

Doc sighed, suddenly looking weary to the bone. Marty felt a stab of guilt, thinking about what he had put him through over the last twenty-four hours. "Clara's parents will need a bed to stay in. The only bed in this house, besides ours, is yours."

Marty didn't understand for a moment. "So you need to buy one...?"

"No. We'll need the use of yours as well as your bedroom. I'm sorry."

Marty felt his temper stir at the request. "Where am I supposed to sleep then?" he asked.

"In my study. We'll set up the cot in there and that will be your space for the duration of the visit. We don't want to turn you out," Doc added hastily.

"Yeah, right," Marty said, suddenly sullen. He flopped back on the bed. "I have no choice in this, huh?"

"Not really." Doc shrugged, the gesture helpless. "I don't know what else to do. It makes no sense for us to purchase a new bed just for their visit."

"Maybe someone has one you can borrow."

"I doubt it. Beds are very expensive now. We cannot expect anyone to loan us such a necessary piece of furniture for such a long duration."

"Fine," Marty said curtly. "Why'd you even ask me about it if I have no say?"

Doc frowned. "I realize that it is rather lousy to be evicted from your own room, but you could show a bit more courtesy and maturity about this." He glanced towards the ajar door and lowered his voice. "Do you realize how difficult it will be for me during this prolonged visit? Clara's parents have no idea about my origins or yours. They don't know much about me at all, I think, aside from the matter that I am the town blacksmith."

Marty considered that and tried to choke back his irritation and ire towards his friend. It wasn't Doc's fault that Clara's parents were coming, he realized. No, that blame probably lay with the former teacher. He closed his eyes, his head giving him a particularly sickening throb, and sighed.

"Sorry," he said, keeping his eyes shut and trying to muster as much sincerity as he could in the apology. "Fine, they can have my room and I'll sack out across the hall. I can even stay in town if you want."

"No," Doc said, an odd note in his voice. "Although it may cause more questions from Clara's parents, I would prefer to have you here."

The young man opened his eyes to study his friend. "Why?" Marty asked, curious in spite of himself.

Doc lifted his shoulders in another shrug before getting up from the bed. "With you here, I won't be quite as much the outsider, I suppose."

"Oh, gee, thanks. That's nice."

"It's not meant as an insult, Marty. Clara and her parents -- and even Jules -- all are products of this time. I am not...and neither are you. Considering the way many adults regarded me back home, I think I have a reason to feel a little apprehensive about this visit."

Marty sat up again. "Doc, no one here really thinks you're a freak or anything. What makes you think that Clara's parents are gonna be narrow-minded like that?"

"I don't know. Nothing in particular, I suppose. From what I've heard, Clara's father is a man of science, and her mother is not quite the conventional sort either. Perhaps it will be all right...but a month? I'm afraid they're going to become suspicious about a great number of things I cannot reveal." Doc sighed and abruptly changed the subject. "Did you want to stay in bed the rest of the night or join us for supper?"

The temptation to stay in his room was almost overwhelming, but Marty suspected that Doc was as eager as he was to get this birthday business over and done with. If he skipped the meal, things would likely get shoved to the following day. There was simply no escape. "I guess I'll try to eat something...but I really don't think that any cake is going to go in."

"That's fine, that's fine. Oh, and Marty? Please don't share anything that I've told you with Clara. The last thing I want is to worry her or stress her out right now."

"Sure," Marty agreed. "Your secret is safe with me."

Even with a month's notice, Doc certainly did not feel remotely prepared for the day his in-laws were due to arrive.

Clara had spent the last week alone in a frenzy of cleaning, much to her husband's concern. Five months into her pregnancy now, the morning sickness had passed, but she still seemed too pale to the inventor's liking and the scheduled visit made her unwilling to rest or take it easy. Things needed to be done, and Doc and Marty could be of no help there. Doc was not a good housekeeper even in the future with the labor-saving devices of the time -- such as vacuum cleaners -- and Marty fared little better.

The singular thing that Clara requested of the young man was to clean his bedroom the weekend prior to Daniel and Martha Clayton's arrival. Marty's version of doing this was to dump all of his belongings -- clothes, notebooks of songwriting, toiletries, general miscellany -- in a few boxes, haul them across the hall to the study, and then strip the bed of the sheets and blankets.

Clara's version of clean involved not only dusting the room -- which Marty did do, halfheartedly -- but scrubbing the floor, polishing the wood and the furniture, airing out the mattress, washing the curtains, and even ironing the freshly laundered sheets before putting them on the bed.

Doc's singular contribution to the preparations amounted to keeping Jules occupied and out of his mother's hair, a job he would sometimes pass off to Marty in order to get work done on the budding time machine. Marty offered not one word of complaint about sitting duties, eager to do anything to help the machine's construction along, even if it did mean entertaining a toddler.

On the day the visit was to begin, Doc took the afternoon off, headed back to the house, and spent almost two hours painstakingly changing into his best clothes, scrubbing up, and trying to tame his wild, unruly hair. Clara, too, spent an unusual amount of time debating the proper dress to wear, a matter made more difficult due to her growing belly. Her parents did not know the news of her pregnancy, of course, and Clara did not want to startle them upon first sight. There was, too, the matter that in these Victorian times, the physical sign of a pregnancy should be hidden at all costs. Studying his wife as she modeled another garment for him, Doc didn't think she looked obviously pregnant. The dresses and corsets of the time could disguise a growing bump quite well, and if she held Jules before her, no one would be the wiser.

Getting Jules into a nice new outfit for the occasion proved the biggest headache. The toddler did not want to put on the trousers, shirt, and jacket that Clara had recently finished stitching. It took some bribery of a few cookies before he stopped kicking and crying long enough for both Doc and Marty to wrestle him into the clothes. But Jules flat out refused to wear the new stiff leather shoes.

"No shoes," he wailed, shaking his head hard.

"But everyone wears shoes outside," Doc said as patiently as he could, holding up the footwear for him to see. "You want to be a big boy when you meet your grandparents, don't you?"

"No shoes, no shoes, no shoes!"

Not even Marty could persuade the toddler to give in, and the young man usually had luck when Clara and Doc did not. Doc finally gave up. If Jules didn't want to wear shoes, so be it. He would just have to be carried the whole day or he'd ruin his brand new socks.

The four of them took the buggy into town, straight to the train station. Although they arrived ten minutes before three, the train did not. It was delayed with a new ETA of almost an hour later -- not an uncommon occurrence in today's day and age. Doc sent Clara to wait with Jules in the comfort of a shaded bench while he paced around the platform, pausing every moment or so to glance up at the tracks. Marty waited with him and, after a few moments of silence, finally spoke up.

"You know, people are starting to stare, Doc. Can't you do something else while we wait? You're making me nervous."

Doc tugged at his too-tight collar, the backs of his new shoes starting to chew into his heels. He stopped pacing although the cessation of movement made him feel even more anxious. He had not felt like this since his wedding day. "I just want to get this initial encounter over with," he said.

"Obviously," Marty said, leaning against the wall of the train station near the railroad map. "But there's not much you can do to hurry the trains, right?"

Doc pulled out his pocket watch and checked the time. Three forty-four P.M. He snapped it closed harder than necessary, venting some of his helpless frustration.

"I don't get why you're so freaked out about this," Marty added, stuffing his hands in his pockets. "What are you so afraid of?"

The inventor wasted no time in rattling off a whole litany of things going through his head. "They could hate me and upset Clara. They could discover our true origins. They could persuade Clara to leave me and that I am no good for her. They could turn around and leave tomorrow, unable to bear being known as related to me."

Marty let out a low whistle and shook his head. "Don't you think you're being a little paranoid? They're just Clara's parents."

"Are you to tell me you didn't feel the least bit nervous about the first time you met Jennifer's parents?"

Doc rarely brought up Marty's girlfriend if he could help it. The mere mention of her name usually prompted his friend to mope for some hours afterwards. In his stress, the scientist had spoken before he really thought it through. Marty looked at the floor for a moment after the question and then shrugged.

"I guess her dad kind of freaked me out. I mean, he's a big guy. But Clara's a grown woman, Doc, so that's totally different."

"That doesn't matter," Doc said. "Even if a woman is an adult, she is still a child in the eyes of her parents." He took a deep breath, trying to slow his racing heart. "I wish that train would hurry up."

His wish was granted about ten minutes later, when a puff of smoke finally appeared on the horizon at the end of the tracks. The sound of the train's whistle came a moment later. Clara left her spot on the bench, where she had been keeping Jules amused by showing him how to count the buttons on her dress, and carried the toddler with her. Jules was fussy, having missed his afternoon nap, and struggled to be set free from the prison of his mother's arms.

"Here," Marty said, stepping next to Clara. "I'll take him. You probably want to greet your parents, right?"

Clara nodded her thanks, suddenly distracted, and passed Jules over. "Are you all right, Emmett?" she asked.

Doc felt his wife lay a hand on his arm as he stood near the edge of the platform and watched the smoke grow bigger by degrees. He could hear the rumble of the engine now, a low, distant sound.

"I'm fine," he said automatically in response to his wife's query. "Just fine. How are you feeling? Is the heat bothering you at all?"

"No. The breeze makes it rather comfortable." She watched the train approach for a moment. "Don't be nervous, Emmett. I'm sure they will love you."

Doc sighed. "I wish I felt remotely confident about that."

"I'll be confident enough for us both." Clara leaned forward and kissed her husband quickly on the mouth, smiling up at him from under the brim of her hat. "Don't you worry so about this. You look as if you are on your way to your own funeral."

Doc tried to smile, his face feeling frozen and plastic. The false smile was still set on his face when the train finally slowed to a stop at the station and passengers began to disembark.

Clara stood a few feet away from where Doc and Marty waited, her eyes scanning the figures that stepped out of the train and down to the station's platform. She stepped forward quickly upon seeing a couple in their late middle age come into view. "Mama! Papa!" she called, raising a hand to wave.

The pair looked over at the sound of her voice. The man was stocky and stout, his stature not much more than Marty's. He had brown eyes and dark hair the same shade of Clara's, woven with webs of silver. A handlebar mustache graced his upper lip, wire-rimmed glasses sat on his nose, and he was dressed very neatly. Next to him, Doc suddenly felt very plain and frumpy.

At his side was a taller, slender woman clad in an impeccable dress of deep green. Her curly, auburn hair was swept up in an oversized bun tucked under a smart, stylish hat. Facially, she bore a strong resemblance to her daughter, though her skin was more pale, with rosy undertones, and contained freckles where Clara had none. Her eyes were unlike her daughter's as well, a shade of hazel or green. It was difficult to tell from the point where Doc stood.

The Claytons recognized their daughter and beamed at her, stepping forward in turn to each embrace her. "Clara, dear, it has been too long!" Doc heard his mother-in-law say to her daughter, her voice vaguely reminiscent of her daughter's. She stepped back and looked Clara over, holding her by the shoulders. "You look radiant!"

Clara's back was to her husband, so Doc could not see her face. "You both look very well, too," Doc heard her say to her parents, her voice soft. "Come, there are some people I want you to meet."

She turned to escort her parents over to Doc, but before she could orchestrate the introductions, her mother surged forward and made a beeline to Jules, still being held by Marty.

"Oh, you must be our grandson! Come here, you darling boy."

In response, Jules clung to Marty hard and whimpered, ducking his face into the young man's shoulder. Clara's mother smiled and looked at Marty a moment. "Well, when Clara wrote to say her husband was of a different age, I had no idea she meant someone so young! You must be Emmett."

Marty's mouth dropped open. "Uh," he managed, his eyes darting over to Doc. The inventor felt his face flush with color and he was temporarily speechless. Clara, for her part, looked too shocked to say a word.

Mrs. Clayton continued, cutting Marty off before he could begin. "I'm Martha Clayton and that is my husband, Daniel," she said, gesturing to Clara's father who had gone off to see to the bags. "We're right pleased to meet you both." She smiled again at Jules as the toddler cautiously peeked at his grandmother. "My goodness, Jules looks like a Clayton! Those big dark eyes and all that hair...he don't seem to favor you much, Emmett, but maybe your next child will take more after your kin."

"Uh, ah, Ma'am?" Marty said weakly, shooting Doc another grossly uncomfortable look. "I'm not your son-in-law."

Martha Clayton blinked, her smile fading. "I beg your pardon?" she said. "Ain't that my grandson?"

Clara quickly stepped forward. "Yes, that is Jules," she said. "But my husband is right here. Emmett, this is my mother."

Clara tugged her mother's arm, pivoting her so that she faced Doc. The older woman blinked, her smile fading, clearly stunned. "I beg your pardon?" she said, turning to her daughter.

"This is my husband, Emmett Brown," Clara said, touching Doc on the shoulder. She smiled up at him, but Doc could tell the expression was as strained as the one he wore on his own face.

Martha's forehead wrinkled as she tried to process that information. She looked over at Marty. "Who is that?" she asked.

"I'm Clint Eastwood," Marty said. It had been decided that he would have to go by his assumed name, as it would cause too much confusion and possible trouble for him to be known by anything else around Clara's parents. "I'm Do-- Emmett's, uh...friend," he added, rather lamely.

Martha narrowed her eyes a moment and then swung her head back over to Doc. She studied him a moment before looking to her daughter. "He's a little old, honey. Couldn't you do any better out here?"

Doc felt his face flood deeper with color at the blunt assessment. After only a few minutes, he had a feeling that this was just the way Martha Clayton was -- she spoke her mind without any thought to the possible consequences or feelings of others. How unusual, considering the manners of the time, especially where it pertained to women in the more refined East.

Clara looked flustered with her mother's words. "Emmett is a very special man," she said. "It should not matter how old or young he is."

"Well, I suppose not, but he looks as if he's older than your very own father!" She looked at Doc and finally addressed him directly. "How old are you?"

"I'll be sixty-nine on my next birthday," Doc said, seeing no point in lying.

Martha's eyebrows shot up. "Sixty-nine! For land sakes, he is older than Daniel!"

Clara stepped close to Doc and slipped an arm around his waist. "Emmett has more energy and stamina than men half his age," she said curtly. "He certainly does not seem to be as old as his chronological age implies."

"Well," Martha said again, seeming at a temporary loss of words. It was at that point that Daniel Clayton arrived, followed by two railroad employees, each of whom was carting an enormous trunk. After glancing around at their small party, Doc's father-in-law focused his eyes on his daughter.

"Do you have a buggy or buckboard we can load these into?"

"Yes, of course," Clara said. She looked at Emmett. "Could you bring it around?"

"Certainly," Doc said, suddenly eager to get away.

"I'll go with you," Marty said right away. He handed off Jules to Clara and followed Doc as the scientist made his way through the train station and to the street beyond.

"Wow," Marty said, once they were out of both eye and earshot of Clara and her parents. "Clara's mom is...."

"I know," Doc said, wishing fervently that the time machine was already working so he could go back and somehow redo that initial encounter. "She seems to speak her mind without any fear of consequence."

Marty snorted softly. "That's one way to put it. I thought people were supposed to be all polite and shit now, especially women."

Doc shrugged, genuinely at a loss. "Like all stereotypes, it is no doubt a gross exaggeration. There are tactless people in any and all times, no matter what the local manners are. Besides, maybe she was just surprised and not behaving as she normally would."

"Yeah, well.... If it's not some kind of fluke, this is going to be a hell of a long visit with them."

Doc sighed as they reached the waiting buggy and horses. He certainly hoped the next five weeks would go much better than the last five minutes.

* * *

It became apparent to Marty very quickly that this visit was a big mistake.

The first problem, of course, happened within the first minute of the Claytons arrival, with Clara's mom assuming that Marty was her son-in-law. The very idea made him feel a little grossed out, and not just because Clara was more than a decade older than him. The look on Doc's face -- like he had been slapped -- cut him to the core. And then Martha Clayton had continued to put her foot in her mouth, had not even apologized to her real son-in-law about all her completely thoughtless comments.

Doc's hope that that would be the end of it, that it would be some temporary thing, was quickly proven wrong. After Marty and Doc had loaded the enormous trunks into the back of the buggy, Doc had driven them back to the house. Marty, who perched on the back of the vehicle so that the Claytons could ride on the padded seats, got to listen to a whole lot of chatter from Martha about Clara's hometown, what her older brother was up to, and a brief travelogue of their trip west. Doc's mother-in-law seemed incapable of being remotely tactful in her summary of the trip, complaining about fellow passengers and inadvertently slamming Hill Valley.

Clara's father, for his part, barely said a word on the drive back. Whereas Martha was loud and overbearing, Daniel seemed quiet and rather meek. He reminded Marty, vaguely, of George McFly Before The Change, though Daniel did seem to have a bit more confidence than George.

Once they arrived back at the house, Marty helped Doc unload the trunks and tote them into the young man's bedroom that had been prepared for the Claytons' extended stay. Marty couldn't believe how heavy they were, and how no one had yet thought about attaching something like wheels on the things so they could be rolled. It took both him and Doc working together to move each trunk.

After the luggage was in place, they joined the Claytons in the parlor, where the couple had settled to relax while Clara finished supper in the kitchen and Jules had a nap upstairs. Marty had sort of hoped to hide out in his temporary room until then, not feeling like making small talk with strangers, but Doc had looked vaguely terrified to be left alone with only his in-laws, so he had stuck with his friend.

In the parlor, they found Martha seated at the writing desk, busily penning a letter. Clara's father was seated in the chair beside the window, his nose in a leather-bound book. Neither looked up right away, and Marty once more wondered if he would be lucky enough to escape. If the couple was engaged in their own independent activities, as it looked like they were, there seemed to be little reason to try and socialize with them.

He looked at Doc, and the scientist seemed to be thinking the same thing. At least he was remaining poised in the doorway to the parlor and biting his lip, looking decidedly indecisive. But then he suddenly stepped into the room and cleared his throat.

"Is there anything I can get either of you?" he asked his in-laws. "A drink or...something?"

Martha looked up from her work at the desk and set down her pen. "I'm fine," she said, turning around in her chair to face the scientist. "Why don't you have a seat, Emmett? I s'pose we should get acquainted a bit."

Doc smiled weakly and sat down on the edge of the couch, looking like he was about to meet his executioner. Although he was not invited to join them, Marty had a perverse urge to stay on and watch this. He hadn't seen his friend look quite this uncomfortable since...well, ever. Besides, if Martha decided to rattle off a lecture about his advanced age, Marty wanted to be there to try and rebuff some of the tactless comments. He slipped into the room and sat down on the ottoman of one of the armchairs, apparently unnoticed by either of Clara's parents. Martha didn't look his way, at any rate, and Daniel didn't even glance up from his book.

"Clara tells me you're a blacksmith," she said. "How long have you been in that trade?"

"A while, now," Doc said, rather vaguely.

"Was your father a 'smith, too?"

"No," Doc said, not elaborating. He fired off a question of his own before his in-law could get another one in. "Where are you from, Mrs. Clayton? You have an accent that I can't quite place...it doesn't sound eastern to me."

"Maybe that's because I didn't grow up there," Martha said. "I was born and raised in Texas. My pa owned a ranch, and I learned how to ride and rope not long after I learned how to walk. Ma died when I was barely knee high, and you might say that I didn't have a very conventional upbringing." She smiled. "Daniel, though, he came from New England. Graduated from Harvard, he did, and I didn't even go to school after I was about twelve."

"How'd you two even meet then?" Marty asked curiously. "You guys seem a little...different."

Martha looked his way, her brow furrowing. "Guys?" she echoed, plainly confused.

"Uh...both of you seem a little different," Marty hastily corrected.

"That may be so," Martha agreed. "I met Daniel when his wagon train was crossing Wyoming on its way west...it was 1850, wasn't it?"

Daniel, who still had his nose in his book, nodded his head minutely. Martha turned back to Marty. "We married 'bout a week after meeting. He accepted me for who I was, which can't be said for most of the men I'd seen...and he was very smart. I like smart men." Her tone turned softer now, not quite as abrasive as it normally was.

"If you two met there, why'd you go back east?" Marty asked.

"We found that there wasn't much work for a man of science like Daniel out in these parts. Farming didn't suit him too much, and my pa's offer to come down and tend to the ranch in Texas was not to his liking, either. We left and settled in New Jersey about a year after we were married. That is where Clara was born," she added, "as well as her brother and sister...God rest her soul."

Martha looked once more to Doc, barely pausing for breath. "Where did you grow up, Emmett?"

"Here and there," Doc said, once more evasive. Marty knew that it would be a joke for him to say Hill Valley, considering the town was not around in the 1820's. "I had a rather peregrinate upbringing."

"Where were you born? Surely you know that."

"Ah...Connecticut."

"Really, now? There are some Claytons out in those parts. Which town was your birthplace?"

"I don't know, exactly. My parents did not keep precise records."

Martha frowned. Marty could tell that she was starting to get sick of Doc's super vague answers. "Clara said you are a scientist," she said. "What sort of scientist are you?"

"I dabble in a little of everything," Doc said. "I have always found science as a whole quite fascinating."

"Really? If that is the case, why on earth are you a blacksmith?"

"Well, ah--"

"I suspect that work in the field of science pays very little out here, if at all, Martha," Daniel said, speaking up for the first time. He had a soft voice, one that was in sharp contrast to his wife. He closed the book and set it down on his lap, peering intently at Doc through wire-rimmed glasses. "A man cannot be faulted for making a living, even in a profession that is beneath him."

Marty couldn't figure out if Daniel just slammed Doc with his comment. The inventor's face was impassive, giving the young man no indication whatsoever on how his friend took it.

"I suppose," Martha agreed. "That does bring up a matter I had hoped to speak with you about. You should move to New Jersey."

Doc blinked at this statement. "I beg your pardon?"

"You and Clara should move to New Jersey. The west is really no place to raise a family. There are many more opportunities back East for both you and our little grandson. Surely you plan to educate Jules when he is old enough?"

Doc looked flustered. "Why, of course, he will go to school--"

"In a tiny one room school house? Now, I'm sure Clara was a fine teacher in such a place, but for our kin, a private academy or school is simply the best. You can surely get a job to use your own science knowledge in New Jersey rather than doing menial labor. Daniel can help you in that regard."

Doc's mouth moved, but no words emerged. Marty happily took over for him.

"With all due respect, ma'am, I think D-- Emmett and Clara want to stay here in Hill Valley."

Martha raked the young man over with a quick, distasteful glance. "Son, I don't think is any business of yours."

"Oh, no? I live with them. It's definitely my business."

"Clint." Doc's voice was clipped. Marty closed his mouth, pressing his lips together hard to keep the rest of what he wanted to say at bay. Keep cool, McFly, he told himself. You don't want to make anything worse.

Martha stared at Marty for a moment, frowning. She looked to Doc. "What relation is he to you?" she asked. "Why is he livin' here under your roof? Seems to me he's of able mind and body to be workin'."

"He is," Doc said. "He's my protege."

"Your what?"

"My assistant."

"Well, plenty of people have assistants in their trades but don't live with 'em unless they're kin."

"Clint is family, for the most part. He is a distant cousin once removed."

"I thought he was just a friend? That's what you said earlier."

"Well, he is also a friend, yes," Doc said, somehow remaining unflustered under Martha's sharp gaze. "The rest of his -- our -- family is dead. He has no one but us. Therefore, he is my responsibility."

"I see." Marty somehow doubted that she did, though. She looked at Marty again. "How old are you?"

"Twenty," Marty said, glancing sidelong at Doc as he answered.

"Twenty! That's plenty old to be livin' on your own."

Marty wasn't sure where this conversation would wind up, but fortunately Clara chose that moment to arrive in the room from the kitchen. "Supper is almost ready," she said. "Mar-- I mean, Clint, could you help me set the table?"

"Sure." Marty threw Doc an apologetic look as he got to his feet. He hastily followed Clara into the kitchen where the dishes and utensils were all stored. The former teacher arched an eyebrow at him as he closed the door at his back.

"How are they getting along?" she asked anxiously, her voice pitched low.

"Uh, well...your mom sure likes to ask a lot of personal questions."

"Yes, she has always spoken her mind. Do you think they like Emmett? Does he like them?"

Marty lifted his shoulders in a helpless shrug, intending to play dumb on this one. He went over to the cabinet where the dishes were stored and counted out six plates, just in case Jules was going to be partaking in the meal with all of them. "It's hard to say," he hedged. "I don't know your parents at all. I have no idea what they're thinking."

Clara leaned forward, placing one ear against the door. "I don't think I've ever seen Emmett look as uncomfortable as he did a moment ago," she whispered. "What sort of questions are they asking?"

"They want you guys to move back to New Jersey," Marty said, moving to collect the silverware next.

Clara's attention turned from the door immediately. "What?"

"Yeah, that's pretty much how Doc reacted. They think it's too wild out here, bad for Jules to grow up without good schools, blah blah blah."

"That...that is simply impossible. They cannot expect us to move our lives back there."

"My sentiments exactly. I told them that and then your mom was trying to figure out who the hell I was in all of this, how or why I was even living with you guys. Doc was trying to tap dance with that when you came in."

Clara frowned faintly. "Marty, you really should have stayed out of it."

"I know it's none of my business...but Doc wasn't saying anything. Someone needed to speak up."

Clara sighed but said nothing more about the matter. Marty piled the silverware onto the top plate and carefully moved the whole stack -- plates and utensils -- out of the kitchen and into the adjacent dining room, putting him once more within eye and earshot of Doc Vs. The In-Laws. Martha was still running her mouth off from the sound of it.

"...And not only could you work more in somethin' you enjoy, but Daniel and I would be nearby to help you out with little Jules," she was saying. "It's plain to me that the boy could do with more interactions outside of the family. He was so timid he barely could look at us."

"Jules is simply shy with strangers," Doc said, his voice softer than normal. Marty recognized the tone as one the inventor had when he was angry and was doing his best to be calm and reasonable. "It is not uncommon for small children, I think."

"Our children weren't like that, were they, Daniel? It's plain to see the boy is isolated too much out here with just you and his mother and Clint. Back in New Jersey, there will be plenty of young children his age that he can play with."

"There are plenty of young children here in Hill Valley that he can also play with," Doc said. "Our town is not that isolated."

"Your home is, though, and I would wager that Clara spends most of her time out here with just the baby. Why don't you live closer to town?"

There was a silence as Doc no doubt considered how to respond to the question. "We wished for a place with lots of room," he settled on. "The man who lived her before us was eager to sell for a very reasonable sum of money."

"It is a nice home, Martha," Daniel said. "You cannot fault a man for trying to save a dollar, and I don't believe Clara has complained about the distance from downtown."

"It isn't even that far from town," Doc added. "Clint and I ride to the shop every morning, and it takes less than an hour to make the commute."

Clara bustled into the dining room carrying a basket of rolls. "Come sit at the table," she called through the doorway to the parlor. "Supper is ready."

Doc was the first one in the room, looking frazzled. Marty took his normal place next to the scientist, across from Clara's chair. Not used to the seating arrangements, Martha took the seat her daughter usually occupied, Daniel took the chair next to her, and the vacant seat for Clara wound up at the opposite end of the table from the inventor, isolating her a bit from her parents and husband.

If Clara minded this, she said nothing as she came in and out of the room to deliver plates of food -- a pot roast, mashed potatoes, fresh green beans and corn on the cob. One thing Marty had to admit was that his friend's wife was a fabulous cook. It definitely beat the defrosted TV dinners that had been his mom's specialty...at least from Before.

Marty had hoped that eating might blunt the interrogation from Clara's mom, but instead she simply shifted her focus on to her daughter in between delicate bites of food.

"Clara, dear, are you happy out here?" she asked, waving her fork as if to indicate the house.

"Of course I am," Clara said at once. She glanced across the table to smile at Doc. "I could not wish for a better life."

"You do not feel lonely in this house all by yourself?"

"I'm not by myself. I have Emmett, Jules, and Clint here."

"I meant during the weekdays, when Emmett and Clint are working in town?"

"I am not lonely," Clara said firmly. "There is plenty to keep me busy and occupied. Soon there will be even more work for me." She suddenly set her fork down and looked at Doc, eyebrows raised in a silent question. Doc met her eyes and shook his head by degrees.

"What do you mean?" Martha asked at once.

Clara's gaze lingered on Doc a moment, her brow furrowing. "She means," Doc said quickly, "that she may be teaching and tutoring again very soon."

Martha's eyebrows shot up, and she wasn't the only one to look surprised. Marty stopped chewing for a moment, staring first at his old friend and then at Clara herself. She blinked several times, seeming at a temporary loss for words.

"Teaching?" Martha asked. She looked at her daughter again. "Why?" She clicked her tongue and set her fork down. "Is it because you need the extra money? Dear, you know you can come to your father and I if you need help."

Both Clara's face and Doc's were turning interesting shades of pink. "Mother," Clara began, just as Doc said, "Mrs. Clayton--" The couple stopped, looked at one another, and Clara suddenly stood.

"Emmett, may I see you in the kitchen for a moment?" she asked, her tone cool and measured.

"Certainly," Doc said. He got up from his seat and went into the kitchen, Clara right on his heels. The door barely swung shut behind them when Marty got to his own feet.

"I, uh...left something in there," he mumbled quickly when Clara's parents both looked at him. "Be right back."

Marty tossed his napkin down on his chair and made a beeline for the other room, too curious to find out what the hell was going on to feel remotely guilty at barging in on the couple. There was also the added benefit of escaping possible interrogation from Clara's parents, which he did not feel up to dealing with in the least.

Clara and Doc were standing at the opposite side of the room, near the back door, when Marty arrived. Clara looked angry, one hand on her hip, as Doc was speaking.

"They shouldn't find out yet," he was saying. "I don't want them to know."

"They're my parents, Emmett," Clara said, sounding hurt. "They have every right to be told about this. I want to share this with them."

"I'm not suggesting to never tell them," Doc said in a low voice. "I just don't think we need to tell them now, while they're visiting."

"Why on earth not?" Clara asked, folding her arms across her chest.

"Because...." Doc stopped, obviously searching for the right words. "Well, they seem very determined to try and persuade us to move back East."

"You know I find the very idea absurd," Clara said. "They cannot say anything that will make me want to do that. There is no reason to not tell them about a new baby."

"I can think of a reason," Marty said, stepping away from the kitchen door. Doc and Clara both turned to look at him, obviously unaware of his presence until that moment.

"Marty, I really don't think this is any of your business," Clara said curtly, her tone stinging the young man a little.

Doc frowned a little at him. "What is that?" he asked warily.

Marty looked at Clara's pursed lips and the way she held herself -- back straight, arms tight across her chest. He suddenly reconsidered the wisdom of what he was about to say. "Forget it," he said, taking a step back. "Never mind."

Clara stared at him a moment more before turning back to her husband. "Emmett, I want to tell them. Now is a good a time as any. We hid this news from Marty for too long, and look how that turned out."

Marty felt a stab of mild indignation, but she did have a point. "I doubt your parents are gonna do what I did," he couldn't help saying.

Doc and Clara both ignored the comment. "I don't know if just dropping this news on them right now is the best idea," the inventor said. "We don't know how they will react."

"I imagine they will be happy for us," Clara said dryly. "What would they be otherwise?"

"Ah...concerned, perhaps," Doc said, sounding as if he was choosing his words carefully. "They seem to, ah...well...."

"Go on and say it, Emmett," Clara said, sounding impatient.

"They don't seem to like me very well," Doc concluded quickly.

"Oh, pish posh. What makes you think that?"

"Maybe the relentless questions?" Marty said for his friend. "The comments and put downs towards Doc about his job and the way you guys live out here? I thought I heard it all with my dad's mom bitching and moaning and putting my mom down right in front of her. Hell, it made sense why Mom never wanted to see Grandma Sylvia unless she had a few drinks first. But your mom, Clara, is just...." In spite of the cold look Clara was shooting him and the way Doc was shaking his head very slightly, Marty plunged on, figuring if he had gone this far, he might as well go all the way. "Does she even have a filter on her mouth?"

"My mother has always been very honest and outspoken. I admit that she was something of a curiosity back home, but she taught me to stand up for myself. Without her influence, I never would have had the courage to come out here. I thought the both of you could understand her better, being from a time where you claim women have more rights and freedoms."

"There's a difference between being outspoken and being a...rude." Marty caught himself just in time before could say what he really thought. "Sorry, but she's is. If you tell 'em about how you guys are having another baby, they could go nuts."

"Oh?" Clara said, her voice as frosty as arctic ice. "How, pray tell?"

"Well, they could stay until after you have the baby. Five weeks is one thing...what if they're here for five months?"

"Rubbish," Clara said at once. She looked to Doc, staring at Marty with an almost perplexed expression on his face. When he did not say anything right away, Clara's brows drew together. "Emmett, don't tell me you believe such a thing."

crossed my mind. I know it's not uncommon for mothers to help their daughters if a new baby comes along...it is still done in my time, after all. Your folks live quite a ways away, and they may want to see the new baby before they go back."

Doc licked his lips and turned to his wife. "Well...the thought had crossed my mind. I know it's not uncommon for mothers to help their daughters if a new baby comes along...it is still done in my time, after all. Your folks live quite a ways away, and they may want to see the infant before they go back."

Clara's mouth fell open. Marty couldn't tell if she wanted to yell at Doc (and him) or cry. Without another word, she turned and hurried from the kitchen, returning to the dining room where her parents waited. Marty winced as he looked to Doc.

"Sorry," he said.

Doc sighed heavily, his shoulders slumping forward. "It's not your fault," he said in a dead tone. "We'll finish the conversation later tonight, I'm sure. In the meantime, I guess we'd better go back in there and finish the meal."

By the look on his face, though, it was clear that the scientist had completely lost his appetite.

* * *

The remainder of the evening was akin to a slow torture for Doc. After supper came more chatting and interrogation with his in-laws before, blessedly, they decided to retire for the night, claiming exhaustion from their long journey. In spite of a late afternoon nap, Jules went down early, too, and by ten P.M. the household was quiet. Doc was the last to retire, checking and rechecking locks and doors to make sure that nothing had been opened or unlatched by their house guests. He thought longingly of going out to the lab for a while, but suspected that such an action would possibly cause some suspicion if his in-laws noticed for whatever reason.

Clara was already in bed when Doc came into the room and, because it was dark and she did not seem to react to his arrival, he assumed she was asleep. Good. He got undressed quickly, pulled on his nightshirt, and stretched out on his side of the bed, not bothering to pull the covers over him. Even with the windows wedged open, it was too warm and stuffy in the bedroom to be comfortable enough for even a sheet. He closed his eyes and sighed, glad for the peace, quiet, and conclusion to this rather unpleasant day.

"Emmett?"

Clara's voice floated through the air, sounding entirely too awake. Doc opened his eyes and gazed up into the darkness above him, the only light in the room coming from the stars visible through the open windows.

"Yes?" he asked.

He felt the mattress shift as Clara turned his way. "Why do you dislike my parents."

"I don't dislike your parents," Doc said at once. "What gives you that idea?"

"Well, if you are afraid to tell them about the new baby primarily because you believe they will stay longer, what else am I supposed to think?"

Doc rolled onto his side to face her, though she was little more than a dark shape a few inches away. "Do you really think it would be best to have your parents live with us for six months? Do you realize how much stress that would put on everyone under this roof?"

There was a long pause. "It would be trying," Clara finally admitted, "but that shouldn't be any reason to conceal our news from them. It's going to be difficult to hide my changing figure for the time they are here...I'm getting bigger by the day. I've already had to adjust most of my dresses, and soon I will have to wear those special ones I crafted when I was expecting Jules." There was another pause. "I don't like the idea of sneaking about or hiding something like this from my family, not if they're here. I don't want to lie to them."

"You don't need to lie," Doc said. "Not telling the whole truth is not a lie. If they ask you if you are expecting another baby, tell them the truth. However, not bringing it up and not sharing the news if they never ask is not lying."

"Well, it still feels dishonest to me."

Doc reached out and touched his wife, his hand landing on her arm from the feel of it. "Clara, if you feel this strongly about telling them...well, do it. Tell them. I can't stop you; it's your business as much as mine. But I think we may be better off sharing this news with them the final day they are here. It can be a nice surprise for them." And hopefully keep them from staying even an extra day, he added to himself.

Clara reached up and encircled Doc's wrist with her hand, her touch cool in the uncomfortably warm bedroom. "I want both of us to share the news," she said. "It may cause questions otherwise." She sighed, her fingers stroking the top of her husband's hand. "I won't say anything unless they ask me directly."

Doc drew closer to his wife, wrapping an arm around her. Clara's long, unrestrained hair tickled his arm. "We can tell them together the last night they're here. They will enjoy sharing that with the rest of your family members in New Jersey."

"That will do." Clara snuggled closer to him, her breath tickling his cheek. Doc moved his hand from her arm down the curve of her hip. Happy that his wife was obviously no longer mad or hurt over the business with her parents, Doc started to kiss her, suddenly oblivious to the warm air around them, forgetting about anything else but the feel of her skin, of her hair, of her lips.

And then, like a bolt out of the blue, came a sudden recollection of their house guests. Clara's mother and father. Clara's parents who were staying in their very house.

Doc suddenly pulled away.

"Is something wrong, Emmett?" Clara whispered when the inventor remained utterly frozen. "You aren't worried about hurting the baby, are you?"

"No," Doc said softly. "No, it's not that."

Clara waited and, when her husband remained still and mute, asked another question, her tone suddenly anxious. "Are you still upset with me?"

"No," Doc said again. "It's not you, it's...well, it's your parents."

"My parents?" There was a wary note in Clara's tone. "What about them now?"

"They're...they're downstairs. They're here. What if they...I don't think I can do this while they're here under our roof."

Clara suddenly drew back away from him, her head raising off the pillow. "Emmett! Is this a joke? You're joking, aren't you?"

"Do I sound like I am?" Doc sat up, flustered. "If they were to hear anything, if they were to suspect...I don't think I could face them."

"We are married adults," Clara said. "What we do in our bedroom behind closed doors is between the two of us. They're both in bed for the night. What makes you think they will decide to come up here and walk into our room?"

"They don't need to walk into our room," Doc said. He gestured to the open windows. "They could go outside for whatever reason and hear us."

"Emmett, you are being utterly ridiculous and paranoid." The irritation in his wife's voice was crystal clear. Doc wanted to continue -- Great Scott, she had no idea how much he wanted to continue! -- but he just...couldn't. Clara didn't know that Marty had heard them before when they had thought they were quiet...it was one reason Doc had moved his room to the other side of the hall. And, right now, the young man was staying in Doc's study, in the very space under them.

Even so, it wasn't Marty's possible eavesdropping he feared as much as one of his in-laws. In this time, the subject of sex was simply not discussed openly. He knew that his in-laws were aware that their daughter and him engaged in copulation...Jules would not be around otherwise...but knowing and knowing were two different things entirely. Clara's mother was outspoken and tactless enough that he could just imagine her saying something before everyone at the breakfast table.

He couldn't risk having his wife mortified like that, nor could he risk provoking Daniel to come after him with a shotgun out of some misguided notion.

Doc swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood up, suddenly craving distraction and escape from his wife's indignation and the elevated temperature in the room. "I'm going to check on something," he said vaguely. Without thinking about it, he grabbed his robe from a hook on the wall nearby and pulled it on, the extra layer of material over his nightshirt most unnecessary in the heat of the summer night.

Clara said nothing, making no noise aside from a small sniff that told the inventor she was clearly miffed by his sudden case of cold feet.

Doc left the room and shut the door behind him, not entirely sure where to go or what to do. He picked up a small lamp that was set on a table in the hallway and lit the wick with a box of matches from the pocket of his robe. Armed with the light, keeping the wick low, he wandered first into his son's room, checking on Jules. The toddler, clad only in a diaper, was lying on his side in his crib, sleeping peacefully. Doc watched him for a moment before heading downstairs. The temperature was ten or fifteen degrees cooler on this floor and he sighed in relief.

Doc rechecked the lock on the front door before going down the hallway that led to his study and Marty's room. The door to the young man's room, where the Claytons were staying, was closed, and no light shown through the crack under the door. The same was true with Doc's study, which sat opposite the room with Clara's parents. The inventor hesitated a moment outside of his study before reaching for the knob. The door creaked faintly as he pushed it open several inches and peered inside.

The space was dark, the glow of the lamp spilling beyond the doorway and showing a comfortably cluttered space. There was the desk tucked next to the open window, stacks of papers and notes strewn across the top. They shifted as a faint breeze from outside drifted in, offering a breath of relief from the summer heat. There was a bookcase half filled with volumes and journals propped up against one of the larger walls, and a worn couch and armchair were settled in the opposite corner. The plush furniture was now holding some of Marty's things that he had moved from across the hall for the forthcoming month -- articles of clothing, his guitar and notebook, a couple hats, and so forth.

Set up against the wall opposite the window was the cot that Doc had brought in from the lab. There, he saw Marty stretched out on top of the blankets on his stomach, wearing a slightly oversized cotton nightshirt that Doc had given him the prior spring. Comfort clearly was more of a priority for him now than any potential embarrassment in wearing what was essentially a manly sort of nightgown. Marty's head was turned to one side, facing the window across the room. As Doc took a couple steps into the room, his bare feet making virtually no sound on the floorboards, he watched his friend carefully. Marty gave no indication that he was aware of anything, his breathing slow and deep.

Doc felt a mild disappointment. He closed the door at his back and walked over to his desk, not quite taking pains to be quiet. He set the lamp on the desk top and took a seat in the chair, looking over at his friend again. Marty hadn't moved. Doc stared at him hard for a minute, willing him to open his eyes and wake up. When that didn't happen, the inventor casually nudged a fat book near his elbow off the side of the desk. It dropped straight to the floor, landing with a heavy crash.

On the cot, Marty seemed to jump at the sound, his eyes fluttering open. He raised his head up and peered blearily towards the source of the noise. "Whazzat?"

Doc feigned an apologetic look. "I'm sorry," he said. "I didn't mean to wake you."

Marty stared at him for a beat before dropping his head back to the pillow. "What are you doin' in here?" he mumbled. "It's the middle of the night."

"On the contrary, it's not even midnight yet," Doc said. "And this being my study, there was something I needed to look up relating to the time machine," he added, fibbing. Marty tended to be extremely accommodating in all matters relating to that project, and this was no different.

"Oh...sure, whatever." The young man rolled onto his back and closed his eyes, exhaling as he did so. Doc watched him, wondering what more he could say. Almost as if he could feel the scientist's gaze on him, Marty opened his eyes again a moment later and looked at him. "Is something wrong?"

"You mean beyond the fact that the Claytons dislike me?"

Marty sighed again. "Look, Doc, just let that go. They live on the other side of the country...you probably won't see 'em again after they leave."

"That may be the case, but it doesn't change the fact that they're here now and causing tension for all of us after just a day. I don't like the idea of Clara being under all that stress, especially now."

"Well, there's not much you can do about that." Marty rolled onto his side to better converse. "Is she mad at you about all this and wanting to wait before you tell her parents about the new baby?"

"No...we've worked that out." It was the truth, but not the entire truth to what the young man was asking. "I just thought I would take advantage of being awake at this hour by getting some reading done"

"Then why are you in here and not out in the lab? Isn't that where everything is?"

"No -- this is my study, after all."

There was a long pause as Marty frowned. "Right," he said. "You don't want to work on building the time machine?"

"At this hour? No. We've got to put in a full day of work tomorrow and if we start anything this late, it could go until dawn. Besides, we don't want to risk drawing the attention of Clara's parents in case any of them happen to hear us leave."

"Uh...right. You're not going to put off working on this the whole time they're here, are you?"

"I'll try not to do that, but I suspect that our activities are going to be curtailed to some degree...as much as I would like to hide out there during the weekends."

"Great." Marty closed his eyes again.

"I suspect that if we were to be out there frequently, Clara's parents would start to ask her what it was that was so important for us to be doing."

"I know, Doc." There was a trace of impatience in Marty's words.

The inventor could see that his friend was not in the mood to converse. Doc dropped the matter and tapped one finger against the desktop, thinking through his options. He didn't want to go to bed yet; he couldn't go outside because that would cause him to lose all track of time; he couldn't venture elsewhere in the house on the chance that Daniel or Martha would get up and notice and wonder what he was doing. He felt trapped.

After a moment of thought, he got up from the desk and walked over to the bookshelf, studying the spines. He pulled out an old favorite, Jules Verne's Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea, tucked it under one arm, and walked over to the couch with it. He spared a moment to move Marty's belongings off the furniture, turned up the glow on the lap, moved the device closer to the couch, and laid down with the book.

"What are you doing?" Marty asked after a moment, his eyes open again and peering at Doc.

"Reading," Doc said, opening the book and flipping past the pages of title and copyright.

"Why can't you do that in the living room?"

"I don't want to attract any suspicion if Daniel or Martha Clayton happen to get up."

"Sure. Because they'll think it's really weird if you're up reading a book in the middle of the night. You just don't want to be cornered by 'em."

Doc lowered the novel enough to look over the top of the book at his friend. Marty was frowning, perturbed. "Would you?" he asked, not denying the accusation.

"What's the worst that could happen?"

Doc didn't want to think about that anymore. He raised the book back before his eyes, concluding the conversation. "Goodnight, Marty."

Clara woke shortly after dawn, a sense of disquiet nagging her. Before full wakefulness returned, she frowned and rolled over to check on her husband. His side of the bed, however, was empty, the pillow cool. He had not returned to bed last night, that much was certain.

At the memory that flooded back, Clara's frowned deepened. She sat up, not angry anymore but not feeling particularly forgiving, either. Her hands drifted to her belly and she smoothed the fabric of her nightgown over it, feeling the rise as the child inside her grew bigger -- big enough to kick, now, which is what the baby had done during a good portion of the last twelve hours, enhancing her restlessness. She had not exaggerated to Emmett last night; it was getting more difficult to conceal her changing shape, and by the time her parents would leave, it would be nigh impossible. She didn't want to imagine having to hide her belly with blankets, coats, and shawls in the hot, dry summer heat. It was trying enough to be clad in the layers of petticoats

Clara sighed as she let her hands drop to the sheets. She was tired of secrets, frankly. The townspeople were one thing, but now to be told to keep hidden under one's own roof? She had already had her fill of concealing her condition from Marty all spring. Now she had to do the same for parents? What was the logic with all that subterfuge?

Clara heard a faint, childish cry from beyond the closed bedroom door. Jules was awake no doubt and eager to get out of his bed. Clara got to her feet, taking a moment to wrap a thin robe around her and cinch it in such a way as to hide as much as she could of her figure. The fabric offered little protection, but it would have to do. She left her bedroom and went into the nursery, finding Jules standing up in his crib. "Mama!" he cried, stretching his arms out to her. "I want out."

"Good morning, sweetheart," Clara said. She lifted him out of the crib and moved him over to the changing table, knowing that his diaper would need attention before anything else. So far, neither she nor her husband had done anything to try and "toilet train" him, as Emmett called it. Emmett wasn't sure if he was old enough, and Clara had been unable to get much of a satisfactory answer from the other mothers in town regarding that question. Some said that the child had to want to be trained, and others were firm in beginning the process at or by a certain age...an age that was not consistently agreed upon. She could only hope to do such lessons soon; she did not much like the idea of having two children in diapers at the same time. Besides, Jules would be two in January. Surely that was old enough.

While Clara took care of changing him, the toddler played with a stuffed rabbit that Clara's mother had sent him shortly after his first birthday. Once he was in a clean diaper, she buttoned him into a romper and carried him out of the nursery and down the stairs.

It was early, the clock erected in the foyer telling her that it was not quite 7 A.M. yet. Clara paused at the foot of the stairs, listening hard for sounds around the house, but things seemed quiet enough. She peeked into the empty parlor before continuing on to the kitchen. The kitchen was also void of life. Clara set Jules in the high chair and turned her attention to lighting a few lamps and then to getting the fire started in the stove. Emmett would often do the job if he was up first, but it was clear that the appliance had not been touched since the night before.

"Where is your father?" she asked the baby, expecting no logical answer. Jules simply puckered his pink lips into a frown.

"Hungry, Mama. Want bottle."

"I know," Clara said, turning to the icebox. "I hope we have some milk left...your father may need to get more in town." She wasn't sure why she was talking to her son like that. Jules seemed to understand her -- perhaps that was it. It was better than talking to herself, she supposed.

There was about a cup of milk left in the pitcher. Clara poured it into a saucepan to heat and set it on the stovetop. Next, she prepared the coffee pot and put it on the range to percolate. Finally, she filled the tea kettle with fresh water and set it to boil.

Before she began cooking, she cut a couple slices from the loaf of bread baked the day before, tore them into small pieces, and set them before Jules on the table. The toddler picked them up and put them in his mouth, occupied enough with the task of feeding himself that Clara was able to put her attention on baking. The milk had finished warming up, and Clara had just poured it into a clean bottle for Jules, when her mother came into the kitchen.

"Good morning," Martha Clayton said cheerfully to her daughter. Already she was dressed for the day, her face scrubbed and her hair combed and pinned up in a knot. "Is there anything I can do to help?"

"I think I have it all under control," Clara said. "Is Papa up?"

"He had just wakened when I was leavin' the room. Has Emmett already gone to town?"

"I -- I don't know." Clara handed her son the bottle and turned to her mother. "Could you stay in here with Jules and keep a watch on the stove while I search him out?"

"Certainly." She sat down in the kitchen chair closest to Jules and leaned towards the baby, who gazed seriously at his grandmother as he sucked on his bottle.

Clara left the kitchen through the backdoor, walking across the dewy lawn towards the former barn that was the location of Emmett's lab. When she tried to open the door, it was locked, and knocking on it granted her no response. She moved towards one of the windows nearby, arching up to her toes in order to peer through the glass. The interior was dark. It didn't look as if her husband was in there, unless he was in the cellar below. Being that was where the new time machine was being erected, it was possible. She couldn't see if the trap door that led to the cellar was open or not.

Clara turned to walk back to the house, and spotted the horses corralled in the open pasture adjacent to the barn. There was Newton, Archimedes, Galileo, and the newest one that Emmett had acquired last spring, Edison. If all of the horses were there, as she could plainly see, then her husband had not yet left to go to town.

Where, then, could he possibly be?

Clara once more tried the door to the lab, but Emmett was nothing if not careful when it came to securing his personal experimentation space. She turned with a frustrated sigh and walked briskly back to the house. In the kitchen, Jules was still drinking his bottle while Clara's mother stood at the stove and began to break eggs into a skillet.

"I'll fix breakfast, don't you worry about that," she said as Clara came into the house.

"Thank you," Clara said quickly, not offering any explanation as she left the kitchen and went towards the front of the house, intending to check upstairs again. At the foot of the stairs she abruptly stopped and pivoted towards the hall that led to the other rooms of the first floor -- Marty's bedroom, Emmett's study, and a small chamber not much larger than a closet that was used as a sort of washroom without running water. For the first time, she wondered if Marty was still in the house and, if so, would he know where her husband was?

Clara made her way down the hall carefully, the passageway dark with the doors to all the rooms closed. From within Marty's bedroom -- where her parents were staying -- she heard faint movement as her father was presumably getting ready for the day. Beyond the door to the study, though, she heard nothing. Clara leaned forward and pressed her ear to the wood for good measure, but there was no stirring from within. She wondered if Marty was even in the room.

Clara took the doorknob in her hand and twisted it, relieved to find that it was not locked like the lab. Emmett had traded the knob for one with a lock when the room had fallen to him so that he could keep out Jules when he got old enough to walk about on his own. She pushed the door open slowly, not wanting to startle Marty if he was awake or wake him if he was asleep.

A lamp set on a small table near the arm of the old couch was lit, the glow low and sputtering as the device was burning the last of the oil. Emmett was lying on the couch, a book resting spine-up on his chest. The inventor was asleep, snoring softly, one hand resting on the cover of the book. Clara sighed at the sight, not realizing how worried she had been until that moment. She stepped into the room and over to the couch, bending over her husband.

"Emmett," she said softly. Clara glanced around the room, wondering if Marty was even in here, and spotted him a moment later. The young man was curled up on top of the cot a few feet away, one hand wedged under his cheek, the other hanging off the edge of the narrow bed. He, too, was asleep. Clara turned back to her husband and bent closer, putting her lips up to his ear. "Emmett."

There was a quick intake of breath, and Emmett's eyes suddenly popped open. "Clara!" he said in a hoarse whisper.

"Shhhh," Clara said, pressing a finger to his lips. She glanced over at Marty, but he hadn't stirred. She leaned close and spoke as low as she could. "Don't wake Marty."

Emmett blinked a couple times and raised his head from the arm of the couch. He peered past Clara to his friend. "What time is it?" he asked softly.

"A little after seven, I believe."

Emmett sat up, unconscious of the book that toppled to the floor. Marty did not seem to notice. Clara bent down and picked up the novel, glancing for the first time at the cover. "Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea?"

"I felt the need to reread it," Emmett explained. He rubbed the back of his hand across the bridge of his nose, looking dazed. "I thought I'd rest my eyes a bit...I think that was around two in the morning."

"You've been here all night?" Clara uttered the question as a statement.

Marty emitted a sudden sigh in his sleep, their whispered voices no doubt disturbing his rest. Clara watched him as he shifted slightly on the cot, folding his arms across his chest as if he was cold. Clara supposed that was possible; the air coming through the window was now cool and Marty was in nothing more than a nightshirt, lying on top of the blankets. Emmett got to his feet, his own attention focused on his friend.

"Let's let him sleep a little more," he murmured to Clara out of the corner of his mouth, heading for the door. She nodded and followed him out, closing the door as gently as she could behind her. Emmett didn't wait for her, not until he reached the end of the hall and the foyer.

"I was worried about you," Clara said, keeping her voice low so that her mother could not happen to overhear in the kitchen. "Are you all right?" The memory of his abrupt exit last night from their bedroom still concerned her.

"I'm fine," Emmett said. He looked up at the clock and frowned faintly. "I'd better get dressed...maybe you should wake Marty, after all. Since we closed early yesterday, there will no doubt be people waiting around for me to open up"

Clara trailed her husband up the stairs. "Try to come home early," she said.

"What for?" There was a tired, flat note in the words.

"Well, my parents, of course...to spend time with them."

Emmett paused at the top of the stairs and turned to look at Clara. "Spend time doing what? Engage them in more conversation?"

"Well, to start with, you could take my father out to the lab," Clara said. "He's a scientist himself...I'm sure he would be fascinated by some of the projects there."

"With parts of the machine scattered around? That's too risky."

Clara drew closer to her husband and walked with him towards their bedroom at the end of the hall. "I know you want to keep this quiet, but...what if we told them the truth and let them know about it?"

Emmett stopped and turned to look at her once more. "Clara! No, we can't do that!"

"Why not?"

"Do you realize how dangerous that is? Do you realize how risky?"

"What do you think will happen? That my parents will contact the local media? I can assure you they will not."

"That would be one of my lesser worries," Emmett said grimly, turning to stalk towards the bedroom. Clara followed him inside and closed the door, her husband already rifling through his wardrobe.

"What are you worried about if it is not that?" she wanted to know.

Emmett pulled a pair of work pants from the wardrobe and tossed it over his shoulder to the bed. "Do you remember your reaction when I told you the truth? Well, what makes you think your parents will behave any differently?"

"They'll believe me. I can support your claims."

"So can Marty, but that won't mean anything to them. They'll probably think you're delusional and that I have some fantastic brainwashing techniques."

"There's evidence you could provide them. Some of the artifacts you have from the future--"

"No," Emmett said, moving over to the dresser drawer and opening that to rummage inside. "I destroyed those. They were too dangerous to hang onto in this time."

"The plans you have for the machine--"

"Those are just plans, Clara. The pieces that have been built so far could be for almost anything. Your father, if he could read the blueprints and schematics, would just laugh in my face. Believe me, I've heard it all before." His tone grew bitter.

Clara sighed, frustrated, and sat down in the rocking chair near the window. "What do you expect to tell them when we eventually leave this time and place? Do you really think we can simply disappear without a word of explanation? Without them wondering what happened to us?"

"I have a few ideas," Emmett said, his tone vague. "I'm not giving it my full attention yet, though. Not until the machine is actually finished and I know it works."

"Even then you intend to keep mum about your origins?"

"I suspect they would like me even less if I told them I was taking you and our kids off to a future that was beyond their natural lifetime," Emmett said dryly.

Clara wasn't quite satisfied with that answer. "Surely they will sense something is amiss if we persist with all this secrecy."

Emmett looked up suddenly. "Have they said something?"

"No. I would tell you if they did." Clara leaned back in the chair and unconsciously placed her hands on the faint rise of her stomach. "I feel as if we're walking on eggshells around them."

"Welcome to my world," Emmett muttered. He caught himself and shook his head. "Never mind. I'll try and close up the shop an hour earlier than normal today, but it can't become a habit. We'll lose money otherwise."

Clara personally didn't see it that way -- after all, Emmett was the only blacksmith in Hill Valley -- but opted not to voice her opinion on that matter. "If you say so."

Emmett tossed a shirt onto the bed and slid his dresser drawer closed. "Can you rouse Marty for me?"

Clara hesitated before responding, her mind briefly flirting with an excuse. There was breakfast to tend to, for example, but she knew her mother would have that taken care of. "All right," she agreed slowly. She got up and paused before leaving the room, turning to her husband as he shed his summer robe and draped it over the footboard. "Emmett?"

"Huh?"

Clara reconsidered and shook her head. "Never mind."

She left him to change and went back down the stairs, retracing her steps to the study. When she reached the door, Clara paused once more and knocked softly on the wood. When there was no response from within, she opened it and walked inside.

Marty had not moved in the minutes since they had left. Rather than bend over him and shake him awake, Clara instead padded over to the couch that her husband had slept on and sat down. She stared at Marty as he slumbered peacefully away, a prickly and hard emotion beginning to coagulate. Without thinking about it, she placed a hand on the base of her throat, rubbing it as if it could remove the thing that seemed stuck there.

In reality, though, the only thing that could remedy the situation would be to open her mouth and spew forth a flood of words she had yearned to say to the young man for more than a year. Clara had enough sense to know that such an action would be foolish and futile, though. This was her husband's best friend. Emmett had had certain obligations towards him and had before Clara had even met, let alone married, him. She had entered into their union knowing full well that Marty was part and parcel of her husband's life. She hadn't minded at all...at least at first.

Something, she realized, had changed last year after Jules had been snatched by a revenge-seeking outlaw while he had been in the young man's care. Then there was the fuss and worry that Marty caused Emmett, the stress she saw he put on her husband. Last month's episode on his birthday, where he had evidently stormed off after hearing about the new baby and gotten intoxicated at the saloon, was one of the last straws for her. She could be polite and civil to Marty, and generally was, but she did not like being alone with him in any capacity. It offered her far too much temptation to voice what she really thought of him as of late. If she did that, it would make an already stressful situation even worse, and Clara did not intend to contribute to her husband's worries in that regard.

As if he was somehow aware of her scrutiny, Marty stirred, rolling onto his back and flinging his left arm over his head, his hand dangling off the edge of the cot. He murmured something in his sleep, the words far too garbled for Clara to catch. She thought she heard her name in there, but almost immediately dismissed the idea as a product of her jittery imagination.

When he again grew still, his breathing settling back into a slow, measured rhythm, Clara stood and crossed the brief span of floor that separated the cot from the couch. She leaned over and touched his shoulder gently.

"Marty," she said briskly. "You need to get up now."

Marty's eyes flew open at the sound of her voice. He blinked up at her fuzzily, his eyes taking a moment to focus on her face. His lips parted, as if he was about to speak, but the voice that reached Clara's ears did not belong to him.

"Who is Marty?" she heard her father ask.

* * *

Marty wasn't quite sure what the hell was going on. He'd been asleep, dreaming about Clara's parents putting Doc on some kind of trial. Clara had been on the witness stand, giving a testimony, when she had suddenly turned to look right at the young man, sitting with Doc, and ordered him to get up.

The scene dissolved with the demand; Marty opened his eyes, saw Clara looming over him, and before he could utter one word he heard Clara's father say, "Who is Marty?"

Clara turned her head and Marty raised his own off the pillow to see the visitor standing in the doorway of the study, looking at the both of them curiously through his spectacles. Clara seemed too startled to speak right away, her lips twitching and pursing as if trying to form words.

"It...it's me," Marty croaked as the silence stretched on. "It's my, uh, middle name. Martin. D-- Emmett and Clara usually call me that."

Daniel turned his gaze from his daughter to Marty. "Oh," he simply said, allowing the subject to drop. He looked back to Clara. "Your mother is up already?"

"Yes," Clara said, finding her voice. "She is in the kitchen with Jules." She took a step towards the door. "I'd better get back in there and help her finish breakfast."

Daniel had disappeared from the doorway by the time Clara reached it. She paused long enough to look at Marty. "Hurry and dress," she said. "Emmett wants to get to town as soon as possible." She left, shutting the door before he could even nod.

Marty sat up all the way and exhaled, reaching up to rub his eyes. He had the strangest sensation that he was still dreaming, probably due to the sudden way in which he had been wakened. After sitting there a moment, his hands braced over his eyes, he allowed them to drop to his lap and left his narrow bed. The sun was already starting to rise outside, giving him enough light to see by as he threw on his clothes for the day. He wasn't sufficiently awake to really worry about the consequences of what he had said to Clara's father until he left his temporary bedroom.

Doc is going to freak when he finds out, he thought uneasily.

When he reached the kitchen, he found Clara working at the stove while her mother held Jules on her lap at the kitchen table. The toddler seemed fussy as Martha bounced him on her knee, and when Marty came into the room, Jules reacted immediately.

"Marty," he said, reaching his arms out imploringly to the young man. "Want Marty."

Martha looked up as her grandson began to struggle to get down from her lap. "Marty?" she said, frowning. "I thought your name was Clint?"

Clara deftly answered this time. "His middle name is Martin," she said, not turning from the stove. "He prefers to be called that, but most people in town know him only as Clint."

Martha looked a lot less accepting of this news than her husband. "Clint is a decent name," she said. "Why don't you like it?"

Marty shrugged vaguely, not wanting to lock himself into some backstory that had the possibility of being blown wide open. "I just don't." He took Jules from Martha before the toddler could tumble from her lap. "Hey, kid, how's it going?"

The question was addressed to Jules, but Martha once more responded. "Kid?" she asked, her voice filled with confusion. "Why are you calling him that?"

Marty had completely forgotten that bit of slang wasn't around yet...at least the word did not mean the same as it would a hundred years later. He said the first thing that came to mind, not pausing to think if it was tactful or even believable. "Well, uh, he looked a little like a baby goat when he was first born."

Martha's eyebrows arched up at this. "Did you just compare my grandson to a farm animal?"

Marty was saved from thinking of an appropriate response to this by Doc entering the kitchen. "Good morning," he said to Clara's mother with a nod. "Did you sleep well last night?"

Martha's gaze lingered on Marty as she answered her son-in-law. "Oh, yes. Have you seen Daniel this morning?"

"I think he is in the parlor reading," Doc said. He looked at Marty. "Are you ready to go?"

"Emmett," Clara said, turning around from the stove. "Aren't you going to sit down and have breakfast first?"

There was an awkward silence as the scientist looked at his wife. "If it is almost ready, I suppose so."

Marty, personally, would've rather skipped breakfast altogether if it meant getting out of that house sooner, but a few minutes later he and Doc found themselves sitting at the dining room table. Doc seemed bent on escaping as quickly as possible, eating at a rather hasty pace until he caught his wife scolding him a little. For his part, Marty simply took as little food as necessary for his plate and deftly transferred a few items -- a dry pancake, a few pieces of bacon -- into his napkin so that he could eat the rest on the way to town.

Daniel barely said three words at the table, speaking only when directly asked a question, content to watch the proceedings. Martha and Clara did the most talking,with Jules chiming in from time to time with small statements like, "No pancake," or "Want milk." The second Doc's plate was clear, he bolted to his feet, tossed his napkin to the table, and looked at Marty.

"Ready?"

Marty shoved the last piece of bacon into his mouth and stood in turn, nearly choking in his haste to swallow the food. "Yeah," he croaked. He ducked his head as he headed for the back door, ignoring the disapproving looks he could tell that Clara and her mother were shooting his way. He got outside and made it all the way to the pasture before Doc came out of the house, his coat half on and Marty's hat clutched in one hand.

"You left this," he said when he reached the young man, handing it to him.

"Thanks." Marty put the hat on, pulling the brim low to cut against the sun as it popped over the eastern horizon. "You know, Doc, I was thinking....maybe I should stay in town while Clara's parents are here."

Doc stopped as he was about to reach the pasture gate and turned to look at him. "Why would you want to do that?"

"Isn't it obvious? The tension in that house right now is insane!" Marty shook his head. "It's just...not comfortable there."

"Do you think it's comfortable for me?"

"Hey, you're married to Clara. They're your in-laws. Sorry, but it would look kind of bad if you took off during their stay."

"It wouldn't look much better if you left. They might wonder about that and think it had something to do with them."

"Well, it does," Marty said bluntly. "But...look, if you're going to hide out in your study all the time when you're here, where does that leave me? I just think it would be easier if I stayed at the shop until they left."

Doc sighed and opened the gate a shade too hard. "If that's what you want to do, Marty, I can't stop you," he said rather curtly.

Marty immediately felt a stab of guilt. "It's not like I want to do it, Doc, but I feel really out of place in that house right now. It's one thing if it's just you and Clara and Jules. But this stuff with Clara's parents in town...that's kind of family-only stuff. I know Martha and Daniel are wondering why the hell I'm there right now."

"You're part of our family," Doc said as he walked forward towards the closest horse. "We've already addressed that issue with the Claytons."

"Yeah, right."

Doc reached Newton and led the horse over to the side of the barn, where the saddles and tacking hung under an awning. "If you want to stay in town until they leave, go right ahead," he said after a moment. "Why don't you run back in and grab your belongings now, while I get the horses ready? We can take the buckboard with us to carry it."

"O-kay..." Marty said slowly, vaguely unnerved by Doc's abrupt change in attitude. He hesitated a moment before turning back to the house. He wasn't really looking forward to dealing with Clara and her parents so soon after his escape, but if it was the last time he saw them for a while, it would be worth it. Definitely.

By the third day of the Clayton's visit, Doc took to keeping a calendar in the blacksmith shop in town that displayed a countdown of sorts before his in-laws would leave. The date of August 15th, when they were supposed to depart, was circled in red with exclamation points scribbled around and a little happy face. The happy face hadn't been Doc's doing; that touch had been added by Marty.

Almost three weeks after the couple arrived, the tension that the young man had mentioned feeling in the home was still quite prevalent. Clara was plainly edgy and more emotional than usual, her pregnancy no doubt enhancing the stress she was under with her parental visit. While Daniel had a tendency to keep to himself and often went on long rides out to the wilderness to find specimens for his insect and plant collections, Martha seemed incapable of being silent for more than five minutes. She also seemed unable to leave her daughter alone.

When Doc finally came home every evening, not as early as Clara wanted but not as late as he wished, he found his mother-in-law either cooking in the kitchen while Clara fed Jules, or tending to the toddler while Clara slaved over the hot stove. Even standing at the hottest place in the house, Clara would be wearing a heavy apron, bound around her in such a way to attempt to conceal the growing size of both her stomach and her bust. Already, she seemed bigger to Doc than she had been with Jules at the same stage of development, which brought forth more than one nightmare involving a pregnancy with twins. The inventor hoped with every fiber of his being that two-for-the-price-of-one was not in the cards...he did not think his nerves or budget could take that.

The weather was not helping matters, either. It was hot and dry, and the air was unusually still. Even with shades drawn during the day and windows wide open at night, the air in the house was grossly uncomfortable. When he could -- which was rare -- Doc tried to spend time in the cellar under the lab. It was the only remotely comfortable place around. Unfortunately, it also drew the ire of Clara that he was not spending time with her parents.

Doc envied Marty in those weeks. The livery stable was more open, much easier to cool down in the hot months. The young man wasn't surrounded by people at all moments of the day, either. Doc's only moments alone were now confined to the commute to and from his job...not more than an hour each way. It gave him little time to decompress or think about the time machine construction -- or anything else for that matter. In fact, he spent most of the time wondering how he would be able to live through another evening involved in conversations with Martha Clayton. When she was not offering suggestions on how Jules should be raised, the woman seemed bent on drawing out the scientist's life story.

On the final day of July, Doc started to see the light at the end of the tunnel. Tomorrow would be August and the beginning of another work week. In little more than two weeks, they would bid good-bye to their house guests and life could return to normal. He could return to spending evenings in the lab, working on the machine. Clara could relax a little and her moods would, hopefully, settle down. And Marty could return to his room and stop camping out at the back of the blacksmith shop on the cot.

Because it was a Sunday, Doc had instructed Marty to meet them at church in the morning and then join them for the afternoon and the supper in the evening. He'd had his friend do this every Sunday since he had gone to stay in the shop. Marty had been less than enthusiastic with the order.

"I get why you want me to go to church...but how come I have to go to the house afterwards with all of you?" he had complained right away.

"Jules misses you," Doc said, not exaggerating. The bond the toddler had with Marty was like that of a brother, which is exactly how he suspected his son saw the young man.

"Well, then, can't you bring him out to the shop or something?"

"It won't kill you to spend one evening a week at the house, Marty," Doc said, his patience wearing thin.

Marty looked skeptical. "I dunno about that," he muttered.

Doc tried a slightly different tactic. "I don't ask you for a lot of favors, but I am asking you to do this," he said. "For me and Clara."

"Well, if Clara wants me to, then...." Marty stopped, perhaps noticing the not-so-amused look that Doc wore on his face. "Okay, fine, fine, I'll be there."

Indeed, he was, and was present for the second and third Sundays of the Clayton's visit. On that third Sunday, however, he looked drawn and tired when he showed up for the church service that morning. Apparently there had been a loud barroom fight that had spilled out into the street around two A.M. involving the exchange of some gunfire. The disturbance had awakened Marty, along with anyone else in the general main street vicinity. Once awake, he had been unable to go back to sleep.

He was certainly not the only groggy member of their party that morning. While Martha and Daniel had seemed refreshed, Doc had tossed and turned most of the night, the stifling heat to blame. If he could have escaped to his lab for a bit to work off nervous energy, that would have helped...but Clara, too, had been awake, though silent, and Doc did not want to risk upsetting her if he went out.

After the service, their group of six made the trip back to the farmhouse. Clara went into the kitchen to prepare the midday dinner meal -- potato salad and sandwiches, she had announced earlier. Martha looked as if she was going to follow her daughter into the kitchen but seemed to reconsider. She stopped as the door swung shut behind Clara and turned instead to walk into the parlor and take a seat in the same room where her husband and Marty had sat down. Doc found the three of them there, newly settled, when he returned downstairs from putting Jules down for his nap.

"Emmett," Martha said, looking to him when he arrived in the room. "Is Clara well?"

"What do you mean?" Doc asked, sitting down at the opposite end of the couch from where Marty was slouched, staring vacantly off into space.

Martha set down the needlepoint she had been working on her lap. A few feet away Daniel sat reading the newspaper he had picked up in town, undistracted by his wife's query. "She seems tired," Martha said.

"We're all tired today," Marty said, leaning his head against the back of the couch and shutting his eyes. Martha's gaze flickered his way before they returned to Doc.

"No, she has seemed tired since almost the moment we arrived. Have you thought of perhaps hiring help for her out here?"

"No," Doc said, shaking his head. "We can't quite afford that luxury."

He had hoped it would be a valid excuse. Silly him. Martha pounced on it immediately. "Daniel and I would be happy to provide someone for her."

Doc sighed inwardly at the offer. "No, that's quite all right," he said. "I think the heat may be to blame more than anything else."

"Perhaps, but I know that Jules will keep her more'n busy as he grows. There're few years yet before he can be of help around the home."

Doc waited a moment before he responded, wanting to weigh his words carefully. "We do appreciate your concern, but Clara and I cannot accept anything from you both. We are doing just fine on our own."

Before Martha could formulate a response to this, Clara emerged from the kitchen. "The food is ready," she said, her face shiny with perspiration.

Five minutes later, when they were assembled at the dining room table, Martha brought up the subject again. "Dear, you look plumb tuckered out," she said as Clara sat down with them. "Are you well?"

Clara's eyes slid over to Doc, sitting across the table from her. She hurriedly looked away and down to her plate. "I am fine, Mother. This heat wave would tire anyone out."

"It isn't so bad as the south or the east," Martha said, waving a hand to brush aside the excuse. "Leastaways it is a dry heat. Surely you must be used to this weather by now."

"We have had a long period of elevated temperatures," Doc supplied. "This isn't quite typical, even for summers here."

"There will be a break soon," Daniel said, his soft statement causing everyone's attention to turn his way. He rarely contributed to mealtime conversation, his wife doing the bulk of the chatter then. "From what I have observed outside, I would wager that it will happen sometime in the next week." Daniel took a bite of the salad, chewed and swallowed, then added, "I believe this winter is going to be quite harsh as well."

"How can you tell?" Marty asked, sounding curious.

"The insects and animals," Daniel said. "I have observed that when a change in weather is approaching, they behave in unusual ways. The past few days, I've noticed more activity by some that are normally inactive in heat. This tells me that they are sensing an eminent change in weather and are making necessary preparations. In terms of predicting the forthcoming winter, well, again, you go by the animals and insects. Animals generally grow thicker coats and store more food when a harsh winter is approaching. While I cannot say if their coats are thicker yet, I have noticed larger food supplies being stored for the squirrels and chipmunks." Daniel took another bite of his food and fell silent.

"Well, I hope you are right about the weather changing soon," Doc said, impressed with his father-in-law's observations. There was some validity to what he was saying, he knew.

Martha put a hand on her daughter's arm. "It isn't just the heat," she said decisively. "You have seemed terribly distracted by something. Clara, if something is wrong, please tell us. We can help you."

Clara took a deep breath. She glanced at Doc, a sudden resolve in her eyes. The inventor stopped eating, anticipating what was about to unfold as if he had witnessed this very scene before, courtesy of his time machine.

Don't, he thought, trying to communicate that message in his gaze.

Clara's lips pinched together, a spark of determination shining in her eyes before she swung them away and turned back to her mother. "I am perfectly well, Mama. The truth is simply that...that our family will grow by one more member in November." She shot a look of almost triumph towards Doc. The scientist sighed softly.

Martha's fork clattered to the plate and she looked at her husband, her eyes wide with shock. Daniel did not seem too fazed in Doc's eyes; he ate another bite of the salad, chewing slowly, his face remaining expressionless.

"You mean to say you are in the family way?" Martha asked, her tone one of astonishment.

"She's pregnant," Marty said for good measure, clearly sick of the euphemisms. Every eye turned his way. Clara's cheeks suddenly flushed and Martha's mouth opened in a small O of horror. Even Daniel stopped chewing.

"Don't be vulgar, young man!" Martha admonished when she had recovered from her shock. She looked back to her daughter. "Clara, why didn't you share this news with us sooner? You must have known before our arrival."

"The time was not right," Doc said before his wife could voice an answer.

Martha did not look his way, continuing to speak to her daughter. "If we knew of it sooner, we could have made plans to stay for a longer period of time until the baby arrived."

What a shame you didn't, Doc thought. His eyes went to Marty, who had predicted such a scenario, and his friend rolled his eyes. Fortunately, the gesture was not noticed by the others around the table.

"Do not worry about that," Clara said emphatically, not looking at her husband. "I got along just fine when Jules came along."

"That may be the case, but two babies are another matter entirely. If we cannot stay, you should let your father and I find a nurse for you."

"No," Clara said. "That is not necessary. Emmett and Marty will help me out."

Martha threw a look at towards the two of them before looking back to her daughter. "They are men, dear. You need a woman's help in the home."

Doc bit his tongue; Marty did not. "What's that supposed to mean?" he asked.

Martha gave him another cursory glance. "Men know very little on matters of housekeeping or childcare," she said crisply.

"I'm not gonna argue with you about the first one, but Doc's a great father," Marty said. "He can pick up the slack if Clara needs any help."

Martha's forehead wrinkled at the no-doubt-confusing expression. "I fail to see how Emmett will be of much help if he is off in town every day with you. Clara needs someone here with her during the day."

"I am fine, Mama," Clara said softly, her voice a stark contrast from Martha's.

"No, you are not," Martha said. "Look at you. You're plumb tuckered out, and the child hasn't even arrived yet. No, after what I've seen over these last weeks, you need help. Your father and I will find a suitable nurse." Martha picked up her fork and began to eat again, clearly concluding the conversation.

Doc couldn't take it. If he did not leave immediately, he was going to say something he would probably regret. He hurriedly stood. "Excuse me," he said curtly, moving to the kitchen. Once inside the hot, stuffy room, he paced briskly around, trying to give vent to the sensation of frustration and anger building up inside.

Clara followed him there a moment later. Doc turned on her the second the door closed at her back. "How could you tell them?" he hissed.

"If I recall, you told me I could share the news with them when I wished," Clara said, lifting her chin up. "I was tired of hiding, Emmett. It needed to be said."

"Well, now they're going to try and either stay here or hire someone. We cannot have either! The risk of them finding something out about the machine or my origins are far too high!" Doc continued to speak in a loud whisper, not wanting to risk having his in-laws overhear this.

"Let me handle my mother. You are worrying about this far too much. Besides," she added, almost as an afterthought, "what would be the harm in them learning about what you're working on in the lab?"

Doc felt his blood pressure spike. "Have you already mentioned that to them?" he asked, incredulous and appalled. "How could you do that?"

"I have not," Clara said sharply, her hands going to her hips. "I simply ask what the harm would be. My parents can be trusted."

"Your father, perhaps. I will give you that. But if your mother finds out...." Doc shuddered and shook his head hard. "No, absolutely not. I do not trust that woman farther than I can throw her."

Clara's cheeks simultaneously blanched and flushed. She stepped closer to her husband, her eyes blazing. "How can you say that about my mother?"

"How can you defend her? Look at what she's been saying about me...about Marty...about you and our life together! Look at what she has said about our son!"

"She is simply being honest with her thoughts and feelings!"

"No, she is being rude. You never hear her say anything positive about those subjects. I have not heard her utter one compliment towards anything. All I hear her do is complain and explain how much better it would be if you were to return to New Jersey or they were to give us their money to live beyond our means."

"Maybe she is right," Clara burst out, her voice shrill. "Maybe it would be better if we did those things."

The words took Doc's breath away. He stared at his wife a moment, shocked, before turning abruptly and throwing open the back door. He slammed it hard as he left the house and walked rapidly across the browned lawn to the lab at the far end of the yard.

* * *

Marty stared down at his plate, a sick feeling twisting his stomach at the sound of the angry voices from the other room. Doc and Clara's exchange was brief but bitter, concluded by the loud slam of what was no doubt the back door. The young man risked a glance towards the Claytons. Daniel seemed intent on studying the food on his plate like Marty, but Martha's lips were pressed colorlessly together. She looked angry.

Marty couldn't stand sitting in that room with the two of them any longer. He got to his feet, opened his mouth to give some weak excuse on leaving, and then decided to just not say anything. He went into the kitchen, hoping that the silence signified that Clara had left, too.

No such luck.

Marty found the former teacher slumped at the kitchen table, her head down, weeping into her hands. Once again, he opened his mouth to speak but he could think of nothing to say. He hesitated only a moment before continuing to the back door and the yard beyond.

Marty suspected that his friend had gone into the lab, but when he reached the structure and tried the door, he found it locked. He hammered on it with the palm of his hand. "Hey, Doc, let me in, all right? It's me, Marty."

There was no response, no movement heard from within. Marty balled his hand into a fist and drew his arm back to rap on the door again when it suddenly opened. He stumbled forward, startled, and came close to smacking Doc right in the face. The inventor stared at him without a change in expression as Marty caught himself against the doorframe.

"What?" he asked curtly.

"I...." Marty swallowed hard, suddenly uncomfortable under Doc's flat gaze. "I thought you might need some help out here."

Without a word, the scientist turned and walked away. Marty took that as a sign that he was free to proceed into the room. He shut the door behind him, although the space was hellaciously hot and stuffy, and watched as his friend went over to one of the worktables and sat down.

"You can get some more of the wire wrapped," Doc said without looking up. "The gloves are over there."

Wrapping up the copper wire was one of the most tedious, coma-inducing tasks that Marty could do -- and it seemed like there was always more to do -- but he offered no complaint. "Okay." He moved in that direction, towards the opposite end of the table from where Doc sat. "So, uh...Clara's kind of upset."

"It is just hormones," Doc said, his tone brisk and business-like. "Nothing more than that."

"So her crying in the kitchen had nothing to do with what you said to her?"

"How would you know what I said to her?" The scientist sounded annoyed.

"It wasn't hard to hear every word near the end," Marty said dryly. He slipped on the gloves, which were a size too large for him, and reached for the spool of wire.

"The Claytons heard, then?" Doc was silent for a moment before shrugging, almost carelessly. "Well, maybe that's for the best."

"I guess," Marty said dubiously. "Martha looked pretty pissed, though."

"I don't care...and I don't want to discuss this any longer, Marty. If you want to stay out here and help me work, that's fine, but this subject is closed."

Marty did not want to be banned from the lab, that was for sure. It had driven him nuts how little progress was made on the time machine during the last few weeks. He'd kept his mouth shut, knowing that these were special circumstances with Clara's parents in town, but it didn't mean he liked it.

At the warning, Marty hastily changed the subject, asking about what had been done with the machine and what was left to do, but Doc's answers were clipped and quick. Marty had the impression that he just didn't want to talk, and so he finally fell silent, though the redundant chore of wrapping wires in the dead quiet was making him sleepy. The heat didn't help that, either. Without any kind of breeze or open window, the space was more uncomfortable than the house.

Marty was about to ask if they could move this to the basement, even though the space was dark and vaguely claustrophobic, when there was a knock at the lab door. Marty looked at Doc, who turned towards the door. When he did not move, Marty looked to the door itself. It was impossible to see who was out there, as the slab of wood did not have any window built into it. There was, however, a small window next to the door, and it was there that a head popped into view. It was not Clara, as the young man had expected. Instead, it was Daniel Clayton.

Marty looked back at his friend. "Are you going to let him in?" he asked curiously.

Daniel's face disappeared from view, and he knocked on the door again. Doc sighed deeply as he got to his feet. He glanced around the room and ran a hand through his hair. The sweat trickling down his skin caused it to stick out in strange ways, accentuating a mad scientist look. "There's nothing up here that would be bad for him to see," he decided, turning to cross the floor to the door.

Daniel smiled faintly, the expression looking almost automatic, as the door swung open. "Hello, Emmett," he said. "May I come in?"

Doc nodded once and stepped back, allowing the smaller man to step inside. Daniel looked around the space as Doc closed the door, the bespectacled scientist strolling around with a casual air as he gazed. "So this is your workshop...your laboratory?" he asked.

"Yes," Doc said, offering no further explanation.

"You have a lot of room. I wish Martha would allow me to do this to our carriage house."

"Clara respects my work."

"She always was interested in the sciences," Daniel agreed. "When she was a girl, she was eager to help me out with my collections."

"You taught her astronomy, I believe."

"Yes. Clara was such an eager learner. Her brother and sister were not quite as interested in the subject as she was." Daniel smiled to himself, his gaze distant, before abruptly changing the subject. "Could you show me around here? I would like to see some of your projects."

Marty didn't get it. In all the time that the Claytons had been in town, he didn't think either of them had set foot in the lab. At least, Doc hadn't mentioned it and, based on Daniel's behavior, he did not seem to have seen the building before. Marty looked at Doc, raising his eyebrows in a silent question, but the inventor's eyes were focused on his father-in-law.

"All right," Doc said after a moment.

Marty remained where he was, his fingers automatically continuing to wrap the wire, as bits of the conversation between Daniel and Doc drifted over to his ears.

"...What an ingenious device you have. And it runs on steam?"

"Yes. It is a bit loud when it runs, but it does save Clara a lot of time with doing the wash, as you can imagine."

"That is very impressive. Have you put in for a patent on this mechanical washing tub?"

"No."

"Why not?" Daniel's tone was one of astonishment. "You could make quite a bit of money with an invention like this. You could give up your blacksmithing trade."

"I knew someone who had a similar idea," Doc said, fibbing smoothly. "I simply modified it a bit." He hurriedly led the other man away from the washer and dryer he had crafted in one corner of the lab and over to a table where he had a few unfinished projects -- toys and other frivolous things -- for Jules lying out. These, Marty suspected, were much safer to show Daniel than any invention that Doc had cribbed from the future and recreated in the past.

Daniel seemed suitably impressed with the gadgets Doc had out. Then he wandered over to where Marty was sitting. "What is it you're doing?" he asked the young man.

Marty's eyes darted over to Doc. The inventor looked nonplussed, so he figured that it was safe to tell the truth. "Wrapping copper wire with insulation."

"For what purpose?" Daniel suddenly turned to Doc. "Are you going to wire your home for electrical power?"

"Eventually," Doc said, though Marty suspected that the truth was a little different. "Hill Valley does not have any sort of power company, but I am sure it is just a matter of time."

"Maybe so, but it may be another decade. They haven't quite made it out to Kinsrow yet, and Thomas Edison has his laboratory nearby."

Doc shrugged. Marty wondered if he knew when Hill Valley would have electricity. He suspected the inventor probably did. "Well, there is no harm in being prepared for the inevitability, is there?"

"No, no, of course not." Daniel's expression changed as he stood there, growing grave. "Emmett, I came out here to say...well, I would like to apologize for my wife. Martha is a wonderful woman...but she has a mind of her own and a tongue to match. She has not meant any harm towards you and your kin. The fact is, I think you are a great man and a fine husband and father."

Doc seemed taken aback with the words. Marty's hands paused in their task as he watched the other men. "Well...thank you," Doc said at last. "That means a lot."

Daniel sighed, fingering the buttons on his vest in a rather nervous way. "It pains me to see you and Clara disagreeing, and it pains me even more to know that we are the cause of it. I just want you to know that."

"Well, it isn't your fault," Doc said. His emphasis did not go unnoticed by Daniel, who looked down at the buttons on his vest as he continued to play with them.

"Emmett, I do not want to get involved in this situation. I am not a man who likes conflict...I will admit that straight off. Frankly, this is one reason I enjoy nature. People are complicated, but there is always order and patterns to be found in nature. It is logical.

"What I mean to say," Daniel went on, rushing the words together and finally looking up to meet Doc's dark eyes, "is that you will need to settle the matter of your disagreement with Martha and Clara yourself. I want no part in it, and I will take no sides."

Marty watched his friend carefully, wondering how he would take it. Personally, he thought Daniel was kind of wussing out on the whole matter in a very George-McFly-Before-The-Change way. It would have disappointed Marty if he had decided to side with his wife, but the young man would've understood that and had a little respect for him over it. From the sounds of things, though, it didn't even seem like Daniel was planning to go that way.

Doc's face remained a perfect blank. "I wasn't about to put you in the middle," he said, sounding as if he was choosing his words carefully.

Daniel looked relieved. He let out a deep breath and rocked back on his feet. "Good, so we understand each other?"

Doc nodded stiffly. Daniel made his way over to the door. "I'll leave you and your assistant be, now," he said. "There are some specimens I am eager to collect on one of your neighbor's farms."

The inventor nodded again. He did not say anything until his father-in-law left the building, and he remained mute even after the man's footfalls died away.

"You okay, Doc?" Marty asked, concerned by his friend's silence.

Doc let out a long sigh, his shoulders slumping. "Of course, Marty. Why wouldn't I be?" There was a trace of sarcasm to his words.

Marty wondered if he could somehow escape from having supper at the house. He suspected that tensions around the table would be into the stratosphere. But as he opened his mouth to make some excuse on why he needed to get back to town before then, he noticed Doc's grim expression as he sat back down at the worktable.

Maybe, Marty thought, he would just have to suck it up and stay. He didn't want to risk upsetting his friend any more than he clearly was right now.

* * *

Doc managed to spend the rest of the afternoon out in the lab. The uninterrupted work time was nice, and, in fact, he was able to focus so intently on the project at hand that the rest of the world and the worries that accompanied that fell away. Around three, he had taken Marty down into the cellar, which was much more comfortable to work in, and that helped make the passage of time go by even more rapidly.

It wasn't until Marty made a remark about getting back to town soon that Doc realized how late it was getting. He checked his pocket watch, stunned to see it was well after six. Usually Sunday night suppers were served around five P.M., and certainly before six. Yet no one had come to call them in or let them know that a meal was waiting in the house. There had been no knock, no sound from above that told him someone was at the door to the lab. The inventor had crafted a system where one could tug on a chain outside the door to ring a bell, which would sound down in the cellar, but the bell had been silent.

Doc held still for a moment, staring at the ticking second hand of the watch as this sunk in. He felt a hot flush of anger radiate out through his skin. "Marty, I think we'd better stop for today," he said, his voice coming out much calmer than he felt. "You're right, it is getting late. It's already after six."

Marty leaned out of the cab where Doc had put him to work bolting down the wrapped copper wires in previously mapped out locations. "Is Clara even making supper tonight?" he asked, sounding surprised.

"Your guess is as good as mine, I suppose we'll see in a few minutes."

It took a bit of time to put materials away for the day and close up the lab. When they reached the house and came in through the back door, Doc immediately spotted two covered plates sitting on the kitchen table. He lifted a corner of the cloth napkin that was concealing one of the plates and saw what appeared to be ham, an ear of corn, and some mashed potatoes. He dipped his finger into the potatoes and brought it to his mouth for a taste. The food was room-temperature, so he suspected that it had been sitting out at least half an hour, possibly as long as an hour.

Marty looked down at the second plate and removed the napkin draped over it "How nice," he said dryly. "Cold dinner."

Doc pressed his lips together tightly. "You might want to hurry up, eat it, and get on your way back to town," he said as he walked towards the dining room's swinging door. Marty seemed to take the hint and remained in the kitchen, looking vaguely troubled, while Doc went into the dining room.

The dining table was cleared, but through the arched doorway on the other side of the table, he saw his in-laws and wife sitting in the parlor. Clara was working on mending, her eyes downcast and puffy, while Daniel had a book in hand and Martha was entertaining Jules on her lap with a beaded necklace. The toddler kept trying to grab the baubles, which his grandmother would hold just out of his reach.

Jules looked up as Doc stopped poised in the doorway to the dining room. "Daddy," he said, rather plaintively, one hand stretching out to him. "Want Daddy."

Neither Martha nor Clara looked at the inventor or gave any sign that the child had said anything. Daniel glanced up from the book with a rather sympathetic look before raising the pages before his eyes.

Doc looked at his wife. "Clara, I need to speak with you," he said. "Alone."

Clara's eyes remained focused on her work. "I don't believe there is anything you need to say to me that cannot be said before my family," she said briskly.

"Is that how it's going to be?" Doc asked. "Fine. Even if you are angry with me about what I said earlier, I think I still deserve to be informed when supper is ready."

He waited a moment for some response, but Clara simply went on embroidering, her fingers stabbing the fabric in sharp, decisive gestures. Doc turned to leave, pausing at the sound of his son's voice calling out for him again. Without a word, he pivoted towards Jules, scooped him up from Martha's lap, and left the room to return to the kitchen.

Although Jules had been granted what he wanted, to be picked up by his father, he began to whine almost immediately. Marty looked pained by the sound as Doc sat down at the table with Jules.

"Is it past his bedtime or something?" he asked.

"No," Doc said. "I simply took him from his grandmother."

"Oh. Well, that explains it, then. Kid is probably traumatized." Marty shoved a bite of the cold ham in his mouth and chewed it hard, almost as if he was venting his own frustration. "What are you going to do about that, Doc?" he asked around the food.

"What am I going to do about what?"

"Your in-laws...well, your mother-in-law. She's obviously causing problems, in case you haven't noticed."

Marty's words touched a nerve in Doc. "I am perfectly aware of that," he said to the younger man, hearing the edge in his own voice. "However, there is nothing I can do about it."

"Yeah, there is. Have them stay in the Palace the rest of the time."

"I'm sure that such a move as that would simply cause even bigger problems with Clara." Doc bounced Jules on his knee, hoping to quell the sounds his child was still emitting.

"How much worse can they get with her? Clara's going to feel like you're making her choose between you and her parents...or at least her mom. And that's not good, Doc."

"How would you know about something like that?"

Marty half shrugged. "I don't know exactly about that, but I know that when Jen and I started dating, she got mad at her friends because they thought I was taking up too much of her time...like I was brainwashing her or something so she would spend more time with me. I think they worked it out eventually, but for a while she wasn't really speaking to some of those girls. If you're gonna accuse Clara of siding with her mom, she's probably going to get mad at you whether or not it's true."

"I never said she was siding with her mother."

"Maybe so, but she probably thought you were. Girls are weird, Doc. They twist around stuff you say so that you look like the bad guy sometimes, even when you're trying to help or just be honest. Trust me."

Marty sounded utterly confident in his words, and Doc gathered he did have some experience with what he spoke about. Until Clara, the inventor had felt that women were simply an incomprehensible species that had no interest in being involved with him in anything more than a platonic way. Clara was an extraordinary woman, but she was still a woman.

"Well, then, what do you suggest I should do? Apologize to Martha and Daniel? I don't see how that will solve anything."

"Maybe not now. I say give Clara a few days to cool down. She's pregnant...pregnant women are even more crazy."

"But you think I should ask the Claytons to move into the hotel until they leave."

"Yeah...just don't bring it up to them in front of Clara. That's my opinion." He took another bite of his cold food.

Doc considered the words as he tried to sooth Jules and eat at the same time. Maybe getting his in-laws out of the house was the solution. Maybe it would work. It would certainly make the last part of their visit more peaceful.

* * *

That night, after Marty had returned to the shop, Clara's parents had retired, and Jules was down for the night, Doc decided to broach the subject of Clara's parents moving into the hotel.

After thinking about it a little, he decided that going to Daniel or Martha directly to bring up that subject could be interpreted by his wife as "going behind her back," so he thought he would speak to Clara about it first to head off any trouble right away. He had cooled down a little once he'd had a not-so-hot meal in his stomach and he hoped she would be open to having a mature discussion about the matter. After all, Clara was a very rational person.

But she also was expecting their second child, and that threw a wrench into whatever ideas he had as to her reaction to his proposal.

When Doc entered their bedroom after checking the locks on the doors, Clara was curled up on her side of the bed, her face turned away towards the wall. He didn't believe she was asleep -- the room was too stuffy and she had only gone up ahead of him by no more than thirty minutes. He went over to his side of the bed, lit the lamp, sat down, and then spoke.

"Clara, we need to talk about something. I know you're awake."

There was a heavy silence in response. Doc went on after waiting for an answer and received none. "I think it would be best if your parents were to stay in town the rest of their time here."

There was a quick movement from the other side of the bed. Doc turned around to see his wife had sat up and twisted his way. Her face shifted swiftly between hurt and anger. "What did you say?" she asked.

"I think it would be best if your parents were to stay in the Palace for the rest of their visit. I'll pay for it. The accommodations are comfortable and...obviously their presence here is stressing you out unnecessarily."

Clara's posture grew straighter and she turned her whole body his way. "The only thing that is stressing me out is you," she said sharply. "How could you suggest such a thing as turning my parents out? They're family -- my family. You do not dump family out on the streets!"

"If your parents were not here under our roof right now, I doubt you would be taking that tone with me," Doc said, not thinking about the words before they tumbled out.

Clara's eyebrows arched so high that they nearly leapt off her face. "I beg your pardon?"

"You wouldn't be angry with me right now if your parents were still in New Jersey."

"I do not understand why you hate them so," Clara said, somehow twisting his words around. "Are you jealous, Emmett, because you have no parents now? Is that why you are treating mine so terribly?"

Doc's brain struggled to keep up with the turns this conversation was taking. "What?" was about all he could manage.

Clara's eyes shined with unshed tears, even as her voice rose in anger. "You are jealous of the relationship I have with my parents!"

"I'm not jealous...believe me," Doc said, his amusement with the accusation oozing into his voice. "I have simply noticed you have behaved completely differently since they arrived. You're acting completely irrational."

"I'm irrational?" Clara's voice rose to a pitch. "I am not the one who wants to toss my spouse's parents into the streets!"

Doc bit back an angry retort and stood. He raised his hands in a gesture of resignation. "Asking them to move into the hotel in town is not 'tossing them into the streets,'" he said as evenly as he could. "If you want them to stay here, fine. But if they stay, then I think it may be best for all of us if I'm in town instead."

Clara climbed to her feet as well, her skin flushed from either the heat in the room or their argument. "You cannot do that to me, Emmett," she said, her voice cracking.

"Why not?" Doc asked. He expected an answer along the lines of "I love you" or "I need you here." The reality was a cold slap in the face.

"What will my parents say about that? What will they think?"

Doc felt faint for a moment before the blood surged into his face. He shrugged almost carelessly, his temper taking over. He turned his back to his wife and strode decisively over to the bedroom door. "Whatever you tell them, I know your mother will still find fault with me," he said. "Goodnight."

Without turning around to look at her again, Doc opened the door, slammed it shut, and hurried down the hall, his heart racing ahead of him.

The summer nights were the worst.

The heat wave that they'd been suffering through showed no signs of ending, contrary to Daniel Clayton's prediction, and in a time before air conditioning, there was just no escaping it. Marty lay on the cot in the livery stable, the bedding kicked aside, stripped down to nothing more than a thin nightshirt. Even so, he was still hot and unable to get comfortable enough to sleep...or at least sleep for more than a thin hour at a stretch. The fact that he was exhausted, especially considering the excitement of the night before, didn't seem to make much of a difference. He lay flat on his back, eyes closed, his arms dangling over the sides of the bed in a vain hope to catch a stir of the air.

But sleep held off, pushed back by the cloying stuffiness of the building. Maybe, Marty thought, he should move outside. If the roof of the barn didn't look so unstable, he would have considered climbing up there in hopes of experiencing a stray breeze. And if the front of the building wasn't on the main street and the back part wasn't a pasture for horses, he may have opted to camp out under the stars. The open air would have to be a lot cooler than an enclosed building that had baked all day in the sun.

Marty sighed, frustrated, and opened his eyes. He could see the clear night sky in between gaps of the ceiling. Doc still hadn't gotten around to repairing the roof all the way and replacing all of the missing shingles. It wasn't really as much of an issue anymore, since no one lived in the barn year-round, but it did make some winter days of work uncomfortable and damp. Marty would've killed for a good rain shower now, though. He wondered if he'd feel any better if he soaked his head under the water pump.

On the other hand, that felt like too much effort for too little payoff.

Marty closed his eyes again and ran his hands back through his hair, already damp with sweat. If only there was a fan, something to create a breeze. With all of Doc's devices, he was surprised the inventor hadn't cobbled together something for that very purpose.

I should've stayed over at the house tonight. Sleeping in the cellar would've been all right.

Of course, being in the proximity of that house right now would have caused other problems, and Marty suspected he would have had just as much trouble getting rest for other reasons. Namely the tension that was thick enough to slice with a knife whenever Doc, Clara, and Martha were in the same room. He had absolutely no envy for his friend at the moment, but didn't feel quite bad enough to return to the house before the Claytons left. Frankly, the whole thing made him feel like more of an outsider than he usually did, and he knew that Martha, at least, wondered why the hell he was hanging around with Doc and Clara all the time. He didn't need that right now.

Marty shifted on the cot, rolling onto his side, trying to shove the thoughts about the Claytons out of his head. It definitely wasn't going to help him try to sleep. Instead, he tried to focus his mind on thinking of cold things: ice, swimming in the lake, snow. Unfortunately, each time his mind fixed on one thing, he would find himself remembering a moment from his past. Ice reminded him of snow cones at the county fair when he was a kid; swimming in the lake reminded him of an outing with Jennifer and some of his other friends the summer before he'd gotten stuck in the past; and snow...well, that, at least, induced memories of the prior winter and the pain in the ass it was to travel to town every morning with that stuff on the ground.

Gradually, Marty felt himself start to drift. He was teetering on the edge of sleep when a creaking sound brought him immediately back to earth. His eyes flew open and he held still a moment, wondering if the sound had been part of his imagination, like a snippet from the beginning of a dream.

The sound came again, followed immediately by the distinctive scuff of footsteps on the dirt floor. Marty's mind hurriedly translated the sound: The door that led to the main street had opened...the hinges had a certain sound to them. That meant someone had come into the building, and the footsteps simply confirmed that.

Marty's eyes grew wide. He was unfortunately facing away from the source of the noises, a matter that brought him no comfort. Whereas a minute ago he had been on the verge of sleep, he now felt painfully wide awake. His skin grew damp with sweat all over again, but this had no relation to the cloyingly hot air.

After a moment of remaining absolutely frozen, Marty leaned forward and dropped his chin over the edge of the cot. He shifted his weight slightly until the top of his head was hanging over the side of the bed and he was able to peer under the cot and towards the other side of the room.

Nothing looked out of place...at least from his upside-down perspective. He blinked a few times, straining his eyes as he slowly scanned that end of the room. A flicker of movement, a darker shadow against a dark background, snagged his attention a second later. The footsteps, which had paused, picked up. The dark figure was walking his way. Marty raised his head back up and drew a quick breath.

Fortunately, he had a plan. Without taking a moment to check on the progress of the stranger, Marty leaned over and picked up the metal crowbar that he had set under the cot the night before, during the wild fight that had spilled out from the saloon and into the street. It was times like this that he wished he had a gun on hand. Not that he wanted to shoot anyone...but intimidation with a weapon like that would be a hell of a lot better than waving around a heavy length of iron.

Marty wrapped his hand around the end of the crowbar and picked it up. The tool made a soft scraping sound against the wooden floorboards as it moved, and he froze, panicked that the noise had drawn the attention of the stranger. The footsteps didn't run his way or anything, and after a moment he sat up again, the cool metal of the tool clutched firmly in hand. Already, he felt a little better.

As he lay there and considered his options, he heard the footsteps move away from where he was, followed by the creak of the door. The prowler had, for whatever reason, gone outside.

Marty seized his chance. He jumped to his feet and darted towards the door. In his haste to move, he unfortunately forgot to watch where he was going. Doc had never been known for uncluttered work spaces.

As a result, Marty wound up slamming his bare left foot right into a leg of one of Doc's worktables.

The pain was sudden and swift. He heard the air hiss from his mouth and immediately clamped his jaw shut, not wanting to risk blowing his cover by yelling out a stream of curse words that had shot to the tip of his tongue. Grabbing his foot or falling to the ground were out as well. Marty caught his weight on the table for a moment and took a couple quick, sharp breaths. It was all the noise he dared to make.

I swear to God, that creep is dead when he comes back in! he thought, fuming.

When the worst of the pain subsided, Marty limped the rest of the way to the door, giving the darker shapes of furniture a wide berth. He could hear a horse just beyond the exit and someone moving, shuffling their feet around on the dirt outside. Marty stepped close to the wall beside the doorway, concealing himself as best he could in the shadows. He raised the crowbar above his head, but began to regret the maneuver as the seconds ticked away and his arms began to ache under the weight of the heavy metal. When the seconds stretched into a minute, and then two, he lowered it to chest level, giving his arms a bit of a breather.

Of course, that was when the intruder decided to return.

Marty acted fast, his nerves strung to the breaking point. "Yaaaah!" he yelled, swinging the crowbar like a baseball bat. He saw the figure start to react, to turn in his direction, but then the crowbar hit the intruder's side with a heavy, satisfying whump. The trespasser let out a shout of pain. As the stranger stumbled to one side, grabbing onto the door for support, light from the stars above fell on his face. Marty felt the crowbar slide from his hands and land directly on his already-bruised and throbbing food. He registered the spike of pain only peripherally, everything else flooded in a wave of horror at the realization of whom he had just attacked.

"Doc! Jesus Christ, I'm sorry!"

The inventor groaned, leaning heavily on the door. He reached his left hand over and clasped it firmly on his right upper arm, at the point that the crowbar had struck. "Did I break it?" Marty asked anxiously, feeling sick. He limped forward, trying to get closer, but Doc pivoted away slightly.

"I don't...think so," the scientist said after a moment, his voice laced with pain. He staggered over to a bench nearby and sunk down on it, his face white.

"I'm so, so sorry! I didn't know it was you! I thought it was a burglar or something!"

"Evidently," Doc said huskily. He leaned forward, rubbing his right arm with his left hand. Marty watched, feeling helpless, not sure what he could do or should do.

"Do you want some ice?" he asked.

It took Doc a moment to answer, and when he did he sounded dazed. "Yes...yes, that would probably be a good idea."

Marty made his way over to the refrigeration unit still erected in the barn, gritting his own teeth against the throbbing ache in his foot. He hoped he hadn't broken anything himself between the table leg and the crowbar, but he didn't say a word about his discomfort to Doc. Those injuries had been his own klutzy fault; the Doc was an innocent victim who was entitled to whatever help Marty could provide to him.

Marty quickly filled a dish with some half-melted ice cubes and grabbed a towel from the wash stand. He couldn't hide the limp as he returned to Doc's side, but the normally observant inventor did not seem to notice. Doc's eyes were shut, and he was leaning forward, looking almost like he had a severe stomachache.

"Here," he said, sitting down beside his friend on the bench and passing him the damp bundle.

"Thank you," Doc said, opening his eyes and pressing the improvised compress on his arm. After a moment or two of silence, he added, "I don't think it's broken, Marty...and either way, it was an accident."

Marty shrugged, the guilt not getting any lighter. "I should've guessed it was you," he said. "I mean, it's your place."

"I would have probably reacted the same," Doc said, "especially considering what happened with Bowie Tannen last year."

"Yeah." Marty reached down and tentatively touched his foot, sucking in a quick breath through his teeth as he made contact with his skin. There would be a hell of a bruise there later, he thought, but it didn't feel quite bad enough for a break. "What are you doing out here this late, anyway?" he asked, straightening up. "Isn't it a bad idea to be traveling around after dark now, what with all the wolves and bears and stuff?"

"I was armed," Doc said, not answering his question. He lifted his head up and glanced towards the doors. "Newton's still outside."

"I could put him out back if you want," Marty said, secretly hoping that the inventor would decline the offer.

"I'll do it in a few minutes...you're limping. What happened?"

"Nothing important. Is everything all right?"

"My arm will be fine, I'm sure." Doc mustered a thin smile. "If it still hurts badly tomorrow, I'll get the doctor to look at it, but there is not much they can do for broken bones now beyond immobilize them."

Marty shook his head, frustrated. "I'm not talking about your arm. Why the hell are you here at the shop so late? Did something happen at the house?"

Doc didn't look as if he was going to answer at first. The scientist looked down at his arm, raising the cold compress up and adjusting it slightly. "I think it would be best if I stayed here in town until the Claytons left."

That still didn't seem to be the whole story. "And it couldn't wait 'til tomorrow?"

"Clara and I...had a difference of opinion."

Marty looked at him shrewdly. "You mean you had a fight?"

"We didn't fight...I'll admit some of the words were heated, but it was no physical altercation."

The young man rolled his eyes. "Well, duh. So what'd she do, kick you out because you complained about her psycho mom?"

"No," Doc said shortly, his tone even. "I simply told her that I was going to speak to her parents about staying at the Palace for the remainder of their stay...and since she disagreed with me on the matter, I told her that I would be in town instead."

"Really?" Marty considered the implications of what had happened. "So she chose her parents over you?"

It was obvious that this thought had already occurred to the scientist. "She did not want to turn out family from the house," Doc said, once more looking down at his arm, his face turned away from Marty. "I made the choice for her."

"Good," Marty said fervently. "She has to know that it's not cool for her parents to keep knocking her husband. I mean, Daniel's all right, he seems on the level...wussy like my dad, but somewhat sane. Clara's mom is a bitch, though. Maybe now that you're here, Martha will feel guilty about messing up her daughter's marriage and all that."

"Guilt is not my motivation, Marty," Doc said dryly. "Trying to ease Clara's stress, and the stress on our unborn child, is much more of a concern for me. If she wasn't pregnant, I suspect she would be behaving and thinking much more rationally now."

"Maybe...maybe not. Girls are crazy, Doc. They're good at acting sane most of the time, but sooner or later they'll bug out on you. It doesn't matter how old they are, they're still nuts."

Doc let out a short bark of a laugh, the sound almost pained. He abruptly removed the cold compress from his arm and handed it to Marty. "I'm going to get Newton moved to the pasture. Get some rest...I'll be fine."

Marty watched his friend shuffle back outside, still holding his arm. He sighed and leaned back against the wall, wide awake and worried now. It wasn't like Doc to look or sound so glum and down, nor for him to have problems with Clara. But it seemed like ever since her parents had arrived, there'd been nothing but madness in that house.

I don't blame Doc for leaving, Marty thought. I did the same thing.

* * *

It took a few hours before the ache in Doc's arm subsided enough to not impede on every conscious thought. The pain was a lesser concern to him, even though he knew if the bone had broken or there was nerve damage, it would make life very painful for quite a while. He supposed he should be grateful that Marty hadn't broken one of his ribs or, worse yet, cracked him over the head with the crowbar and fractured his skull. He wasn't mad at his friend, though. It had been an accident.

The chief focus of his thoughts, as the hour grew later and the pain gradually lessened, was the bitter exchange of words he'd had with Clara in their bedroom. During the ride to town, he had been more angry than anything else, getting some of his frustrations out by kicking Newton up to a gallop. He found it hard to believe that the same woman who accused him of jealousy and lobbed one of Doc's great pains -- the sudden loss of both his parents -- into his face was the same gentle, kind soul he had married.

It's not her talking, Doc told himself as he struggled to get comfortable on the small, shabby couch that was left over from his days of living in the stable full time. It's her hormones and the stress. Once her parents leave, she will probably calm down.

Logic could not seem to override emotion, however. In fact, emotions could be downright irrational. Inside, it felt like a small fist was clutched around his heart, a steady, wearing weight that seemed unable to fall away no matter what he tried. What if sanity did not restore itself after the Claytons left? What if something were to happen to the baby due to the stress Clara was feeling? What if things would never again be the same between him and his wife?

What cut Doc to the core was the tone he had heard in Clara's voice -- the sharp, bitter, hateful edge her voice had taken on when she made her accusations. He had never before had that kind of emotion directed at him from her.

Doc sighed and sat up, the bruise on his arm flaring with a stab of pain as he moved. He glanced over to the cot nearby. Marty, after a fair bit of tossing and turning himself, had finally grown still in the last half hour or so, his breathing slow and deep. Not wanting to wake him up -- one of them, he supposed, should get some sleep that night -- Doc climbed to his feet, stifled a groan as the ache escalated, and walked towards the doors that led out to the main street.

Outside, the air was much more comfortable, the temperature having dropped considerably since the peak of the day. Doc sighed in relief and leaned against the wall of the building, staring out at the quiet, empty main street of town. It was times like this, when it was quiet and void of townspeople, that the scientist felt as if he was simply visiting a ghost town or a film set in one of the old westerns he used to see in the theaters. The sense always brought up a wave of homesickness. Studying the buildings and town layout, he saw a clear draft of downtown, a primitive blueprint of how the town would look in his lifetime.

Doc sighed softly, rubbing the bruise on his arm. He didn't much appreciate these moments of homesickness. Often he was so busy that he didn't have the time for such thoughts -- it was one reason why he tried to keep Marty occupied with jobs and chores. He rarely was able to reflect on his circumstances because of the myriad duties and obligations he had.

Amazing what a case of insomnia could bring.

Doc wasn't sure how long he had been out there, trying not to think and failing miserably, before he heard a faint noise from behind him. He turned and saw the door ease open and Marty step outside. The young man's eyes were squinted against the bright celestial sight from above and he looked dazed, only half awake. He sighed softly as he stepped outside, the sound one of relief.

"It's much more comfortable out here," Doc said in agreement.

Marty jumped, whipping his head around towards the inventor. He clung to the door for a moment. "Jesus, Doc, you scared the shit out of me!" he breathed seconds later. "What are you doing out here?"

"I could ask the same of you."

"Call of nature." He ran a hand through his hair, mussing it even more than it already was. "It's too goddamned hot to sleep, anyway."

"Well, you could always sleep out here, under the stars."

"Where? In the street? Out in the pasture with the horses?"

Doc lifted his shoulders in a shrug and winced, pained, as the bruise gave a dull throb. Marty caught the expression and took a step closer, his irritation morphing to concern. "Does your arm still hurt? Should I get the doctor?"

"Yes, it still hurts. And no, you don't need to get the doctor. It's not broken, Marty. Don't worry."

"I'm really sorry about that," Marty said again, contrite.

"I'm not blaming you. It was an accident, a misunderstanding." Doc exhaled slowly, his eyes drifting up to the stars above. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Marty standing, waiting, staring at him before he turned and started to walk towards the corner of the barn, around which could be found the outhouse.

A few minutes later, the young man returned, frowning crookedly as he re-approached his friend. "Why are you up and out here, Doc? You never answered that question." Marty paused only briefly before adding, tentatively, "You're stressed about Clara, right?"

For a moment, the inventor thought about fibbing, telling his friend that his arm was simply bothering him along with the heat. However, he really didn't want to worry Marty any more about the crowbar attack. "I have a lot on my mind right now," Doc said instead, neither confirming nor denying Marty's suspicions.

"You and Clara haven't fought before, have you?"

"No, not really. There hasn't been any reason for strife."

"Clara hasn't chosen her parents over you before, you mean," Marty said puckishly. "Look, Doc, I know you're feeling bad right now, but the one thing you really shouldn't do is back down on this. If you do that, Clara's going to think that she can pull this kind of crap on you all the time."

"Back down?" Doc echoed.

"You know, crawl there tomorrow and apologize. You need to stand your ground, stay in town 'til Martha, the Wicked Witch of the East, leaves. Clara's not gonna respect you if you just cave in."

"And you would be an expert on this?" Doc asked dryly.

"I may not be married, but I got a front row seat to my parents' marriage. None of us had respect for my dad after he kept caving into my mom every single time they had a disagreement. If you told Clara you were gonna do something, do it. Don't cave."

There was, Doc supposed, a kernel of truth in Marty's words. However, the idea of being lumped in the same category as George McFly -- the George that Marty still was most familiar with...the bumbling, stammering, weak-willed man, not the confident author -- was a little disconcerting. "I wasn't intending to go back," Doc said, lying a little. "As I said earlier, I don't want to add to Clara's stress."

"Well, good."

Doc glanced towards the eastern sky again, which now held a faint glow to it. "Why don't you go back in, Marty, and try to get some more sleep? The sun will be up soon."

"I'll go in when you go in," Marty said, folding his arms across his chest and meeting the inventor's eyes.

"All right." Doc stepped away from the wall and went back inside. Marty hesitated before he followed him.

Inside, the air was still stale and stuffy. Doc settled back on the uncomfortably small couch, but made no effort to sleep, his eyes staring up at the gaps in the roof. Each time he closed his eyes, he was treated with a rerun of Clara's hurt, angry expression in the bedroom when he got up to leave.

After suffering from that for more than an hour, Doc decided to give in and get up for the day. The sun was up -- barely, but it provided him with enough light to see around the interior of the barn, as well as an excuse to terminate any attempts at sleep.

Marty, thank God, appeared to have gone back to sleep. Doc watched him warily as he moved towards the stove, not wanting to accidentally wake him and become the subject of more well-meaning advice. Fortunately, the young man's eyes remained shut, and he gave no indication of being awake.

The idea of possibly disturbing his friend gave Doc second thoughts about preparing a pot of coffee...not to mention that the heat of the stove would simply make the space even more unbearably hot. After considering the options, he decided to go over to the saloon and purchase enough coffee to fill the kettle. Chester often had a good, strong brew on hand at all hours, and it would provide the inventor a chance to inquire about a room at the hotel.

Doc collected the kettle and set out for the saloon and hotel next door. The streets were still fairly unpopulated at this hour, but the saloon was open, often serving breakfast as early as five in the morning. Granted, only two customers were seated in the business, but Doc could smell the coffee in the air the moment he stepped into the building. The bartender's nephew, Joey, looked up from where he had been drying off newly-washed dishes.

"Good morning, Mr. Brown," he said cordially. "What brings you in here so early?"

Doc set down the empty metal kettle on the polished wood when he reached the bar. "Two things," he said. "I'd like to get this filled with coffee, if possible. It's a little hot for me to want to fire up the stove more than necessary. And I'd like to see if there is a room available from today until August fourteenth."

Joey's brow creased. "You want a room here for two weeks?" There was an additional unspoken question in the words, but Doc neatly sidestepped it.

"Yes, if possible. Is there vacancy?"

"I think so, but let me look at the ledger. Just a minute, I'll get your coffee."

Joey took the empty kettle and headed into the back, out of sight. Doc waited, drumming his fingers on the bar top restlessly. His eyes moved to the clock hung in the saloon. It was just after six A.M. Normally, at this hour, he would be getting up for the day, and Clara would be cooking breakfast. He found himself wondering what his wife was doing at that moment, if she was still asleep or already up with Jules and working on the morning meal for her parents.

Doc's thoughts were abruptly pulled back to the present with the return of Joey lugging the kettle now filled with hot coffee. "We've got a room open for that time," he said. "Did you want to pay for it all at once or just by the day?"

"By the day, I think. Could I get two orders of breakfast to go, too?"

"Of course. You want them brought to the livery stable when they're ready?"

"That would be great." Doc pulled out the money for both the food, drink, and the hotel room, signed the ledger that Joey slid his way, and then left with the hot, heavy kettle of coffee grasped firmly in hand.

Nothing had changed in the time the inventor had been out of his business. He brought the coffee pot with him over to the forage, setting it down close to the steel pit in order to keep the liquid as warm as possible. Next, he tossed some of his specially crafted logs into the forage and started up the fire for the day. Of all the professions he could have fallen into in this time, blacksmithing was definitely one of the more uncomfortable ones during the hot summer months. Doc propped open the door and opened several of the windows in hopes of feeling a stray breeze, though the air outside continued to remain rather still.

The inventor had hoped that the day's tasks would sufficiently distract him from his problems. Unfortunately, he was so used to the routine of getting things ready for the day that his mind was not really taxed by the chores. He felt oddly relieved when breakfast arrived about twenty minutes later, and he had a valid excuse to rouse Marty for the day.

The young man was no morning person. After some grumbling on his part, he sat at one of the worktables and ate his meal with little commentary, bleary-eyed and looking only marginally awake.

"Is your arm okay?" he mumbled after a couple minutes.

In truth, it still ached, but Doc knew it was not permanently damaged. "It's fine. What about your ankle?"

"It hurts, but not as bad as last night."

"I got a room at the Palace for tonight," Doc said, changing the subject. "You should have this place to yourself again tonight."

Marty stopped chewing for a moment and peered quizzically at the scientist. "Not two rooms?" he asked after he had swallowed.

"Well...no, it didn't occur to me." Doc sighed inwardly, thinking of the additional cost. "I suppose I could request another room if you want...."

Marty shook his head after a moment. "No, forget it. That place is probably hotter than it is in here." He paused, taking a swallow of his cup of coffee, grimacing at the strong taste. "So you're gonna let Clara come to you?"

"I don't want to talk about it," Doc said, sharper than he had intended.

"Even to me?" There was a faint note of hurt in Marty's voice. "I'm trying to help you, Doc. I'm on your side."

Doc had a somewhat uncomfortable feeling that Marty was almost enjoying the current scenario. Certainly he didn't seem upset in the least. Once again, Doc wondered if there was something that had happened between his wife and his best friend, something that preluded the Claytons' visit. He supposed occasional bouts of jealousy could be common between the two, and while he knew that Marty had suffered from just that before he had married Clara, it was difficult for him to wrap his brain around the idea that Clara could be jealous of Marty.

"As good as your intentions may be, I'm tired of thinking about this subject," Doc said in response to Marty's words. "I really don't want to talk about it anymore right now."

Marty dropped the subject without any argument. "All right, fine. Sorry." He popped a piece of bacon in his mouth and leaned back in the chair as he chewed. "So do you think that Daniel is on the ball with the weather changing anytime soon?" he asked a moment later.

"I would be more apt to believe him than the Farmer's Almanac," Doc said. He pushed his plate aside, though he had only consumed about half of the food on it. He didn't feel very hungry anymore. "When you're done and dressed, you can refill the water and feed troughs outside for the horses. I'm going to start getting some horseshoes made."

The scientist felt his friend's concerned gaze as he got up from the table and headed for the forge across the room.

On the fifth morning after Emmett had abruptly quit the house, Clara awoke from a restless night with tearstained cheeks and a gnawing sense of worry clutching her chest. She brushed one hand across her aching eyes, stretching her arm out to the other side of the bed where her husband normally lay.

The space was still vacant.

Clara's heart swelled even more, and she swallowed hard, trying to flatten the lump in her throat. She had wept far too much recently, and evidently she couldn't even escape that in sleep.

How could Emmett leave me now? she wondered once more, stinging all over again from the memory of his sudden departure. Surely he had to know how much this hurt her, how humiliating it was for her parents to see this. She loathed the look of pity in her mother's eyes, in her tone, in her every interaction now with Clara. Her father had simply said nothing to indicate that he was even aware of the inventor's absence, and perhaps he was not. Daniel Clayton was not terribly observant when he was engaged in a project, and he currently was busy collecting specimens of plant and insect life to add to his collections.

Clara turned her head, blinking rapidly to dispel the tears from her eyes, and looked at the clock set on the bedside table. She sat up quickly when she saw the hour. After eight! She frowned, baffled and confused. Jules never slept in this late -- not when he was put to bed at his regular time. Something had to be wrong!

Her pulse started to skip. Clara hastily got up from the bed, not bothering to grab her summer robe as she opened her bedroom door and rushed into the nursery.

The crib was empty, the bedding mussed.

Oh no, oh no, please, no, Clara thought, her eyes widening in horror. She reached for her throat, finding it difficult to breathe for a moment. Memories from more than a year ago cascaded back to her, when Clara had allowed herself to be talked out of the house for a night alone with Emmett and Jules had wound up in the hands of a madman. To her dying day, Clara knew that she would never forget the emotional torture of that terrible night...and she still could not quite forgive Marty for letting her baby be snatched while in his care.

Clara turned around and ran back into the hall, down the stairs. "Mama!" she called. "Mama, someone has taken Jules!"

Clara's mother met her at the bottom of the stairs, her brow furrowed in confusion. "What are you all het up about?" she asked, far too calm.

Clara resisted the urge to grab her mother by the shoulders and shake her. "My baby! Jules is gone! Someone took him!"

"Your son is perfectly fine," Martha said in a no-nonsense tone. "I have him with me in the kitchen. I got him up this mornin' since you seemed so tuckered out."

Clara's heart continued to pound, even as her knees went weak with relief. She grabbed onto the newel post. "He's--he's with you?"

"Yes. My goodness, honey, sit down. You're as white as a ghost."

Clara nodded once, taking a seat on the bottom steps of the stairs. Although she was assured that her son was perfectly all right, she found her eyes filling with tears once again and she was helpless to hold them back. She buried her face in her hands, hating that her mother had to see this again, biting her lip hard to try and hold back the sobs. Clara heard her mother's footsteps approach her and a hand was laid upon her head.

"Why don't you go back to bed, Clara? I can take care of Jules and make breakfast. You're overtired...you do not want to make yourself ill."

"I'm not overtired," Clara managed to say around her sobs. "I--I simply miss my husband."

Martha clicked her tongue. The gentle note vanished from her voice immediately. "That man is no husband to you right now, dear. No man would abandon his wife while she is in the family way as Emmett has done."

Clara shook her head, her face still buried in her hands. Martha knelt down next to her. "Dear, if you want to come back with us to New Jersey, we can take care of you and Jules."

The suggestion was so shocking to Clara that she temporarily forgot her tears. She looked up, aghast. "Leave Emmett?" she said, her voice cracking on the words. "Are you mad? I cannot do that!"

"Why not? If he treats you this poorly--"

"Emmett does not treat me poorly!" Clara interrupted, her tears swiftly giving way to anger. "How can you say such a terrible thing about my husband?"

"A man who treats his wife well does not leave her in an hour of need," Martha said. She abruptly changed the subject, straightening up to her full height. "I want you to go upstairs and lie down. I'll bring you some tea. Rest while I take care of things today."

Clara wiped at the tears on her cheeks, at loath to follow her mother's directions. However, she recognized a command when she heard it. "I'll rest until noon," she said, "but no longer. I'm not ill."

"You will be soon enough if you do not take it easy." She paused a moment. "After breakfast, I need to go into town to get a few things from the general store. Your father will be here if you need anything."

Clara nodded wearily. Her mother watched her closely as she climbed back to her feet, turned around, and went back up the stairs. Although she loved her mother, at that moment Clara was suddenly eager for the arrival of August fifteenth. Life would get back to normal after they left...wouldn't it?

Clara's eyes filled once again at the thought that perhaps, just perhaps, things had changed forever between her and Emmett...and would never be the same again.

* * *

Although Doc had grown quiet and distant in the last few days, Marty wasn't feeling too badly about the apparent argument between Doc and Clara. In fact, though he would never have admitted it to anyone, he was kind of...liking it a little. Things lately reminded him a lot of Life Before Doc Was Married, and although the inventor was lacking some of his enthusiasm and energy, he seemed to be throwing himself into work with a degree of focus that Marty hadn't seen in years. A pity that it took something like the in-laws from hell to make that happen.

The young man felt close to cheerful as he helped Doc late that morning with the shoeing of a few horses for one of the locals. The sun was out and, though the temperatures remained fantastically hot, a breeze had sprung up over the last hour and clouds had started to gather in the east by the noon hour. Marty fervently hoped that it was a sign the weather was about to change; Doc seemed to think so.

"We might see rain tonight," the scientist remarked as a particularly strong gust blew in, causing the large door nearby to slowly swing open. Papers tacked onto the walls rustled noisily as the wind plunged deeper into the room. Marty sighed at the sight, imagining sweet relief later on. He hadn't been sleeping well since the heat wave had started. It was just impossible to relax when one felt so incredibly uncomfortable.

"God, I hope you're right," he said. "I think I'd sell my soul for an air conditioner right now."

"I do miss electricity in times like this," Doc said simply. He finished banging the new shoe into the mare's hoof while Marty held the bridle on the horse, trying to keep the animal calm. Doc was better at that sort of thing, but he couldn't be in two places at once. And Marty definitely couldn't pull off shoeing a horse unless he felt like getting trampled or kicked in the process. The inventor paused to wipe his face with his handkerchief before making his way to the front of the horse and taking the bridal from Marty's hands. "I'll take Buttercup back to the pasture and bring in Bandit," he said.

Marty nodded and backed away from the horse as Doc took her out of the barn. He walked over to the water pitcher and poured himself a glass of the room-temperature liquid. As he raised it to his lips, he heard the door creak open behind him.

"That was fast," he said aloud to the inventor, turning around as he took his first swallow of the water. It wasn't Doc's form that darkened the doorway, however, but Martha Clayton. Marty quickly lowered the drinking glass, coughing a little in surprise at the sight. "Ma--Mrs. Clayton, what are you doing here?"

Martha walked into the shop and glanced around. "Good morning," she said stiffly. "Where is Emmett?"

Marty blinked. "He went to the pasture to get a horse. He'll be back in a minute. Is there something I can help you with?"

"No, that's quite all right." Martha gave him a small, tightlipped smile.

"Is something wrong with Clara?" Marty asked, not sure what was going on.

"No, she is well...for now."

A grossly uncomfortable silence settled over the room. Marty finished his glass of water and set it back down. Fortunately, Doc returned about then, opening the door wide to lead in a black stallion. The horse was tossing his head, agitated, as the inventor coaxed him inside.

"Marty, can you shut the door? Bandit is a little skittish."

Marty hurried to take care of that chore. Doc didn't seem to notice his mother-in-law right away, his full attention on the snorting horse. "Doc, we have company," Marty said in a low voice when he had reached his friend's side. The scientist looked up sharply, his eyes scanning the interior of the barn. They came to rest on Martha a moment later.

Doc let go of the bridal once Marty wrapped his hand around it. The inventor took a step away from the horse. "Mrs. Clayton," he said. "What brings you here today? Is--is something wrong with Clara?" Doc's eyes widened as he asked, suddenly alarmed.

"That is why I have come to speak with you...alone." Her eyes flickered over to Marty. Doc swiveled around to look at him. It took Marty a moment to realize he was being dismissed.

"I'll...I'll take the horse back to the pasture," he said. Marty gave the bridal a tug, the horse almost mowing him over as the animal jumped forward. He hurriedly took him outside, around back. Once the horse was safely in the fenced area, Marty quickly returned to the building, heading for the space under an open window where he could eavesdrop without detection. He didn't think Doc would hold it against him.

"...Clara is very unhappy right now because you have left," Martha was saying briskly. "It is not good for a woman in her condition to be so distressed."

"She has sent no word to me," Doc said, a strain clear in his tone.

"My daughter is proud," Martha said. "She does not know that I've come here on her behalf, and I'd appreciate if you could keep that quiet. Thus, I will be brief: I think it would be best for all if you were to return to your home."

"I...." Doc's voice faltered. "I don't believe that would be a good idea just now."

"Oh?" The sound contained an unmistakable chill. "Why not, may I ask?"

"With you and your husband visiting, I think it makes less work for her if I remain here in town." The excuse sounded lame even to Marty. He sighed and shook his head, guessing that it wouldn't really fly with Martha.

"You will not return to the house?" There was a strange mix of both satisfaction and scorn in Martha's voice. "Well, if that is the case, I think you should know that Daniel and I plan to take Clara and Jules with us when we leave."

Marty's jaw dropped at the pronouncement. He raised his head up enough to peer over the bottom of the windowsill. Martha's back was to him, and he had a clear view of Doc's suddenly ashen face.

"Wha-what?" the inventor stammered.

"Daniel and I are going to take Clara and Jules back home with us to New Jersey. She needs our help right now and someone to take care of her."

Doc seemed incapable of speech for a moment. "Does she want to go?" he asked in a low voice.

"She will come around to the idea." That was a no in Marty's opinion. He scowled, abruptly furious with the Wicked Bitch of the East. For his part, Doc seemed to be in a state of shock.

"Did you suggest that to her?" Doc asked, blinking rapidly.

"I broached it today. She was a mite cool to the idea, but she simply needs time to accept it and understand it would be for the best."

Doc drew a breath and turned, pacing several feet. When he turned back around, his face had regained a little color. "Clara is my wife," he said to Martha. "There is no need for her to leave Hill Valley with our son and return to your home."

"You are not acting as a husband should act right now," Martha said promptly.

Doc took another breath before answering. "I am doing what I can."

"Oh? Are you? If that is so, why don't you come home to her today?"

"It -- I -- it is complicated."

Marty thought that Doc was being far too nice. If he was in the scientist's shoes, he would not have hesitated to lay it all out in regards to the real reason he was hiding out in town.

"Complicated?" Martha echoed. "I dare say that it is not. If you love my daughter, you will return to your home today."

Doc stared at his mother-in-law with a frightening intensity. "I love Clara with every atom of my body and soul," he said in a low voice. "It is you I cannot stand."

Marty's eyes widened. Martha took a step back, her posture going rigid. "I beg your pardon?" she exclaimed.

Now that the cat was out of the bag, it was clear the scientist figured he might as well say everything on his mind. "I have done my best to be kind, polite, and hospitable to you since your arrival," he said curtly. "But from the moment you stepped off the train, you've found nothing but fault with me and said not one nice word about the life Clara and I have chosen to make here. You are the one causing Clara undo grief right now, not me. It is you who is causing her distress, and I will not stand idly by any longer and have you convince her that I do not care for her or our son!"

Doc paused for breath while Martha remained rooted to the floor. Marty sincerely wished he could see her face! "The reason I am in town now and not staying at the house is because I couldn't stand your scrutiny any longer. I suggested to Clara that we put up you and Daniel in the hotel in town, which has more than adequate accommodations, but she wouldn't hear of it. So I left instead. I knew that if I stayed I would...well, say everything you have forced me to utter right now!" Doc's bitter tone changed abruptly. "I had hoped we would get along, Mrs. Clayton. My own parents passed away a long time ago, and I have no family around anymore...except for Clint, that is."

"Well!" Martha drew several steps closer to Doc, her movements quick and fluid. "I don't think I've ever been so insulted in my whole life. If you see fit to air your grievances with me, then I will do the same. You are too old for Clara, and you are wasting your life in a job that is, frankly, beneath your supposed intelligence! You are the reason our daughter lives on the other side of the country and not closer to us!" She paused a moment, gazing up at Doc from no more than a foot away. Marty wondered if she was going to slap him for a few seconds. Instead, she abruptly turned and headed for the door, storming out of the stable as a gust of wind billowed the doors open.

Marty ducked back down from the window and crept along the exterior wall of the barn towards the front of the building. He saw Martha scurry away a moment later, stirring up dust in her wake that blew in his direction. Marty looked up at the sky, noticing the clouds that had been on the horizon earlier were now bearing down, stacked like a dark, solid wall of slate grey. Soon, they would cross before the sun, and he suspected that they'd have a big storm on their hands.

Marty waited a moment before returning back to the barn. Doc was sitting on the wooden steps that led to the old living area of the place, bent forward with his head in his hands. He looked up sharply at the sound of Marty's entrance, his complexion the color of dirty snow.

Marty had intended to play dumb, but as soon as he saw his friend's face, he decided to drop the pretense. "I heard what happened," he said. "I'm glad you finally told her off."

Doc emitted a deep sigh and let his hands drop to his lap. "I'm not," he said softly. "I had no right to say those things to her."

Marty snorted and rolled his eyes as he walked towards the scientist. "Bullshit, Doc! She had that coming for a long time. If you wouldn't have said something, I would've done the honors for you."

"It is going to upset Clara."

"Clara's already upset from what Martha said! I doubt it's gonna make things worse." Marty paused, considering whether or not he wanted to say what he really thought about the situation. As disturbing as it could be for Doc, he figured he might as well spill it. "Look, Doc, Clara's your wife. She shouldn't just sit back and let her mom rip into you like she has been. I mean, I get that it's her mother and all that, but if my mom was bitching about Jennifer to me -- while Jen was in the room -- I'd tell her to go to hell." He scratched his head, frowning. "Actually, I think I did do that once or twice...she didn't like Jen, at least before."

"Really?" The word was uttered almost automatically by Doc, devoid of any emotion. "Jennifer never struck me as being a bad influence on you."

"She wasn't," Marty said softly, feeling that terrible ache in his chest that came every single time he thought about his girlfriend. "But, anyway, Clara shouldn't be siding with her parents or just sitting by and not saying anything. That's messed up, and you don't have to take it."

Doc ran a hand through his hair, a look of sick misery on his face. "Now I've given Martha ammo to use against me, to share with Clara. Clara may be a grown adult, but it is clear to me that her parents still have some sway over her."

"Then that's her problem, not yours," Marty said bluntly.

"No, it is not." Doc let out a half laugh devoid of humor. "Look at how much her mother has damaged our relationship since her arrival." He stood suddenly, his eyes wide with sudden panic. "I should go after her and apologize."

"No way!" Marty said emphatically, holding his hands up. "She's probably going to be way too pissed to listen to you. Let her calm down before you say anything."

"But she'll tell Clara what I said and--"

"So what?" Marty said. "If Clara's actually using her brain, she'll know there's another side to the whole situation...and I hope she'd realize her mom is a tiny bit biased right now since she doesn't like you. I'll agree that Clara's being a little...crazy right now, but she's not going to pack up her bags and take off with her parents on the train tonight, Doc. Just stay here, let things calm down tonight, and deal with it tomorrow."

Doc considered the younger man's words a moment before nodding slowly. "All right," he said. "I suppose that is acceptable." He looked towards the doors as another big gust blew them open. "After we finish shoeing the horses, I think I may close up the shop. There's going to be a hell of a storm tonight."

* * *

Indeed, by the time the shop was closed for the day, the clouds had swept across the sky, the wind was gusting at a strong, consistent rate, and rumbles of thunder had begun a steady, building rhythm. Doc thought, with numbing indifference, that they may see a storm to rival that of Hill Valley's squall on the fateful November night in 1955. At four P.M., it had grown dark enough to cause an artificial dusk, and the clouds above were a foreboding maroon bruise in color.

"I think you should stay in the hotel tonight," Doc said as he turned from his contemplation of the heavens. Marty was busy closing the windows and latching them shut, lest the wind tear through and wreck havoc on the various paraphernalia and papers tacked to the walls and stacked on surfaces. "This storm looks like it could get ugly."

"Okay," Marty said, offering no argument. "At least we can stay in town. I wouldn't want to get caught in this coming or going."

The casual remark made Doc think again of his mother-in-law, the way she had marched out of the barn and the look of fury on her face. It had been a couple hours since she had paid them a visit. Surely she'd had enough time to return to the farmhouse if that had been her intent.

Doc pushed the matter out of his head, too many other things clamoring for attention that were simply a higher priority. He finished putting things away for the day, checked to ensure that all the doors and windows were latched or shuttered, and then left with Marty for the hotel and saloon next door.

Not surprisingly, the place was booked up for the night, so he sent the young man back to the barn to retrieve his cot to bunk in the inventor's room. While Marty went off on the errand, Doc found a table in the crowded saloon near one of the windows and sat down, his thoughts still occupied by the confrontation of that morning.

If only he had kept his mouth shut! Granted, there had been a sense of relief when he had finally verbalized everything that he'd been locking inside for these never-ending weeks, but he knew there would be stiff consequence and a high price to be paid for that relief. Martha did not strike him as a forgive and forget sort of person, and he suspected that she would begrudge him for his outburst until the day she died.

Clara, almost certainly, was going to be caught in the middle. With her mother reaching her first, Martha would have plenty of time to share her side of the story without Doc having a chance to provide his perspective. That, he knew, would have serious drawbacks. Clara was normally so rational, so practical, and Doc wished fiercely that she wasn't pregnant, at least not now, not with her parents here. If she wasn't in that condition, the inventor suspected everything would be playing out quite differently now.

"Hey, Doc!" The inventor blinked, looking up into Marty's face. The young man was frowning a little, the cot folded up and tucked under one arm. "I've called your name, like, three times already. Are you all right?"

"I would assume that would be self-evident," Doc said, a little sharper than he had intended.

Marty took a step back, frowning in hurt confusion. "Listen, I need your room key so I can dump this in there," he said, changing the subject immediately.

"Oh. Yes. Right." Doc reached into his pocket and pulled it out, passing it to his friend. "I'm sorry."

The apology held a dual meaning, but Doc wasn't sure if the young man was aware of it. Marty simply shrugged as he collected the key. "I'll be right back," he said, turning to work his way through the crowded saloon floor and over to the stairs that led to the second floor hotel rooms. Doc watched him go until he disappeared from sight, and then he turned back to the window. The entire street lit up for a second as a flash of lightning darted overhead. Doc found himself mentally counting until he heard the resulting boom of thunder. By his calculations, the storm was no more than ten miles away. Based on the gusts of wind outside, he suspected the system would be over them in approximately twenty to thirty minutes.

"Looks like we're in for a mighty temp'st," a voice said from his right. Doc turned away from the window again to see Seamus McFly standing near the glass a few feet away, a half-filled mug of beer in one hand and a somewhat concerned frown on his face.

"Certainly," Doc agreed. "I hope you're not thinking about going out into it." The McFly farm was a good twenty miles from the center of town.

Seamus shook his head immediately, "No, sir. I had to come t'town to pick up a shipment of grain that'd arrived, but I told Maggie that I may stay the night in town dependin' on how late I was settin' off. Halfway here I could see the clouds o'er the hills an' knew that it'd be a gamble to go home t'day. I got me the last room here."

"How is the family?" Doc asked out of polite curiosity.

Seamus beamed at the question. "They're all well, real well. How is your wife doin'?"

"As well as can be expected with house guests and the heat wave," Doc said rather vaguely. The last thing he felt like doing was hashing out the whole drama with his in-laws to Marty's ancestor. Seamus was nothing if not a gentleman -- it was one thing Doc did appreciate about the people in these mannered times -- and did not press the issue.

"Aye, it can be hard for a woman in her condition with the summer heat," the farmer said with a nod. He glanced at the window and the swiftly darkening street. "Sure'n this storm will cool things down a mite."

"If nothing else, we'll get rain, and I think we need that."

"Aye. I've been worryin' 'bout me crops. S'long as it won't hail tonight."

Marty rejoined them before the small talk could continue, tossing the brass key on the table as he took the empty chair across from the inventor. "Hey, Seamus," he said as he sat down. "How's life?"

"Good," the farmer said. He studied Marty with unconcealed scrutiny, having not seen him since the young man's disastrous twentieth birthday, and Marty simply stared back at him. It was moments like this where Doc clearly saw the family resemblance between the two, and the observation made him distinctly nervous. If he could see it, no doubt it could be apparent to others, and then there could be questions. So far, no gossip or rumor had reached his ears about such matters, but it didn't mean that people were not thinking such things.

"You're lookin' better than ye did when I last saw you," Seamus said to Marty with a brief nod.

Marty raised his eyebrows, looking rather perplexed. Doc wondered if he even remembered interacting with Seamus on that afternoon in June, all things considered. "Thanks," he said after a moment. "Why don't you pull up a chair? There's someone here that needs some advice." His eyes darted over to Doc, not bothering to acknowledge the frown that the inventor returned his way.

Seamus' blue eyes blinked in curiosity. "I s'pose I could do that," he said slowly. He set his beer down on the table and removed an empty chair from the table next door, pulling it up between the two time travelers. He looked to Marty once he was settled. "What is troubling you, lad?"

"It's not me," Marty said. "It's Doc -- Emmett."

"Oh?" Seamus looked surprised, turning his head to Doc now.

The inventor tried hastily to head off the situation. "This is not something anyone needs to be bothered by," he said as politely as he could while wanting to slap a hand over Marty's mouth. His friend remained painfully -- and purposely -- naive to Doc's heavy hint.

"Clara's parents are in town, and they're not really getting along well with D-- Emmett. Mrs. Clayton, in particular, seems to have it out for him, and she's starting to brainwash Clara now." Marty paused a moment, a new look dawning on his face. "Did you know your in-laws, Seamus?"

"Aye, quite well," the farmer said. "Maggie's family an' me own were from the same town an' went to the same church. They were good people, God rest their souls."

Marty opened his mouth, but Doc cut him off before he could utter one syllable. "We don't need to discuss this matter right now. Frankly, I've done too much thinking about it on my own already. The situation is what it is, and nothing can be done about it today."

"Aye, unless you were plannin' on goin' out in the storm," Seamus agreed, casting a concerned look at the unsettled and windswept world beyond the window glass.

In spite of the clear change in subject, Marty was undeterred in his quest to annoy the scientist. "Do you think he should just let his mother-in-law get away with putting him down all the time, or do you think he should say something?" Marty asked his ancestor, indicating Doc with a wave of one hand.

"That's not for me to say," Seamus said simply. "A man has got to make his own decision when it comes to his family."

"But what would you do in that situation?" Marty persisted. Doc was tempted to give him a swift kick under the table to silence him, but he feared he might miss and whack Seamus instead.

"Me? Well." Seamus paused and stared thoughtfully out the window. "I s'pose if it were me, I'd try and sit down with me wife and speak to her about what was goin' on. Perhaps I'd sit down with both me wife and me mother-in-law. Sure'n we could work it out in the end."

"Talking?" Marty said, clearly skeptical. "That's it? What would you do if they just ignored everything you tried to say?"

"If they are kin, sure'n they would want to try an' mend things," Seamus said, giving Marty a rather incredulous look.

"Maybe, maybe not."

"Seamus has offered his advice," Doc said curtly. "There is no reason you need to interrogate him further." He stood. "Wait here," he told Marty. "I'm going to put in an order for supper."

Doc escaped to the bar, half tempted to order himself a drink stronger than the usual. He had just placed his order in for two meals when Seamus materialized next to him.

"Clint seems awful concerned about you," the younger man observed with a glance towards Marty's table.

"Yes, well, there was no reason for him to share my problems to you," Doc said, feeling uncomfortable. "Clara and I will work things out...although it may be after her family leaves."

"Where is it they came from?"

"New Jersey." Thank God, Doc added to himself.

"Aye, that is quite a journey. Tis no doubt in me mind that you and your wife will work it out," Seamus added, clapping Doc on the arm. "You and Clara are a fine match. Tis clear to me that you care for one another, enough to move past this disagreement."

Unbidden, Seamus' words brought to mind a possibility that turned Doc's stomach: Divorce. Divorce was rare -- or at least not terribly common -- now, but Doc instinctively knew that if that was to happen to him and his wife, it would break his heart in the process. He had already felt something like that once, when he thought he had lost her forever the night before the DeLorean's botched attempt to return to 1985. It would be a hundred times worse now, though.

No, he would simply have to work things out with Clara; there was no alternative.

"Thank you," Doc managed to say to Marty's ancestor.

Seamus' conviction and words made up for the fact that he wound up having supper with them in the saloon, robbing Doc of the chance to give Marty a piece of his mind about meddling in his marital affairs. He did not mind the company of the farmer in the slightest; what bothered him was the nagging discomfort of Seamus' simple interactions with the scientist and his great-great-grandson from the future. Anytime he happened to interact with them, Doc couldn't entirely conceal his concern. The smallest things, he knew, could have the biggest consequences later on, and that could directly impact Marty.

It was with some relief that Seamus went off to check on his horse after supper. Doc did not blame him; the wind was blowing so hard that the windows were rattling, and the lightning and thunder had been increasing to near constant levels. The rain, oddly, was still holding off.

Seamus' exit gave Doc a prime opportunity to turn to his friend and have a word with him. Marty seemed to sense he was in some hot water, finding his tin plate with the remains of his dinner unusually fascinating and worthy of study.

"Marty, you need to stop bringing up the conflict between me, Clara, and her parents," he said in a low voice, leaning towards his friend in an attempt to prevent his words from being overheard. "It really is no one's business...including yours."

"It kind of is my business," Marty brazenly replied, looking up. "I live with you guys. And you're my friend, Doc. I'm just trying to help."

"I don't really need your help. This is a situation that can only be solved by myself, Clara, or her mother. And troubling Seamus with it.... Do you realize the potential impact that could have on you or the timeline?"

"No," Marty said bluntly. "How is that gonna change history, just to ask him for advice?"

"I don't know, but it could happen in some way. What if, after thinking about marital matters, he decided to leave your great-great-grandmother?"

"Yeah, right," Marty drawled, not impressed. He drummed his fingers on the tabletop. "Are you done with the lecture now? Because I really don't think I did anything wrong. You're totally overreacting."

Doc ran a hand through his hair, trying to keep a hold of his own irritation. In some ways, Marty was correct; compared with other transgressions he had made in the past, this one was quite minor. On the other hand, the young man was very much involving himself in matters that were of no concern to him. Yes, he did live with the inventor and his family (when the Claytons were not in town, anyway), but what went on between Doc and his wife was between only the both of them.

"I don't see it quite that way, but I suppose I've said all I can on the matter," the inventor responded after a moment. "I'm going to go up to the room now. If you want to stay here and talk to Seamus about my problems, I cannot really stop you from doing so."

Marty blinked, surprised, as Doc stood. It was quite early to retire for the night, not even seven in the evening, but Doc suddenly craved peace and quiet. It was too noisy and too many people were around, packed in the saloon from the inclement weather. At least upstairs in his room, he'd have more privacy and solitude...unless Marty opted to follow him.

But, for a while, he did not.

* * *

Marty didn't understand why Doc was so touchy about bringing up the feud with his mother-in-law. It wasn't as if anyone here would take her side to the situation and, besides, people here would probably have some ideas on how to handle it. Being that he had never been married and hadn't even seen his girlfriend in almost three years, Marty knew that any advice he could offer his friend was woefully inadequate. Better that he get some realistic advice from people he could trust...like Seamus, who seemed, from all external appearances, to be happy in his own marriage.

But when Doc took off to the room, that plan was dead. And based on his friend's tone and mini-lecture before he left, Marty wasn't feeling too comfortable with soldiering on in spite of the protests. So he remained sitting at the table, not sure of what else to do. He glanced outside, searching for Seamus' figure amid the handful of people outside in the street who were moving rapidly from point A to point B, literally holding onto their hats due to the gusty wind.

It happened quite fast. One minute, dust was billowing around through the air outside, barely visible under the dim, dusk-like light and the increasingly regular flashes of lightning. The next, there was a loud, deafening roar, and the clouds began to dump their wet cargo in sheets. Within seconds, it was falling so hard and fast that Marty was unable to see the buildings that lay across the street. He leaned forward a little, fascinated by the sight, and the rest of the patrons in the saloon hurried over to the windows.

"Whooee, look at it come down!" one of the grizzled saloon regulars remarked. "I hadn't seen rain like that in years!"

"We need it," another man said. "My crops have been wiltin' these last few weeks."

"Maybe so, but a rain this hard an' a storm like this can cause more problems than it solves," another guy said.

Seamus burst through the swinging doors, already soaked from the downpour. The farmer was grinning widely, however, seeming oblivious to his soddened clothes. "It's raining!" he said to no one in particular, which was an gross understatement. He returned to the table where Marty remained, taking off his hat as he sat back down.

"You seem pretty happy for someone who's dripping wet," Marty commented.

"This town needs the rain," Seamus said, running a hand through his dampened hair, his gaze fixed out the windows. "Sure'n I'm glad that I stayed in town. I wouldn't want to be caught in that." He looked around. "Where did Emmett go?"

"Upstairs. He was tired." Marty wasn't sure what else to say about that, and as the seconds ticked on with Seamus continuing to look at him, the younger man started to feel distinctly discomforted. "At least, that's what he said," Marty hastily added.

"Is that so? Well, I hope he can rest with all the noise outside," Seamus said mildly. "Next time you see him, I would stop bringin' up the matter that is goin' on between him an' the missus."

Marty couldn't help squirming a little under his great-great-grandfather's gaze. "What do you mean?"

"Tis plain to see that he doesn't want to speak about his personal matters," Seamus said. "I understand you be wantin' to help 'im out, considerin' he is your kin and all, but this matter is one that only he can see to. Marriage is best left out of meddlin' with."

"I'm not meddling," Marty said right away. "I just think that he...well, he doesn't know much about women."

"Ah. An' a bachelor like yourself does?"

"I have a girl...back home...where I came from."

"Are you betrothed?"

"Betrothed?"

"Are you going to be married?" Seamus asked.

Marty smiled although he felt like crying inside. "Not anytime soon."

Seamus leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table as he gazed at the younger man. A flash of lighting from outside washed over the side of his face, exaggerating his features for a moment and suddenly making him look much older. "I believe that Emmett an' Clara will come back t'gether," he said. "If he wants to talk about it with you, let him...otherwise, I would leave well enough alone an' give Emmett the peace he wants."

Marty felt both embarrassed that his efforts to help his friend were so transparent and a little annoyed that Seamus seemed to indicate that he thought the younger man was trying to involve himself in something that was none of his business. It didn't seem to matter that Marty lived under the same roof as the couple and that, pretty much, if not for Doc and Clara, he would be left completely alone here. "Well, I guess," he muttered, not wanting to talk about the issue anymore.

Seamus seemed to notice. At any rate, he changed the subject to something completely different, though it quickly got difficult to hear much of anything from the roar of rain on the roof and the increasing crackles and cracks of thunder. Marty was mostly mesmerized by the view outside, reminded a little of the thunderstorm of 1955...which he had the dubious honor of seeing twice.

The storm was showing no signs of slacking a couple hour later when Seamus excused himself for the night. Marty remained at the table in the saloon for a little longer, people watching, before he felt remotely tired enough to even attempt to try and go to bed. He suspected that sleep would be in hard to catch with the storm overhead...and quickly revised that to be impossible once he went upstairs and heard how much louder everything was without a crowd's noise to muffle it a bit.

If only earplugs existed now, Marty thought as he reached the room of Doc's current home away from home. He opened the door slowly, not wanting to startle his friend, and felt a stab of surprise that the space was dark, the shades drawn, and the inventor was evidently in bed. The sound of the rain outside seemed even louder to Marty, and it took him a moment to realize that the window was open several inches, allowing a cool, damp breeze to slip into the room.

For a moment, the young man stood in the doorway, one hand on the knob, trying to decide if Doc was awake. The sheeted shape in the bed did not move. The inventor was giving no indication he wasn't asleep, and without that, Marty figured he'd let him be. He suddenly felt too tired to try a fresh verbal interrogation.

Marty stepped all the way into the room and closed the door, then walked over to his cot wedged between the window and one side of the bed. He sat down on the edge of the cot, pulled off his boots, and lay back fully clothed on top of the cot. The breeze from the window felt great on his face, but the drops of rain? Not so much. With a choice of closing the window and roasting, or leaving it open and getting a little wet, Marty opted for the latter.

Lightning flashed once again, the bolt briefly visible through the window. Marty counted the pause between thunder. He barely got past the number one, and when it hit, the windows and walls rattled from the force. The storm was still on top of them.

It's going to be a long night, he thought, eyes wide open and the sound of thunder being replaced by the cascade of rain pounding on the roof.

For hours, the downpour continued, accompanied with thunder and lightning to varying degrees of intensity. The noise would be difficult for anyone to sleep through, but it was not the root cause of Doc's endless supply of insomnia. That culprit would be the relentless stream of thoughts about the situation with Clara and the situation with Martha.

The storm's fury gradually abated well after midnight, the thunder and lightning tapering off and the rain and wind decreasing in volume and force. The inventor managed a brief doze, but the sleep was neither restful nor restorative. When he woke up, the sky was lighter by degrees, enough to tell him that the sun was just about to rise. Doc reached over to the bedside table and plucked up his pocket watch, opening it and squinting at the face. It was not quite a quarter after six A.M.

Doc snapped the watch closed and set it back on the table. He sat up, glancing towards the window and the space before it. There was just enough light spilling around the cracks in the curtain to show him the motionless form of his friend on the cot. Marty lay on his stomach, head twisted to the side to face the bed, one hand pinned under his cheek and his mouth hanging open. He looked completely oblivious to everything...but Doc was not entirely convinced he was indeed asleep.

The scientist climbed out of bed and dressed in the dark, not about to risk waking Marty if he had actually managed to get some sleep. The gesture was not entirely selfless; Doc simply did not want to risk another flood of "advice." The soft patter of rain on the roof neatly muffled the faint sounds his movement made. He managed to slip out of the room without hearing Marty stir; maybe his friend really was out. If so, Doc envied him.

The inventor headed down the stairs to the saloon, pulling on his coat as he went. The large room of the saloon was surprisingly populated for such an early hour of the morning. The confusion he felt manifested itself clearly on his face, for the bartender's nephew, Joey, who was manning the saloon, remarked on it immediately as Doc approached the counter.

"Is somethin' wrong, Mr. Brown?" he asked.

"No...no, it just seems awfully busy in here for such an early hour."

"Well, a lotta people got stuck in town on account of the storm," Joey said, leaning on the bar top. "We're full up on the rooms, so people have been just stayin' down here all night. It was a lot worse a couple hours ago, but now that the rain is lettin' up and it's gettin' to be daylight, people are starting to leave."

Doc cast a glance towards the front of the building. The large glass doors that secured the business when it was closed had been moved into place, presumably to keep out the gusty winds and sheets of rain that had pounded the walls and windows earlier in the night. One of the glass windows in the door had a very large, visible crack etched across the surface.

"Is that damage from the storm?" he asked Joey, already suspecting what the answer would be.

"Yep. It broke that window there, too." He pointed to a pane of glass at the far end of the room, which was covered by a hastily nailed board on the outside. "I think we were pretty lucky. Part of the doctor's roof blew off at his office."

Doc turned without comment, suddenly concerned about the state of his own business. He left the saloon, pulling his hat low over his eyes to shield them from the raindrops as he paused on the edge of the wooden sidewalk and gazed towards the livery stable. The sheets of rain and the dim light of dawn made it hard to see much beyond the fact that the building was still standing. He left the protection of the covered sidewalk to step into the street. The road was a sticky, brown mess of mud. Deep puddles had replaced the various holes that had eroded away during the long dry spell. The cuffs of Doc's pants were definitely going to need to be washed after this, but he paid it no mind. He walked rapidly to the stable, eyeballing it hard as he went for any signs of obvious damage.

In spite of the age and condition of the building, he found surprisingly little was amiss. One of the windows had cracked, and a dozen or so shingles had blown off. There was a very large, damp, puddle from the leaking roof over even the reinforced area of the barn, but it was nothing that a little time and mopping wouldn't fix. Considering how dilapidated most of the building was, it was something of a miracle that nothing worse had happened.

Once he had finished a general inspection of the place, Doc went over to the forge and relit it for the day. (As a precaution, he had extinguished it the day before so that no stray coals would blow out and possibly burn the whole place down.) Next, he got the stabled horses fresh feed and water, not quite comfortable yet with letting them roam out in the pasture...not until the rain tapered off a little more.

After the immediate chores were done, Doc drifted over to the back window, which looked out onto both the pasture and towards the train station. The stable had fared well, yes, but what were the conditions like at his home? What if the cellar had been flooded? What if something had been struck by lightning? What if Clara and her parents had needed him? Certainly the storm would provide excellent fodder for Martha's continuing complaints about his life and the choices he had made in it.

Or -- Good Lord -- what if Clara had gone into premature labor?

Doc shook his head, knowing that the thoughts were completely irrational...or at least, fairly impractical. He would have to pay a visit to the home today -- there was no doubt. But not until the rain eased up a little and it got a little later so he would have better light to travel by. Not now. In another hour or two, perhaps...but in the meantime, Doc realized he was stuck.

He sank down in the desk before the window and sighed heavily.

* * *

Someone was knocking on a door.

The disturbance -- a curt trio of raps -- neatly punctured through the layers of sleep wrapped around Marty. The sound was muffled, distant. Marty grunted and rolled over, not opening his eyes, not even half awake.

Then, seconds later, another series of knocks. This cluster seemed louder, more forceful. Marty tried to ignore it, burrowing his head under the pillow. He didn't care what time it was, he didn't care what was going on. He was not getting up now after not falling asleep until almost dawn from the storms.

The rapping came again, the pillow doing little to muffle the sound. If it failed at stifling the sound of the explosive thunder the night before, it was small wonder. Unable to escape, Marty raised his head and dragged his eyes open. The room was dim -- it was not much past sunrise and he could still hear rain drumming on the roof outside...albeit at a less frenzied pace than most of the night. In spite of the hour and the foul weather, the bed a few feet away was clearly empty.

"Doc?" Marty croaked, completely confused. He rubbed his eyes with one hand as he sat up and took a closer look around. He was alone.

The knocking repeated. It sounded like the person was punching the door now. Marty got up from the cot and shuffled over to the door. Doc must've gotten locked out, he figured, but that really didn't give him much of an excuse to rouse him out of the first sleep he'd caught in almost 24 hours...especially when he probably could've gotten a spare key from someone. Marty jerked the door open before the pounding could come again, opening his mouth before the door swung fully open.

"If you forgot the key, why the hell can't you -- oh!" The rest of his tirade stopped short of his lips when he saw who stood before him. It was definitely not Doc. "Daniel? What are you doing here?"

Daniel Clayton blinked, clearly taken aback by who answered the door. "Is Emmett here?" he asked, sounding baffled. "The bartender told me this was his room...?"

"It is. He just let me crash -- ah, stay here for the night. The blacksmith shop isn't really all that weatherproofed." Marty glanced over his shoulder, though the gesture was futile; it wasn't as if Doc was going to materialize out of thin air. Not without a working time machine, anyway. "But he's not here now."

Daniel frowned, tilting his head to the side to see part Marty into the room. "Can you tell me where he has gone?"

"No. I just woke up...I have no idea where he is." It suddenly dawned on Marty that Daniel's appearance was highly unusual, especially since he had vowed to stay out of the whole mess between Clara, Doc, and Martha. "Is something wrong with Clara?" he asked, suddenly concerned.

"No...no, Clara is fine. She is distressed, but she is doing as well she can." Daniel's tone was distant, distracted, as was his gaze as he looked beyond Marty into the hotel room.

"Is there a reason why you're out here now?" Marty prodded, leaning his forehead against the edge of the door.

Daniel blinked a couple times, his eyes drifting back to Marty's face. "You haven't seen Mrs. Clayton, have you?"

"We saw her yesterday when she came out here to explain why Doc was the one behind Clara's stress," Marty said bluntly, wondering how Daniel would react to that. The older man didn't look angry or surprised; he simply continued to look dazed and distracted, almost as if he had been the one roused from sleep a few minutes ago.

"When did you last see her?"

Marty shrugged, sufficiently groggy to fail to see what this had to do with Daniel's visit. "I don't know...it was probably around eleven in the morning, a few hours before the storm hit."

"You haven't seen her here?"

"What do you mean? Here in town? No. The last time we saw her, she was charging out of the barn and down the street." Realization was slowly dawning on the young man. Marty's eyes narrowed. "Did she not go back to the house?"

"No. We haven't seen her since she left yesterday morning to go into town." Daniel adjusted his glasses, pushing them up the bridge of his nose. "We thought that perhaps she stayed the night here, but you say you have not seen her?"

"No. The Palace was completely full when we came here in the afternoon. That's why I'm bunking with Doc." Marty frowned. "So your wife is missing?"

"I suppose she is, yes," Daniel said. "Emmett is missing as well, you say?"

"Well, he's not in here right now," Marty said, suddenly more worried. "Maybe he's downstairs."

"Oh? I did not see him."

The young man's head suddenly proposed a number of possibilities where Doc could have gone. "Did you check the blacksmith shop?"

"No...no, I have not done that. I knew he was staying at the hotel in town, so I came straight here. Do you suppose he could be in his shop this early?"

Marty ran a hand through his hair, still feeling a little dazed. "What time is it?"

"I arrived here around seven A.M., if the clock downstairs is in any way an accurate timekeeper."

"Probably as much as anything is now," Marty said, half to himself. He turned away from Daniel, stepping deeper into the room to retrieve his hat from where he had carelessly tossed it on the floor under the cot the night before. He sat down long enough to pull on his boots, Clara's father remaining standing in the hallway outside the room, almost as if he was waiting for an engraved invitation. Since Marty had no intention to linger in the room, he didn't bother to offer one. It was too early for such pointless pleasantries and the part of his brain that was somewhat awake was already preoccupied as to figuring out where Doc was at.

If he's not at the barn, then maybe he went back to his house.

But Marty kept those thoughts to himself for now. One thing at a time.

When he reached the outdoors a couple minutes later, the young man found a world soddened and showing some clear signs of turmoil and damage from the storm the night before. A light rain was continuing to fall, and Marty pulled down the brim of his hat against it, walking as fast as he could through the muddy puddles that littered the road. Daniel was just a step or two behind. Marty shoved open the door to the barn a little harder than necessary, venting some of his anxiety.

"Doc?" he called, temporarily forgetting to refer to his friend by his first name. "Hey, are you in here?"

There was a faint sound of movement from nearby, and Marty turned his head towards the noise. Doc was standing at the forge in the workshop area of the building, his sleeves rolled back and his leather work apron on. He looked over at the new arrivals curiously, clearly dazed. Marty noticed immediately that his friend looked worn out, as if he hadn't slept much the night before, and there was a clear strain in the way he had set his jaw.

"Yes, what is it?" he said curtly.

Marty slowed his stride as he trod into the barn, allowing Daniel the chance to draw alongside him. "Daniel came to your room at the Palace," he said, gesturing towards the older man. "Apparently Martha never got home last night."

Doc set down the hammer he had been wielding and stripped off his thick work gloves, his eyes narrowed as he gazed over towards his father-in-law. "What?"

Daniel adjusted his glasses once more. "My wife never returned to your home last night," he said. "I had been hoping that perhaps she had remained in town on account of the storm last night, but Marty told me this was not the case."

"No," Doc said, an odd note to his voice. "No, I don't believe she did anything of the sort." He approached the two shorter men slowly, placing his hands on his hips. "The last that we saw of Mrs. Clayton was approximately noon, hours before the storm hit. She should have had ample time to return to the house." He frowned a little harder. "How did she get to town yesterday? Did she walk?"

"She took one of your horses from the pasture behind the house: the black one with the white splotch on his nose," Daniel added. "Martha is a more experienced horsewoman than anyone else I know."

"But I saw her walk away when she left here," Marty said, confused. "I didn't see her ride away."

"She may have tethered the horse elsewhere in town," Doc said.

"Martha was going to fetch a few things from the general store," Daniel confirmed. "Perhaps she did that after she came to see you."

Doc frowned. "If she had intended to purchase anything, I would think that was the case. She had nothing with her when she came here. We could ask the Murphys about that once the store is opened. Are you aware of why she visited me yesterday, Daniel?"

Daniel's eyes flicked over to Marty. "I am not wholly certain, but I believe Marty mentioned something of her having a conversation with you about our daughter."

"Yes," Doc said. He did not elaborate on the matter, which surprised Marty. "How is Clara doing? Is she feeling all right?"

"She is understandably worried over her mother's absence. She is waiting at the house with Jules in case Martha arrives there." Daniel blinked once, his dark eyes serious as he regarded Doc. "Even if she may, right now my wife is missing. What do we do about it?"

"The most pragmatic thing would be to speak to the Murphys and see if and when she went into the store," Doc said after a moment of thought. "We could ride the route she would most be likely to take...unless she strayed off the road. Would she do that?"

Daniel shrugged, looking at a loss. "If Martha thought she could find a shortcut, it may be possible. If the weather was getting bad, she might have done that."

"If that is the case, we would be better off looking for a needle in a haystack," Doc said, rather grimly. "It would not be difficult to get lost or disoriented if you were unfamiliar with the area like she is."

Marty, personally, thought something like that might take Martha down a peg or three, which would not be a bad thing. He also thought that in a showdown between a bear and the older woman, he'd put his money on Martha Clayton emerging victorious. He choked back his amusement before it could escape, knowing that Daniel probably won't see the humor in the situation. This was the wild west, after all, and the possibility that Martha had run into a bear, a wolf, a mountain lion, or even an armed nutjob was substantial.

"Should we inform the sheriff and create a search party?" Daniel asked, his concern growing under Doc's sobriety.

"Not yet. There is no need to cause undue alarm before we have tried a few things ourselves. Besides, I suspect the storm damage may make people less inclined to put their own worries and concerns aside for their own families and homes to render a search for a possible missing person...especially a missing person who is not a member of this town. No offense," Doc added hastily, seeing a shadow cross Daniel's face.

"What, then, do you suggest we do? Nothing?" Based on Daniel's tone, the idea did not sit well with him.

"You and I can ride over the path she should have gone and look for any evidence she may have left behind. Did you ride over here?"

"Of course."

"Wait, what about me?" Marty asked, having noticed Doc's omission of including him in the riding party.

The inventor turned slightly to look at him. "You can remain in town, just in case Martha happens to show up here. I'd also like you to ask around about her at the saloon and at the general store once it opens up."

"And what if no one's seen her?"

"Stay here...we'll return later either way." Doc sighed. "I do miss telephones," Marty heard him say softly under his breath, the comment clearly heard by his father-in-law. Daniel gave him a strange look, arching one eyebrow, but said nothing.

Doc hurriedly slipped off his apron, pulled on his still-damp coat and hat, and, minutes later, he and Daniel were off on the backs of Newton and Galileo. Marty watched them ride off from the shelter of the doorway, grateful that he didn't have to deal with getting soaked to the skin looking for someone that he really wouldn't care if he ever saw again. Nonetheless, a tiny prickle of fear spiked in his chest as he watched his friend splash through the mud and puddles that saturated main street. What if Martha had disappeared for good, or had gotten herself killed or seriously injured? The consequences that would have on Doc could be disastrous.

* * *

By noon, it was clear that there was definite reason to worry. Doc and Daniel had ridden out to the house, and in spite of frequent stops that included careful searching of the area and a few calls for Martha, no sign of the woman had been found. Doc was not entirely surprise by the development. The storm had washed away any signs of prints and neatly concealed other possible pieces of evidence that might have indicated if Martha had strayed from the road.

At the house, he had found Clara pale and teary, keeping a vigil of sorts on the front porch, which offered the best unobstructed view of the road and any visitors that would happen by. All the cross words she had thrown at him the night he had fled to town had been forgotten. When she spotted him from her perch, she had run down the steps, out to meet the two men as they slowed and then stopped their horses.

"She hasn't come back," Clara said at once. "You did not see her, did you?"

Daniel shook his head as Doc dismounted Newton. "Let's not panic just yet," Doc said as calmly as he could, not wanting his pregnant wife to feel any more stress than she currently did. "We did not find her on the way over here, but Marty is going to ask a few questions in town once some of the businesses open." He stopped short of her, his arms aching to reach out and embrace her. The frigid layer that Clara had donned since their argument in the bedroom had evaporated, but neither was she rushing into his arms for comfort. Her body language mirrored his in an odd way; she stood as if perched on the edge of a cliff, leaning back slightly from her husband. Her eyes met his, and in them he saw a terrible fear shining in their dark depths.

"Something happened to her, Emmett. I know it."

"Don't jump to that assumption so early," Doc said at once.

"Why not? Remember when Jules disappeared? I was right about everything then. I have good instincts."

Doc had forgotten about that situation...at least that Clara's internal alarm had sounded before they had any evidence that backed up the "bad feelings." "Be that as it may, your mother is not an infant. She seems as if she can take good care of herself."

"She is resourceful," Daniel agreed, still astride his horse.

"Who would know that better than your father?" Doc asked his wife.

Clara shrugged and crossed her arms tightly over her chest, the gesture saying more than any words about the likelihood of an embrace with her husband. "What are we going to do? Have you let the sheriff know that she is lost?"

Doc quickly recapped their work so far, reiterating to his wife that they were doing everything they could under the circumstances "and considering these times we life in," he added cryptically, knowing Clara would grasp the true intent behind the words. Nevertheless, she was visibly chomping at the bit to do something more. Doc made a few quick decisions.

"Daniel can stay here at the house with you, in case she returns to the home," he began.

"No," Clara said at once, her chin rising slightly as she gazed across the space that separated her from her husband. "Papa can stay here, but I am coming along with you."

"Absolutely not," Doc said, dismissing her request with a curt wave of his hand.

"Why not? It is my mother who is lost!"

"You are...you are in a delicate condition," Doc said as tactfully as he could, deliberately not looking in the direction of his father-in-law. He was not entirely sure how uptight Daniel was about such matters, but what man would want to hear any reference towards his daughter's pregnancy...even if she was married? "What if you fell off the horse?"

Clara's lips drew together, pressing down in a thin line. "I have not fallen from a horse in all the time I have been in Hill Valley" she said.

"It's too dangerous," Doc said, not backing down. "I do not want to risk your health or our child's with any physical stress or labor. I want you to stay here."

He turned away from his wife before she could vocalize another protest, walking towards Newton, who was patiently munching some weeds from the muddy ground. "Daniel, I leave her and our son in your capable hands," he said. "I'll be in touch later today for better or worse. If Mrs. Clayton returns here, go straight to town to let me know. Do not let Clara go for you," he added hastily, feeling his wife's cold glare chill the back of his neck as he pulled himself back into the saddle.

"Be careful," Daniel advised. "Are you going to return here by nightfall?"

"I'm not sure; we'll see," Doc said, not wanting to lock himself into anything that could be problematic later on. He turned Newton around, his eyes flicking over to Clara quickly as he did so. His wife's face was turned away from him, blotches of red in her cheeks betraying her frustration and anger at the moment.

Doc rode back to town as quickly as he could, anxious to reunite with Marty and see what news the young man had to share...if any. He found his friend in the Palace saloon, standing at the bar and speaking to Chester. At Doc's entrance, the bartender stopped and looked his way, causing Marty to turn around.

"Have you heard anything?" the inventor asked immediately, leaning forward across the polished wood.

"We still don't know where she is," Marty said, derailing any hope of news otherwise. "I talked to the Murphys at the store, and they said she came in yesterday...probably after she talked to you, Doc," he added. "They said she was angry about something, and she was asking a lot of questions about you. She bought some fabric, thread, and a bag of sugar. Mr. Murphy helped her pack it in the saddlebags that she'd brought on the horse. Then she left, heading east."

East would be the direction one would have to go to reach the Brown's home. "Are they sure they saw her going that way?" Doc persisted.

"Murphy saw her leave, and he said that was the direction she went."

"Did you ask him what time she left?"

"He said it was right after the clock struck twelve."

"Noon," Doc said to himself. Martha had left town a little more than twenty-four hours ago. "Has she been seen by anyone since?"

"Not that I heard," Marty said. His eyes flickered past Doc. "Where's Daniel?"

"I left him at the house with Clara. We did not find any trace of her whereabouts on our trip out there, but the rain and wind almost certainly destroyed any potential evidence."

"If your mother-in-law has been missin' a full day now, I think you might wanna talk to the sheriff about putting a search party together," Chester interjected. "I was just tellin' Clint here about what happened to one visitor about five years ago. He was just passin' through for a few days, got caught in a storm like we had last night -- not as bad, though -- and wasn't found 'til the spring. Some hunters came across his bones scattered in the hills. No one really knows what happened to 'im."

Doc swallowed hard at the details, not wanting to think about what could happen if Martha met the same fate. "You may be right," he admitted. "Is the sheriff or the marshal in the office?"

"I don't know, but after the storm last night, it wouldn't surprise me if they were out."

"I'll check," Marty offered. He stepped away from the bar and was halfway across the floor to the double doors before Doc was aware of what was happening. He looked over at Chester, who gave him a faint smile.

"Do you want your usual?" he asked. "Or something a little stronger?"

"No...nothing now. It would not help me at all."

"Well, if you change yer mind, lemme know."

Marty returned a couple minutes later, breathless. "The sheriff and marshal were out, but a deputy was there keeping an eye on a couple prisoners. I left a message with him about Martha missing, and he said he'd pass it on as soon as they came back. I guess a train got stopped by a mudslide in the hills, so they rode out to help with that."

Doc sighed. "That could take all day," he muttered. "Thanks, though." He clapped Marty on the shoulder.

"Why don't we just put something together, Doc?" Marty asked. "Pull a few people and just do our own search?" He looked towards Chester. "Do you know some guys who might chip in with that?"

"D'pends on how bad the storm hit their homes," Chester said. "Any rate, you won't be able to do much today. By the time you'd get everyone together, the sun would be setting."

"So?"

"It would be dangerous and impractical to do any sort of search at night," Doc explained. "Especially in the here and now." He looked at Marty pointedly.

"We could still try to get a list of people together for tomorrow," Marty insisted. "What else are we gonna do right now?"

What else, indeed? "All right," he said, a plan quickly formulating in his head. "Go ahead and do that. Say we will meet at seven A.M. tomorrow morning in front of the Palace. I'll head back out to the house so I can let Clara and her father know what is going on. Can you stay the night here in town?"

"Sure...are you going to stay there?"

Doc ran a hand through his hair, nodding. "I think I should, yes."

* * *

By nightfall, things were organized: a group of twelve men in town had been persuaded to show up the next morning to participate in a search of the greater Hill Valley area. In order to get some of the men to pitch in, Marty had to play up his reputation -- still not forgotten -- of having rid the town of Buford Tannen and his gang a couple years ago. Now, he had told them, it was time for him to ask a favor of them. It killed Marty a little that he had to cash in such leverage to help find Martha Clayton's whereabouts -- personally, he'd be happy if he never saw her again -- but if she wound up meeting the same fate as the guy who's bones were found in the hills months later, Doc would never be able to live with himself. (And, Marty realized with some guilt, he probably would lose all focus on building a new time machine.) Besides, there wasn't much else he felt he could do for his friend...and the young man realized he owed Doc a lot more than he could ever repay in the here and now.

There was, of course, no way for Marty to inform Doc of all the details. He shared his friend's frustration with the lack of communication devices like telephones that made things so easy in the future. He could only hope that Doc would show up the next morning.

With the choice of spending the night in the damp barn or Doc's dry room at the Palace, Marty had opted for the hotel room. He had forgotten that it was Saturday night, and as a result, the saloon below was packed by ten P.M. with many men from the surrounding area, as well as a lot of saloon girls eager and willing to entertain. The noise from below, which carried clearly up and over the balcony that looked down into the saloon below, did not taper off until two A.M. In spite of that, Marty remained in the room, the window open to allow cooling breezes to usher out the warmth of the day that lingered in the walls. He preferred the noise to damp bedding any day. Besides, he wasn't sure if he'd be able to sleep that well anyway; he was worried about Doc, worried about Clara, worried about what might happen if Martha wasn't found tomorrow...or the next day...or the next.

His mind eventually succumbed to exhaustion, and Marty fell into a fitful, not altogether restful, doze. At some point, while the room while still dark, a figure slipped through the unlocked door. The squeak of a floorboard was all that it took to yank Marty back to wakefulness. His eyes popped open and he sat up, his reflexes moving faster than his thoughts.

"What is it?" he blurted out fuzzily. "Who's there?"

The open window allowed enough light in to reflect on the mane of white hair that hovered near the foot of the bed. "It's me, Marty," he heard Doc said softly. "I didn't mean to wake you quite yet."

Marty raked the back of his hand across his eyes, utterly disoriented. "What time is it?"

"Approximately five in the morning. I wanted to make sure I arrived here in plenty of time for any search party." Marty felt the bedsprings at the foot of the bed sink a little as Doc sat down. "How many people did you find for it?"

"Twelve, I think." Marty yawned, his eyes aching. He didn't have any idea how much sleep he'd had in the past couple days, but it definitely wasn't enough to make him feel rested. He resisted the powerful urge to lie back on the bed, not sure how long he'd be able to stay awake if he did that in the still-dark room. "She's still missing?"

"Martha? Yes."

"How's Clara taking it?"

"She has decided to stop speaking to me because I will not permit her to participate a search. If she needs to communicate with me, Daniel has to be the go-between." There was a pause. "I spent the night on the couch in the study."

"Harsh," Marty said, yawning again. "Does Jules know what's going on?"

"Certainly, on some level, he must be aware," Doc said. "I do not think he can be immune to the tension at the house." The weight on the bedsprings lifted. "I'm going to get some coffee. I'll assume you want some, too?"

"Definitely."

Marty lay back down, closing his aching eyes for a moment. In seconds, or so it seemed, he was startled by a clatter of something heavy being set down on the nightstand next to his head, followed by the scratch of a match against the sandpaper side of a matchbox. He opened his eyes and saw Doc guiding a sputtering flame towards the wick of the lamp next to the bed. A moment later, with the flame catching the oil-soaked wick, the scientist quickly twisted his wrist to snuff out the match and dropped its remains into a water glass next to the bed. Doc screwed the glass top back on the lamp and looked over at Marty.

"Your coffee," he said, indicating the mug that was now resting a few inches away on the nightstand.

Marty sat up again, steeling himself for the hot, bitter brew as he picked up the mug. "Man, I'm wiped," he muttered, grimacing as he took his first sip of the black liquid.

"As am I," Doc said, the circles under his eyes even more pronounced in the flickering lamplight. He sat down on the edge of the cot that was still erected next to the window. "If we cannot find Martha...." He didn't finish the sentence, simply shaking his head instead.

"She couldn't've disappeared into thin air," Marty said. He took another gulp of the coffee, feeling it burn his throat as it went down. He looked up suddenly as a new idea occurred to him. "What if she's hiding on purpose?"

"What? What do you mean?"

"What if she stashed herself somewhere to get back at you? She's gotta know that if she just disappeared it would upset you...or upset Clara."

"I don't think she would do that for precisely the reason you just mentioned: It would upset Clara."

"Well, maybe Clara's in on it."

Doc reached up and rubbed his face with his hands. "No," he said after a moment. "No, I cannot see Clara capable of such deception. As much as Martha may dislike me and wish me harm, she would not put her husband or daughter through the emotions they have experienced in the last day."

"Maybe," Marty said, not entirely believing Doc's statement. He swallowed more of the coffee, wishing that the caffeine would start to work its magic. Once again, he realized how much he missed non-coffee forms of the chemical, specifically diet Pepsi. Even the regular version of the drink was a decade or so away. "But I think if she was faking it, that'd be better than if she wasn't."

"If she was safe somewhere, yes, though I would find it hard to forgive someone for such a malicious prank." Doc sighed deeply, turning his head slightly to look out of the window. The sky was still dark. "I never thought I would be this eager to see my mother-in-law again."

Marty wasn't particularly eager to see her again, period, but if he did, alive would probably be better than dead.

Two hours later, feeling only marginally more awake even after three cups of the bar's strong coffee, Marty stood on the raised wooden sidewalk next to Doc, looking at the locals who had actually shown up. Although twelve had assured Marty they were coming out, he counted only six standing with their horses, armed with guns, ropes, and stuffed saddlebags of supplies. The inventor stood beside him, his feet planted on the second step that led to the dirt street. His mouth twisted into a crooked frown as he surveyed the small group of me that had come to lend aid.

One of them, to Marty's astonishment, was his great-great grandfather. Seamus McFly smiled tiredly as Marty's eyes fell on his face.

Doc leaned Marty's way. "You asked him?" he hissed In a low whisper, close to his ear.

"No," Marty muttered back. "Don't blame me for that. He must've heard about this from someone else."

When it became apparent that no one else was coming, Marty figured he'd better say something. "Hey, uh, thanks for coming out," he began. "We need to find a woman who's been missing since the afternoon of the big storm. Her name's Martha Clayton. She's Doc's -- ah, Emmett Brown's mother-in-law."

He paused nervously, his eyes skimming the mute faces of the half dozen men. "She disappeared somewhere between the general store and the Brown's house about five miles from here."

"That's an awful lot o' space," one of the unfamiliar locals said to Marty around a matchstick tucked in one corner of his mouth. "How are you suggestin' we tackle it all?"

Marty looked at Doc, having no real idea on how to answer that question. The scientist finally spoke up. "We can split into small groups or pairs and venture off in different directions from here," he said. "At the end of the day, even if Mrs. Clayton is not found, we'll return here and I will buy everyone supper and drinks for their hard work today."

The half dozen volunteers clearly perked up with the news of this "payment." The men divvied themselves up, and Marty wound up with Doc. He suspected this was deliberate, considering the inventor's paranoia about their influence on the past and suchlike. He supposed it was just as well; it would be a little weird to be off with Seamus. (His ancestor went off with a guy who turned out to be a nephew of Marshal Strickland's.)

Once the teams were established, the group went to the train station, where a map of the region was posted. It not only displayed the rail routes for the surrounding area, it had a few main roads indicated. Doc borrowed a pencil from one of the men and lightly sketched out a grid for the five miles that surrounded the center of town. Each team was given a different square in which to conduct their search, the assignments taken by choice; each team had at least one man who knew that particular pocket fairly well.

Doc and Marty were the last to set out in the group, mostly because Doc had not given any thought towards packing supplies for a day of riding and searching. Within half an hour, he had collected together supplies that included rope, a small shovel, matches, a primitive first-aid kit, some food, a small lantern, and a couple canteens of water. These were packed in saddlebacks, strapped onto their horses.

"I get why you're bringing a lot of this stuff, but why the shovel?" Marty had to ask as Doc tightened the straps that bound the bags to the backs of the horses.

"You never know if we might need to dig for something," Doc said without looking away from his job.

"Why would we need to dig for anything? We're not searching for buried treasure."

"I'm not anticipating we need to dig at all," Doc said. "However, after all that rain, I would not be surprised if we came across debris or mudslides across some of the more rural roads around here."

It was an excellent point. Even so, once they finally rode out of town, Marty didn't see anything very out of the ordinary that told him a storm had roared through little more than twenty-four hours ago. Granted, discarded branches from trees were more prevalent and the ground was still muddy and wet from the onslaught of rain. Beyond that visual evidence, the only other aspect was that the temperature was not as uncomfortably hot as it had been in the days leading up to the storm. That -- and the absence of the dust that had choked the air whenever the horses did anything faster than a walk -- made it almost pleasant outside.

Part of the portion of the land that Doc had snagged included some mild hills and woodsy clusters. Per Doc's directions, they spread out slightly. Marty walked his horse carefully along the edges of the trees, squinting into the shadows but seeing nothing particularly unusual. No sign that anyone was around, at any rate. The only noises he heard were the soft clop of the horses' hooves on the earth and the leaves rustling in the breeze that would swing by from time to time.

After patrolling the perimeter for perhaps half an hour, Marty turned Archimedes around and veered across one of the grassy fields towards where Doc was patiently conducting his portion of the search. "Hey!" he called out to the inventor.

Doc's head immediately swiveled his way. "Did you find something?" he asked, an eager note in his voice.

Marty shook his head, coming closer. "No, nothing. That's just it, Doc: What makes you think we'll find anything? What makes you think Martha might've come this way?"

"There is nothing to indicate she did not," Doc countered. "If she thought she could save time and distance by cutting directly south to reach the house, rather than stay on the main road, it would have brought her this way."

Marty glanced up at the sky, then around at the landscape that was devoid of any settlement signs. "Yeah, and if she tried that, she'd probably be going off in circles. Hell, I hardly know where we are right now."

"The town is that way," Doc said, tilting his head towards the left. "We're certainly not going to remain here after dark. Keep checking the woods over there; we've got a lot of ground left to cover."

Marty sighed and pulled on the reins, turning Archimedes back towards the greenery. This is going to be a perfectly stupid waste of a day, he thought, irritable.

Not much later, the cups of coffee he had consumed earlier caught up with him. Marty dismounted the horse and found a suitable trunk on which to tether Archimedes' reins so that he wouldn't wander off. The horse immediately took advantage of the break to bend over and munch on some of the long grasses that covered the earth beyond the woods. Marty dodged branches and brush a little ways, until he felt he had adequate privacy. He didn't expect to have anyone see him -- Doc was the only person he was aware of being in the area -- but certain habits for privacy died harder than others.

It wasn't until he was standing there, in the middle of relieving the painful pressure of his bladder, at a time when he most definitely did not want to hear any sign of humanity, that he thought he heard...something. Marty frowned, turning his head slightly, wondering if his ears had decided to play some elaborate, paranoid trick on him. There was no one around; he knew there was no one around, could look all about and see nothing but the varying degrees of shade that the trees provided...and beyond the woods were the browning knee-high grasses that rustled in the breeze.

And yet he thought he heard a faint human voice. And the voice sounded nothing like Doc's.

Marty hurried as fast as he could to finish his bodily chore before he dared to investigate his suspicions. "Hello?" he called a moment later, turning completely around for the first time. He listened hard and thought he heard a distant response.

"Where are you?" he shouted. "Keep making noise!"

There was definitely an answering cry. Marty started off in the direction of where he pegged the sounds, shoving branches out of his way and veering away from the unfiltered beams of sunlight and deeper into the shadows. Moments later he found a faint path of sorts...at least it wasn't completely covered in an inch or two of thick growth. There were enough plants sprouting up, though, that Marty had a vague sense that it was a forgotten path, one that had not been used very recently...or was used very often.

He followed the path, and the shouts that became gradually more audible and articulate. "I hear you!" he urged, his heart starting to race as he quickened his pace. "Keep talking!"

"Be careful!" the disembodied voice said. "Mind your step! There's a large--"

Marty felt himself pitch forward suddenly; earth was no longer under his right foot. His hand shot out for the first thing he could grab -- a low-hanging branch from a birch tree. Fortunately, it did not break and after a few breathless, woozy seconds, he was able to scramble back from the precipice and look down at what he had almost stumbled into.

"Shit," he said under his breath, sweeping his sleeve across his forehead to blot the layer of sweat that had sprouted up from his near fall. A hole approximately six feet wide lay before him, newly made if the crumbling dirt around the perimeter was any indication. Marty took another step back, leaning forward carefully as he surveyed the scene. The gape of earth looked as if it opened into some kind of underground cavern. Below, barely visible in the shadows at the bottom, he saw the dirt-streaked face of Martha Clayton peering up.

"Is that Clint Eastwood, or are my eyes playin' tricks on me?" she asked hoarsely.

Marty sighed at the sound of her voice, which carried clearly to his ears. He never thought he'd be so happy to see Clara's mother...though he had to wonder if the feeling was mutual. "Yeah," he said. "It's me. Are you all right?"

"Do I look all right?" Martha asked dubiously.

This seemed wrong, somehow. Shouldn't she be sobbing with relief that she was found? Marty felt his irritation flare up. "Well, there's obviously nothing wrong with your voice," he said dryly. "What about the rest of your body?"

"What a vulgar question, Mr. Eastwood!"

Marty gritted his teeth a little. "If that's how you're gonna be, I can just leave you alone right now."

The sigh that Martha emitted echoed clearly to Marty's ears. "My ankle is bust," she admitted. "I can't even stand."

"We can get you out. Just hold on there and I'll get Do-- Emmett and maybe some other men."

Martha's voice was crisp with her response. "I certainly won't be going anywhere."

* * *

Doc was making a second sweep of the land when he heard Marty's shout. "Doc! Hey, over here!"

The scientist pulled Newton to a stop and turned his head, seeing the distant form of his friend standing near the tree line, waving his hands in wild arcs. At the sight, Doc felt his heart surge up into his throat, and adrenaline bolted into his veins. Marty found something! he thought, yanking Newton around so fast that the poor horse yelped in pain.

"What is it?" he shouted over the drum of the hoofbeats, the wind slapping him in the face.

Marty dropped his arms slightly, raising his palms up towards Doc. "Whoa, wait, slow down a little!" he cried, backing up several feet. Doc managed to decelerate Newton enough to not run over his friend before slowing to a stop.

"What is it?" he asked again. "What did you find? Did you find a sign of Martha?"

"I guess you could say that...I found her."

Doc felt his heart temporarily seize. "Dead or alive?" he rasped, scared of the answer.

Marty looked at him as if he was crazy. "Alive! Jeez, how could you even ask!"

Doc quickly dismounted, shrugging off his friend's question. "It is not out of the realm of scientific possibility. Did you just leave her behind?" he added, his eyes scanning the shadowy woods behind Marty. He didn't see any sign of Martha in there. "Why did you do that?"

Marty sighed, the sound one of frustration. "Doc, listen for a minute. She's back there, stuck at the bottom of some kind of hole." He jerked a thumb to the shadows behind him. "Two days in there, and she's still got a mouth on her."

"Is she hurt?"

"She said her ankle is. We're gonna need some ropes, maybe even one of the horses to help get her out. The ground around the hole is a little unstable, though." He frowned. "What I don't get is why someone decided to stick a hole out there. It didn't look like it was some sort of act of nature."

Doc turned towards the ropes that were tethered to the saddlebag, loosening the ties that secured them. "This whole area is riddled with mines from the gold and silver rushes," he said. "It would not surprise me in the least if some of the hard rain we had during the storm caused some sort of erosive event that led to an instability and collapse when triggered by Martha's weight." He turned with the ropes in hand, handing Marty a coil. "What about DaVinci?"

"DaVinci? What the hell does that guy have to do with anything?"

"Not the inventor! My horse -- the one that Martha borrowed."

"Oh. Right. I have no idea. I didn't ask and she didn't say."

Doc quickly tethered Newton to one of the trees, sparing a moment to shoulder his bag of supplies before he followed Marty under the tree line. The young man crashed through untouched brush for a bit, then stumbled across what seemed to Doc as an old, forgotten footpath. This led straight to the oblong hole in the earth. Doc set his bag down several feet away from the crumbling edge of the crater and crept forward as much as he dared to peer into the hole.

"Martha?" Doc asked, using his mother-in-law's first name, propriety and formality be damned. "How are you doing down there?"

He saw a shifting of shadows at the bottom as Martha tilted her face in his direction. "I am just peachy," she said, a note of sarcasm clear in her voice. "These accommodations make the first class rail car look like a third class boardin' house."

Doc smiled in spite of himself. Marty just shook his head. "We're going to try and get you out of there, but we need to know the full extent of your injuries."

"Like I told Clint, my ankle's bust. My right one. I cannot stand on it, and it has swelled so that you will be havin' to cut my shoe off it."

"Is...is DaVinci down there with you?"

"Who?"

"My horse." Perhaps it was time to find a new method of naming the animals in his care.

"Why didn't you say so? No, he bolted and bucked me off when a tree got struck by lightning in that storm. I wasn't hurt from that, and when I was stumblin' around in these woods trying to get away from that terrible rain, the ground just opened up under me."

"Maybe there was a vacancy in hell," Marty muttered under his breath, his voice far too soft to carry down to Martha's ears. Doc frowned at him.

"I think I am in some sort of cave," Martha continued. "Everything echoes down here, and the space seems rather large. Daniel would love to explore this. Is he with you?"

"No...he is staying with Clara back at the house. I think you may be in one of the abandoned mine shafts in these parts. One moment, I'm going to give you some light."

Doc pulled out a flare from one of his pockets and lit it. He gently tossed the bright, sparking stick away from Martha. The uneven flashes of light as it fell gave Doc a glimpse of the scenario -- his mother-in-law, her clothes soaked to ruin, sitting approximately fifteen feet below in what looked to be an inch or three of liquid mud. Then the flare landed in one of the puddles and the flame winked out with a brief sizzling sound.

"You'll be needin' some sort of lamp or lantern if it is light you want," Martha's voice floated up. "There is an inch or so of water standin' on the soil."

Doc turned his head again to look at Marty. "Go to Newton and get the lantern," he said. The young man immediately turned and headed off. Doc picked up one of the ropes he had brought out and snaked a length of it around the trunk of a sturdy tree that was a safe distance away from the collapsing ground. As he worked at knotting the rope, he raised his voice enough to carry to Martha's ears.

"We will have a lamp down to you in a few minutes. Without knowing where that tunnel begins or ends, we're going to have to get you out in the same way you came in."

"How do y'all plan on doing that?" Martha asked.

Doc tugged at the length of rope that was now looped and knotted around the tree trunk. It held firm; there was no slipping of the knot. "I'm going to lower Clint down there to retrieve you."

"You're going to do what?" Marty asked, having caught the last part of the statement. The metal lantern dangled at his side. Doc plucked it from his hand.

"You're going to go down there and help get Martha out," he explained in a low voice.

"What? Why me? She's your mother-in-law!"

"Simply put, you're lighter and smaller than I am. It will be easier for me to lower you down there than vice versa."

Marty scowled, opening his mouth for a sharp retort. Doc turned around and got the lantern lit, creeping over to the side of the pit. He tied the end of the rope around the metal handle of the lantern and lowered it slowly to the bottom of the hole. He swung it as close as he could towards Martha, stopping it several feet away from her -- too far for her to reach it unless she crawled. She stared at the lamp a moment, then looked back up.

"If you were trying to hand it to me, your aim is off," she said bluntly.

Doc smiled, the expression feeling more like a grimace. "I am going to send Marty down in a moment," he said. "He will pass you the rope, and I'll pull you up."

"All right," Martha said, her tone dubious. Doc backed away from the hole and looked at his friend, who was standing rigidly with his arms folded across his chest.

"C'mon," he said, tilting his head towards the rope. "You can creep down that."

"So can you," Marty said flatly. "I don't get why I have to risk my neck to help your monster-in-law."

"Marty, please. If something goes wrong--"

"--I'll be stuck down there, too!"

Doc stripped off his leather riding gloves and held them out to Marty. "Wear these," he said in an even tone. "They will protect your hands from slipping or being blistered."

Marty's eyes were focused on the gloves, his mouth still drawn into a thin line. Without a word, he suddenly reached out and grabbed the gloves, pulling them onto his hands. Still keeping his eyes averted from Doc, he picked up the rope, turned around, and began to back down towards the hole, gripping the rope carefully in his hands and leaning back to brace his boots against the muddy earth. Just before reaching the edge, his eyes suddenly flicked up to stare at the scientist.

"It's your neck if I break mine," he warned, skipping back into the open pit, the rope skimming over his gloved palms.

* * *

Marty closed his eyes as he felt himself fall back into open air, the sensation thankfully brief before he tightened his hands around the rope and stopped his free fall. The earth was no longer under his feet, curving away to form the concave ceiling of the former mine shaft. He swung back and forth for a moment, dirt raining down around him as the rope chewed up the loose, crumbling earth at the lip of the hole. Move it! he thought, keeping his eyes shut. He pried open his fingers slightly and allowed the rope to slide through it. The friction almost yanked off one of the gloves; while the mitts fit Doc's hands snugly, they were a little loose on him.

Seconds later, Marty's boots landed with a wet squish on the subterranean ground and he nearly knocked over the lamp that was tethered to the end of the rope. His eyes snapped open as he stumbled, tightening his grip on the rope to regain his balance. Martha watched him with a faintly amused look on her dirt-streaked face.

"How do you reckon me getting up that rope when I cannot stand?" she asked.

"Very carefully," Marty said, letting go of the rope and taking a step in her direction. Liquid mud sloshed over the top of his booted foot, staining the cuffs of his pants. He stopped when he reached Martha's side and leaned over with his hand extended. "I'll help you stand."

Martha sized him up. "Are you strong enough for that?"

It took every ounce of Marty's self control not to tell her where she could go. "Yes," he said curtly. Without giving her time to come up with another pointed response, he reached down, grabbed her a little roughly by the arm, and hauled her up.

The mud in which she was sitting made an angry sucking sound, putting up some resistance at releasing the woman. With her skirts waterlogged and soaking up the dirt like a sponge, it was no easy feat to get her up. Marty struggled, quickly wrapping his other arm around her upper body and pulling as hard as he could. Slowly, Martha rose up...and once she was upright, she staggered, clinging to Marty with her full weight.

Before he knew it, Marty was flat on his back, down in the muck, Martha's weight on top of him and his own clothes soaking up the dirty water. "Ugh!" he groaned, thoroughly disgusted.

Martha jabbed him hard in the ribs as she struggled to sit up. "I told you so," she said, a smug note in her voice in spite of their awkward position.

Marty pushed himself up, mud oozing between the fingers of his borrowed gloves as he applied pressure against the ground. "You never quit, do you?" he snapped.

"Are you two all right?" Doc's voice called from above.

Martha eased herself off Marty's legs. "We are muddy but fine," she said. "Mr. Eastwood overestimated his own strength."

Marty dug his fingers deeper into the mud, itching to pull up a fistful and pitch it towards her head. He took a couple of deep breaths and managed to keep a hold on his temper, knowing it wouldn't do a damn bit of good to lose it in the current situation.

"Be careful," Doc cautioned. "Clint, give the rope to Martha and I'll pull her up first."

"Yeah, I know," Marty muttered. He struggled back up to his feet, his clothes having gained a couple pounds of weight from the water and sticky mud. He gave his arms a quick shake, flinging mud off the gloved fingertips to the ground. He staggered over to the rope, removing Doc's glove for a moment to untie the knot around the handle of the lamp. Then he picked up the lamp, moved it a safe distance away, and looked back at Martha.

"Come on," he said as calmly as he could. "You're gonna have to move over here to get the rope."

"I see that," Martha said. "I may need your help."

"I'm not strong enough to manage you, remember?" Marty retorted, the cold mud clinging to his clothes a stark reminder of that folly.

Martha smiled thinly. "Take me up on the left side," she said. "That is my lame ankle."

Marty slogged through the muck to position himself on the appropriate side. This time, he suspected Clara's mother was working with him a little more. He got her upright without a problem and reluctantly slipped his right arm around her soaked back to help her over to the lifeline that led above.

"Are you gonna be able to hang on there tight enough for Do-- Emmett to pull you up?" he asked as Martha took hold of the rope. He was relieved to see she had on her own set of leather riding gloves, though they were caked with mud and probably ruined beyond repair.

"So long as he does not pull too fast, I think I can manage," Martha said, winding some of the rope around her hand. She gave it a gentle tug, testing it, peering up. Several loosened clods of dirt narrowly missed her face. Marty raised one hand up above his head, squinting cautiously through the fingers to the surface.

"Be careful," he called up to Doc. "You're gonna bring the whole ceiling down if you don't move slowly."

"I'm aware of the situation," Doc assured him.

"Not as aware as we are," Marty said under his breath, wishing suddenly for a hardhat. He swept his eyes over the domed ceiling, trying to judge where the sturdiest place to stand might be. Considering the ceiling had caved in under Martha's weight, he didn't think there was any place particularly stable. However, he made his way over to a visible beam that still looked sturdy enough under the weight of dirt and time. (At least he saw no signs of it breaking or bending.)

Above on the surface, Doc began to pull. Martha inched upward and with each degree of ascension, a little more of the ceiling crumbled. In spite of Doc's best efforts, the rope was resting against the unstable earth and the slow creep of the fibers dug deeper into the loose dirt. Marty backed up even more until his spine was tucked firmly against the support beam, not wanting to get beaned by a rock or get any filthier than he already was.

The trickle of mud suddenly became a flood. A huge chunk of the ceiling crumbled under the weight of the rope, and Martha was jarred forward and down. She made no noise, her muddied gloves remaining clenched tightly around the rope. Marty half expected her to slide back to the ground, but she held on.

"Sorry," Doc apologized from above, his voice filled with sympathy and concern. "Are you both all right?"

"Fine," Marty assured him. Martha managed a similar response.

Once the mini-landslide stopped, Martha began her trek to the surface again. Her head finally reached the ceiling, and in his haste to help her up, Doc accidentally smeared the whole side of her face against the mud. He paused to secure the rope in some way, then his arm came down and grasped Martha by hers.

"You can let go now," he said, sounding quite calm. "I've got you."

There was a brief scuffle as the inventor yanked Martha to solid ground. Even more of the ceiling crumbled away during the maneuver and Marty winced, ducking his head and raising his arms to protect it just in case the collapse reached him.

When the shower of dirt slowed to a trickle, he heard Doc call his name. "Marty! Are you still there?"

"Yeah. Be careful you don't fall in, too," Marty added, the possibility too real for him to want to dwell on it. With Martha out of commission from a wounded ankle, he doubted she could go for help, and they could be waiting around for aid for days at the very least.

He heard muffled, muted conversation between the scientist and his in-law. A moment later the rope snaked its way down over the lip of crumbling earth. "Grab the rope," Doc called to him, sounding as if he had moved away a little from where he had been standing before. "Newton is going to pull you up."

Newton? "The horse?" Marty asked, wondering if he'd heard right.

"We can do it fast," Doc said.

"So you wanna bring down this whole cavern on me?"

"It's going to come down anyway...we'll get you out as quickly as we can."

Marty's mind struggled to keep up with this abrupt change of strategy. "What happened to slow and steady?"

"I want you out as soon as possible," Doc said. "Get a good grip on the rope and let me know when you're ready."

* * *

Doc stood a dozen feet away from the increasingly widening hole, one hand on Newton's bridle. He gave his horse a quick stroke on the neck. "It's all right," he murmured to the animal, trying to settle him down. Newton's eyes were wide, and he was snorting nervously, not liking the makeshift harness that Doc had cobbled together with the other end of the rope that Marty was currently clutching. He had wound the rope around the saddle, not wanting to accidentally strangle his horse when it came time for him to pull up his friend. He was fairly certain that the ground underfoot was stable; if he had miscalculated, it would almost certainly result in serious injury if not death.

The sooner he pulled Marty out of that artificial tomb, the better he would feel. The consistency of the red soil was not giving him any comfort.

Martha sat an additional dozen feet away from the hole, her appearance even more ghastly in the clear light of day. There was not a spot on her that was dry or clean. Her dress was ruined beyond repair. At some point between the last time he had seen her, leaving his shop in town, and now, her hat had been jettisoned, and the brassy tint of her hair was now concealed under layers of muck.

As filthy and bedraggled as her appearance was, the fact she was more or less unscathed from her field trip to the old mine shaft made Doc think she had never looked better to him in his life.

"All right, Newton," he said softly to the horse. "When I give the signal, I want you to pull like you've never pulled before." Doc turned his head towards the hole. "Marty?"

"Yeah?" came the faint response.

"Are you holding onto the rope? Do you have a tight grip?"

There was a clear note of trepidation in the response, which came after a beat of hesitation. "Yeah."

"Good." Doc backed up several steps away from the horse. He drew in a deep breath, inserted the tips of his pinkie fingers into his mouth, and used all of his might to force out an earsplitting whistle. Nearby birds cried out in alarm and took to the air at the sound, and Newton's ears stood at abrupt attention. The horse hesitated only for the barest second before he suddenly leapt into motion. The rope behind him grew taut and slid across the floor of the woods, skittering over twigs and old leaves, as Newton charged forward. Doc's eyes were fixed on the edge of the hole where the rope was draped. He watched it move up, the mud staining it the same red-brown as the soil around them. Cracks suddenly snaked around the earth around the lip of the hole.

"Marty, watch out!" Doc shouted, even as another big chunk of ground fell away, into the hole. The rope was jarred forward, striking the dirt with enough force to cause another hunk of it to fall away. Newton, undaunted, continued to plod forward. The moving rope continued to eat away at the edge of the widening hole.

A huge clod of dirt appeared clasped around the rope...no, not dirt, Doc realized. Hands. The gloves that Marty was wearing were thoroughly soaked in the earth. The edge of the hole continued to recede as Marty's arms appeared (also completely saturated with dirt), followed by his head. His eyes were screwed shut, nose wrinkled, as he clearly struggled to not inhale the soil. His upper body slid out of the hole, and just as his feet came up, the edge of the sinkhole fell away -- again. Marty dangled out of it from the chest up.

"C'mon, Newton!" Doc urged, even as he bent forward and grabbed hold of the rope, turning to help pull his friend up even faster. The young man finally withdrew from the hole and came across the lip. Doc only stopped his horse when Marty had cleared about five feet from the edge.

"Are you all right?" he asked at once, kneeling down next to his friend. Marty lay on his stomach, his hands still gripping the rope. He raised his head and opened his eyes, blinking, the contrast of his blue eyes even more startling as they gazed from a mud-coated face. He turned his head to the side and spit out a mouthful of earth before responding to the question.

"I'm getting a bath tonight," he said flatly. "A hot one."

Martha, sitting a short distance away, sniffed softly as Doc helped Marty to his feet. "Ain't you a picture," she said, sizing him up. Marty wiped one filthy arm across his face, doing nothing more than smearing the dirt.

"You should talk," he said.

Doc glanced at the sinkhole. "Let's get back to town," he said. "We're going to need to call off the search party and get the doctor to look at your ankle, Martha. You can ride back to town on my horse with me." He looked over at Marty. "Once we get to town, I'm going to have you head on to the house."

"Without even cleaning up?"

Doc started untying Newton as he spoke. "You can clean up there. Clara and Daniel need to know about Martha sooner than later, and I owe all those people in town supper and drinks."

* * *

Clara lay on the sofa in the parlor, a damp cloth covering her eyes in hopes of easing up a fierce headache. The headache had arrived sometime in the middle of the night, and had increased in strength since. Clara suspected it was a combination of stress from her pregnancy, the heat, and the terror of what might have happened to her mother.

If she never comes home, I will never forgive myself, she thought, her eyes welling with tears under the compress. More disturbing, she had no idea if she could forgive Emmett. Rationally, she knew that her husband had little to do with her mother's disappearance, but the crux of the matter was that Martha had gone into town partially to see him. And if Emmett had gotten along with her better, she would not have had to do that.

Clara sighed, bracing one hand over the cloth that covered her eyes. She heard the stairs creak as someone came down them. The footsteps stopped just outside the doorway to the parlor. "Jules is down for his nap," she heard her father say softly.

"Thank you," she said, matching his tone. "I hope he can sleep...he was fussing half the night."

"He knows there is something amiss," Daniel said simply. Clara moved a corner of the cloth aside to open one eye. The blinds were drawn over the windows, trying to shut out the slants of mid-afternoon sunlight that wanted to invade. Daniel took a seat down on the armchair, moving a little stiffly. His gaze was more distracted than Clara had seen it in years. The dark circles under his eyes told her that no one had slept much under that roof the prior night.

"I hate this," Clara burst out, the words as much a surprise to her as anyone. She sat up, ignoring the escalation of pressure in her head as she moved. "I have never felt so helpless in my entire life. Doesn't Emmett realize what he is doing to us?"

Daniel blinked owlishly behind his glasses. "What is that, my dear?"

"This nothingness. This restriction from doing anything proactive to help find Mama. I am going stir crazy being held like a prisoner here."

"You are doing something, Clara," her father said quietly. "You are caring for your son. You cannot be riding around the greater region looking for your mother, not in your condition."

"My condition." There was a note of scorn as Clara uttered the second word. "I would never put myself in harm's way. I know that Mama rode almost to the day Charlotte was born."

Daniel winced slightly, a pinched look of pain on his face. They seldom spoke of the youngest Clayton who had died more than two decades ago. "Your mother was also not living on the frontier as you are," he said after a moment.

Clara sniffed loudly, disapproving of the excuse. "I do not believe that would make an ounce of difference in her conduct," she said.

Daniel tilted his head to the side, a look of concentration seizing his face. "I hear hoofbeats," he said, rising. "Someone is coming."

Clara frowned, straining her own ears for the sound. She still had not caught it when her father stepped over to one of the windows and peeled back a corner of the curtains to peer outside. "What on earth...." he murmured.

Curiosity prompted Clara to her feet in spite of the headache. She crossed the floor and leaned over to look through the curtain beside her father. Outside, she saw a reddish figure galloping on horseback towards the home. She squinted and blinked, wondering if her vision was playing tricks on her. The image did not shift in any way. A figure clad head to toe in auburn-colored earth was heading down the dirt road that led to the house.

Clara took a step back and looked at her father, who continued to gaze outside. "I think you may want to fill the washtub and find some soap," he said, utterly nonplussed, adjusting his glasses on his nose. Clara simply stared at him, her mind trying to process the words and finding them as incomprehensible upon further reflection as they had been at the beginning.

"Why?" she finally asked, the hoofbeats now catching her ear as the rider got closer.

Daniel pulled aside more of the curtains and pointed towards the visitor. "That man out there is covered in mud, that's why."

Clara only needed a quick glance to realize that it was not Emmett riding her way. The gentleman on the horse was much too small...and that thought, fleeting as it was, finally threw the proper switches into place. It was Marty; she could see that now, in spite of the fact he was, as her father had pointed out, coated in layers of dirt. She turned and hurried back into the kitchen. There was no time to fill up a wash tub, but she soaked a towel with water from the pump, wrung it out, and carried it with her to the front of the house. Daniel was already reaching for the door knob and opened the door just as Marty drew Archimedes to a halt outside. For a moment, he simply stared up at the other two as they came onto the porch, his eyes in stark contrast to the rest of him.

"What happened to you?" Clara asked, breaking the silence.

Marty wiped at his face, doing nothing more than brushing a few dried flakes of filth away. "I fell into some mud," he said, stating the obvious. "Listen, Doc sent me straight here to let you know that Martha's been found and is all right."

Clara's breath came out in a whoosh. The tension that had gripped her for the last couple days abruptly vanished and she wobbled on her feet, lightheaded by this news. Her father quickly slipped an arm behind her, steadying her. "What happened to her?" he asked sharply, the question directed to Marty.

The young man dismounted, sending more pieces of dirt through the air as he moved. "She fell into a collapsed mine shaft," he said. "I got the job of pulling her out of there which is why I look like...this." He gestured to his body and made a face. "She hurt her ankle in the fall, but the town doc was on his way to look her over when I headed here, and Do— Emmett didn't seem to think anything else was wrong with her."

Daniel nodded once, almost to himself. He looked at Clara, who was still struggling to process the news. "I need to go to town."

"Of course," Clara said faintly. She took a deep breath and let it out slowly, trying to still the rapidly spinning world around her. Without thinking about it, she reached up with the wet towel in her hand and dabbed it over her cheeks, the sensation helping clear her head a bit.

Daniel led her over to the porch swing nearby and eased her down into the seat. He looked at Marty, standing next to the horse. "Can I borrow him?" he asked, indicating Archimedes.

"Sure...I guess...." Marty backed away several steps, his eyes on Daniel as the older man gracefully pulled himself up into the saddle, ignorant of the smears of mud that had been left behind. "They went to Emmett's shop," he added, almost as an afterthought.

"Thank you," Daniel said, turning the horse around. He urged the tired horse up to a gallop, the pace belaying his concern and eagerness to reach his wife. Marty watched him go for a moment before he looked up at Clara.

"I guess I don't even need to ask if I can come in like this. If you drag the washtub down, I'll take it from there."

Clara nodded automatically. She stood, the muscles in her legs trembling slightly, and stepped forward. "Here is a towel," she said, holding it out to Marty over the railing. The young man stepped forward, catching it as Clara dropped it his way, and promptly buried his face into it. She turned around and walked towards the front door, stopping as the worst of the shock began to ebb. "Marty?"

Marty raised his face out of the towel, patches of bare flesh beginning to emerge from the work of the wet towel. "Huh?"

"Is she truly all right? My mother?"

"Yeah," Marty said. "I think it'd take a lot more than a couple days in a hole to finish her off."

Clara leaned against the doorjamb for a moment and nodded to herself. "Yes, I suppose it would," she agreed softly. "I'll bring the washtub down to the back door."

* * *

When Marty had headed off to inform Clara and her father of the news -- after summoning the town's doctor -- Doc tried to make Martha as comfortable as possible considering her injury and the lack of creature comforts in his workplace. It was probably better that there were few of those, he reflected idly, because the state of his in-law's dress would likely ruin any fine upholstery or fabric if it came into contact with her.

Martha had said little on their ride back to the town and she remained mute until Doc had settled her in a straight back wooden chair with her wounded ankle propped on a low stool. "Is that comfortable for you?" the inventor asked, his hands hovering around her ankle to adjust if necessary.

"It's tolerable," Martha said. Her eyes followed Doc as he took a seat in a chair across from her. "I hope your doctor here is sensible. I've heard stories about some fools practicin' medicine out on the frontier."

"He seems to be fair enough," Doc said, his judgement of this time's medical doctors more stringent than Martha could ever realize. "I don't think he will misdiagnose anything on you." He changed the subject slightly. "We were all very worried about you."

Martha rubbed at the mud that covered her cheeks. "I somehow doubt that," she said, her voice softening slightly.

Doc leaned forward in his chair. He might as well just come out and say it. "I include myself in that assessment," he said.

"Is that so? I thought you couldn't stand me." Martha's tone grew chillier, her green eyes cool as she considered him.

Doc cleared his throat, uncomfortable, not entirely sure what was going to come out of his mouth. "I love your daughter, Mrs. Clayton. I loved her from the moment I set eyes on her, and that love only grew deeper as I got to know her. I would never do anything to hurt her. She and Jules mean the world to me. They are my world. That's why...that's why I felt so hurt when you seemed to hate me the second you saw me."

Martha's lips twitched. Doc went ahead before she could speak. "I lost my parents a long time ago, when I was still a relatively young man, and I had hoped that you and your husband could help fill in that hole in my life. I may not be young and handsome and rich -- points that you have felt free to mention to me time and again -- but I love your daughter and she loves me. If my son could find someone who enriches his life half as much as Clara has enriched mine, I would consider him a lucky man."

Martha's eyes studied him without blinking. Doc stared back, determined not to back away from the ledge he had settled himself on. After what felt like a lifetime, Martha finally dropped her gaze to her ruined dress and ran her gloved hands over the fabric. Flakes of dirt fell to the earthen floor. "Maybe I was wrong about you, Emmett," she said slowly. "Maybe I've been wrong about a bunch of things lately."

Hope suddenly sprang into Doc's chest. He leaned forward another inch. "I am sorry for what I said to you earlier. I did not mean it."

"Yes, you did," Martha countered. "You meant every word. Well...so did I...but I do not anymore. I had a lot of time to think down in that shaft. I could have perished there if you and Clint hadn't been so lucky to find me. I know it would've weighed terrible on me if I had left things the way they had been b'tween us. You're right about one thing, Emmett: Clara loves you."

Martha took another breath, holding it as she gazed about the room, her eyes suddenly distant. "I love her, too. After Charlotte died, Clara became our only daughter. We had hoped she would stay closer to home but...she wanted to see what lay beyond New Jersey. I couldn't stop her or say anything...not with my own time spent explorin' the world. Daniel, too. I had hoped that she might return, might settle down with one of the fine young men in Kinsrow. It was...a shock when she wrote us of you. You were so old...so very much out here."

Doc waited as she sighed and shook her head. "I was disappointed," she confessed. "It wasn't the future we saw for our Clara."

"I never imagined anyone like Clara in my own future," Doc said. "It was like winning the lottery -- ah, hitting the motherlode."

"As well it should be," Martha said. Her lips formed a faint smile, taking the sting from the words. "She is very special, as is that darling grandson of ours. They need to be taken care of, even if you...well, you're older than them. You might not live to see Jules reach adulthood."

The words were painfully blunt, but Doc was starting to expect no less from Martha Clayton. "I am in excellent health, and you are welcome to ask the doctor about that when he arrives," he said. "Should anything happen to me, though, rest assured that your daughter and our children will be provided for."

Martha visibly relaxed. "Well...well, then there is nothin' more I s'pose I need to be troubled about," she said. She extended a hand towards Doc. Doc got up and grasped it, finding her grip remarkably strong considering her condition. "Sorry for all the trouble earlier, son."

"Son?" Doc murmured aloud. It seemed like a joke, but the earnest expression on Martha's face told him she meant every note of it. As the word echoed in his mind, the inventor smiled. He liked the sound of it. It had been a very long time since anyone had called him that. It almost made all the grief of the last couple days worth it.

Almost.

* * *

The doctor had just left when Daniel Clayton arrived at the blacksmith shop, his hair wind-mussed and his glasses askew on his face. His concern for his wife was abundantly clear to Doc from the moment he arrived, jarring poor Archimedes to such a quick stop that the horse skidded in the dirt. "Martha," he burst out, breathless. "Where is she? How is she?"

Doc, who had seen Dr. Peterson out, turned and pointed into the shop. "In there, for now. She has a badly sprained ankle and our town doctor wants her to stay off her feet for a few days. Beyond that, she just needs some rest, a bath, and a square meal."

Daniel dismounted the horse and took a step in the direction of the door. He stopped suddenly, turning abruptly to face his son-in-law. "You saved her," he said, a note of quiet awe in her voice. "Thank you, Emmett." Daniel took him by the shoulders and gave him a firm squeeze. Doc was so surprised that he did nothing, remaining as stiff as a board as his father-in-law released him and hurried inside to see to his wife.

"I'll be out here if you need me," Doc called after him. He stepped away from the old stable, wanting to give his in-laws some privacy for their reunion, and walked over to the Palace Saloon. He had given Chester word that Martha had been found and told him to pass it on to everyone who came through that place. Inevitably as the other men in the search party returned, they would hear the good news. As he walked into the saloon, he saw Seamus McFly and his search partner, Eugene Strickland, standing at the bar. Both men turned at the sound of Doc's entrance. Seamus gave him a wide grin.

"We just heard the news," he said jubilantly. "You found Mrs. Clayton?"

"Yes. The doctor has already looked her over. She has a sprained ankle but nothing worse."

The marshal's nephew shook his head rather morosely. He was young, barely sixteen, but already his hair was beginning its ancestral retreat. "What about the old mine? Should it be filled in?"

"If you want to fill that in, you might as well fill them all in, and that would be impossible," Doc said. "This area has miles of them, and many are probably long forgotten."

"Miz Clayton was lucky," the teenager said. "Next time this happens, a person may not be so lucky."

Seamus glanced at the younger man, exasperated. "Have faith, man. We should be celebratin' t'day, not looking for ill tidings." He grinned at Doc and clapped him warmly on the shoulder. "You still buyin' us a round o' drinks and supper?"

"Absolutely," Doc said. He looked over at Chester. "Put everything on my tab for the men who helped with the search today."

Chester nodded with a crooked smile. "Everything? That's a dangerous offer, Emmett."

Doc leaned forward across the bar with a sigh. "I'm just glad that this story has a happy ending."

The bartender nodded. "Does Clara know?"

"If her father is here as he is, I am assuming so. Clint is probably with her now." He sighed again, grimacing a little. "I should be with her," he added in a softer voice.

Seamus, leaning across the bartop to scoop up a mug of beer, caught the comment. "Ye should," the Irishman agreed at once. "Why are ye still here?"

Doc blinked. Marty's ancestor had a point. He had come back to town with Martha to make sure the news of her rescue had spread and his mother-in-law had the medical care she needed. Now that she had been seen by the doctor, now that the news had begun to spread about her rescue, now that Chester even knew not to charge the men in the rescue party for drinks and food, why did he need to remain here?

"You're right," the inventor said, nodding at Seamus. "You're very right. I trust you men can give Chester your own orders of drinks and meals tonight."

Moments later, Doc was back on the horse, heading for his home at a pace that veered between a trot and a gallop. He didn't want to push Galileo too hard, but the urge to be back home, to see Clara's face without its terrible tension, and to hear Jules babble and laugh made him lean forward and urge his mount on.

And her parents won't be there, at least for a bit, he realized, his heart rising. The fact that Marty would was a secondary concern; Doc was fairly sure that his friend would be too busy trying to scrub away the layers of mud to pay attention to much else.

In spite of his eagerness to be home and see his wife, speak to her and smooth things over as much as he could (or that she would allow), Doc found himself slowing the horse down once he crested the small slope a quarter mile away from the house and came within view of it. Doubts crowded his mind and diluted the certainty he had felt in the saloon. Clara could blame him for her mother's condition. She could be packing up right now to leave him.

Don't be ridiculous!

Doc kicked Galileo up to speed again, tightening his hands around the reins. Moments later he was slowing down again as he went up the road that led to his home. Outside, all was quiet. No one was outside, at least at the front of the house. He saw no wagon waiting to carry Clara away, filled with her possessions. He breathed a soft sigh of relief, not realizing until that moment how powerfully that idea had grabbed a hold of him.

Doc dismounted his horse, giving him a thankful pat as he led him by the reins to the back pasture. There, in the backyard, he came upon a strange sight that slowed his stride somewhat. Next to the water pump that was approximately halfway between the house and the barn lay the washtub. In the washtub stood Marty. He had removed his shirt and was vigorously scrubbing at his pants with a bristle brush, trying to get the caked on mud off them. He was mostly clean from the waist up, though his wet hair still bore a couple reddish splotches of dirt and there were a few spots he had missed on his back.

Doc watched him for a moment before he realized he should probably announce his presence. "It may be much easier for you to clean the clothes and yourself separately," he said.

Marty snapped his head up, his eyes searching for a moment before they located the inventor and horse near the back porch. "Yeah, well, unless you plan on setting up some kind of shower curtain deal, that's not an option," he said flatly. "Your wife could look out the window anytime." He straightened up and dropped the brush into the tub, the object sending up a small spray of brown water. His lip curled in disgust. "I would give a million bucks right now for indoor plumbing."

"I've heard that before," Doc said with a sigh. "Have you seen Clara?"

"Ye-ees," Marty said, his tone indicating that he thought his friend had said something rather foolish. He stepped out of the tub, bent over, and heaved it onto its side, spilling out a gush of dirty water. "She brought down the tub for me. Did you think I was gonna waltz into your house looking like something the dog crapped out?"

The inventor's lips twitched in a ghost of a smile. "Is she in a charitable state of mind?"

Marty started to prime the pump, sparing a second to glance his way. "She seems okay. Daniel went to town, you know."

"He arrived there safely...he's with Martha now."

"Love to be a fly on the way for that conversation," the young man muttered. He rinsed out the tub once before starting to fill it up again. "Clara's alone in the house now...why are you out here yakking to me?"

Doc was torn between another sigh and a laugh. He continued on his way towards the pasture where he turned Galileo loose, then headed to the house. He passed Marty, still trying to clean up, and ascended the steps to the back porch rather nervously. For a moment he wondered: Should he knock?

It is your home! You don't need to do anything of the sort.

Doc took a deep breath, turned the knob, and stepped inside. "Clara?" he called out, closing the door behind him. The kitchen was empty. "Hello?"

He heard the sound of boards creaking from above and automatically looked up. The second floor, he realized, walking across the kitchen to the swinging door that led to the front of the house and the stairs.

When he was halfway up the stairs he saw her appear from the upstairs hallway, her face pale and her eyes wide. Doc stopped, one foot raised to reach the sixth step. Clara, too, froze. For a moment they simply stared at one another.

She spoke first. "You've come home?" she said, phrasing it as a question.

Doc nodded once. "Yes."

Clara walked over to the railing that overlooked the entryway and looked down at him. "Marty said that my mother was found? That she is all right?"

Doc nodded again. "Yes."

Clara's dark eyes sought out his. Her lips trembled for a moment before parting to speak. "Emmett," she said, her tone softer. "Emmett, I-- I'm so sorry."

Doc's paralysis broke with her words. He climbed the rest of the stairs, feeling lighter with each step. "I'm sorry, too," he said. "I'm sorry about everything that's happened between us." He stretched out his hands and Clara stepped forward and slipped hers in them. She gave him a squeeze and a smile warmed her face.

"None of that is your fault, really," she said softly. "I can see that now."

"Your mother shoulder some degree of blame," Doc said tentatively. "You know that she came to see me in town and demand that I return here or she would take you and Jules back to New Jersey."

Clara's hands tensed in Doc's. "What do you mean?"

Doc kept his voice low and calm, desperately not wanting to cause a new rift now. "On the day she disappeared -- well, before she disappeared -- Martha arrived at the shop to ask me to return here. When I declined, she said that it was her intention then to return to New Jersey with you and our son. That I had been a...a poor husband."

Clara blinked. Doc rushed on. "I said some things to her I shouldn't have, I'll admit, and she left. She disappeared before she could return here. We spoke to each other about this today," he added, wanting to get that out in the open right away. "I apologized and she did, too. I think we have reached an understanding."

A sigh escaped Clara's mouth. She slipped her hands free from Doc and turned slightly, facing the railing. Doc took a step in her direction before he halted. "Don't blame me for everything, Clara."

"I know," Clara said in a low voice. "I don't. Mama has always had a sharp tongue on her, and I'm afraid you have felt that firsthand. I should have stood up for you more but...this may be the last time I see them, you know. They're getting older...and the device you're working on out there in the lab will remove us permanently from this time when you are done."

"Yes...and no," Doc said. "We could visit them by all means...they would not have to know the technicalities of it and where we were coming from."

"Perhaps...but it does not change the fact that this will very well be their only visit out here. I wanted them to love you like I love you."

Doc once more moved forward and slipped an arm around his wife's shoulders. "Your father is a good man," he said. "Truly, I like him. Your mother is more of an...er, acquired taste, but if she can acquire a tolerance for me, I will eagerly reciprocate."

"You and Marty found her and pulled her out of that tomb," Clara said. "Surely if that does not earn her respect, nothing will."

"I think we will be all right, now."

Clara turned her head sharply to regard her husband. "I should have listened to you sooner. I'm the one to blame for being so...." She paused, shrugged, clearly at a loss.

"Pregnant?" Doc suggested, the word out before he could stop it. It seemed to hang suspended in the air between them, elongating a moment that Doc wished he could take back.

Clara's eyes were inscrutable. The inventor expected harsh words, a reprimand for being unsympathetic or something of that nature. Instead, Clara's lips turned up in a faint, amused smile.

"I suppose that would suffice an explanation as anything else," she said. "Emmett, can you forgive me?"

Doc did not answer her question with words, but his response left no doubt that he would bear no lasting grudge.

Marty was never entirely sure what precisely brought the changes about, but he couldn't really complain. All he knew was that after Martha's rescue from the former mine shaft, she wasn't being quite as bitchy to Doc. Moreover, Doc and Clara were getting along well enough that the young man was a little grossed out; they were acting like honeymooners, and considering how gooey they could be normally, it was a little too much. Marty was happy and all that his friend had moved back into the house and that his in-laws were no longer fighting against Doc's every move, but he was still looking forward more to their departure. Sleeping in the stable in town had lost the little charm it had possessed; he wanted his own room back and the ability to close the door and shut the world out for a while.

Fortunately, the time had finally arrived, though Marty was not thrilled to get up almost an hour earlier than normal in order to join the Browns at the train station to bid a -- hopefully final -- goodbye to the Claytons. He stood a few feet away from Clara and her mother as they bent their heads together in quiet conversation while Daniel and Doc checked and re-checked the locks on the baggage.

Marty had been given the not-so-glamourous job of entertaining a sleepy toddler. Jules squirmed in his arms, whining a little, a sound that was rapidly escalating a headache that the young man already had. Marty tried bouncing him a little, a move that simply earned him a couple of well placed kicks in the stomach. When he bent over to set the kid down, Jules simply whined harder and tightened his arms in a chokehold around Marty's neck.

"No, no, no," he cried. "Don't wanna go down!"

"Then stop moving around so much," Marty ordered, exasperated. "You wanna be dropped and crack your head open?"

His dry, sarcastic humor was not appreciated by Jules, who's whines shifted into a low sob. "Mama," he cried. "Want Mama!"

Clara's head turned at the sound of the summons. She smiled tiredly at her son. "Just a moment, Jules. Would you like your grandmother to hold you?"

"Mama, not Nana!" Jules said forcefully, reaching out one chubby hand towards his mother. Marty managed to bite back a smile at the kid's opinion. Martha shrugged, seemingly sincerely not put out by the rejection. She reached over and patted her grandson's dark head.

"It's all right, sonny," she said. "Your mama shouldn't be lifting big boys like you."

"Oh, Mother, please," Clara said. "I can hold my own son."

"He should be roaming around on his own now," Martha countered. "You don't want to mollycoddle him, your condition aside."

Clara sighed at that, one hand straightening her hat. She turned to Marty and leaned over to scoop Jules out of his arm. "Come here, baby," she said as he leaned his head against the base of her neck, wrapping his arms around her. "Settle down, now."

Jules stopped squirming, but he continued to emit a low whine from deep in his throat. Clara ignored it, peering at Martha over the top of Jules' head. "You'll send a telegram when you reach home, won't you?" she asked.

"If it gives you peace of mind, we will," her mother said. "It could take up to two weeks for your father and I to reach New Jersey, though, especially if there's any trouble on the rails."

Now that Jules was out of his hands, Marty began to edge away from the women and over to where Doc and Daniel were grouped. The luggage that the older couple had brought was stacked on the platform a few feet away from the edge and the rails.

"I think everything looks secure enough," Doc said as Marty reached them. "How many times will they be transferring your luggage?"

"I don't know," Daniel said, surveying the boxes over the top of his glasses. "We did not have to move more than four times on our journey out here. We may be staying a night off the line here or there, though."

"Well, I think that will be enough. Just don't lose the keys."

"No." Daniel patted the breast pocket of his jacket where presumably the objects lay.

"What time is the train supposed to arrive, anyway?" Marty asked, glancing around at the station. There seemed to be a decent number of people around for such an early hour, so he could only assume it was really soon.

"Seven-eleven A.M.," Doc said. He pulled out his pocket watch and consulted it. "That is approximately sixteen minutes from now."

Daniel smiled at Marty. "Where is little Jules?"

Marty jerked a thumb back over his shoulder. "He wanted his mom, and I wasn't about to argue. He's whining a lot right now."

"He's probably tired," Doc said as he closed his watch and stuffed it back into his vest pocket. "He did not sleep very well last night. Clara said he's teething."

"I thought that already happened," Marty said.

"Not entirely. Babies do not grow every single tooth at the same time. They teeth on and off for about two years."

"Nice," Marty said, his tone meaning quite the opposite. He looked at Daniel with a crooked smile. "You'll probably be glad to escape that."

The older man's expression was wistful. "Oh, I don't know about that. Children bring such life into a home with their questions, energy, and thirst for knowledge. I do miss having that."

Somewhere down the line, Marty heard the distant whistle of a train. He turned -- everyone on the platform turned -- in the direction of the sound, but so far there was nothing to be seen rising from the flat stretch of track that ran up to the rail depot. Clara and Martha walked over to join them, leaving the shaded area near the wall.

"We'd better get ready to board," Martha said, touching her husband's arm.

"We have time," Daniel said softly. He looked over at Clara as she stood next to her husband. "It has been wonderful for you to entertain us during this visit."

Doc smiled as he slipped his arm around his wife and drew her close. "We have enjoyed the visit," he said.

"That so?" Martha asked, a playful gleam in her eye. "Even pullin' me out of that mudhole?"

"That was the best part," Doc said. His tone abruptly grew more serious. "Especially since you were found and unhurt."

Martha looked down and raised the hem of her skirts slightly, revealing the booted ankle that had caused her to be off her feet for almost a week. Marty noticed she still limped a little when she walked, but she did not offer one word of complaint. He had to admit a grudging respect for the woman's toughness. "It takes more than a hard tumble to knock me down," she agreed.

The train's whistle sounded again. It was definitely closer this time. Studying the horizon, Marty could see a smear of smoke blur the point where the flat rails met the skyline. Jules wiggled more vigorously and Clara set him down. "Stay away from the edge of the platform," she warned him, even as the kid toddled that way. Marty habitually kept one eye on him as the older adults went back to their conversation.

Martha looked at Doc, her green eyes meeting his. "Emmett, it was a pleasure to get to know you this month," she said, reaching out to grab his hand and give it a hard squeeze with both of hers. "You are a fine son-in-law and father. I'm mighty sorry again that it took me so long before I could see it."

Doc's eyes grew shiny as he smiled at her. "Thank you, Martha. That means a lot to me."

"You, Clara, and the little ones need to come out and see us sometime," Martha went on. "We'd love to have you stay with us."

"We'll have to see what the future brings," Doc said, glancing at Clara, who nodded.

Martha let Doc go and her eyes shifted to locate Jules. "C'mere, son," she called to him. "Give your grandmother and grandfather a hug."

Jules looked like that was the least thing he wanted to do. His attention was focused on the dark shape of the locomotive as it steamed their way, its low chugging noise now clearly audible and the vibrations felt through the floorboards of the platform. "Train!" he cheered. He turned around and looked to Doc. "Train like Daddy's!"

There was an awkward silence following that comment. Marty's eyes went right to Doc's face. The expression on his face was frozen, a wide-eyed half smile that he had been present on his face before his son had spoken. Clara shook her head faintly and glanced at Jules with a gentle smile. "Yes, Jules, it is very much like your father's tabletop model," she said, her eyes going to her parents' faces as she spoke. Martha and Daniel looked completely unflustered by the explanation, but it took Doc a moment more to recover. As Daniel picked up a suitcase and escorted his wife towards the approaching locomotive, Marty saw him mouth a "Thank you!" to his wife.

Marty hung back a few feet as the train screeched to a stop. Some passengers disembarked, and once they had finished that, the conductors allowed those with tickets on board. Doc and Daniel, with the help of some of the conductors, got the larger luggage loaded, smaller bags being carried aboard to be stowed with Martha and Daniel at their seats. Clara was trying to coax a reluctant Jules to give his grandmother a hug and kiss. The young man was perfectly content to fade into the background of the goodbye -- it wasn't his family, after all -- but just when he thought he was off the hook, Martha turned and looked his way.

"Clint," she said, cocking a finger. "C'mere, you."

Marty smiled wanly and walked over to where she stood with her daughter. Martha looked him up and down a moment. "Well, it was nice of you to give us your room in the house," she said. "Clara said that you'd been evicted on the count of us."

Marty's smile remained frozen on his face. "Well, yeah," he said, not seeing the point in insisting that it was no big deal and he was happy to do it. Because he wasn't. He was all right with having to do it for Doc and Clara, but not for the woman he still considered a shrew. If she and Doc wanted to get along, that was fine with him, but since she was of no relation to him by blood or marriage, he was perfectly happy with just never seeing her again.

The way Martha stared at him, Marty had the uncomfortable feeling that she knew exactly what he was thinking. "It was mighty nice of you," she said again. "You make sure to give Clara a hand when the new one arrives."

"I will," Marty said. And you make sure you watch where you walk in the future, he thought, his amusement allowing him a small smile as Martha finally shifted her attention away from him.

Clara gave her mother a hug. "Be careful," she said, her voice pitched low. "Have a safe trip home and give everyone there our love."

Martha gave her daughter a quick peck on the cheek and then turned her attention to Doc. "Good-bye, Emmett," she said. "Watch over my girl."

"Always," Doc said. He hesitated a moment and then bent forward to give her a rather awkward hug.

Daniel leaned in close to his daughter. "You take care, now," he said. "Get a lot of rest the next few months...you'll be needing it later."

Clara answered his advice with a nod and another hug. "You take it easy yourself, Papa," she said. "You're not so young anymore."

"Ah, don't worry about me...I have your mother to keep me young." He smiled, his dark eyes crinkling behind the lenses of his glasses.

Doc was spared giving his father-in-law a hug. The men shook hands. "Keep me abreast of your projects," Daniel said. "I would be happy to pass along your ideas to someone at Menlo Park."

"Sure," Doc said, though Marty knew it was a baldfaced lie.

The train's whistle sounded. "All aboard!" one of the conductor's called.

Clara's parents looked at one another, then at their daughter and her family. "Goodbye," Martha said brassily. She turned and walked to the steps of the train car, lifting her skirt as she took a large step inside.

Daniel lingered a moment more, his eyes on Clara. "Goodbye, Clarabell," he said, giving her hand a squeeze before he turned to follow his wife onto the train.

The conductor closed the door a moment later, and steam hissed out around the train's pistons at the front. "Well, that's that," Marty said, breaking the silence that had settled over the Browns. "Now maybe life can get back to normal a little."

Doc nodded, letting out a long breath as Clara dabbed at her streaming eyes. "I don't know when I'll see them again," she said softly. "Oh, Emmett. They may never meet their next grandchild."

There could be worse things, Marty thought. They could actually make another trip back here the following summer. He shuddered at the idea.

"You don't know what the future may bring, Clara," Doc said softly. "When the new machine is operating, we can travel out there to visit them...they do not have to know we came by a different kind of train, after all."

Marty hoped that would happen...because odds were, he'd be home by the time that field trip happened. "Amen," he muttered.

Marty was already ready to leave, but Doc and Clara remained rooted to the spot, their eyes on the windows of the train car that Martha and Daniel had disappeared in. There was a sharp rap from nearby, the noise making the young man jump, and he saw Martha waving at the window with a smile, Daniel's face bent next to hers.

"Goodbye," Clara said softly, raising a hand as the train began to move forward. "Goodbye, Mama and Papa."

The three of them stood together on the platform and watched the train as it chugged slowly out of sight.