“Maybe I’m losing my mind.”

“No.” Her fear forgotten, she lifted her free hand to his face, soothing him as she would have anyone who seemed so utterly lost. “You’re hurt.”

He closed surprisingly strong fingers over her wrist. “Jolted the memory banks? Yeah, maybe. Libby . . .” His eyes were suddenly intense, almost desperate. “What’s the date today?”

“It’s May the 24th or 25th. I lose track.”

“No, the whole thing.” He fought to keep the urgency out of his voice. “Please.”

“Okay, it’s probably Tuesday, the 25th.” Then she repeated the year. “How’s that?”

“Fine.” He pulled out every ounce of control and managed to smile at her. One of them was crazy, and he dearly hoped it was Libby. “You got anything to drink around here besides that tea?”

She frowned for a moment. Then her face cleared. “Brandy. There’s always some downstairs. Hold on a minute.”

“Yeah, thanks.”

He waited until he heard her moving down the stairs. Then, cautiously, he rose and pulled open the first drawer that came to hand. There had to be something in this ridiculous place to tell him what was going on.

He found lingerie, neatly stacked despite the chaos of the rest of the room. He frowned a moment over the styles and materials. She’d said she wasn’t matched, yet it was obvious that she wore things to please a man. Apparently she preferred the romance of past eras even when it came to her underwear. Far from comfortable with the ease with which he could picture Libby in this little chocolate-brown swatch with the white lace, he shoved the drawer shut again.

The next drawer was just as tidy and held jeans and sturdy hiking pants. He puzzled for a moment over a zipper, ran it slowly up and down, then shoved the jeans back into place. Annoyed, he turned, and started toward her desk, where her computer continued to hum. He had time to think it was a noisy, archaic machine before he stumbled over the pile of newspapers. He didn’t scan the headlines or study the picture. His eyes were drawn to the date.

He was unarguably in the twentieth century.

His stomach clenched. Ignoring the sudden buzzing in his ears, he bent to snatch up the paper. Words danced in front of his eyes. Something about arms talks—nuclear arms, he noted with a kind of dull horror—and hail damage in the Midwest. There was a tease about the Mariners trouncing the Braves. Very slowly, knowing his legs would give out in a moment, he lowered himself back into the chair.

It was too bad, he thought dully. It was too damn bad, but it wasn’t Libby Stone who was going crazy.

“Caleb?” The moment she saw his face, Libby rushed into the room with brandy sloshing in a snifter. “You’re white as a sheet.”

“It’s nothing.” He had to be careful now, very careful. “I guess I stood up too fast.”

“I think you really could use some of this.” She held the snifter until she was certain he had both hands on it. “Take it slow,” she began, but he’d already drained it. Sitting back on her heels, she frowned at him. “That should cure you or knock you out again.”