MARCH
A Hard Day's Night

Tuesday, March 3, 1885
6:39 AM

If Emma rolled her eyes any further, she'd be able to see the back of her head.

Doc didn't budge on the matter.

"I would go, Emma, but I have to get the mayor's coach done today. He's now due back from Grass Valley the day after tomorrow."

"Why can't I finish the coach?"

Emmett levelled his brow as she whisked away their empty breakfast plates. She was catty and combative from being cooped up for three weeks, unable to see life beyond the walls of the shop. Now that she was on the mend, some fresh air and company would do her some good if she'd let it.

Last week, Emmett had arranged to join Clarence on an outing to the McFly farm. Clarence needed to deliver a new cabinet they had ordered, and Doc needed to return several farming tools Seamus had brought in when Emma was bedridden. Doc insisted on coming; he liked delivering his orders himself, and he could help Clarence move the cabinet into the farmhouse. On a more personal note, he chased an odd sense of pride that came over him when he witnessed a flicker of the DNA Marty inherited from his ancestors. The way Seamus McFly tilted his chin up when he was amused was all Marty.

But now that the mayor was due back early, he wouldn't be able to join Clarence for their coinciding deliveries, not if he wanted the mayor to be without his coach. So, over breakfast, he proposed Emma go in his stead. She got along with Clarence, and the change of scenery would clear the cobwebs. She was just being stubborn.

Doc stood from the shop bench.

"I will finish the coach," he said, rolling up his faded sleeves. "You go with Clarence. It's a beautiful day to be out and about."

Emma laid the plates in the wash tub and sighed. She didn't want to go with Clarence to the McFly farm. She didn't want to meet Marty's ancestors. Last time she did that, she had to shake a lovesick George McFly and befriend his teenage mother. She didn't want to squint into the sun all morning and choke on prairie dust and enjoy her time with a boy that wasn't Marty. None of this fixed the time machine. It just made her stomach churn.

Emma bit the inside of her cheek as her father came up behind her.

"I'll go," she said surreptitiously, turning from the wash tub, "but only if you promise to stay in all weekend to work on the DeLorean with me."

Emmett considered the offer. When he opened his mouth, Emma pointed at him.

"I mean it," she warned. "No meetings, no potlucks, no visitors, no social calls, no –"

"I promise," Emmett conceded calmly, "to stay in all weekend to work on the DeLorean with you. It's about time we change that flat, don't you think?"

At her peeking grin, Doc squeezed her shoulders and nodded up to her loft.

"Go get ready. Clarence will be here at eight."

Clarence paid the obligatory compliments to her hideous cerulean-and-shamrock plaid day dress without missing a beat. There was a lap blanket for her to drape over her knees until the cold morning receded, and her reluctance to engage in any stimulating conversation dwindled as they discussed Catechism of the Locomotive and A Practical Treatise on Railways. Emma had less to say on the construction and management of trains than she did the science behind steam engines, but like Marty dissecting the chords of a song on his guitar, it was inspiring to see Clarence in his zone, animated and passionate.

After a riveting tangent on the genius of Anatole Mallet, Emma smiled at her hands.

"You read a lot."

"I read more before my mother died," he lamented. "She put me in school. Made me read somethin' to her every day, even if it was just the label on the flour sack. Her cousin's a librarian in San Francisco and sent us books when she could, too. Pa never had the patience for it."

Emma shaded her eyes from the sun as they came up on some fencing. Half a mile up the road, a barn and a little house; in them, Marty's great-great-grandparents. She wasn't ready for this, but her father knew she'd be curious enough to see it through.

The fresh sawdust on Clarence's clothes wafted into her then. But the pleasure she associated with one of her favorite scents left an errant pang low in her gut, and she longed to be at her workbench in the school's woodshop again.

It wasn't right how completely and abruptly these things attacked her. She didn't want to think about Woodshop. Or how she always passed Marty in the hall after Woodshop on her way to Geography. How he would help her knock loose sawdust from her clothes at Andy's locker before the keyboardist came around the corner.

"Is it in my hair?" she had asked, gently shaking the curls she'd painstakingly maintained throughout the day.

"It's in your eyebrows," Marty had chuckled.

Emma had groaned, furiously dusting off her maroon skirt and swiping at her eyebrows as Marty brushed off her shoulder. How did every girl make rollers, makeup, and heels look so effortless? She had felt like she was being held together with scotch tape and hairspray all day.

"Marty, this presentation is worth half of my final grade, and I don't always want to look like a deranged shop gremlin, believe it or not."

"You don't," he had said with a peculiar smile she'd missed. "But that's one hell of a song title. Mind if we use it?"

"You can't afford the royalties."

Finally satisfied they had gotten all of the sawdust off of her, Emma had turned in the direction of her last class of the day and asked, "Are you coming over later?"

"After practice."

"Bring your History book. We'll study for the test tomorrow."

Marty had not brought his History book.

He had brought Beverly Hills Cop, microwave popcorn, and a coupon for Pizza Hut. He even got her dad to abandon his latest Rube Goldberg machine to join them. As Axel jogged up a flight of stairs to deliver flowers to Victor Maitland, Marty pinched a stray flake of sawdust off the ribbed sleeve of her powder pink sweater. They shared a knowing smile, and he handed her her glass of Pepsi from the coffee table. He could have gotten a better grade on his History test, but she wouldn't trade that night for anything.

Until now.

Now, she'd trade it for a working time machine.

The harsh scent of manure overpowered her trip down memory lane. Emma was used to living with a few horses by now, but not a penful of pigs. Watching the reigns tighten around Clarence's hands, Emma braced herself on the bench as the wagon came to a stop. The incessant rattle of the farming tools behind them ceased.

"Y'alright here?"

Emma nodded, still partly in her head, and Clarence got out of the wagon in search of Mr. McFly. He headed for the barn fifty yards to their right.

Emma's shoulders collapsed when he was far enough away, and she took a deep breath. Her head was barely above water. Clarence had the audacity to have pheromones, the bastard. Thankfully, the wool sleeves of her dress hid her goosebumps from sight when he took his seat next to her, but the way the leather reigns wrapped around his strong wrists gutted her with a tug of arousal. She hated it, thank you. Hated it to the point of nausea, breathlessness, and indelible humiliation.

Emma shut her eyes.

I want to go home.

I just want to go home.

Blowing out a breath, Emma turned to check that the hoes, rakes, and shovels hadn't damaged the cabinet in transit. Clarence had bundled the working ends of the equipment in two sacks so the metal wouldn't blemish the sides of the cabinet. It was a fine cabinet; the hinges were smooth and soundless, and the planes of wood were solid and sleek. If she found out Clarence made this, she'd set it on fire. Then he would despise her, and she would be free of him.

As she entertained other ideas that might create much-needed space between she and Clarence, the pounding of hooves lifted her eyes to a nearby field that was sparse for the season. A small band of dark riders thundered straight toward the barn with their desolate flag of dead dust billowing behind them. They quickly circled the barn with raucous whoops and hollers, and one of the four men fired a shot into the sky, sending Emma crouching next to her seat.

Not here, she begged her psyche. Not now. This has to stop.

Dad is fine. You're fine.

He's alive.

Once she talked herself down, Emma cautiously rose as the redhaired farmer emerged from the barn with his hands in his pockets and a derby hat on his head. Her heart switched gears and lightened at the way he swayed with his hands in his pockets; how many times had she seen Marty do that? It was uncanny.

"There he is, boys!"

One of the men on the horses whistled. "Good of you to grace us with your presence, McFly!"

Seamus looked entirely uninterested as Clarence came out of the barn behind him.

"You'll have to lend a hand if you're staying for supper," Seamus announced, accent thick. "We're hauling hay today, though I thought Ceegar might save the missus a trip to the henhouse in her condition."

Seamus's suggestion was met with loud cackles. The men continued their ruckus around him and Clarence, but the farmer held his chin high in the clouds of dirt being kicked up. The darkest of the men bore down on Seamus, and the nasty growl uttered from under his handlebar mustache made Emma's eyes grow.

"Your man came through my camp on a plow this morning, McFly. Tore it to hell."

Seamus cocked his head to the side, feigning concern.

"Being as it's my land, Mr. Tannen, it was your camp that was in the way of my plow."

Emma's throat went dry, but she looked on, fascinated. Were the Tannens and McFlys meant to be at odds for all time?

"Buck nearly lost his arm!" Tannen shouted.

"Buck shouldn't be sleeping in the path of a plow, should he?"

Emma saw Tannen heightening in his saddle, enraged at Seamus's impertinence. Biff could only dream of looking so menacing; her knuckles were white as she gripped the side of the wagon on bated breath.

Clarence tried to step forward, but Seamus made a show of looking up the road at a plume of dust cresting the horizon.

"Ah, good. Marshall Strickland's back early this week," he said, watching Tannen and his men immediately redirect their horses with loathsome scowls. "He'll be able to sort out who's in the wrong here. I'll fetch my deed."

His men having already fled for the main road, Tannen snarled at Seamus's curt grin before spurring his horse after them. Emma stumbled back up into her seat as the ground rumbled beneath her, heart pounding. They were coming towards her.

"You better stick to your precious land, McFly!" Tannen bellowed from the road. "If you show your face in the Palace again, I'll drive that plow through your bed!"

Emma's core began to shake from the prolonged rigidity of her muscles. She sighed as the Three Stooges rode by without acknowledging her, but when she found the whites of Tannen's eyes under the brim of his crusted hat, her breath hitched.

All of the bandits and outlaws she'd seen in the movies didn't hold a candle to the real thing. He was hellborn; he thrived on borrowed time and stolen goods, basked in the misery he inflicted, and preached the good word of debauchery. He was foul, filthy, and fifteen feet from the wagon when he caught Emma's stony disdain. Her blood chilled to see the hint of a smoky smile touch his lips – a disturbing leer with intentions more sinister than simply getting a rise out of her.

Her skin crawled.

Emma's eyes dropped to the road. Even as Tannen urged his horse on and away from the farm, his darkness eclipsed her, pressing into the back of her neck until she shuddered. His smoldering smirk lingered in her mind's eye like a promise, and she knew she hadn't seen the last of him.

The sun would rise again.

And so, too, again would Buford Tannen and Emma Brown cross paths.

"Dad, I want a gun."

"What for?"

"It's the Old West. Can't I just have a gun?"

Doc wiped the sweat from his forehead and stepped away from the forge, taking in Emma's distracted gaze and replaying the absolute cadence of her request. He narrowed his eyes.

"What happened?"

March 8, 1885

Guess who helped uproot a tree stump and shoot rabbits instead of staying in all weekend to fix the DeLorean with me?

Emma clasped her hands with a big smile in anticipation of their questions, trying to mimic Mrs. Ward's professional posture. Of the twelve students partaking in the lesson, the little girl directly in front of Emma raised her hand. She focused her grin on the girl and said, "Yes, Millie?"

"How do we know all of the dinosaurs are extinct?"

"Humans have only ever found their remains," Emma said. "They died millions of years ago, and it took all that time for their bones to fossilize."

Another hand. The smallest hand in the room.

"Amos?"

"How could they have died millions of years ago if Jesus isn't that old yet?"

Emma glanced at her father silently snickering at the back of the classroom.

I knew I should have stuck with black holes.

March 19, 1885

Time has really flown the last two weeks. Before scarlet fever got me, I only left the shop for an hour every few days to run our personal errands (I'm still convinced I've created at least eighteen paradoxes exchanging small talk with the butcher). But since my outing to the McFly farm with Clarence (and run-in with Buford Tannen), I've been spending more time out of the shop. I'm not entirely happy about it because I want to work on the DeLorean, but I'll admit it's cheered me up some overall.

Dad acquired some firearms from the gunsmith last week. He took the '66 Winchester rifle and gave me the '73. He also got a .44 Smith & Wesson for me to try so I can get used to handling a variety. We took a day to clean and prepare them before we went out to the lake on Sunday to shoot. I'm not half bad with the rifle, but it'd be easier to carry the six-shooter around. When we went out again on Tuesday, I shot a bottle off a stump at 200 yards! I'm kind of looking forward to my next lesson.

I'm not as enthusiastic about my next school lesson, but it's because we'll be here long enough for us to do another lesson. The kids challenge my patience as much as the lesson challenges them, if not more. Why can I get Marty to memorize and solve the pendulum formula, but I can't explain dinosaurs to elementary-age students? It'd be easier if they were my age.

I'm also getting worried about how often Clarence has "conveniently" crossed paths with me since our little wagon ride. What's more worrisome is that I'm not as opposed to it as I should be. The anticipation of meeting his eye digs into my breastbone, and when he finally looks up, the excitement is too pure and rushes straight to my head. The intensity of it is unapologetic. Yet, I know that once the seal of this vacuum breaks, nothing tethers me to him emotionally.

I am anchored elsewhere.

In the lab, where we are free to live, play, and smile; in school, where we bear the weight of our peer's opinions; in the mansion, where we grew up amidst fear and grief; in the Packard, where he devoted his heart to me with a kiss I had wished for so many times; in an alternate reality, where we found each other time and again.

I cannot be pulled from these places, no matter how hard anyone tries.

I thought my dad of all people would know that, but when I got back to the shop after running errands all morning, Clarence was there working on a woodchopping machine with Dad. Their rapport was jovial and fluid, like it had always come so naturally. Both so eager for me to try it out. Dad complimenting Clarence's hard work, and Clarence praising Dad's ingenuity. A joke or two passed between them. A pat on the back on the way out the door. It was an obnoxious production that has left my stomach sour with revulsion.

I'm sure I'll realize I'm overreacting in the morning, but right now, I feel betrayed.

"One more time, all together."

The classroom dutifully recited the three words on the board as Emma issued to each one.

"Evaporation, condensation, precipitation."

"And this process is called…"

"The Hydrologic Cycle," they chorused.

"Good! Any questions before we move on?"

A few hands went up to her surprise. She started with a twelve-year-old boy near the back corner she'd never called on before.

"Elmer?"

"What happens to the salt in the saltwater?"

"That's an excellent question!" Emma beamed. She whirled around the desk, back to the chalkboard. "During evaporation, impurities such as salt are left behind as the water vapors rise into the atmosphere. After those water vapors condense," – she pointed to "Condensation" written in the cloud of her diagram – "the water has been purified and falls to the earth as fresh water. Good question, Elmer.

"Anyone else?"

Emma tried not to let her smile wane when little Amos raised his hand.

"Yes, Amos?"

"What about the waterfalls that carry ships off the edge of the Earth? Do they condensation?"

Emma bit the inside of her lip.

Definitely should have stuck to black holes.

Emma was at the private workbench, hunched over the back of the dark time circuits display with three oil lamps surrounding her. Her hands carefully worked amongst the wires under a large magnifying glass. Far more concerned with the precision of her soldering, she didn't look up as her father came in. Doc kept his demeanor cordial despite sensing, for some reason, that she was less pleased with him than he was with her.

"I thought you were going to meet me at the town meeting," he said, removing his coat and hat.

"I had to strip all the wires in the time circuits display," Emma said dryly. "The lightning fried enough of them that it made more sense to replace them all."

"It could have waited for tomorrow," Emmett told her. "We have a light workload tomorrow."

"I assumed we wouldn't have that luxury since you usually come back with eight more jobs."

Doc slowed as he hung his coat by his bed. He cast his daughter's snide clip a bewildered frown; dare he ask what had her in such a mood? Thinking better of it, Emmett stepped down to the dirt floor, sat at the shop's workbench where he still had a view of her, and busied his hands with the scope he was building for his Winchester. Perhaps he could still salvage this conversation.

"Clarence was there."

"Good for him."

"He asked after you."

"So?" She tromped down to the shop bench, picked up the toolbox opposite him, and rifled through it. "Everyone here does that, Dad."

"So," Emmett proceeded evenly, "I've been thinking about taking on an apprentice."

Emma stared at him.

It was very reasonable to get someone to help with the day-to-day responsibilities, sure. It would ultimately free up more time to work on the DeLorean. But all she could hear pounding in her ears was an irrational, relentless confession that her father was ready to fill Marty's place in their lives until they were content enough to forget all about the time machine and continue life from this point forward. The nerve under her nose twitched in disgust. Doc was oblivious as he met her razor-sharp eyes.

"Clarence is the obvious candidate."

"Absolutely," Emma agreed with mock astonishment. "Someone has to help me fix the DeLorean."

Emmett lowered his pliers. There it is.

"There is no need for that tone."

"Yeah, well I've tried all the others," Emma snapped, slamming the toolbox down with such force that her father started. She thrust her arm out to the DeLorean. "When is this going to be important to you again?"

Emmett rose from the workbench. His face darkened fractionally, but his voice was on a dangerous precipice, teetering towards a growl. "It is always important to me. It's my life's work. I am defined by everything that makes up that hunk of junk."

"Then act like it!" Emma shouted. "You're supposed to be helping me figure out how to fix this thing, not going to town meetings and making spoons and preparing science lessons for the schoolhouse!"

Emmett inhaled deeply through his nose, eyeing his daughter with a stiff frown. Her face was red with a rage that was only beginning, but the shine of her eyes gave her away. He sighed, unsure of how he would make her understand anything when she was in this state.

"The relationship we have with these people –"

"Is not as important as me," she snarled immediately, pointing at herself. She then stalked around the front of the workbench with a lethal heat in her wake, squaring up to Doc as if he weren't a whole head taller than her.

"If you drop dead tomorrow, what am I supposed to do, hm?"

Her lips wrung as she fought off a tearful sniff, and it reddened her eyes while softening her father's.

"Run a blacksmith shop?" she scoffed. "Hope someone will marry me and provide for me while I scrub pots all day and raise our twelve kids? I get that you love it here, Dad, but I don't have a lot of options as a woman in 1885. I don't get to live the life I want here. The least you could do before you ride off into the sunset is send me home."

When her father failed to voice a worthy response, Emma stormed over to her loft's ladder. She was done.

"Stop trying to replace Marty."

Emmett's face fell at the accusation, bringing him out of his stupor. He shook his head.

"I could never replace Marty, Emma –"

She threw her curtain shut.

"A Hard Day's Night" (1964) is a song by The Beatles. They also starred in a movie by the same name in 1964.