Dangerous Waters

by Amy J. Fetzer

  The cougar appeared through the mist, its walk slow and

  lazy. The animal's coat was wet, each step was cautious and

  measured. And silent. The hazy air clouded around the beast,

  enveloping it, and its gold eyes rimmed in black kept him

  rooted where he stood. He felt no fear, not for his life, and he

  sensed a definite feminine presence as it neared. And then the

  cougar's body shifted shape, growing longer with each stride,

  paws lifting and changing slowly to slender hands, hind quarters

  to long slender legs until the cougar was walking upright as a

  woman, tall, sleek and strong with muscle.

  But the eyes were the same.

  She stopped before him, her gold eyes infinitely sad and

  needy. She didn't speak, her image hovering between the mist

  and the elusiveness of reality as she lifted her hand and covered

  the scratches on his chest.

  Swift Arrow experienced the sudden hot jolt of her touch before she tumbled back into the mist, the night swallowing her in a hauntingly liquid darkness.

  He reached for her, but could not move. His heart ached with a pain so terrifying that he thought it would destroy him.

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  He felt his eyes burn and looked down at his chest. The bleeding cuts were healed.

  Swift Arrow jolted awake, blinking, then turning his head. His gaze scanned the area before he sat up, swiping the sweat from his forehead. He cradled his head in his hands, part of him trying to draw back the image and part wanting it to stay away and never return. Three times in two days he'd had this same dream, coming in increments—until tonight.

  He had not lived in the white world so long to dismiss such a vision and the Cheyenne blood running through his veins warned him to accept this dream as a prediction. But Marshal Christopher Swift didn't need the path of his life changed, and he'd be damned if he'd let a cougar who walks like a woman do it.

  "Kyle insists you'll go home, so I'm trusting you. Girl stuff, you know." She stuffed a note in the saddle bags, loosened the cinch a little, then slung her heavy pack on her shoulder, slapping the mare's rump before heading into the fall without a backwards glance. She didn't have any thoughts about the police a mile behind her or the choppers overhead, only that Ivy League had found a way to escape and she was going after him. Poised before the crystal arch of water, she lurched into the fall, catching her balance and shaking water off her hair like a puppy. Dizziness, heavier than before, spread roughly through her, the air feeling like mercury sliding over her skin. She ignored it, and two steps brought light and warmth. Victoria skidded down the incline, hungry for the hunt and unaware that behind her, the flow of cool water was growing thinner.

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  Chapter Three

  Victoria rolled around, gun in hand and came face to face with a ... an Indian? She blinked, looking him over.

  He wasn't two feet from her, squatting. And he hadn't so much as flinched.

  In fact, he was incredibly still, not even his bare chest moved with his breathing. Only his dark eyes shifted, sliding once down to her boots, then snapping up to prowl over her hair, her face, before meeting her gaze again. He didn't give the .45 cal Barretta a second glance. The warm breeze caught the flap hanging between his thighs and feminine instinct admired the smooth corded muscle, before quickly taking in the over-the-knee deer skin moccasins, plain, unadorned, a bow and quiver of arrows lay beside his right foot, the razor sharp tips gleaming in the light. Strung game lay inches away. His elbows were braced on his thighs, hands clasped, hammered silver cuffs circling his wrists. But it was his face that held her interest. Like carved bronze. Aristocratic, strong. Almost beautiful.

  With the body of an athlete. Bet he stopped a few hearts in their tracks.

  "What do you want?"

  No answer.

  "Great Spirit got your tongue, Tonto?" She didn't feel threatened and lowered the barrel. "Hungry?" She gestured with the gun to the half of a squirrel lying near her dead

  campfire.

  Still, he stared at her, dark strands of hair ruffling in the wind and she wondered if it was as soft as it looked.

  ' 'What is a woman doing in the wilderness, alone?'' he said suddenly. She liked the sound of his voice—deep, like wood smoke.

  "Gee. My prone position give you any clue?" There was a hint of a smile behind that stoic look, she thought, and eased the hammer down before rising up on her elbow. The motion put her face inches from his and her hair spilled over her shoulder. She could hear him breath now, almost feel his pulse. He looked fierce, angry. But he has gentle eyes. And she wanted to drown in them. Jesus.

  No time tor that.

  And Victoria immediately laid back down, turning her back to him and resting her head on her pack. She sighed and closed her eyes, hoping he got the message.

  Chris easily read her dismissal, but what the hell. He was impressed. She had no horse, could snare game, handle the strange looking gun, and was utterly fearless. Not even for a moment did it waver, Yet there was something else about her he'd never seen in a woman—savagery. She almost dared him to test her. Her senses were acute, more than he'd expect in a woman, especially a white woman, and he wondered if she knew he'd watched her for nearly a half hour before approaching. She has a mouth made for slow wet kisses, he thought. But it was those eyes that speared him, conjuring hazy images and an undeniable heat.

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  He looked her over again, liking what he saw in her long slender shape, her unusual coloring. He'd never seen hair quite like that before, mostly a dark brownish gold, thick and richly streaked with shades of red, pale blonde and brown, but darker around her face and underneath. It gave her a wild look, coupled with her tanned skin and dark arching brows ... and the eyes, gold, flecks of black edging the iris.

  Everything about her was sultry, mysterious. Predatory.

  His brow knitted, a cool ripple over his skin. Her? Was she the cougar ... ?

  Slowly, he reached out to touch her hair, then caught himself, instinctively resisting the connection he experienced from the dream.

  Hell. She'd likely shoot him in between yawns. And here he was in the forest, having notions about a perfect stranger, who was obviously not intimidated nor interested in even a conversation.

  But God, she was tall, legs went on til Sunday.

  He smiled when she continued to ignore him, though he knew she wasn't asleep, and left her to her nap.

  Victoria sensed his sudden absence even though she didn't hear him leave. She almost called him back. It had been too long since she was in the company of anyone who wasn't a bondsman, a criminal, or a junky looking to score a few bucks with some information. Not that she ever had any offers for much else.

  Besides, she was exhausted, so much that she lost track of Ivy League's trail twice. She only needed a couple hours and it was killing her to stew that long. But she knew from experi­ence that exhaustion bred dangerous mistakes. ,

  And she couldn't afford even one.

  Or someone else would end up like Cole—with a twelve inch razor thin stiletto shoved through their heart.

  Beneath a canopy of trees, Victoria sat huddled behind rocks and shrubery, studying the town—a town that wasn't on her

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  maps. A large town that shouldn't be here. That there were no telephone lines, electrical cables or even a satellite dish was one thing, but not a car or truck moved through the city. Every­one mobile was either walking, on horseback or in buggies or wagons. No choppers swarmed overhead, no police rode across the terrain in land rovers. It made her nervous, since they should have caught up with her hours ago. It was just too quiet.

  Frowning, she slumped back against the rock, winding a lock of hair around her finger and sifting through her opti
ons, formulating a plan. If Ivy League came this way, which she was nearly certain he did, he either stopped there, or skirted the town and kept running. But he was wounded. And likely thought that if there were no phones, he could get help without alerting the authorities. She doubted that cellular phones would work out here.

  He was counting on that, and if he was smart, he'd keep moving. Ivy League was lethal, cunning, and likely feeling feverish and in desperate need of a transfusion. She'd have to see if there was a doctor in this town first. At sundown. Less conspicuous. Less people. Got to keep a low profile. Very low. Sighing, she scrubbed her hands over her face, then raked her hair back. It would take at least an hour to prepare herself, maybe more, if it got dark quickly. And she couldn't afford to use her flashlight or make a campfire, not if he was near and had doubled back to get her. It's happened before, and she wasn't going to suffer the price of underestimating this creep. She'd done it once already.

  Damn you, Cole. Always got to play the hero, huh? Her eyes burned, her throat tightening like a clenched fist. She was going to miss the hell out of that man. Swallowing repeatedly, she fought off waves of grief, tears lurking just below the surface and scrounged in her back pack for a cigarette. Finding a crushed pack, she slid the slim filter between her lips, flicked her Bic and drew, inhaling deeply.

  Cole hated that she smoked, even though it was only when she was upset. Another resolution down the crapper, she thought, yet still dragged the smoke into her lungs. Only had

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  a few left anyway, and as she glanced over the rock at the city, she had a feeling the last thing she was going to find in that town was a fresh pack of Virginia Slims.

  Christopher stepped into the coolness of his office, his gaze going to the sullen cowboy sitting on the edge of a cot, fiddling with his wedding ring. Serves him right, he thought, shutting the door with enough force to get his attention. The young rancher leapt to his feet, nearly over turning the cot and gripping the bars.

  "Did you see her, Marshal?" He dragged his hat from his head. "Did you talk to Millie?"

  Chris eyed him for a moment, recognizing eagerness and a healthy dose of regret. "She was more worried about your safety than anything."

  "She said that?"

  Chris tossed the keys to Noble. "Let him out," he ordered, then moved behind his desk, taking a holstered gun from the rack. He faced the young rancher. "Talk to her next time, Boyd, instead of heading to the nearest saloon and busting up the furniture.''

  "Yes, sir." Boyd accepted his gun belt, strapping it on, then waited for the marshal's permission to leave. Chris inclined his head toward the window. Boyd followed the direction of his gaze, his face lighting up at the sight of the young woman perched on the wagon seat, then just as quickly it wilted as he jammed on his hat.

  He strode slowly out the door, closing it behind him and Chris remained where he was, watching as their eyes met and she tilted her head. He said something to her, and she responded with a subtle nod. Boyd rushed to the side of the wagon, gripping the sides and staring up at his wife with the adoration of a man deeply in love. She touched his cheek, tears in her eyes, and Chris didn't doubt she assured her husband of her love, because the cowboy smiled, dragging her from the wagon

  DANGEROUS WATERS

  and into his arms. Unashamed, they kissed and kept kissing

  until a passerby startled them.

  Only after they were nothing more than a cloud of dust in

  the evening light did Chris realize he hadn't moved from the

  spot near the cell.

  "Shoulda let him stew overnight," Noble said, returning to

  his seat behind his desk across from the marshal's. A flick of

  his wrist sent the ringed keys spinning through the air to hook

  on a peg.

  "He's in love and hurt that she was upset enough with him to tell him not to come home, that's all."

  "You sure as hell know a lot about marriage and kids for a fella who ain't got neither."

  Chris stiffened, his hooded gaze slicing to Noble. "Your point?"

  "Damnation, I'da never married Willow, or Red Elk, or Little River, if I waited 'round in this town."

  "I could remind you that you met those women while you were a prisoner of their fathers," he said, ignoring the hint. "And you outlived all three of them." Which meant Noble was as alone as his boss.

  But the grizzly man only sighed pleasantly, his big chest rumbling with quiet laughter. "Least they died with a smile on their faces."

  Chris shook his head, his lips curving in a rare smile. Noble never held onto to vengeance, grief or love. He simply let it pass and went on. Chris supposed living in the Utah mountains virtually alone since he was a kid had a lot to do with it, for emotion would eat you alive if that's all you had for company. Sighing, Chris was just lowering himself into his chair when the door banged open, a child of no more than eight skidding to a halt inside.

  "Got trouble, Marshal."

  Cursing softly, Chris left the office, swinging up onto his horse's back and heading in the direction the boy pointed. The Pearl. Even as he rode, he could see three miners facing off with one man and the entire episode was over in seconds. The

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  loner, unarmed from what he could see, simply waited for the first to approach like a man courting death. A red-headed cow­boy swayed before he charged the loner. Loner stepped out of the way, slapping a hand to Red's back and sending him flying past, skidding down the street on his face. No sooner than Red landed in the dirt, a brown haired man hopped on the loner's back. Loner grabbed the hands circling his neck and the brunet howled as his opponent ducked, tossing the brunet over his shoulders and dumping him on his rear. Loner instantly spun round to face the third.

  But he didn't move. Bigger, wider and with less liquor to dull his senses, he circled the loner, shrugging his sleeves back, fists primed.

  "Them's my friends."

  "Idiots travel in packs then?" came from the loner, deep and raspy.

  Loner kept his eyes on the big one, yet his right foot snapped out, as high as his shoulder to connect with the brunet's face, who was about to blind side him. The big guy charged like an enraged bull, drawing back to swing, but the loner blocked it with his forearm, landing a solid punch to Big's gut, a left to his jaw, then spinning around, his leg flying out and contacting with Big's face. As Chris approached, the big man hovered on the edge of consciousness, then dropped like a wet feed sack to the ground.

  The brunet was on his feet, prepared for a second chance. A pistol hammer clicked. "That's enough, boys," came with deadly calm.

  The three left standing turned to face the marshal, two swear­ing and groping for their hats. The loner didn't even look winded.

  "He started it," the redhead said, pointing to the loner. "He was walkin' inta town, real suspicious like. Hanging back in the dark, over yonder at the mercantile, like he was studying the place."

  "And he ain't got no horse," came from the brunet. "What kinda man ain't got a horse?"

  "Ever think it might have gone lame, or shot out beneath him?" The red and brunet men flushed, looking sheepish, yet as defiant as they could muster being bruised and bloody and covered with dirt. Chris dismounted, his gun aimed as he strode forward to check on the big man. He grabbed a handful of hair, lifted his head and scowled at the blood and teeth pouring out the man's mouth. He looked up at the loner and Victoria stared into the compelling eyes of her Indian.

  So much for a low profile.

  "Who are you?" he demanded.

  Her gaze dropped briefly to the huge gun he leveled at her chest. "Mason." It should have been her first clue—the gun, and the signs posted near the bar door, Firearms prohibited inside the city limits. Or the lack of mechanization. Everything about this place blared like a broken siren. Nothing was right, not in the
way she knew it.

  "You going to tell me what happen? The part I didn't see, I mean."

  Victoria tugged her cowboy hat down and clamped her lips shut, not offering a response. Her wisest tactic would be to listen and observe first, then talk. These yokal's attacked without provocation, and she was furious that they'd forced her to defend herself when she wanted nothing more than to slip into this bizarre town without notice. But her presence stirred up more suspicion than it ought, and she suspected Ivy League was the cause. If he was around, he'd be easy for the people here to recall, since a stranger caused this much commotion. And she was fairly certain he wasn't lying dead around here anywhere. She'd checked the circumference of the town as much as she could before showing herself.

  The long trek made her wish she had a horse.

  For there wasn't a car or truck or a gas pump, not to mention a paved road or even a train station around. But there was a coach station, an actual pulled-by-horses stage coach. Talk about backward and isolated. And she considered that this town could be like a tourist town, where it was their job to re-enact the past, down to the last 'detail. Just like a western movie set,

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  she thought and half expected Sam Elliot to come sauntering around the corner with his Sackett brothers.