Too real.
Except there were no tourists, or souvenir shops and it wasn't on any map. But nothing stunned her more than to see Tonto, dressed in black and wearing a badge. Or the accusing way he was glaring at her now. No, at him. She'd drastically altered her appearance, with a short dark wig, colored contacts, facial latex, makeup, and a little body padding. She looked every inch a homely young man, slightly Mexican. The thin mask glued to her skin thickened her forehead and broadened her cheeks and jaw, besides giving her the scars of acne. That made the seams easier to hide. Regardless, Tonto saw only a man. A plus, for this guy was sharp, his dark gaze assessing her too thoroughly.
But by now, the streets were filled with curious spectators, period dressed spectators, and she studied each one, searching for him, congratulating herself on blowing her plan right out of the water as two men wearing badges, pushed through the crowd. They came to the marshal's side and handed over a jangle of metal.
"Seth, take him to the Doctor," Chris said, nodding to the big one still lying in the dirt. "Angus, lock them up." The red-headed and brunet men sullenly proceeded the deputy down the street at gun point as Seth helped the big man to his feet.
Victoria made a mental note of the direction Seth headed.
"Show's over, folks," Chris said to the crowd and people shuffled back the way they came. He turned his gaze to Mason, the gun spinning on his fingers and sliding into the holster. At least he didn't wear a gun, Chris consoled, yet readied forward to remove a large knife sheathed at his waist. He could have used it and didn't. Didn't need it, he corrected, silently admiring his ability. Yet from the look of that nose, he wasn't always successful.
"Charges, Marshal?" He grabbed her gloved hands and fastened on the crudest pair of handcuffs she'd ever seen.
"Disturbing the peace, brawling in the street, and intent to do bodily harm."
"It'll never stick," she said, her stance wide, arrogant- "Self defense." She'd had to win. One punch would have torn her face off, literally.
"Not after what I saw."
Victoria met his gaze, the chain between the cuffs chinking as she smoothed the artificial moustache with a thumb and forefinger in a purely masculine gesture. Her opinion of the marshal slid into the gutter. He means business. Placate him— until you can figure out where you are.
But she'd studied this area, and this town wasn't supposed to be here. Mentally, she retraced her steps back to the fall, to her last fresh blood trail. The most outlandish thought rocketed through her brain, cut short when he barked, "Move it."
He nodded in the direction he'd come.
Hunching her shoulders, Victoria strode ahead of him, catching him murmuring something to his horse. The black stallion's big head ducked and bucked before the animal swung around and trotted down the street. There were white hand prints on the horses rump. War paint? She cast the marshal a quizzing glance, yet when he simply stared at her with the same unreadable expression she'd seen in the forest, she faced forward.
"I'm not the perp. Or has accusing strangers obliterated that small fact?" she said back over her shoulder.
"Perp?" His brows drew down, his gaze raking her before returning to her face.
"Perpetrator," she tossed with a glance. "You know, the one who commits the crime."
A black brow shot up. It was a reasonable monniker, he decided, trying to pinpoint what was familiar about this man. "Just what are you doing here, Mason?"
"Looking for work, enough to buy a ride and get lost." She gave him her back, recognizing the absence of the usual bright lights in the homes and businesses, even in a city as backward as this. And there were no street lights, only tall torches, the flame surrounded by paned beveled glass. A chill skittered over
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her shoulders and down her spine. This is not good. People whispered as she passed, doors slammed shut, locks thrown, and even a mother grabbed her child away from her. Creepy.
"You need to be lost?"
A citizen called out from his window, asking about his prisoner, but the marshal didn't respond.
She lengthened her stride. "What exactly is going on here, Marshal?"
"You. Disturbing my peace."
"I didn't throw the first punch, so don't lay that crap at my feet. Got enough of my own to deal with." Hoping to see something modern, she glanced at an undraped widow, catching a glimpse of a woman lighting an old fashioned oil lamp. Was there really no electricity at all?
"And just what is your problem, Mason?"
It took her a moment to recall what he'd asked. "I told you. I'm broke without transportation." She didn't want anyone, even the handsome marshal, to know why she was here. She didn't need his help, nor his interference. Stepping onto the porch, she paused, taking in the split rail for tying hoses and the polished wood sign set into the brick work, which read Territorial Marshal. How quaint, she thought, pushing open the door to the jail. Victoria strode directly to the double cell and pulled the heavy door closed behind her.
Chris simply stared. Noble glanced between the prisoner and the marshal.
"Oh, you might want this." She bent, removing a knife from beneath her pant leg, then tossing it through the bars. It clattered to the floor at his feet. "Wouldn't want to be accused of harming such a paragon of police work."
His features tightened, his eyes gone hard as slate, and Victoria felt a small measure of apprehension as they pierced and probed her face. She'd just made him look incompetent. Dangerous move. But there was more than false arrest going on here—a lot more. Aside from the fact that everyone acted disturbingly natural about all this, the tension in this town was sharp enough to cut steak, and her nerves yanked when he
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DANGEROUS WATERS
scooped up the knife, then flipped it back over his shoulder. The tip stuck in the wood of his desk like a pencil, vibrating for a moment before it went still. He advanced, without a sound, and with a key, unlocked the cuffs, and Victoria noticed he kept a safe distance from her, making her stretch to him as he threaded the heavy iron shackles through the bars before dumping them in a wood box with a dozen others. It was a typical police move, protective. And it magnified the idea that what she'd assumed wasn't at all what was truth.
Backing away, she turned to the small barred window, peering at the darkness lit with porch lamps. In scant seconds, she searched for signs of modernization—a false wall to the neighboring buildings, wires, an electrical outlet neatly disguised, anything remotely contemporary, but found nothing. Victoria dropped onto the cot, uneasiness creeping heavily beneath her skin. This is all too pat to be scripted. And she laid back, stretching out her legs and folding her arms beneath her head, her insides jumping uncharacteristically as the deputy who'd escorted her attackers, stepped into the office from a door adjacent to the double cell. More cells beyond the wood door, she assumed, if the barred window was any indication.
The deputy nodded to the marshal and hastened out the door and as Victoria's gaze followed his retreat, her attention caught on a poster on the wall, no bigger than a standard sheet of paper. Wanted, Dead or Alive. And the sketch of the man below resembled her, or rather her masculine counterpart. Charged with cattle rustling.
Oh, right. Like cattle were easy to stuff down your shirt and make a run for it? That she'd discovered the reason behind her arrest, which was watery at best, fell away to finally taking a decent look at the office. Bars picketed the windows, and with the exception of the cell, which was concrete, the walls were red brick, the floor thick slats of wood, slightly uneven. A pitcher and bowl sat on an antique mirrored washstand in the corner like something out of Victoria Magazine, a row of pegs above it. A book case sectioned with cubby holes and filled with bolstered guns rested beside it. Big, long-barreled pistols.
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Amy J. Fetter
DANGEROUS WATERS
40
Shit, not even Dirty Harry carried cannons that big
. Beyond the marshal's desk and against the brick wall was a heavy cabinet racked with rifles, each one tagged.
But it was the newspaper the iinebacker-sized man behind the opposite desk was reading, that grabbed her sudden interest. She rolled on her side, squinting at the headlines. Apache Wars Raging. Mahloon Loomis of Washington, D. C, awarded patent for first wireless telegraph. Has to be fake, like those places where you can get the paper printed with your personal headline. Her dad had sent her one when she'd graduated. Yet she couldn't keep her gaze from following his movements as he closed the paper and tossed it on the desk. It slid to the floor and she leaned up to glimpse the date. July 20th, 1872.
Nan. Not possible.
But a horrible sickening sensation rode through her stomach on waves of uncertainty.
What if it is?
"Gonna let 'em sleep it off."
Chris wrapped three gun belts around their holsters and shoved them in a cubby hole. "Send someone out to their homes, tell their wives, I think having to be brought home by the ear ought to do it."
Victoria leapt to her feet. "Jesus Christ, you might as well just slap their hands."
He made her wait for a response as he poured himself a glass of water. "I might," he said into the hollowness, then drank. His prisoner didn't know he arrested this threesome at least a dozen times a year when they came into town for supplies.
"Do I have to barf up a lung for you to be satisfied it was self-defense? Open this cell, Marshal." She shook the bars, unaccustomed panic destroying her usually controlled composure. "I'm not your goddamn cattle rustler." She gestured with her chin to the poster.
Chris'- gaze traveled slowly over the man's denim shirt to the gloved fists gripping the bars. He noticed the leather band circling a too-slim wrist and knew wristwatches were expensive
and had only in larger cities. Where did this man get the money for that if he didn't have enough to buy a horse? He glanced at the wanted poster, frowning before his eyes shifted to his prisoner. "Who do you work for?"
"Fat Jack Palau. Who do you work for?"
A single black brow shot up. "The U.S. Government, the people," came sarcastically.
"Well this people is doubting it." God, was she doubting it. And everything else around her. "Who's Brad Pitt?"
"How the hell should I know?" He finished off the water and turned the glass rim down.
"Who's Bullwinkle's partner?" Now that was reaching, she thought dizzily.
"Bullwinkle? Hooey, Marshal! That a new gang we ought to look out for?"
Chris slanted Noble a butt-out look, then stared at Mason. "Where'd you have a job last?"
"Dallas. I saved Kennedy." She watched his eyes for the truth, the fraction of humor or even anger. He looked only tired.
Chris combed his fingers through his hair. "Are you ever going to give me a straight answer?' *
"Are you?"
He folded his arms over his broad chest. "I'm not the one behind bars."
"A mistake and you know it," she sneered. "Remind me to cross your fair city off my travel plans in the future." She thrust away from the cell door and dropped onto the cot, stretching out and fixing her hat over her eyes.
Outwardly she appeared the profile of a lazy prisoner, inside she was running a mile a minute. Calm down, she repeated in her head. This isn't happening. There is a logical excuse for this. Isn't there?
DANGEROUS WATERS
43
Chapter Four
But there wasn't. Not sane-type logical reason, anyway. In as much as she didn't want to believe it, she was definitely in another world, another century. By way of the water fall. Chasing a killer had taken her through a rip in time, a passageway into the past—probably lying dormant til Jvy League found it. Lucky son of a bitch.
Christ.
Time-travel.
A quantum leap.
Once she let it congeal in her head, everything explained itself, easily, simply. She snickered to herself, drawing the marshal's attention. Easy, huh? Try to make bail without currency from this century, girlfriend. That she was on her own, totally, didn't bother her. She usually worked alone, yet needed to get back to the fall in a hurry, to confirm her theory, to be certain that when she caught Ivy League, she could take him back for trial. Nothing mattered, but seeing he paid for his crimes. And slowly.
An eerie calmness settled over her. / can handle this. I can.
Time-travel meant only one thing to her now. Ivy League
was free. No cops on his butt, no choppers to spot him. He was unrecognizable to anyone, except her. He could slide into this society and start all over again, and even as cute as the marshal was, she doubted he'd ever pit himself against anyone like a 20th century psychopath.
The danger was imminent, because Ivy League didn't think anyone was after him. No threat. No panic. Maybe he would take his time stalking. Maybe he'd simply walk down the street and into her possession? Fat chance, girlfriend. Since you're locked up and he's not.
The adhesive beneath the mask itched, but she didn't dare scratch or she'd come apart at the seams and really scare the hell out of everyone. For about two seconds she considered stripping it off and confiding in the marshal, then dismissed it.
If she did time travel, her being here did something to history. What exactly, she'd never know til she returned to her time. If she could. Scary thought.
Cramming her anxiousness over the possibility that she just might be permanently stuck here in 18-whatever into a corner of her mind, Victoria did what came naturally. She planned out her next moves, considering every angle, filtering through every scenario Ivy League could possible try. He'd get comfortable, be as slow and methodical as always, insinuating himself into this town, unnoticed, like he had eleven times before. Then he'd stalk. He was alive. He definitely wouldn't go back when he knew there was a three state man-hunt underway just for him. She had to find him. She was the only one who could and there were no if's about bringing him back. She sure as hell wasn't going to stick around in the 19th century.
The metal-to-metal clank startled his prisoner and he sat straight up, swung his legs off the cot and left it to face him. He was never asleep, Chris thought, twisting the key in the lock and opening the door. Mason stood back, his broad brows pulling down in question. Chris looked him over and not for
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the first time noticed the square toed work boots. Something about this man wasn't right.
"Telegraph came this morning." He inclined his head to the spot where a wanted poster had been. "Got shot in Tucson a week back."
"Why didn't you just say that's why you wanted to hold me?" Not that it would have mattered. "I don't have to."
"But I had the right to know." Did civil rights exist? Or did she? In this century?
"Not in my town, not this week."
"You either got a lot of trouble or someone's greasing your pockets, Marshal."
Chris's gaze sharpened like a razor against a whet stone.
"Not full enough, I see," she sneered. She didn't like the way this guy ran things. He kept too much of the law clenched in his fist. But what did she know about 19th century rights. "My knives."
Chris went to the desk drawer and took out the weapons. He'd examined them last night, noting the numbers on the handle, the fine workmanship. Noble, who produced some of the finest knifes in the territory, couldn't have done better and said as much when he'd seen them.
He handed them over and Mason immediately shoved them back into their perspective sheaths. "Don't go beating the tar out of my citizens," Chris warned as Mason paused at the door.
Victoria looked back at him. "Hey, if they don't fuck with me, I won't knock them into next week." He didn't blink at her harsh language and she didn't care. She was supposed to be a man and acting like one called for walking* and talking differently. Just wait until he gets a load of her bag lady get up, she thought, then left, trying to keep her pace next to normal. Sh
e was glad the town wasn't awake yet. It gave her a chance to examine it in the dawn light—the horse troughs, the stage station, a couple of drunks sleeping in the alley. It's really real. Another chill spilled over her spine. Reality check, she
DANGEROUS WATERS 45
thought as she passed the telegraph office and briefly considered trying to send one. But she didn't have any money. Not the 1872 kind. And no one she knew was alive—yet. And everyone she loved was dead.
Kelly Galloway was dead, and the last time she was seen alive, she was with a slim man with a moustache. That description and the wanted poster made Chris wary enough to hold Mason. The man might not be a cattle rustler, yet without evidence to connect him to anything else, he had to release Mason. As he stepped out of his office, Chris still couldn't shake this feeling they'd met before. He's moving fast, Chris thought, propping his shoulder against the porch post to watch his retreat. His gaze scraped across Mason's back, his straight body down to his feet. He straightened. Small feet. Even in those boots. He'd taken a half dozen steps toward him when someone called out and he stopped, twisting to see the first shift coming in on horse back. Chris flicked a glance in Mason's direction, but the street was empty and early morning quiet. It made him feel as if he'd let the wrong man walk. Turning his attention to his deputies, he decided he'd take reports and then go after Mason himself.
The emotion she'd shut down in the jail, to logic, to survival, raced out of control, reaching out to snag her by the throat as she ran as fast as she could with the thirty pound pack smacking against her back. Dirt from when she'd buried it crumbled off the nylon as she scrambled up the incline, losing the pack at the entrance and ducking inside. Her heels dragged, and she ignored the heaviness in her legs, attributing it to the dead run of better than three miles. Still in disguise, she kept her hat on and used her arm to deflect the rushing water as she leapt into her century. Her horse was still there, chomping on grass. She took off her hat and gave it a shake, sending a shimmer of water across her already soaked clothes.
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