Dangerous Waters

by Amy J. Fetzer

  Pushing through the bat wing doors, Victoria saddled up to the bar in her best cowboy walk, propped her foot on the rail and tried not to gawk.

  Too cool.

  58

  59

  DANGEROUS WATERS

  Amy J. Fetzer

  The noise was deafening, laughter and conversation beating a hum around her. Round tables filled the room, polished to a bright shine and ringed with green padded chairs. Most of which were occupied with gamblers, cowboys, and dirty miners with tiny sacks of silver dust. Smoke hung in a gray haze at eye level, fighting with the dim light of chandeliers and the gleaming gilt of the framed paintings lining the walls. A man wearing a derby and garters on his white sleeved arms played an upright piano with more excitement than necessary, and several extravagantly dressed women loomed in the back­ground, one smoothing her hand over a gambler's shoulder. He shrugged her off and she huffed indignantly and moved away, finding another tired soul to tease. There must be a whorehouse in here, too, she thought, then slid her gaze to the door marked private, then up the long staircase behind her and to the left, leading to a balcony, with several doors lining the walk. The tiny, fragile-looking blonde leaning over the rail and fanning her nearly bare breasts confirmed her suspicions.

  Victoria let her gaze slide down, wander, then come back to her hands resting on the bar. Her stomach grumbled, but she wasn't hungry enough to eat. Not that this place didn't have some decent food, if the way the miners and trail dirty cowboys lining the wood bar and steadily shoveling food in their mouths was any indication. But she didn't want to spend any more time in public than necessary and kept her head down enough to watch what was going on around her, catching most in the mirror hanging over the bar.

  The bartender finally drew himself away from a conversation

  with a plump smiling redhead and acknowledged her with a

  nod, his rag making a slow circle across the bar as he neared.

  "Beer," she murmured, slapping the coin on the wood

  counter.

  "How old are you?"

  "Old enough." The bartender chuckled, reaching beneath the bar to slide a wet one across the wood. She caught it, tilting her head back enough to meet his gaze. She waited for her change, staring at him, aware that the pale blue contacts made

  her eyes look almost white. His features tightened and Victoria heard the rattle of coins before he dumped several on the counter. She dragged them back and into her pocket, then dropped her attention to the long neck of her beer.

  She shoved the specs up her nose and drank, taking a long pull and trying not to choke on the harsh lukewarm taste. Definitely not a Coors, she thought, stealing another look at the saloon. She backed away from the bar, moving slowly, avoiding a glance at the card players. Might make them jumpy, she thought, and headed toward the piano, her ears tuned to conversation.

  Cattle thieves plagued the ranchers. Lost one man to a skir­mish.

  An acting troupe was reported heading this way.

  Doc Maclaren 's office was busted into for the second time.

  And how come the Irish were everywhere? That brought several heads around to glare at the tubby speaker.

  And what did Sam somebody-or-other think about poor Kelly Galloway?

  Damn Irish, another commented. Serves 'em right. Victoria could feel the tension mount in the room. The other woman did, too, and fled, casually, quickly.

  A solemn man at a corner table, red-eyed and drunk as hell, she decided, murmured something that brought a few customers to their feet. Victoria took a last sip of beer and plunked the half empty bottle on the nearest table, determined to get out before a brawl erupted. She was just at the bat wing doors when she heard a voice, clear and amiable.

  "Gentleman, gentleman. Relax."

  Her stomach wrenched in painful knots.

  Ivy League.

  She didn't look, waiting for more, waiting for the handsome boyish face to form in her mind, to remember the exact tone of his voice and make a match.

  "No need to get your feathers up tonight. God knows, I can't afford the damages." Chuckles melted through the mas-

  60

  Amy J. Fetzer

  sive room and Victoria's skin shifted on her body. "Drinks are on the house."

  A cheer shivered the beamed ceiling, and she forced herself to turn and look back over her shoulder.

  Her heart slammed to her knees and she gripped the winged door. She was hoping she wouldn't find him here. Hoping he'd run for the hills and died from exposure. But he was smiling, his gate dragging a little as he strolled among the patrons, tapping a walking stick and acknowledging his generosity. He was dressed in somber dark blue, refined and elegant for the times—a white shirt, string tie, brocade vest, gold watch fob— Goddamn perfect, down to the blaring sheen to his snake skin boots. His sandy brown hair was longer, combed straight back and showing off the G.Q. looks that won over eleven unsus­pecting women.

  "Congratulations on winning the Pearl," a man said from his seat at a card table, a stack of chips before him. "Never seen her look this good."

  "Thank you sincerely, Ezera." Ivy League grasped Ezera's shoulder, giving it a rough manly squeeze as he flashed that thousand dollar smile. "Then this means you'll come back and spend money so I can pay for it?"

  Smooth, she thought, like the slide of a razor against tender skin.

  The customers laughed, and Victoria wanted to put a bullet between his bright smiling blue eyes.

  Algenon Becket.

  Millionaire and murderer.

  Cole's killer.

  And he was no stranger. He was the owner of^a nineteenth century saloon.

  And responsible for the deaths of twelve innocent victims.

  Ivy League, she thought, was here to stay.

  And prey.

  Chapter Six

  The saloon suddenly wasn't big enough, the air not clean enough and Victoria shoved open the door, stepping onto the covered walk. She drew a deep breath, forcing the beer to stay where it belonged and tripped down the stairs, brushing shoulders with a pedestrian.

  "Sorry, pal," she murmured and kept going. "Too much to drink, Jake?"

  Victoria stopped in her tracks. Oh God. Not him, not now, she thought and schooled her features before cocking a glance over her shoulder. Damn, he looked good tonight, fresh, his white shirt stark against the warm bronze of his skin.

  "Nah, just stuffy in there is all?" She half turned toward

  him, shoving the specs up her nose. Did he have a date, she

  wondered, then dismissed the idea. It was none of her business.

  Chris frowned, glancing beyond to the Pearl, then back to

  Jake. He got an uneasy feeling about this kid. Like he did with

  Mason, before he knew he was a she. And he cursed the woman

  for making him so damn suspicious about every new face.

  Victoria rubbed her nose with a gloved fist and pushed her

  62

  Amy J. Fetzer

  hands into her jean pockets. "Well, I gotta git back to work," she drawled, then walked briskly toward the livery.

  "I'll walk with you," he called, forcing Jake to slow his steps. "I need Caesar." He planned to take a trip out of town and look for Mason. Knowing where she was might ease his mind. He still didn't trust her.

  Victoria yanked up the bar on the door and swung it open. "Mister O'Brian's home," she said when he frowned into the dark. Victoria moved with counted steps to the lantern. She'd tripped enough in two days not to have this place down to a science. From a dented cup she took a match and struck it to the lantern, praying she didn't singe her face off. Adjusting the flame, she walked the few feet to the second stall, catching the lamp handle on a nail.

  "Wake up, pal." She unlatched the low gate, swinging it open. "Daddy's here."

  Chris smirked, giving Jake a quelling look. He knew the townfolk took amusement in his horse, but the embarrassment meant little. Caesar had saved his hide mor
e than once. Chris clicked his tongue and Caesar swung his magnificient head around, snorted, then came over to the gate. Instead of Chris, the horse went directly to Jake.

  ' "Boy,'' Chris warned. The stallion didn't take well to anyone but him, usually greeting with a few teeth marks.

  Victoria stared blankly at the beast's black eyes, prepared for the unpredictable. Caesar stepped and nudged her shoulder. "Don't have anymore treats," she hissed.

  Christopher arched a brow and Jake looked at the hay strewn floor, scratching his arm.

  "I gave him sugar," the lad confessed. Caesar tipped Jake's hat and the young man scrambled to keep it on his head, glaring at the animal. "Go home, you brat," he said, then headed to the open door, obviously in a hurry to get rid of him. Chris clicked his tongue and Caesar followed, pausing when he did at the door.

  And Victoria thought for a moment she'd been made. "Pay Mister O'Brian in the morning, Marshal. I'm sure you're good

  63

  DANGEROUS WATERS

  for it." She didn't want him to know she still hadn't figured out the money. It all looked fake to her, like something you'd get at the Pirates of the Carribean in a fishnet sack. "Where are you sleeping, Jake?"

  Mentally she groaned, wishing he'd leave and quit playing the concerned father role so she could get to more important things, like some sleep before watching the son of a bitch across the street.

  Jake inclined her head to the back of the barn and Chris saw a bedroll and leather satchel tucked against the tack room wall. He returned his gaze to Jake. Kid's damn shy, Chris thought, counting him to be no more than nineteen or twenty with that scarcely shaven skin and shock of white blonde hair poking out in all directions from beneath the brown hat. And he needed a bath.

  "It's dangerous, even for a man."

  "I ain't afraid, if that's what you mean," she snapped, hoping she sounded like an indignant cowboy. "But I ain't gettin' any sleep standin' here being a damn door stop."

  Chris smiled, a smile that nearly knocked her back, the flash of white teeth and sparkling dark brown eyes making her heart stumble wildly, and she couldn't help but return it. But she knew he only saw a young man. "I get the message. 'Night, son."

  Victoria closed the door, dropping the heavy bar into place before taking the oil lamp with her to the back of the barn. She spend a half-hour refitting the new brake to the rig O'Brian had assigned her, then deciding nobody was going to get killed from her handiwork, she arranged some hay in an empty stall, then shook out a blanket. Dropping to the cushion, she set her wrist watch alarm for four hours. Ivy League was a control freak, that much she knew, and he'd control his saloon as well as his kills, She didn't anticipate him leaving his roust to go hunt, but he liked living on the edge, doing it with people close by, close enough to get caught. It was that above-the-law attitude that made her furious, as well as the murders.

  And as she stretched out, tugging her hat over her eyes and

  64

  Amy J. Fetzer

  sliding her tazer beneath her right thigh, she drifted off to sleep, the image of dark eyes, crinkled at the corners with an easy smile, joining her dreams.

  Victoria shifted her elbows and brought the binoculars to her eyes. From her vantage point she could see into the Pearl, the bartender sweeping up, the drunks lazing outside on the walk. Through the lens she studied each window; upper level, back stair exit as well as through the staircase, the ladies rooms, and from the look of it, business was booming and bumping. But the lower far left level captured her interest now, and she focused on the open undraped window and the interior beyond. Facing the street, the office was too visual to risk breaking in to do some heavy searching. She didn't think a second thought about doing it, if she could. Bounty hunter's had rights cops didn't.

  Not that it would matter a hell of a lot in 1872.

  She lowered the binoculars, a shiver simmering down over her spine. Since she arrived, she hadn't taken much time to consider where and when she was, who she was talking to every day. And what part of history she might be screwing up. These people are all dead in my time, this town is nothing but wood scraps and rusted metal.

  And what about Marshal Swift? Would she find him in the history books when she went back? Did he live to a ripe old age or was he shot in the street by some gunslinger refusing to give up his gun to the town policy? She didn't want to know and focused on the room.

  It was large, its interior door opening inside^the saloon, to the right and beneath the staircase, she deduced. The door marked private and likely kept the noise of the customers from disturbing his peace. Just prior to his private door was a store­room, adjacent to the south wall, the section behind the bar itself.

  Her surveillance arena was excellent.

  He was sitting in the room, alone she could only assume,

  65

  DANGEROUS WATERS

  since the light was too dim to see much beyond his figure in a chair, feet propped, a snifter cupped in his palm. Instead of a lamp, three candles rested on the table in a cluster. She watched him, a part of her Marine training recognizing how strategic a sniper shot this would be from her position. He tipped the glass, staring at the liquid, and she saw his lips move, a slick smile gracing his lips as he addressed the corner.

  He was talking to someone.

  And when a dark figure moved in front of the window to set a matching glass on the table, she realized it was the marshal.

  Immediately, she rolled away from the loft window, breath­ing deeply.

  Okay, okay. Becket isn't a criminal here. But what would the marshal be talking to him about at two in the morning?

  Her heart sank to her stomach. Was he on the take? Was he friends with Ivy League? A horrible thought occurred to her. What if he told Ivy League about her? Not that Ivy League had ever seen her face, or the masks she was using now, but if Marshal Swift mentioned finding her in the woods, near the dry fall, would Becket be alerted? Her only chance was that Becket thought he hadn't been followed, that he was free to move around at will. And get careless.

  Lifting the glasses to her eyes, she watched Becket as he doused the lamp, the moonlight offering only his shadow as he opened another door. Light sliced from the room and she deepened her focus lens. There was a woman in his bed and just as he closed the door, she wondered where she'd seen her. In the saloon, she realized, the one who'd touched the gambler. At least he wasn't too perfect, Victoria thought as the marshal appeared in the alley. Caesar trotted over and he swung up onto his back. No saddle.

  He made no effort to hide his presence.

  And she settled easier when a man approached, the star on his chest catching the moonlight. A deputy. She couldn't hear them, but Christopher was gesturing to the saloon and the drunks sleeping on the porch. The other man nodded and Chris

  66

  Amy J. Fetzer

  67

  DANGEROUS WATERS

  rode off slowly, ducking to look beneath surrey rigs and wagons, into alleys and unshaded windows.

  Making his rounds, she realized, utterly relieved.

  He was thorough and she leaned out the loft, nearly falling in her effort to see which way he went. Was he going home? To a wife?

  He had to be married. He was too handsome not to be.

  And why, a voice pestered, does that bother the hell out of you?

  Victoria was on her feet by the time the second pounding-whatever smacked the door. She ran to the far end, lifted the bar to incessant pounding and jerked open the door, prepared to rip the intruder a new asshole when she stared into the dark eyes of the marshal.

  "There's been an accident." He was breathless, sweating, his white shirt dirty. "I need Clancey's mallet and chisel." He didn't wait for the fog of sleep to lift and pushed past her to the rack of tools beyond the furnace.

  "What happened?" She rolled down her sleeves to cover her watch.

  "A kid sleeping in the back of wagon. It cut loose, rolled, and it's wedged against some r
ocks. His leg is caught."

  Before he finished she'd opened the first stall and lead a horse out, slipping on a bridle, then using the stall slates to climb on its bare back.

  "I'm coming," she told him when he scowled at her. He nodded curtly, leaving, throwing the locks before swinging onto Caesar. Chris lead the way, and all Victoria could think of was the frightened child, alone and hurt and thinking he'd been abandoned in the dark. It was a wrenching sensation.

  Chris bent over his horse's head, whispering, and the beast lurched, their wild ride stirring the still sleeping town. Hooves clattered on the only paved street and deputies called out, threat­ening to shoot before recognizing the rider. One deputy mounted up and followed behind Jake. And though Chris didn't

  think the young stablehand could be much help, he was glad for the extra pair of hands.

  They rode, passing homes and businesses until they came to the edge of town where the earth sloped into a valley. A drop off and in the dawn light Chris could see the edge of the half shattered wagon, hear the soft whimpers of the boy. He reined back, Caesar protesting at the poor treatment and Chris slid from the mount, pushing the horse aside and moving down the hill.

  Jake was behind him.

  "Jesus Christ," Jake whispered and Chris stopped, glaring at him. Their fear wouldn' t help Lucky. Then he saw it, schooled features, a hard look before he side stepped down the incline toward the wagon. Jake followed, scattering pebbles and dirt.

  "Marshal?" Lucky cried, trying to sound brave.

  "Here, son. Told you I'd be back." Chris was thanking any God who'd listen for not letting the wagon take him over the cliff. The bolder was the only thing keeping him there. Lucky was pinned beneath the debris and Chris could have pulled him out if his leg wasn't caught in the spokes of the wheel, the metal pressing down on the limb. And the cracked half of the wagon kept shifting, threatening to take rubble and child over the side of the ravine.

  Chris slid down the sharp incline, chunks of earth tumbling toward the cliff. Lucky lay head first toward the ravine and his only hope was to bend the metal back and chip away the wood, let him slip his leg out, then pull him to safety from beneath the wagon. But it was unstable.