Dangerous Waters

by Amy J. Fetzer

  "Any relation to Jake, over at the livery?"

  Victoria fumed, gathering up her parcels and addressing the store keeper. ' 'Mrs. Fotheringham asked that you put this on her credit account."

  The storekeeper nodded, and beyond him, she noticed the other women in the shop staring at Chris with a mix of fear and fascination.

  "Would you care for some assistance?" Chris offered.

  "Thank you, but no. I'm quiet capable."

  His expression fell a little, his smile appearing forced as he tipped his hat and left.

  Victoria bumped the counter, unaware that his closeness affected her so much until he was gone. Her heart beat pushed against her throat, the fabric of her blouse suddenly too tight in several places.

  "Oh dearie, are you all right?" a woman rushed over, patting her shoulder.

  "Imagine him, talking to you!"

  "How dare he!" came another voice.

  She blinked, her gaze passing over the bonnet-tucked and bustle-bunched women.

  "How dare he what?"

  "Why, speak to you like that? So intimately," came on a stage whisper.

  Okay, she thought, morals were high in 1872, but this was ridiculous.

  "What's so bad about it?"

  They huffed like disturbed hens.

  "Didn't you know? Why, he's a savage!"

  Victoria turned her gaze to the window, watching Christo­pher's determined stride, his incredible behind tucked in snug jeans and she wanted to know just how savage he could be, then realized they meant his heritage.

  "I am aware of it." She met their inquiring gazes. "And I don't see a problem."

  "You must not be from around here, ma'am." This, from the shopkeeper. "Indians is nothing but trouble."

  "But he's the marshal."

  They responded with a collective shrug.

  "Oh, I see," came with a icy bite. "He can uphold the law and keep peace, even die defending your personal safety and your property, but because of his bloodlines, he isn't good enough to be accepted as one of you?"

  They examined the floor boards, the air gone out of their indignation.

  ' 'Lucky man."

  A half dozen pairs of eyes jerked up, and Victoria's expres­sion turned thoughtful as she addressed a redhead with green eyes. "You're Irish?" Redhead nodded. "A Mick." Redhead gasped, glancing at her friends for support, but Victoria went on without mercy. "And you, I'd say English and maybe Scots." The pale skinned woman nodded, frightened by what would come next. "A limey and a pinch-penny."

  Feathers ruffled, wings flapping. "How dare—"

  "I'm fat and scarred," she interrupted. "What do I care?" Victoria shifted her packages, giving them the once over. "Doesn't feel good to have people look negatively at your heritage and not consider the person, huh?" She headed to the door^pausing on the threshold to glance back over her shoulder. "And I don't have to be from around here to know not one of you purists can count your own lineage as far back as he can."

  Victoria left, fury stinging through her so hard she didn't see the tall barrel-chested man slip from behind a rack of rifles,

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  watching her through the store window as she moved down the walk. His face pressed the glass, eyes straining, he smiled. But as Victoria stepped off the walk into the street, she fought down her scathing temper, wanting to tear those preju­diced narrow-minded whiners to shreds, yet too aware that it wasn't in her power to change centuries of lousy upbringing. But God it felt good to get in those shots! And she didn't know what made her angrier, the corset-laced toads or the man she defended. She'd just made enemies and stirred up gossip, but the eruption was hot and fast and blessedly easy. She didn't like what he made her feel, like a part of something. She couldn't be, not here in this time, not with Becket on the loose. Damn. Damn, damn! This was getting too personal.

  Catching herself before she sharpened her tongue on some unsuspecting bystander, she took a deep breath, striding slowly into the Hotel Excelsior and offering the supplies to the man­ager. Immediately, she went back to her duties, the side trip more of a surveillance tactic than a favor. The hotel was three floors with twenty rooms and she thanked God her portion was the first and second floor. The steep steps in full 19th century female battle gear—bustles and petticoats and corsets and just too much crap—put StairMaster to shame and each bed she changed looked more inviting by the minute. Even though a small room at the back of the hotel on the ground floor came with the job, she hadn't slept in the narrow bed once and she was exhausted, having stretched herself thin. But she needed the money. She couldn't maintain the charade wearing the same clothes every day and not be noticed by the wrong people, Ivy League included. Besides, washing wasn't a twenty minute task here. Wishing she could find a job that gave her*access to the saloon, yet knowing the only position that paid well required her to lay flat on her back, Victoria dismissed that consideration and conceded that other than a teacher, housekeeping was all she could do here, as a woman, without references or suspicion. But becoming Jake again didn't sound so inviting. She rapped on a numbered door, called out, then opened the

  lock with her master key. The odor hit her first and she caught her breath, forcing herself not to vomit. The room was in absolute shambles, curtains torn, crockery smashed, the con­tents of an up-ended chamber pot soaking the carpet, and she groaned, sagging against the door, her chance of an early get­away for some sleep vanishing beneath the food littering the floor and redecorating the walls. Looks like a rock band parried here. Now she'd have to go straight to the stable and change, replace her face and perform her duties there while watching over Ivy League.

  She caught one of the servants delivering a service of coffee and gestured to the room. "Who stayed here?"

  The boy shrugged, then stared horrified at the destruction. "Some real tall skinny fella, sniffed a lot."

  "Sniffed?"

  "Yeah, like he had a cold. Did this." Demonstrated by pinching his nose several times and Victoria frowned.

  "Tell Mrs. Fotheringham about this. I'll be awhile."

  "Want me to bring up some hot water and buckets, Miss Murphy?"

  She smiled at the offer. He was a cute kid, about thirteen, and at least he wasn't offended by her scars.

  "Thanks, pal."

  He nodded, heading off down the hall and Victoria went about the room, searching for a clue. And when she found who did this, she'd dump him in the nearest sty—where he belonged.

  Chris stared across the horse's back, waiting for her to lift her gaze from her currying. She knew he was here. Hell, there wasn't much she missed.

  "I like Clara better."

  ' "That so?'' Her voice was Jake's voice, like a scuffle through gravel. "Perhaps you should go tell her yer smitten?"

  She wasn't giving him an inch today, or yesterday or the day before. He walked around the animal to face her.

  "Why, Vi—?"

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  Her gaze flew to his, knifing off his words. She glanced around her, releasing a breath only when she was certain they were alone. But they wouldn't be for long.

  "If you don't quit visiting me, people are going to talk."

  "About what?"

  "That you just might be a little strange." She let her wrist go limp and pouted her lips.

  His features tightened. "Ladies aren't supposed to know about things like that.''

  Her gaze held his, briefly, before returning her attention to the horse. "Guess that proves I'm no lady, huh?"

  He caught a sadness in her tone, unsure and almost timid. Chris shook his head, certain he'd imagined it. Not this bucket of nails.

  She squatted, brushing the coat down to the hooves, and the big animal nickered softly. "You like that, don't you, baby," she murmured in a husky voice that stole through Chris like smoke, whispery and warm. It wasn't a voice she affected for her personas, but her voice, the
one he'd heard in the forest, low, throaty—utterly feminine. He went down on one knee beside her, taking the brush from her tight grip.

  She looked at him and he saw boyish features, white-blonde hair and pale ice-blue eyes behind spectacles. But beyond that, he saw her.

  "Have dinner with me?" She blinked. "What?"

  "Without this." He gestured to her disguise and couldn't hide his distaste.

  "No."

  ' 'No to dinner? Or no to the disguise?'' "I said no."

  He glanced around the darkened barn, assured of privacy before he grasped her hand. Instantly, she struggled for freedom, her eyes darting about, yet he slid the glove off and captured her hand in his.

  ' 'God, your skin is soft," he whispered and Victoria squeezed her eyes tightly shut, unable to move. There was a power in

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  his touch, she thought, reckoning, frightening. And he tor­mented her by leaning closer and she could smell him, clean, earthy. A fraction of memory flooded her mind—the forest, the feel of his body taut beneath hers, the flawlessness of his amber skin, the seething power beneath his motionless body. God. His very presence commanded, smothering sensations battling beneath her clothes and she wanted to rip off the mask and padding the very instant she gazed into his eyes. Can't you see, she wanted to shout at him, / am nothing you want, so stop looking at me like you 'II find a princess beneath the frog!

  Her hand trembled, and Chris felt it shiver over her body.

  "I'm not having dinner with you."

  "Yes," he growled. "You are."

  Her breath quickened, and for a fraction of a moment, she wanted nothing more in her life than to be the woman he imagined. It hurt to know she'd never measure up, for any man, ever. A tiny sound worked in her throat, so foreign, and Chris knew she was weakening.

  "Or I'll reveal your impersonation."

  "Bastard." She hissed softly and angrily as she twisted from his grasp. He was luring her into revealing her purpose. She should have known better. "You have no idea what you'll be jeopardizing."

  She was spitting mad, he realized suddenly, as she straight­ened, grabbing back her glove and pulling it on. He stood. The curry brush was still in her other hand.

  And if her posture was any indication, she was going to throw it at him any second.

  "What am I jeopardizing?"

  "My life!" She thumped her chest.

  His brows drew tight. "Who's trying to hurt you?"

  "No one, if you keep out of it!" Her feet shifted in the hay. "Christ, do you think this is a game?" She waved to her clothes. "That you can blackmail me and I'll just take it?"

  ' 'No, goddammit, but is it— " he lowered his voice suddenly, realizing he was close to shouting. "Is it too much to ask for an explanation?"

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  "Yes! That I'd go to this extreme ought to give you a clue, Marshal''

  "Woman," he said for her ears alone. "I haven't got one about you."

  She stared at him, yanking the curry brush off her fist and somewhere in the recesses of the massive barn she heard foot­steps, a door close, hooves stomping.

  "You aren't going to butt out of my business and leave me alone, are you?" her voice stole across the short distance like a whisper of dry wind.

  Slowly, he shook his head, his look saying the situation was too interesting.

  She sighed, her arms loose at her sides as she stared over the horse's broad gleaming back. He stood to the left of her, close. She was messing with history, his history, but the need, dormant, yet now stirring to life wanted to know this man, wanted to spend even a few moments with him.

  "I'll meet you at Duckett's in an hour."

  His handsome face split into a wide grin. She didn't have to see it to feel it.

  And she knew her next words would destroy it.

  "Jake will."

  His dark eyes flashed with irritation, like shaved onyx against moonlight.

  "Take it or I'll go so deep under, you'll never see me again." She didn't have a choice.

  Chris gazed at her for a long moment, a voice inside him warning him not to let this extraordinary woman get away, that when she wanted, she would vanish.

  He couldn't let her go. He'd never felt so drawn to anyone before.

  Not even Camille made him feel this wild brand of excite­ment.

  And he was going to marry her.

  Chapter Eight

  Duckett' s was cheap and hearty in the way of food, and what it lacked in decor, it made up for it in comfort. Several tables lined an open veranda facing the street, the cool breeze sliding off the mountains offering a relaxing atmosphere to the small restaurant. The assortment of patrons were the working class, cowboys mostly, the local laundresses, postmaster, dairymen, and an abundance of weary miners hungry enough to leave their claims. No one was turned away if they had money and even some who didn't. Not from Sat Duckett's kitchen. Chris enjoyed the sotitude of the veranda's corner and one of Sal's best ribeye steaks. He shoved a forkful of meat into his mouth and glanced at his dinner partner. He'd plied her with questions, and she stoically refused to answer. It was an uncomfortably silent evening, except for her drilling him about Lucky, his whereabouts and how come even his Cheyenne senses couldn't find the boy. She made him feel negligent, and he regretted forcing her into this. She'd agreed only to appease him, but he wasn't backing down, either. One way or another, he'd get her to confess why she needed to look like a man. "Hey, Marshal."

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  Chris looked up from his plate as Velvet Knight sauntered over to him, her full dark red skirts rustling and drawing an eager look from every man in the room.

  "Evening, Vel."

  Chris rose from his chair, as did the man opposite him and Velvet smiled at the gesture. Marshal Swift was always a gentle­man, even to a whore.

  * 'Set that cute bee-hind down, mister,'' she drawled, a south­eastern twange to her accent.

  "Velvet," he scolded, smiling, ignoring Victoria's snicker as he offered Vel a chair. "Take a load off."

  "And ain't it a big one," she chuckled meatily, settling her bulk into the seat. ' 'Got the night off from keeping the city safe?"

  "No, but I'd ask the same of you."

  Cutting her steak, Victoria watched covertly as he leaned back in the chair, propping his arm on the back and giving the cathouse madam his attention.

  ' 'Nah, just a break.'' She waved off a waitress before the tired girl got to the table. "Mister Becket's a real caring man."

  Victoria's eyes sharpened on her, and though Vel didn't notice, Chris did.

  "Like him, do you?"

  She seemed to struggle with her next words, then finally said. "Yeah. Had the Doc check out all the girls, makes 'em use skins, though most of the customers whine, and he watches my girls close."

  That bothers her, Victoria thought. "If he had the notion, I 'spect he'd stand over 'em to be certain they was having a good time." She chuckled to her­self. "Not that it would matter none to the boys lookin' for a piece." Her attention slid to the young man and Velvet gave him a bold once over, even leaning out to inspect his hardware. She flashed an impatient look at the marshal. "Gonna introduce me?" Chris could hardly contain his amusement. "Ah, umm,

  DANGEROUS WATERS

  Jake—?" He met Victoria's gaze, not knowing which last name she used.

  "Farrell, ma'am." Victoria nodded to the redhead, shoving the wire rimmed spectacles up her face and maintaining a shyness that didn't invite questions.

  "Velvet Knight." Vel's carefully pencil-arched brows knit­ted. "I've seen you before."

  "Maybe." Victoria stared at her plate and forked a chunk of potato, eating. She knew who Velvet was the instant she walked to the table, yet she'd hoped her visit to the saloon had gone unnoticed.

  "In the Pearl."

  Victoria's gaze shifted upward to Chris, then the voluptuous woman. "Yes'm," she said around the food
. Thinking before she spoke made her appear a bit slow-witted, but she didn't care. Slow was better than dead. And she was suddenly glad she'd been a John Wayne fan as a kid and made a convincing cowboy.

  ' 'Well, when you come into the Pearl, ask for me. Any friend of the marshal is, well—" her smile widened,"—a good lay for me."

  Victoria sputtered, grabbing her glass of milk and drained back the food threatening to choke her.

  "I like 'em shy," Vel whispered, reaching under the table to squeeze Jake's thigh, her hand running higher.

  Victoria plunked the glass down and shifted out of Vel's grasp, but the woman wasn't offended, glancing at Chris, who was struggling to keep his laughter under control, then shrug­ging her bare shoulder.

  "Eat up, honey," she whispered silkily. "Need lots of energy to keep up with me." The young man was devoutly more interested in his meal than sex, Vel thought, turning to the handsome marshal and leaning forward, availing him with an unobstructed view of her bosom, which she hoped was spilling from the low cut red satin dress.

  And he looked, bless him, lavishing her with his dark fathom­less eyes.

  SS Amy J, Fetzer

  Victoria grit her teeth. Hookers were so obvious. "Found out who killed that sweet Kelly Galloway yet?" Pulling his gaze from Victoria's, Chris features sharpened a little. He was trying to keep it quiet until he uncovered more evidence. And word around town was accident, not murder. "How did you know about that?"

  Her smile was soft and sexy. "When a man wants a tussle, he'll tell a girl just about anything." "My deputies?"

  "Nah," she waved. "They know you'd likely kill 'em." Her expression turned sad. "Sean Galloway was in the Pearl, drinking up a storm, itchin' to beat the hide off of anyone who'd tangle with him. Lucky no one would," she told him, frowning briefly at Jake, then looking at Chris.

  "You'll let me know if you hear something?" Chris said, his voice low, almost intimate.

  Victoria felt her jaw would snap any second. Did his eyes have to keep straying to those plump breasts? Velvet might be a large woman, but she was undeniably beautiful, with her light red hair, green eyes bright with humor and fire, and a lush rubinesque figure like an hour-glass. She was a real woman, generous where it counted, so obvious with the stares her pres­ence garnered. Her face wasn't garishly painted, but soft and enhancing, her hair swept high and curled meticulously. Rubies and diamonds sparkled from around her peaches-and-cream throat and wrists. Gifts from satisfied lovers? Was Chris one of them? She looked more like a queen than a madame, and Victoria decided that if she didn't have to hide behind Jake, and the object of Vel's immediate lust, they might have been friends.