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circling over the same area so hard she was going to wear the wood into a gulley.
He cleared his throat.
"Yes?" She kept scrubbing, not looking up.
"Victoria."
She stilled for a moment. "Go away, Marshal. I'm busy." Her brush scoured.
"We need to talk."
"You said quite enough the other day."
He winced, dragging his hat from his head. "I wanted to apolo—"
"Don't!" She scrambled to her feet, tossing the bristle brush into the bucket. Water splashed the floor as she faced him. "Don't say what you don't mean just because you think my feelings are hurt. Well, they aren't. I've been called a lot worse by people who know me a hell of a lot better. I know what I am exactly, and I don't give a crap what you or anyone else thinks. I have a job to do and nothing more. Get that? Nothing more,''
Her tone set an axe to the words, severing anything they might have shared. And Chris hated that she could be so controlled about this. Damn if he was.
' 'What's the job that threatens your life and keeps you looking like that?" He gestured to the wet drooping skirts and theatrical face.
She stared at him, hurting to look into his sympathetic eyes and for a split second thought of fending off her accidental slip by referring to this job, then decided the best way to get him gone was to disgust him into leaving.
"I'm a bounty hunter, Marshal." She let that sink in before she added, "And it comes as natural as breathing."
She wasn't the student, he realized, but the professor. Yet there was more to it, to her background, and he didn't bother asking who she hunted. She'd never tell him, anyway. There were thousands of criminals out there with a price on their heads. But that she'd stoop to taking cash for dead outlaws speared through his gut like a belly full of rancid meat. He
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never imagined she'd be like that, deep down, but he'd just scratched the surface of who Victoria Mason really was. And if the past two days were any indication, she wouldn't let him get any further. He supposed he deserved it. No, he knew he deserved it, and as she grabbed the mop leaning against the dresser and swabbed the floor, he saw her in a different light, her movements in the past days panning out to explain themselves. Almost. She rung the string mop out in the bucket, her hands red and rough and strong as she twisted. She ignored him, and he felt the valley between them widen. A bounty hunter. He should have known.
Victoria peered at the posted advertisements, searching the want ads. She had one more mask to alter her appearance and she was determined to get a suitable job and vanish. Chris wouldn't back off as she'd hoped, showing up every day, sometimes twice, trying to talk. She didn't see the point. Her leaving was inevitable, and he'd live out his life with some rancher's daughter and have kids and a home while she returned to her century and watched Ivy League be injected with a lethal dose of drugs. She preferred seeing him hang for his murders, like they did in this century, or a firing squad, but since that wasn't possible, she'd settle for cyanide burning through his veins.
She rubbed her temple, the heat and the heavy latex making her feel as if she were suffocating. Her head throbbed, and she knew the combination with so little sleep since she'd arrived left her open to mistakes she couldn't afford.
An ad snagged her attention, and her brows shot up at the location, yet before she could read the qualifications she experienced the sensation of being watched. She cast a glance about her, her heart sliding down to her heels when she saw Chris. She felt trapped in his gaze, unreasonably vulnerable to his silent plea. / could pick him out of crowd anywhere, she thought and spun away, moving down the walk, his hasty pursuit bringing attention. The knock of his boot heels against
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wood drove into her like a mallet and she quickly slipped into the hotel, immediately hustling to the back. His heavy determined steps muffled on carpet, scraped on wood, then came to an abrupt halt. Yet she didn't look up, couldn't, as she donned her apron and took up fresh linens.
Coward.
Yet she could feel him behind her, the breeze from the open supply room door bringing the scent of his cologne straight to her head. Closing her eyes, she gripped the folded cloth, holding onto the pain of his insults and praying he'd leave her alone so she wouldn't feel anything for him. Ever again. Then the sensation vanished and she glanced back to find the doorway empty. But somehow she wasn't as relieved as she'd hoped.
"Angus needs to get his reports in sooner, and for Christ sake, teach the man to write legibly!"
"Yessir!" Noble's biting reply was lost on the marshal as the man hovered over paperwork, his elbow braced on the desk, fingers rubbing his temple as he scribble. He tossed the paper into a stack and snatched up another.
"Did Seth get back from the territorial prison yet?"
"Do you see him standing in here?"
"Just answer the question, Noble," Chris snarled. "And what the hell is taking him so long?''
"I 'spect he wanted to sleep or take a piss somewhere's between there and here."
Chris snorted. "Not until this case is closed does anybody
rest."
The door opened and a young man about twenty-five stepped in. "You're late for your shift. Go relieve Tomas before the man dies, of hunger."
The deputy backed out of the office so fast he stumbled.
Noble made a sound of disgust. "I'm 'bout sick 'a you barking at me and everyone else around here!"
Chris's head jerked up, his dark eyes narrowing to mere slits.
Noble brushed the silent warning aside and spoke his mind.
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"1 don't know what the hell's got you so snippy, but you're gonna find yourself without a staff dang soon. Either go get yourself laid or shut the hell up!"
Only Noble could speak to him like that and still keep his teeth, he thought. For about two seconds, Chris considered riding over to Angela's, then dismissed it. It wasn't Angela he wanted. But Victoria wouldn't give him the time of day. Hell, she wouldn't even look at him.
"Go home, Chris," came in a friendlier tone.
Chris rubbed his hands over his face, then shoved back the hair falling over his eyes.
"When's the last time you slept good?"
Before J met her, Chris thought. Tossing the pencil on the desk, he leaned back in the leather chair, the springs creaking as he laced his fingers and tucked them behind his head.
'That long, huh?"
"Yeah." He flexed his shoulders and glanced around. "This place looks like a bunk house."
"I got someone coming to clean it, so go home and pester Abigale."
Chris lowered his arms, rubbing his hand over his stomach as it growled with hunger. Maybe that's what he needed. The solitude of his house and Abigale's cooking.
Leaving the chair and snatching his hat off the peg, Chris headed for the door, his mouth watering at the thought of Abby's Thursday night apple cobbler. A soft rap rattled the door and he waved off Noble, pushing it open.
Chris swallowed. Victoria stood there. Or rather Clara,
dowdy and scarred and immediately dropping her gaze to the
floor. f
Chris clenched his fists, itching to say something to her, itching to rip the mask and wig off, and she finally lifted her gaze, pounding him into jerky with her withering stare. There was hurt in her eyes that even the strange glass couldn't hide and he felt like an even bigger cad.
Noble frowned, his gaze dancing between the two. He squinted at Clara as Chris stepped back and allowed her to
enter. Their bodies brushed and she inhaled, but Chris didn't move, wedged in the doorway with her.
"Excuse me," she muttered and forced her way past.
Chris nodded to Noble, who was staring at Victoria with the strangest smile
on his face, then left.
Victoria lifted her gaze and smiled with the appropriate amount of shyness. Noble was an intimidating man, rough but with a gentle humor wrinkling around his eyes.
"What would you like me to do, Mister Beecham?"
"Just make this place look like men ain't the only ones comin' through here." She nodded. "And call me Noble. Ain't never had enough stiff in my starch for Mister," he said as he returned to his desk, rummaging through a stack of papers— messages to the circuit judge, official warrants and the lawyers writ after the marshal closed down the Flat Pick and their lawyer seized all files. But they forgot one thing—the marshal was a trial lawyer, too. And a danged lonely one, Noble thought as Clara swept around him, collected trash, washed out the cells and even left flowers floating in a cracked bowl of water on the stove.
"It will get rid of the staleness in here," she said when he asked and he nodded approvingly.
Pushing her spectacles up her nose, she scratched the inside of her arm and looked for a chore undone. Noble's features suddenly pulled taut, his gaze raking her as she completed her dusting. He watched a moment longer, then with an agility that startled her, he left his chair and went to the stove, pouring a cup of coffee. "Set a spell, girl, you look exhausted."
Victoria groaned, gratefully taking the coffee and chair he offered. "Thank you, Noble," she said with feeling. "I am a bit... fatigued." "I 'spect so."
"How's that?" She blew on the liquid before taking a sip. "I mean with you tryin' to be Vic Mason, Jake Farrell and Clara Murphy all in one week."
Victoria sputtered, then quickly caught the drip of coffee trickling down the side of her mouth.
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"Why whatever do you mean?" She hoped she sounded like an indignant spinster.
He leaned closer, grinning a huge self-satisfied smile and she noticed he had a gold tooth. His eyes slipped over her before he caught her wrist, examining the watch. Victoria wrestled her arm free.
Noble sat back, sucked his teeth and studied her. "I don't know how you do it, but I know it's you, Jake."
"I beg your pardon?"
He chuckled, a rumble of warm thunder, his barrel chest shaking like Santa on Christmas. "Aside the specs and the way you scratch yer arm now and then—"
Her Norplant, she realized.
"The height and walk did it. I didn't outlive three wives not to be able to spot a woman tryin' to pass as a man, darlin'."
"Three wives?"
He folded his hands on the desk. "Ah-uh," He shook his head. "You ain't goin' nowhere, nor are you changin' the subject."
Victoria felt cornered by a bear and stared unblinking into his eyes. But when his moustached mouth spilt into a wide grin, she gave up and sighed, resolute.
There was always one in the crowd she couldn't fool. No matter how hard she tried. She'd been so intent on Ivy League and avoiding Chris, that she forgot about the watch, the spectacles. God, the history she was screwing with, being here, was unimaginable.
"He knows, huh?"
She nodded, setting the cup on the desk.
"He don't like it much, neither."
That's putting it lightly. "No. Now ask me if I care?"
He chuckled. "Don't 'spect so, since no one's seen you as anything but," he waved at her face, "this."
She leaned forward. "Can I trust you to keep this to yourself?"
This means a lot to her, he realized. "If n you tell me why?" She groaned, sinking into the chair. Here I go again. She
could have said she was a method actress, researching a role, but she didn't take Noble Beecham to be as dumb as he was
big.
She told him. He didn't bat an eyelash.
But Noble understood why the marshal was in such a sour mood. Imagine a danged bounty hunter, a woman hunter, solving a crime, tying it up in a neat little bow before Chris could get his feet wet. But that twanged his strings a bit. "Now you got me real curious, little lady, as to what you look like under all that muck."
"Nothing special, Mister Beecham," she said dispiritedly, looking at her lap. "Trust me."
If it wasn't special, Noble thought, then Christopher Swift wouldn't be tearing his hair out over you.
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Chapter Twelve
The kid gave her a do-you-really-think-that's-going-to-help look as his gaze swept her cream-covered face. She smiled benignly, touched her towel-wrapped head and stood by the door, half shielded by the wood as he dragged the copper tub from her darkened room, the metered scraping drowning out his mutterings. Teenagers, Victoria thought, pressing a coin into his hand before shutting the door. She leaned back against the wood, smiling, massaging the alpha-hydrox cream into her abused skin. She didn't doubt she'd scared the pants off him when she'd answered his summons, but the dimly lit room and thick cream were necessary to hide her lack of disguise.
She needed this break, and as she crossed the room to the commode, she stripped off the heavy robe, flinging it on the bed. It felt good to be clean and free again. And wearing a man's chambray shirt, the only clean one she had left and costing a whopping thirty cents, she peered into the small mirror, wiping away the cream before dragging the towel from her head. Her hair was still damp and she toweled it dry, then snatched up her brush and let the cool evening breeze coming
through the window do the rest. Bent over at the waist, she brushed, pausing to stretch her tired muscles.
/ haven't worked this hard since boot camp.
Cleaning ten rooms of the hotel and just as many stalls in the livery had taxed every unused portion of her body.
Then it took her over an hour to bathe, wash her hair, rinse, discard the water, the tub, and she wondered how any woman managed to get a damn thing done in this century. She glanced at the door, her Clara/Jake clothes hanging on a pair of hooks to dry. She was beginning to hate the false identities and couldn't use them much longer; the masks could be removed only so many times before they lost their resilience.
You're lying to yourself, she thought, straightening, dropping her head back and dragging the brush through her hair. It was because of Christopher.
Pain streaked through her chest at the thought of him, his snarling words and, oh God, the despising look in his eyes. She swallowed repeatedly, fighting the boiiing swells of loneliness. Then, suddenly, she turned toward the tall dresser, tossing the brush onto the scarred surface and resting her elbows there. She cradled her head hi her hands, fingers sinking into her hair. Her eyes burned. Her throat tightened with misery. Rejection shouldn't hurt this much. She didn't want it to.
But it does.
And she hated him for making her feel . .. ugly.
A sob caught in her throat and she swallowed it back. Crying was for babies and spineless wimps. Blinking rapidly, she sniffled, raked her hair back and damned herself for allowing everything about that man to pierce her hide like his razor sharp arrows. It wouldn't be so bad if she didn't like him so much, respect the man he was. A chill rippled over her bare skin beneath the simple work shirt and she slapped her hand over her grfn and spun about, arms outstretched, finger hooking the trigger.
"I was wondering when those keen senses were going to notice me."
Every muscle in Victoria's body clenched. She could see the
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outline of a figure, a man, a man she'd recognize in her sleep, tucked lazily against the dark corner beyond the bed, arms folded, shoulder braced on the wall as if he'd all the time in the world.
"Move." She indicated to the right with a flick of the silver barrel and Chris pushed away from the wall, emerging out of the shadows and rounding the foot of the bed. His gaze shifted to the long naked legs exposed beneath the shirt, to the small gun she pointed at his heart, then to her incredible face. Something hot struck him square in the chest at the sight of her eyes, her
eyes, gold and black, piercing, and red from tears.
I've done this to her, he thought.
"You going to shoot me?"
"Don't tempt me." God, he looked sexy—the pig. "I thought I made myself clear.''
"Call me hard-headed."
She snorted indelicately. "Get out, Chris." It was the first time she'd said his name and she spat it like a curse.
"No." His gaze never left hers as he advanced, slowly.
"I'll shoot."
"No," he growled softly. "You won't."
"You sure?" She flipped the safety off.
"Yes." Her hands were shaking. And when he stopped before her, the cool barrel pressed to his chest, she still didn't move, and he swore she wasn't breathing.
"Go away, Chris. Please." Her voice broke and she hated
it
"There's no point in this."
"There is. And you know it."
He stared.
She stared back. f
His expression softened.
And she hardened herself against the beauty of it. "Victoria."
The heat, the determination in his dark eyes, seared and simmered through her. No man ever spoke her name like he did. As if he could taste her on his tongue, his lips.
Victoria pointed the gun to the ceiling, flipped the safety and
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tossed it on the dresser. It spun for a second, toppling a plastic bottle, then stilled, yet Chris never took his eyes off her, drinking in the simple act of seeing her without mask and paint. "You have the most incredible eyes." "Go to hell."
A raven black brow arched.
"Don't try for flattery, Marshal. I've been on the receiving end of about all I can take." "Victoria. I'm sorry."
The sincerity in his tone nearly broke her. Nearly. She looked away, staring at nothing, a cascade of honey dark hair partially shielding her face. "Fine. Good. Now go."
He took a step, and she retreated, scowling like a wary cat about to scratch. He advanced, a slow prowl, forcing her to either retreat or touch him. Then she had nowhere to go as her back pressed to the hard wall.
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