Wanted!

by JoAnn Ross

  Trace shrugged, knowing the futility of arguing with her.

  "You want to drive your own car? Or ride along with me?"

  Jessica thought how typical it was that he was offering to drive. Although Mariah had raised his consciousness level considerably concerning male-female relationships, she had the feeling that deep down, where it mattered, Trace would always be just enough of a chauvinist to feel it his duty to protect the weaker sex. Namely women. That was one of the many reasons she'd never considered marrying him.

  "I'll be fine. Really," she insisted with a frustrated laugh as he gave her a disbelieving look.

  She was not surprised when he walked her back to her car and made sure that she fastened her seat belt before he returned to his Suburban. As she followed him down the nearly deserted Lake Mary's Road to Flagstaff, fifty miles away, Jessica couldn't stop worrying about the man who had literally fallen into her life.

  Rory could hear them talking. A man and a woman. His voice quiet and deep, hers equally as hushed, but throaty, with the distinct tones of the eastern seaboard.

  Hope surged through him. He had no proof Emilie had actually been in the house when it had been set on fire. Perhaps she'd escaped, after all.

  "Trace," the woman said, "did you see that?"

  "What?"

  "He smiled."

  "You're imagining things, Jess. The doc said he'd be out like a light for hours."

  "He smiled. I saw it."

  Jess. Not Emilie. But the determination he heard in those fluid feminine tones reminded him vividly of his bride. Who were these people?

  "Hey, you." The female voice coaxed and at the same time her fingers skimmed over his forehead, brushing back his hair with a touch as soft as snowflakes. "You've slept long enough. Why don't you wake up and join the living?"

  He wanted to. Lord, how he wanted that! If for no other reason than to get out of here, wherever he was, find out what had happened to Emilie and then, if necessary, kill Clayton.

  But although he tried to raise his eyelids, he didn't have the strength. The last thing Rory felt, as he surrendered again to the darkness, was those incredibly delicate fingertips skimming so gently down the side of his face.

  The woman was still there when Rory roused again much later.

  "Oh, you're awake." Her voice was warm and pleased. He blinked, trying to focus on the face swimming in front of him. "We've been so worried."

  We? he thought, but could not say. He blinked again, getting a blurry image of concerned hazel eyes. His vision became clearer and he noticed splotches of bloodstains darkening the front of her soft, unadorned shirtwaist. His blood? Rory wondered.

  "I was shot," he remembered.

  "That's what we need to talk about," a deep masculine voice said. Rory turned his head, then wished he hadn't when a lightning bolt shot through the top of his skull.

  "Trace," the woman murmured, not bothering to hide her concern, "he's in pain."

  "Then ring the nurse," the man suggested. "We've lost enough time as it is, Jess." He turned back to Rory. "I'm Trace Callahan. And you're—"

  "Rory Mannion."

  "As sheriff of Mogollon County, I have to ask you a few questions, Mr. Mannion."

  "Mogollon County?" Rory stared up at him, as confused by the reference as he was about everything else. "Where is Mogollon County?"

  "It's in northern Arizona state," Jess offered. Rory could hear the encouragement in her voice.

  "State?" His voice sounded rough, as if it hadn't been used for a long time. "Arizona hasn't achieved statehood. It's a territory."

  There was a brief, significant silence as they stared down at him. "Do you know where you are?" the man professing to be a sheriff asked.

  "Whiskey River, Arizona Territory." He stressed the word territory.

  "And the date?"

  "November 12,1896." Emilie's birthday would have been next week, Rory thought miserably. The image of his house going up in flames shot through his pain and drug-fogged mind.

  "I'm not certain how to tell you this," Trace said, "but you're a century off the mark."

  "What?"

  "But he has the date right," Jess added as she gave him a warm smile. "It is November 12."

  Rory stared up at them disbelievingly. His mind whirled around and around, like an oak leaf caught in a whirlpool. When the effort to sort out the problem proved too difficult, he closed his eyes and drifted back into the void.

  When Rory woke again, the room was draped in purple shadows. Night had fallen, as dark and as deep as a well. His head was throbbing; he felt as if he were nursing the worst hangover of his life.

  "I'll call for the nurse," the now familiar female voice offered from the shadows as he rubbed his temple. "She'll give you something for the pain."

  "No. I don't want any more drugs." He needed his head clear in order to think things through. To figure out what had happened to him. And more importantly, what had happened to Emilie.

  "Well, aren't you the macho man." He detected both irritation and amusement in her tone. She stood up and came over to stand beside the bed and began massaging his temples. "You realize, of course, that you'll heal much faster if your body isn't having to fight all that pain."

  Her tender touch was wonderfully soothing. "What pain?"

  She sighed. "You're not exactly the most cooperative man I've ever nearly run over, and you're definitely the most stubborn."

  She was wearing that same stained shirtwaist. It was indecorously open at the neck, which offered an enticing V-shaped view of her creamy neck. The material was thin enough that Rory could easily see her breasts rise and fall when she sighed. Although the drugs had nearly worn off, her spicy scent conspired with her caressing fingers to cloud his mind.

  "You nearly ran over me?"

  "On the road outside town. But I'm not the reason you probably feel you've gone ten rounds with Mike Tyson. Someone had already shot you before I showed up."

  He had no idea who this Mike Tyson was. But he did recall when and how it had happened. "It was Jack Clayton."

  Her fingers paused for a heartbeat, then continued their comforting strokes. "Are you sure?"

  "Of course I am. He also burned down my house." The memory flashed through Rory's mind again, harsh and painful. "He's the only man in the territory mean enough to kill an innocent woman just to get to her husband."

  Her fingers stilled again. "I think we need to back up a little. This Clayton killed a woman?"

  "Not a woman." An icy fury swept over him, temporarily overriding the pain. "My wife."

  There had been times, during the low spots of his life, when along with his revolver and his loyal bay mare, pride had been Rory's only possession. He was not a man accustomed to revealing weakness. But he'd be willing to beg, if that's what it took, to find out if Emilie had managed to escape the house.

  "You have to find out what happened to her," he said. "I have to know if she died in that fire."

  Poor man, Jessica thought, concern mingled with pity. He was obviously delusional. From the head injury? she wondered. Or had he been that way before someone had shot him and dumped him onto the road to die?

  Trace had left over two hours ago. But he'd called from the historical society museum, where he had looked up November 12, 1896, in the archives.

  This stranger had either been playing the part of Rory Mannion in one of the Wild West shoot-out shows put on for tourists, or he was a nutcase who truly believed that he was an old-time marshal!, living a hundred years in the past. Whichever, he'd definitely researched his subject. Rory Mannion had indeed been shot to death—in the back—on November 12,1896. The same day his wife had died.

  "There was a fire," Jess said quietly.

  "I told you that," Rory responded impatiently.

  She nodded. Her hair, in the subdued light, gleamed copper, bronze and gold. Her eyes were sad. Rory hated the pity he saw in the hazel depths. "Emilie Mannion's body was found in the ashes."

&nb
sp; Jessica decided, just in case he truly did believe he was Rory Mannion, not to mention that the woman had been trying to get out the door, which had been bolted from the outside. When Trace had filled her in on that unsavory detail, Jessica's blood had run cold, thinking of how terrified the young bride must have been. Since she possessed her own irrational fear of fire, the idea was even more horrific.

  "I knew it." His voice sounded as if it were coming from far away and when he took his hands from his face, his eyes looked as if he'd just witnessed a glimpse of hell.

  Then, as she watched, his square jaw firmed, his eyes cleared and a coldly determined expression appeared on his face. "I'm going after him."

  When he tried to get out of the bed, Jessica immediately pushed him back down again. "You're not going anywhere," she insisted, surreptitiously pressing the call button on the side of the bed. "Doctor's orders."

  A moment later, a woman dressed in white came bustling into the room. She had the wide shoulders and burly arms of a bull rider.

  "Mr. Mannion needs something for his pain," Jessica said.

  "I figured that's what you were ringing for."

  Rory watched with concern as the nurse held up a small translucent cylinder with a lethal-looking needle on one end.

  "Don't worry, honey." Before he could utter a word of complaint, the nurse had flipped him onto his side, and pulled up the ridiculous nightshirt they'd obviously put on him while he'd been unconscious. "You'll feel better real soon."

  Although it took both women to hold him down, the hefty nurse managed to jab the needle into his buttocks.

  "That should hold him until morning," she assured Jessica with satisfaction, as Rory fought against the soft clouds that were beginning to drift back over him.

  Jessica continued to feel responsible for this man she'd literally picked up off the pavement, and didn't want to leave him. But after the nurse assured her he'd be asleep for some time, she went to the cafeteria for something to eat and a cup of coffee.

  The only thing left at this late hour were some cellophane-wrapped sandwiches and gelatin squares that looked to be the consistency of Silly Putty and were an unappetizing shade of blood red.

  She'd just sat down at one of the tables, and was unwrapping her turkey breast sandwich when one of the doctors approached from his own table across the room.

  "Feel like company?" Dr. Kevin Green asked with a friendly smile.

  As tired as she was, Jessica managed to smile back. She'd dated the orthopedic surgeon when she'd first arrived in Whiskey River and found him bright and interesting. The fact that he was also a control freak had her calling it quits after two months.

  "Have a seat." The offer was unnecessary since he'd already sat down.

  "The admitting clerk told me about your mystery man. Said something about him being dressed like an old-time sheriff."

  "Actually, a marshall." The tin badge had been pinned to the shirt the emergency room crew had cut off him.

  "Whatever." He shrugged uncaringly. "They also showed me his cool six-shooter."

  "Trace says it looks like a very expensive replica."

  "It's expensive, all right. But it's not a replica. It's a pearl-handled double action Colt .45. The same kind used by Wild Bill Hickok."

  "Really?" She had grown up in Main Line Philadelphia, making her knowledge of western lore and traditions a bit sketchy, but even Jessica realized that if the revolver in question was a genuine antique, it would be worth a great deal of money.

  "Really. Don't forget, collecting antique weapons is one of my passions. That gun is worth a very pretty penny."

  "Then he's rich." Another clue, she thought.

  "I'd imagine so." The beeper on his belt sounded. "Gotta run. I've got a patient in recovery. Another donorcycle accident." He frowned, then revealed that his true reason for coming over hadn't been for mere companionship. "Do me a favor and give the guy my card." He laid the discreet white pasteboard on the table between them. "In case he ever decides he wants to sell that sidearm."

  "I'll do that." Jessica slipped the card into her purse. Her sandwich, which turned out to be as dry as it looked, went ignored as she sipped her coffee and wondered, yet again, exactly who was lying in that hospital bed.

  2

  Rory was trapped in a world of heat and fire. He could hear Emilie's screams, but his boots were mired in quicksand and he was unable to reach her. Unable to save her as she reached out to him, pleading with her words and her remarkable morning glory eyes.

  "I'm coming, sweetheart," he yelled out, trying to be heard over the roar of the wildfire winds. But he couldn't move. It was as if he'd been turned to stone. Fingers of flames were reaching out, flicking dangerously at her skirt.

  Making matters worse was Black Jack Clayton, seated astride Rory's sweet bay mare Belle, laughing his fool head off. If the devil had a laugh, Rory thought miserably as the flames crackled and Emilie's cries intensified, it would sound like Clayton's.

  The hem of her serge skirt had caught on fire. Black Jack pursed his lips, nearly hidden by the thick black mustache, and blew. There was a rush of wind and then a horrified Rory screamed as flames engulfed his bride.

  He was drenched with sweat. And from the way he was tossing and turning, Jessica was afraid he was going to pull out his IV.

  "He's not getting any better," she said worriedly to the nurse who'd come into the room to change bottles on the intravenous drip.

  "He's not getting any worse, either."

  "But it's been three days."

  "We're doing all we can, Ms. Ingersoll." The faintly sharp edge to the nurse's tone revealed her irritation with a conversation they'd had innumerable times already. "Dr. Howard changed antibiotics last night. Hopefully the infection will respond to this new course of treatment."

  Jessica could only hope so. Although she knew that Rory Mannion wasn't her problem, that she certainly hadn't been the one who'd shot him, then dumped him on the road and left him to die, she still felt responsible for him.

  "Come on, Rory." She dipped the washcloth into the stainless steel basin of cool water, wrung it out and began moving it over his face again. His skin felt as if it were on fire. As she stroked the cooling cloth over his forehead, she was vaguely surprised it didn't sizzle. "You can beat this stupid bug."

  Beneath his closed lids, the rapid eye movement revealed he was dreaming again. From his dark muttering and periodic shouts, she suspected the dreams were far from pleasant.

  "Come on back," she coaxed as she moistened lips cracked with fever. "Believe me, it's a lot nicer here than wherever you are."

  Although his flesh was flaming, he'd begun to shiver, as if he were suddenly freezing to death. It was not the first time this had happened, and as she continued, ineffectually she feared, to soothe him, Jessica had to fight the impulse to crawl into the narrow hospital bed, wrap her arms around Rory Mannion, and hold him tight until the violent tremors ceased.

  Rory was in a tunnel, drawn to the glowing light. His pain was strangely gone, his mind calm. The soothing sense of peace and contentment that had settled over him was much like the feeling he always had after making love to Emilie, when they were lying together in the feather bed, basking in the pleasing afterglow of passion.

  The light was growing brighter. And closer. Rory hurried, anxious to reach the source. As he ran out of the dark tunnel, he found himself on the banks of a crystal stream that flowed through a sun-brightened meadow ablaze with brilliant wildflowers. On the other side of the stream stood his bride, looking more beautiful than ever in that same lacy white muslin nightdress she'd been wearing when he'd ridden off to track down Black Jack.

  "Thank God." The words came out on a rush of relieved air. Rory felt the cooling rush flow over him, like the clear blue waters flowing over the polished rocks at his feet. "I've been looking for you."

  "I know." Her smile was as beautifully warm as always. Wanting her more than ever, needing her as he never had before, Rory t
ried to overlook the uncharacteristic sorrow in her wide blue eyes.

  "And now I've found you."

  And they'd be together, Rory told himself. For all eternity. Just as they'd pledged on their wedding day.

  Wanting to touch her, to hold her in his arms, to cover those full sweet lips with kisses, Rory started to cross the creek.

  "I'm sorry, Rory, darling." She held up a hand. Amazingly, Rory found himself frozen in place. "But it's not your time."

  "My time?" What the hell had happened to his legs? "What do you mean?"

  "I'm afraid we're going to have to be apart for a little while longer."

  "No!"

  He'd already dreamed he'd lost her. Now that he'd found her, safe and sound, Rory had no intention of ever leaving her alone again. Let someone else be mar-shall, let someone else right the wrongs and keep the territory safe. Let someone else bring Jack Clayton in for trial. Because from this day forward, all that mattered to Rory was his wife. And the children they would have.

  "It's a wonderful thought, darling," she said gently, somehow seeming to read his mind. "And someday, we'll have all that. But not now."

  "Well, not right away," he agreed. They were both young. They had years before they began a family. Years they could spend loving each other.

  "Rory." She sighed and shook her head. "You're not making this easy."

  Nothing had ever been easy for Rory Mannion. Except Emilie. Front the first moment they'd met, Rory, who'd never believed in fate, had known they were destined to be together. Later, on their wedding night, Emilie had admitted to the same feelings.

  "Making what easy?" The fear he'd felt during the nightmares returned, like icy fingers clenching his heart.

  "You have to go back, darling."

  "I'm not leaving you."

  "You have to. For just a little while."

  Her tone was as soft as ever, but unbearably firm. Unable to understand why his beloved Emilie was sending him away, Rory opened his mouth to argue further, when he was yanked backward, like a calf that had just been roped. And then he was being dragged through the pitch-black tunnel in the direction he'd come, away from the warm, comforting light. Away from his Emilie.