by JoAnn Ross
"Nooo!" he screamed.
He fought against the unseen force with every atom of his being, but his struggles proved fruitless. And then he was alone again. In the cold, cold dark.
A familiar spicy scent, underlaid with a mysterious woodsy fragrance, was the first thing Rory noticed. He opened his eyes, blinking against the bright sun streaming in through the window, and looked over at a chair where a woman was sleeping.
Her clothing was absolutely indecent, he thought, taking in a soft wool shirtwaist that clung to the globes that rose and fell so seductively with her breathing. A pair of scandalously tight trousers covered her long slender legs.
When the sight of those long legs stirred erotic thoughts, Rory dragged his gaze upward to her face, which was framed by a sleek tawny fall of shoulder-length hair. Her full unpainted lips were parted slightly in an unconsciously seductive way that made him almost feel guilty for studying her while she was unaware and defenseless.
The sensual picture she made reminded him painfully of Emilie. It was just the sort of image she had delighted in capturing. While her father had achieved fame with his photographs of cavalry battlefield scenes and the brawny working men who were building the West, Emilie had concentrated her talents on depictions of everyday life. She'd begun taking photographs of women doing daily chores—washing, baking, bathing children.
That had led to photographs of women in the boudoir. Those unabashedly honest scenes of women in various states of dishabille, attending to their toilette, had won her a vast legion of admirers who compared her photographs to the art of Manet and Mary Cassatt.
Unfortunately, not everyone was enamored of those painters who'd been all the rage among art aficionados for the last decade. Indeed, Rory had first met the woman who would become his wife when he'd arrived at the Whiskey River opera house where several of her photographs were on display. A coalition of women representing the Whiskey River Morality League had filed a complaint, charging her with lewd and indecent conduct.
He'd studied the admittedly erotic photographs, but he hadn't found them lewd. Neither had he found their creator indecent.
On the contrary, she was delightful.
The first minute he'd seen her, standing in the middle of a circle of male admirers, Rory had felt as if his heart had stopped. When he'd heard her voice, he'd felt as if music had slipped beneath his skin. And when he'd looked down into those fathomless blue eyes, he'd known he was lost.
Rory groaned at the bleakness of a life without his Emilie.
The ragged sound roused Jessica. She rubbed the back of her neck which was stiff from her contorted sleeping position and unfolded her body from the chair which she was convinced had been designed by the Marquis de Sade.
"Finally." She stood up and smiled down at him. "Welcome back to the world of the living. Do you have any idea how worried I've been these past few days?"
The shadows beneath her eyes, suggesting a lack of sleep, backed up her words. She brushed his hair away from his forehead with a casual touch that was strangely familiar.
Their eyes met. And held. A flicker of distant recognition stirred in Rory, only to be banished by a harsh male voice.
"Dammit, Jess." Trace's voice, coming from the doorway, was edged with male aggravation. "Don't you ever go home?"
Since she'd been hearing the same complaint for days, Jessica didn't answer. "Our patient seems much better today," she announced.
"I'm glad to hear that." Trace's gaze flicked over her critically. "You, on the other hand, look like hell."
"Thank you. He's always been such a flatterer," she told Rory, Her hair, gleaming in the morning sunshine, reminded Rory of autumn leaves. But before he could think of the words to assure her that he found her lovely, the man took control of the conversation.
"In case you've forgotten, my name is Trace Callahan. Since you're obviously feeling better, I need to ask you a few more questions."
"First we need to call the doctor," Jessica said.
Trace frowned. "Jess…" he warned.
"You can question him later. Right now, he needs a doctor." That said, she left the room.
Trace cursed as he watched her go, then turned to Rory. "While we're waiting," he said, "we may as well get started, Mr..."
"Mannion," Rory answered, believing he'd already told the man his name. But perhaps he hadn't. The painful nightmares he'd suffered had melded so incomprehensibly with fact, Rory was no longer certain what was real and what was merely a product of his fevered mind. "Rory Mannion. I'm Arizona territorial marshall."
"Is that right?" Trace's tone remained absolutely agreeable, but Rory sensed that for some reason he didn't believe it.
Which didn't make any sense, since his accepting the job had made news throughout the territory. He hadn't been the first gunslinger to end up on the other side of the badge, but he had been one of the more famous. Or, infamous, he allowed, depending on your point of view.
Trace pulled a notebook and something Rory didn't recognize from his shirt pocket. "Mannion. That's with two Ns?"
"Yes." Rory spelled both his first and last names. He watched, fascinated by the strange, slender pen that appeared to hold its own ink supply.
"Are you the same Rory Mannion who killed three of the Gantry gang in that gunfight in Prescott?"
"Earl Gantry drew first," Rory said. "The others were set to ambush me."
"So I read." Trace's gaze, beneath the brim of his fawn Stetson, was shuttered as he looked down at Rory. "I hear you believe your wife has been murdered?"
Before he could answer, Jessica returned, the doctor in tow. All conversation ceased while the white-jacketed man pulled a cylinder from his pocket. It looked much like the one the sheriff had been writing with, but a light shone out of the end. After a brief examination, the doctor declared Rory basically sound.
"We'll keep you another twenty-four hours," he said briskly, "just to make sure you don't suffer a relapse. So long as your insurance coverage allows it, of course. Speaking of which, the clerk from records has some forms you need to sign."
With that incomprehensible statement, the doctor left the room.
Trace continued his questioning. "You were saying? About your wife?"
Although his tone was mild, Rory suddenly felt as if he were facing down the barrel of a Winchester rifle.
"I believe Jack Clayton killed her." He tried to keep his voice calm even as visions of that horror had his nerves screaming.
"I see."
The sheriff was beginning to irritate him. Didn't he have any feelings? Could he remain so cool, Rory wondered furiously, if he believed his own wife—or perhaps this woman named Jess, with whom he seemed to have a close relationship—had been murdered by a cold-blooded gunfighter?
"And Jack Clayton is… ?" Trace prompted.
Rory couldn't believe his ears. Since everyone in the territory knew who Black Jack Clayton was, he refused to even respond to such an asinine question.
"When I came back to town, our house was on fire," he said instead. "Clayton set that fire."
Trace exchanged another look with Jessica. "And that was November 12… 1896."
"Yes."
"I'm afraid you're a little confused," Jessica said. Her voice was calm, but Rory could see the little seeds of worry in her eyes. "It isn't really 1896. It's 1996."
"That's impossible." Rory's first thought was that he was still trapped in the labyrinth of nightmares. But the room and these people certainly seemed real. Which could only mean that this sweet-smelling woman was some sort of confidence person. He began to sit up, cringing as the boulders tumbled around inside his head.
"Stay right there." Proving surprisingly strong for a slender female, Jessica took hold of his shoulders and pushed him down onto the bed. "I'll prove it."
As she crossed the room, despite all his problems, Rory found the movement of her hips in those tight denim pants more than a little enticing.
Oh yes, he thought, with bait
like this to dangle before a receptive audience, he imagined the pair did very well indeed as they moved their scam from town to town. But what, he wondered, did they want from him?
She flicked a switch on the wall. The overhead light turned off. Another flick of the switch and the room was bright again.
"See? Electricity."
Rory was not overly impressed. "I first saw electricity at the Chicago World's Fair three years ago." He'd also seen Little Egypt dance the hootchy-kootchy, but decided that wasn't relevant to the discussion.
"Oh, I'm just getting started." She picked up a small black box from the table beside his bed, pointed it at a box on the wall and pressed a button.
"What the hell?" Rory stared at the scene flashing across the glass front of the box. He'd seen demonstrations of Edison's kinetoscope, but the films were nothing like this.
"Television." She flashed him a smile, then pressed a few more buttons, causing the scenes to change with dizzying speed. "One of the more dubious wonders of the twentieth century."
Rory's head, which had been throbbing when he'd awakened, felt on the verge of exploding as the visions flashed unceasingly before his eyes. As unnerving as the speed of the pictures was, the scenes they displayed of an unfamiliar world were even more frightening.
"I don't understand."
"It's obvious that you're experiencing some sort of mental disfunction from your head injury," she said in a sympathetic voice. "The doctor told us that was a possibility. He also said it would pass. In time."
Rory wanted to believe her. But he couldn't. It was too impossible. Yet, he wondered, how could he explain that picture box? And the furnishings and clothing, which now that he'd really begun to pay attention, he could see were different from those he was accustomed to.
An explanation flickered in the back of his mind. A few years ago a medicine show had come to Whiskey River. One of the highlights of the show—second in popularity only to the exotic, dark-eyed Gypsy dancer—had been a bearded Austrian mesmerist who'd entertained the crowd by putting various townspeople into a trance.
Although at the time Rory had believed the entire act to be a farce, he had to admit he'd enjoyed watching that stuffed-shirt banker, Harvey Bringle, crow like a rooster.
He also recalled watching Emma Lou Masterson hanging imaginary clothing on an invisible line. He'd suspected she truly believed she saw her husband's Levi's blowing in the breeze.
This was what was happening to him, Rory decided. For some reason, he'd been taken prisoner by a pair of skilled mesmerists. That had to explain all this. Because otherwise, he was insane.
He folded his arms across his chest. "I have nothing more to say. To either one of you."
"I don't get it," Trace grumbled five minutes later as he filled a large foam cup with coffee from the hospital cafeteria's stainless steel vat. "The guy freaking doesn't exist."
"Of course he does," Jessica replied mildly.
"He's not in the computer."
"A lot of people aren't in your precious computer," she said as she chose a smaller cup. The black coffee looked like something that could have leaked out of the tanker Exxon Valdez. Right down to the slick film on top.
"Not that many escape." He plucked two Danish from a tray, put them into the microwave oven and set it to warm for ten seconds. "Most people have a driver's license. Or a credit card. Hell, Rory Mannion doesn't even have a social security number."
"I don't believe they had social security cards back in 1896."
The microwave dinged. "Would you try to be serious?" He took the rolls out, cursing as he burned his thumb on the melted white frosting.
"I'm sorry. It's just that you're kinda cute when you're annoyed, Callahan."
"And you're annoying when you're being cute." He took her coffee out of her hand, put it on his tray and paid the cashier.
"So," she said as they sat down at a table in the corner of the room, "what do you think? Does he have amnesia, like the doctor suggested? Or is he delusional?"
"Frankly, I don't give a damn. That bullet hole in the guy's back isn't fantasy. Somebody wanted Mannion, or whatever the hell the guy's name is, dead," he reminded her. "And they almost succeeded."
"Meanwhile, there's a possibility we've got a missing wife, who may or may not have burned up when the shooter set Mannion's house—if he even owns a house—on fire. I need to find that gunman. And I need to find him yesterday."
"Have you tried boot hill?"
"Dammit—"
"I'm sorry." The laughter in her eyes said otherwise. She hadn't realized exactly how much emotional energy she'd invested in her mystery man until he'd turned the corner that morning. Although she figured she could probably sleep for a week, she definitely was feeling upbeat.
"But you have to admit it's certainly one of the more interesting crimes we've had lately." And far more mysterious than the Chapmann case, she thought.
"Did I ever mention that I hate mysteries?"
Jessica took a tentative sip of her coffee and was unsurprised when it tasted a lot like an oil slick, too. "I believe that came up. During the Swann investigation."
Trace frowned at the memory of Laura Swann Fletcher's murder. For a woman who was much beloved in Whiskey River, there had been a lot of people who'd had their own reasons for wanting her dead.
When he'd first arrived in the small mountain town from Dallas, Trace had been burned-out. Believing that the ability to care had been eaten out of him by the corrosive acid of experience, he'd planned to spend his days whittling toothpicks, waiting for his paycheck to arrive.
Then other lives had drifted down Whiskey River's currents, had drawn him into their midst and challenged his jaded outlook. The person who'd most changed his life was Mariah Swann. The woman who'd started out as a pain in the ass, had for a brief time been a suspect in her sister's death, and was now his wife.
"Perhaps the fingerprints you took will identify him," she suggested helpfully as she opened the blue packet of sweetener and dumped the contents into the too-bitter coffee.
"Do you have any idea how long it will take to get an answer back?" he complained. "It's not as if we're dealing with a homicide case here."
"No." She tried the coffee again. It was still undrinkable. "But it could have been if the gunman's aim had been a little more on the mark. And if our mystery man does have a wife who turns out to be dead, then it's a whole new ball game."
"True. But right now, all we've got is a head case with a bullet wound, which doesn't make us a high FBI priority."
He won Jessica's admiration by taking a deep swallow of his own unsweetened coffee. "And as much as I hate to burst your little bubble of contentment this morning, you realize, that if there really is a dead wife out there somewhere, your mystery man might be the killer."
"No. He's not."
Trace arched a dark brow. "You have no way of knowing that. Just because you've established some kind of weird bond with the guy while he's been unconscious for the past three days doesn't make him innocent."
Since she couldn't argue with that, Jessica didn't answer.
"I hate mysteries," Trace muttered again.
Jessica was about to suggest, as she had on numerous occasions, that if that was really true—which she knew it wasn't—he was in the wrong business, when a woman in a gray pantsuit came marching up to them.
"Sheriff Callahan," she said, slapping a manila folder down onto the table with a force that sent Jessica's coffee sloshing over the rim of the foam cup, "I want to know if the county is going to pay for that man you brought in the other night."
"I didn't bring him in," Trace said. "Technically, the paramedics did."
"You've certainly questioned him enough times. And Ms. Ingersoll has been spending all day and night in his room."
Jessica looked up from mopping at the liquid spreading across the tabletop.
"I wanted to make certain he didn't leave the hospital before Sheriff Callahan returned to question him
again," she answered, not quite truthfully.
She was not prepared to try to explain her admittedly inexplicable feelings for Rory Mannion. She'd tried telling herself that having almost run him down, it was only logical that she'd care about his condition. She'd even attempted to convince herself that her only interest in him was professional. But she knew, deep down inside, neither of those reasons explained why she was so emotionally drawn to him.
"Well, if the county isn't going to pay the bill, who do I send it to?" the woman demanded.
"How about just giving it to the guy when he's released? Like you do every other patient," Jessica suggested.
The woman folded her arms across the front of her man-tailored suit. "And how would you suggest I do that?" she demanded. "When he's already left the hospital?"
"What?" Jessica and Trace answered in unison.
Trace stood up so fast his chair fell over. As he ran back to the room where they'd last questioned Rory Mannion, Jessica was close on his heels.
Rory struggled to keep his mind on his goal as he trudged doggedly along the route he hoped would take him to his home on the outskirts of Whiskey River. Shiny horseless carriages whizzed by him, so fast he could hardly track their progress, but Rory knew that they were not real. They'd obviously been put in his mind while he'd been unconscious, and had somehow woven themselves into his hallucination.
It was cold for November. Wearing only his boots, jeans and underwear, along with the shirt he'd swiped from the cart outside his hospital room—it appeared someone had taken his shirt and duster—Rory felt chilled all the way to the bone.
Dark clouds the color of pig iron reached nearly to the ground, blocking out the sun and lowering the temperature by several degrees.
When those very same clouds opened up and began dumping water on him, like water out of a boot, Rory cursed. Then he hunched his shoulders and kept on walking.
Five minutes after leaving the hospital, Jessica spotted him. He was bent against the wind, and seemingly oblivious to the pouring rain. She shook her head as she pulled up alongside him and rolled down the window on the passenger side of the car.
