Wanted!

by JoAnn Ross

  "Oh, that." She shrugged. "I'm not worried. Besides, I have a gun."

  "You do?" That came as a surprise. It also reminded him that he'd tried to talk Emilie into letting him teach her how to shoot the Winchester.

  "My work as a prosecuting attorney takes me in some pretty rough places and needless to say, I'm not a criminal's favorite person. A gun tends to even the playing field."

  It had not been an easy decision for her to make. She'd always been against violence, which was why she'd gone into criminal law in the first place. She enjoyed putting the bad guys away so they couldn't hurt innocent people. Besides, having earned a reputation as the fastest mouth in law school, she'd been convinced she could talk her way out of any problem that might arise.

  She changed her mind after she'd been beaten up, outside the Philadelphia courthouse where she'd been working late one night, by a fifteen-year-old gang-banger with an adult-sized grudge against the system.

  "I recently said much the same thing to someone," Rory said quietly. If Emilie had been armed, would she have been able to fend off Clayton?

  Jessica watched the bleak expression move over his face in dark waves. "Recently, as in 1896."

  "Yes."

  His unwavering answer brought to mind a popular country song title—"That's My Story and I'm Sticking to It." But seeing the lingering pain in his eyes, she decided not to argue the date. "I assume we're talking about Emilie."

  "Yes." He dragged both hands down his face.

  Once again his grief seemed genuine. Which was, of course, impossible. Because that would mean that his story was also real and there was no way she was prepared to believe that this man was truly Rory Mannion, marshall of Arizona Territory in 1896.

  She remained silent, watching out of the corner of her eye, as he straightened his spine. And, she guessed, his resolve.

  "There was one more thing you did that was dangerously reckless," he said, "and that was—"

  "Kissing you." Jessica had no answer for such uncharacteristic behavior. It had been an impulse, pure and simple.

  "Yes." He turned slightly in the seat, his gaze serious. "Some men would not stop when offered such encouragement."

  When Eric Chapmann immediately came to mind, Jessica involuntarily shuddered. "I know." Her own gaze was as sober as his. "But somehow, I knew you were safe."

  He laughed at that, but the rough sound held not a hint of humor. "Now that's where you're wrong," he corrected her grimly. "Because I'm the most dangerous man you're ever going to meet."

  Once again Jessica thought of Eric Chapmann. Remembered his boyish good looks, his friendly smile. And his deadly eyes. And then she thought of the threats toward her he'd allegedly made.

  "That's where you're wrong."

  Her flat tone did not invite comment. There was a story there, Rory thought. But up to his eyeballs in problems of his own, he didn't pursue it.

  They ride in silence, each lost in thought, the only sounds the swish swish swish of the wiper blades across the windshield, the ping of raindrops on the metal roof and the hiss of tires on the wet road.

  Nearly an hour had passed on the Jaguar's clock when they entered the town of Whiskey River. The main street looked familiar, Rory thought, but there were many changes. Jessica pulled up in front of a building he remembered being the home of the Rim Rock Weekly Record newspaper. Only now, the brown-and-yellow hand-painted sign pronounced it to be Otterbein's Drugstore.

  "What are we doing here?"

  "The doctor gave me two prescriptions to have filled for you," she said. "Antibiotics for the infection, and pain pills."

  Although he had always held a secret contempt for opium users, the idea of medicine for his increasing pain came as a relief.

  "Why don't you wait here? And I'll be right back."

  A gentleman would go into the store with her, Rory reminded himself, even as the warmth of the car, the comfortable leather seat and the pain all conspired to encourage him to do as she suggested.

  "There's no point in arguing," she said, as if reading his mind. "Besides, I've got you strapped in. By the time you figure out how to release that seat belt, I'll be back."

  He watched her walk toward the store, enjoying the sight of her rear end in those tight jeans that were, in their way, as scandalous as that brief skirt she'd worn the other day.

  The door swung open just as she reached for it. A man came out and reluctantly stopped when it appeared she wanted to talk with him. He was tall and lean, obviously a cowhand, Rory decided. His hair was shaggy, he hadn't shaved in a very long time, and his eyes were red rimmed and puffy, suggesting a tendency toward the bottle.

  Jessica's smile was warm and friendly, although there was concern, the look Rory was growing accustomed to seeing in her eyes. She lifted her hand to the man's hollow cheek in a way that seemed as natural to her as breathing. Rory was surprised when the simple affectionate gesture sent a jolt of some dark and dangerous emotion surging through him.

  He watched them exchange a few words. Or, rather, she talked and the man merely responded with what appeared to be a few curt monosyllables. The car window kept Rory from hearing the brief conversation. But as the man walked away, he watched Jessica's shoulders droop and realized that whoever the cowboy was, he was someone she cared about.

  Rory was reminded of Patsy, a pretty redheaded whore at The Road to Ruin who was always rescuing stray kittens, bringing them home to the comfort of the whorehouse. A former Boston beauty from a good family, whose downfall had come at the hands of a fast-talking Bible salesman, she was the pickiest soiled dove in the territory.

  And although she was also one of the most popular, she'd never, to his knowledge, allowed any male to spend the entire night in her bed. That privilege, she'd told more than one downcast cowboy, was reserved strictly for her furry friends.

  If what he'd witnessed was any example, this woman named Jess was just as prone to picking up strays. The difference, Rory thought, was that Patsy was smart enough to stick to the four-footed kind.

  Jessica disappeared into the store, and giving into his throbbing headache, Rory leaned his head back and closed his eyes. He was drifting in that netherworld between sleep and awareness when a sudden tingling, like the electricity before a thunderstorm, skimmed up his spine, across his neck and down his arms.

  He jolted awake and looked out the window at the man headed toward him down the sidewalk. The swagger was definitely familiar.

  As was the face beneath the brim of the black Stetson.

  It was Black Jack!

  Rory ripped at the belt that had him tied to the seat and finally freed himself. With a string of curses harsh enough to turn the air blue, he fumbled with the unfamiliar door handle, then he was out of the car in a flash.

  4

  "Saw you Talking with Clint outside," Walter Otterbein said as he filled the prescriptions. "Now there's a man on a slippery slope if I ever did see one."

  Knowing that the pharmacist was a genuinely caring man, and understanding that he wasn't just gossiping for entertainment's sake, Jessica answered, "He's had a rough year."

  "That's for sure." He counted out the red capsules. "Losin' the woman you'd always loved, not to mention your unborn baby, would probably drive any man to drink."

  Jessica nodded in silent agreement. Clint Garvey's drinking was no secret; all you had to do was to look at the man to read the pain etched all over his craggy dark face.

  She and Trace may have been able to put Laura Swann's murderer behind bars. But the sad truth was that justice didn't cure a broken heart.

  "I hear you found yourself a stranger outside of town," Walter said as he poured the pills into a brown plastic bottle and began typing up the label on his old black manual Remington.

  "I nearly ran over him."

  "Yep. That's what I heard." He looked up at her. "From these, I guess he's out of the hospital."

  "Yes." Jessica braced herself for the next question, wondering how she was go
ing to explain that she was taking the stranger home with her, when the door to the pharmacy opened and her blood turned to ice.

  "Dammit all to hell," the pharmacist muttered, revealing he was not any more thrilled by the appearance of this latest customer than Jessica was.

  "Well, well," Eric Chapmann drawled as he caught sight of Jessica standing at the counter, "I thought that was your Jag outside, Counselor."

  His smile reminded her of a shark—cold and deadly. His blue eyes, which could twinkle on command, were rattlesnake flat.

  Jessica wanted to ignore him. But not wanting to give this sociopath the pleasure of knowing he had the power to upset her, she had no choice but to respond. "Since I own the only Jaguar in town, that's a fairly safe assumption." Her voice was frost, her eyes as cool as the November morning.

  "Saw a man sitting in the passenger seat." He leered at her. "You got a new beau, Counselor?"

  The hell with game playing, Jessica decided. Obviously he knew he could get under her skin. That being the case, she decided to go with her first instinct and ignore him.

  When she turned her back to him, he merely laughed and wandered off down a nearby aisle.

  "That boy should be in prison," Walter muttered beneath his breath.

  Jessica wondered how long it would take for her to stop thinking of Eric's acquittal as a personal failure. Forever, she decided reluctantly.

  "Unfortunately,, not everyone agrees with you."

  "Unfortunately, there are a lot of people in the county dependent on the Chapmanns' goodwill," Walter countered. "I'm not one of them." He stuck the label onto the bottle and placed it with a similar one in a white paper bag. "There you go. All done."

  And just in time, too. Jessica couldn't wait to get out of the pharmacy. Eric Chapmann's presence had cast a pall over the interior of the store. Along with a dark sense of evil that she knew she wasn't imagining.

  She opened her wallet and was counting out the bills when he moved up beside her, and stood too close for comfort. "Don't forget these." He tossed a handful of red boxes of condoms onto the counter beside the bag. "Now that you've got yourself a new boyfriend, Jess—" his voice deepened on her name "—your sex life should be picking up."

  His blue eyes, which Jessica had heard teenage girls swooning over, laughed with insulting innuendo. Jess was reminded of a quote he'd given to MacKenzie Reardon, editor of the Rim Rock Record, asserting that the only reason the county attorney was going after a guy who had an active sex life was because it was obvious she had none of her own.

  Jessica cursed inwardly at how good this creep was at yanking her chain. "My sex life is none of your business."

  "That could always change." He gave her the boyish grin that had worked wonders on the women on the jury. "You're a damn right fine-looking woman, Jess. And, despite our admittedly rocky past, I'm willing to overlook our differences." His gaze settled on her breasts in an openly suggestive way that made her feel dirty. At the same time he put his hand on her hip. "If you are."

  He was truly disgusting! Before Jessica could come up with a sufficiently killing response, the door to the pharmacy burst open and Rory came charging in.

  "Get your hand off her, Clayton."

  "Clayton?" Eric arched a brow and laughed. "I'm afraid you've got me confused with someone else. My name's Chapmann. Ask anyone in town. My family's been part of Whiskey River forever."

  "We both know who you are." Rory's hand instinctively went to where his holster should be. And, dammit, wasn't. "Now, if you know what's good for you, you'll let go of the lady."

  Jessica had always believed in fighting her own battles. Under normal conditions, she would have leaped in to assure Rory that she could take care of Chapmann herself. But there was something about the flinty hardness of his gaze and his soft, but remarkably deadly voice that gave him a mysterious power that wiped the words from her mind.

  To her further amazement, Eric didn't throw back one of the fast, smart-mouthed answers he'd become famous for during his trial. Instead, he was looking back at Rory with an unmasked hatred that gave her goose bumps.

  She had no idea how long the standoff lasted. Time seemed to have stopped as the two men faced each other, reminding her of Wyatt Earp facing down Billy Clanton at Tombstone's O.K. Corral.

  Finally, just when she thought her nerves were going to shatter, amazingly, Eric Chapmann backed down. "No point in trying to argue with a crazy man," he muttered. He turned his back on Rory and was almost to the door when he paused, and shot Jessica another cocky, sexy look over his shoulder.

  "Don't forget that protection, sweetheart. After all, these are dangerous times. A woman can't be too careful," he reminded her silkily.

  With that veiled threat he was gone.

  Rory was about to go after him, when one look at Jessica stopped him in his tracks. "Are you all right?"

  "Of course." She had to push the reassuring words past the lump of ice that seemed to have become lodged in her throat. "And as much as I appreciate your chivalrous gesture, I'm capable of handling Eric Chapmann by myself."

  Rory had watched the color drain from her face and knew otherwise. "So Clayton's calling himself Chapmann these days?" he asked instead.

  "That's his name," Walter Otterbein said. "And who's Clayton?"

  "The son of a bitch who burned my wife alive. Then murdered me."

  Jessica groaned inwardly as the pharmacist stared at Rory. Terrific. It was bad enough that he thought he was Rory Mannion. Now, he believed Eric Chapmann was Black Jack Clayton.

  "We'd better go," she said. She put a hand on his arm and felt the muscles tense, like boulders beneath her fingertips.

  "You don't believe me, do you?"

  She could have lied. Perhaps she even should have lied. But she couldn't.

  "I believe you believe it," she hedged.

  He smiled at that, a faint sad smile that strangely made her feel like weeping. "I suppose that's all I can ask for. Right now."

  Although Jessica still had no idea whether or not he'd really lost his wife, or whether the story was just an additional manifestation of his delusion, the bleak expression cutting harsh lines into his tanned face revealed that his pain was emotional as well as physical.

  They left the store together, got back in the car and continued the drive to her house. As he leaned back in the seat and thought back on his encounter with Clayton in the pharmacy, Rory understood what Emilie had been trying to tell him.

  As impossible as the idea had appeared when he'd read it in that novel last year, it seemed that he'd some-how managed to slip through some unseen door in time. And as brokenhearted as he still was about losing his beloved Emilie, Rory began to realize that there was justice in the world, after all. It may have taken a hundred years, but Black Jack Clayton was finally going to pay for his sins.

  Then, after exacting his revenge, Rory would be free. Free to join Emilie for all eternity.

  "What is Chapmann to you?"

  Jessica realized Chapmann's sexual innuendo could have led Rory to the wrong conclusion. "He's not a former lover or anything, if that's what you're thinking."

  "That thought never crossed my mind," he said honestly. "A woman like you would never get involved with such a man, whatever he's calling himself these days."

  "It's not that big a deal," Jessica said with a shrug. Okay. That was a lie. But she just wasn't up to getting into the sordid story right now. "Eric Chapmann raped a young woman. When she threatened to call Trace, he beat her up, then set her apartment on fire."

  "I was the prosecuting attorney at his trial. The jury let him off. End of story."

  "I can believe he committed the crime." Rory remembered stories of whores who'd made the mistake of taking Black Jack to their beds.

  More than one had ended up with broken bones; none had escaped without painful bruises. He'd also been infamous for setting fires. Including, Rory thought painfully, the one that had killed Emilie.

  "And I'm sorry,
for you and the young woman, that he wasn't convicted. But I do not believe that it's over."

  It was the same thing Trace had told her. Unwilling to consider the possibility that Chapmann would live up to his threat, Jessica kept her gaze directed straight out the window.

  "It's over," she repeated, as if her firm tone could make it true.

  Rory watched the way her fingers tightened on the steering wheel and decided that to argue the point would only upset her further. Obviously, the thing to do would be to keep Clayton-Chapmann from harming this woman whose heart was obviously far softer and more open than she'd admit.

  The thought of the unsavory man caused a pall to settle over them, and neither Rory nor Jessica felt like further conversation. There were many subjects they'd eventually have to discuss, Rory thought, things too complex to handle in a car speeding through the pouring rain.

  There would be time enough to convince Rory that he was still delusional later, Jessica decided, after he'd had his medication. The pain pills were bound to make him sleep. This time when he woke up, perhaps he'd remember who he was. And who hated him enough to try to kill him.

  "Does this town have a historical museum?"

  "Of course."

  "I'd like to go there. If you have time," he added, remembering that as a prosecuting attorney she undoubtedly had work to do.

  She didn't. Not really. "You should be in bed."

  "I will be. Soon," he promised. "But there's something I want you to see."

  Jessica sighed and turned at the next corner. "All right."

  If Whiskey River, Arizona, looked familiar to first-time visitors, it was because the town had served as a movie set on more than one occasion. Gene Autry, John Wayne and Clint Eastwood had all ridden horseback down Main Street. So had Doc Holliday and Wyatt Earp, but for some reason Jessica had never quite understood, the make-believe cowboys had bigger displays in the historical museum.

  Edith Flynn, a flamboyant, comfortably padded woman in her midsixties, greeted them with friendly cheer. "Come on in and warm up," she said. "Looks like the two of you got caught in the rain." She glanced out at the water streaming down the windows of the museum. "Good weather for ducks. And Lord knows, we can sure use the moisture after last winter's drought."