by JoAnn Ross
Rory and Jessica both murmured a vague agreement.
"I'd like to see whatever information you might have on Rory Mannion or Jack Clayton," Rory said politely.
"Oh, we have tons. That's quite a dramatic story," she replied, bustling off to a shelf on the other side of the room. "I've always thought that Hollywood should make a movie about Rory and Emilie. They were so in love that, as tragic as their deaths were, I think it was better that they died so close together."
She shook her head, causing a few stray auburn hairs to escape the elaborate twist on the top of her still bright head. "I can't imagine either one of them living without the other."
"Neither can I," Rory said softly.
Edith put a stack of books in front of him. "There's a lot more on Black Jack," she said. "But of course, he was pretty notorious."
"Do you know how he died?" Jessica asked.
"No one seems to know that. He left town shortly after the murder of Marshall Mannion and his wife. Just flat disappeared, which was lucky for him, since there was a warrant out for him. Dead or alive."
"He was never seen again?" Rory looked up from leafing through a thick book.
"Not around these parts. I always figured he'd been killed and his body dumped in some mine shaft. As useful as he'd been for the ranchers, the man got too cocky for his own good and burned down one too many houses. I think if he'd shown his face in town, he would have been hanged before nightfall."
"I don't understand," Jessica said.
"Clayton was a hired gun for the ranchers," Rory told her. "He got his start as an army scout before he turned to selling firewater to the Indians, rustling cattle and robbing trains. Then, when Pinkerton's started zeroing in on him, he began working as a hired gun for all the ranchers who'd begun to feel more and more under siege by sodbusters streaming west in their prairie schooners."
"His job was to get rid of any settlers who were interfering with their open range grazing. Clayton and his pals burned out some homesteaders and almost got away with blaming it on a local who was half-Navajo."
"Wolfe Longwalker," Edith agreed. "He was a wonderful writer. We have several of his books here in the museum. They've recently been reprinted."
"I've read them." Rory didn't mention he'd read the original versions. "Longwalker's name was eventually cleared, but Clayton had powerful friends in high places and never served time for those murders."
"Which was one of the reasons the old marshall was replaced with Rory Mannion," Edith filled in for Jessica. "There was a lot of debate about whether Mannion was more gunfighter than lawman. He certainly sent more than his share of men to boot hill over the years, but no one could deny that whenever he arrived in a town, things settled down."
She began leafing through the pages of a thick leather-bound book. "Here's a picture of him."
Jessica stared at the old sepia photo, stunned into silence.
She was not the only one to notice the resemblance. Edith's gaze went from the photo to Rory and back to the photo again.
"Gracious," she said, "put a handlebar mustache on you, and you could be him, in the flesh."
Rory decided she'd never believe him if he told her that he'd shaved the mustache off after Emilie complained it tickled. "I suppose there's a faint similarity."
"Faint? Honey, you're a dead ringer," Edith argued.
Jessica was feeling a little light-headed. She didn't have to look up at Rory to know the man standing beside her, and the man in the photo were the same person. But that idea was impossible. Wasn't it?
"They say everyone has a double," she managed faintly.
Rory glanced down at her with concern. She was suddenly too pale. Obviously, the truth of his circumstances was beginning to sink in. He decided, while her mind was unwillingly open, to prove his point about Clayton.
"Do you have a photo of Clayton?"
"I believe—" Edith flipped forward a few pages "—yes, here it is." She turned the book, revealing the picture of a grim-faced man wearing a gunbelt over a black suit.
Ice skimmed up Jessica's spine, making her shudder. Although there was no outward resemblance, as with Rory Mannion, no one could mistake those mocking evil eyes. They were, she realized, the same eyes that had followed her around the courtroom during the trial. The same eyes that had leered at her in the pharmacy. They were Eric Chapmann's eyes.
She dragged her gaze from that photograph to another of a young woman. The caption beneath the picture identified her as Emilie Mannion.
"That's the woman he killed?"
"That's one of them," Edith said. "That picture was taken on her wedding day. She sure was a pretty little thing, wasn't she?"
"She was lovely." Although it made no more sense than anything else that had happened to her over the past days, Jessica felt a strange bond with the young woman. "What a terrible shame she had to die so young."
"It sure was that," Edith said.
"May I borrow this book?" she asked. "Just for a few days?"
"Well, we don't usually encourage lending things out," Edith said. "But, you're not exactly just anyone."
She was so in love, Jessica thought. So happy. She'd been looking forward to this day for weeks. She'd been looking forward to this night even more.
"Excuse me?" Jessica asked, when she realized Edith had been speaking to her.
"I said, you're not exactly just anyone. If you can't trust the county attorney, who can you trust?"
"Who, indeed?" Jessica murmured, feeling an eerie sense of disconnection when the older woman closed the book. "We'd better go," she said. Her voice, usually so strong and self-assured, was little more than a whisper.
"Yes." He flashed a warm smile Edith's way. "Thank you very much. You've been a remarkable help."
Edith looked as if she were about to melt on the spot. "Anytime," she said. "You're more than welcome here, Mr…"
"Just call me Rory."
"Like Marshall Mannion?"
"Yes." He exchanged a quick look with Jessica, who was looking a little stunned. "Quite a coincidence, isn't it?"
With that he put his arm around Jessica's waist and ushered her out of the museum, leaving Edith staring after them.
"Are you sure you're all right?" he asked when they were back in the car.
"What?"
"Are you all right? I'd offer to drive, but—"
"No." She shook her head and took a deep breath. "I'm fine. Really." She took another deep, calming breath. "Or I will be. In just a minute."
Rory didn't say anything. He just waited, watching with admiration as she literally pulled herself together. The sight was painfully familiar. He remembered Emilie doing the same thing when she'd first viewed her father's body in the undertaker's office.
Minutes later, Rory and Jessica pulled into the driveway of her home. After the past few days, Rory would have sworn that nothing could surprise him. But he was not at all prepared for what he saw through the slanting silver rain.
"It's a Cape Cod," he murmured, more to himself than to her.
"I know it doesn't really fit into its location," she admitted with a quick grin that banished the lingering gloom caused by the meeting with Clayton and the visit to the museum. "But I like it. I guess you can take the girl away from the seaboard, but you can't take the seaboard out of the girl."
"Emilie always said much the same thing. I built her a Cape Cod cottage." He decided against mentioning he'd built it on this very site. She'd undoubtedly never believe him. "I painted it blue."
"Blue was my second choice." Jessica found the coincidence, if it was even true, she reminded herself, more than a little unnerving. "With white shutters. Then, at the last minute I decided to go with the white and green."
"It was a very good choice." His head began to throb as he remembered the way Emilie had vacillated between the two colors. She'd finally decided white would be impractical in such a dusty country.
"Thank you. I think so." She reached up on the visor
and pressed a red square on a small rectangular box. A few seconds later a large door on the side of the building opened.
"That's very clever."
"It's also handy for when it's raining," she agreed as she drove into the garage. The door shut behind them. "Of course we're already so wet, I guess it doesn't really matter today."
"It was worth it."
"What was worth it?"
He smiled at her. "Kissing you was definitely worth risking pneumonia."
Jessica considered that idea for a moment, recalled with vivid, aching detail the heated kiss and smiled back.
They entered the house through the kitchen. The tile counters were uncluttered and spotless, suggesting to Rory that she did not do a great deal of cooking. A vase of autumnal-hued asters in the center of the table was a welcoming sight.
"This is very nice," he said. "You're very neat."
He recalled, all too well, how Emilie's counters seemed to have a constant sprinkling of flour on them from bread baking. And how, whenever she'd lose track of time in her beloved darkroom, the dishes in the sink would pile up.
"I work long hours," Jessica snapped, a bit defensively, Rory thought. "I can't spend all afternoon slaving over a hot stove."
He arched a brow. "Did I say anything?"
"No." She tossed her purse onto one of the empty counters. "But it figures a man claiming to be from the nineteenth century would expect a female to cook."
"Actually, I was thinking that the flowers were very attractive," Rory said mildly.
"Oh." She looked a little embarrassed.
"I was also wondering if they were from a lover."
His fingers were idly playing with one of the starry asters but his eyes were on hers. His voice was every bit as soft as it had been in the drugstore, and like that other time, it vibrated with a dangerous intensity. But this danger, she realized, had nothing to do with murder.
"Not that it's any of your business," she said, "but I bought them myself." She refrained from mentioning that she'd purchased them on impulse in the hospital gift shop to give to him, then decided that the gesture was too personal.
"That surprises me."
"Why?"
He plucked a bronze flower from the bouquet and slid it into her hair. "You're what? Twenty-five? Twenty-six?"
The gesture was unreasonably intimate. Jessica backed up a few steps, but she did not take the flower from her hair. "I'm thirty."
"And still unmarried?" The idea was incredible. Rory would have thought a woman such as this would have suitors standing in line to propose marriage.
"This isn't the 1800s," she reminded him yet again. "Reaching the august age of thirty does not make me an old maid."
"Of course not." Fire flashed in Jessica's eyes, revealing the surprising passion he'd already tasted. And yearned to taste again. "It does make a man wonder, though," he mused aloud.
She watched his dark fingers rub his chin, remembered with excruciatingly vivid detail how they'd felt on her body and knew she was in deep deep trouble when she wanted to experience that hot pleasure again.
The silence strained between them, like an elastic cord pulled too tight. She lifted her chin challengingly. "Wonder what?" she snapped.
The toss of her head caused the aster to slip. "If men of this century have lost their sense of adventure." He reached forward to adjust the flower.
"I don't want you to touch me."
"Of course you do," Rory argued mildly, as he lowered his hands to his side. "The problem is that you don't want to want me to touch you."
For a man who didn't even remember his real name, and had no idea what century he was living in, he'd certainly hit uncomfortably close to the mark. "The doctor wanted to keep you under observation another day," she reminded him. "So, since you refused to stay in the hospital, I'd suggest we put you to bed. Alone," she tacked on when she realized how her suggestion could be taken.
Humor replaced need in his brown eyes. "Once again, I haven't said anything."
"You were thinking it."
Since he couldn't deny that, Rory didn't answer. He'd been aware of very little pain since he'd seen Jack Clayton at the pharmacy, but now his headache had returned with a vengeance. And his back felt as if it were on fire.
"I'm fine," he lied. "But if it'll ease your concerns, I'll agree to lie down."
His complexion had faded to the color of ashes and grooves had appeared on either side of his mouth. He was obviously in pain. It was just as obvious he had no intention of admitting it.
Jessica sighed. "Come on, macho man," she muttered, taking his arm. "Let's get you off your feet before you land facedown in my kitchen."
"Women swoon," he said, secretly grateful for her steadying hand. His aching head had begun to spin. "Men do not."
"Of course they don't. And instead of those pain pills I just paid twenty bucks for, perhaps I should just give you a bullet to chew on."
"You have a very sharp tongue," Rory observed.
"So I've been told. And if you don't like it—"
"I think I do," he interrupted her planned retort. "You're a great deal like my Emilie. She looks as soft as dandelion fluff, but she has a very strong spirit."
Strong enough to send him away, Rory thought grimly. "Or she had," he corrected, closing his eyes briefly as he thought of his beloved bride's death.
"Let's get you to bed," Jessica repeated gently.
His eyes, when he opened them again, looked as dark and as lonely as a tomb and his only response was a slow nod of assent.
5
Her bedroom was one of the most lushly romantic rooms Rory had seen outside of a whorehouse. But unlike The Road to Ruin, where the scarlet-and-gold color scheme had been designed to hit a man straight in the groin, these pastel hues slipped beneath a man's skin and into his mind.
Rory felt as if he were walking into a bower of spring blossoms. Pink primroses climbed up the cream silk wallpaper, a riot of roses bloomed on the quilt and matching lace-trimmed curtains, and hand-painted violets adorned the drawers of the pine chest.
A milk-glass vase atop the chest held a handful of dried wildflowers and gilt-framed botanical prints of lilacs and peonies hung on the wall over the chest.
"This is a magnificent bed."
"It was my great-great-grandmother's," Jessica said. "I had it shipped from Philadelphia when I moved here."
The mahogany four-poster bed gleamed with the lemon oil that generations of Jessica's ancestors had rubbed painstakingly into its surface. "Magnificent," he repeated, running his fingers over a detailed carving of a pineapple on the tall post.
The sight of his fingers stroking that dark red wood sent erotic thoughts spinning unbidden through Jessica's mind.
"Where will you sleep?" Rory asked, feeling uncomfortably adulterous as his rebellious mind conjured up a picture of the two of them lying together in this exquisite bed.
"There's a couch in my den. It's quite comfortable." She knew that from all the nights she'd worked late on the Chapmann case and had been too exhausted to drag herself upstairs to bed.
"I don't want to put you out."
"Don't be foolish. The only other alternative is for you to take the couch, and you're far too tall…The bathroom's in here." She opened the adjoining doorway. "It takes a while for the hot water to get up here from the tank in the garage, but once it does you'll have plenty for your shower."
"Shower?"
She groaned inwardly. "I suppose you don't know what that is, either?" This was becoming more exhausting than the time she'd baby-sat her two-year-old niece whose every other word had been why?
"I saw a shower ring in the Montgomery Ward and Company catalog," he said helpfully. "It fitted over your neck while you stood in the tub."
"That's close." She demonstrated the shower and the tub, as well as the flush toilet, which he seemed to find even more impressive than her Jaguar.
"This is truly a remarkable century."
"I'm s
o glad you think so. I bought you a toothbrush, by the way. I'll bring it up when I come back with your pills."
She returned to the bedroom, pulled the comforter off the bed and was about to strip the sheets off as well when he caught her hand in his. "That's not necessary."
"You'll want clean sheets."
"You look tired." He frowned as he traced the purple shadows beneath her eyes with his fingertip. "Believe me, Jess, I have slept under some very primitive conditions and this is fine." He remembered every detail of the cave he'd slept in the night before he'd returned to find his home in flames.
Strangely, this time his touch soothed instead of excited her. It made Jessica want to curl up between those flower-sprigged sheets with him and sleep for a hundred years.
"Well, I really do have to get back to work," she said. "I hate to think how much paperwork has piled up while I've been at the hospital. If you're sure you don't mind—"
"I'm sure." His fingers trailed down her cheek, around the curve of her jaw. "You have already been more than kind and bringing me into your home will make even more work for you."
"I couldn't exactly put you out on the street."
"Why not?"
Good question, Jessica thought as she looked up at him. "I just couldn't treat anyone that way."
Even as she said the words, she knew they weren't true. In her work she was constantly meeting people whose lives were in turmoil and she'd never, not once, even considered bringing any of them home with her.
Rory didn't believe her for a minute. Although they'd both been avoiding the topic, it was obvious that there'd been a strange bond between them from the beginning.
"We're going to have to talk about it," he murmured as he stroked the pad of his thumb across her unpainted lips.
Jessica did not even try to pretend she didn't understand what he meant. She looked up into his fathomless eyes and felt as if she were drowning. "Not now."
"No." He managed a faint smile. "Not now."
