Wanted!

by JoAnn Ross

  "I'll go get your pills," she said.

  She'd no sooner left the room when exhaustion hit him like a John L. Sullivan bare-knuckled fist in the solar plexus. He sank down onto the bed. The pillows, piled up at the head of the bed, carried the scent of her hair. He inhaled the faint fragrance, felt strangely comforted and fell immediately to sleep.

  Jessica found him, lying on his side, his feet still on the floor, his arms wrapped around one of the pillows as if it were a woman. The deep lines etched in his face had smoothed, and his breathing was slow and regular, suggesting he was sleeping and not unconscious again.

  "Hey, you." She nudged him in the shoulder. "Wake up."

  His only response was a muffled groan.

  She finally roused him enough to toss a couple of pills down his throat. She held the glass of water to his lips, and felt as if she'd achieved a major accomplishment when she got him to drink several swallows. But then, before she could get him onto his feet, he was gone again, out like a light.

  Sighing, she dragged his boots and socks off, then went to work on his filthy jeans and the scrub shirt he'd obviously stolen from the hospital.

  By the time she was down to his old-fashioned underwear, it occurred to her that he definitely believed in carrying the authenticity of his costume to extremes.

  She debated stripping the gray wool drawers off him, then decided to leave well enough alone. Since he was too heavy to move, she simply covered him with the comforter.

  She took a suit and pumps from her closet, some panty hose from the dresser, then went downstairs and changed into her work clothes. She wrote a brief note explaining she'd gone into her office and stuck it on the upstairs bathroom mirror, in case Rory woke up while she was gone, then left the house.

  "Tell me it's not true."

  Jessica glanced up from her desk to see Trace standing in the doorway. In his Wrangler jeans, wedge-heeled boots, plaid shirt and Stetson, he almost could have stepped right out of the pages of that book she'd borrowed from the museum.

  "It's not true."

  "Dammit, Jess." He yanked off his hat and raked his hand through his hair. "This isn't any time to be cute. Walter Otterbein tells me that you took that Mannion guy home with you."

  "Since Walter was still behind his counter when I left the pharmacy, he has no way of knowing that for sure."

  "Now you're talking like a lawyer."

  "I am a lawyer. And you're talking like a typical cop who doesn't trust anyone."

  "I am a typical cop. And I've got the scars to show what happens when you let your guard down."

  Jessica had seen the scars bisecting his torso from the open-heart surgery he'd undergone after he'd found himself on the wrong end of a street-sweeper automatic weapon during what was supposed to have been . a routine homicide bust.

  "Then when I stopped in for a sandwich, Iris told me that Margaret Dawtry had told her that you'd bought a bunch of men's clothes at the mercantile," he said.

  Jessica realized she should have known better than to try to keep a secret in this town. "Goodness, you have managed to compile quite a case on me."

  "I'm a detective."

  "You were a detective. Now you're a sheriff. Whatever happened to your plan to sit on the jailhouse steps, whittling toothpicks and watching the world go by?"

  "I believe you're talking about Mayberry. And that's not my style."

  No. It wasn't.

  "You are, without a doubt, the quintessential knight in shining armor, Callahan."

  She'd told him that before, during the Swann investigation. At the time, he'd denied it. Just as he did now. "I'm no knight. It's just that I care about you, dammit."

  "And I for you." She stood up, crossed the room, went up on her toes and brushed her lips against his cheek. "But you don't have to worry about Rory—"

  "It's Rory now?"

  Jessica sighed, realizing she should be more circumspect around a man who, before moving to Whiskey River, had the highest case closure rate in the Dallas Police Department.

  She thought about suggesting that it was good to be on a first-name basis with a man who was currently sleeping in your bed, but knew the quip would only frustrate him more. "Until he remembers who he is, that name is as good as any."

  "What if he doesn't remember? What if he's running some kind of scam? Hell, what if he's a psycho who's escaped from a prison for the criminally insane?"

  "He's not insane."

  "You're sure of that."

  "I'd bet my life on it."

  He gave her a long look. "You realize that may be exactly what you're doing."

  "No." She'd never considered herself the least bit psychic, but her instincts had always been right on the money. "He may be confused, but he's not dangerous."

  The back and forth motion of his jaw suggested Trace was grinding his teeth. His gunmetal gray eyes were as hard as bullets as they attempted to stare her down. But Jessica, who'd watched him use that technique to get perps to confess, was unaffected.

  "It's going to be all right, Trace," she insisted. "I'll be all right."

  Before he could answer, her phone rang. Saved by the bell, she thought as she scooped up the receiver. "Jessica Ingersoll, Mogollon County Attorney," she answered in a brisk professional voice. "Oh, hello."

  "It's the attorney general," she said, covering the mouthpiece with her palm. "He's calling about the shooting of that DPS officer." Fortunately, the traffic stop that had resulted in gunfire had not been fatal because the highway patrolman had been wearing his new Kevlar vest.

  "Yessir," she said as she swiveled her chair toward the window and away from Trace.

  He muttered a curse, then left and headed back to his office to run Rory Mannion through the computer one more time.

  It was dusk when Jessica returned home from work with a briefcase full of files, the museum book she still hadn't gotten a chance to look at and the shopping bags of men's clothing that had so irritated Trace.

  She put the briefcase and her purse on the kitchen table, then went upstairs to check on her patient.

  He'd obviously awakened at some time, at least long enough to strip off the underwear and crawl between the sheets. The pain pills must not have been entirely effective, she decided, noting the twisted bedding that suggested a great deal of tossing and turning. He'd kicked the top sheet aside, and although it still—just barely—covered the essentials, the sight of that long, dark leg with its rigidly defined muscles and tendons seemed vibrantly masculine when contrasted to the flower-sprigged cotton.

  She tried to look away and failed. Tried to ignore the fluttering in her stomach and failed at that, too. Assuring herself that any woman would respond to the sight of a stunningly handsome naked man in her bed, Jessica took some of the new clothes out of one of the shopping bags, tossed them onto a nearby wing chair, then left the room, determined to get some work done before dinner.

  She took a bottle of fume blanc from the refrigerator, poured a glass and took it, along with her briefcase, into the den. She kicked off her shoes, put some Vince Gill on the CD player and settled down to read about the life and times of Rory Mannion.

  She'd known from Trace's check that the man had, indeed, been a marshall in Arizona Territory. She also knew, from what the museum curator had said, that like so many men of that time, he was considered by some to be more gunslinger than lawman. What came as a major surprise was that he'd been an attorney. With a law degree from Harvard University!

  She was frustrated when the article just breezed over that vital fact, concentrating instead on the number of men he'd been rumored to have killed and the tragic circumstances surrounding the death of his new bride. And although she still didn't believe the man upstairs was who he claimed to be, after reading about Emilie Mannion's horrifying murder, Jessica, who'd always considered the law a noble calling, a light of reason in a complex, dangerous world, could definitely understand a husband's need for revenge.

  When Rory woke up, his hea
dache was nearly gone. The pain in his back, while still bothersome, seemed to be easing up. His stomach growled. Rory decided the fact that he was actually hungry for the first time in days was a very good sign.

  He showered, washing his hair with the shampoo that left his hair smelling faintly of herbs and spices. He brushed his teeth and his hair, looked around for a razor, but couldn't find one. Which was just as well, he decided. Since his hands were still a bit shaky, he could easily have slit his own throat.

  He dressed in the new clothes he found lying on a chair in the bedroom. They fit as if they'd been tailor-made for his body, which didn't surprise him. Rory suspected that anything Jess did, she'd do perfectly.

  Immersed in reading, Jessica didn't hear Rory come down the stairs, which allowed him to watch her undetected for a moment.

  She was deep in the book she'd borrowed from the museum and as he studied her, Rory suddenly recalled how, when she'd seen the picture of Emilie, her eyes had softened with a light that was as compelling as it was familiar.

  It couldn't be, he told himself.

  But it was.

  Jessica was jolted from her reading by a sudden aura of crackling electricity, like heat lightning flickering on the horizon before a thunderstorm. She looked up to see Rory standing in the doorway.

  "Hello," he said.

  She put the book down. Stop that! she told her lips, which had curved into a dopey grin. But they refused to cooperate and to tell the truth, Jessica couldn't blame them. He looked so good in that formfitting western-cut shirt and crisp blue jeans that any woman with blood stirring in her veins would want to drool. And the stubble on his face, which could have made him look like a lot of the felons she'd convicted, was undeniably sexy.

  "I didn't mean to disturb you," he said.

  "You're not." Now that was a lie. She put the book aside. "It's time I fixed some dinner anyway. I skipped lunch today and I'm starved. I'll bet you are, too."

  "I could eat something," he said. Like a horse and a couple of steers for starters.

  "I'm not surprised. They had you on a light diet in the hospital, but I never saw you actually eat a thing." She studied him more closely. "You look as if you feel better."

  "I am, thanks. It's also nice to have clean clothes."

  "I thought it might be. I bought them in town this afternoon."

  Rory was glad they had not been left behind by a lover. "I'll want to pay you back." He'd been relieved to discover that Clayton had not taken the time to roll him after the shooting. Or else he'd missed the gold coins Rory had had in the pocket of his Levi's.

  His expression assured Jess this was important. "Fine. Has your memory come back?"

  He could lie, Rory supposed. But what was the point? "I know exactly who I am, if that's what you mean."

  She exhaled a long breath. "You're still insisting you're Rory Mannion."

  "I'd hoped you'd be more accepting of the idea. After seeing my photograph."

  "A photograph that, granted, bore a startling resemblance to you. But that doesn't prove anything. I've been told that except for the difference in hair color, I look like Michelle Pfeiffer."

  He gave her a blank look.

  "She's a movie star." Another blank look had her throwing up her hands. "It's not important." She stood up, took her empty wineglass and started toward the kitchen.

  For someone who professed not to cook, the aroma that wafted from the copper-bottomed pan was enough to start his mouth watering. "It smells very good," he said.

  "It's minestrone. Soup," she said.

  "I know it." He rubbed his unshaven chin. "But I thought you didn't cook."

  "I don't. I picked it up at Mancuso's in town. I also got some lasagna and salad." She opened a foam container, stuck it in the microwave and pressed the timer.

  Rory watched the meal spin around on the carousel. "Amazing," he murmured. He placed his hand against the black glass. "It's not warm. How does it work?"

  "I'll tell you what," she suggested. "Tomorrow, if you're still having problems with your memory—"

  "I have no problem with my memory." That wasn't exactly the truth. The problem was, he remembered too much. Rory thought the image of his house in flames would stick in his mind for several lifetimes. "You're the one who can't remember."

  "Me?" She stopped in the act of pouring the tossed green salad into an earthenware bowl. "I have a near photographic memory."

  "In this life, perhaps," he acknowledged obliquely.

  She stared at him. "Are you suggesting… No." She shook her head. "You cannot possibly believe that I… that you and I… That's ridiculous."

  He plucked a piece of red leaf lettuce from the bowl, dipped it into the container of oil-and-vinegar dressing, tasted it and found it delicious. "Fresh greens in November," he murmured. "This is truly a remarkable century. And what, exactly, do you find ridiculous? The fact that you may have lived another life, in another time? Or the idea of you and I having been together in a past life?"

  "I don't believe in past lives."

  "Oh?" He angled his head, studying her with interest. "Why not?"

  Good question. "I'm an intelligent woman."

  "Only an intelligent woman could achieve your level of success in a male-dominated profession," he agreed easily. "But why does that preclude believing you may have lived before?"

  "One of the reasons I chose law is because it's logical. At least most of the time," she amended, thinking about the Chapmann verdict. "There are legal precedents going back years, decades, even centuries, in some cases, which provide us with guidelines to follow—"

  "Precedents like prima facie," he interjected quietly.

  The Latin legal term meant, literally, on first appearance. "Exactly," she said. "How do you know that?"

  "Since you were reading the book you borrowed from the museum, you should have read that Rory Mannion practiced law before accepting the job as marshall. And while prima facie evidence is admittedly common in the law, what we have here, Counselor, is a case of sui generis."

  Of its own kind. Unique. Jessica knew all too well that the term was often used in legal decisions to indicate a singular set of events. like time travel? No way.

  She let out a short, harsh breath. "It's obvious that you have a nodding acquaintance with the law."

  "I told you, I have a degree—"

  "From Harvard. So, you want to tell me how a lawyer ended up a gunfighter?"

  "It's a complicated story."

  "Most of the good ones are."

  She still didn't believe him. In truth, Rory didn't blame her. "I was in the army," he said. "I tried court-martial cases. Then I got transferred out here during the time that the army was desperately trying to recapture Geronimo. I'd always believed what the government was calling the 'Indian problem' had nothing to do with me. When I started seeing some of the tactics the so-called good guys were using, I resigned my captain's commission and settled down in Prescott and set up a private law practice."

  "The idea that you left the army suggests you weren't a proponent of violence."

  "I wasn't."

  "And I suppose you're going to tell me that someone forced you to kill all those men?"

  "It's no excuse, but yes, in a way, that's what happened. I'd learned to shoot in the army, of course. And since Prescott wasn't exactly Boston, I carried a gun for my own protection. Much as you said you do," he reminded her.

  "Touché," she murmured.

  "Then one day, during a trial, my client's bank robbing cronies decided to try to help him escape. When they were going to shoot the judge, who was unarmed, I had no choice but to shoot them first."

  "Them?"

  "There were three of them."

  "And one of you?"

  "Who can explain why we have certain talents?" he asked with a sigh. "I didn't ask to have a good eye and a fast hand. It just happened."

  "But you practiced."

  "Of course. I had no choice, once the word got out and
other men wanting to build a reputation or keep the unsavory one they'd already earned, started coming to town to challenge me. It was either them or me."

  "From what I read, it was always them."

  "It wasn't as if I went after them," he argued. "In the beginning, I'd try to talk them out of the fight, but it didn't take long before I realized that anyone crazy enough to want to go around killing people for sport wasn't about to be dissuaded. So, since I wanted to keep the frontier code of legal self-defense on my side, I made a rule of always letting the other fellow fire first."

  "Wasn't that dangerous?"

  He shrugged. "Not really. My opponent would usually be in a hurry to prove his point. That need to get off the first shot would make him miss."

  "And you never did."

  He sighed. "No. I never did. Which is why, I suspect, the people wanted me as marshall, to protect them from the criminal element in the territory."

  "I read that one of the reasons for your popularity as marshall was that you treated everyone—white, black, Mexican, or Chinese, complainants or prisoners—exactly alike."

  "The law doesn't make any distinction between races or classes," he reminded her. "At least, not ideally."

  That thought brought her mind back to Chapmann.

  "No," she agreed, knowing he was undoubtedly thinking of Clayton. "Dammit, you've got me doing it again."

  "Doing what?"

  "Discussing century-old events as if they'd really happened to you."

  Rory closed the small gap between them and ran his palms over her shoulders. "I understand, all too well, how difficult it is to accept. But the fact is, no matter what logic you attempt to apply to this case, I truly am Rory Mannion and the last thing I remember is being shot by Black Jack Clayton in November of 1896."

  "I also know that when I was caught in that netherworld between life and death, Emilie told me I must return to the physical world. I fought against leaving her, but she promised me we would be together again."

  "And now, here I am, with you…"

  "Surely you don't believe I'm Emilie?" Jessica stared up at him, terribly concerned about this latest delusion.

  It was bad enough he believed himself to be a nineteenth-century lawyer turned gunslinger turned mar-shall. Or that he'd gotten the crazy idea that Eric Chapmann was his longtime nemesis Jack Clayton. But now, to believe that she was his beloved wife… Well, not only was that impossible, it could be dangerous.