by JoAnn Ross
"I called about Chapmann."
The bedroom was warm but Jessica felt a sudden chill. "What about him?"
"I heard your so-called houseguest threatened him yesterday in Otterbein's pharmacy."
"Chapmann was making veiled threats. Rory was merely trying to protect me."
"That's the way Walter tells it," Trace allowed. "But he mentioned something about Mannion confusing Chapmann with Clayton."
When she didn't immediately answer, he said, "Jess? Is that true?"
"It's true, but—"
"Dammit, the guy's nuts. And he's in your house!"
His roar reminded her of a wounded lion. Jessica put the receiver a little away from her ear. "You should be glad he is," she said. "Chapmann threatened me again last night. If Rory hadn't been here—"
"He threatened you? How? When?"
"Sometime in the middle of the night. He woke me up and made lewd suggestions on my answering machine. I was going to bring you the tape this morning, on the way to The Road to Ruin."
Trace groaned. "Don't tell me that you're actually taking Mannion to see Emilie Mannion's photographs."
"It's the best way to straighten all this out."
"Or make him even more delusional."
"What if he's not?"
"Not what?"
"What if he's not delusional?"
There was a long pause on the other end of the phone. "You're not suggesting that the guy really did somehow zap through time and end up here in the twentieth century, are you?"
"I'm not suggesting anything," she hedged. "I was merely pointing out that some situations are too complex for easy answers."
There was another long pause. "I worry about you," he said finally.
"I know." Her voice softened. "That's your fatal flaw, Callahan. You worry about everyone."
"You more than most."
She smiled and felt her eyes misting up. "I know that, too. And trust me, Trace, if I didn't believe I was entirely safe with Rory, I wouldn't let him stay here."
"Make sure you stop by the office on the way to the gallery," he said, knowing her well enough to know when arguing any further would be futile. "I want to hear that tape. And Jess—"
"Yes?"
"Be very, very careful, okay?"
"Okay." Despite the pall the subject of Chapmann had put over her morning, Jess was smiling when she hung up the phone.
"Is that true?" a deep voice asked.
She turned and saw Rory standing in the doorway between the bedroom and bathroom. The contrast between his hard masculine body and her lace-trimmed towel was enough to make any feminine heart flutter.
"Is what true?" she asked with what she thought was considerable aplomb, considering the circumstances.
"Is it true that you feel entirely safe with me?"
She considered lying and knew she'd never get away with it. "In the way Trace meant, yes."
"Meaning you trust I won't murder you in your sleep."
Jess nodded.
"But in that other, more fundamental way—"
"I'm still afraid," she admitted. "I've never felt like this about any other man and I'm not certain I like it."
He surprised her by laughing at that.
Hurt by his response, Jessica lifted her chin. "I didn't realize I'd said anything humorous."
His expression immediately sobered. Affection warmed his whiskey-hued eyes to a deep chocolate brown. "You didn't. Not really."
He crossed the carpet, stopped in front of her and framed her frowning face between his hands. "What you said was, word for word, what Emilie told me the first day we met."
"Oh."
Warmth flowed from his fingertips beneath her flesh, spreading outward throughout her body like shimmering gold summer sunshine. She gathered up handfuls of the sheet and curled her hands into fists, to keep from ripping that towel away.
"I suppose it's not all that original a thing for a woman to say to a man she finds herself unwillingly attracted to."
"I suppose not."
She looked so sweet. So flustered. Rory knew it would not take much to entice her into spending the morning amidst those rumpled sheets and by the time he was finished, she'd remember everything.
But he could also tell that there was a part of her that was holding back. And until she could come to him willingly, without a single reservation, he was willing to wait.
"Is there a barber in town these days?"
"Of course." His hair, which curled over his collar, was admittedly a little shaggy, but personally she liked it that way.
"Good." Rory nodded his satisfaction as he rubbed his palm down the side of his face. "I feel as if I've been on a month-long trail ride. I need to get a shave before meeting your princess gallery owner."
"You don't need to go to a barber for that. You can shave here."
"I didn't see a razor or strap in your bathroom."
"That's because you weren't looking for the right thing."
She got out of bed. Rory followed her into the bathroom and decided that the sight of her hips moving beneath that silk nightshirt was about the most erotic thing he'd ever seen. Even more enticing than that painting of the nude nymph hanging on Belle's parlor wall at The Road to Ruin brothel.
"Here it is."
He looked down at the small pink razor she was holding out to him. "You can't expect a man to shave with such a thing."
"Why not? I'll admit it's not exactly a masculine color, but—"
"It's too flimsy." He took it, hefted it in his hand and frowned.
"I shave my legs with it every day," she assured him. "It's got a flexible double blade and an aloe moistening strip. You'll love it."
He continued to look unconvinced. "Perhaps you should shave me this first time. To show me how it works."
"You're an intelligent man. Surely you can figure it out for yourself."
"I have no doubt I could. Eventually." He idly moved the feminine razor from one hand to the other. "However, I would hate to meet your friend, the royal princess, with bandages all over my face."
"Talk about your con jobs," she muttered.
"You're accusing me of running a confidence scheme?" He placed a hand against his chest and gave her his most innocent look. "You're an intelligent woman, Jess. A man would be foolhardy to try to put anything over on you."
She gave him another long look. "Cute, Mannion," she muttered. "Real cute." She gestured to a small velvet stool beside the sink. "Sit down and let's get this over with."
Smiling his satisfaction, Rory did as instructed, and watched as she turned on the water and picked up a green can. "Aerosol," she said as she pressed the top of the can, causing a cloud of white foam to spew forth. She wet his face, then filled her hand with the foam and began spreading it over his cheeks, chin and jaw.
"This is soap?" he asked, imagining smoothing the fluffy cream over her breasts.
He remembered their first week anniversary, when he'd talked Emilie into sharing the large copper bathtub with him. The experience had been more than memorable. But if they'd had soap like this…
"It's shaving cream. To soften your beard and your skin."
"Men do not need soft skin."
"Try telling that to any woman suffering from beard burn," she suggested.
"You're very good at this," he said.
"I told you, it's the blade."
"If that's true, perhaps later you will let me return the favor by shaving your legs." He ran his palm up her calf, finding it as smooth as the silk she was wearing.
"Not on a bet."
She trailed the razor down the side of his face, taking a swath of foam, then rinsed it beneath the tap. She managed to shave his cheeks, but ran into trouble when trying to follow the line of his jaw.
"Damn. This is awkward," she muttered, bending over, trying not to nick him while shaving the deep cleft in his chin. "Perhaps you should stand up."
"Perhaps you should sit down." He took hold of her wai
st and plunked her down on his lap.
"I don't think—"
"The angle is better," he reasoned.
The angle might be better, but the only thing between them was a pair of bikini panties and a towel. Jessica would have felt a lot better if the towel had been made of Kevlar.
"I promise to stay on my best behavior," Rory said, once again seeming to read her mind.
Jessica knew that if Trace could see this, the explosion would undoubtedly be heard all the way to Phoenix. Reminding herself that her personal life was none of his concern, she closed her mind to the thought and continued shaving.
"It is easier," she admitted, leaning over to rinse the razor again.
"Perhaps for you," he muttered as she shifted against the part of him that had been throbbing all night.
She felt him, hot and fully aroused, and a similar heat curled outward from her feminine core. She made one more quick swipe with the razor.
"Done," she announced. And just in the nick of time.
"You did a very professional job," he stated, running his hand over his now smooth cheek.
"Thank you."
He was still holding her on his lap and his firmly cut lips were just a whisper from hers. She knew, from the sexy gleam in his eyes, that Rory wanted to kiss her. And that was just for starters.
"Did you say something about stopping by the sheriff's office on the way to the gallery?" he asked.
Jessica was both grateful and disappointed when he effectively shattered the mood of shared desire that had settled over them. She wanted him. She also had not a single doubt that he wanted her, too. But she realized that he was willing to wait until her head caught up with her heart. And her rebellious, needy body. And for that alone, she loved him.
Love? The word tolled like a warning bell in her head. She was attracted to him, fascinated by him, cared more than she should for him. But could she actually be in love with him?
Of course not, the logical mind that had graduated with honors at the top of her law school class insisted.
Maybe, another, equally pragmatic part of her that was willing to look at all sides of a problem suggested.
Oh, yes, the romantic she'd never known was dwelling inside her whispered.
It was the romantic that stayed with her all during her lonely shower. The romantic that had her choose a short winter-white wool skirt, matching tights and a pink angora sweater instead of her usual Saturday wardrobe of jeans and a sweatshirt.
And it was the romantic who spent a blissful hour at the Branding Iron Cafe, her stack of blueberry pancakes going almost untouched, as Rory enthralled her with stories about the old West.
Wild, wonderful tales of Rory Mannion's life and times that were much the same as those in the book she'd borrowed from the museum, but far more detailed. Jessica was sorry when it came time to leave— time to return to the real world which included the answering machine tape she had to give to Trace.
She managed to convince Rory to stay in the car while she ran the tapes into the courthouse and up the stairs to Trace's office, where she was submitted to yet another lecture about the dangers of letting a strange man stay in her house. From his frustrated behavior, she suspected Trace would have loved to have locked her safely away in a cell if he could only have figured out a charge he could make stick.
And then they drove the two blocks to The Road to Ruin. As they entered the gallery, and the bell on the door chimed, Jessica realized she was holding her breath.
Noel Giraudeau was in the process of hanging a group of framed photographs on the cream wall. A yellow dog the size of a small pony lay at her feet. She turned at the sound of the bell and greeted the couple with a smile.
"Jessica, what a nice surprise." She held out both her hands. "It's been too long since we've had a chance to visit."
"I've been a bit busy," Jessica said.
"I know." Warm blue eyes expressed sympathy. "As Mac wrote in his brilliant editorial, you were robbed in that verdict." The women embraced, exchanging cheek kisses, then Noel turned to Jessica's companion. "Hello."
Her smile froze in place, and Rory watched as the color faded from her face and she began to sway. He took hold of her arms to steady her.
"Are you all right?" Jessica asked, immediately concerned. "Should I call Dr. McGraw?"
"No." Noel shook her head, sending her silky blond hair out in a silvery arc. "I just need to sit down. Perhaps in my office." She gestured toward a nearby door.
Despite the advanced stage of her pregnancy, and the huge yellow dog's growled warning, Rory picked her up and carried her into the office, where he placed her carefully on a love seat covered in a fabric reminiscent of a Navajo blanket. The office windows overlooked a garden ablaze with bright saffron and copper mums. In the middle of the garden a trio of nymphs frolicked in a stone fountain.
"I really think I should call the doctor," Jessica insisted.
"No, I'm fine. Truly." Noel managed a smile. "I was just so surprised…" Her voice drifted off as she stared up at Rory, her expression that of a woman who was looking at a ghost.
"You're Rory Mannion," she said without displaying an iota of the doubt that had been plaguing Jessica. "And you've come for Black Jack."
It was not a question, but Rory answered it anyway. "Yes."
His tone was so hard and implacable it made goose bumps rise on Jessica's arms. "I don't understand," she complained. "How do you know Rory?"
"I don't, not personally. But Mac will, I'm sure."
"Mac?" Jessica was now thoroughly confused.
"It's taken every ounce of feminine persuasion I possess to keep him from doing something drastic about Black Jack's return," Noel murmured. "I truly believe that were it not for the baby—our baby—he would have taken the law into his own hands when Chapmann was acquitted."
"I don't understand any of this," Jessica complained.
"I know." Noel managed an indulgent smile. The color was coming back into her face and her eyes were clearing. "I think it might be better if Mac explained things himself. He publishes the newspaper right next door," she told Rory. "Let me call him and ask him to come over."
Not wanting Noel to get up, Jessica handed her the portable phone from the desk. The call took only a moment and Noel had barely hung up when the ringing of the bell on the door was followed by the sound of boot heels on the polished pine plank floor.
"Are you certain you're all right?" Mackenzie Reardon asked as he burst into the room, his green eyes radiating both love and fear.
"I'm fine." Noel held out a hand to him, which he crushed between both of his.
"You said it was an emergency."
"I said it was important," she correct calmly.
"You said something had happened."
"Yes. But not to the baby. It's about Black Jack."
A thunderstorm moved across his face. "What has that bastard done now? If he so much as spoke to you—"
"No. Not me." She turned their linked hands and pressed her lips against his whitened knuckles in a fond gesture. "We have company, my love," she murmured.
He turned toward Jessica first. "I'm sorry, Jessica. I've heard about the threats Chapmann made to you. If there's anything I can do—" He stopped suddenly as he recognized the man standing beside her. "My God," he said, exhaling a harsh breath, "it's you."
"In the flesh," Rory agreed. Although the appearance was entirely different, he'd recognize his old friend anywhere. "It's good to see you again, Wolfe."
"Wolfe?" Jessica felt as if she'd suddenly fallen down the rabbit hole and ended up at the Mad Hatter's tea party. "Could someone please explain what's going on?"
"It's a little confusing," Noel murmured.
"More than a little," Mac seconded. "In fact, I didn't realize what was happening myself until last month at the Halloween dance, when Noel dressed up in that dance hall outfit and—"
"She's the woman," Rory said with a look of sudden comprehension. "The one you always refus
ed to talk about. The beautiful blonde who mysteriously left Whiskey River after you were cleared of the massacre. The one you swore you'd love until the day you died."
"For eternity," Mac said. He exchanged a fond, loving look with Noel, then turned to Jessica, his green eyes looking deep into hers, as if he were looking straight into her soul. "This gets more and more amazing," he murmured.
"You can say that again," Rory agreed, knowing that his old drinking and card-playing buddy was beginning to realize that Emilie had come back as well, making the circle complete.
"I think," Noel said, looking at a bewildered Jessica with sympathy, "we should all sit down and have some tea. And since Mac is the storyteller of the group, I believe he should be the one to explain the situation to Jessica."
"Good idea," Rory agreed. He pulled up two chairs, one for himself and one for Jess. Taking hold of her hand, he nodded toward the man he'd known a hundred years ago as Wolfe Longwalker.
8
"This is impossible!"
Jessica stared at the newspaperman she'd always known as Mackenzie Reardon, the man who'd given up a prestigious job as editor of the Chicago Sun-Times to return to his hometown and become publisher and editor of the small circulation Rim Rock Record. For thirty minutes this intelligent, soft-spoken individual had told her things that defied belief.
"I thought the same thing, when Noel was trying to explain it to me," Mac agreed. "But eventually it sunk in."
"That you're the reincarnation of a half Irish, half Navajo writer who fell in love with a psychic princess, who'd inherited the gift of second sight from her Gypsy grandmother. A princess who just happened to have a vision of you all the way across the sea in her own kingdom—a hundred years later!"
"And despite the fact that she was supposed to be preparing for her wedding to another man, flew to Arizona, drove to Whiskey River, and stayed at The Road To Ruin, which had been turned into a bed-and-breakfast. Then she bought a book written by Wolfe Longwalker—you—and this mysterious book magically zapped her backward in time to save you from hanging, then returned to the present to wait for you?"
