by JoAnn Ross
"I had no idea Wolfe would return," Noel explained. "I was honestly prepared to spend the rest of my life alone… Well—" she patted her bulging stomach "—not exactly alone."
"That's right," Jessica said dryly. "You returned to the twentieth century carrying Wolfe Longwalker's baby."
"I've always considered that a miracle," Noel said with the serenity that she wore like a second skin in spite of her rollicking adventure in 1896 Whiskey River.
"It's definitely the world's longest pregnancy." Jessica shook her head in disbelief. "You really should call the Guinness people. You'd definitely end up with the world's record."
"I don't pretend to understand how it happened, but it's true," Noel insisted quietly. "The minute Mac came up to the house to interview me for the Record, I recognized him. Even without the birthmark."
"Birthmark?"
"Wolfe Longwalker was born with a mark in the shape of a wolf's head on the inside of his wrist." Noel smiled at her husband-to-be. "Show her, darling."
Mac obligingly rolled up his sleeve and held out his arm, revealing the mark.
"It could be a coincidence," Jessica insisted doggedly.
"That's what I tried to tell myself at first," Mac said, the warmth in his gaze revealing that he definitely empathized with Jessica's confusion. "But I remembered too many things that weren't in any history texts. Intimate things about Noel's visit to Arizona Territory that only a lover would know." He exchanged a loving gaze with his fiancée, who blushed in response.
"It also explained," he said, "why I had the sudden urge to leave a successful big-city career, where presidential candidates vied for my endorsement, to return home and spend every last cent of my savings to buy a paper that's always drowning in red ink and has the huge staff of two reporters and one part-time photographer."
"Are you telling me that you believe that you came home because you somehow knew that the woman you'd loved in a previous century had moved here?"
"On some intuitive level, absolutely. As I said, from the moment I first saw Noel, working in her garden, I knew she seemed familiar. But I managed to convince myself that I recognized her from all the photographs that have appeared in magazines over the years."
"But when I saw her in the duplicate of the dress she was wearing when she saved my life, it all came flooding back to me. Including the part about Black Jack and his pals framing me for murders I didn't commit."
He looked over at Noel again. "I still wish you'd killed him when you shot him in The Road to Ruin."
"The brothel, not this gallery," Noel answered Jessica's unspoken question. "And considering how horribly guilty I felt when I'd thought I had killed him, I can't agree with that, Mac."
Mac muttered a curse and folded his arms across his chest. "Then I should have killed him."
Jessica was staring at the pregnant woman the tabloid press had dubbed The Ice Princess, to differentiate between her and her more flamboyant sister. "You actually shot a man?"
"To save Wolfe's life," Noel confirmed.
"Amazing." That was the most incomprehensible thing she'd heard thus far. "So, continuing down this very strange path, Mac is Wolfe, Noel is the same person she always was, Rory is still Rory, Eric Chapmann is Black Jack Clayton, a notorious cold-blooded killer, and I'm supposed to be Emilie Cartwright Mannion."
"That's it in a nutshell," Mac agreed.
"It all appears to fit," Noel said.
"I told you." This from Rory.
Jessica dragged her hand through her hair. "But I don't remember anything."
"Of course you do," Rory said gently. "Just little flashes, but I've seen them."
"That's the way it worked for me," Mac offered. "In the beginning. May I ask you something?"
"Shoot." Jessica's sense of humor returned and she grinned at Noel. "I was speaking figuratively."
Noel returned Jess's smile with a friendly, reassuring one of her own. "I know."
"How did you end up in Whiskey River?" Mac asked.
"Simple. I wanted to get as far away from Philadelphia as I could."
"That would be California. Or Alaska."
"I'm afraid of earthquakes. And weeks of darkness would get depressing."
"Why Whiskey River?" he asked again. "An attorney with all you have going for you could probably end up state attorney general if you practiced in a big city."
"Maybe I like small towns." She knew her tone was overly defensive, but couldn't help herself.
"There are a lot of small towns between here and Philadelphia."
"All right. I threw a dart. I'll admit it's not a very intelligent way to choose a career location, but that's what I did."
"Isn't it strange," Noel murmured, "how fate works?"
"You can't be suggesting that some sort of fate or destiny had us all showing up here together?"
"I've come to think of Whiskey River as being a bit like Brigadoon," Noel said. "Hidden away here in the mists, just waiting for those who understand its magic to discover it."
Magic, time travel, mists. It was all too much for someone who'd always prided herself on possessing an analytical, logical mind.
"I don't want to insult you all," Jessica said. "But I still feel as if we've eaten some sort of funny mushroom and landed in the same hallucination."
"You remembered last night," Rory reminded her quietly. "You talked about our wedding night, about how you'd worried about measuring up to the working girls at The Road to Ruin. And although I'd reassured you that you were perfect, you thought I must be lying."
"I didn't—"
"It was right before you fell asleep. After Clayton called you were trembling and ice-cold, so I offered to light a fire to warm you up, but you told me how frightened you were of fires, so I didn't. You almost remembered, but I was grateful you hadn't, because it must have been horrendous."
"So I carried you upstairs to bed and you wrapped your arms around me and just before you fell asleep, you remembered—"
"Us being together like that before," she whispered, the memory shimmering in her mind like a mirage just out of reach on the highway.
But what, exactly, was she remembering? Her almost dream? Or the reality of Emilie Mannion's life and death?
"I'm not certain it's wise to push you into remembering," Noel said quietly. "However, if Clayton is making threats against you, it is important you understand the kind of man you're up against."
"I know what kind of man Chapmann is."
"No," the other three said in unison.
"No," Noel repeated, "I don't think you do. Chapmann is dangerous, granted. But he's also clever and rather charming, which is how he manages to convince naive and lonely young women to go off alone with him and juries to acquit him."
"But Black Jack Clayton was purely evil, through and through. I've seen that evil in Chapmann's eyes. And if he begins to remember,, and realizes who you are—" her expression was immeasurably grave "—you could be in terrible danger."
"He could use you to get to me," Rory said. "As he has before."
It was truly too much to take in. "So, what do you suggest I do?" Jessica complained. "Go tell Trace that a hired gun from the nineteenth century is going to try to kill me to get back at my husband, who just happens to have tracked the bad guy into this century? He'd probably call for a straitjacket."
"You've already told the sheriff that Clayton has threatened you," Rory said. "That's all he needs to know at this point."
"It's still so amazing."
"I know." Mac gave her another of those warm reassuring smiles. "It's easier for Noel and Rory, because they've stayed exactly the same people while they've been going back and forth between the centuries. You and I have to reconcile who we are now with who we once were. But believe me, Jessica, we're incredibly fortunate people."
His gaze shifted to Noel and watching the depth of emotion that flowed between them, she felt the sharp pain of a love lost. Which was foolish, because she'd never truly loved anyone
in that all-encompassing way.
Or had she? she wondered as she felt Rory's steady presence beside her.
"I think," she said slowly, "I'd like to take a look at Emilie's photographs."
The others remained silent as she walked around the gallery, studying each framed photograph in turn. The subject matter ranged from black-eyed Navajo children to white-haired tribal elders to leather-skinned, bowlegged cowboys, but each shot was intensely personal.
And while Jessica found them both technically wonderful—especially considering the film and equipment restraints Emilie Cartwright Mannion would have been working under—and emotionally eye-catching, not a single shot was even slightly familiar.
Until she got to the one of Rory Mannion, looking wonderfully handsome in a vested black serge suit and stiff white collar. He hadn't gone entirely city, she thought, noting the familiar Stetson and wedge-heeled riding boots. His face, beneath the handlebar mustache, was not smiling.
"My father wanted you to take off that hat," she murmured.
"It's my lucky hat." Rory grinned down at her much as he had on their wedding day.
"That's what you said."
She remembered so much more about that day. How the sun had gilded the grass a pure and gleaming gold in the meadow where they'd exchanged vows; how the scent of wildflowers had filled the air; how Rory's eyes had widened when he'd first seen her in the white dotted swiss dress she'd had a local dressmaker copy from a fashion plate in Godey's Lady's Book; how a few of the townswomen had been scandalized at how sheer it was, and at the fact that she'd chosen to wear flowers on her head instead of a proper veil.
She remembered how she'd felt as if she were floating on air as they'd danced the evening away, and later, how he'd introduced her to pleasures beyond her wildest dreams.
Wanting—no, needing—to be alone with him, Jessica turned to Mac and Noel. "I hope you won't think me terribly rude, but I really need to go home."
"Of course." Noel took hold of Jessica's shoulders and kissed her on both cheeks, continental style, as she would her own sister. "If you feel the need to talk about any of this, please call me. Any time."
Jessica knew she meant it. For a woman who'd grown up in a palace, who'd undoubtedly worn diamonds before she'd owned her first pair of jeans, Noel Giraudeau was remarkably down-to-earth. And kind.
"Thank you. I think I may take you up on that."
Still feeling shell-shocked, Jessica left the gallery with Rory. She was already buckled into the leather car seat when she realized Rory had claimed the driver's seat.
"What do you think you're doing?"
"Driving you home."
"You don't know how to drive."
He shrugged. "I've been watching you. It doesn't look all that difficult."
Considering the Jag was an automatic, and the local traffic could never, except during rodeo week, be considered the slightest bit heavy, Jessica decided that it was probably safe enough. However…
"You don't have a license."
"It is necessary to get a license to drive a car?" He turned the key in the ignition. The Jag leaped obediently to life.
"Of course."
"And they call what the Dalton gang does highway robbery," he murmured.
"If you're stopped, you'll get a ticket," she warned.
"Don't worry." He moved the lever, shifting the car into gear. "In the event your sheriff does try to arrest me, I'll merely plead guilty with an excuse."
"And that is?"
He shot her a sideways glance and a grin that possessed the power to melt her heart. "They didn't have drivers' licenses in 1896."
"That's probably because there weren't any cars in Whiskey River in 1896," she said as he pulled away from the curb.
"My point exactly." He flashed her another cocky grin that brightened his eyes and made him look, for the first time since she'd found him lying unconscious on the road, like the warm, funny, loving man who'd tumbled her in a hayloft to the joyful accompaniment of calliope music.
The memory warmed her, but at the same time the images triggered by that photograph of Rory on his— their?—wedding day were terribly unnerving. Dangerous or not, Jessica was grateful that Rory had insisted on driving.
Rory quickly understood why the automobile had replaced the horse. Although there was much to be said for horses, and he'd been extremely fond of his mare, the ability to cover ground at such speed was not only practical but thrilling.
He also understood immediately why Jessica enjoyed driving so fast. The throaty roar of the engine, the sight of the white lines flashing beneath the wheels, the blur of the trees outside the windows were definitely exhilarating. "I like this driving." She smiled. "So do I."
He took his eyes from the road long enough to give her an answering smile. "You used to like to gallop."
"I did?" Although she'd lived in Whiskey River for nearly two years, Jessica had never been on a horse.
"You rode like the wind. We used to race along the rim and you beat me more times than I care to admit. And then, after I would lay my ego at your feet and admit defeat, we'd spread out a blanket and have a picnic. You used to fry a chicken and bake the best chocolate cake I'd ever eaten."
"I still make that cake," she said, surprising herself with the memory. "Everyone always says I should enter it at the county fair."
"You won the blue ribbon the year we met. Of course, one of the judges was admittedly prejudiced, but it was still the best cake entered in the contest."
He'd been that judge. Along with Mae Dillon, whose husband owned the mercantile, and Joe Slovik, owner and operator of the livery stable.
"The first time you kissed me was on a picnic," she recalled.
"Actually, the first time I kissed you was at the fair, but that probably doesn't count since you were working the kissing booth at the time."
She blushed at that. "We were raising money to build a library."
"I used up nearly a month's pay."
"I remember." She smiled at the memory of Rory showing up with that long string of tickets. "And afterward, we walked along the midway and you insisted on carrying my camera."
"And you invited me out on that first picnic and I got up hours before dawn to have everything ready. My father thought I was crazy."
"He wasn't at all happy about the idea of another man taking away his apprentice," Rory recalled. "Especially one with my less than sterling reputation. But by the time we got married, I'd won him over."
"That's because you cheated at cards."
"Your father, my love, was a terrible poker player. Cheating was the only way I could make sure he won."
"He knew, you know."
Rory shot her a surprised look. "Really?" And here he'd thought he'd done a pretty damn good job of palming those cards.
"Of course. The first time he took you for twenty dollars, he came home and told me that I should marry you. Because any man willing to lose at poker in the name of love was worth keeping."
Rory laughed. "I liked your father. A lot."
"I know. He liked you, too." She sighed. "I can't believe we're discussing this. My father's very much alive. He's a judge in Philadelphia. He and my mother play bridge on Thursday evenings."
"Is he any good?"
It was Jess's turn to laugh. "He's terrible. Mother's always threatening to get a decent partner."
"There you go," Rory said with a shrug. "It appears that history just keeps repeating itself."
They fell silent for a while, each lost in their own thoughts.
"I wanted you to kiss me that first day when you showed up to arrest me for taking dirty pictures."
"You should have said something. I would have been more than happy to oblige."
"Yet you wouldn't make love to me when I asked you to."
It had been at that same picnic, when she'd been lying beneath him, thrilled by the hard male form pressing against her, dizzy from a sun-filled afternoon of heady, breath-stealing kisses.
"I respected you too much to take advantage of your innocence."
"Even if I wanted you to?"
"It's the man's responsibility to keep a clear head," Rory explained.
And although she found his statement chauvinistic, Jessica decided that if more men felt that way today, there wouldn't be so many single mothers struggling to survive.
"I wanted you more than I'd ever wanted anyone or anything in my life," Rory admitted. "And I needed you more than I'd never needed any woman. But there were two reasons I forced myself from giving in to temptation."
"The first was that I loved you enough to wait until you'd agreed to marry me." Rory recalled all too well how Emilie had forsworn marriage in favor of a career in photography. Fortunately, it hadn't been that difficult to change her mind.
"What was the second reason?"
"I was scared to death of your father."
When she laughed at that, he said, "Hey, the guy was nearly as big as a grizzly bear. He could've crushed me with one swipe of his paw—I mean, hand. It was bad enough that he threatened to kill me if I ever made you cry."
"He didn't!"
"It was on our wedding day. While we were waiting for you to get dressed. He took me aside, welcomed me into the family, then threatened to kick out my lungs and break me into little bitty pieces if I ever did anything to hurt his princess."
"You never said anything about that."
"Why should I when I agreed with him? Hell, I knew that I'd do the same thing if any bastard ever hurt my little girl."
An image flashed through Jessica's mind. Of her father walking her across the meadow to where Rory stood with Wolfe Longwalker, his best man.
She remembered James Cartwright's uncharacteristically gruff voice answering "I do" when the preacher asked who gave this woman in holy matrimony. And she remembered, when he'd kissed her on the cheek, how his eyes had glistened with unshed tears.
Three weeks later, he was dead. Shot in the back by Black Jack Clayton. The next morning Rory had left, to bring Black Jack in. And then…
"I can't remember anything after that morning," she murmured. "The morning you rode away."
Rory closed his eyes briefly to ward off the pain, then opened them again to keep from running the car off the road.
