Taken by the Cowboy - A Time Travel Romance

by Julianne MacLean

  Stepping up onto the boardwalk, she paused outside a bar called the Long Branch Saloon, which made no sense because the Long Branch was part of the Dodge City Museum—a re-creation of historic Front Street, mostly visited by tourists. But this didn’t look anything like that. It seemed far more real. Almost too authentic.

  She backed into a post to let a group of men in tattered cowboy costumes pass by, then glanced at the swinging doors. From where she stood, she could hear glasses clinking and dice rolling. There was a click and clatter of poker chips and billiard balls while a man hollered above the music, "Twenty-five-to-one!"

  Her stomach churned again. She really needed to find a phone.

  She decided to try the saloon, but shrank back when she glanced at the window. June bugs. She hated June bugs. When she was seven years old, her best friend's little brother had planted some in her bed during a camping trip and they’d given her the heebie-jeebies ever since.

  Trying not to think about that anymore, Jessica shivered with disgust, pushed through the doors, and collided with a thick wall of cigar smoke. Her nose crinkled. Stifling a cough, she gazed uneasily over the crowd.

  Most of the men wore hats and looked as if they'd just walked out of an old movie.

  Focusing on what she had come in for, she approached the bar. "Excuse me. I've been in a car accident and I need to get to a phone. Do you have one that I could use?"

  The bartender, who wore a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up, topped by a brown vest, stared at her while he polished a shot glass.

  "Sir?" she asked again. "Can you at least tell me how I can get to Dodge City? The real Dodge City?"

  "This is it, darlin’. You're exactly where you want to be."

  Now this was getting ridiculous. "No, you don’t understand. I've been in an accident and I need a phone."

  "Don't have no phone, but I’ve heard about ’em."

  Jessica stared at the man for an agonizing second, then turned on her heels and walked to the window. A snake handler wandered by carrying a lantern. Following closely behind him was a squealing pig.

  She rubbed her throbbing temples and squeezed her eyes shut. Maybe she did have a head injury and this was all a hallucination, or maybe she was unconscious and dreaming.

  She returned to the bar. "Is there a telephone anywhere in this town?"

  "Not that I know of." He turned around and placed the polished shot glass on a shelf.

  Enough was enough. Jessica pushed a damp lock of her hair behind her ear and took a deep breath to calm herself.

  "Are you fixin' to buy a drink, ma’am,” he asked, “or are you just gonna stand there and stare at me all night?"

  Jessica glanced around the saloon at the rough and tough looking clientele, and held up a hand. “No thanks. I’ll find help elsewhere.” Struggling to keep it together, she walked out.

  Squinting through the darkness, she searched for a friendly face or a shop with some lights on, but all she saw were those same two drunken cowboys flinging bottles, laughing uproariously and spitting tobacco.

  Suddenly a shot rang out in the street. Panic exploded in her belly, and she ran back into the saloon. "Is there a police station nearby?” she said to the bartender. “I really need some help."

  "You'd be looking for Sheriff Wade,” he casually replied. “He's just over that way in the city clerk’s office, not far from the depot and the water tank." He pointed a bottle of whisky toward the window.

  "Is it far? I have to walk there by myself."

  "Not far, but a young woman ain't safe roaming these streets alone during cattle season. These cowboys have been on the trail a while, and have a hankering for more than just the chuck wagon, if you understand my meaning." He leaned over the bar and glanced down at her skinny jeans and muddy red pumps. "They'll be takin' a shinin' to you, even dressed the way you are in those britches."

  "I'll be fine." She turned and walked out the door.

  She hopped off the boardwalk and down onto the street with a splash, groaning when she sank ankle-deep into the mud. No matter. She'd be at the sheriff's office soon enough, and this whole thing would be straightened out.

  She stopped, however, when something tickled and buzzed behind her ear. She scratched and tousled her hair, then realized with a terrible surge of panic that a June bug was stuck in her hair!

  Jessica shrieked. She tried to brush it away, but it was tangled in her long wet locks. She tossed her head around, flailed her arms in all directions, and jumped through the puddles to try and escape.

  Boom! Another gunshot ripped through the night. Her heart exploded with fear, and she tripped backwards over a plank in the street. Down she went, splashing into a puddle on her backside. No sooner than her butt began to throb, she looked up to see a man falling out of a second story window!

  He dropped onto the over-hanging roof and rolled straight toward her. Jessica scrambled to her feet and slipped through the slick muck, barely escaping the plummeting man's path. Just as she slid out of the way, he landed heavily in front of her, splashing muddy water onto her cheeks. A second later, a metal object dropped into a puddle beside her.

  "Sir!" she hollered, dropping to her hands and knees to help him. "Are you all right?"

  He was face down in the mud, and Jessica was just about to roll him over when the saloon doors swung open, smacking against the outside wall. Men and women poured out and gathered on the boardwalk to stare at her in shocked silence.

  "What in God's name happened?" someone asked.

  “This man fell out of a window,” Jessica replied. “He needs help.”

  The stranger ran toward her and together, they rolled the injured man onto his back. Jessica stared in horror at his face. A clean bullet hole gaped between his eyes, and blood trickled down his nose.

  “Dear Lord,” the stranger said. He stood up and quickly backed away.

  “Somebody call 911!” Jessica shouted. She pressed her ear to the man’s chest to listen for a heartbeat. When she heard nothing, she knew there was no hope, but she still wanted an ambulance. A cop car, too.

  If there was such a thing in this backward place.

  “Will somebody call an ambulance?” she shouted in frustration.

  “Now...just be calm, miss,” the stranger said. “We don't want any trouble.”

  “What are you talking about?” she replied. “I don't want to cause trouble. I’m trying to help him. Doesn’t anyone have a cell phone?”

  That particular request was met with blank stares.

  “I saw her wavin’ a gun around like some kind of lunatic!” someone offered.

  “I wasn’t waving a gun,” she explained. “I was trying to kill a June bug."

  There was a series of 'oohs' and 'ahs' from the crowd as everyone backed away in unison.

  Realizing she was quickly becoming a primary suspect in this man’s murder, Jessica raised both hands in the air and stood. "Look, everyone needs to stay calm. It wasn't me. I was just trying to help him."

  "Do you know who this is?" the stranger asked.

  Jessica shook her head. “No.”

  "That's Left Hand Lou!" someone called out from the crowd.

  Before Jessica had a chance to comprehend what this meant, people rushed over to get a look at the corpse.

  "He's wanted in three states!" someone hollered. "You just killed the fastest draw this side of the Mississippi!"

  What did they think she had done? She hadn't shot him! And what did they mean—the fastest draw this side of the Mississippi? This wasn’t Gunsmoke, for pity’s sake.

  "Wait a minute,” she said. “Seriously. There’s been a mistake.”

  Just then, a deep voice cut through the commotion. "Can I ask what's going on in this little gathering of yours?"

  Unable to discern from where the voice had come, she looked all around through the darkness.

  "Ma’am? I asked you a question." The crowd parted, clearing a wide path for the inquiring man to approach. Jessica wa
s finally able to get a glimpse at him, although the brim of his black hat shadowed his face from the dim lantern light spilling out of the saloon.

  He moved slowly toward her, and she was taken aback by how handsome he was, with dark hair, blue eyes, and a fit, muscular build.

  Closing the distance between them, he pushed his open black coat to the side. His purpose was clear as he rested his large hand on an ivory-handled revolver holstered to his leather gun belt.

  His trousers—also black—were snug and worn at the knees, and his boots were spurred. Jessica hadn't actually looked at his feet, but as he walked, the sound of the spurs jingling alerted her senses to everything about him.

  Someone moved aside, and a gentle stream of light reflected off the shiny star pinned to the man's lapel.

  It read: Sheriff.

  Thank God.

  He angled his head and spoke in low voice – sort of like Clint Eastwood, but not exactly. "Ma’am, you look a little distressed. Can I be of some assistance?"

  His observation, which couldn't have been closer to the truth, melted all her cool bravado in an instant, and she was so relieved, she could have grabbed hold of his shirt collar, pulled him toward her, and kissed him square on the lips.

  "Yes, you can,” she replied. “I’m so glad you’re here. Thank you for coming so quickly."

  He chuckled softly, but the smile in his eyes was cold and calculating.

  “I wouldn’t thank me just yet,” he drawled, as he wrapped his big hand around her arm and tugged her closer. “Because by the look of things here, missy, you’re gonna be spending the night in my jailhouse.”

  The crowd murmured approval, while Jessica glanced up at his ruggedly handsome features, bronzed by wind and sun, then cautiously lowered her eyes to the gun at his hip.

  He shook his head at her, as if she’d been a very naughty girl, and said, “Tsk tsk tsk,” while she paused to think carefully about the best way to handle this.

  Chapter Two

  Wetting her lips and clearing her throat, Jessica managed to muster some dignity from somewhere inside, and proudly wiped her mud-splattered cheek with a finger.

  Without a word, the sheriff reached into his pocket and handed her a crisp white handkerchief.

  “Thank you,” she coolly replied, while she proceeded to clean her face and wipe her hands.

  "She just killed Left Hand Lou, Sheriff!” someone said. “Imagine, a pretty little thing like that—"

  "I see what happened, Matthew," the sheriff said, without taking his eyes off her. "But I’d like to hear the whole story from the lady."

  With calculated decorum, Jessica finished wiping the mud from her hands and passed the kerchief back to him. He shoved it into his coat pocket.

  "Is that the gun that killed this man?" he asked.

  "Yes, sir, it is," Matthew replied as he bent to pick up the revolver at her feet.

  Proudly he raised the revolver for everyone to see, and there was no shortage of more 'oohs' and 'ahs' from the crowd as muddy water dripped from the barrel.

  This was getting worse by the second.

  "Hand it over,” the sheriff said to Matthew. His inquisitive eyes studied Jessica with intentional detached interest as he took the wet revolver, shook out the excess water and shoved it into his belt.

  "You haven't told me your name yet," he said.

  “Jessica Delaney.”

  “Well, Miss Delaney,” he replied, “I'm pleased to make your acquaintance. The name is Truman Wade.” He tapped his thumb against the ivory handle of his gun.

  It was clear he held the silent crowd's respect. Or maybe they feared him. Judging by the way Jessica felt at the moment, it was probably the latter.

  “Are you going to tell me what happened here,” he asked, “or am I gonna have to ask the dead man?”

  Jessica turned to examine the corpse behind her. "You don't understand. There's been a mistake."

  The sheriff's quiet laughter made her clench her jaw in aggravation. Wondering what the joke was all about—when a dead man lay two feet away—she faced the cool lawman again.

  "You mean to tell me," he drawled, "you shot this man square between the eyes by mistake?"

  The crowd jeered until Sheriff Wade cast his steely gaze in their direction. He turned back to her, an eyebrow raised as he waited.

  "No. That's not what happened—"

  "So you did it on purpose, then."

  She shook her head, struggling to play it cool, and decided a casual chuckle might, in fact, be apropos. Glancing around at the nosy spectators, she tried to smile and said, "No, of course not. I don't even know how to shoot a gun. Honestly, I can explain."

  His gaze slowly raked over her from head to foot. He scrutinized her long wet hair, her belted jacket, her skinny jeans and pointy-toed red shoes, which he stared at for quite some time. "I think folks around here will be mighty disappointed to hear your aim ain't as sharp as they think it is."

  Jessica bit her lip and pushed her hair behind her ear. “Sheriff Wade, I don’t appreciate your tone. I know my rights, and I want my phone call.”

  “Phone call,” he repeated, as if it was the most ridiculous thing he’d ever heard.

  Fixated on the subtle sexuality hidden beneath the Sheriff’s half-crooked smile, Jessica glanced around at the others. Logic and self-preservation told her to be quiet and patient until she could speak to a lawyer.

  "She said she was trying to kill a June bug," Matthew offered helpfully. “Whatever that is.”

  Wonderful.

  The sheriff eyed her with curious interest. “Must have been an awfully big bug.”

  A number of onlookers mumbled with amusement.

  Oh sure, this was all downright hilarious.

  "Matthew, see that Lou gets looked after." The sheriff's smile vanished, and it felt as if the temperature dropped. "I think you better come along with me, Junebug. We're going to have a little chat in the jailhouse."

  Jessica's stomach lurched with dread as he took hold of her arm and led her down the street, granting no opportunity for debate. They marched quickly, and it wasn't easy keeping up with the sheriff's long strides. He had to be at least six feet tall. But everyone seemed tall next to her tiny five-foot-four inch frame.

  "Would you mind loosening your grip, Sheriff?” she said haughtily. “There’s no need for police brutality. I’m not resisting arrest."

  He let her go, but kept one hand on his weapon at all times as if he half expected a gang of outlaws to ride up out of nowhere and break her free.

  Finally, they reached the two-story jailhouse, and he escorted her through the front door and into a jail cell.

  “Hey, you can’t put me in here.”

  Before she had a chance to say another word, he swung the bars shut in front of her face and locked her in.

  Jingling the key ring in his hand, he gave her a quick look before hanging it on a hook across the room.

  Jessica, reeling with frustration, gazed around the one-room jailhouse. She had expected to see a telephone, a computer and maybe some florescent lights, but even the law office was straight out of another century.

  At that instant, her frustration turned to fear. "I need to speak to a lawyer," she said, gripping the cold iron bars. "And I need a phone."

  "No phone here I'm afraid."

  It was one brick wall after another. Her stomach muscles clenched tight, mirroring her desperation.

  The sheriff sat on a messy, paper-covered desk, folded his muscled arms at his chest, and crossed one ankle over the other.

  Growing increasingly anxious by the minute, Jessica pinched the bridge of her nose. She had to ask the question that had been niggling at her ever since the accident—the question she hadn’t wanted to ask—and she needed to ask it in a way that wouldn’t make her sound insane or delusional. "Sheriff, what’s the date today?”

  “June 29th.”

  She cleared her throat and felt some relief, because June 29th was the date she
woke up that morning. “And the year is, of course....”

  His dark eyebrows drew together. "Eighteen-eighty-one." He stared at her.

  Jessica squeezed her eyes shut against the panic, and felt a crippling need to lie down.

  "I need to speak to a lawyer," she said again, more shakily this time.

  “Are you all right, Junebug? You look a little pale.” His voice conveyed some concern, as if he finally noticed how unsettled she was.

  She sat down. "No, I’m not all right. I was in a car accident. I almost died today, and I had to walk here from the wreck. And now I’m in jail! And don’t call me Junebug."

  He leaned forward in his chair and again looked down at her jeans and shoes, everything crusted in mud. "I didn’t hear about any train wreck.”

  “No, not a train wreck. A car wreck.”

  He frowned.

  Please tell me you know what a car is.

  "Really, you have to believe me,” she said. “I'm not sure how I got here. I can't remember what happened exactly, but I don't belong in this place." She swallowed hard over the panic and tried to beat it down, but it was no use. Her heart began to beat very fast.

  Sheriff Wade opened a drawer, pulled out another clean folded handkerchief, stood up, and passed it through the bars. “No need to fret, darlin’. You’re safe now.”

  Her pride bucked wildly as she glanced down at his offering, then she lifted her gaze to meet his and spoke with a hard edge of confidence. “I don’t need a hanky, and I’m not your darlin’. What I need is to speak to a lawyer, and I won't say anything more until you bring me one."

  He watched her for a moment. The fierce lines around his eyes softened, then he turned back to his desk. "You stay put till Deputy Dempsey gets here. I'll see if I can fetch Mr. Maxwell. He won't be happy about being disturbed after hours."

  "Is he a lawyer?" Jessica asked, her hopes igniting.

  “Yep.” Without another word, Sheriff Wade turned and walked out.