by Deb Stover
My God, I'm in hell. That fire had burned her alive–cremated her. What else could it be? She was worm's meat, as Aunt Pearl would've said while in one of her Shakespearean moods.
"Where's your trunk, honey?" The woman's voice was somewhat reassuring, though her condescending manner did nothing to inspire Jackie's confidence.
"Is this...hell?"
The woman furrowed her brow and shook her head. "You must've been on one helluva drunk."
"Please answer me. Is this hell?"
"Nope, but sometimes it sure feels like it, especially Saturday night after payday."
Jackie scanned her surroundings, confirming that she was still in the saloon, though it appeared far different now than it had last night. For one thing, it was relatively clean, and there were no broken bits of furniture strewn about the room. No trace of fire damage. Impossible. Who'd have thought hell could be an improvement? "Weird."
"Hmm." With a sigh, the woman guided Jackie toward the stairs.
The gleaming, sturdy, totally unburned stairs.
"Holy–" Stunned, Jackie jerked herself free of the woman's grasp and backed away. This was her wake-up call–time for some answers. Hell or not, she had a right to know before she took another step. "I want to know who you are and what's going on. Now!"
The woman folded her arms across her middle and pursed her lips together in a thin line. "My, ain't we high and mighty?"
"No, we...ain't." Jackie shook her head and took another backward step, holding one hand up in front of her as if to ward off an attacker. Her arms and legs trembled and her head pounded with relentless pain. Dead people don't feel pain, do they?
But if she was still alive, then all this was even more inconceivable. First Blade, the freak blizzard, the fire–now this.
Whatever this was.
"Who are you and where am I?" she repeated.
"As if you don't know."
"I don't."
A flicker of compassion suddenly appeared in the woman's eyes, but cynicism quickly displaced it. "Whatever you say, honey. I'm Miss Dottie Elam."
Dottie, of course. She looked like a Dottie. Or maybe Mae West.
Dottie kept her gaze pinned on Jackie. "I'd be willing to bet you know where you are, but I'll tell you anyway. This here's the Gold Mine Saloon."
"Gold Mine?" A bad joke, for sure. Jackie dragged her fingers through her tangled hair, wincing when she caught sight of a flaming red curl dangling before her eyes. It was like something from her worst nightmare.
For a few blissful moments, she'd forgotten about her most recent act as a licensed, and somewhat misguided, beautician. "Oh, no." It was even worse–brighter–than she remembered. With both hands, she pulled several strands forward and stared. "God, it's really bad."
"Well, I've seen better, that's for sure. You are the strangest thing." Dottie shook her head and sighed. "Suit yourself, but considerin' what Rupert paid to bring you out here, I'd think you might want to look a little better when you meet him."
"Paid?" Jackie barked a derisive laugh and looked anxiously toward the men at the bar again. No help there. "Not even Donald Trump could pay me enough to make me come here on purpose."
"Huh, well I don't know about this Donald Trump, but I reckon Rupert'll have somethin' to say about that, Miss Lolita Belle."
Jackie's mouth fell open and the skin around her lips tingled. A cold lump formed in the pit of her stomach and grew, spreading to her limbs before she managed to draw a deep enough breath to dispel the strange sensation. She remembered the face in the portrait fading, then returning as her own. Hallucination. "Lolita...?"
Slowly, as if her life depended on it, Jackie turned to face the bar again. She blinked several times. Nothing but a moose head hung where Lolita's risqué portrait had been.
"Where...is...she?" Jackie walked to the bar, ignoring the rude snickers from the grimy trio. "What kind of sick game is this?" She whirled to face Dottie again, holding her hands out to her sides in a silent plea. "If you're in cahoots with Blade, I'm afraid you're too late. He cleaned me out."
Dottie threw her head back and laughed. Loud. "Blade? What kind of name is that?"
"Who are you?" Jackie repeated, tears stinging her gritty eyes.
The doors to the saloon swung open and a short, stocky man strode in, a cigar clamped between his teeth. "Well, who the devil are you?"
Jackie met the man's critical gaze with far more bravado than she felt. Mustering what remained of her dignity–now there was a word–she swallowed the lump in her throat and lifted her chin a notch. For some reason, the weasly little man raised her hackles. Maybe that was what she needed–a challenge. Something to piss her off royally.
His suit–or costume–looked expensive, though severely dated, with a flashy brocade vest. A string tie adorned a white collar that appeared stiff enough to stand on its own in a hurricane.
My gawd, he thinks he's Maverick.
"Well," he repeated, "are you going to tell me who you are, or make me guess?"
"I asked first." Jackie refused to allow her gaze to waver.
He chuckled and shook his head, shifting the unlit cigar from one corner of his mouth to the other, then back again. "Well, I'll be." His expression grew serious and something resembling alarm registered in his small, dark eyes. "Dottie, you don't suppose...?"
Miss Dottie heaved a mournful sigh, obviously playing the martyr in this piece. "Who else could she be? I'll tell you one thing for sure–she's already a lot more trouble than she's worth."
The man strolled purposefully toward Jackie, his gaze dipping to her T-shirt–no, through her T-shirt. His ruddy face suddenly paled and deep wrinkles appeared on his brow, where a dark lock of silver-streaked hair fell across it like an exclamation point.
"Well, I'll be damned," he muttered, rolling the cigar around in his mouth again. His face darkened by several more degrees and his eyes snapped with obvious fury. "I've been had. Your handbills exaggerated your, uh, attributes. At the very least!"
"What the hell are you–"
"With all due respect, madam," the weasel continued, "the illustration you sent showed you even more, shall we say, endowed than Dottie here."
Fury and embarrassment spiked through Jackie. How dare he? "I'm endowed enough and I never sent you any illustrations, you creep." Was he talking about Blade's preliminary sketches? Jackie clenched her fists. It didn't matter. She'd had enough of this–more than enough. "Just who the hell do you think you are?"
He took a threatening step, both hands on his hips. "The man who paid your train and stage fare, Miss Belle. Rupert P. Goodfellow."
Miss Belle. Him, too? "Never heard of you, and I haven't ridden on a train since I was ten." Jackie took a sidestep, shooting an anxious glance at the door. Every instinct she possessed screamed "Run!" Something was very wrong here–something a lot more serious than the predicament she'd found herself in yesterday.
And she felt like crap. Besides her headache, she was half-starved and would gladly welcome a visit to the outhouse she'd bitched about yesterday.
"By God, I should demand a full refund. Every cent." He threw a caustic look at Dottie. "Get me one of them handbills."
"I..." Dottie ducked her head and glanced aside at Zeb. "I gave 'em to the miners."
"All of them?" Rupert rolled his eyes toward the ceiling and yanked the cigar from his mouth. "You didn't save even one?"
Dottie straightened and met his gaze, though her chin quivered slightly. "I just done what you told me to, Rupert."
He sighed and nodded. "Yeah, I reckon you did." Shoving the cigar back in his mouth, he turned on Jackie again. "Miss Belle, either you produce your world attributes," he cupped his hands some distance from his chest, "or prepare to return my–"
"That's it–I'm outta here." Jackie summoned energy from God only knew where and stomped to the door.
"Get her, boys."
Jackie heard the Brothers Grime shuffle away from the bar. That was her cue. She bol
ted through the swinging doors, into the bright sunlight...and froze. Not a hint of yesterday's snow remained anywhere. In fact, the ground was bare and dry.
"C'mon back, Miss Lolita," Zeb called, his boots pounding the boardwalk with his steady approach.
"The hell I will." Jackie's voice was barely more than a strangled whisper. She had to get out of here before she lost what remained of her sanity. Even Blade had been better than this. Without taking time to think, she dashed down the steps and into the street.
The very busy street.
Jackie heard the wagon's approach, saw the gigantic horse bearing down on her, but she couldn't move. Her feet refused to budge.
"Look out!"
Strong arms wrapped around her from behind, hauling her back to the relative safety of the boardwalk. Renewed terror quickly displaced her moment of relief, and she twisted and kicked at the man who still held her. She had to escape.
"Hold on there." His voice was different–definitely not Zeb. And he smelled a lot better, too.
Jackie ceased her struggle and turned very slowly to face her rescuer. Her heart beat at an alarming rate, a combination of fear and exertion.
Recognition left her momentarily stunned. It couldn't be. A white hat shaded piercing blue eyes; his face was clean-shaven and his jaw square.
He was gorgeous.
And familiar.
"George Clooney?"
* * *
Cole didn't understand what made her stop fighting him, but his bruised ribs were relieved. For such a little mite, she packed one hell of a wallop. "Name's Cole Morrison–did you say Gibson?"
"George Clooney."
She looked up at him with wide gray eyes–pleading
eyes–and he loosened his grip.
"George Clooney–the actor?" she repeated.
"Actor? Never had much call for their kind." Cole flashed her a crooked grin, catching sight of a group from the Gold Mine Saloon hovering nearby. "You with them?" He aimed his thumb at the peculiar gathering.
"Huh." She rolled her eyes. "Not hardly." A look of confusion came over her face. "Please help me."
"I, uh..." Cole studied her face, then glanced at Goodfellow and company again. The whole lot of them reminded him of vultures. Hungry ones. "Well, I might. That depends on what kind of help you need."
She knitted her brow in obvious bewilderment. "First, just tell me where I am."
"You don't know?"
She shook her head. "Please? Where am I?" Her expression revealed the seriousness of her question. "Please?"
He studied her for a few seconds, wondering who she was and how she'd ended up here without knowing where she was. "This is Devil's Gulch, Colorado, ma'am. Where'd you think you were?"
Obviously taken aback, she blinked several times and covered her face with both hands. "The script," she said quietly, dragging her fingers down her face until the red inner rims of her eyes glared back at him.
"Script?" What in blazes was she talking about?
"That painting, the saloon, Devil's Gulch..." She laughed, though it sounded more like a sob or a crazy person's laugh. "My God, I must be asleep and dreaming that stupid, frigging script, and I don't even know how it ends."
Cole rubbed his chin with thumb and forefinger, contemplating this curious creature. Wearing men's jeans and a stretchy shirt unlike anything he'd ever seen before, she looked like an unkempt boy who needed to visit the barber in a bad way. Elizabeth would've had Cole's balls on a hot tin plate if he'd ever allowed their son to appear in public looking like that.
Of course, he knew without a doubt that this was no boy. Granted, he was surprised as heck to find his hands filled with womanly softness when he'd hauled her out of the road. In passing, he never would've guessed, but touching her was another matter entirely. Not an unpleasant matter by any means.
Upon closer inspection, she wasn't as young as he'd originally thought either. And Lord knew he'd never seen hair that color. It couldn't be real–it was even brighter than his newest pair of red flannels.
She looked at him again with those wide eyes of hers. There was something disturbing about her and her eyes–something that almost made him feel things he wasn't able to anymore.
"Where's the nearest bus station or airport?" She grabbed his forearm and held on tight. "A police station? A phone? Yes, that's what I need first. Please get me to a phone and I'll call someone–anyone but Aunt Pearl."
Bus? Airport? Phone? Shaking his head, Cole decided she needed more help than he was able to offer. Rupert Goodfellow stepped forward and inclined his head toward the woman.
"We've had enough excitement now. I think we'd best get you upstairs where you can rest," the saloon-keeper said. The look he flashed Cole held a warning.
Cole stared long and hard at Goodfellow's eyes. The runt was up to something–something involving this strange woman. It went against his grain to accommodate the man. Besides, if there was one thing Cole hated, it was being threatened.
"I'm not going anywhere with you," the woman said, sidling closer to Cole. "God, if I didn't know better, I'd swear you're all in this with Blade. I don't know what's going on here, but I'm not Lolita Belle."
Lolita Belle? Cole looked at her with renewed interest. Was it possible? He cast a questioning glance at the saloon-keeper.
Goodfellow's eyes narrowed and he clamped down on his cigar so hard the tip probably broke off in his mouth. "As much as I wish you weren't Lolita Belle, I can't imagine who else you could be."
"Are you?" Cole asked, watching her expression closely for any sign that she might be lying.
"Definitely not. This jerk thinks I am, but that's ridiculous."
Cole's instincts insisted she told the truth, though common sense called him a fool. He studied Goodfellow again. "Well?" He jabbed his thumb toward the woman. "Is she Lolita Belle? Really?"
Goodfellow shook his head and yanked the cigar from his mouth. "Damned if I know." With a sigh, he cocked his head toward the Gold Mine Saloon. "Dottie here says she found her asleep on the floor this morning, even though she isn't supposed to be here for weeks yet. Besides, who else could she be with hair that color?"
"Yeah, well, she doesn't–isn't... Hell." From the corner of his eye, Cole studied the woman's nicely shaped bosom. The famous singer reportedly had breasts the size of melons, though that was probably an exaggeration. Still, this woman could only claim nice-sized tomatoes. Very nice. "I thought..."
Goodfellow wheezed a cynical chuckle. "Yeah, you and me both. Those handbills she sent sure had me fooled."
Cole wanted to laugh. Badly. It served Goodfellow right, but one look at the woman's frightened expression sobered him. Something was wrong here. How could anyone as famous as Lolita Belle end up here in Devil's Gulch without knowing where she was? Or who she was, for that matter?
But this woman's problem was none of his business. Well, that wasn't entirely true, though he'd have to wait for confirmation.
"She sure as hell better sing like a nightingale–that's all I can say." Bitterness laced Goodfellow's words. "You think the miners'll pay to hear her sing if they don't have the...other to look at?"
"I...dunno." Cole felt uncomfortable talking about the woman as if she weren't here. "I reckon there's only one way to find out."
"Yeah, let's just hope I can get my money's worth out of this deal somehow." Goodfellow shot the woman a dubious glare and shook his head. "Personally, I wouldn't pay a cent to hear her sing looking like that. All we can do is hope she cleans up good."
"You son of a bitch."
The woman's fierce whisper made Cole smile. Maybe she wasn't ladylike, but she definitely had spunk. And from the look of things, she was going to need her spunk...and a whole lot more.
Dottie stepped around Goodfellow and grabbed the supposed Miss Belle's upper arm. "C'mon, honey," she said in a patronizing tone. "Let's get you a hot bath and some food, then we'll talk about all this."
The woman jerked her arm from Dottie's
grasp. "Get your hands off me."
"See what I mean, Rupert?" Dottie gave Goodfellow a smug look. "I told you she ain't worth all the trouble she's causin'."
"She sure as hell better be–that's all I can say." Goodfellow reached out to grab her himself, but she dodged him.
"Don't you touch me."
Though her words sounded tough and clipped, she appeared dangerously close to tears. Damn. If there was one thing Cole Morrison couldn't stand, it was a bawling woman. Hell, he knew the reason, too–something his late wife had learned very early in their marriage. He'd never been able to say no to a crying woman. Yeah, it was way past time for him to distance himself from this.
He hated the guilt pressing down on him, but he needed to get home to Todd. Goodfellow might be a mercenary bastard, but Cole felt confident that at least no harm would come to the woman.
But what if it did? He hesitated, silently kicking his own ass for giving the woman a second thought. Get the hell out while the gettin's good.
With a nod of resignation to Goodfellow, Cole gnashed his teeth and walked away. He heard the woman's startled protest, but he kept walking. He had to–this was none of his concern.
Unless she turned out to be who she claimed she wasn't.
* * *
Zeb and Rupert each took an arm and literally hauled Jackie back into the Gold Mine Saloon. "Get your filthy hands off me," she shouted, but no one seemed to have heard her. What was going on here? How could the ghost town she'd stumbled across the day before have suddenly become a boomtown?
"Well, Miss Belle–Lolita," Rupert said, depositing her in a chair near a familiar cast iron stove.
I'm not crazy, she reasserted. Not.
She glanced around the saloon again, digging into her memory for fragments of everything she'd noticed last night. The whiskey, vienna sausages, her stupid red hair...
"Since you're here early, we might as well have the artist get to work on your portrait." Rupert stood back to stare at her, tapping his chin with his finger. "Where's your trunk? You certainly can't perform in...that. I did take the liberty of having some items delivered, but they certainly won't fit."
