by Deb Stover
Long, lonely years without a woman could make a man want anything in a skirt. Hell, that woman in town hadn't even been wearing a skirt.
Still, her compelling softness filling his hand had triggered his need in a big way. In search of comfort, he shifted in the saddle. It was past time for him to get on with his life.
But not with Lolita Belle. She was a legend. Miners and cowboys alike had whispered about her at card tables, on the trail and underground for years.
Cole tried to rid himself of the nagging voice in his head. That woman couldn't be Lolita. Not a chance.
At least, he sure hoped not.
Shading his eyes, he looked beyond the familiar boulder jutting out from the side of the mountain. He was almost there. Home. At least, for now. Smoke curled upward from the chimney, vanishing in the clear mountain air.
Todd would be setting the table for their noon meal, knowing his father should be home by now. He always helped out without being told. Elizabeth would've been proud of the boy.
Stopping the horse again on the ridge, Cole gazed longingly at the flowers his wife had planted around the front of the cabin. The puny things looked so out of place there, but she'd been determined to bring civilization to their temporary home.
Temporary. Then why had Cole let it become so damned permanent?
This was no place to raise a boy. Todd needed schooling and a real home. His grandparents could give him that in St. Louis. All Cole had to do was put his tail between his legs and slink on back there.
Gnashing his teeth, he shifted his gaze to the well-worn trail leading from the back of the cabin, up the side of the mountain.
His claim. All their dreams rested in that hole. "Fool." Shaking his head, he nudged the mare with his heels, and she cantered eagerly to the log shelter that served as a stable, not far from the cabin.
He'd been offered an alternative. It was there for the taking. All Cole had to do was agree to the dirty job, and he'd receive enough pay–gold!–to live his and Elizabeth's dream. If he didn't take it, the only way to keep his promise to Elizabeth would be to return to St. Louis with his pride in shreds.
Or he could do this one job and take his son to Oregon for the life he and Elizabeth had planned.
Choice, Morrison? He swallowed hard and dismounted, releasing the cinch and sliding the saddle off the mare's back. With a grunt, he swung the saddle onto a rail, then led the horse to the trough. She wasn't overheated, so he let her drink her fill while he poured her ration of oats into the feed box.
Merriweather had offered him his and Elizabeth's dream in a not-so-neat little package. Cole never should've trusted that traveling preacher enough to unburden his troubles. Things ate at a man, and Cole had reached his limit about the time that preacher came along. Next thing Cole knew, he'd told the kind-faced man everything.
Including his own failures.
The old fart had spilled Cole's desperation at the next watering hole, and Merriweather had been listening. Cole had to hand it to old Merriweather. He sure as hell knew how to pull a man's strings.
Cole released a long sigh. The money from that job was more than he could refuse, and it wasn't as if actual harm would come to anyone because of it. Still, the mere thought of it made his gut burn. If only he hadn't–
"Pa."
Cole turned around just in time to catch a flying nine-year-old body. He gave his son a hug and allowed himself a moment to admire the boy's dark blond hair, so much like his mother's. Though Elizabeth was gone from this world, a part of her lived on in their son.
"I'm starved," Cole said, ruffling the boy's hair. "What'd you cook?" He flashed Todd a grin when the boy groaned.
"Cookin's woman's work." The boy looked down at his bare feet, then lifted his face to squint into the sun.
"That's a fact." Cole walked slowly toward the cabin, knowing without looking that his son was at his side. It was a fine feeling–a damned fine one. "But I reckon it's a good thing for a man to know how to take care of himself, too." He knew that all too well.
"Yes, sir." Todd gave a sigh much larger than his size. "I sure get sick of it, though."
"Nah, you just get sick of my cooking."
They both laughed as Cole opened the door and stepped into the cabin's dim interior. His laughter stilled as his gaze focused on the ladder that led to the loft. In his mind's eye, he mentally followed each rung to the top, remembering Elizabeth's last night on this earth with him...and his wretched promise. The lump in his throat seemed unbearable as he struggled against it, suddenly thankful for the dim interior.
Todd slipped past him, dragging Cole's attention from the ladder...and from the past. The boy grabbed something off the mantel and hurried back.
"I almost forgot," Todd said, holding a folded piece of paper in his outstretched hand. "A man brought this while you was in town."
Cole hated the thought of anyone coming to the cabin while Todd was here alone. In St. Louis, Elizabeth's mother could care for Todd while Cole worked–yet another reason to give up that stupid dream and get on with his promise.
After clearing his throat, Cole asked, "What man?"
"Never seen him before." With a shrug, Todd padded barefoot across the rough wood floor and took two tin soup plates down from the shelf beside the stove.
While his son served their meal, Cole unfolded the letter and took a backward step into the light from the open doorway. The bold pen strokes leapt off the page and straight to Cole's gut. "Damn," he whispered.
Anyone else would've considered the message cryptic, but Cole knew exactly what the four words meant. After rereading the page, his gaze migrated back up the ladder to the loft he'd shared with his wife.
He no longer had a choice. This note had stolen that luxury from him, just as surely as a thief with a six-shooter. Removing his hat and hanging it on a peg near the door, Cole stuffed the note into his pocket and washed his hands in the basin near the hearth.
Those four words were his commandment. It was time for Cole Morrison to live up to the promise he'd made his wife. The handwriting was burned into his brain. Even as he took a seat at the table with his son, he saw the words clearly in his mind.
I'll double the money. The only other marks were the familiar initials at the bottom of the page.
"Can we go fishin' today?" Todd spooned beans into his mouth, oblivious to his father's torment.
Thank God for that.
Cole shook his head. "Not today, son." He forced a spoonful of beans into his mouth and chewed furiously. "I have to go back to town." He had a job to do.
"Again?" Todd gave a sound of disgust, then continued eating with far less enthusiasm.
Cole hated himself. If he'd kept his promise years ago, this wouldn't be happening, and his son wouldn't be disappointed in him. "I'll make it up to you," he said, and meant it.
"All right." Todd brightened and attacked his food.
In St. Louis, Todd could eat his meals at a real table with proper utensils. The boy would never be hungry, and he'd have a grand variety of things to eat.
Cole's appetite beat a hasty retreat and he pushed away from the table. He crossed the room and took his rifle down from the rack over the hearth. As he turned around, he saw the look of concern on his son's face.
"I saw a bear on my way up the trail earlier," he lied, hating himself. "Nothing meaner than a bear just waking up in the spring."
Todd's eyes grew round and he nodded. "That's for sure."
"I'll be back before dark." Cole hesitated and touched the boy's shoulder. He hated leaving Todd alone again so soon. "You stay inside, just in case that bear decides to come up here looking for something to fill his belly."
"Oh, Pa." Todd made a face of utter disgust that crawled into a special corner of his father's heart.
"You look just like your ma when you do that." With a grin, Cole grabbed his hat and walked out the door.
Praying.
* * *
Jackie shifted uncomfortabl
y on the satin pillows, making absolutely certain the feather boa covered all her assets–such as they were. Most women lived their entire lives without posing for a lurid portrait, but Jackie Clarke had the dubious honor of doing it twice in the same week.
In two different centuries.
First Blade, now Henri. Her gaze locked onto the obese man behind the canvas.
"Sacre bleu," he muttered for at least the hundredth time. "Monsieur Goodfellow assured me you would be...more..." He stuck the brush between his teeth and held both hands cupped out in front of his chest.
Far away from his chest.
"Well, I'm not, so get over it." Jackie flashed him a nasty smile–the nastiest one she could summon. "So use your imagination, Frenchie–you're an artist, aren't you?"
He jerked the paintbrush from between his teeth. "Mon dieu." Dabbing furiously at his palette, he muttered a string of what Jackie felt certain weren't nice things, even if they were in French. "And that hair." More French. "How did it get such an atrocious shade?"
Jackie winced. Touché. "It's standard equipment," she fibbed, biting the inside of her cheek to keep herself from saying what she really thought. "Keep your opinions to yourself and paint. I'd like to get out of these feathers ASAP."
"Asap?"
"As soon as possible." She lifted her eyebrows and sighed. "Like yesterday would be nice."
Actually, yesterday was pure hell, but today is even worse.
More French. Good. As long as he was happy...
"I simply cannot paint without...inspiration." He threw the brush and palette crashing to the floor, splattering paint across the room. "Come back tomorrow at the same time. Wait here until Zeb comes to claim you. Oh, how my head aches. Why did I ever leave Paris?"
Muttering to himself, Henri waddled to the back of the cabin and slammed the door.
"Cool." Keeping the feathers wrapped strategically around her body, Jackie swung her feet to the floor and reached for her jeans. Old Dottie had no idea that Jackie'd worn her own filthy clothes beneath the velvet robe.
With the white boa draped around her neck, Jackie wiggled into her jeans and buttoned the fly, then slipped on her socks and hiking boots. A noise from outside made her adjust the boa to cover herself just before the door burst open.
A man–a tall one–filled the doorway. A white hat was pulled low over his eyes and a bandanna covered his mouth and nose. Only twin blue slits were visible on his face. He held a rifle in his hands, though it wasn't aimed at her. Exactly.
"Oh, no you don't," she said, knowing the script was in force again. "I'm not Lolita. You've got the wrong woman, buster. Be patient–she'll be along in a few weeks."
"You're coming with me." His voice was muffled, but his words were clear. Unmistakable. "Now."
"I don't believe this." Jackie knew she should fear the kidnapper, but her anger took command. "You want Lolita–I'm Jackie. Trust me on this. I'm only a 34 B. You want the 44 D ones. They're worth the wait. I've seen–"
"Hush." His words sounded more confused than angry. "Just hush your mouth and get yourself out the door."
"I'm not dressed."
Henri chose that moment to open the door. "I've changed my mind, mademoiselle," the artist said dramatically. "We will continue the–"
"That's far enough." The rifle shifted toward the artist. "Stay right there."
Henri's eyes rolled into the back of his head and he fell forward, landing with a loud–and not terribly French–splat when his face hit the wood floor.
Right on top of Jackie's T-shirt and the velvet robe.
"Come on," the kidnapper ordered. "Now."
Jackie looked down at the unconscious painter, and, more importantly, at the edge of her ugly dark green T-shirt. "My clothes." She pointed ineffectively with her left hand, but the kidnapper seemed indifferent to her request.
Henri moaned, and Jackie found the kidnapper's gloved hand around her upper arm, feathers and all. He propelled her out the door and into the bright sunlight, in all her half-naked glory.
"My clothes," she repeated, but found herself slung unceremoniously onto a horse. A horse? She didn't know how to ride a horse. All thoughts of clothes and time travel fled in light of more urgent matters.
Like survival.
A second later, the kidnapper shoved his rifle into a slot on the side of his saddle and swung himself up behind her. He reached around Jackie and grabbed the reins, snapped them once and did something with his feet to launch the horse.
"Noooooooo." Jackie clung to the saddlehorn and gasped for breath, no longer holding the boa. It flapped in the breeze around her and her captor.
"Hold those damned feathers before you spook the horse," he said in her ear.
Suddenly aware of his proximity and her monstrous vulnerability, Jackie quieted and gathered the feathers closer, tucking the ends under her inner thighs to secure them across her chest. Without slowing its pace, the horse galloped up a rocky incline that didn't even resemble a trail. Jackie could barely breathe and her skin was starting to itch where the feathers touched it. The constant jarring motion of the horse was making her stomach queasy and she was just plain sick and tired of her adventure.
"I want to go home," she whispered between breaths. "I've had all of this I'm going to put up with."
Nothing. The least he could do was acknowledge her.
"I said, I want to go home."
Still nothing.
As the horse plunged over a fallen tree and down into a ravine, Jackie reached and passed her limit. She sucked in a deep breath, closed her eyes, and let loose the loudest, shrillest scream of her life.
"Jesus, woman." The horse balked and reared as the kidnapper pulled on the reins, trying to calm the beast. "Hush, you're spooking my mare."
She knew it was risky–well, more than risky–but rather than listen to reason, Jackie sucked in yet another breath and screamed even louder.
The horse reared again, pawing the air high above them. Jackie stared at the flailing hooves, almost ready to admit she might have pushed her luck just a little too far.
"Easy, girl," the kidnapper said in a soothing tone.
Was he speaking to her?
"That's a good old girl."
Old girl? Jackie whipped her head around to stare at the man, whose face was still hidden from view. When she opened her mouth to talk, he clamped his gloved hand over it.
Dust mingled with the scent of sweat and leather, nearly suffocating her. His glittering eyes narrowed and he leaned very close. "If you promise to be quiet, I'll let go. If you don't..."
A shudder rippled through Jackie and she nodded, certain he intended to do something horrible to her at any moment.
"That's better," he said softly, moving his hand away from her mouth. The kerchief twitched slightly.
The bastard is laughing.
Something inside her snapped. How dare he? Her life had been completely destroyed, and now the Sundance Kid, or whatever he called himself, was laughing.
Rage, irrational but commanding, gripped her and she screamed even louder than before. Her throat protested the harsh treatment, even as the surge of adrenalin made her feel superhuman. Let him laugh, she thought.
The horse went berserk and Jackie clawed the air for something more substantial than ostrich feathers. But this time, even she knew the beast wouldn't stop.
No, this time, the huge animal was going all the way over.
With two humans to cushion its fall.
Chapter 4
Cole tightened his grip around Lolita's waist and released the reins. The mare had gone berserk and no amount of expert handling would make any difference.
Ruth's body twisted one way and Cole lunged the other, hauling the woman with him. Preventing a fall now was impossible. Hitting the ground hard would be one helluva lot better than being crushed to death.
He curled his body around Miss Lolita, praying he'd land beneath her and a safe distance from flailing hooves. His shoulder slamm
ed into a rock–pain pierced through his bones. Ignoring the pain as best he could, he pulled the woman's slight form closer to his chest as his body absorbed the shock of their fall.
Pain shot down his arm, but he didn't loosen his grip. The woman was just crazy enough to get them both killed, given half a chance. And he had no intention of giving her that chance.
The horse's shrill neigh reminded Cole of the continued threat. He looked up just in time to see Ruth's descent. She seemed to hang in the air, frozen for several seconds. Nothing could prevent the animal from going down.
Cole scrambled farther down the rocky incline, away from the shadow cast by the horse's broad back. Everything seemed to slow almost to a standstill as he watched.
Cole yanked Miss Lolita from the path of destruction. The mare landed on her side, grunting as she hit the rocks. Her hooves shot a spray of rocks and dirt down the incline, stinging Cole's face and the side of his neck. After a moment, Ruth fell silent.
Cole clenched his teeth, knowing he had to see if the mare was hurt as badly as he feared. He couldn't–wouldn't–let her suffer. "Damn," he muttered, feeling the woman tense against him. "You all right?"
She nodded against his sore shoulder and lifted her head to look at him. Dirt covered her face and she blew a feather from the corner of her mouth. That wild red hair fell in disarray around her small face. At this moment, she more closely resembled a woman raised by wolves–or maybe ostriches–than a famous saloon singer.
"I have to see about my horse," he said.
The sound of sliding rocks jerked Cole's attention back to the animal. He held his breath as the graceful mare swung herself to a standing position with surprising ease.
"She's all right," the woman said, relief giving her voice a breathy quality that seeped right through Cole's bones.
Miss Lolita's gray eyes sparkled like silver in the sunlight. The sight purloined his breath and his heart slammed against his ribs. Other than to lift her head, she hadn't moved since their fall. Still sprawled atop him, her hips were pressed intimately against his.
What the hell was he thinking? Cole needed to put some distance between them damned fast. "My mare," he repeated, reaching for Miss Lolita's shoulder to ease away her soft, appealing weight.
