by Deb Stover
But the roundness that filled his palm was far too lush and pliable for a shoulder. Surprised, he looked down to where his hand pressed against her round breast, her dusky brown nipple peeking tantalizingly between two of his gloved fingers.
Cole's throat went dry and lightning whipped through his body, straight to his groin. Then his gaze met hers again, where he found shock and something more displayed in her silver eyes. The something more made him wonder how she would taste. How soft her flesh would feel beneath his lips...
The sun blazed down on them and sweat trickled along the long, pale column of her throat. He followed the moisture's trail, feeling himself grow harder with each beat of his heart until the droplet vanished amid a riotous tangle of feathers.
He ached to remove his glove and close his hand around her breast, to roll her onto her back and cover her with his length, to press himself into her receptive body....
Deep. Hard. Fast.
"Copping a feel, cowboy?" she whispered, her gaze drifting toward his impudent hand.
Self-disgust and humiliation shot through him and he shifted his hand from her breast to her shoulder. "Pardon." Hellfire and damnation. He'd been way too long without a woman. Avoiding her gaze, he shifted her weight from him and rose, dragging her none too gently up beside him. Careful not to look upon her nakedness again, he released her arm and drew one end of her feather wrap over her shoulder.
Though he'd only held her softness for a few startling moments, the feel of her was burned into his palm right through his leather glove. The savageness of his sudden desire had shaken him senseless enough to make him forget far more important matters.
Like Ruth. Furious with himself, Cole turned away from Miss Lolita. The mare stood quietly. Guilt was an ugly mistress and she seemed uglier than usual as he climbed the rocky slope. It sure as hell wasn't like him to think about bedding a woman when his horse could be suffering.
Murmuring in a gentle tone, he removed one glove and slowly approached Ruth. Once certain she wouldn't go crazy again, he checked the mare's head and neck, then examined every inch of her. Holding his breath, he reached down to feel each of her legs from top to bottom, praying he wouldn't find what he dreaded. Stooping made him realize that his butt had taken the brunt of their fall.
Other than some scrapes, she was sound. "Thank God," he muttered aloud. "You're all right, old girl."
"It's my fault." Miss Lolita's voice came from right beside him. "I–"
"Quiet." Cole glanced up at her and blinked. At least she wasn't leaking tears all over the place. A crying woman was just what he didn't need.
When he returned his attention to the mare where it belonged, his bandanna slipped down to reveal his identity to his hostage. Hostage. The word tasted vile, though he hadn't spoken it aloud.
He was a kidnapper.
He yanked the wayward piece of cloth back over his face as if to hide his shame even from himself. Fat lot of good that'll do.
"You? Don't bother hiding now, because I saw you."
Shame slithered through him as he stroked Ruth's neck. "Damn." Though he knew he shouldn't, he slipped the bandanna back down, then lifted his head to meet Miss Lolita's accusing gaze.
"I never figured you for a kidnapper." Miss Lolita moved closer, shifting her gaze to the horse. "Is she really all right?"
"Yes, thank God." Cole ran his hands along the mare's front legs again. Smiling, he returned to Ruth's head and looked into her soft brown eyes. "Well, old girl, feel like a little walk?"
Clicking his tongue, he gathered the reins and applied firm but gentle pressure until the mare took a few steps. He looked back over his shoulder for any signs of pain. "By God, she really is all right."
"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to hurt your horse," Miss Lolita said. "But you shouldn't have kidnapped me."
Kidnapped. Cole swallowed hard, wishing like hell his bandanna hadn't slipped. Doing this filthy deed anonymously had been one thing, but doing it as Cole Morrison, father of Todd, was quite another. All the more reason he should be ashamed.
Only a coward would hide behind a mask.
"Why'd you kidnap me?" She moved closer, her face flushing with obvious anger. "I'm not Lolita, dammit."
He looked at her again, remembering the feel of her firm flesh filling his hand–nice and full, but definitely not what men who'd seen Lolita claimed. Could she be telling the truth?
His gaze swept over her face and her bizarre red hair startled him back to reality. She had to be Lolita Belle. Only a saloon singer would dye her hair. A decent woman wouldn't even consider it, and especially not that glaring shade.
"You're in demand, Miss Lolita," he murmured, trying to justify the sordid mess to himself. And failing. He lifted his uninjured shoulder and averted his gaze. "The price was right."
"You filthy pig." Her voice trembled. "I have to get back to that hellhole and see that portrait finished so I can go...go home."
"Now, don't you start bawling." He sighed and didn't allow himself to confirm whether or not her ruby lips quivered, or any sparkling tears streamed down her rosy cheeks. Surrendering, he faced her. "Just...don't."
"Why the hell should I listen to you?" Her eyes snapped and her nostrils flared.
She wasn't crying, but her rage was a palpable thing. Cole had a hunch she could commit murder about now. "Look, nobody's going to hurt you. Hell, they all love you, though God only knows why."
"Excuse me?" She put one hand on her hip and lifted her chin a notch. "They don't want me, they want Lolita Belle. I'm not–"
"Yeah, you already said that." He clenched his teeth until they ached, then released a long sigh. "Look, I didn't want to do this, but I...I really need the money. You're still going to perform and get paid, so what difference does it make to you if that's at the Gold Mine Saloon or the Silver Spur?"
"What, no Caesar's Palace?"
Her feathers shifted, offering him a brief glimpse of heaven. Cole held his breath as a shudder of longing rippled through him, and he tried to ignore the ornery throb between his legs.
"I'm not Lolita Belle. My name is Jackie Clarke and I'm a hairdresser, you fool."
His gaze returned to her hair, so bright it hurt his eyes out here in the sunshine. One corner of his mouth lifted and he arched his brow. "Jack's a man's name and I don't believe a real hairdresser would do...that to her hair."
"Shit."
"And you sure talk like a saloon singer."
"What the hell is that supposed to mean?" She scratched her chest. "I'm getting a frigging rash from these feathers."
"My ma would've washed your mouth out with soap by now."
"Bite me." She actually smirked.
His gaze drifted down the length of her again, and a powerful urge to do a lot more than bite her waylaid him. He drew a shaky breath and said, "No, but thanks for offering, ma'am."
"Ha! I don't give a damn that you look like George Clooney." She looked up at him through eyes like lethal gray daggers. "Well, you're taller than Mel, but that doesn't mean every woman with a pulse wants to jump your bones. Get over it, cowboy."
"You had your chance," he said, ignoring her second reference to someone named Mel. "Why didn't you make a run for it while I was checking on Ruth here?"
"I...I had to stay and make sure she was all right."
"That speaks well of you, ma'am." He nodded and looked over the length of her again. Even though she was a bit on the scrawny side by most standards, she was curvy in all the right places. A fine-looking woman...except for the hair. "Ruth's fine."
"Good, then I'll be on my way."
"Nope." He folded his arms and shook his head. "I can't let you do that. I promised to deliver you to Lost Creek, and deliver you I will."
"You son of a..." She lifted her fist as if to strike him, then started scratching again instead. "If this is a dream or a coma, then how the hell can I have a rash?" Her tone shifted from fury to uncertainty in the space of a heartbeat.
Cole chuckled
. "Trust me, this is no dream." More like a nightmare.
"My God." Her eyes widened and her lower lip trembled.
"Don't you start bawling." Cole shoved his hat back farther on his head. "The horse is all right and we're due at the Silver Spur."
"My rash is real. You're real. This is all real," she whispered, her voice trembling, though no tears streamed down her face. "Impossible, but...real."
"Yes, ma'am, I reckon you could say that." Dear Lord, please don't let her start bawling. I swear I won't hurt her and I'll never kidnap another soul as long as I live if you just don't let her bawl. Amen.
Of course, Cole never planned to kidnap anyone again anyway. This was far more adventure than he could stand.
"I...what...what am I going to do?"
The terror in her voice and eyes gave him pause. He rubbed the back of his neck. "For starters, let's haul ourselves back on Ruth here and be on our way."
As if in a trance, she met his gaze. "But I don't know how."
Her sudden shift in demeanor worried him. Was Miss Lolita addled in the mind? Well, once he delivered her to Merriweather at the Silver Spur, she would no longer be Cole's problem. The sooner, the better. He sucked in a deep breath and held it.
No matter how much he wanted to touch her again.
* * *
It's true, it's true, true, true, true.... Jackie's lament played over and over again through her mind as she sat stoically in front of her kidnapper on top of a smelly horse. Somehow, she really was stuck back in time and being taken by force to sing in a saloon.
And she had a rash. Absently, she scratched again, knowing her chest, shoulders and back would be raw by the time she shed these ridiculous feathers. She'd kill for a tube of hydrocortisone creme, but they probably didn't have such luxuries in 1891. They didn't even have malls, movie theaters, or high tech beauty salons. If she didn't sing for her supper, what the hell would she do? But she wouldn't cry, dammit. Instead, she sniffled.
"Will you quit that bawl–"
"I'm not bawling. Just shut up and drive this thing, cowboy." She didn't bother looking back. "Somebody paid you to kidnap me?"
"That's right, but do we have to call it that?"
"Kidnapping?" She snorted. What had Dottie called him? Oh, yes, Cole Morrison. "What would you prefer I call it, Mr. Morrison?"
"Shit," he snapped, open disgust making the word sound more vile than usual.
"Now who needs his mouth washed out with soap?"
"How'd you learn my name?"
"Dottie told me." Jackie clutched the saddlehorn fiercely as the horse scaled another rocky slope. It certainly wasn't hard to see why they called these the Rocky Mountains.
"You know, Miss Lolita, the miners will pay dearly to hear you sing, but if you talk to them the way you've been talking to me, you'll find yourself without a job."
Jackie snorted again, then chewed her lower lip as reality reared its ugly head for an encore performance. She had to be practical about this. If she didn't play along and pretend to be Lolita Belle, she'd be the wild west equivalent to a bag lady. "Damn."
"Seems we both could stand a little taste of lye soap." His chuckle was warm and not the least condescending.
Jackie kept chewing her lip, trying not to remember how she'd felt lying atop this handsome beefcake a short while ago. And he'd even copped a feel, though she figured that had been accidental. With all these feathers, it was hard enough for her to determine what was shoulder and what wasn't. That surge of heat she'd noticed had been simple fear, of course. No reason to let another deceitful man turn her not-so-pretty-head.
Cole Morrison was no better than Blade–after all, he was male–and she'd better not forget that. Survival, Jackie. "So...you think the miners will actually pay to hear me sing, huh?"
"That's what I've been told." Cole urged the horse over a fallen tree, then took a fork that led into a dense forest of pine and aspen. "You're a legend in these parts."
"Legend?" The Legend of Devil's Gulch? She shivered as the cool mountain air encircled her bare and feather-covered skin. The rash stung and itched like mad, but she struggled against the urge to scratch any more. She was raw enough. "I doubt they'll feel the same way once they hear me sing." Not to mention their likely reaction to seeing her less than huge attributes.
"Well, that isn't my problem."
She glanced back over her shoulder, drawing a sharp breath when she met his piercing blue gaze. God, he's gorgeous. Swallowing the lump in her throat, she summoned Blade's image to the forefront of her gray matter and renewed her sense of indignance.
"No, of course it isn't your problem, Mr. Morrison." She flashed a false smile and batted her lashes at warp speed. "You're just delivering the merchandise. Right?" Somewhat vindicated by his flinch and grimace, she faced forward again.
"Touché, Miss Lolita. Touché."
"Why, you don't sound very pleased with your success, Mr. Morrison."
"Would you stop calling me that?"
"But isn't that your name, Mr. Morrison?" His sigh tickled the back of her neck and the curve of her bare shoulder.
"Yep, that's my name." He shifted his weight and momentarily tightened his arms around her as he adjusted his grip on the reins. "Like I told you earlier, I didn't want to do this, but they kept raising the ante until I couldn't say no. I have...obligations."
"Money talks, eh?" Jackie cleared her throat. She needed to keep a clear head and determine a way to get back to the Gold Mine Saloon and make sure Lolita's portrait–and her time portal–became reality, with or without Lolita's impressive cleavage. Running away would be stupid, considering what happened to her last time she wandered into the mountains alone. With a sigh, she asked, "How much did the owner of the Silver Spur pay you to kidnap me?"
"I'd rather not say."
"Don't I have a right to know how much I'm worth?" Sounds like white slavery.
"No, ma'am, I don't reckon you do."
She heard him grinding his teeth and satisfaction oozed through her. Good, she wanted him to feel guilty. Her only hope was to convince him to take her back to Devil's Gulch, and she'd use any means necessary.
Remembering the shocked expression on his face when he'd realized where his hand was, she squirmed. Any means, Jackie? Her belly roiled and a chill chased itself down her spine even as an insistent and irritating warmth settled deep and low and fast. Talk about internal contradiction.
Damn.
Cole Morrison was a handsome devil, but so was Blade. Jackie closed her eyes for a moment. No way. She'd fallen easily into Blade's deceptive arms, but not because she was loose, as Aunt Pearl would have proclaimed. No, she'd fallen victim to Blade's charms simply because she wanted to be loved. Always had.
Fool.
She couldn't use sex to convince Cole to do her bidding. Couldn't and wouldn't. Her eyes popped open and she commanded her hormones to surrender unconditionally, knowing they wouldn't listen. Her only choice was to ignore them as best she could.
But what if using her body was the only way to convince Cole to help her? No, she had to think, use her brain instead of her body, and forget her irksome libido once and for all.
Kidnapper or not, she suspected he was a man with a conscience, and that this activity violated his sense of right and wrong. Why she believed that, she wasn't sure. It wasn't as if she had a good track record when it came to judging men. Even so, she had nothing to lose by appealing to his sense of fairness, if he actually had one.
And play on his guilt for all it was worth.
* * *
Cole urged Ruth into a slow trot when they emerged on the far side of the forest. A wide meadow sprinkled with wildflowers was the only thing between them and the tiny town of Lost Creek, where the largest building was the Silver Spur Saloon.
The sooner he deposited the mouthy Miss Lolita with her new employer, the happier he'd be. Then he'd take the promised gold home and plan their trip to Oregon. The mere thought of a ranch made him downright g
iddy.
The dream. His and Elizabeth's. With a bittersweet sigh, he nudged Ruth into a canter, eager to finish this sordid business.
"Do you mind?" Miss Lolita said, clutching the saddlehorn with both hands. "It's all I can do to stay in the saddle without you galloping like a madman."
"This isn't a gallop, but Ruth can set a fair pace." He chuckled low. "Want to see?"
"Don't. You're killing me." Pain etched her words.
Cole slowed the mare, puzzled. "With all due respect, ma'am, Ruth's doing all the work."
"Yes, but you're bouncing my... Oh, never mind."
Once Ruth returned to a slow walk, Miss Lolita released the saddlehorn and folded her arms across her chest. Heat suffused Cole's face as he realized exactly what had been bouncing. He cleared his throat and muttered, "Beg pardon, ma'am." She didn't say anything, but he felt her relax a little. "We'll be at the Silver Spur in no time."
"Go ahead, make my day." Bitter laughter erupted from the woman, but she didn't look back at him. "This is one helluva lot worse than a bad hair day."
Even more confused, he shook his head. With hair the color of Miss Lolita's, every day must be a bad hair day.
"Ah, I suppose that little oasis ahead is our destination."
Cole urged Ruth across the dry creek bed and onto a rutted dirt road. "Yep, straight ahead lies Lost Creek, Colorado."
"Oh, joy. Oh, rapture."
"Whatever you say, Miss Lolita."
"I'm not–" She left the declaration unfinished and shook her head. "Never mind."
They were less than a hundred yards from the edge of town when she held up one hand and said, "Wait." She looked over her shoulder, her eyes wide and pleading. "I don't suppose you have a spare shirt I could borrow?"
"No, I'm afraid not, ma'am." He understood her dilemma. Even a famous saloon singer must have had second thoughts about riding into town wearing only feathers and men's jeans.
She sighed and faced forward again. "Thanks anyway."
You son of a bitch, Morrison. No matter what kind of woman Lolita Belle was, he couldn't take her into town exposed this way. It was wrong. He nudged Ruth toward a clump of pines and dismounted, looping the reins over a low branch. Without speaking, he held his hands up to Miss Lolita, trying to ignore the lingering ache in his shoulder.
