by JoAnn Ross
"Shh."
She reached down and stroked the dog's fur. Whatever was happening, she doubted it would be good. Determined not to make Wolfe pay with his life for having saved hers, she scooped a pearl-handled derringer from the green marble dresser top and slipped it into a side pocket of the voluminous scarlet skirt.
"We have to be very, very quiet," she murmured to the dog, pressing a warning finger against her lips. "I'll go first and check things out."
When she realized she was discussing rescue plans in the bedroom of a whorehouse with a yellow mutt the size of a Mercedes, Noel couldn't help wondering if this was how Alice had felt when she'd fallen down that rabbit hole.
Unwilling to leave her bag behind, she grabbed it, put the strap over her shoulder and began creeping down the hall, vaguely aware of the intimate sounds coming from behind some of the doors. Her heart was pounding so hard and so fast in her ears, she couldn't believe that everyone in the Road to Ruin couldn't hear it. And although she was trying her best to move as silently as possible, the rustle of the silk dress seemed deafening.
Behind her, following instructions to the letter, the dog slunk stealthily along, his bushy tail extended straight out like a battle flag.
In the saloon, the French-born piano player was still pounding away on the ivory keyboard. A few of the whores were singing along merrily as they straddled the laps of miners and cowboys, coaxing money out of denim pockets with whiskey and wet kisses that promised nirvana to be but a gold piece away. The laughter was loud and boisterous over the sounds of cards shuffling and poker chips clicking.
When she reached the kitchen, Noel held up a warning hand to the dog and prepared herself to save Wolfe Longwalker's life.
Wolfe reminded himself that although he may be down, he wasn't out. At least not yet. He'd been in worse fixes. He figured if he lived through this, he'd be in more again. life was like that sometimes, he thought fatalistically. Just one damn thing after another.
"Hello, Jack," he greeted the familiar swarthy face of the gunfighter, without revealing a hint of nerves. "If you're come for dinner, I can highly recommend the beef stew. Belle's outdone herself this time."
"You know damn well what I've come for, Wolfe," Black Jack Clayton growled.
Wolfe cast a surreptitious glance at the Winchester carbine he'd foolishly left on Belle's breakfront. No doubt about it, he was obviously getting careless in his old age. Not that thirty-three was all that old, but he had managed to cram one helluva lot of living into those years, and if this old enemy had his way, he'd just reached the end of the line.
"I figure it probably has something to do with that price on my head." Appearing not to have a single care in the world, Wolfe leaned back in his chair as if settling back after a satisfying meal. "So how much is it?"
"Twenty-five thousand dollars. Dead or alive."
"Twenty-five thousand." Wolfe whistled softly. He slid a sideways glance toward Belle, who had not said a word. But who was, dammit, inching toward her heavy iron skillet. A frying pan against two revolvers. Obviously, she was thinking with her gilded heart instead of her head again.
"Belle, darlin' " he said quietly, "why don't you leave Jack and me alone. So we can get down to some serious negotiating."
"There's nothing to negotiate, Longwalker," the man growled. "You're goin' to glory today. Or more likely, given that you're a savage, hellfire."
Wolfe felt the familiar flare of temper at the aspersion cast on his mother's people, but forced it down. If there was ever a time for a cool head, this was definitely it.
"Always nice to be among friends," he drawled. "Never thought gilded wings were much my style, anyway." He shot another stronger look at Belle. "Go on, sweetheart. It'll be all right."
"I'm not gonna have you dyin' here in my kitchen, Wolfe Longwalker," she retorted with a furious toss of her henna-red head. "It's bad luck."
"They'll be no dying here today, Belle," Wolfe assured her. "The bounty's for dead or alive. I'm willing to settle for alive."
"What makes you think I am?" the other man asked. "You're not calling the shots here, Longwalker. I am."
Jack Clayton had gotten his start as an army scout before he turned to selling firewater to the Indians, rustling cattle and robbing trains. The last few years, he'd worked as a hired gun for those ranchers who'd begun to feel more and more under siege by sodbusters streaming west in their prairie schooners.
Wolfe knew Jack's heart to be as black as his nickname. And the gunslinger's aim was, unfortunately, a lot truer than his character.
"Seems you've got the drop on me," Wolfe said. "But I'm offering you a choice, Jack. You can try to make it into one of those lousy Beadle dime novels by shooting an unarmed man. Or you can retire to California with fifty thousand United States dollars in your pocket. It's your call."
Wolfe's firm lips slashed a white, wicked smile. "Think how many sweet-smellin' fancy women and how much whiskey a man could buy with all that money, Jack. Think of the pleasures."
As he watched those deadly eyes momentarily glaze over, Wolfe judged the distance to the Winchester and decided that with just a bit more luck, he could make it.
He mentally ran through the motions, then, just as he poised like a diamondback prepared to strike a fatal blow, the entire plan fell apart.
An explosion burst into the kitchen—a wild, colorful whirl of red satin and yellow fur. While the dog leaped for Black Jack's throat, Noel pulled the derringer from her pocket and before she could consider whether or not her behavior was wise or even necessary, she squeezed the trigger.
Black Jack cursed. Loudly. Viciously. He stared at Noel in absolute disbelief, then crashed to the floor with a force that made the dishes on the pine table rattle.
The sharp sound still reverberating in her head, Noel stared in horror at the dark stain spreading across the man's shirt. She'd been aiming for his arm! But when he'd tried to knock away the dog, the bullet had entered his chest instead, apparently striking him in the heart, if all that blood was any indication.
"Good shooting, girl," Belle said approvingly as she tossed Wolfe the Winchester. "Now, you two better hightail it out of here."
Wolfe looked down at the man sprawled on the kitchen floor. Then he glared at Noel, who'd begun to tremble. "What the hell did you think you were doing?"
The harsh tone, slicing at her like a steel-tipped whip, cut through her icy shock. "Saving your life."
"I was more than capable of handling that on my own." The mutt, excited by all the activity, was now prancing around, his hind legs like one of those damn dancing circus dogs Wolfe had seen in Russia during a book tour his publishers had sent him on.
"He was going to kill you. I was sent here to stop him!" Anger sizzled like water on a hot skillet. Forgetting about the body lying at her feet, Noel tossed her head and met his furious glower with a lethal glare of her own. "So the least you can do is not yell at me!"
"I'm not yelling, dammit!"
"You're both yelling," Belle had to raise her own voice to be heard over theirs. "Which is a damn-fool thing to do considering how many of those cowboys out there would be willing to take you on for half that reward, Wolfe. Now, get out of my house. Both of you. I'll try to clean up the mess you've made."
Wolfe cursed ripely. He knew Belle was right about his need to get as far away from the Road to Ruin as fast as possible. But dammit, although she'd messed things up royally, he couldn't leave his well meaning but addle-headed savior behind.
It didn't matter that Black Jack had drawn first. Neither did it matter that the man was lower than a rattlesnake in a rut. The gunfighter had been hired by the ranchers. He had their protection. And around these parts, that meant the law was on Jack's side.
Knowing he'd never forgive himself if he allowed a noose to be put around that slender white neck, Wolfe grasped Noel's arm and dragged her out the kitchen door.
"I suppose it would be too much to hope for that you can ride a horse," he s
aid tightly as he untethered his mare from the rail behind the house.
Whore or not, he'd never met a female who seemed more out of place in this rustic setting. Even in that outrageous red dress, she brought to mind gleaming electric chandeliers, heavily gilded mirrors and hushed, richly appointed sitting rooms furnished with ornately carved velvet-covered furniture.
"Actually, I'm an excellent rider."
"You damn well better be. Because you're about to add horse stealing to your crimes."
Without waiting for her permission, he grabbed hold of her hips and practically threw her into the Western-style saddle of Black Jack's horse hitched to the rail. She instinctively leaned forward to gather up the reins as he swung onto the back of the mare.
"And since that horse stealing just happens to be a hanging offense around here, let's try to get away without you messing things up again."
Her response was cut off by a loud shout coming from behind her. Looking back over her shoulder, Noel saw a man standing in the doorway.
At the same time that the first rifle shot cracked high above them, Wolfe wheeled his mount.
"Ride!" he shouted.
When a second shot splintered the wood of a nearby tree, Noel ducked her head and took off like the wind.
To cover her, Wolfe kept his mare behind Noel. Winchester in hand, he rode a zigzag path as bullets kicked up puffs of red earth all around them. When he felt the burn as one of those rapidly fired bullets grazed his arm, he urged the mare to run faster.
The horse's hooves pounded on the dry earth, thin trails of dust roiled just above the ground behind them as they galloped away from the Road to Ruin. Behind them, the clouds of gun smoke drifted away as Wolfe took the lead. With her heart pounding in her throat, Noel followed him into the woods.
The rain had stopped, a brisk breeze from the west had blown away the clouds, allowing sunlight to stream through the tops of the towering Ponderosa pine trees.
Wolfe cast a glance up at the sun and determined that it was not yet noon. And he'd already packed one helluva lot into a single morning.
When thirteen-year-old Brady Loftin had shown up at the jailhouse window, bringing word from Fat Nell down at the Branding Iron Saloon that a bunch of cowboys were getting liquored up and planning a little necktie party to lynch the "Injun" who'd coldbloodedly murdered innocent settlers in their soft feather-beds, Wolfe had come to the conclusion that he'd overstayed his welcome in the territorial jail.
Breaking out had been a cinch.
Staying out hadn't seemed all that tough a problem. Until a lissome female had been dumped in his lap.
As they made their way through the woods, headed toward the relative safety of the reservation, Wolfe's mood, already blacker than coal dust, got even filthier. Thanks to this woman who'd literally fallen into his life, his situation had taken yet another deadly twist.
It was not easy sitting a horse with yards of scarlet silk piled up almost to her chin. It wasn't fun riding hellbent for leather up the side of a steep cliff nearly as vertical as a stone castle wall back home. Fortunately, Black Jack's pinto proved both fast and surefooted, keeping up with Wolfe's mare as he took them both higher and higher up the Mogollon Rim, deeper and deeper into the forest.
It didn't take long for the adrenaline rush to fade. And when it did, the image of Black Jack began dancing in front of her eyes. Noel imagined she could still see the shock in those cruel dark eyes when he realized he'd been shot. Along with that bright red stain on the front of his grimy shirt. If that wasn't bad enough, she imagined she could smell the dark, dank scent of the gunfighter's blood.
Her stomach churned. She tried to ignore it, but the images grew more vivid, the gagging worse. Finally, unable to hold back another minute, she slid off her horse and dropped to her knees on the floor of pine needles. And threw up.
At the sound of her coughing and sputtering, Wolfe reined in and turned the mare and observed her, on her knees, bent over, as ill as a camp dog. Something moved inside him. Something he steadfastly ignored as he reached down and silently handed her a canteen.
If she'd been hoping for sympathy—which, Noel assured herself, she most definitely wasn't—she would have been disappointed. As she sipped the water, willing it to calm her rebellious stomach, she risked a glance upward. His eyes were every bit as expressionless as his lean sculpted face.
"Thank you," she murmured, handing the canteen back to him.
"Save your thanks for when we get away from here without getting killed." His tone was as hard as his flinty eyes. His dark glance swept over her dismissively. Then he clucked at the mare and turned away, leaving her to follow.
As the hours dragged on and the miles passed by, Noel became exhausted and sore and thirsty. Depression battled with pain and fatigue. Despite the fact that her behavior had been justified, never mind the fact that she would do it again in a heartbeat, the idea of having shot another human being hung heavily on her heart.
Hot tears stung at the back of her eyelids. She blinked them away. The always serene Princess Noel never cried. Ask anyone in Montacroix. Not that anyone currently living in her country would even know of her, she thought wretchedly.
Only days ago, she'd been comfortably living in her family's palace, preparing for her wedding. She'd been happy. Contented, which for her, had always been pretty much the same thing.
Since stepping into whatever time warp she'd somehow entered, she'd been thrown from a carriage, had suffered what well could be a concussion, had been mistaken for a whore, had shared a distressingly hot kiss with an escaped outlaw she'd just met, had shot a bounty hunter, then had stolen his horse.
Her family would never believe it.
She hardly believed it.
Which meant that if Wolfe Longwalker ever did stop riding long enough for her to try to explain her situation, he'd undoubtedly find the scenario preposterous.
"I'm beginning to have my doubts about this being a very good idea," she murmured to the horse, stroking the silky black mane as they settled down for a walk. Since that initial burst of speed when they left the Road to Ruin, they'd been maintaining a pace of walk, trot, canter, then walk again "But there's not much I can do about it now."
Which, of course, brought to mind another question. Having landed here in the first place, would she ever be able to return home? To her own country? And her own time?
The fancy lady had guts, Wolfe determined grimly as he guided the mare across ground that was as familiar to him as his own face. Except for that brief hot argument in Belle's kitchen, the woman hadn't opened her mouth once. And for a woman who, if that diamond ring and those pearl earrings were any indication, appeared to earn a very good living on her back, he had to admit that she sat tall in the saddle.
That she'd proven unafraid of confrontation did not surprise him. A lot of whores he'd met over the years tended to have violent natures. Fighting seemed to be as much their specialty as loving. He'd certainly seen more than one pair of bawdy-house belles come to blows over the favors of a man. He'd also witnessed a drunken bully ending up on the wrong side of a female's dagger for cheating her out of her rightly earned pay. On the other hand, the violence didn't even out. Since the women were invariably smaller and weaker, they tended to end up on the losing end of most physical battles between the sexes.
Unless, of course, Wolfe amended, they were armed with a derringer, as this one had been. Thinking back to that expression of utter shock and disbelief on Black Jack's face when he realized he'd been shot, almost made Wolfe smile.
Almost but not quite. Not yet. He cast a glance upward at the sun, gauging time and distance. And continued.
Noel desperately longed to stop. But Wolfe continued to set a grueling pace, backtracking, riding the horses in the shallow waters along the banks of Whiskey River to throw their pursuers off the track. And since she had the feeling that there was absolutely nothing she could say to make him take a break, she had no choice but to follow his lead. Alt
hough he seemed to know exactly where he was going, she could not pick out any discernible trail.
Keeping single file, they threaded through a series of narrow canyons, headed toward the top of the mesa. Every so often, a loose stone skipped away from beneath a hoof and scattered downward, landing with a clatter on the rocks below.
Only sheer determination kept her in the heavy, unfamiliar, high-backed saddle. Her bottom ached, and her thighs, bare beneath the silk skirts, felt as if they'd been rubbed raw.
Finally, she had to ask. "Can't we stop?" she called out, ducking to avoid a tree branch that threatened to take off the top of her head. Her tongue was literally sticking to the roof of her mouth. "Just for a little while?"
"No."
The single word was flat and final. He didn't even bother to glance back at her. Indeed, if anything, he picked up the pace, urging his horse to a canter. Cursing in a very unprincess-like way, Noel picked up the pace and rode after him.
She didn't believe he'd leave her out here in the wilderness all alone, not after having already saved her life. And surely not after she'd saved his.
But she wasn't quite ready to put it to the test.
Wolfe glanced up at the sky again, almost unconsciously calculating the time until sundown. Although he'd spent much of his life among the whites, he'd been born with the iron stamina of the Dineh and could travel for days without sleep.
Before he'd been sent away to that hated white man's boarding school in the East, back when he'd still lived with his mother's sister's family, in the warm red heart of Dinetah, Wolfe had heard stories of how the elders had been capable of covering a hundred miles a day, and more.
His own mother's father had reminisced about the days when members of raiding parties would run their horses into the ground, then dismount and run.
During the Naahondzond—the Fearing Time—when the hated Kit Carson, known to The People as the Rope Thrower, had tried to kill off every Navajo in Arizona Territory, the outgunned Dineh had been forced to hide among the canyons. His grandfather had told of several instances of going seventy-two hours without sleep, much of it in the saddle.
