Dangerous Waters

by Amy J. Fetzer

  gnawing on my mind like maggots combing dead flesh for nurishment. I don't believe / will ever be free of it. Not in this lifetime. But perhaps in this newborn time. Freedom. No one can touch me. No one ever could. Not even

  her.

  1 know what I am. A mother's nightmare. And I revel in the freshness of a new beginning.

  Chris rapped on the door. When no response came, he tried the knob. It opened freely and he let it go, a sense of dread filling him as the door swung open. The room was empty. He didn't have to step inside to see if anything else would contradict him. It was too small.

  And she was gone.

  Something inside him broke loose, floating in his gut. He didn't know what to think, nor where to look for her. She could look like anyone. Immediately he went to the front desk. The clerk glanced up, then straightened, moving to the counter.

  "Where's Clara Murphy?"

  "Misses Fotheringham dismissed her this morning."

  "Why?" The clerk shrugged, glancing away and Chris leaned closer. "Why," came with deadly intent.

  "The missus said she heard—" he cleared his throat and lowered his voice "—noises from her room, and a man's voice."

  Inwardly Chris groaned. Did Fotheringham see her true face, he wondered.

  "Old sour-puss said she'd dirtied her hotel's good name." The clerk smirked. ' 'Miss Clara said if it got dirty it was 'cause she ain't got to cleanin' it yet."

  Sarcasm, how like her.

  "Where did she go?"

  "Can't say, 'Cause I don't know!" he added quickly when the marshal looked as if he'd choke him. "She was gone at sun up."

  Chris left the hotel, striding down the walk, searching every

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  face, his dark gaze trying to rip away the real from fake. People

  moved out of his path, and he slowed his step, forcing the

  scowl from his face. He didn't need folks to be afraid of him.

  Yanking his hat from his head, he slapped it against his

  thigh, then repositioned it. Where are you? Why didn't you

  come to me? He knew the answer instantly.

  She doesn't need you. She doesn't need anybody.

  The sweet sex between them last night didn't mean she was

  his woman. It only meant that she felt like one, looked like

  one—tasted like one.

  Victoria was dependent on no one—least of all him.

  That gnawed at him, for he needed to see her, to assure

  himself that last night wasn't a dream. But was she angry? Did

  she despise him for teasing her, for taking liberties?

  He needed to know.

  And as he scanned the street, veering off toward Duckett's and hoping to catch her at her usual breakfast, he had the distinct feeling it was a useless trip, that if she wanted, he'd i never see her again. And he swore, if he had to line up every member of this damn town and make them strip to their drawers, he'd find her.

  Noble Beecham liked a good passel of mystery as much as

  the next man, but the little lady was one he couldn't figure. At

  the dawn of his shift, he'd seen her, as Clara, and now, she

  looked every bit a young man, and Noble squinted as she

  crossed the street, trying to imagine what she looked like under

  all that shit. Dang, but he hoped she wasn't really a man with

  tits, as tall as she was.

  Nah.

  Marshal wouldn't be sniffing after her if she wasn't anything but a real hot-fire woman. Yet, as she stood on the walk, chatting quite amiably with Red Velvet Knight, Noble couldn't help but notice her mannerisms, scuffling her boots, shoving her hands deep into her pockets. She's good at it, he'd give her that, he thought, as she tipped her hat to Vel and broke into a

  run across to the livery. Noble watched her long legs eat up the dust, wishing he could see the face God gave her, then he turned away from the window. With a bored sigh, he dropped into his chair just as a knock jiggled the door.

  Tiredly, he hollered, "Get in. I ain't no door man!" and the door popped open.

  " 'Tis a fine howd-ya do!"

  "Miss Abigale!" He leapt to his feet, his ruddy cheeks flushing with embarrassment. "This is a surprise."

  "Hah!" she said not unkindly, bustling inside. "I thought we were friends enough that you'd tell me when he'd mended his broken heart." He took the basket from her, his pleased smile hidden beneath his heavy moustache.

  "Who?" he teased, setting the basket on the desk. "The marshal?" Noble stole a peak beneath the linen napkin and got his hand slapped for the crime.

  "That's for them."

  "Well, them isn't a them, Miss Abigale."

  He leaned closer, his gaze slipping over her full bosom and rounded hips with undisguised admiration. "They're like cats squaring off to fight all the time.'' That wasn't a lie, and though Noble swore not to reveal her secret, even what he knew to Chris, he figured those two would either love one another wildly or kill each other.

  Her sweet cherub face fell at the news. "What did he do?"

  "What makes you think it was him?"

  "A woman would not be so stupid as to ruin her chances with a fine catch like my Christopher."

  She looked all proper and righteous, he thought with a grin. "Says you."

  "Aye, says me." She batted his hand away from the basket

  again,

  "You gonna slap me if I reach for you, Miss Abigale?" he murmured silkily and her face flamed.

  "Depends on what your hands wrap around, Mister Beecham."

  The clatter of hooves and a shout from beyond the walls

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  couldn't drag his gaze from hers. "Then I 'spect you'd beat me to a tar," His implication was clear and she gasped, her skin darkening even further. Then with the determination of a man who knew what he wanted, Noble tipped her chin, yet just as he was sinking into Abigale's sweet kiss, the door banged open. The couple jerked apart and Noble decided that arrest was fair punishment for the interruption until the marshal stormed in, heading immediately to the storage room beyond his desk. He grabbed a sack and a saddle bag off a peg, jamming supplies inside.

  A worried frown creasing her face. Abigale looked at Noble, then nudged him. The mountain man moved to the entrance, bracing his shoulder on the frame. He whipped out his Arkansas Toothpick and cleaned his nails. "Gonna tell me where all you're headed?"

  Chris bit back a sharp retort and shoved dried beef, two cans, and a few trail essentials into a muslin sack. Dammit, he hated that she put him in this position and knew sticking to the truth was his best bet.

  "Jake stole a horse." "Jezz! You sure?"

  Chris flung a glare over his shoulder, then continued gather­ing supplies and bullets, before dropping his single holster for a double.

  "Hell. T'da never thought ss-he'd do somethin' like that. Dang, Chris, he's got to have a good reason." Noble thanked God Chris was too piss-fire angry to notice his slip.

  "He flung a coin at Clancey and took off." With her back­pack, with everything she owned and Chris had a feeling, one that drove through him like a stake, that she wasn't coming back. Either him or her bounty had her running. "Well then, he rented the mount." "Hardly." Chris brushed past him. "It was Caesar," Noble cursed rudely. Abigale gasped. And Chris wrenched around to stare at her.

  "I brought you and your woman-friend some lunch," she explained in a rush, his anger leaving her at a loss.

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  "Abigale," he said, crossing to her. "I told you—"

  "I ken, I ken, but just call me hopeful and don't let me good cookin' go to waste." She wrapped some chicken and biscuits in a cloth and pushed it into his sack. "Least you won't be going hungry."

  He recognized the fear in her voice, her expression, and he paused long enough to give her a re
assuring hug. "I'll be back."

  "You best be, Christopher, and in one piece!" she called, but he was already gone. " 'Cause I want to meet her," she murmured sadly, staring at the ruined meal.

  "It ain't your fault, darlin', 'bout him and Miss Camille," Noble said softly. "A man makes his own decisions, then lives with 'em."

  Abigale lifted her gaze, offering him a weary smile. "I suppose," she sighed, then poked in the basket, taking inven­tory. "Hungry?" She met his warm, probing gaze.

  '' Sure. That is ..." He leaned closer, fixing to take up where they left off. "If n all yer gonna offer me is cold chicken?"

  Abigale harrumphed, then promptly shoved a chicken leg in his puckered mouth. Kiss that, she thought with girlish delight.

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  Chapter Fourteen

  Hooves pounded the earth, kicking up rocks and sod and Chris scarcely acknowledged the dust coating his mouth, the sweat and grime clinging to his skin. His fingers were itching to wring her pretty little neck too much to bother. To satisfy the murderous urge, he gripped the reins tighter, spurned the horse faster. She was far ahead, only because of Caesar. Damn the horse for letting her mount him when he normally chewed into anyone who tried. He wasn't so furious that she'd stolen his horse, but that she left without saying good-bye.

  And he feared, he'd driven her off.

  Damn.

  He pushed the beast over a low rise and reined up, scanning the terrain. The slow sinking sun blinded him and he squinted. Half the day and well into the evening lost to chasing that woman. God knows she left a strong enough trail. Digging in his heefs, he pushed the horse toward the next rise, heading toward the railroad a few miles in the valley beyond. The horse's lungs bellowed as it labored up the incline, rocks rolling down the hillside as powerful hooves searched for purchase. He was going to kill the animal if he didn't slow down, he

  thought regretfully, and as man and beast broke over the moun-taintop, Chris walked the gelding to cool him, then slid from his back.

  Loosening his canteen, he sipped, then offered water to the horse. Re-securing the container, he stared over the saddle at the landscape and spotted Caesar grazing under the shade of a gnarled tree at the edge of the cliff.

  He twisted and turned, searching for Victoria.

  He was alone on the mountaintop.

  Quickly, he approached Caesar, pulling the gelding under the shade and noticing his pet wasn't hobbled, the leads drag­ging the ground. Did she leave him here hoping he'd return on his own? The black beast would, but did that mean she was already on the train? The whistle howled, echoing off the valley walls and he moved to the edge. Steam rolled from the engine housing. A few travelers mingled, miners mostly, the station more for depositing supplies than hauling settlers to this part of the territory. Chris moved closer and saw her—or rather, her boots. Head down toward the valley, her elbows braced, she held binoculars to her eyes. At least they looked like binocu­lars, yet smaller. But one thing was for sure—she wasn't mas­querading as Jake. Did that mean she was ready to take her bounty out with a bullet or take the felon back alive? Suddenly, she scrambled back, climbing to her feet and when she turned, she stopped at the sight of him.

  Victoria tried to ignore the betrayed look in his eyes, moving quickly around him toward the horse, shoving the binoculars in her backpack and lifting her leg to mount.

  "No." He clamped his arm around her waist, yanking her back.

  She twisted. "Let me go, Chris." She twisted. "This isn't your business."

  He tightened his grip, cutting off her air, telling her every­thing about her was his business. She stomped on his instep. He grunted, gripping her more securely and Victoria went limp, sliding down his body and ramming her elbow into his stomach. He folded with a rush of air, and she cupped the back of his

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  knee and yanked. Chris hit the ground with a bone jarring thud. But Victoria came with him, splaying across him and driving him flat to the ground. He didn't release her and she covered his hand, digging her thumb into the apex of his and his forefin­ger. Pain shot up his arm, numbing it as she twisted his wrist, peeling bone and muscle back unnaturally.

  "Damn it, Victoria!" He shifted to accommodate the strain. "Give up, Chris!" She released him, rolling off and scram­bling across the ground. ' 'I have to get down there!''

  The train was leaving and taking Ivy League on it. He was stalking. She could tell by the smug look in his eyes. He already had hts prey selected and cultivated for the kill! Chris grabbed her ankle, dragging her back. She kicked out, frantic. "Butt-out!"

  He lurched, throwing himself on top of her. "Not until you tell me why you're out here!"

  "I'm a bounty hunter," she snarled, spitting grass and dirt. "I'm hunting."

  She clawed the ground, trying to find anchor so she could throw him off. But he was heavy, pressing her into the soft earth.

  She fought like a cornered mountain cat, clawing, elbowing him, and Chris caught her wrists, slamming her hands to the ground, his body driving her into the dirt. His knees were braced against the back of her legs. Seconds ticked by. Her back rose and fell with angry breaths, her body stiff beneath his.

  "You going to beat the hell out of me again if I let you

  up?'' He inhaled hard, trying to find his wind. Jesus, she was

  strong! *

  "No," she muttered into the dirt.

  "Swear?"

  "Chickenshit."

  He smirked, his voice a low murmur near her ear. "Come on, Tori."

  "Don't call me that!" she hissed, renewing her struggle.

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  Chris frowned. She might be seething with anger, but that was hurt he heard in her voice. He was sure of it.

  "Why not? It suits you."

  God, did he have to be so sweet? "I'm not going to get into this with you now!"

  Frowning, he slid off her enough to look at her, still pinning her legs. Her forehead was pressed to the ground, her hair shielding her face. "Look at me."

  She turned her head, tossing hair from her view and glaring at him.

  "Why did you leave?"

  "Not because of you."

  Liar, he thought. It's in your eyes. "Who are you hunting?"

  "A killer."

  "As the marshal, I have the right to know who."

  Time travel or not, he was right. "Algenon Becket."

  Chris's brows rose sharply, objection in every feature. "You're wrong."

  Her lips tightened into a flat line. Of course, he wouldn't believe her. She'd done nothing but prove herself a nut case since they met. The train whistle cried like a mourning mother, and Victoria risked scrapes and cuts and abruptly curled up on her knees, bucked, then brought her arm out and up to break his hold, inadvertently cuffing him on the chin. In his dazed moment, she grabbed her fallen hat, drawing the gun tucked inside and took off running. She could hear him behind her and pushed herself harder, skidding down the hillside. Earth crumbled beneath her feet and she reached out to brace herself and kept going. The train chugged and with a sudden burst of adrenaline, she lurched, only to be caught about the waist and slammed into the mountainside. Her gun flew from her grip as she choked for air, grappling wildly for freedom, slamming her fists Into his solid flesh. "Hit all you want, woman." Chris suffered the painful blows, drawing on strength to hold her and not crush her.

  "I'm not fighting you."

  "Damn you!" She twisted frantically. "You don't know

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  what you've done!" She reached for the land like a hurt child reaches for its mother and Chris drew her back. "Please. I need to get on the train. He'll hurt them," she sobbed, hating it, hating him. "He'll kill them!"

  "Tori, Tori, shhh," he said, and although she'd run out of energy, she still struggled, even as the train moved around the nar
row bend, leaving only smoke and fumes. "You're wrong, I'm telling you. Becket's not a criminal."

  She whipped around and glared at him, her voice low and ugly. And not even the unshed tears softened the bite. "You don't know what the hell you 're talking about!''

  His jaw tightened and he released her abruptly, and she wrenched away as if his touch fouled her clothes, then stood, searching and finding her gun before marching up the hill, scooping up her hat without breaking stride and dumping it on her head. Chris followed, watching her shove the weapon into a Jeather pocket fashioned at the back of her jeans, then dust the dirt from her thighs and bottom. And beyond the enticing shape of her hips in jeans without all the masculine enhance­ment, he recognized the dejected droop of her shoulders.

  "He's going to purchase liquor, like he does every couple weeks. Like he has for the past four months."

  Victoria dropped to the ground where she stood, unable to go on. Four months. Four hours head start was four months. God, he could have killed hundreds by now. He's been around long enough, made enough trips that whoever he was stalking was comfortable. Oh, God. How was she going to find him now? How could she get ahead of him with such limited resources and a marshal who obstructed her every move? Christ, I'd kill for a helicopter right now, she thought, yanking off her hat and running her fingers through her hair. It cascaded over her shoul­ders and she searched the knotted mass for the broken rubber band.

  "He'll be back in the morning. I swear it."

  Her gaze flew to his. He was standing a few feet before her.

  "How many lives are you willing to forfeit for that sureity,

  Marshal?' *

  A chill rode over his spine at her tone. It was dead, dried up with emotion. What had done this to her? Who made her turn inward and cut the world out? She pulled something from her hair, tossed it, then jammed her hat back on before drawing her knees up and bracing her forearms there. When he stepped toward her, her hand flew to her back and the gun appeared, pointed at his face.

  "We've been down this road before, Tori."