by JoAnn Ross
"It's probably just as well," he said quietly.
Considering the horrific way you died. The unspoken words hovered in the air between them. And for the first time in her life, Jessica understood her inexplicable fear of fire.
"I've always felt uneasy around Chapmann," she murmured as Rory pulled the Jag into the driveway. "I thought it was merely feminine intuition." But now she realized that it was more than that. Much, much more.
He reached out and pushed the button to open the garage door. As it slowly rose, he turned toward her.
"You realize that this time I'm going to have to do something about him."
"That's Trace's job."
"No." He pulled the car into the garage, stopping it inches from the far wall. "I don't believe in leaving a job unfinished. Even if it takes a hundred years to complete."
Accustomed to his friendly smiles and warm glances, the hardness of his eyes and finality of his tone frightened Jessica.
She put her hand on his arm. "Although every logical instinct I've got tells me that this can't be happening, I have to admit that my heart tells me you're right."
"Somehow, against every law of nature I've been taught to believe in, we seem to have managed to find each other again. So why can't you just be grateful that we've been given a second chance and leave things as they are?"
"Clayton has to pay for his crimes. Surely you felt the same way, or you wouldn't have brought him to trial in the first place."
"That's true. Unfortunately, I didn't do a good enough job, so a jury of his peers acquitted him and he can't be tried again because we have double jeopardy in this country. As we should," she allowed reluctantly.
"The problem is, you're accustomed to old-time western justice, Rory. Give the man a fair trial, then hang him. Isn't that what you said?"
When he muttered something that was part curse, part agreement, Jessica, frustrated, exhaled a ragged breath. "Things aren't so black-and-white these days," she said. "And you'd certainly never get away with killing a man for crimes you say he did a hundred years ago."
"It's not just my word," he reminded her. "Noel and Wolfe—Mac—" he corrected himself "—could corroborate my story. As could you."
"Even if Noel and Mac were willing to say something, which I doubt they would, I'd lose my job if I even suggested such a thing."
She had a point, Rory thought reluctantly. But there had to be some other way to prove his claim in court. "Clayton's murder of Emilie is documented in that book from the museum," he said stubbornly.
"Someday, perhaps, people will accept the idea of time travel, and a lawman will be able to chase a killer through the centuries, like they do in all those Jack the Ripper slasher movies. But right now, it's something reserved for science fiction novels."
"And even if a jury would buy an insanity plea, which I seriously doubt, you could end up spending your life in an institution for the criminally insane." And that, she thought with an inward tremor, she could never allow.
"He has to pay," Rory repeated doggedly.
Jessica wanted to shake him, to scream at him, anything to make him see reason. "Not at the risk of destroying our future."
"I'm going to try my best not to do that."
"And if you fail? What then?"
He leaned over and brushed his lips against hers. "Then I'll just have to keep following him through the centuries until I succeed." He brushed his thumb against her quivering lips. "But I promise, sweetheart, this time Clayton isn't going to get away."
That idea did not give Jessica a great deal of comfort. Because try as she might, she could not envision any way Rory could succeed in his quest without putting his own life in danger.
They'd just entered the house through the garage door leading into the kitchen when the doorbell rang.
After looking out the window and seeing the Floral Fantasy van, Jessica answered the door to the delivery driver, signed on the dotted line on the clipboard he thrust at her, then took the long white box back into the kitchen.
"They're lovely," she said as she turned back the tissue and viewed the long-stemmed red American Beauty roses. "How did you figure out how to order them?"
"I didn't." But from the look of delight on her face, Rory wished he had.
"Then who…" She plucked the card from the greenery. "From your secret admirer," she read aloud. "To a woman whose skin is as soft as these petals."
The idea of some other man knowing her that intimately was not a pleasant one.
"This is truly so strange," she murmured.
"You don't know who sent them?" That idea was even less pleasing. Surely she couldn't be involved with that many men?
"I haven't a clue."
The thought occurred to them both at the same time.
Rory opened her briefcase which was lying on the counter and pulled out the pistol she'd told him she kept there. "Keep this close. And call the sheriff," he said, as he plucked the keys from the wooden rack by the door. "Tell him to get over here to guard you right away."
"Rory, you can't—"
He was gone before she could finish the sentence. Jessica heard the car engine, and raced out the front door, in time to see him backing out of the garage, the roof of the Jaguar barely clearing the opening door.
"Oh hell," she muttered.
Afraid of getting Rory in trouble, but even more afraid of the trouble he was capable of getting into by himself, Jessica went back into the kitchen, picked up the phone and called Trace.
9
Eric Chapmann, as Jack Clayton was calling himself these days, was not that difficult to find. Rory guessed that he wouldn't be able to resist sharing the news of this latest intimidation tactic with his cronies.
In the first two bars his search proved fruitless. It was at the third, Denim and Diamonds, a combination western tavern and restaurant, that he found him, playing pool with a pair of men whose hard bodies indicated a lifetime of working the range and whose hard eyes suggested that they'd prove formidable enemies.
The trio was laughing, obviously enjoying Clayton's story. Biding his time until he worked out a plan, Rory was about to order a draft, then realized that he undoubtedly couldn't use his gold pieces to pay for it.
He glanced around the bar. At this time of day it was nearly empty. The only other people in the room were an old man wearing a sweat-stained Stetson whose face had the hue and texture of a raisin, and the woman working as both bartender and waitress. She was wearing a short denim skirt, red handkerchief print blouse, and a fringed denim vest. Her red leather boots, Rory suspected, had never been within a hundred yards of a horse.
Her hair, the color of corn, was piled on the top of her head in a complicated series of twists and curls and lacquered to a rock hard stiffness. She was wearing paint on her eyelids, cheeks and lips, and although the effect was not as garish as the one the girls at The Road to Ruin had favored, Rory much preferred Jessica's understated style.
"What can I get you, honey?" she asked as she returned from delivering an order of long-neck beers to the pool players.
Chapmann, running true to form, had patted her fanny as she'd turned to walk away. Although red flags had waved in her cheeks at the male laughter the cowboy's behavior had elicited, she hadn't uttered a word of complaint.
"Nothing at the moment," he said. "But I would like to speak with you about a private business matter."
She gave him a long look that slowly moved from the top of his hat to the tip of his boots. As her gaze crawled back up again, lingering momentarily on his crotch, Rory suddenly regretted every time in his admittedly less than blameless youth when he'd treated a woman to a similar examination.
"Don't tell me you're the guy from the IRS who keeps sending me all those letters?" she said finally.
"The IRS?"
"I want you to look around." She waved her hand around the nearly deserted bar. "Does it look like I make all that many tips in this place? Granted, the girls working upstairs in th
e restaurant do okay, but down here it's another story. Now, if I could work nights, maybe you'd have a case, but with no one to watch my kids—"
"I'm afraid I don't understand what you're talking about," Rory interjected into the angry monologue.
"You're not here about last year's income tax return?"
"No." He didn't even know what an income tax return was, and wasn't going to risk another barrage of angry words by asking. "I wanted to speak to you about your customers."
"I should have known it." She nodded and pursed her lips. "You're another one of those private investigators. What are you going to try to do? Get Chapmann on a civil suit?"
"I have no intention of suing anyone."
"Too bad." Her eyes turned hard. "He's one mean son of a bitch when he's been drinking." There was something in her voice and flinty gaze that suggested she had her own reason for disliking the young cowboy. A reason that went beyond a mere slap on the rear.
"He's been upsetting a friend of mine," Rory explained.
"He's good at that," she said. "I take it we're talking about your girlfriend?"
"Yes." Rory decided it would be stretching the truth to call Jess his wife.
"And you intend to stop him."
"Yes."
She gave him another long measuring look. "You're sure big enough. And you look tough enough, if we're talking one-on-one. But in case you haven't noticed, hon, you're a little outnumbered."
"I was hoping you could help me with that."
She chewed on a scarlet nail as she thought that over for a minute. Then she gave him the first smile he'd seen since entering the bar.
"Honey, you're on."
Although he tried to explain he didn't have any money on him to pay for a drink, the woman, who told him her name was Delia, insisted on drawing him a draft.
"You'll call attention to yourself if you're not drinking," she said.
Deciding she had a point, Rory nursed the beer slowly, finding it rather weak and missing the kick he was accustomed to.
The pool players downed the beers Delia had delivered, then called out an order for more, with shots of tequila on the side. Delia cheerfully obliged them, but when Chapmann dipped a finger in the tequila, then ran it along the skin bared by the deep vee of her blouse, she looked to be on the verge of decking him.
Instead, she earned Rory's admiration by laughing and slapping his hand lightly. Then she tousled his dark hair and walked back to the bar on a swivel-hipped stride that even Rory found more than a little appealing.
Ten minutes later the beer began to take effect, and when one of the men headed through the door at the far end of the bar marked Bulls, Delia went to work. While delivering more tequilas—on the house, she assured the men—she began flirting with Chapmann's companion, running her fingers down the front of his shirt, slipping them through the buttons.
Chapmann, who was in the process of clearing the table, looked up long enough to suggest something that Rory couldn't hear, but from the flush that darkened the waitress's cheeks and the way the other man laughed uproariously, he suspected it was definitely sexual in nature.
The cowboy proved to be an easy mark and allowed Delia to lead him out of the room. Rory didn't even want to think about what she'd promised and hoped like hell he could finish Chapmann off before she found herself in more trouble than she could handle.
He moved quickly up behind Chapmann who was lining up a shot designed to put the five ball in the corner pocket.
"You're real good at terrorizing women, aren't you?" he asked quietly.
Chapmann glanced back over his shoulder. "Well, if it isn't the head case boyfriend. What's the matter? You ticked off because that hot to trot lawyer lady called out my name while you were pumping away between those sexy long legs?"
Rory didn't even stop to think. One minute his hand was on Chapmann's shoulder. The next minute, his fist was headed toward the bastard's smug face and he heard the satisfying sound of bone breaking, felt the jaw crush beneath his knuckles.
Chapmann let out a roar like a wounded mountain lion, then swung the pool cue. Rory ducked and Chapmann staggered back, off balance, just as his companion reentered the room. In a split second the cowboy assessed the situation, and bellowing his curses, charged toward Rory.
Rory decided that he'd stood a better chance in that bar brawl than he did with a furious Jessica.
"What were you thinking of?" she asked as she paced the floor of Trace's office, her skirt swishing around her thighs. "What if Chapmann had pressed charges?"
"That would have been a bit difficult, since it's not easy talking with a broken jaw," Rory responded. It had been a particularly satisfying moment, almost making up for the pain when Clayton's pal had hit him on the back of the head with a half-empty beer bottle.
"It's not funny, dammit!" She turned on him, her hands on her hips, her voice rising at least an octave higher than its usual throaty tone. "You could have ended up getting arrested. Or even hurt. In case it's skipped your mind, just a few days ago you were lying unconscious in the hospital. You could have been killed."
"Jess." Trace's voice was quiet, but forceful. Rory had realized that the man was an expert at controlling volatile situations when he'd shown up at Denim and Diamonds and immediately put a stop to a fight that had definitely gotten out of hand.
From what Rory had been able to figure out, Jessica had phoned Trace and he'd been at her house when he'd received the call of a fight in progress from Denim and Diamonds. After arriving with Trace at the bar, she'd followed the two men back to the sheriffs in the Jag.
"It's over," Trace told her. "Mannion isn't hurt and Chapmann didn't press charges."
"Only because you threatened him with the answering machine tape," she guessed.
"Whatever works. Within legal limits," he added, then shot a censorious look toward Rory. "You, on the other hand, were definitely out of line."
Rory folded his arms over his chest and met the sheriffs look with a defiant one of his own. "He threatened Jessica. Any man would have done the same thing."
"That's not true," Jessica started to argue.
"Actually," Trace acknowledged, "if I weren't wearing a badge, I would probably have reacted the same way."
Her frustrated gaze went from Rory to Trace, then back again. "You two are unbelievable."
"We both care about you," Rory said. "And we're not going to allow Chapmann to hurt you."
Since she'd already decided that logic didn't work on Rory, Jessica decided to try her other would-be protector. "Talk to him," she begged. "Tell him that taking on Chapmann is dangerous."
"I think he knows that, Jess," Trace said. "And I don't think anything I can say would make any difference."
She shook her head. This was impossible. "Would you at least tell him that he can't kill the man?"
Trace's expression became hard. "She's right about that one, Mannion. Murder's a lot different than breaking a few bones on a guy who needed to be taught a lesson. Don't do the crime if you can't do the time."
Although there was nothing humorous about either the sheriff's words or his expression, Rory couldn't help laughing at that. A short, bitter bark of a laugh.
"Believe me, Sheriff," he said. "Time is the one thing I seem to have plenty of." He turned to Jessica. "I told you not to worry."
She felt the mutinous sting of moisture behind her eyelids and vowed that she would not humiliate herself by crying.
"When we get home, we're going to have a very long talk."
Rory liked the way she made it sound as if her cozy house was his home as well as hers. From the muscle that suddenly clenched in Trace's jaw, Rory suspected the other man was still less than thrilled by their relationship.
Rory understood the sheriff's concern. But he wasn't going to allow it to keep him from spending the rest of his life—however long that turned out to be—with Jess.
"The least you could do," she muttered as they took the elevator down to the f
irst floor of the courthouse, "is check with me before you go breaking up furniture."
"I'm sincerely sorry about that," Rory admitted. Nick McGill, owner of the Denim and Diamonds saloon, had seemed remarkably good-natured, considering the circumstance. "But how does that affect you?"
"I suppose you have a rich fairy godmother who's going to pay to fix those chairs? Not to mention putting new felt on the pool table? And someone's going to have to replace all those bottles that broke when you threw Chapmann over the bar."
Although she'd never admit it, Jessica would have loved to have witnessed that. It would have been just like a movie—Maverick, perhaps. Or those wonderful old Clint Eastwood spaghetti westerns she loved to watch on cable television.
"And I suppose you're expecting to be that someone?" He was going to have to find a gold dealer, Rory decided, to find out what his coins were worth these days.
The elevator door opened with a ding. "Unless you're planning to ask Mac or Noel, I'm the only person— other than Trace—you know in town."
"I know Chapmann."
"Don't remind me. That's what got us into this mess in the first place. And I doubt if he'd be willing to spring for the repairs. Since according to the witnesses, you swung the first punch."
"Not everyone agrees on that."
"That's right." She stomped down the outside steps toward the Jag, which she'd driven from Denim and Diamonds while Trace had taken Rory to the sheriff's office in the Suburban. "The bartender seems not to have noticed how the brawl started." Her tone was rife with disbelief.
"She was very busy." Rory decided it would not be wise to mention that the bar was nearly deserted.
"She's a woman."
"So?"
"So, she's obviously lying, hoping that it will win points with you."
Rory decided that he liked the fact that Jess seemed jealous.
"Delia's a very nice woman. And she did me a favor when I needed one. But she's not you." He grasped her hand, as she reached to unlock the car door. Then he took her other one, as well. "You should realize by now how I feel about you."