by JoAnn Ross
The food was delicious and there was an amazing amount of it, although Rory found the domestically raised turkey bland compared to the wild ones he remembered. The company was enjoyable and although he could tell that Trace was still withholding judgment on him, Mariah Swann Callahan had welcomed him into her family home with a genuine warmth that he knew was not feigned.
The conversation flowed as easily as the wine and Rory was relieved when his presence was accepted without undue question.
"Your friends are nice people," he said to Jessica as they drove back to her house after dinner.
Mariah had insisted on sending home enough leftovers to feed an army. The aromas of sweet potatoes, turkey and sausage dressing mingled with that of pumpkin pie and Jess's perfume in the warmth of the car.
"They are, aren't they?" she agreed. "When Trace first started falling in love with Mariah, I have to admit I was a little worried."
"Because you thought she might have killed her sister to get the ranch?" Greed, Rory knew, was a powerful motive for murder, in any century.
"No, although Trace was forced to suspect everyone, including Mariah, I never believed she had anything to do with Laura's death. What worried me was my original belief that a hotshot screenwriter would become bored stiff here in Whiskey River. But, amazingly, she seems to be thriving."
"She looked very happy," he agreed. "But of course, the fact that she's going to be a mother may have had something to do with that."
"I'm so happy for them." Mariah had announced her news at dinner, to the delight of everyone present. "I don't think I've ever seen Trace look so damn proud of himself."
"He was entitled. After all, now he's assured that his line will continue."
"Is that important to you?" she asked with a great deal more casualness than she felt.
Rory was vaguely disappointed that she'd obviously forgotten that she'd once professed a desire for a large family. "Of course. I think it is for most men."
"I don't know about most men. But I do think Mariah's pregnancy will probably be rough on Clint."
"He's the rancher who was supposed to come to dinner and didn't?"
"That's him." The afternoon drizzle was beginning to turn to wet snow that was hitting the windshield in thick white splats. She turned up her wipers and clicked the lights to high beams. "He owns the land next door. He was also madly in love with Laura."
Rory watched the light cut through the falling snow and for not the first time since his adventure had begun, wondered if the people of this time had any idea how fortunate they were to have so many wondrous inventions.
"I suppose he didn't feel inclined to make casual dinner party conversation."
"You're probably right." Jessica sighed, thinking back on the case. "It's strange how life turns out. If Laura hadn't been murdered, Trace and Mariah probably wouldn't have fallen in love and wouldn't be planning for their child. But on the other hand, Laura and Clint would be living in the Prescott ranch house, fixing up the nursery for the baby Laura was expecting."
Rory thought about that and considered how fate was, indeed, a strange and fickle mistress. "It was Clint's child? Not her husband's?"
"DNA tests proved it was Clint's."
Rory thought about that as well, put himself into the rancher's place and wondered how the man had the strength to go on. "He lost a great deal."
"Yes." Jessica's voice was low and sad. "More than any man should have to, and he hasn't dealt with it very well. I worry about him."
A recent memory flashed through Rory's mind. Of Jessica's hand pressed against a man's rugged cheek. Of her expression of concern as she'd looked up into that bleak face.
"He's the man outside the pharmacy."
"What?" She glanced over at him, clearly surprised.
"The day I saw Chapmann for the first time. Right before you entered the pharmacy, you stopped to talk to a man who'd just come out. I remember thinking at the time you seemed close."
"I suppose we are. Although I didn't even know him until I nearly prosecuted him for Laura's murder, I've come to care a great deal for him."
She shook her head. "Everyone in town likes and respects Clint. Mariah, who's known him since she was a child, is the closest to him of any of us who were at the ranch today. But we were all hoping he'd come to dinner."
"It's hard to lose someone you love," Rory said softly.
Jessica slanted another, longer look at him. "Yes. But sometimes people find each other again."
"I liked Gavin Thomas," Rory said, wanting to change the bittersweet mood.
"Oh, so do I," Jessica agreed quickly. "I don't know all the details, but he and Trace grew up together in Dallas, which is why he moved here."
"It's quite a coincidence that he's creating a new series of graphic novels featuring a time-traveling old-time western marshall."
"I just about choked on my wine when he dropped that little bombshell. And you're right, it's an amazing coincidence. Are you going to help him with his research?"
Since Rory's presence was difficult to explain, they'd decided to simply introduce him as a western historian. Jessica had been more than a little relieved when Trace, who was still irritated about his inability to locate Rory Mannion on any of the national-search computer networks, hadn't blown their cover.
"I may as well. If some of the movies I've been watching on television are any indication, there's a great deal of misinformation written about my time. I suppose I have some responsibility to set the record straight."
"I wouldn't hold your breath waiting for that to happen," Jessica warned him. "I remember when Gavin first came to town, Brigid Delaney—Tara Delaney's grandmother—wasn't at all pleased with his current heroine."
"The crime-fighting witch he was telling me about."
"Morganna, Mistress of the Night," Jessica agreed. "Personally, if I'd been Brigid, I would have hit the roof at the way he depicted witches as vengeful sex objects. But being a kindhearted, not to mention broad-minded soul, she calmly set out to reeducate him instead."
"Reeducate him? About witches?"
"Exactly."
"Surely you're not saying that the charming woman I met today had a witch for a grandmother?"
"What's the matter? Don't you believe in witches?"
"Of course not." He folded his arms over the front of his chest. "The very idea is preposterous."
"Most people would probably say the same thing about time travel," Jessica said dryly.
"Point taken." Rory thought about that for a while. "You know," he said, "if Brigid Delaney really was a witch, that could explain why her granddaughter responded so strangely to me."
"Tara responded strangely? How?"
"When we shook hands, her eyes suddenly grew wider and she looked shocked and quite shaken. Actually," he said, "now that I think about it, it reminded me a great deal of how Noel reacted at first."
It was Jessica's turn to be quiet as she pondered the idea. "It's possible, I suppose. As crazy as it may seem to outsiders, a lot of people in Whiskey River believed in Brigid's supposed Druidic powers. If Tara inherited any of her grandmother's talents, she could have sensed something."
"I think that was undoubtedly what happened." Rory rubbed his jaw, which only bore one nick today. He was definitely getting the hang of that thin little pink razor. As he'd proven when he'd shaved Jess's long legs last night while they'd taken a bath together. "Whiskey River is truly a remarkable place."
"It is that." Jessica shared his amazement at not only their own situation, but Mac's and Noel's. And now she was forced to wonder about Tara Delaney, as well. "Perhaps Noel was right, after all."
He glanced over at her. "About what?"
"About Whiskey River being like Brigadoon, just waiting for us all to find it."
"It's a pleasant thought."
"Isn't it? Perhaps it'll be Clint's turn next," she suggested with a smile.
"Are you suggesting that his Laura will come back?"
&
nbsp; "Wouldn't that be wonderful? Or, barring that, perhaps his guardian angel will land in town."
"Or his fairy godmother."
"Clint in a pumpkin coach?" Jessica shook her head. "I think that's a bit farfetched, even for Whiskey River."
They shared a laugh, enjoying the day. And each other.
In a shaded grove where Whiskey River widened into a deep pool, Rory and Jessica were making love. She was down to those skimpy lace confections that he'd decided were definitely one of the very best things about the twentieth century. Her flesh gleamed golden in the buttery rays of sunshine slanting down through the treetops. Her eyes sparkled with a gilt-edged feminine invitation no man in his right mind would be able to ignore, even if he wanted to. Which Rory most definitely didn't.
"You are so beautiful." He skimmed his lips down her throat, pausing to touch the tip of his tongue against her thudding pulse. "So luscious." His lips continued their sensual journey, dampening the shell-pink lace of her bra. "Sometimes I can't believe that you're mine."
She arched her back off the blanket he'd spread atop the soft natural bed of pine needles. "I've always been yours," she murmured, combing her hands through his hair, pressing him more deeply into flesh heated by sun and desire. The scent on her warm skin filled the air around them, making Rory feel as if they were making love in a tropical garden. "I'll always be yours. Forever."
She could not have said anything that would have pleased him more. And although when he'd first brought her here he'd planned to make love to her slowly and tenderly, her murmured words made hunger flare up from some primal dark pit inside him.
He was overcome with a hot need to claim her, to brand her for all eternity as his own. Her panties had little ribbon bows at the hips. Rory ripped one of the ties, giving his mouth access to the moist pink lips between her thighs, and feasted hungrily, when suddenly a siren's scream shattered the erotic mood.
"What the hell?" He sat bolt upright in bed and immediately began to cough.
"It's the smoke detector," Jessica, who'd been jerked from a deep sleep as well, said. "Oh, my God, the house is on fire!"
Fire. Rory's first thought was self-directed fury that he'd allowed his love for Jess and his happiness at finding his bride again, to detract him from his plan to avenge Emilie's murder.
By letting his head be ruled by his heart, he'd made a disastrous mistake. A mistake that could prove to be fatal.
No! This time Clayton wasn't going to get away with murder. And this time Rory was going to save his wife's life.
He was out of bed in a flash, scooping up the clothes that Jessica had dropped carelessly onto the floor as she'd undressed him with slow hands that had succeeded in turning his body to flame.
"We've got to get out of here," he said as he jerked on his jeans. She should have been beside him, gathering up her own clothes. But instead, she sat in the middle of the bed, unmoving, as if carved from stone. Her eyes were wide with fear, her hands were holding the sheet in a death grip.
Hell. How could he have forgotten Jess's fear of fire?
"Jess." He took hold of her right hand and tried to loosen her stiff fingers. "We have to get out of here, now."
"It's no use." Her voice sounded so very far away, as if it were coming from inside a cave. As she looked up at him, her bleak gaze reminded him of a woman who'd visited hell and had lived to tell about it. "We can't get out. He's bolted the doors."
The smoke was getting thicker by the moment. Rory wondered if it was his imagination, fired by that century-old scene he'd been forced to witness right before Clayton had shot him, or whether the sounds of flames crackling on the floor below were real.
Although he wanted to yell at her to get out now, he forced his voice into one of reassuring calm. "That was then." He managed, with considerable effort, to release her hold on the sheet long enough to slip his shirt onto her. "These are different times, darlin'." With fingers that felt like stone, he buttoned the shirt as far as her waist. "You're not alone this time."
He tried to lift her from the mattress, but she was so stiff she felt like deadweight in his arms. "I'm with you. I'll get us out of here." He leaned down and gave her a deep kiss designed to reassure her. And, hopefully, get her mind off her terror.
"Rory?" Her lips were trembling as she looked up at him.
"It's me, sweetheart." He kissed her again. Harder, deeper.
"You've come home?"
For a moment the words caught him off guard. Then, looking down into those wide terrified eyes, he realized that she was no longer Jess, but Emilie.
"I've come home." He ran his hands over her shoulders, soothing the tense muscles. "Just in time to get you out of here, Em."
And then she did something that surprised him. She smiled. A slow, soft, trusting smile that tore at every fiber of his being.
"I knew you'd come." As compliant as a baby lamb, she held out her hand and let him lead her out of the bed, across the room, and into the bathroom, where he wet two washcloths in the sink.
"Hold this over your mouth and nose." He handed her one of the lace-trimmed cloths, then grabbed up his gun, which Trace had returned after he was convinced that Rory hadn't stolen it. He stuck the revolver into his waistband. "And get down on your knees. The air is fresher closer to the floor."
Without a word of argument, she did as instructed, and crawling on her hands and knees, followed him down the narrow hallway.
"Hell." Rory let out a string of frustrated, vicious curses when they found the downstairs engulfed in flames.
"That's all right." She treated him to another sweet smile and although the way she seemed to have drifted off into her own safe little world made goose bumps rise on Rory's arms, he supposed he should be grateful that she no longer seemed to be fully cognizant of the danger they were in. "You'll get us out. I trust you Rory, darling."
With her life. She didn't say it, but both of them understood that was exactly what she was doing. Rory knew that if he lived another thousand lifetimes, he'd never forgive himself for not arriving home soon enough to save his bride from a horrific death. He was not about to face eternity with two such failures on his conscience.
"We'll have to go back to the bedroom and jump," he decided. They'd undoubtedly break a few bones, but that was definitely better than the alternative.
"We won't have to jump."
There was a sudden roar as the flames engulfed the stairway, swallowing it whole like a hungry dragon.
"Honey, we don't have any choice."
"We can use the ladder."
"The ladder?"
She took the washcloth from her mouth long enough for him to see a smile that was so quick and so self-satisfied that Rory realized that somehow Jess had come back just in time to do what Emilie couldn't.
"There's a rope ladder under the bed. I saw it last month in a catalog and it seemed like a good idea. So I ordered it."
Fate, Rory thought for not the first time since landing in Whiskey River in 1996, was definitely an amazing thing. He framed her face with his hands and gave her another quick hot kiss. "I love you."
They made their way back down the hall, and into the smoke-filled bedroom, where Rory closed the door behind them. While he got the rope ladder out from beneath the bed, Jess ran into the bathroom and soaked a towel in water and put it against the bottom of the door.
"It might slow the fire down," she said. "And it should stop the smoke long enough for us to get out of here."
The ladder had hooks that fit over the window sash. Rory got it in place, leaned out, and tugged. "I think it's secure."
"If it isn't, the worst that can happen is we fall," she stated with the attorney's logic he'd come to admire.
"And that definitely beats staying here and becoming a crispy critter."
As they climbed out the window, Jess first, Rory right behind her, they heard the sound of sirens in the distance. Right before he reached the safety of the ground, Rory saw the flashing red lights
coming their way from town. And he saw something else, too: a pair of tail-lights, gleaming red in the dark, driving away from the house.
Obviously Clayton was up to his old tricks. On the ground, from a safe distance, Rory took Jessica into his arms, and held her tightly as they watched the roof of her beloved Cape Cod house fall in with a roar and a crash that sent sparks flying up into the midnight black sky, and vowed that this time Black Jack Clayton wasn't going to get away.
"You just don't get it, do you?"
A very frustrated Trace was pacing the floor of his den. He'd brought Jessica and the man who continued to insist his name was Rory Mannion back to the ranch after the fire. Fortunately, he and Rory wore the same size clothes, and while Jessica was a bit taller than Mariah, the difference wasn't enough to matter. Although the fire department wouldn't be able to sift through the ashes until morning, it had been obvious that the house—and everything in it—was going to be a total loss.
"There is no way in hell I'm going to let you go after Chapmann."
"He tried to kill Jess," Rory reminded the sheriff. "Someone has to bring him to justice."
"If he is the one who did it—" Trace held up a hand to forestall Rory's interruption "—and while I tend to agree with you that he probably was, it's my job, as sheriff of Mogollon County, to be the one to arrest him."
"It's going to take more than one man."
"Fine. I've got deputies. And I can call in DPS to watch the highways."
"He won't be on the highways. He's going to head into the woods."
"It's beginning to snow again. The temperature's dropped into the teens. If he is out there, he's going to be freezing his tail off before morning. Well flush him out."
"It's not going to be as easy as you're suggesting," Rory insisted. "The man grew up here, he knows every rock and tree, every nook and cranny and cave. He could hide out for weeks."
"Not in this weather."
Rory cursed. "You don't know him like I do."
"You've only been in town, what? Two and a half weeks? And part of that time you were unconscious. I don't think that makes you an expert on Eric Chapmann."