by Deb Stover
Jackie was too tired to argue any more, so she drew a deep breath and simply stared at the man. After a few moments of total silence, his face darkened and she saw fury etched across his features. Again.
Insistent tears burned and threatened to spill from her eyes, but she blinked them back. She was determined not to let this asshole see her cry. "I told you, I'm not Lolita Belle." Jackie rested her chin in her hands and sighed. "I came in here last night to get out of a blizzard. There was a terrible fire...and now you're here. What the hell is going on?"
"Blizzard?" Rupert frowned and shook his head. "It's been a dry spring–we haven't had snow since early April."
"Bull." Jackie straightened and flashed him what she hoped came close to what her aunt would call an uppity glare. "I walked down the mountain in a blizzard yesterday and came in here to keep from freezing to death." Her voice rose with each syllable and she shot to her feet. "How dare you call me a liar?"
Rupert placed a hand on each of her shoulders and pressed her back into the chair. "I own you, Miss Belle," he said from between clenched teeth and his cigar. "Until I recover every cent I've sunk into bringing you here, you're mine. Understand?"
His tone permitted no argument, yet how could Jackie agree to this lunacy? "I don't get it." She shook her head in numbed outrage and her tears escaped–damn traitors–but she swiped them away before anyone could see. You're pissed, Jackie–do not let them see you cry. Aunt Pearl said big girls don't cry. I am a big girl. Dammit.
"Just help me understand this–who are you and how did you get here?" She drew a shaky breath. "For that matter, how did this town get here?"
Rupert chuckled and shook his head. "You're good–one helluva actress. Maybe your handbills weren't all lies." A nasty smile spread across his face and he shoved his cigar back into the corner of his mouth. "I don't know your game, Miss Belle, but you'd better come through, if you know what's good for you."
"Is that a threat?" Anger finally succeeded in forcing her tears to beat a hasty retreat, and she folded her arms across her growling stomach. Her bladder was so full it was about to abandon ship, and her head felt like rap music with the bass set to kill. Putting it simply, she felt like total crap.
"A promise, Miss Belle." He leaned toward her. "Now where is your trunk? For that matter, how'd you get here? The stage isn't due until three o'clock."
"What stage? I walked here." Jackie swept the room with her gaze again. It was almost as if–
No.
Still, the people, the saloon, Lolita...
She thought about the fire that had consumed the building–this building. What bizarre aftermath had it left behind? Could it be? Had the fire somehow thrown her back in time?
No, not the fire. The painting. She swallowed and tried to steady her breathing. Time. It was the only thing that made sense, in a twisted sort of way. "I don't believe this."
"Trust me, that makes two of us." Rupert's sneer was even worse now than before. "I've commissioned an artist to paint your portrait. Since you can't perform until either your trunk arrives or we can provide other attire, you can pose for your portrait."
"Portrait?" In her mind, Jackie pictured Lolita's smug smile, her mutant breasts, all that bare flesh... "Oh, no. You can't be serious."
"I'm dead serious, Miss Belle." Rupert's expression had changed from furious to cocky. "The beauty of it is, you won't need any clothes at all for that."
Jackie stared long and hard at Rupert, then shifted her gaze to Dottie and the ever-present trio of goons. The polished bar, the unbroken furniture, no sign of a fire...
Evidence?
She had to know the truth. "What...year is it?" A roaring sound began in her head as she watched the flash of amusement in Rupert's eyes. "Answer me. Then..."
"Then what?" The man had that used-car-salesman air about him–he obviously smelled a hot deal in the making. "Well?"
Jackie held her breath for a moment, then said, "Then I'll pose for your damn portrait."
He nodded. "The year, Miss Belle, is 1891."
Chapter 3
Stunned, Jackie allowed Dottie to lead her up the stairs that had been engulfed in flames last night.
No, not last night.
Her escort opened a door near the end of the hall and Jackie followed her inside. "This can't be happening," she whispered, looking around the room. Dark green flocked paper covered the walls, its intricate pattern broken only by two long narrow windows flanking an ornate dressing table.
"Rupert had this room fixed up special...just for you." Disgust tinged Dottie's voice. "Lord only knows why men can't appreciate what's right in front of them."
Numbness filled Jackie–identical to when she'd first realized Lolita's portrait was missing. "This just can't be...."
"What's the matter? Rupert said green was your favorite color. Was that a lie, too?" After an accusing glance at Jackie's bustline, Dottie flounced across the room to a tall wardrobe and threw open the doors. "I suppose you'll have to wear somethin' after your bath."
Taking a bath sounded so...normal. Jackie pressed her hand against her breastbone, feeling the solid thud of her heart and her erratic breathing. She was alive–this was real.
No, I won't let it be real.
Shifting her gaze from Dottie to the open window, Jackie saw the curtains fluttering in the gentle breeze. She brought her hand to her hair and pulled a strand forward to stare. Still red.
A reality check, Clarke?
"I'm not dead."
Dottie snorted and dropped a red velvet robe on the bed beside Jackie. "No, you ain't dead, but you might be if you don't figure out a way to give Rupert his money's worth outta this deal."
What color blind idiot had selected a red robe for a redhead? Biting her lower lip, Jackie curbed the urge to snap at her reluctant hostess. She closed her eyes and forced herself to recap last night's events. Again.
Snow. Lolita. The fire...
"Did anything...strange happen here last night?" Jackie looked up at Dottie, hoping against hope for a miracle–or at least some answers.
"Well, you must've come sometime last night or early this mornin'." Dottie shrugged. "That's strange enough, especially since I remember lockin' the door."
Jackie sighed, shoving her hair behind her ears where she couldn't see it. "A storm, or maybe a...a fire?"
Dottie frowned and shook her head. "Nah. No fires I've heard about, and we ain't had rain or snow for weeks. Now that's strange. No storms at all, but I'd say we're overdue a good one."
Pressing her index fingers against both temples, Jackie closed her eyes again to think. "Okay, so it's 1891." There, she'd said it, but she still didn't believe it. "What's the exact date?"
Dottie heaved an impatient sigh. "May seventh."
"It can't be." As Jackie opened her eyes, a wave of dizziness assaulted her with all the savoir-faire of the Denver Broncos' offensive line. "Yesterday was June eleventh."
"No, today is the seventh of May, just like I said." The woman looked up at the ceiling, then met Jackie's gaze with an unspoken and unmistakable challenge. "Just because I don't talk as fine and pretty as you don't mean I can't tell what day it is. You'd best not be forgettin' that either, Miss Loli–"
"I'm not Lolita." Jackie's voice rose with each syllable. Somehow, she had to make these people understand, even if she didn't. "My name is Jackie Clarke–not Lolita Belle. Got it?"
"Sounds like a man's name." A nasty smile twisted Dottie's face, and her whiskey-colored eyes glittered menacingly. "You better watch yourself. That handsome Cole Morrison ain't around to save you now."
"Save me from what? Certain insanity?" Jackie covered her face and drew a long, slow breath through the spaces between her fingers. "I'm tired and I need to use the bathroom."
"You're really somethin'." Disapproval came through loud and clear in Dottie's tone. "Maybe this'll teach Rupert a lesson he won't soon forget."
Jackie held a hand to the top of her head as she stood. The
sudden change in elevation increased the pain in her skull to the atomic level. Minimum. "My kingdom for a couple of Ibuprofen."
"Ibu-what?"
"Never mind." Why had she taken off her fanny pack? Talk about stupid. Jackie rubbed her temples again, but found little relief from the constant and increasing throb. "Did you say something about a bath? And where do you pee around here?" Maybe a hot bath would kill the pain.
"Water closet's down the hall." Dottie waved her hand in front of her face. "I don't reckon you can wait 'til Saturday for a bath. Do you?"
Jackie drew a deep breath and released it very slowly. "Saturday? I take a shower or bath every morning."
"Every day?"
Jackie couldn't prevent the smug smile that tugged at the corners of her mouth. Mean old Dottie deserved every single inconvenience Jackie could create. And then some. "Yes, every single day."
"Don't your skin just curl up and die from all that water?" Dottie shuddered with enough force to make her ample bosom put on quite a show. "You'll probably get scales like a trout."
Jackie shrugged and prayed for her head to stop its ceaseless pounding. Then a terrifying thought barged into her mind–one that might possibly explain the pain in her head.
She was in a coma. I'm not crazy. She had to wake up and maintain her sanity long enough to put Blade behind bars. What happened after that was anybody's guess.
"That's it."
"What's what? You really got scales?"
Jackie sighed and thought, maybe, her headache eased a little. She frowned, trying to ignore Dottie's continued staring. But what if she wasn't in a coma? How could she be certain?
Simple. She couldn't. "Damn."
"Rupert don't cotton to his girls swearin'."
"I'm not one of Rupert's girls." Jackie waved her hand in dismissal, trying to convince herself this was all part of her coma.
"We'll have to wait and see what he has to say about that." Dottie turned and sashayed toward the door, her round backside swinging like Mae West at her finest. "Zeb'll fetch your water."
"Wonder how clean it'll be by the time it gets here," Jackie muttered.
"What'd you say?"
"Nothing important."
Dottie opened the door, then paused. "If I was you, I'd start prayin' real fast." After a moment, she looked over her shoulder, a crooked grin twisting her painted lips. "Either that, or ask that snake oil salesman on the edge of town if he's got somethin' that'll grow you a big bosom real fast."
Jackie summoned her fiercest gaze and directed it at Dottie. "Yeah, and maybe he has something to cure jealousy, too. Hmm?"
"Jealousy?" Dottie's smile vanished and her nostrils flared. "You might have Rupert fooled, honey, but I see right through you."
"Yeah, right." The urge to blurt out the truth invaded Jackie, making her stomach clench and her adrenalin-laced blood sing through her veins. Instead, she chose silence, knowing she had to sort through all this herself before sharing it with the world.
"Suit yourself." Dottie slipped through the door, pulling it shut behind her, and Jackie seized the opportunity to visit the water closet.
After putting the facilities through their paces, she returned to her room–for now, at least. She walked slowly to the window and peered out at the bustling little town. It was still there–Devil's Gulch, Colorado. "What the hell happened to me?"
Wagons and horses, men in work clothes, a few women in long dresses, and an abundance of dust filled the street below. Incredible. "Yeah, a coma." She nodded, trying–and failing–to convince herself again.
It was possible, though. If this was all part of a coma, then she'd either come out of it...or die. Eventually.
Lovely thought.
And if this was real...?
Jackie swallowed and turned to look around the room again. Could she really have traveled back in time?
It was a possibility she had to face.
"Think, Jackie." She shuffled over to the bed and flopped onto her back, gripping her head with both hands.
If she had truly traveled through time, then she had to make the best of her situation...such as it was. Rupert P. Goodfellow thought she was the famous Lolita Belle–sans Guinness Book of World Record-sized breasts. At least Jackie's mistaken identity had secured her temporary shelter. Besides, if she forced herself to think logically about all this–a greater challenge than getting Aunt Pearl into a male strip joint, for sure–it made sense for Jackie to stay put and play along.
Maybe she was no rocket scientist, but she'd watched enough television to know it took either a time machine or a portal–a tunnel?–to travel through time. She was bound and determined to stay close to her exit. Except the painting didn't exist. Yet. One more reason for her to pose in the nude. Again.
"Get a grip, Clarke." She rested the back of her hand against her forehead and closed her eyes, summoning everything she could remember about "Quantum Leap" and Back to the Future. But instead of Scott Bakula and Michael J. Fox, she saw George Clooney–rather, the man who'd hauled her fanny out of the street earlier.
"Cole...something. Morrison, that's it." At least his name wasn't Blade. Now that would've put a decidedly horrific slant to this entire predicament. "That sorry son of a bitch. This is all his fault."
A shuffling sound from the hall and a knock at the door jerked her to the present. Past-present? "What a mess." Jackie sat up and swung her feet to the floor just as the door opened.
Dottie sashayed in, followed by the ever-filthy Zeb pushing a bathtub on squeaky wheels. Fingers of steam drifted up from the water's surface.
A bath would make Jackie feel better, and maybe it would finish off her headache. Of course, she could always drown herself, but it'd be just her luck this was really just a coma, after all.
Dottie dropped some towels on the bed beside the robe, then pointed to a collection of bottles on the dresser. "Fancy stuff Rupert ordered for you. Zeb'll come back to fetch the water later."
Zeb waggled his woolly eyebrows. "I could just stay an'–"
Jackie leveled her gaze at him. "Out, you pervert." She drew a deep breath. "But thank you for the water."
Zeb looked almost as surprised as Dottie by Jackie's gratitude. Good. If she was going to stay here for a while, she'd better start making nice with the natives. Even mean old Dottie.
"And thank you, Dottie...for everything."
A look of total confusion flitted across the woman's face, then she sighed. "You're welcome." After a moment, she narrowed her gaze and flashed Jackie a wicked grin. "Rupert'll be up after your bath to take you to the artist. He works in a cabin on the edge of town–says it gives him inspiration."
Like Blade. "Today?"
"Yep, and that robe's all you'll be needin'." Dottie turned toward the door. "But you won't even need that for very long."
"Damn." Jackie watched the pair leave, laughing all the way. The image of Lolita's portrait flashed into her brain and made her wince.
After a moment, she jerked herself from a state of near shock and rushed across the room to lock the door. Somehow, some way, she had to endure posing for that portrait. If it was her time portal, it was also her only hope.
And just what would happen when the real Lolita put in an appearance?
Groaning, Jackie stripped off her clothes and stepped into the tub. She had to think of something. Fast. As much as she hated it here, the last thing she wanted was to lose access to her time. When the real and appropriately-endowed Lolita showed up, Goodfellow would toss Jackie and her B cups out on her butt. She had to buy some time before–
"Waitaminute." A shiver raced through her, despite the water's warmth. If she didn't know better, she might think she was starting to believe this.
* * *
Cole gave the reins a gentle tug until the mare his wife had named Ruth came to a reluctant stop. "Don't worry, girl," he said, patting the side of her neck, "you'll get those oats soon."
The horse stretched her neck to reach the ear
ly blades of grass around the base of a small aspen tree. The weather had been downright peculiar, though Cole wasn't complaining. Normally, the high country was still covered with snow this time of year. Now only the highest peaks had any at all, and it was melting fast.
The dry weather enabled him to work in the mine almost every day. Not that all his work had done him any good. Sighing, he pushed his hat back farther on his head and scanned the horizon. All these years of mining the same claim had netted him barely enough gold to keep his son fed and clothed.
Todd deserved better than this. The sound of Elizabeth's last words barged into Cole's thoughts, tying his gut into an unwieldy knot.
"Promise me, Cole," she'd said, clinging to life barely long enough to make her plea. "Make sure Todd gets decent schooling and a better life than this. Promise."
And he had promised.
Though she'd asked him earlier to take their son home to St. Louis, he hadn't promised her that. Guilt pressed down on him and he sighed. Clicking his tongue, he gathered the reins in one hand and urged the mare into a slow walk up the rocky trail.
And he should have kept his promise. Not a day passed that he didn't kick himself in the ass for breaking that vow to his dying wife. "Ah, Elizabeth."
Selling the claim probably was the wisest thing to do, because it certainly hadn't yielded the gold he needed to start the ranch he and Elizabeth had always planned. His dilemma had tormented him since her death. He could either return to St. Louis to beg his father-in-law for a job in the mercantile, or he could keep digging in that damned hole he called a mine.
But what of their dream? He and Elizabeth had come to Colorado shortly after Todd's birth with one dream in mind. All they'd wanted was enough gold to go to Oregon and start a ranch–something to pass down to their son.
Something to make them all proud.
Pride. What good was pride, after all? It couldn't fill a boy's belly...and it sure as hell couldn't warm a man's bed at night.
He flexed his gloved hand, suddenly remembering how it had felt to touch that woman in town. His gut clenched and an insistent tugging commenced in his groin. Problem was, he hadn't been with a woman at all since Elizabeth....