by JoAnn Ross
"Go ahead, Scheherazade," he invited, leaning back against the rocks. "I'm waiting with bated breath for the rest of this story."
Twenty minutes later, Wolfe was trying to convince himself that there was a logical explanation for the fact that this woman was in possession of books he'd written, all of which bore a reprint copyright date of 1996. Along with another book of biographies entitled Rogues Across Time, which stated he'd been hanged after a failed escape attempt in 1896.
Needless to say, Wolfe was not thrilled by that allegation.
He lit another cigarette, took a long puff of the smoke, held it in his lungs, then exhaled it on a series of white rings.
"I've seen a great many confidence schemes in my day, Princess. But I'll be damned if I can figure out what you're up to."
"It's not a scheme."
He frowned as he picked up the engraved invitation again, and studied the scene depicting Indians on horseback watching a log cabin go up in flames.
This was how it would have looked, he considered grimly. The day that unlucky settler family had been so cold-bloodedly killed. Anger stirred hotly in his gut. Anger at the murderers who appeared to have gotten away with their crime. Anger at the fact that people would be so willing to believe that he was a savage capable of committing such a heinous crime.
"You expect me to believe you have traveled from Montacroix, from a hundred years in the future, to save my life."
"And clear your name."
He shook his head. "The idea is impossible."
Noel had not expected this to be easy. His eyes were as black as the sky overhead. "That's what I thought, too," she admitted. "In the beginning. Because although I've grown accustomed to having inherited Katia's gift—"
"Katia's your Gypsy grandmother," he recalled, still trying to sort out all the family members she'd told him about. "Who your grandfather fell in love with during a holiday in Aries."
"After his graduation from Cambridge," Noel agreed. "Unfortunately, my great-grandfather Leon— the one you met—did not approve of the match. When he discovered that Grandfather Phillipe had married Katia, he threatened to disinherit him."
"Which he couldn't do. Because of the male line of ascendancy to the throne."
"Exactly. So you do know a bit about my home."
"I told you, I have visited Montacroix. It is a lovely country."
It also crossed his mind that her accent reminded him of the ones he'd heard while traveling in the small Alpine principality. Of course, Wolfe reminded himself, even if the woman was from Montacroix, that didn't necessarily mean that the rest of her outlandish tale was true.
"My country is the most beautiful in all Europe." Noel's pride in her homeland was more than a little evident. "Of course, it's not nearly as vast as America, and the people aren't nearly so diverse as they are here, but—"
"Let's get back to Grandfather Phillipe," Wolfe suggested.
"I'm sorry. I don't understand what's gotten into me. I'm usually much more to the point."
Wolfe decided that she was really quite endearing when she was trying to be earnest. He looked at the remains of the cigarette, its end but a cylinder of light gray ash. "I would imagine traveling across centuries might disrupt one's normal rhythms."
"Believe me, I've already discovered that for myself." Noel sighed. "Anyway, once my father, Eduard, was born, Great-Grandfather Leon immediately welcomed Katia and Phillipe back into the fold. With the birth of a male child, the country's future was assured, so Leon stepped down and allowed my grandfather to ascend the throne."
"And now your brother rules Montacroix," Wolfe recalled her saying. "His name is Burke?"
"Yes." Her smile was quick and bright. "When I left, he and Sabrina had just gotten word that they were to be parents."
She'd been awakened in the middle of the night by the sound of a newborn infant crying. A vision of the little boy was destined to become a Giraudeau.
"Phillipe's ascension to the throne was not without its detractors in the beginning," she revealed. "Since many people considered Katia to be a witch. Because of her clairvoyance."
"I can see how that might be the case." He ran his fingers around the gold-deckled edge of the invitation again and tried to remind himself that what she was suggesting was madness. "And you claim to have inherited this Gypsy gift of second sight."
"Yes." She lifted her chin, daring him to deny what was as much a part of her as her blue eyes or blond hair.
"Clairvoyance is one thing," he said, willing to forgo challenging her on that point. He'd heard stories of people from his own Bitter Water Clan who possessed the ability to foresee future events. Indeed, his mother's sister was one of the gifted people. "However, this tale of time travel is more difficult to swallow."
"It hasn't exactly been a cakewalk for me, either," she muttered.
Wolfe couldn't help chuckling at her dry tone.
"I'm so pleased you're finding all this amusing."
Her haughty tone contrasted intriguingly with her rich, throaty voice. "You know, Princess, whenever you pull out that empress-to-peasant tone, I almost believe you."
"I never lie."
The flash of temper in those lake-blue eyes and the aggressive thrust of her chin reminded Wolfe that this pretty blonde was no pushover. She may look about as soft as a feather bed, but the way she hadn't hesitated pulling the trigger on that derringer proved she was tougher than she looked.
She was also, he reminded himself firmly, a distraction he didn't need.
The grim amusement in his gaze faded to concentration as he returned to studying the invitation. "I recognize the artist," he said thoughtfully.
"Really?" This was even better than she'd hoped.
"His name is Bret Starr. Drinks too much and can't bluff worth a damn at poker, but he's got talent."
Excitement shimmied up her veins. Finally, evidence that her instincts were correct! That the invitation was the key.
"Do you think he actually witnessed the massacre?"
"I suppose that's possible." Wolfe rubbed his jaw and stared out over the rushing white water as he considered the possibility.
"If Bret Starr was there when the cabin was burned and that family killed, he could testify for you," Noel said excitedly. "He could clear your name!"
Her eyes were bright with hope and her cheeks were flushed again, but this time from sheer excitement rather than embarrassment. She was the loveliest woman he'd ever seen and if she wasn't really a princess, Wolfe decided she should be.
"What makes you think that I didn't massacre those people?"
"You didn't." Although admittedly, she may be confused about a great many things, on this all-important issue, Noel knew that she was standing on very firm ground.
"There are a great many people in the territory who would disagree with you."
"Then a great many people in the territory are idiots."
A ghost of a smile hovered at the corner of his lips. "Are you always this mule-headed?"
"Actually, Chantal has the reputation for tenacity. But since receiving that invitation, I've discovered that I possess a bit of that personality trait myself."
"I'd say a bit is putting it mildly." Especially if she'd come across time. Hell, Wolfe thought with a healthy burst of self-derision, now she had him considering the impossible.
"I have no intention of allowing you to be hanged." She leaned forward with a rustle of satin. "Don't you see? The invitation is the key."
"Don't go getting your hopes up."
He wondered who he was warning—her or himself. Saving his neck had been his first priority when he'd broken out of the Whiskey River jail. He hadn't allowed himself to even think about the possibility of clearing his name.
"Even if Starr was anywhere near Whiskey River at the time of the raid," he said, "it's more than likely that he was too drunk to make a credible witness."
"We won't know that for certain until we question him."
"We?" H
is voice was quiet. Deadly quiet and laced with a firm masculine warning.
A warning Noel chose to ignore. "We," she repeated firmly. She folded her arms beneath her breasts. "I understand from my reading about you that you are, by nature, a loner. However, now that I've killed that horrible Black Jack person, like it or not, Wolfe Long-walker, you're stuck with me."
He gave a snort that could have been a laugh. Or a curse.
"I can't figure out which of us is crazier," he muttered with a weary shake of his head. "You for thinking you're my guardian angel. Or me for starting to find the idea of being stuck with you rather appealing."
He said it quietly, his dark, dangerous eyes on hers. "I am, however, having no trouble understanding why your grandfather Phillipe risked a kingdom for his Gypsy, Katia."
As their eyes met across the dancing orange flames of the fire, Wolfe saw the rising desire in her gaze and realized that whichever she was—whore or princess— a sexual involvement would complicate matters even more than they already were.
"You'd better get some rest," he said. "We have a long ride still ahead of us tomorrow."
He stood up, strode over to his horse and retrieved a bedroll.
"Are we going to Mexico?" She'd seen such an escape route often in the movies. "Or South America, like Butch Cassidy?"
"South America?" His expression revealed that he found this idea as outrageous as her claim of time travel. "Butch never went to South America."
"Not yet. But he will. With the Sundance Kid, and they'll be reported dead, but some people will believe that it was a ruse to throw the law off their trail so they could return to the United States and go straight."
He shook his head. "I'll say this for you, Princess. If you're not telling the truth, you have one hell of an imagination."
"I've done a great deal of reading about old-time outlaws," Noel explained. "Anyone who knows me could tell you that I've always been fascinated with the American West."
"Unfortunately, all those people who could collaborate your story happen to live a hundred years in the future," he said with lingering skepticism. "However, I think we'll skip South America. For now."
"So where are we going?"
He debated telling her. She seemed honest enough. But there were lots of outlaws who'd gone to the gallows after making the mistake of trusting a pretty face.
"How about I tell you when we get there?"
He didn't trust her. Noel's heart sank a little at the thought, but she had to admit that if she were in Wolfe's position, she might want to keep her getaway plans secret, too.
"Fine." The adrenaline rush was wearing off, leaving her both physically and mentally exhausted. "I think, perhaps, I'd like to rest my eyes. For a few minutes." She curled up on Wolfe's bedroll and instantly fell asleep.
Not willing to risk being captured while his guard was down, Wolfe remained awake, senses alert, as he watched her.
She was obviously wrung-out. And no wonder, considering what she'd been through. Even discounting that outrageous story about her having come from another time. Such things, he told himself, were impossible.
And yet…
Didn't the Navajo Story of Creation—told during the most sacred of ceremonials, the nine-day Blessing Way—trace his tribe through four distinct underworlds, until they emerged in this Fifth World, fully evolved with the assistance of the gods, into the people they were today. And didn't that same oral tradition teach that above this world was yet another, where all things blended with the cosmos?
Taking that into consideration, was it impossible to suggest that this woman's story, as outlandish as it might seem, could well be true?
He sat watching the fire. Flames danced restlessly, sparks would climb a few feet into the air, where they'd hang for a few moments, like stars, before winking out. Suddenly, Wolfe spotted a movement out of the corner of his eye, and leaped to his feet, revolver drawn.
"Aw, hell." He shook his head in disgust as the yellow dog from Belle's kitchen came out of the bushes, huge bushy tail wagging an enormous canine hello. The dog gave him a brief, dismissing glance, then, with a low, pleased moan, settled down next to the woman he'd obviously decided to adopt as mistress.
This was all he needed. For a man who'd always preferred to make his own way through the world, now he was suddenly stuck with two unwanted traveling companions—a woman and a butt-ugly yellow dog.
Deciding that he must have really angered ancient gods, Wolfe sat down again and reread his biography in the weathered Rogues Across Time by the flickering orange light, finding the story of his death no more palatable now than the first time he'd skimmed the pages.
His alleged hanging was what his princess was so anxious to change. Since so many other facts in the chapter were uncannily correct, Wolfe found himself idly hoping she could do it.
Which only proved, he supposed, that madness was contagious.
Cursing under his breath, he picked up the invitation once more. As ridiculous as he knew the idea to be, as he ran his fingers over the gilt-deckled edge again, Wolfe considered the very real fact that he might be holding his freedom in his hands.
Time passed. The night grew quiet. Not even a coyote broke the silence.
Determined to keep himself awake, Wolfe placed several sharp stones under his blanket so that the points dug into his back and shoulders, and the backs of his legs.
He stared up at the stars that glittered like so many hard, cold fires against the black sky, and listened to the rushing of water and the singing of crickets, punctuated now and then by the lonely hoot of an owl in a nearby tree.
"Who, indeed?" he murmured as he passed the night wondering about the woman who was sleeping just a few feet away.
When the sky turned a pale, predawn silvery-gray, Wolfe left the campsite and made his way to the wide flat rock he knew overlooked the valley below. He sat cross-legged on the rock, extended his arms to the lightening sky and began to pray to the rising sun that was beginning its journey to the waters in the west, and its daily visit with Changing Woman.
If Bather Sun was listening, perhaps he would tell him what to do, Wolfe thought. About his latest problem with the Anglos. And the strange, enticing woman who'd literally fallen into his life.
Unfortunately, it had been a long time since any of the Holy Ones had told him anything useful. There were times when it seemed as if his gods had stopped listening to him because of his life in the white world.
The curved edge of the sun appeared on the eastern horizon, its bloodied color seeping across the edge of the world and turning the mountains from black to purple. Wolfe stood up, his voice rising. As he chanted aloud, his words echoed in the canyon.
His voice deepened and grew louder. It trembled with a depth of emotion that came close to fury, making it sound as if he were defying Father Sun instead of asking for his help.
And when he finally stopped chanting and his words drifted away like cottonwood down on a stiff breeze, there was nothing but lonely silence to take their place.
7
Awakened by the chirping of birds, Noel felt refreshed, quiet and relaxed, as if she'd awakened from a great fever.
The pale light revealed that she'd slept through the night. When a wide wet tongue swiped a good-morning against her cheek, she laughed and hugged the big dog.
"So, you followed us here," she murmured into its shaggy yellow fur. "I hope you didn't bring anyone with you."
Her first thought, when she realized she was alone, was that Wolfe had ridden off and left her to face the posse. The sight of his mare, tethered beside Black Jack's stolen horse, was a decided relief.
A morning chill had striped the forest with bands of pale fog. The wispy swatches picked up the crimson light as the sun rose above the rim. Reluctantly leaving the warmth of the bedroll, Noel stood up, flinching as muscles still suffering the effects of her accident and the long ride, protested painfully. Ignoring the aches and pains, she took off after Wolfe, following th
e dog who seemed to know the way.
She heard him first. Then saw him, standing there, illuminated in the crimson light, arms and face uplifted to the bloodred sun. As he chanted the sacred words, his singsong tone curled through her, vibrating deep inside her, echoing throughout her body, like the pulsing of blood in her veins.
It was then she realized exactly how different Wolfe Longwalker was from the other men she knew. Despite his mixed blood, Wolfe was definitely a nineteenth-century Indian. A warrior. If he'd been born fifty years earlier, he would have wielded tomahawk and bows and arrows against the white intruders. Instead, he had taken up the only weapon he knew, waging a war of words against his enemies.
By the time he ceased chanting, the sun had risen over the edge of the world and the warm orange light was giving way to a blue as bright and shimmering as the distant sea.
Wolfe had, of course, been aware of her the moment she'd approached. He'd considered stopping his morning prayer, then decided that it was better that she see him as he was. Better that she knew how different their worlds were.
"You are awake," he said.
"Yes." Her smile was hesitant. "Good morning. I didn't mean to disturb you."
"Then you should have stayed wherever you came from. Where you belong." Wolfe regretted his harsh words when they caused her to flinch. But he did not apologize.
"I'm sorry," she murmured. Biting her lip, she looked away, out over the vast valley.
"That is not necessary." He closed the distance between them and looked down at her. Her slide of blond hair, lit by the rising sun, gleamed like molten silver. When the morning breeze blew a strand against her cheek, he brushed it away, ignoring the faint warning growl of the dog.
"Is the wolf sorry it has to hunt the deer? Does the bear feel sad when it eats a fish? You should not apologize for having come here." He shrugged. "It is the way things are. Sorry changes nothing."
His touch was gentle. Almost tender. But his expression remained frustratingly unreadable. "I was surprised when I woke up this morning and discovered yesterday wasn't a dream. That I really was here. With you." She sighed softly. "Sometimes it's difficult to separate truth from dreams."