by JoAnn Ross
"We don't have time for that!" Noel insisted.
"We've found him," Wolfe said. "He's not going anywhere. A few more hours isn't going to make that much difference. Especially if the posse thinks we're headed toward Mexico."
"It's dangerous," she insisted, knowing that waiting would be a mistake. "What if Black Jack returns from Ouray? What if he didn't really go there in the first place? What if the men who killed those settlers know about Bret Starr? What if we've walked into a trap?"
"You'll be safe here," Rose assured them. "I'll have my men stationed at both doors. And the bottom of the stairs."
"It's best we stay here," Wolfe said quietly. The same thoughts had all occurred to him during the ride from Canyon de Chelly. But it wasn't as if they had a great many choices.
"But the book," she reminded him. "Today's the day you're supposedly captured."
"What book?" Rose asked.
"It's nothing." Wolfe's smile belied his own concerns. He hadn't forgotten that chapter in Rogues Across Time. He just hadn't wanted to dwell on it. "Just a plot I'm working on for my new book."
He ran the back of his hand down the side of Noel's face in a gesture meant to reassure. "You weren't in the original story, either," he reminded her gently. "We're simply changing things. Everything will be all right."
Noel only wished she could believe that. But having come to know Wolfe well during these days together, she knew the futility of arguing.
"If you're sure—"
"I'm sure." He bent his head and brushed his lips against hers in a light kiss that promised more to come. "I'll take the horses to the livery, while you get settled in our room."
He handed her the saddlebags, then give her another kiss—a longer, deeper one that took her breath away. And then he was gone.
"I have a terrible feeling about this," Noel fretted.
"He'll be fine," Rose assured her. "In the meantime, why don't you pretty up for your fella? I'll have a maid bring some bathwater up to Wolfe's usual room and—"
"Wolfe has his own room?" Although she'd accepted the idea that Wolfe had not exactly lived the life of a monk before meeting her, this thought was admittedly disturbing.
"Well, hell, honey," the madam said, looking at Noel with surprise, "he is a man. With a man's needs, if you get my drift."
Noel murmured something vague that could have been an agreement. Or a curse.
"But, although Wolfe's no saint, most of the time he used the room for writing. He wrote First Man, First Woman here," she said.
"You're the Colorado Rose." Noel had wondered about that dedication.
"That's me." Rose grinned. "And before you start pulling hair, I promise you, honey, I have never slept with Wolfe. Oh, not that I haven't been tempted," she admitted as she led Noel up some back stairs. "But since I kinda like my heart in one piece, I have a rule against getting involved with men I could fall in love with."
"And Wolfe falls into that category?" Noel asked.
Rose shot her a knowing look over her shoulder. "I think you know the answer to that, honey."
Although Noel didn't answer, she knew that her unruly love was written across her face.
"He'll be all right," Rose said gently.
"He has to be," Noel said fervently.
Now, if only she could make herself believe Rose's reassuring words.
Wolfe was leaving the livery when he sensed something or someone behind him. His hand dropped to his holster, but before he could retrieve his Colt .45, he felt the barrel of a rifle against his spine.
"Don't move, Longwalker," the familiar voice growled. "Or I'll blow you to kingdom come."
11
Something was terribly, horribly wrong.
Noel, who'd been pacing the floor of the room, rushed to the window just in time to see the group of armed men riding out of town. In the middle of the men she saw Wolfe, looking as grim as she'd ever seen him. Behind him rode Black Jack. And a man wearing the badge of a territorial marshal.
She flew out of the room and back down the stairs and was headed out the kitchen door, when Rose caught her by the arm.
"Where do you think you're going?"
"They've got Wolfe!"
"Aw, hell." Rosie shook her head. "That's a damn shame, honey. But you still haven't answered my question."
"I have to go help him."
"You may be a sure shot with that itty-bitty derringer of yours at three feet. But you want to tell me just how you intend to face down a posse?"
"I don't know, maybe I can cause a distraction, and allow him to get away—"
"Get shot in the back, you mean," Rose corrected. "You still don't get it, do you? Wolfe's an Indian. Most of those men would just as soon shoot him as look at him. You give them any excuse to do that, and you're signing his death warrant."
"You may have a point," Noel agreed reluctantly. "But I have to do something!" she said in a very uncharacteristic wail.
Rose cursed again. "Let's go wake up Sleeping Beauty," she suggested. "If we pour enough hot coffee down him, maybe he can help. Meanwhile, I'll send a boy to the jail to find out what that posse intends to do with Wolfe."
At first glance, Bret Starr certainly did not look like the answer to Noel's problems. His eyes, when she shook him awake, were as red-veined as a road map, his complexion, beneath at least a ten-day stubble, was the color of ashes, and she doubted that he'd bathed in the past month.
Reminding herself that he was her only hope, she began pouring Rose's robust coffee down him as she told her story.
"You saw the massacre, didn't you?"
"Didn't say that." His hands shook as he slowly, gingerly lifted the cup to his lips.
"It won't do you any good to lie. I know you were there. And I know you were so upset by what you witnessed, you ran away and came here and got drunk."
"Hell, honey," he said on something that was half laugh, half cough, "I'd have gotten drunk, anyway. That's what I do. Paint and drink. And lose at cards," he added on an afterthought.
"You paint what you see. And what you saw the day that cabin was burned was not Wolfe Longwalker."
"Of course it t'weren't. Why the hell would Wolfe want to kill settlers?"
"Some say because they're settling on land that used to belong to the Navajo."
"Some are wrong. Wolfe might not like what happened to his people, but there's no way he could kill an innocent family. Especially the kids."
"Wolfe likes kids, all right," Rose agreed, painfully reminding Noel of how she'd imagined him telling his stories to their own children some day.
"Who did you see that day?"
He didn't answer immediately, instead taking another long drink of coffee. When he drained his cup, Rose leaned forward and immediately refilled it.
While he blew on the coffee to cool it, a young boy wearing overalls without a shirt came barreling into the room. "I heard the sheriff say the marshal was takin' Wolfe back to Arizona Territory on the afternoon train," he announced. "To hang him."
No! She simply was not going to let that happen. Determined to change the ending of Wolfe's chapter in Rogues Across Time, Noel turned back to Starr.
"You have to tell me what you saw that day."
"Why don't you quit yappin' at me and think who else might not want those settlers on the land?" he retorted grumpily.
"That's what all this is about?" Noel asked. "Land?"
"Hell, lady, everything out here is about land. Grazing rights, mineral rights, water. The person who controls those things is the man who's going to survive."
She thought about what she'd read of the West, thought about the farmers who'd moved west in their covered wagons, seeking a new life while bringing with them everything the current residents hated—civilization, cities, temperance and… The answer came crashing down on her: barbed wire fences.
"It was ranchers, wasn't it?"
"Might've been," he hedged.
"You have to come back to Whiskey River with
me," she insisted. "Right now."
"How about when hell freezes over?"
"But Wolfe's going to be hanged if you don't go back and testify."
"That'd be too bad," he allowed. "But from my view, it'd be a lot worse if I ended up shot in the back. Which is what could happen if I risk going up against ranchers."
"He's got a point, honey," Rose said. "Any man who can kill a sleeping child wouldn't hesitate to shoot a drunk no-name artist."
The madam's words, which caused Starr to bristle, gave Noel an idea. Having spent a great deal of time with Chantal's artist friends, Noel knew that while they might pretend to turn up their noses at wealth, the one thing they all lusted after was fame.
In a last-ditch attempt to convince him, she pulled the invitation out of her bag. "Look at this," she said, sticking it under his nose. "It's yours, isn't it?"
He squinted as he studied the drawing. "How the hell did you get this?"
"That's not the point. It's your work, isn't it? Done right after the massacre."
"It's mine."
"This is an invitation," she said, knowing that he and Rose were going to think she was crazy, but having no other choice. "For an art gallery showing in Washington, D.C."
"My work is going to be shown in the nation's capital?"
It was the first real sign of interest she'd witnessed. Noel had known he'd like that idea. "Yes. In 1996."
"What?" He stared at her as if she'd just grown a second head. "You're crazy."
"No. I'm not." She pulled one of Wolfe's books out of the bag and held it out to Rose. "You said Wolfe wrote this while he was staying here."
The madam's expression was not all that different from Starr's. "That's right." She frowned as she took the paperback and skimmed through the pages. "But I've never seen a book like this one."
"I know. Look at the copyright page."
"The what?"
"On the inside. At the beginning."
Rose opened the book to the page in question. "I'll be damned," she said, shooting a startled look at Noel. "It says published in 1996."
"That's right. I brought it with me."
"From the future?" While Rose looked decidedly skeptical, Starr, on the other hand, was suddenly sitting forward, as if more than a little interested in the idea.
"Exactly. I can't explain how I did it, I'm not sure about that, myself. But it did happen, and I know I'm here to clear Wolfe's name, and this invitation is the key. Which means that Mr. Starr is my only chance."
"Even if what you say is true, it's still too damn dangerous," he complained. He studied the invitation again. "I kinda hope you aren't loco. Because I like the idea of my work still bein' around in 1996."
"Did you notice the theme of the show?"
His rheumy red eyes skimmed the page. "Western artists."
"Unknown western artists," Noel told him.
His weathered face drew into a scowl as that idea sank in.
"Of course," Noel went on to suggest, "if you returned with me to Whiskey River and told the truth, you'd become famous."
"Famous and dead."
"But your art would live on."
She could see him mulling that one over. "I'd need some money to get away. Go to Mexico, perhaps until things calmed down." He rubbed his stubbled chin at the idea. "They say the women there are all hot-blooded."
"That's what I hear, too," Rose said, exchanging a hopeful look with Noel. "And it's so warm, they hardly wear any clothes."
"I could sure as hell get used to that in a hurry."
"Margaritas by the sea isn't such a bad way to hide out," Noel said.
"Margaritas?"
"It's a drink. Made with tequila and lime juice."
"I like tequila, all right. Don't know about the lime juice." He fell silent again, running his hand around the gilt edge of the invitation. "Famous, huh?"
"Famous," Noel and Rose said in unison.
With a silent apology to Bertran, Noel took her engagement ring out of her pocket. She'd retrieved it from the saddlebag earlier, in case the artist might need additional incentive to help.
"This should pay for a great deal of tequila."
He held up the ring to the electric bulb. The diamond captured the light, splitting it into rainbows. "You know how they define an opportunist?" he asked what Noel took to be a rhetorical question. "A man who, when he finds himself in hot water, decides to take a bath." He pushed himself off the bed. "Let's get going."
Noel's sigh of relief was audible. "When does the train leave?"
Rose glanced at the gold watch pinned to the bodice of her dress. "You've got an hour."
"That'll allow us time to get Mr. Starr cleaned up. And get him a new suit so he'll look presentable in court."
"That's going to be a problem," Rose said. "It's Sunday. There's not a mercantile open anywhere in the state today."
It was Noel's turn to curse. "All right," she said, "we'll just have to do what we can."
Forty-five minutes later, a freshly bathed Noel was studying the artist, who, while now also bathed and cleanly shaven, was still in desperate need of a change of clothing. As was she. Unfortunately, Rose's girls were not even as well turned out as Belle's, which made her red dress the best possible choice.
Frown lines etched their way between her eyebrows as she considered how they'd look—a whore and a drunk—showing up in court to proclaim Wolfe's innocence. Deciding to face that bridge when she jumped off it, Noel said goodbye to Rose, accepted a loan for the tickets, then dragged the hungover artist to the station just as the train to Arizona was boarding.
Although he didn't see her, Noel saw Wolfe, bound and shackled, surrounded by some very grim-faced men. The fact that they were taking him back to Whiskey River, instead of shooting him here, gave her renewed hope.
Glaring back at the leering ticket taker, she purchased tickets for herself and Starr.
As much as she longed to be with Wolfe at this trying time, she knew that it would be safer to take an-other car. Deciding it would be best not to be seen with Starr, either, she instructed him to board first.
She waited a few minutes. The train whistle blew, announcing the imparting departure.
"Bo-oarrd!" called out the conductor.
She'd just started to board, when a deep voice behind her made her jump. "What do you think you're doing?"
She spun around, one hand diving into the pocket of her skirt, her fingers curving around the grip of the derringer. It was the conductor, who was glaring at her in a decidedly unwelcoming manner.
"Boarding the train," she answered, hoping her anxiety didn't show in her voice or expression.
"Not my train."
Rose had assured her they weren't looking for her. However, Rose could have been wrong, Noel reminded herself. "I don't understand."
"It's simple. This is a respectable train. Not some immigrant special. No animals."
She followed his glare down to the yellow dog, who was sitting beside her, head tilted, ears pricked, as if following the conversation. Damn. Noel's mind whirled as she tried to come up with a solution. The dog had stayed loyally by her side since that terrible night he'd helped her confront Black Jack. She was not about to abandon him now.
"He won't be any trouble—"
"No mangy mutts."
"He's not mangy." Indeed, Rose's boy had bathed him in the leftover soapy water, leaving him smelling a bit like lilacs. And wet dog.
"No dogs."
"Perhaps he could ride in the baggage compartment?" Noel suggested, seeking a compromise.
"I said, no dogs. Now, if you want to stay here with the mutt, fine. Otherwise, you'd better get on board."
The dog whimpered, looking from Noel to the gruff man and back to Noel again. "But—"
"Excuse me." A smooth voice interjected its way into the argument.
"Yes?" she said.
"I couldn't help overhearing your dilemma. Perhaps I can provide a solution."
"Oh?"<
br />
"I hope you won't think I'm being too forward." The man tipped his hat as his gaze took a long tour of her body, so attractively showcased in the low-cut red dress. "But I couldn't help noticing that you're traveling alone."
The way he was looking at her, undressing her with his eyes, made Noel want to slay him with a few well-chosen words. But, on second thought, as she took in his well-cut suit, she suddenly had a marvelous idea.
"Why, yes, I am," she said in a melodious, honied voice.
"Ah." He nodded. "Are you visiting from France?"
"You have a very good ear, monsieur." She granted him a slow, sexy smile designed to bring the average man to his knees. She'd seen Chantal use such a smile to her advantage numerous times during their teenage days. "Actually, my home is in Montacroix. In Europe."
"I know where it is." He returned his smile with one of his own, but she noticed that his eyes seemed to be plastered to her chest. "I'm a representative of the Manhattan Knickerbocker Trust Bank," he revealed.
"I had dealings with Prince Leon last year. It's a lovely country. At the time, I remember thinking the most beautiful women in the world must have all congregated in that one small Alpine nation."
"Flatterer." She fluttered her lashes and found herself wishing she had a fan to use as a flirting prop.
"It's the truth. However—" he brushed the back of a finger across his mustache "—if I'd seen you, all those other women would have definitely paled by comparison."
"Gracious, I can't remember the last time I received such a lovely compliment," she murmured coyly. "So, what is your solution, monsieur?"
"I'd like to invite you and your pet, of course, to share my private car."
"You have a private car? How delightful." She bestowed another of Chantal's man-killing smiles on him.
"It makes travel more convenient," he agreed, puffing out his chest with pride. "In addition to allowing you to keep your canine companion with you, you would be a great deal more comfortable," he said. "I guarantee the food will be better. Also, I have a very fine selection of French wine."
"Oh?" Ignoring the repeated whistle blast, she said, "Do you have champagne? I do so adore French champagne."