A Moment in Time (6 page)

      
"Well, I've seen better, that's for sure.
 
You are the strangest thing."
 
Dottie shook her head and sighed.
 
"Suit yourself, but considerin' what Rupert paid to bring you out here, I'd think you might want to look a little better when you meet him."

      
"Paid?"
 
Jackie barked a derisive laugh and looked anxiously toward the men at the bar again.
 
No help there.
 
"Not even Donald Trump could pay me enough to make me come here on purpose."

      
"Huh, well I don't know about this Donald Trump, but I reckon Rupert'll have somethin' to say about that, Miss Lolita Belle."

      
Jackie's mouth fell open and the skin around her lips tingled.
 
A cold lump formed in the pit of her stomach and grew, spreading to her limbs before she managed to draw a deep enough breath to dispel the strange sensation.
 
She remembered the face in the portrait fading, then returning as her own.
 
Hallucination.
 
"Lolita...?"

      
Slowly, as if her life depended on it, Jackie turned to face the bar again.
 
She blinked several times.
 
Nothing but a moose head hung where Lolita's risqué portrait had been.

      
"Where...is...she?"
 
Jackie walked to the bar, ignoring the rude snickers from the grimy trio.
 
"What kind of sick game is this?"
 
She whirled to face Dottie again, holding her hands out to her sides in a silent plea.
 
"If you're in cahoots with Blade, I'm afraid you're too late.
 
He cleaned me out."

      
Dottie threw her head back and laughed.
 
Loud.
 
"Blade?
 
What kind of name is that?"

      
"Who
are
you?" Jackie repeated, tears stinging her gritty eyes.

      
The doors to the saloon swung open and a short, stocky man strode in, a cigar clamped between his teeth.
 
"Well, who the devil are
you?
"

      
Jackie met the man's critical gaze with far more bravado than she felt.
 
Mustering what remained of her dignity–now
there
was a word–she swallowed the lump in her throat and lifted her chin a notch.
 
For some reason, the weasly little man raised her hackles.
 
Maybe that was what she needed–a challenge.
 
Something to piss her off royally.

      
His suit–or costume–looked expensive, though severely dated, with a flashy brocade vest.
 
A string tie adorned a white collar that appeared stiff enough to stand on its own in a hurricane.

      
My gawd, he thinks he's Maverick.
 

      
"Well," he repeated, "are you going to tell me who you are, or make me guess?"

      
"I asked first."
 
Jackie refused to allow her gaze to waver.

 
      
He chuckled and shook his head, shifting the unlit cigar from one corner of his mouth to the other, then back again.
 
"Well, I'll be."
 
His expression grew serious and something resembling alarm registered in his small, dark eyes.
 
"Dottie, you don't suppose...?"

      
Miss Dottie heaved a mournful sigh, obviously playing the martyr in this piece.
 
"Who else could she be?
 
I'll tell you one thing for sure–she's already a lot more trouble than she's worth."

      
The man strolled purposefully toward Jackie, his gaze dipping to her T-shirt–no,
through
her T-shirt.
 
His ruddy face suddenly paled and deep wrinkles appeared on his brow, where a dark lock of silver-streaked hair fell across it like an exclamation point.

      
"Well, I'll be damned," he muttered, rolling the cigar around in his mouth again.
 
His face darkened by several more degrees and his eyes snapped with obvious fury.
 
"I've been had.
 
Your handbills exaggerated your, uh, attributes.
 
At the very least!"

      
"What the hell are you–"

      
"With all due respect, madam," the weasel continued, "the illustration you sent showed you even more, shall we say, endowed than Dottie here."

      
Fury and embarrassment spiked through Jackie.
 
How dare he?
 
"I'm
endowed
enough and I never sent you any illustrations, you creep."
 
Was he talking about Blade's preliminary sketches?
 
Jackie clenched her fists.
 
It didn't matter.
 
She'd had enough of this–more than enough.
 
"Just who the hell do you think you are?"

      
He took a threatening step, both hands on his hips.
 
"The man who paid your train and stage fare, Miss Belle.
 
Rupert P. Goodfellow."

      
Miss Belle.
 
Him, too?
 
"Never heard of you, and I haven't ridden on a train since I was ten."
 
Jackie took a sidestep, shooting an anxious glance at the door.
 
Every instinct she possessed screamed "Run!"
 
Something was very wrong here–something a lot more serious than the predicament she'd found herself in yesterday.

      
And she felt like crap.
 
Besides her headache, she was half-starved and would gladly welcome a visit to the outhouse she'd bitched about yesterday.
 

      
"By God, I should demand a full refund.
 
Every cent."
 
He threw a caustic look at Dottie.
 
"Get me one of them handbills."

      
"I..."
 
Dottie ducked her head and glanced aside at Zeb.
 
"I gave 'em to the miners."

      
"All of them?"
 
Rupert rolled his eyes toward the ceiling and yanked the cigar from his mouth.
 
"You didn't save even one?"

      
Dottie straightened and met his gaze, though her chin quivered slightly.
 
"I just done what you told me to, Rupert."

      
He sighed and nodded.
 
"Yeah, I reckon you did."
 
Shoving the cigar back in his mouth, he turned on Jackie again.
 
"Miss Belle, either you produce your world attributes," he cupped his hands some distance from his chest, "or prepare to return my–"

      
"That's it–I'm outta here."
 
Jackie summoned energy from God only knew where and stomped to the door.

      
"Get her, boys."

      
Jackie heard the Brothers Grime shuffle away from the bar.
 
That was her cue.
 
She bolted through the swinging doors, into the bright sunlight...and froze.
 
Not a hint of yesterday's snow remained anywhere.
 
In fact, the ground was bare and dry.

      
"C'mon back, Miss Lolita," Zeb called, his boots pounding the boardwalk with his steady approach.

      
"The hell I will."
 
Jackie's voice was barely more than a strangled whisper.
 
She had to get out of here before she lost what remained of her sanity.
 
Even Blade had been better than this.
 
Without taking time to think, she dashed down the steps and into the street.

      
The very busy street.
 

      
Jackie heard the wagon's approach, saw the gigantic horse bearing down on her, but she couldn't move.
 
Her feet refused to budge.

      
"Look out!"
 

      
Strong arms wrapped around her from behind, hauling her back to the relative safety of the boardwalk.
 
Renewed terror quickly displaced her moment of relief, and she twisted and kicked at the man who still held her.
 
She had to escape.

      
"Hold on there."
 
His voice was different–definitely not Zeb.
 
And he smelled a lot better, too.

      
Jackie ceased her struggle and turned very slowly to face her rescuer.
 
Her heart beat at an alarming rate, a combination of fear and exertion.

      
Recognition left her momentarily stunned.
 
It couldn't be.
 
A white hat shaded piercing blue eyes; his face was clean-shaven and his jaw square.
 

      
He was gorgeous.

      
And familiar.

      
"George Clooney?"

* * *

      
Cole didn't understand what made her stop fighting him, but his bruised ribs were relieved.
 
For such a little mite, she packed one hell of a wallop.
 
"Name's Cole Morrison–did you say Gibson?"

      
"George Clooney."
 

      
She looked up at him with wide gray eyes–pleading

eyes–and he loosened his grip.
 

      
"George Clooney–the actor?" she repeated.

      
"Actor?
 
Never had much call for their kind."
 
Cole flashed her a crooked grin, catching sight of a group from the Gold Mine Saloon hovering nearby.
 
"You with them?"
 
He aimed his thumb at the peculiar gathering.

      
"Huh."
 
She rolled her eyes.
 
"Not hardly."
 
A look of confusion came over her face.
 
"Please help me."

      
"I, uh..."
 
Cole studied her face, then glanced at Goodfellow and company again.
 
The whole lot of them reminded him of vultures.
 
Hungry ones.
 
"Well, I might.
 
That depends on what kind of help you need."

      
She knitted her brow in obvious bewilderment.
 
"First, just tell me where I am."

      
"You don't know?"

      
She shook her head.
 
"Please?
 
Where am I?"
 
Her expression revealed the seriousness of her question.
 
"
Please?
"

      
He studied her for a few seconds, wondering who she was and how she'd ended up here without knowing where she was.
 
"This is Devil's Gulch, Colorado, ma'am.
 
Where'd you think you were?"

      
Obviously taken aback, she blinked several times and covered her face with both hands.
 
"The script," she said quietly, dragging her fingers down her face until the red inner rims of her eyes glared back at him.

      
"Script?"
 
What in blazes was she talking about?

      
"That painting, the saloon, Devil's Gulch..."
 
She laughed, though it sounded more like a sob or a crazy person's laugh.
 
"My God, I must be asleep and dreaming that stupid, frigging script, and I don't even know how it
ends."

      
Cole rubbed his chin with thumb and forefinger, contemplating this curious creature.
 
Wearing men's jeans and a stretchy shirt unlike anything he'd ever seen before, she looked like an unkempt boy who needed to visit the barber in a bad way.
 
Elizabeth would've had Cole's balls on a hot tin plate if he'd ever allowed their son to appear in public looking like that.
 

      
Of course, he knew without a doubt that this was no boy.
 
Granted, he was surprised as heck to find his hands filled with womanly softness when he'd hauled her out of the road.
 
In passing, he never would've guessed, but touching her was another matter entirely.
 
Not an unpleasant matter by any means.

      
Upon closer inspection, she wasn't as young as he'd originally thought either.
 
And Lord knew he'd
never
seen hair that color.
 
It couldn't be real–it was even brighter than his newest pair of red flannels.