A Moment in Time (7 page)

      
She looked at him again with those wide eyes of hers.
 
There was something disturbing about her and her eyes–something that almost made him feel things he wasn't able to anymore.
 

      
"Where's the nearest bus station or airport?"
 
She grabbed his forearm and held on tight.
 
"A police station?
 
A phone?
 
Yes, that's what I need first.
 
Please get me to a phone and I'll call someone–anyone but Aunt Pearl."

      
Bus?
 
Airport?
 
Phone?
 
Shaking his head, Cole decided she needed more help than he was able to offer.
 
Rupert Goodfellow stepped forward and inclined his head toward the woman.

      
"We've had enough excitement now.
 
I think we'd best get you upstairs where you can rest," the saloon-keeper said.
 
The look he flashed Cole held a warning.

      
Cole stared long and hard at Goodfellow's eyes.
 
The runt was up to something–something involving this strange woman.
 
It went against his grain to accommodate the man.
 
Besides, if there was one thing Cole hated, it was being threatened.

      
"I'm not going anywhere with you," the woman said, sidling closer to Cole.
 
"God, if I didn't know better, I'd swear you're all in this with Blade.
 
I don't know what's going on here, but I'm not Lolita Belle."

      
Lolita Belle?
 
Cole looked at her with renewed interest.
 
Was it possible?
 
He cast a questioning glance at the saloon-keeper.

      
Goodfellow's eyes narrowed and he clamped down on his cigar so hard the tip probably broke off in his mouth.
 
"As much as I wish you weren't Lolita Belle, I can't imagine who else you could be."
 

      
"Are you?" Cole asked, watching her expression closely for any sign that she might be lying.

      
"Definitely not.
 
This jerk thinks I am, but that's ridiculous."

      
Cole's instincts insisted she told the truth, though common sense called him a fool.
 
He studied Goodfellow again.
 
"Well?"
 
He jabbed his thumb toward the woman.
 
"Is she Lolita Belle?
 
Really?"

      
Goodfellow shook his head and yanked the cigar from his mouth.
 
"Damned if I know."
 
With a sigh, he cocked his head toward the Gold Mine Saloon.
 
"Dottie here says she found her asleep on the floor this morning, even though she isn't supposed to be here for weeks yet.
 
Besides, who else
could
she be with hair that color?"

      
"Yeah, well, she doesn't–isn't...
 
Hell."
 
From the corner of his eye, Cole studied the woman's nicely shaped bosom.
 
The famous singer reportedly had breasts the size of melons, though that was probably an exaggeration.
 
Still, this woman could only claim nice-sized tomatoes.
 
Very
nice.
 
"I thought..."

      
Goodfellow wheezed a cynical chuckle.
 
"Yeah, you and me both.
 
Those handbills she sent sure had me fooled."

      
Cole wanted to laugh.
 
Badly.
 
It served Goodfellow right, but one look at the woman's frightened expression sobered him.
 
Something was wrong here.
 
How could anyone as famous as Lolita Belle end up here in Devil's Gulch without knowing where she was?
 
Or who she was, for that matter?
 

      
But this woman's problem was none of his business.
 
Well, that wasn't entirely true, though he'd have to wait for confirmation.

      
"She sure as hell better sing like a nightingale–that's all I can say."
 
Bitterness laced Goodfellow's words.
 
"You think the miners'll pay to hear her sing if they don't have the...other to look at?"

      
"I...dunno."
 
Cole felt uncomfortable talking about the woman as if she weren't here.
 
"I reckon there's only one way to find out."

      
"Yeah, let's just hope I can get my money's worth out of this deal somehow."
 
Goodfellow shot the woman a dubious glare and shook his head.
 
"Personally, I wouldn't pay a cent to hear her sing looking like that.
 
All we can do is hope she cleans up good."

      
"You son of a bitch."
 

      
The woman's fierce whisper made Cole smile.
 
Maybe she wasn't ladylike, but she definitely had spunk.
 
And from the look of things, she was going to need her spunk...and a whole lot more.
 

      
Dottie stepped around Goodfellow and grabbed the supposed Miss Belle's upper arm.
 
"C'mon, honey," she said in a patronizing tone.
 
"Let's get you a hot bath and some food, then we'll talk about all this."

      
The woman jerked her arm from Dottie's grasp.
 
"Get your hands off me."

      
"See what I mean, Rupert?"
 
Dottie gave Goodfellow a smug look.
 
"I told you she ain't worth all the trouble she's causin'."

      
"She sure as hell better be–that's all I can say."
 
Goodfellow reached out to grab her himself, but she dodged him.

      
"Don't you touch me."

      
Though her words sounded tough and clipped, she appeared dangerously close to tears.
 
Damn.
 
If there was one thing Cole Morrison couldn't stand, it was a bawling woman.
 
Hell, he knew the reason, too–something his late wife had learned very early in their marriage.
 
He'd never been able to say no to a crying woman.
 
Yeah, it was way past time for him to distance himself from this.

      
He hated the guilt pressing down on him, but he needed to get home to Todd.
 
Goodfellow might be a mercenary bastard, but Cole felt confident that at least no harm would come to the woman.
 

      
But what if it did?
 
He hesitated, silently kicking his own ass for giving the woman a second thought.
 
Get the hell out while the gettin's good.

      
With a nod of resignation to Goodfellow, Cole gnashed his teeth and walked away.
 
He heard the woman's startled protest, but he kept walking.
 
He had to–this was none of his concern.

      
Unless she turned out to be who she claimed she wasn't.
      

* * *

      
Zeb and Rupert each took an arm and literally hauled Jackie back into the Gold Mine Saloon.
 
"Get your filthy hands off me," she shouted, but no one seemed to have heard her.
 
What was going on here?
 
How could the ghost town she'd stumbled across the day before have suddenly become a boomtown?

      
"Well, Miss Belle–Lolita," Rupert said, depositing her in a chair near a familiar cast iron stove.

      
I'm not crazy,
she reasserted.
 
Not.

      
She glanced around the saloon again, digging into her memory for fragments of everything she'd noticed last night.
 
The whiskey, vienna sausages, her stupid red hair...

      
"Since you're here early, we might as well have the artist get to work on your portrait."
 
Rupert stood back to stare at her, tapping his chin with his finger.
 
"Where's your trunk?
 
You certainly can't perform in...that.
 
I did take the liberty of having some items delivered, but they certainly won't fit."

      
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."