Dangerous Waters Page 5
DANGEROUS WATERS
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Okay, okay . . . everything's the same.
No.
Something's not right, she thought instantly.
The sound of chopper blades slapped the air, several jeeps and range rovers headed her way, kicking up clouds of dirt. They should be closer, yet the mare was still there. So much for Kyle's four-legged homing pigeon. Assured she could bring her bounty back, but not wanting to risk waiting for help—not that a soul would believe her story—she turned, about to leap into the fall when she noticed the horse again.
It hadn't moved. In fact, it wasn't moving, jaws open to chomp. All sound ceased. Even the birds were silent. Frowning, she donned her hat and turned to the fall, ducking in, yet out of the corner of her eye, she saw the horse shift. Risking ruining her disguise forever, she stuck out a foot, propping herself directly under the pouring water. The horse moved, yet the instant she stepped further in, the mare froze, in motion, a foreleg lifting enough for detection.
Time stood still on her side.
It should be twenty-four hours later here, not seconds.
Feeling it was a now-or-never thing, she leapt into the fall, her movements suddenly stagnated, as if wading through gel. Not good, this is not good, she warned herself as she struggled, bursting into the light and tumbling ass over belly button down the incline. She just sat there, wet and dirty and mad as hell. Time moved on this side, but not in hers. Great. No telling how much of a lead those few hours gave Ivy League. Days? Weeks? Maybe even months.
He isn 't a stranger to this town. I am.
Ivy League was freer than free. He'd committed no crime here, had no record, no indictment, no connection. The dockets and bonds giving her the right to hunt were meaningless, especially when she'd need them most, proof she had the power to take him out of the city.
I have nothing, no authority, no warrant. No reason in 1872.
She couldn't just search and apprehend, couldn't take him out with a tazer and drag him back. She'd end up in jail for
kidnapping and assault or worse, hung by a lynch mob. She had to make a case, uncover indisputable evidence. And the marshal would be watching—Mason. Easy to enough fix. that, she thought.
Resolutely, she trudged up the incline, slinging her pack over her shoulder. Her boots squished as she headed to town. She never made it.
Half way there she sat down to rest and fell asleep.
And she woke to a gun nudging her awake.
"Where's the owner of that pack?"
Victoria blinked, the contacts stinging her eyes as she tried to focus. Hell. He could have shot her in her sleep, and she wouldn't have known it. He was squatting beside her, looking like a giant vulture hovering over a fresh kill.
The cobwebs of her ill-advised nap still clinging, she climbed to her feet, ducking her head to fake a cough and run her hand over her face to be certain her hop through the fall hadn't loosened the mask. She could feel it coming away from her skin, making ripples. She hoped he didn't notice.
"What's your problem, Marshal. Got no one to pick on today?"
He wasn't amused and leveled the gun as he straightened. ' The owner of that pack, where is she?'' His tone clipped with impatience.
So, he was worried was he? ' 'I don't know what your talking about."
He didn't respond and instead, advanced on her. Victoria didn't budge, hooking her thumbs in her belt loops. "I didn't kill her." He wasn't convinced. "Look. She's probably long gone." Instinct warned her not to say it, not to goad him. " 'Sides, finders keepers."
His expression turned black with anger and Chris grabbed him by the shirt front, yanking Mason up to meet his face. He pushed the gun beneath a stubbled chin. "I'm used to getting answers to my questions, Mason."
He meant business with every syllable and she could see her
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never known, never suspected something wasn't right ... except the feet. Her feet were too damn small for the rest of her—him—her—shit! Chris was seeing red and something else when she unwrapped a binding across her chest, heard her moan softly before adding the beige bandage to the pile of wadding. No, not wadding. It was smooth and looked spongy, shaped like shoulders and arms, sculpted, muscular. A man's body. Was this how the killer got close to his victim? Disguised as a man? He didn't want to believe that of her, not of the face that haunted his dreams, not the wild eyes— "How are your eyes a different color?" Victoria she bent over a touch, propped one eye open wider and squeezed off the soft contact lens.
Chris inhaled when she straightened. She had one gold eye and one dark. Oh Jesus, he thought with a look down her body. He hoped to God nothing else came off. "What the hell are you?"
Disgust rang in his voice, and it stung more than it ought to. Even though the cops, bondsmen and lawyers who worked with her often pricked her thick skin with veiled digs, not one of them doubted she was female.
"I'm a woman, Marshal, or did the breasts escape your attention, too."
No, they didn't. How could they? But his anger—at failing to recognize the disguise and the feeling he'd been made an utter fool by this annoyingly competent female—manifested in a cruel twist of his lips, his dark eyes racking her critically from head to toe.
Victoria stared him down, no emotion, no reaction. She knew she wasn't a knockout and his look confirmed it.,
"Who are you?"
"Victoria Mason. I—" Victoria clamped her lips shut, forgetting for a moment where she was and when. Bounty Hunters were not highly respected in this era, no better than hired guns. Dead or alive meant just that, and anyone with a gun and a wanted poster could hunt. In her century, she was a part of the judicial system, freeing up cops and FBI to bring back bailed
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felons. But here . . . Suddenly he was inches from her, grabbing her upper arms and tugging her close to meet his face. His eyes bored into hers.
And every sense she owned jumped to life.
"Why did you come into my town like that?" Again the disgust.
"Take your hands off me, Marshal." A quiet warning.
He ignored it, shaking her. "Tell me!"
She brought her arms up between them, batting his hands off and in quick precise moves, shot a cross to his jaw, a knee to his stomach, yet when she went to catch him in the groin, he clamped his legs around hers. He gripped her arms tightly. She twisted, hooking the back of his knee. Balance vanished and they hit the ground with a lung crushing jolt. Immediately, she pushed herself up, hands braced on his chest and realized her leg was caught between his thighs. Tightly. Purposely. She stared down into those dark eyes, wishing she had the leverage to belt him and desperately trying to ignore the waves of warmth ripping over her, tearing through her blood.
Everything went still, her breathing, his, the sounds on the breeze.
Her damp hair floated past her shoulder in a lush curve.
His fingers flexed on her arms. His gaze darted over her face.
She looked every bit like a wild cat, wickedly feline, the fall of her hair covering her dark eye. He had the irresistible urge to strip her naked and see if she had fur. He jerked her down to inches from his face, felt her fight, heard her hiss and waited to see fangs, waited for her to acknowledge the unspeakable heat burning between them. He lifted his head a fraction, her moist breath dusting his lips and he waited to hear her purr.
It had been so long, she thought fleetingly, gazing into his eyes. So long since any man looked at her like that. And she ached, everywhere, everywhere they touched, from the press of his muscled thighs around hers, the hardness of his broad chest beneath her palms, his buckle, his gun, his—she scram-
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bled off him, raking her hair back and glaring at him as he came slowly to his feet.
"I think that about answers your question, Marshal." She gave
him a half-lidded stare and wanted to smack that masculine I-know-you-felt-something look off his handsome face. She didn't like feeling like that around him. Because right now, he was her adversary. "I wasn't pestering anyone, and I was attacked. Imagine if I'd come in dressed like a woman, alone. Instead of trying to whip the crap out of me, those drunks would have pulled me in the nearest alley and raped me." Unnerved by the riot going on in her body, she scooped up his hat and sailed it to him like a frizbee. "Leave me alone, Marshal." He caught the Stetson. "I do just fine that way."
With great care, he settled it on his head. "I'll be watching you, Miss Mason."
"You do that," came dryly, her lips scarcely moving. He'll never recognize me.
He started to walk away.
"And Marshal." He turned slightly, that arrogant brow lifting, and she had the urge to shoot it off. "It's just Mason." She didn't want him giving her up accidently. "No miss."
His gaze slicked over her before he scoffed. "That ought to be easy enough."
Her eyes flared, then cleared. "Just who the hell did I meet in the forest?" she demanded.
He studied her briefly before he answered. "Swift Arrow."
The corner of her mouth quirked, showing off a dimple he hadn't noticed before.
"Well, I liked him better."
Chris stared, then turned away. After a few steps, he smiled.
Chapter Five
Christopher swung up onto the saddle and looked in her direction, half expecting her to evaporate into smoke before his eyes. But she was still standing beneath the shade of trees, her shirt hanging from her pants, that heavy chemise or whatever it was, outlining the ripe contours of her torso. Her hands rested on her trim hips, hips cocked at a defiant angle, and he noticed the definition of twisting muscle running the length of her shoulders and arms. So different from any woman he'd ever met, he thought, unconsciously rubbing his jaw. Though instinct told him to make certain she was protected, he didn't have any reservations about leaving her in the woods alone. She was more than capable of defending herself—even against the desire they just shared.
Desire? Eruption was more apt. His body still bore the imprint of hers, the solid feel of her hips against his. God. He never wanted to open his jeans and pound into a woman as much as he did in those too short moments. It was lust, pure, unexplain-able, and he admitted he never felt so much reined power in it before, not that much at once. Yet he doubted this woman
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would be any more receptive than she was five minutes ago. The only thing soft on her were her breasts.
It'll take a chisel to crack that shell, he thought, touching the brim of his hat before reining around, and still not knowing what to think of her. She talked different somehow, clipped, sarcastic, yet to the point. And he admitted his heart hadn't stopped pounding from the moment she peeled away her face, the sight of it as horrible as it was fascinating. What was that mask made of, to stretch like that? And look so real?
Her deception was nothing short of incredible.
He rubbed his side, the sting of her knife pricking more than his skin. But the memory of her body draped so deliciously over his, the brush of her breath, her breasts, wasn't going to leave, and Chris resigned himself to riding back to town with a crowd in his jeans.
characters, but not herself, not Victoria Mason. Over the years, that side of her had simply been ground away.
Quit whining.
No one's around who gives a damn, so give it up.
Find Ivy League. Find the evidence.
Stick to what you know.
And she needed two things to do it, A job and fresh clothes. Nineteenth century clothes.
Shaking off the ungratifying moment of self-pity, Victoria stared down at the mask and padding, then hunkered down before her pack, unzipped it, removing her gear box and taking inventory. Marshal what's-his-face could watch her all he wanted ... if he could find her.
Victoria watched him ride away, ignoring how good he looked on a horse and remembering his unflattering comments—another digging reminder that the only men in her life were informants, cops, and bondsmen. It was clear he thought her edges too rough. Oh well. He's a nineteenth century man and used to a totally different woman.
Big deal. It was her job not to look good, not to stand out. Just become the furnishings, the background, blend in. She was an expert at hiding behind the norm. So why consider otherwise now?
She shoved her hair back off her forehead, holding it at her crown. Damn it. She hadn't felt desire like that since she was a teenager, when her life was uncomplicated. And anger built in her, for the femininity she'd lost and at him for making her feel it again when she didn't have the time to explore it.
Her roles as bag ladies, gang members or prostitutes weren't glamourous—and not that she could remember the last time she ever had a real date—she wouldn't know how to behave like a lady, seductive and soft and gentle, if her life depended on it. Oh, she could mask it, assume the personality of her
Christopher stepped into the coolness of the livery, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the darkness. The beckoning ring of a mallet to metal took him to the back of the stable. "Clancey?"
"Hey-yah, Marshal." The thick armed smithy didn't look up from his work, slamming the hammer a few more times, sparks flying like fire flies, then shoving the glowing metal into a barrel of cloudy water. The liquid boiled around the new horseshoe, steaming the warm summer air and Clancey looked at the marshal through the fog. "What can I do for yah?"
"Caesar threw a shoe. Got time?"
"Sure, lead him into the second stall."
Chris looked back over his shoulder at the black stallion and said, "Get in number two, boy," and the horse softly walked into the appointed stall.
Clancey shook his head and smiled. Like a dern child, he thought, then let loose a bellow that made Chris wince.
A low call answered from the depths of the stable, beyond hanging tack and rental carriages.
"Got another assistant?" Chris saw the figure of a slim young man, further down in the row of stalls.
"Yeah," Clancey remarked. "Just a drifter, but Jake's a damn hard worker."
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Jake finished the job, set the pitchfork aside and sauntered toward his boss. Chris watched the youth, but Jake didn't look him in the eye.
"See to the marshal's mount, son. Clean his hooves, check for another loose shoe."
Jake bobbed his head, shoving the round spectacles up his nose. "Yessir." He glanced at the huge black beast, then slid his gaze to the marshal's. "He gonna bite me?"
"Not unless you bite him."
Jake smirked, then moved off toward the horse. A strange sensation rippled over Chris's shoulders as he watched the kid's long easy stride.
"You sure about him, Glance? Caesar might act docile, but he'd—"
"He'll be all right," the blacksmith interrupted. "Ain'tafraid of nothin'. Just quiet, is all." Clancey shrugged thick muscled shoulders. "Likes working at night."
Chris shifted his gaze to Jake and though he couldn't see much beyond the slats of the stall, he could hear the low soft murmurs as he spoke to Caesar. Least he wasn't spooked by the animal's size, he thought, then took a step away.
"Oh, hey Marshal, got that pipe you wanted."
Chris crossed to him, accepting the crooked length, examining it with a skilled eye before nodding his approval. He paid Clancey.
"What you gonna do with all this pipe?"
Chris grinned. "Make it rain," he said cryptically. "Give a holier when he's done being pampered." Chris slipped between the wide open doors and into the night.
A few moments later, Jake poked his head out of the stall, then crossed the hay covered floor to Clancey. "He's cut back and ready, Mister O'Brian. Shoes are good."
The smithy no
dded, smiling. "Go git yerself some supper, son." He tossed him a coin and Jake caught it in his gloved fist, his expression solemn. "You can finish up the Delaney's rig when you get back." Jake nodded, then left, pocketing the coin.
Outside, Victoria took a deep breath of the night air, pleased that the marshal, Marshal Christopher Swift she'd discovered, hadn't recognized her, nor had he when she passed him on the street two days ago. That was courting madness, but his biting words still stung, enough for her to be smug about fooling him. She'd taken the livery job for quick money paid at the end of each day, for she needed clothes and a way to gather information. But beyond who needed what repaired and a few drunks looking for a place to sleep it off, she hadn't discovered much that wasn't unsubstantiated gossip. Until this morning, when she'd altered her appearance and landed a job as a maid. She didn't know which was harder work, hauling hay or hauling dirty sheets, but the hotel position gained her much more information—a description, though vague, but enough to start. And tonight, she was going to see an honest-to-God 19th century saloon for herself.
Checking her funds, she dug her hand into the pocket of her new button fly jeans and stared at the coin. A silver cartwheel. God, what this would be worth in my time, she thought. She didn't have money to waste after buying a woman's outfit and a used satchel to hide her back pack. That set her back a day's pay, since women were expected to wear a hell of a lot of clothes beneath a simple blouse and skirt. She'd bought the garments as Jake, claiming they were a gift for his sister, even had it wrapped so it wouldn't appear suspicious. Dowdy Clara the maid and quiet Jake were wall flower types. She couldn't be seen, ever, as herself. That was against the rules; never show until the cuffs are on and the cell door slams shut.
Show time, she thought, tucking her shirt in the back of her pants and hunching her shoulders before she strode across the street, dirt puffing with every step. She was nervous, and though she'd gone searching often enough in bars, she prayed she didn't stick out simply because of her century.