Taken by the Cowboy (5 page)

"And what makes you so
sure of that? How do you know I don't have a gang of outlaws
waiting to break me out of here?"

He inserted the key
into the lock and pulled the cell door wide open. "Hope you're
joking about that, Junebug. Wouldn't want to change my mind about
releasing you." He gave her a heated look that made whole body
tingle.

“No need to change your
mind,” she replied, as she balled up her twenty-first century
clothes and sauntered out of the cell.

"Your reward money will
take a few days,” he told her. “Do you have a place to stay?"

"Yes, with Mr.
Maxwell."

"That's mighty
neighborly of him." He crossed behind her, stopping there for a few
seconds.

Jessica turned her
head, wondering what he was doing back there – sizing up her
derriere?—but in the space of a single heart beat, he re-appeared
in front of her. "You're free to go."

"Thank you."

She turned to leave,
but Wade stopped her.

"I'd be careful if I
was you. Folks'll be staring."

"Why?" she asked.

"There's a story about
you in
The Chronicle
this morning. The editor must have
been up all night setting that type. I doubt the ink had a chance
to dry."

"Let me see it."

He gestured toward the
newspaper on the desk. Jessica went to pick it up and began
reading:

Jessica Delaney, more widely known as Junebug Jess, fired the
shot that killed Left Hand Lou, notorious bank robber. Known for
her quick draw and deadly aim, Junebug Jess travels about the West
wreaking fear and havoc. Folks say she's killed more men than she
cares to count, but her blinding beauty keeps her out of the noose.
While the usual plea for killing a man is self-defense, Miss
Delaney travels with the story that a giant insect frightened her
into firing her gun by accident, hence her name. While Dodge City
is tense with the presence of Junebug Jess, the citizens are
relieved to learn that the notorious Left Hand Lou is no longer a
threat.

Wade raised an eyebrow
at her. "Care to tell me about anybody
else
you killed by
mistake?"

Jessica’s pulse
quickened at the note of accusation in the sheriff’s voice. "I
didn't lie to you last night," she assured him. "I swear on my
life."

His expression remained
relaxed and casual, as if it were nothing at all for a person to
gun down another in the street – as long as the victim had a reward
on his head.

“I reckon that remains
to be seen,” Wade said, “so don't leave Dodge. I still have some
checking to do on you, but I don't expect that to be a problem. You
want your five hundred dollars, don't you?"

"Of course."

When he sat down at his
desk, Jessica hesitated a moment. “What about the dress? When
should I bring it back?”

His gaze lifted
briefly—as if to look at the dress one last time. “Keep it,” he
said. Then he dipped his pen in an ink jar and set to work.

She wondered curiously
what could have happened to his wife—if he was willing to give her
clothes away to a stranger—but thought better of asking.

Once outside, Jessica
squinted into the bright morning sunshine. A buckboard and team
rolled by, its driver bouncing about like a Mexican jumping bean.
She recoiled in disgust as the stink of pigs assaulted her
nostrils. Two large, snorting hogs scurried past, but stopped to
sniff a few randomly spread cow patties. Did they actually herd
cattle through here?

She made her way down
the stairs, carrying her only possessions from the twenty-first
century—her blue jeans, her pink scarf, and her favorite
jacket—then crossed the street and stepped up onto the
boardwalk.

A large clock in a shop
window ticked away the seconds. A display box contained a few
publications,
Peterson's Ladies' National Magazine
and
Harper's Bazaar
. She searched longingly for a high color,
glossy magazine with Jennifer Lopez on the cover, or wedding
pictures of William and Kate. No such luck.

She walked on, stopping
at each window along the way. A barber advertised a shave for five
cents and a haircut for ten. This whole experience was far too real
to be a hallucination.

Soon, Jessica reached
the end of the boardwalk and had to step onto the street again.
Retrieving Mr. Maxwell's card from her pocket, she stared at the
address written in black ink. She was thankful to have somewhere to
go, and asked a young woman for directions.

When she arrived a few
minutes later, he welcomed her with a smile. "My dear, where did
you get the dress?"

"Sheriff Wade gave it
to me," she replied as she entered his house. "It belongs to his
wife."

Mr. Maxwell frowned.
"His wife? Sheriff Wade has never been married. Not that I know
of."

She looked down at the
skirt's tiny floral print against the blue background. "Why would
he lie?"

"Who knows? Sheriff
Wade keeps his personal life to himself, which is why I'm surprised
he mentioned anything at all. But he can shoot straight—that's what
counts. They say he’s killed ten men."

Ten men
.

"That’s supposed to
impress me?” Jessica asked.

He studied her
intently. “I suppose not, but keep in mind, things are different
here compared to what you’re accustomed to.”

She followed him into
the parlor. “Doesn't anyone around here worry that he might be
dangerous? Anyone who could kill ten men without thinking about it
has to have some personal issues. And how do you know what I’m
accustomed to?”

He didn’t answer the
question. Instead, he gestured for Jessica to sit down. "I've been
here since Wade took the job, and I have no complaints,” he said.
“I like him a whole lot better than that Wyatt Earp fellow. Now
there was a man who attracted all kinds of problems."

"You met Wyatt
Earp?"

"Certainly did. He was
deputy marshal in '76 and deputy sheriff as well. Would you like
some tea?"

Jessica nodded. While
he went to fetch it, she gazed around at the Victorian furnishings
and paintings on the walls, and felt wildly displaced.

"I suppose you saw
The Chronicle
?" Mr. Maxwell shouted out from the
kitchen.

"Yes,” she replied,
“and I know we said I killed Lou to get me out of jail, but I hate
the idea of people thinking I killed a man. And what if someone
else comes forward to collect the money?"

"I reckon they would
have already done so by now,” he replied. “I suspect whoever did it
is an outlaw, too, and was long gone by the time Sheriff Wade got
there." Mr. Maxwell returned, pushing a teacart into the middle of
the room. “It would be foolish to change your story now.”

“But we could try to
prove I didn’t do it.”

He shook his head as he
picked up the teapot and poured her a cup. “That would be
pointless. They don't have pathologists to retrieve bullet
fragments and prove you didn't do it. It's best if you stick with
the story that you did it for the reward."

Jessica frowned up at
him as she accepted the cup and saucer. “How do you know about
pathologists and bullet fragments?”

He stared at her a
moment, then shrugged.

“Ah, I get it,” Jessica
said, pointing a finger and smiling. “You’re from the future, too,
aren’t you? That makes perfect sense.”

He nodded. “I was
wondering how long it would take you to figure that out.”

Relief poured through
her. She wasn’t alone here, nor was she completely delusional.

“When did you get
here?” she asked.

“Almost ten years
ago.”

Her relief went sour.
“Ten years? Didn’t you want to go home?”

“Yes, I did. I had a
successful law practice back in the twenty-first century.”

“Then what kept you
here?”

He poured himself a cup
of tea and sat down. "Jessica, I don’t know how to tell you this,
but there's no way back."

She shifted uneasily on
the sofa cushion. "There has to be."

"There isn't. Believe
me, I’ve tried."

A slow panic began to
mushroom inside her. "Well, you didn't try hard enough. We managed
to get here. We'll manage to get back."

There was no way she
was staying here in this smelly old cow town. Especially with the
sheriff thinking she was a killer.

"I've looked
everywhere," Mr. Maxwell said. "I don't know how to do it."

“But how did you get
here?”

“I had a car accident,”
he replied.

“Was there rain and
lightning?”

“Yes, but—”

"The same thing
happened to me,” she told him, “so there has to be a
connection."

He considered it for a
moment, while he raised the teacup to his lips and took a careful
sip. "Perhaps,” he said at last, “but you can't just buy a ticket
home. I don't know how to do it from this end. We don’t have cars
here."

She couldn’t just give
up. How could she accept never seeing her family again, or her dog,
George? And what about her fitness column? She had deadlines.

Jessica stood up to
pour herself another cup of tea. She took one step forward, but her
stiletto heel caught in the petticoat beneath her skirt. She
stumbled and nearly fell into the teacart. These long skirts would
take some getting used to, she thought with frustration as she
steadied the tray. In fact, everything here would take some getting
used to.

Mr. Maxwell regarded
her with sympathy. "You should get that hemmed and buy more
practical footwear. Those shoes will attract far too much
attention. There's a tailor not far from here. I could lend you
some money until your reward arrives...if you'd like."

She managed a
melancholy smile. "Thank you, Mr. Maxwell. I’d appreciate it."

"Call me Angus. I just
wish I could do more for you."

"Maybe you can,” she
said. “Maybe we could work together to find a way out of here. Will
you try to remember what happened to you when you came here?"

"I suppose. I could
search the house for the things I was wearing. That might help, but
don’t get your hopes up. You may have to accept that you’ll never
get back."

Jessica sat down with
her teacup, glanced out the window at the outhouse in the yard, and
shook her head at him. “No, Mr. Maxwell, I could never accept that
– because I’m not the sort of woman who can go long without indoor
plumbing.”

* * *

Jessica spent the
morning with the tailor who hemmed her dress, then she went
straight to Wright's Store and purchased a new pair of more
sensible shoes. Afterwards, when she stepped outside with her red
pumps packed in a box, the heat, mixed with the stench of cow dung,
stifled her mood beyond comprehension. All she could think of was
what Angus had said:
There's no way back
.

There had to be, she
thought, as she walked past the saloon. She couldn't live the rest
of her life without seeing her family again. She might as well have
died in that accident. Or her entire family might as well have
died. Lord, she didn't need this kind of pain again. None of them
did. Not after losing Gregory last year.

Just then, a towering
brute stepped into her path.

Jessica stopped. She
stared at his belly, then looked up at his double chin and flaring,
hairy nostrils. He smelled like a stale, sweaty barnyard, and was
in desperate need of a shave.

"Excuse me." She
stepped to the side, but he did the same.

She stepped the other
way, but he blocked her again.

The stench of tobacco
escaped his mouth as he spread his narrow lips over his rotten
teeth and spit through the gaps. Jessica leaped back to avoid the
stream of brown juice before it plopped on the ground at her
feet.

"So this is the little
lady that's got this town's ropes in a knot?” he bellowed. “She
don't look like much to me. Why, she ain't even carryin' a
weapon."

Laughter erupted behind
Jessica, but she kept her eyes fixed on the jackass in front of
her. "Move it, buddy. I need to get by."

He chuckled. "Not just
yet, little lady. I want to buy you a drink." He motioned toward
the saloon doors.

"Not interested."
I’d rather stick needles in my eyes
.

She made a move to
continue on her way, but he blocked her again.

"I don't think you
heard me, Junebug. You're comin' inside and havin' a drink and a
meal." He glanced over his shoulder toward his drunken pals. "I'm
so hungry, I could eat the arse end off a dead horse!" Laughter
exploded all around them.

Jessica was beginning
to perspire. What was it about this place that always turned her
into a spectacle?

"It seems you know my
name,” she said, determined to stay cool and collected, “but I
don't know yours."

If she could just get
around his big fat ass....

"The name's Virgil.
Virgil Norton."

"Well, Mr. Norton,” she
replied, “it’s a pleasure to meet you, but I can't join you for a
drink today. Maybe some other time."

She took a quick step
around him, but he followed. Jessica quickened her pace, hoping
that if she ignored him, he might simply give up, but his beefy
arms snaked around her waist, and he lifted her up, squeezing the
air out of her lungs until her feet dangled like two balls on
string.

"Let go!" She dropped
her parcel onto the boardwalk and struggled to pry his thick
fingers off her waist.

Virgil carried her
toward the saloon doors. "This here's a spirited filly!"

He kicked the doors
open, so they banged against the inside wall, and hauled Jessica
toward a table. Hopes of talking her way out of this in a polite
manner began to vanish, especially when the men in the saloon began
to hoot and holler.