The Angel and the Outlaw (4 page)

She whirled around when she heard the door open. Like a mouse facing a cat, she stood there, poised to flee even though there was no place to go.

He hardly spared her a glance as he crossed the room and propped the rifle in the corner. She saw him set his shoulders as he turned around and she knew he was going to tie her up again.

“Don’t.” The word escaped her lips before she could call it back.

He didn’t bother to reply, merely grabbed both her hands in his and lashed them together. Leading her as if she were a horse on a tether, he moved toward the bed and gestured for her to sit down, and then he tied the end of the makeshift rope to the headboard.

She sat there, silently cursing him, until she realized he was crawling into bed beside her. Alarmed, she scooted over as far as she could without falling off the mattress.

“What do you think you’re doing?” she demanded indignantly.

“Getting some sleep.”

“Sleep on the floor!”

“I’m paying for the room. You sleep on the floor.”

“Oh, you are the most arrogant, vile man I’ve ever known.”

“I reckon,” he replied equitably, and turning on his side, he closed his eyes.

Brandy sat there for a long time, perched on the end of the mattress. Tears stung her eyes, but she blinked them back, afraid if she started to cry, she wouldn’t be able to stop. After a time, she glanced over her shoulder, relieved to see that he was asleep.

Moving as carefully and quietly as possible, she bunched the bedspread between them, then stared into the darkness, wondering how her animals were surviving without her. By now, people would know she was gone. What did her friends think of her sudden disappearance? Her parents would be expecting her to call next week. She had a class to teach. Bills to pay. She had a date for the May Day dance. She thought briefly about Gary Cavanagh, mentally comparing his smooth handsomeness to Cutter’s rugged appearance. She’d never realized, until now, that she preferred rugged to refined. She shook Cutter from her thoughts. Gary was a wonderful man, and they had established a solid relationship based on trust and mutual respect. He’d marry her in a minute if she just said the word.

She had to get back home, not because of Gary, not even because of her family and friends, but for herself. She didn’t want to live in the 1800’s. She didn’t want to have to wash clothes in a wooden tub and spend hours bent over an ironing board. She didn’t want to wear a corset and drawers and dozens of petticoats. She wanted the life she knew. Somehow, she just had to get back home, but how? Some morbid part of her mind told her that the only way back was the way she’d got here in the first place. Somehow, she had to convince J.T. Cutter to take her back to Cedar Ridge. But how? She was still trying to figure that one out when she fell asleep.

Brandy woke with a start, wondering what had awakened her. And then she heard it again, a muffled cry filled with despair. She frowned into the darkness, her hand flying to her throat as the bed shook beneath her. Good Lord, were they having an earthquake?

Alarmed, she looked over at Cutter. She could see him clearly in the moonlight that filtered through the open window. He was thrashing about, his hands clawing at his throat. A low keening wail emerged from his lips, followed by a harsh cry.

“Cutter. Cutter! Wake up!”

He bolted upright, his body rigid, one hand clutching his throat, his brow sheened with perspiration.

“Cutter?”

He turned to stare at her, his gaze wild and unfocused.

“It’s all right,” Brandy said, hoping to reassure him. “You were dreaming.”

He blinked at her, his body gradually relaxing. “Believe me, it was no dream.”

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“No.” J.T. ran a shaky hand through his hair, then took several deep breaths. His heart was racing like a runaway train. Lord, it had seemed so real. Just thinking about it made him break into a cold sweat.

He could feel the woman staring at him. “Thanks,” he said gruffly.

“For what?”

J.T. shook his head as the last images of the nightmare faded. “Never mind,” he said wearily. “Go back to sleep.”

With a shrug, Brandy slipped under the covers, watching J.T. through half-closed eyes. He sat there a moment more, then got out of bed and went to stand at the window, his hawklike profile silhouetted in the moonlight. He took several deep breaths, as if he couldn’t get enough air into his lungs.

She watched him for a long while, until her eyelids grew heavy and sleep claimed her once more.

For a quarter of an hour, J.T. stood at the open window staring out into the darkness, reliving those last tense moments when he’d stood on the gallows.

With a hand that was still shaking, he massaged his throat, recalling the stark terror he had felt when the hangman slipped the hood in place, the stifling blackness, the coldness that had engulfed him when the hangman secured the noose around his neck. Never, in all his life, had he known such gut-wrenching fear, such an overwhelming sense of despair.

He drew in a deep, calming breath as he gazed up at the moon. It was full and bright, reminding him of the ethereal light that had surrounded him in that nether world beyond death. He had never been one to ponder the mysteries of life, nor had he ever given much thought to what happened after death. You lived. You died.

Now, staring into the quiet of the night, he realized he no longer had any fear of dying. But he was terrified of finding himself standing on a gallows again, hearing his own heart pounding in his ears as he waited for the hangman to spring the trap.

Knowing he would never get back to sleep, he pulled on his boots and took up the rifle. He made sure the girl was asleep, checked to see that her wrists were securely bound, and then he left the room, careful to lock the door behind him.

Outside, he stood on the veranda for a moment, and then he crossed the street and entered the saloon.

He paused just inside the doors and took a deep breath. There was nothing quite like a good saloon. They reeked of smoke and whiskey and sweat. This one was no different.

Crossing the raw-plank floor, J.T. rested one elbow on the bar and called for a drink.

He sipped the whiskey slowly while his gaze wandered around the room. There was the requisite painting of a buxom nude hanging on the wall behind the bar; a couple of saloon girls wearing sleazy satin costumes strolled from table to table, drumming up business.

There were any number of games of chance available: faro, roulette, Spanish monte, black jack, red dog, and three-card monte.

But poker was J.T.’s game. He played straight for fun, and cheated when it was necessary. There were numerous ways to assure yourself of a winning hand—making minute changes in the design on the backs of the cards, notching, dealing off the bottom. You could palm a card, or wear a fancy ring with a shiny surface which, when turned into the palm, enabled the dealer to see each card as it was dealt.

There was a clever little contraption known as a vest holdout. Made to be worn under a vest, the device held an alternate hand of cards in case the wearer wasn’t happy with the cards he was dealt.

J.T. watched the poker games in progress for a quarter of an hour, familiarizing himself with the rules of the house. He didn’t care for games that used a fifty-three-card deck that included a joker, or a “cuter” that could be used as a fifth ace. He knew of a saloon in Wickenburg where a skip-straight beat a full-house.

He recalled hearing a story where Big Jim Dawson, considered to be one of the meanest men to ever sit at a poker table, had thought he held a winning hand, only to find that a pair of aces and three queens weren’t enough to beat his opponent, who held a three, five, seven, nine, and Jack. In the next hand, Dawson had laid down the three and seven of spades, a nine of hearts, a jack of clubs, and the king of diamonds. When asked what kind of hand that was, Dawson had unholstered his Colt and declared it was called a blaze. Nobody had argued when he raked in the pot.

After watching the games in progress and taking note of the way the men at each table bet, J.T. bought his way into the hottest game.

Lady Luck smiled on J.T. for the first hour or so, and then he began to lose. Now it was his deal, and he shuffled the deck effortlessly, thinking it was about time to change his luck, when he felt a sudden tightness in his throat, as if he were choking.

At first, he shrugged it off, but then, when he dealt the cards, assuring himself of a full house, queens over tens, it came again, stronger this time, a tightening in his throat that made breathing almost impossible.

He won a sizeable pot, close to a hundred bucks. Grinning, he raked it in, then began to shuffle the cards again.

Thou shalt not steal…

J.T. swore under his breath. Where had
that
thought come from? And why had the voice sounded suspiciously like that of his so-called guardian angel?

“You gonna deal those cards?”

J.T.’s head snapped up and he glared at the man who had spoken. “You in a hurry?”

The man shrugged. “Not really, but you’ve been shuffling those cards for five minutes.”

J.T. frowned. Five minutes? “Sorry,” he muttered, and dealt the cards, one at a time. From the top of the deck.

He lost that hand, and the next, and decided to call it a night. Despite the fact that he had lost the last two hands, he walked away with better than a hundred bucks in his pocket.

The woman was still asleep when he returned to the hotel. For a moment, he stood looking down at her. She was a pretty little thing. Her hair fell across the pillow like a splash of black ink. Her lashes were long and thick, her lips were full and finely shaped, her cheekbones were high and well-defined, making him wonder if she there was a touch of Indian blood somewhere in her background. Not that it mattered to him. He had some Indian blood himself.

She looked uncomfortable, lying there with her hands tied to the bedpost, and he knew a quick, unfamiliar stab of regret and guilt. He’d never worried about anyone else’s comfort before, never cared about anything but his own well-being, his own survival.

With a shake of his head, he sat down and pulled off his boots, then slid under the covers. He stared into the darkness for several minutes, and then, muttering an oath, he reached over and untied her hands.

* * * * *

Brandy woke slowly, yawned and stretched. And then she remembered where she was. At the same instant, she realized that her hands were free, and that Cutter was lying close beside her, one long hard-muscled leg pressed against her thigh.

Slowly, without turning her head, she slid a glance toward him. He was lying on his back, one arm folded under his head, the other resting beside him. She looked past him to where the rifle was propped against the wall.

If she was very careful, she might be able to tiptoe across the floor, grab the rifle, and make a run for it.

Seconds stretched into minutes while she debated the wisdom of such a plan. In the end, it was fear of an unknown future that drove her to take a chance.

Slowly, she inched her way toward the edge of the bed, slid her legs over the mattress, and stood up. She glanced briefly at her petticoats and underwear, but didn’t dare waste the time it would take to put them on.

On silent feet, she rounded the bed, expecting Cutter to awake any moment, but he slept peacefully on.

She knew a moment of triumph when her hand closed around the barrel of the rifle. She’d done it! Freedom was only a few feet away.

Grinning exultantly, she turned around, and ran head-on into Cutter.

“Going somewhere?” he asked mildly.

Brandy took a hasty step backward and aimed the rifle at his chest. “Away from you,” she retorted. “Stand aside and let me pass.”

“No.”

“Do what I say!”

J.T. crossed his arms over his chest. “No.”

“I’ll shoot.”

“I don’t think so.”

“I will!”

He didn’t say anything, just stood there, his legs slightly spread, an insolent grin on his handsome face.

Brandy licked her lips nervously. The rifle felt suddenly heavy in her hands. She’d never killed anything in her life. She hated the sight of blood. She couldn’t even stand to watch when the vet vaccinated her pets.

“Time to fish or cut bait,” J.T. remarked, and then, in a blur of movement, he grabbed the barrel of the rifle and jerked it out of her grasp.

Brandy let out the breath she’d been holding, secretly relieved that he had taken the gun, and the decision, out of her hands.

“That’s the last chance you’ll get,” J.T. said, all trace of amusement gone from his tone. “Get your shoes on. We’re leaving.”

“I hate you,” Brandy murmured. “I really hate you.”

“So you’ve said.” Cradling the rifle in one arm, J.T. grabbed her petticoats and tossed them to her. “What the…”

He stared at the lacy black garments spread on the floor. He’d seen ladies unmentionables before, but never had he seen anything like this.

He glanced over his shoulder at the woman, then stooped and picked up the lacy garments, frowning as he turned them over in his hands. They were as soft and delicate as a spider web. “I know these have got to be yours,” he remarked with wry amusement, “but what are they?”

“None of your business!” Brandy felt her cheeks flame as she grabbed her bra and panties from his hand. “Go away so I can… Just go away.”

Muttering under his breath, J.T. stepped out into the hallway and closed the door.

When he entered the room fifteen minutes later, she was sitting on the bed, looking as prim and proper as a schoolmarm. J.T.’s gaze ran over her trim figure, trying to imagine what she would look like wearing nothing but those two scraps of silky black lace.

Propping the rifle well out of her reach, he pulled on his boots, ran a hand through his hair.

“Let’s go get something to eat,” he suggested, taking up the rifle.

With a nod, Brandy stood up and followed him out the door.

They went to the hotel for breakfast. Cutter ordered steak, eggs, biscuits and gravy.

“I’ll just have coffee,” Brandy told the waitress.

“Bring the lady steak and eggs,” Cutter said.

Brandy smiled up at the waitress. ”I don’t want a steak,” she said sweetly. “Just coffee.”

“Bring her a steak and all the trimmings.”

The waitress glanced from Cutter to Brandy and back again.

“Listen, Brandy, we’ve got a long ride ahead of us,” J.T. explained patiently. “You need more in your stomach than a cup of coffee.”

Brandy pursed her lips, then looked up at the waitress. “I’ll have ham and eggs, please.”

The waitress looked at Cutter, one eyebrow raised as if expecting him to object. At Cutter’s nod, she left the table, muttering under her breath.

“So,” Cutter said, leaning back in his chair, “did you enjoy the hanging?”

Brandy stared at him, appalled that he would ask such a question. “I didn’t see it.”

“What’d you do, close your eyes?”

“I wasn’t there.”

J.T. stared at her. “What do you mean, you weren’t there?”

“What word didn’t you understand?”

“So you just stopped by to look at my…” He swallowed hard. “My corpse?”

Brandy shuddered. “No.”

Exasperated, J.T. swore under his breath. “I don’t understand.”

“I was at… I mean, I didn’t…” Brandy bit down on her lower lip, wondering how to explain what had happened, wondering if he’d believe her, or if he’d think she was crazy. Probably the latter, she decided. And who could blame him? Lately, she hadn’t been too sure of her own sanity.

“Dammit, what are you trying to say?”

“I’m not from here, from this time.”

He raised one dark brow. “What?”

“I wasn’t at your hanging, exactly. I was at another hanging.”

J.T. shook his head, more confused than ever.

“We were re-enacting your hanging during Wild West Days,” Brandy explained. “You’re something of a celebrity in Cedar Ridge in 1995. Anyway, the body was supposed to be a dummy stuffed with cotton and weighted with rocks. But then I heard it groan, and when I touched it, everything went black, and then…” She shook her head. “When I lifted the hood, you were alive, and I was here, in 1875.”

J.T. stared at her, trying to make some sense out of her words. “Wild West Days? Re-enacting my hanging? Lady, what the hell are you talking about?”

“I’m from the future, from 1995.”

J.T. snorted derisively. ”That’s the biggest yarn I’ve ever heard.”

“It’s true!”

“It’s impossible.”

“I know.” Brandy bit down on her lower lip a moment. “My underwear,” she said. “You said yourself you’d never seen anything like it.”

J.T. made a dismissive gesture with his hand. “I’m no expert on ladies’ underwear.”

“What about this?” Brandy rolled up her sleeve, then thrust her arm out. “Have you ever seen a watch like this?”

J.T. leaned forward to get a better look at the object strapped to her wrist. The band was smooth black leather. The case was silver. But the image on the face of the timepiece was like nothing he’d ever seen before, a peculiar looking critter with big black ears. The hands of the watch were the critter’s yellow-gloved hands.

“Mickey Mouse,” Brandy said.

“What?”

“That’s Mickey Mouse. He’s famous.”

“Famous?”

Brandy nodded. “I guess almost everyone in the world knows Mickey Mouse.” She quickly rolled her sleeve back down when she saw the waitress coming toward them.