A Moment in Time (10 page)

      
Or he could do this one job and take his son to Oregon for the life he and Elizabeth had planned.

      
Choice, Morrison?
 
He swallowed hard and dismounted, releasing the cinch and sliding the saddle off the mare's back.
 
With a grunt, he swung the saddle onto a rail, then led the horse to the trough.
 
She wasn't overheated, so he let her drink her fill while he poured her ration of oats into the feed box.

      
Merriweather had offered him his and Elizabeth's dream in a not-so-neat little package.
 
Cole never should've trusted that traveling preacher enough to unburden his troubles.
 
Things ate at a man, and Cole had reached his limit about the time that preacher came along.
 
Next thing Cole knew, he'd told the kind-faced man everything.

      
Including his own failures.

      
The old fart had spilled Cole's desperation at the next watering hole, and Merriweather had been listening.
 
Cole had to hand it to old Merriweather.
 
He sure as hell knew how to pull a man's strings.

      
Cole released a long sigh.
 
The money from that job was more than he could refuse, and it wasn't as if actual harm would come to anyone because of it.
 
Still, the mere thought of it made his gut burn.
 
If only he hadn't–

      
"Pa."

      
Cole turned around just in time to catch a flying nine-year-old body.
 
He gave his son a hug and allowed himself a moment to admire the boy's dark blond hair, so much like his mother's.
 
Though Elizabeth was gone from this world, a part of her lived on in their son.

      
"I'm starved," Cole said, ruffling the boy's hair.
 
"What'd you cook?"
 
He flashed Todd a grin when the boy groaned.

      
"Cookin's woman's work."
 
The boy looked down at his bare feet, then lifted his face to squint into the sun.
 

      
"That's a fact."
 
Cole walked slowly toward the cabin, knowing without looking that his son was at his side.
 
It was a fine feeling–a damned fine one.
 
"But I reckon it's a good thing for a man to know how to take care of himself, too."
 
He knew that all too well.

      
"Yes, sir."
 
Todd gave a sigh much larger than his size.
 
"I sure get sick of it, though."

      
"Nah, you just get sick of
my
cooking."
 

      
They both laughed as Cole opened the door and stepped into the cabin's dim interior.
 
His laughter stilled as his gaze focused on the ladder that led to the loft.
 
In his mind's eye, he mentally followed each rung to the top, remembering Elizabeth's last night on this earth with him...and his wretched promise.
 
The lump in his throat seemed unbearable as he struggled against it, suddenly thankful for the dim interior.

      
Todd slipped past him, dragging Cole's attention from the ladder...and from the past.
 
The boy grabbed something off the mantel and hurried back.
 

      
"I almost forgot," Todd said, holding a folded piece of paper in his outstretched hand.
 
"A man brought this while you was in town."

      
Cole hated the thought of anyone coming to the cabin while Todd was here alone.
 
In St. Louis, Elizabeth's mother could care for Todd while Cole worked–yet another reason to give up that stupid dream and get on with his promise.

      
After clearing his throat, Cole asked, "What man?"
 

      
"Never seen him before."
 
With a shrug, Todd padded barefoot across the rough wood floor and took two tin soup plates down from the shelf beside the stove.
 

      
While his son served their meal, Cole unfolded the letter and took a backward step into the light from the open doorway.
 
The bold pen strokes leapt off the page and straight to Cole's gut.
 
"Damn," he whispered.

      
Anyone else would've considered the message cryptic, but Cole knew exactly what the four words meant.
 
After rereading the page, his gaze migrated back up the ladder to the loft he'd shared with his wife.
 

      
He no longer had a choice.
 
This note had stolen that luxury from him, just as surely as a thief with a six-shooter.
 
Removing his hat and hanging it on a peg near the door, Cole stuffed the note into his pocket and washed his hands in the basin near the hearth.

      
Those four words were his commandment.
 
It was time for Cole Morrison to live up to the promise he'd made his wife.
 
The handwriting was burned into his brain.
 
Even as he took a seat at the table with his son, he saw the words clearly in his mind.

      
I'll double the money.
 
The only other marks were the familiar initials at the bottom of the page.

      
"Can we go fishin' today?"
 
Todd spooned beans into his mouth, oblivious to his father's torment.

      
Thank God for that.

      
Cole shook his head.
 
"Not today, son."
 
He forced a spoonful of beans into his mouth and chewed furiously.
 
"I have to go back to town."
 
He had a job to do.

      
"Again?"
 
Todd gave a sound of disgust, then continued eating with far less enthusiasm.

      
Cole hated himself.
 
If he'd kept his promise years ago, this wouldn't be happening, and his son wouldn't be disappointed in him.
 
"I'll make it up to you," he said, and meant it.
 

      
"All right."
 
Todd brightened and attacked his food.

      
In St. Louis, Todd could eat his meals at a real table with proper utensils.
 
The boy would never be hungry, and he'd have a grand variety of things to eat.

      
Cole's appetite beat a hasty retreat and he pushed away from the table.
 
He crossed the room and took his rifle down from the rack over the hearth.
 
As he turned around, he saw the look of concern on his son's face.

      
"I saw a bear on my way up the trail earlier," he lied, hating himself.
 
"Nothing meaner than a bear just waking up in the spring."

      
Todd's eyes grew round and he nodded.
 
"That's for sure."

      
"I'll be back before dark."
 
Cole hesitated and touched the boy's shoulder.
 
He hated leaving Todd alone again so soon.
 
"You stay inside, just in case that bear decides to come up here looking for something to fill his belly."

      
"Oh, Pa."
 
Todd made a face of utter disgust that crawled into a special corner of his father's heart.

      
"You look just like your ma when you do that."
 
With a grin, Cole grabbed his hat and walked out the door.

      
Praying.

* * *

      
Jackie shifted uncomfortably on the satin pillows, making absolutely certain the feather boa covered all her assets–such as they were.
 
Most women lived their entire lives without posing for a lurid portrait, but Jackie Clarke had the dubious honor of doing it twice in the same week.

      
In two different centuries.

      
First Blade, now Henri.
 
Her gaze locked onto the obese man behind the canvas.

      
"
Sacre bleu,"
he muttered for at least the hundredth time.
 
"
Monsieur
Goodfellow assured me you would be...more..."
 
He stuck the brush between his teeth and held both hands cupped out in front of his chest.

      
Far away from his chest.

      
"Well, I'm not, so get over it."
 
Jackie flashed him a nasty smile–the nastiest one she could summon.
 
"So use your imagination, Frenchie–you're an artist, aren't you?"

      
He jerked the paintbrush from between his teeth.
 
"
Mon dieu.
"
 
Dabbing furiously at his palette, he muttered a string of what Jackie felt certain weren't nice things, even if they were in French.
 
"And that hair."
 
More French.
 
"How did it get such an atrocious shade?"

      
Jackie winced.
 
Touché.
 
"It's standard equipment," she fibbed, biting the inside of her cheek to keep herself from saying what she really thought.
 
"Keep your opinions to yourself and paint.
 
I'd like to get out of these feathers ASAP."

      
"Asap?"

      
"As soon as possible."
 
She lifted her eyebrows and sighed.
 
"Like yesterday would be nice."

      
Actually, yesterday was pure hell, but today is even worse.

      
More French.
 
Good.
 
As long as he was happy...

      
"I simply cannot paint without...inspiration."
 
He threw the brush and palette crashing to the floor, splattering paint across the room.
 
"Come back tomorrow at the same time.
 
Wait here until Zeb comes to claim you.
 
Oh, how my head aches.
 
Why did I ever leave Paris?"

      
Muttering to himself, Henri waddled to the back of the cabin and slammed the door.
 

      
"Cool."
 
Keeping the feathers wrapped strategically around her body, Jackie swung her feet to the floor and reached for her jeans.
 
Old Dottie had no idea that Jackie'd worn her own filthy clothes beneath the velvet robe.

      
With the white boa draped around her neck, Jackie wiggled into her jeans and buttoned the fly, then slipped on her socks and hiking boots.
 
A noise from outside made her adjust the boa to cover herself just before the door burst open.
 

      
A man–a tall one–filled the doorway.
 
A white hat was pulled low over his eyes and a bandanna covered his mouth and nose.
 
Only twin blue slits were visible on his face.
 
He held a rifle in his hands, though it wasn't aimed at her.
 
Exactly.

      
"Oh, no you don't," she said, knowing the script was in force again.
 
"I'm
not
Lolita.
 
You've got the wrong woman, buster.
 
Be patient–she'll be along in a few weeks."

      
"You're coming with me."
 
His voice was muffled, but his words were clear.
 
Unmistakable.
 
"Now."
 

      
"I don't believe this."
 
Jackie knew she should fear the kidnapper, but her anger took command.
 
"You want Lolita–I'm Jackie.
 
Trust me on this.
 
I'm only a 34 B.
 
You want the 44 D ones.
 
They're worth the wait.
 
I've seen–"

      
"Hush."
 
His words sounded more confused than angry.
 
"Just hush your mouth and get yourself out the door."

      
"I'm not dressed."

      
Henri chose that moment to open the door.
 
"I've changed my mind,
mademoiselle,"
the artist said dramatically.
 
"We will continue the–"

      
"That's far enough."
 
The rifle shifted toward the artist.
 
"Stay right there."

      
Henri's eyes rolled into the back of his head and he fell forward, landing with a loud–and not terribly French–splat when his face hit the wood floor.