A Moment in Time (12 page)

      
Like Ruth.
 
Furious with himself, Cole turned away from Miss Lolita.
 
The mare stood quietly.
 
Guilt was an ugly mistress and she seemed uglier than usual as he climbed the rocky slope.
 
It sure as hell wasn't like him to think about bedding a woman when his horse could be suffering.
 

      
Murmuring in a gentle tone, he removed one glove and slowly approached Ruth.
 
Once certain she wouldn't go crazy again, he checked the mare's head and neck, then examined every inch of her.
 
Holding his breath, he reached down to feel each of her legs from top to bottom, praying he wouldn't find what he dreaded.
 
Stooping made him realize that
his
butt had taken the brunt of their fall.

      
Other than some scrapes, she was sound.
 
"Thank God," he muttered aloud.
 
"You're all right, old girl."

      
"It's my fault."
 
Miss Lolita's voice came from right beside him.
 
"I–"

      
"Quiet."
 
Cole glanced up at her and blinked.
 
At least she wasn't leaking tears all over the place.
 
A crying woman was just what he
didn't
need.

      
When he returned his attention to the mare where it belonged, his bandanna slipped down to reveal his identity to his hostage.
 
Hostage.
 
The word tasted vile, though he hadn't spoken it aloud.
 

      
He was a kidnapper.

      
He yanked the wayward piece of cloth back over his face as if to hide his shame even from himself.
 
Fat lot of good that'll do.

      
"
You
?
 
Don't bother hiding now, because I saw you."
 

      
Shame slithered through him as he stroked Ruth's neck.
 
"Damn."
 
Though he knew he shouldn't, he slipped the bandanna back down, then lifted his head to meet Miss Lolita's accusing gaze.
 

      
"I never figured you for a kidnapper."
 
Miss Lolita moved closer, shifting her gaze to the horse.
 
"Is she really all right?"
 

      
"Yes, thank God."
 
Cole ran his hands along the mare's front legs again.
 
Smiling, he returned to Ruth's head and looked into her soft brown eyes.
 
"Well, old girl, feel like a little walk?"

      
Clicking his tongue, he gathered the reins and applied firm but gentle pressure until the mare took a few steps.
 
He looked back over his shoulder for any signs of pain.
 
"By God, she really is all right."

      
"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to hurt your horse," Miss Lolita said.
 
"But you shouldn't have kidnapped me."

      
Kidnapped
.
 
Cole swallowed hard, wishing like hell his bandanna hadn't slipped.
 
Doing this filthy deed anonymously had been one thing, but doing it as Cole Morrison, father of Todd, was quite another.
 
All the more reason he should be ashamed.
 

      
Only a coward would hide behind a mask.

      
"Why'd you kidnap me?"
 
She moved closer, her face flushing with obvious anger.
 
"I'm
not
Lolita, dammit."

      
He looked at her again, remembering the feel of her firm flesh filling his hand–nice and full, but definitely not what men who'd seen Lolita claimed.
 
Could she be telling the truth?

      
His gaze swept over her face and her bizarre red hair startled him back to reality.
 
She
had
to be Lolita Belle.
 
Only a saloon singer would dye her hair.
 
A decent woman wouldn't even consider it, and especially not that glaring shade.

      
"You're in demand, Miss Lolita," he murmured, trying to justify the sordid mess to himself.
 
And failing.
 
He lifted his uninjured shoulder and averted his gaze.
 
"The price was right."

      
"You filthy pig."
 
Her voice trembled.
 
"I have to get back to that hellhole and see that portrait finished so I can go...go home."

      
"Now, don't you start bawling."
 
He sighed and didn't allow himself to confirm whether or not her ruby lips quivered, or any sparkling tears streamed down her rosy cheeks.
 
Surrendering, he faced her.
 
"Just...don't."

      
"Why the hell should I listen to you?"
 
Her eyes snapped and her nostrils flared.

      
She wasn't crying, but her rage was a palpable thing.
 
Cole had a hunch she could commit murder about now.
 
"Look, nobody's going to hurt you.
 
Hell, they all love you, though God only knows why."
 

      
"Excuse me?"
 
She put one hand on her hip and lifted her chin a notch.
 
"They don't want
me
, they want Lolita Belle.
 
I'm not–"

      
"Yeah, you already said that."
 
He clenched his teeth until they ached, then released a long sigh.
 
"Look, I didn't want to do this, but I...I really need the money.
 
You're still going to perform and get paid, so what difference does it make to you if that's at the Gold Mine Saloon or the Silver Spur?"

      
"What, no Caesar's Palace?"
 

      
Her feathers shifted, offering him a brief glimpse of heaven.
 
Cole held his breath as a shudder of longing rippled through him, and he tried to ignore the ornery throb between his legs.
 

      
"I'm
not
Lolita Belle.
 
My name is Jackie Clarke and I'm a
hairdresser
, you fool."

      
His gaze returned to her hair, so bright it hurt his eyes out here in the sunshine.
 
One corner of his mouth lifted and he arched his brow.
 
"Jack's a man's name and I don't believe a real hairdresser would do...
that
to her hair."

      
"Shit."

      
"And you sure talk like a saloon singer."

      
"What the hell is that supposed to mean?"
 
She scratched her chest.
 
"I'm getting a frigging rash from these feathers."

      
"My ma would've washed your mouth out with soap by now."

      
"Bite me."
 
She actually smirked.

      
His gaze drifted down the length of her again, and a powerful urge to do a lot more than bite her waylaid him.
 
He drew a shaky breath and said, "No, but thanks for offering, ma'am."

      
"Ha!
 
I don't give a damn that you look like George Clooney."
 
She looked up at him through eyes like lethal gray daggers.
 
"Well, you're taller than Mel, but that doesn't mean every woman with a pulse wants to jump your bones.
 
Get over it, cowboy."

      
"You had your chance," he said, ignoring her second reference to someone named Mel.
 
"Why didn't you make a run for it while I was checking on Ruth here?"

      
"I...I had to stay and make sure she was all right."

      
"That speaks well of you, ma'am."
 
He nodded and looked over the length of her again.
 
Even though she was a bit on the scrawny side by most standards, she was curvy in all the right places.
 
A fine-looking woman...except for the hair.
 
"Ruth's fine."

      
"Good, then I'll be on my way."

      
"Nope."
 
He folded his arms and shook his head.
 
"I can't let you do that.
 
I promised to deliver you to Lost Creek, and deliver you I will."

      
"You son of a..."
 
She lifted her fist as if to strike him, then started scratching again instead.
 
"If this is a dream or a coma, then how the hell can I have a rash?"
 
Her tone shifted from fury to uncertainty in the space of a heartbeat.

      
Cole chuckled.
 
"Trust me, this is
no
dream."
 
More like a nightmare.

      
"My
God
."
 
Her eyes widened and her lower lip trembled.

      
"Don't you start bawling."
 
Cole shoved his hat back farther on his head.
 
"The horse is all right and we're due at the Silver Spur."

      
"My rash is real.
 
You're real.
 
This
is all real," she whispered, her voice trembling, though no tears streamed down her face.
 
"Impossible, but...
real
."

      
"Yes, ma'am, I reckon you could say that."
 
Dear Lord, please don't let her start bawling.
 
I swear I won't hurt her and I'll never kidnap another soul as long as I live if you just don't let her bawl.
 
Amen.

      
Of course, Cole never planned to kidnap anyone again anyway.
 
This was far more adventure than he could stand.

      
"I...what...what am I going to do?"
 

      
The terror in her voice and eyes gave him pause.
 
He rubbed the back of his neck.
 
"For starters, let's haul ourselves back on Ruth here and be on our way."

      
As if in a trance, she met his gaze.
 
"But I don't know how."

      
Her sudden shift in demeanor worried him.
 
Was Miss Lolita addled in the mind?
 
Well, once he delivered her to Merriweather at the Silver Spur, she would no longer be Cole's problem.
 
The sooner, the better.
 
He sucked in a deep breath and held it.

      
No matter how much he wanted to touch her again.

* * *

      
It's true, it's true, true, true, true....
 
Jackie's lament played over and over again through her mind as she sat stoically in front of her kidnapper on top of a smelly horse.
 
Somehow, she really was stuck back in time and being taken by force to sing in a saloon.

      
And she had a rash.
 
Absently, she scratched again, knowing her chest, shoulders and back would be raw by the time she shed these ridiculous feathers.
 
She'd kill for a tube of hydrocortisone creme, but they probably didn't have such luxuries in 1891.
 
They didn't even have malls, movie theaters, or high tech beauty salons.
 
If she didn't sing for her supper, what the hell would she do?
 
But she wouldn't cry, dammit.
 
Instead, she sniffled.

      
"Will you quit that bawl–"

      
"I'm
not
bawling.
 
Just shut up and drive this thing, cowboy."
 
She didn't bother looking back.
 
"Somebody paid you to kidnap me?"

      
"That's right, but do we have to call it that?"

      
"Kidnapping?"
 
She snorted.
 
What had Dottie called him?
 
Oh, yes, Cole Morrison.
 
"What would you prefer I call it, Mr. Morrison?"

      
"Shit," he snapped, open disgust making the word sound more vile than usual.

      
"Now who needs his mouth washed out with soap?"

      
"How'd you learn my name?"

      
"Dottie told me."
 
Jackie clutched the saddlehorn fiercely as the horse scaled another rocky slope.
 
It certainly wasn't hard to see why they called these the
Rocky
Mountains.