Taken by the Cowboy (16 page)

Once Jessica was safely
inside the room, Truman shut and locked the door behind them. The
floorboards creaked as he moved to inspect the lock on the window
and check inside the wardrobe. A single kerosene lamp burned in the
corner next to the wrought iron headboard.

"You're not to leave
this room," he instructed, kneeling to look under the bed.

"What am I supposed to
do? Just sit around and stare at the wall?"

What she would give for
her laptop and a wireless Internet connection.

"I'll get you a book,"
he said dryly.

Jessica limped to the
chair, sat down, pulled off her shoe, and began unwrapping the
bandages.

"What are you doing?"
he asked, rising to his feet. "Those should stay on."

“I need to fix it.”

He approached and knelt
before her. “Then let me help you.”

With skillful fingers,
he took hold of the bandages and rewrapped her ankle. It was
another one of those moments when she found it difficult to imagine
him shooting anyone.

After he retied the
bandage, he looked up at her. "Is there anything else I can do for
you?"

Yes, you can slide
your hand up my leg, and it wouldn’t hurt to kiss me like you did
in the boardinghouse
.

"No, I'm quite fine,"
she replied.

"Then get some sleep."
He stood up and held out his hand to help her to the bed.

But she didn’t want his
help – not like that. She wanted something else, and she didn’t
want to be alone.

"Will you stay with
me?" she asked.

A muscle flicked at his
jaw while he looked down at her.

“No,” he finally said.
“I can’t do that. But I'll be in the saloon, where I can watch your
door all night. Dempsey will be outside, keeping an eye on your
window."

It wasn’t quite what
she had in mind, but he had a job to do, so she resigned herself to
the fact that it would have to be enough.

A few agonizing seconds
ticked by, then Truman turned to leave.

All at once, before she
could stop herself, she stood up and limped across the room to
block his exit.

"Don't go," she said.
"Stay.” The air between them sparked with electricity. “I don't
want to be alone."

"Jessica..." He looked
so uncertain.

Knowing it was a
mistake to play with fire like this, she moved closer and laid her
open hand upon his chest. “Just for tonight.”

He drew back to look
into her eyes, and his Adam’s apple bobbed.

God, how she ached to
slide her hands inside his shirt and slowly peel it off him....

“Don’t do this,” he
said in a husky voice, heavy with arousal.

“Why not?”

“Because you’ll make it
too hard for me to protect you. And resist you.”

She pressed her body
close. “Then don’t resist me. I don’t want you to. I just want you
to stay for a while.” She slid her hand around his waist. “That’s
all I need.”

An undeniable surge of
passion rose up between them, and she felt his breathing grow fast
and ragged. Then he cupped the side of her face in a hand, looked
down at her lips with ravenous hunger, and roughly pulled her to
him, as if he were still trying to fight the potent attraction that
pulsed in the air. At last he took her mouth with an almost brutal
intensity, smothering her gasp with the delicious, intoxicating
flavor of his kiss.

She met it recklessly,
running her hands through his thick hair as he braced her up
against the door. Their tongues mingled quickly and hotly, sending
a feverish sexual yearning into her blood.

He kissed the side of
her mouth, then buried his face in the crook of her neck and
shoulder, kissing the sensitive flesh at her collarbone.

Jessica tipped her head
back while he stroked his thumb along her cheekbone and held her
body tight, cupping her buttocks in one hand, thrusting his hips
firmly up against hers. As she lifted her knee to stroke the
outside of his leg with her inner thigh, she bumped into his
leather holster and felt the barrel of his gun.

In that moment she
remembered the situation, and looked down.

"This isn’t right," he
said, as if waking from a dream.

He dragged his mouth
from hers, while her heart, pounding violently in her chest, felt
the loss.

After a moment or two
of agonizing indecision, he stepped back and raked his fingers
through his hair.

“Don’t do this to me,”
he said, a muscle flicking at his jaw. “I have a job to do, and
you’re not helping."

She couldn’t miss the
heightened level of his displeasure. "I’m sorry." She moved away
from the door and sat down in the chair. “It was my fault.”

"No. It was mine, but
you should know to keep away from me. Don’t tempt me like that.” He
reached for the doorknob.

"Why?"

"Because I'm not
someone you should get to know real well. I’m bad luck, and I don’t
need this. I don’t want this. You shouldn’t either."

He pulled the door
open, walked out, and shut it behind him.

Jessica listened. She
could hear his boots pounding quickly down the hall.

She stared at the door,
heart racing, breaths coming hard and fast.

Rising to her feet and
limping to the bed, she flopped down and buried her face in the
scratchy wool blanket, feeling utterly rejected and frustrated –
both sexually and emotionally.

He said he didn’t want
this, but she knew that he did. He desired her. There was no
question about that. Something else was holding him back, and
whatever it was, she wanted very badly to conquer it.

But maybe he was right.
This whole situation was spinning out of control so quickly. They
were two vastly different people from different worlds and
different times. He was a gunfighter, a man of violence who lived
in a lawless place. She was a woman from the future who loved
technology, hated guns, and considered the sexual revolution an
historic event.

She could never resign
herself to the idea of hiding her ankles and giving up the right to
vote. Besides those things, she couldn’t be happy knowing that she
would never see her family again.

This magnetic pull she
felt toward Truman was a powerful distraction, and it was
preventing her from finding a way home.

If there even was a
way.
What if there wasn’t?

* * *

Truman hadn't gambled
in years, but since a drink was out of the question, tonight he was
going to lay his money on the table.

Because of the late
hour, there were only a few gamblers in the saloon, so he walked up
to the card table and waved the dealer over. He sat at an angle to
keep Jessica's door in view and waited for the first card to be
dealt.

"Didn't take you for a
gamblin' man, Sheriff," the dealer said, as he sat down and
shuffled the cards.

"I ain't."

"Feelin' lucky?"

"I wouldn't put it that
way."

"How would you put it,
then?" the dealer asked, snapping each card down.

"I'd call it deserving
of punishment." Truman leaned back in his chair, every so often
glancing up at that door.

"How's that now?"

"It ain't worth talking
about."

The truth was, Truman
hadn’t talked about anything personal to anyone in the full two
years since Dorothy’s death. It just seemed easier to keep it
secret. If no one knew what happened, maybe he could forget it too.
Pretend that part of his life never existed. He could even forget
he’d been married.

But Jessica—with all
her questions—had been pushing him to remember things. She’d been
digging up the past. Rousing him when he didn’t want to be
roused.

Was it just physical?
he wondered broodingly. It certainly felt that way – like his body
was thawing out and yearning for the kind of pleasure he’d not
enjoyed in a very long time. He was a man, after all. He supposed
he couldn’t deny
that
forever.

But was that all it
was? His body’s aching need for sexual release and nothing else? If
he satisfied it, would that be the end of it?

Truman played a card
without thinking, then leaned forward to rest his elbows on the
table. He glanced up at Jessica’s door again, wondering what she
was doing in there. Had she undressed and gotten into bed? Was she
thinking about him at all, wishing he’d come back and pick up where
they’d left off?

Clenching his jaw, he
played another card. He could feel it again—that deep sexual need,
the ache to hold her and feel his bare skin heating up close to
hers. He hadn’t enjoyed that kind of sexual pleasure in a long
time. He wanted it now.

No, he didn’t want
it
.

He wanted
her
,
and the whole thing made his head pound with the searing knowledge
that no matter how hard he tried, he was going to lose this battle.
Maybe he should just yield now, go back upstairs, and get on with
it.

He laid his cards down
on the table and nodded at the dealer.

* * *

When Jessica pulled the
covers back, she took one look at the sheets and doubted they were
changed since the last guest—or guests—had slept there, so she
unpacked her bag and decided to sleep in her clothes on top of the
covers. She'd use her dress to keep warm.

Turning the key in the
lantern, without extinguishing the flame entirely, Jessica snuggled
down and closed her eyes, but they flew open at the sound of
thumping in the next room. Wide awake now, she couldn't help but
listen.

The bed next door
squeaked and bounced. An occasional grunt alternated with giggly
moans from a loud-mouthed woman.

Jessica sat back on a
heel. She draped an arm over her other knee and cupped her forehead
in her palm.
What next?
It was impossible not to listen.
She couldn't help herself. And with this being a whorehouse, the
racket was probably going to continue all night.

Jessica waited for it
to stop – thankfully it was over pretty quickly—then lay back down
and pulled her dress up to her chin. A peculiar thought occurred to
her, but she fanned it away. She was being ridiculous. Just then,
the bed next door started squeaking again, faster this time. It
thumped and whacked against the wall so hard, dust flew onto
Jessica's bed. Anger boiled inside her until she sat up and swung
her feet to the floor. She considered pounding against the wall to
shut them up, but under the circumstances, she knew she had to keep
quiet.

That ridiculous thought
occurred to her again. It wasn’t Truman, was it?

Don't be so
foolish, Jessica
.

The woman next door
screamed out in pleasure. You’d think she just won the lottery.
Jessica could feel her blood pressure rising.

Sliding off the bed,
she limped toward the door. Maybe she could take a brief look
downstairs. It would set her mind to rest if she could see Truman.
Then maybe she could get some sleep. She stopped pacing and stared
at the doorknob. Just one little peek....

As she moved closer to
the door, the squeaking and groaning stopped. Jessica stood
listening, frozen in her spot as the door to the other room slowly
creaked open. Slow footsteps tapped along the hall. Jessica's heart
began to race as the footsteps approached.

She stared at the brass
doorknob. Please, let them pass by, she thought, stepping back.

The knob turned. She
placed her hand on her chest to try and calm her breathing,
preparing to scream for Truman.

Or scream
at
Truman.

Then the door slowly
opened.

All of a sudden,
screaming didn't seem like the proper thing to do. Sneaking into
Jessica's room and closing the door…was a woman.

Jessica examined the
tattered looking pink lace and black stockings. The woman turned to
face her with eyes that were darkened with kohl smeared thickly
under her lower lashes. Jessica also noticed the woman's familiar
red hair. She was the prostitute Truman had given money to on the
street.

"You must be the secret
guest," she said.

Jessica watched her
carefully through narrowed eyes. “Yes, and who are you?”

She chuckled. "Don't
worry, honey. I ain't your enemy." The woman crossed the room to
the bed. "I just came in to make sure everything was to your
likin’, that's all." She leaned forward and pulled the covers back.
"Hmm, sheets aren’t too clean."

"I didn't think anyone
knew I was here," Jessica said, her voice quiet and controlled.

"Yeah, well… your
secret's safe with me." She looked Jessica up and down. "Truman
said you were a real spitfire, but you don't look like much to
me."

Being insulted had a
funny way of shaking Jessica's senses into a workable order. "What
do you want?" she asked, wishing the woman would state her business
and leave.

"I wanted to get a look
at the famous Junebug Jess, up close." She wandered casually to the
window, pushed the curtain aside, and looked out onto the alley.
Letting the curtain fall closed, she lifted her skirt, reached up
to her garter, and retrieved a cigarette.

"What's your name?"
Jessica asked.

"Rosalie." She took a
match from the box on the bedside table, struck it, and lit her
cigarette. The fresh scent of sulfur drifted across the room as
Rosalie inhaled deeply.

"I'm Jessica."

"I know.”

“Did Truman tell you my
real name?”

“Nah, he just said he
needed a room for a woman to use, and I wasn't supposed to tell
anyone. It just so happens I know about Lou's gang bein' in town,
and it ain't hard to figure out why you're hidin' out here. Folks
have been talkin' about nothing else since you killed little
Louie."

The woman's casual
manner of speaking struck Jessica as odd. "You knew him?" she
asked, raising an eyebrow.