house. Yet the baby couldn’t have been there long. “Hey!” he called into the darkness. “You can’t leave this here! Come back!”
The poor woman who had left her child here didn’t understand. He lived alone. He went to town only four times a year. He was basically a pariah.
The gossip mill of Christmas River had turned on him after Polly’s death, and to his shock, it was said that Polly had died of pneumonia after trying to flee from him one cold December night. Her parents had claimed that he was jealous, had become aware that another man wanted to court Polly, and that Dillinger had chased her down, intending to murder her in cold blood.
Now he was a man with no town.
“Come back here!” he yelled into the breath-stealing chill of the snowstorm. But there was no answer, just the cries of the desperate baby at his feet.
So he picked up the basket, cursing it, cursing himself, his life…and found himself in a shootout straight from the Old West. Three gunslingers he’d never seen before aimed pistols at him. Gaudily attired saloon women screamed and ran for cover. With his holster and gun missing, he had no choice but to do what he could to save the baby in his arms.
He jumped off the stage and into a seated throng of clapping women, men and children. Popcorn flew, but there was no time to apologize; he expected a bullet in his back any second. Somehow he had to get the baby to shelter. He ran to the nearest safe place he could find—a theater box with a sign on it that read Security, empty for the moment—and looked down at the baby. Dillinger’s chest heaved, but the infant looked up at him, calm now and gazing at him reverently.
“Hey.” A saloon woman squeezed into the box with him. “You’re going to be in big trouble with Harry.”
He stared at his unwanted companion. Her long, whiskey-colored hair fell in cascading curls, her green eyes huge.
“Harry?”
“Yeah. He’s not going to be happy that you rewrote the script. Nor that you had a baby onstage.”
Dillinger held the infant closer.
“Couldn’t you find a sitter?” she asked. “I know it’s late at night, but surely a teenager would have been willing to watch your baby.”
He couldn’t speak, his world changing so fast he couldn’t take it in. He felt himself shift into survival mode. He studied the woman’s painted lips—a sweet, shiny cherry—and her long, long lashes. He’d never seen a woman wear so much face paint and yet have so little need of it.
Whoever she was—whatever she was—he needed her right now.
She shook her head. “I’ve only been here a few weeks and you’re clearly real new, but if I were you, I’d go to Harry after the act is over, apologize like hell and beg him not to fire you. Six Flags is crawling with people looking for work, even at Christmastime.”
Dillinger frowned. “I wouldn’t beg for anything. And what do you mean, when the act is over?”
“That was the last scene, the grand finale.” She shrugged pale, softly rounded shoulders. “Suit yourself on the begging part, but you can’t perform with the baby.” She cast a glance over him. “You may look like the real McCoy, but Harry’s not going to bend rules even for you, I bet.”
The infant began to cry, a wail that suggested she was hungry and didn’t care to wait. “I’m not in an act. I’m lost,” he said, and the saloon dancer laughed.
“No kidding, cowboy,” she said. “You’re just one egg shy of a dozen, aren’t you?”
“I need help.”
He watched, fascinated, as she pulled a black mole off the skin above her gently curved lips. “Let’s get out of here. I need to wash my face, and we’ll figure out where to find baby formula and Pampers. Unless you’re going to surprise me and say you’ve got some in your car.”
He shook his head, not certain what she had just asked him. She sighed and motioned for him to follow her from the box.
“What about Harry?” He presumed Harry employed her, but maybe there was more to it than that.
“To hell with him,” she said, “we need to feed Princess Squall. I feel sorry for her.” She smiled down at the baby and her face softened. “Thank God I never had one of these or I might not have ever had the courage to back out of my wedding at the last minute. You’re a sweetie,” she said, lifting the baby from his arms. “You should have gummed on Daddy’s nose for forgetting your bottle, honey.”
He watched protectively as she cuddled the infant. The baby stopped crying and Dillinger relaxed slightly.
He needed one person on his side right now. As much as he might not like it, the saloon dancer would have to do, at least until he figured out exactly how the hell he’d gotten here.
OKAY, THE GUNSLINGER WAS an odd bird and she didn’t need drama right now—staying in hiding would be harder with a baby—but he seemed harmless, and if nothing else, at least not a perv. He hadn’t so much as glanced at her low-cut gown—the gaudy yellow polyester thing—so she could do worse than odd.
At the moment, she couldn’t really be picky about who she hung around with. In spite of her tough words, this was her last night in the show. She’d been here a month; it was time to move on if she wanted to stay ahead of her ex-fiancé. After she’d left Bradley in New York City, she’d developed an itch to keep putting distance between them.
She carried the baby like a treasured artifact through the crowds, leaving the man to follow, as she knew he would. The tall, dark, handsome stranger hadn’t wanted to part with the baby, but like any wise female, she employed the carrot-and-stick approach when necessary. The baby was the carrot, and the cowboy stayed glued to her heels.
He was a delicious, if silent, specimen. Dark hair flowed to the nape of his neck; black brows scowled over denim-blue eyes that seemed confused, yet missed nothing. He was a good six feet four, a foot taller than her, yet he moved gracefully, even when running with a baby. She could only hope he looked as good when he took off his costume. What was it about her and bad boys, the rougher and tougher, the better? She’d snatched him before any other “lady” in the show could—never let it be said that Auburn McGinnis ran from all men. Just the last man. And she planned to keep running, with this baby and her handsome daddy, if her lucky stars were out tonight.
They didn’t speak much in the car. He seemed preoccupied and Auburn was relieved when she pulled into the penthouse parking lot twenty minutes later. They’d purchased diapers, formula and sundry baby things, since the cowboy seemed to have nothing with him. She was a tad suspicious that he’d snatched the baby from its mother, but kept her thoughts to herself. He’d flee if he suspected she was going to call the police, and the best thing to do would be to protect the baby. She could watch the news tonight and see if there was an Amber Alert. She’d cast a quick eye at the lighted overhead sign as they’d driven along the highway, which flashed with a description when a child had been stolen.
There’d been no warning.
“What’s your name?” Auburn asked.
The cowboy had been turned around in his seat, staring at the baby in the back, almost as if reassuring
