Two
Dillinger was worried. Something was badly wrong. Either he was having a terrible dream or…well, he didn’t know what else this could be. But something wasn’t good. One minute he’d picked a baby up off his porch, and the next thing he knew, he was in another century. And when he’d woken up to the baby’s cries and wondered how to soothe her, Auburn’s name had popped into his mind—although she didn’t seem like the type who would know a whole lot about babies—and he’d found himself inside her bedroom.
Just like that.
Right now she was staring at him with an expression of distrust and maybe even regret, for which he couldn’t blame her. No woman of decent family took a man into her home—a man with whom she wasn’t acquainted—and then was happy he’d materialized in her bedroom.
They were on bad footing here. She didn’t like him, and he needed her.
He had to convince her to help him.
“You’re married,” she said flatly. “Did you kidnap that baby from your wife? Did you have an argument?”
“No. My wife is dead.” He looked to see some sympathy in her expression, but if anything, Auburn appeared even more horrified. She had the same expression on her face that the people of Christmas River wore when they saw him, as if he were no better than a common murderer.
While he might have been known to gun down a man, he had never treated a woman with anything but respect. And he’d handled his beloved Polly as if she were a china doll. “I didn’t kill my wife,” he said dully.
“I didn’t say you did.”
“You didn’t have to,” he muttered. The baby in his arms hesitated again, searching his face for a few moments before continuing with her peaceful feeding. Something about the little one calmed him, made him feel a connection he couldn’t quite understand and yet welcomed. This baby had brought him here. “You and me,” he told the child, “we’re sticking together.”
He heard a sigh and glanced back up at the woman framed in her bedroom doorway. She was prettier without cosmetic artifice. He guessed she had to wear it for the theater production in which she performed—another bad sign, of course. Women who made their living on the stage weren’t in the same class as women who married and kept a home for a husband. But as a gunslinger, he’d lived far outside the norms of convention, too.
Still, he wished a woman of high standards had found him, for the sake of the baby. The woman wore a long T-shirt that read I’m Shakespeare’s Girl, which wasn’t possible because Shakespeare had lived and died in a previous time, the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries. If she were, in fact, acquainted with Shakespeare in some way, she’d have to be able to travel through time like a ghost, which simply wasn’t possible.
At least he hadn’t thought it was.
“What are you going to do with that baby? And what’s her name?”
It hadn’t occurred to him that the warm bundle needed a name other than The Baby, which was how he thought of her. He studied her round face, big, blue eyes, sweet button nose. “Her name is Rose,” he said quickly, “and she is my…my daughter.” He glared at Auburn. “I will protect her and raise her as if she’s my very own.”
Auburn shook her head. “You have to turn her in to the authorities.”
Oh, he knew all about the authorities. There’d be no fair shake for him and Rose with them. “Just let me sleep with her on this divan,” he said, “and I’ll be on my way tomorrow.”
“That’s fine. I need to be moving on myself. However, just a warning, Dillinger,” she said. “The next woman you meet is going to ask the same questions I have. Eventually, you’ll be caught.”
He laughed. He couldn’t help himself. Rose finished her bottle, so he lifted her up to his chest. She gave a satisfying, unladylike belch, which also made him laugh. “Wouldn’t that be rich? Hanged because I’m guarding a child?”
“Hanged?” Auburn frowned. “Isn’t that a little dramatic?”
He didn’t know. “I’m tired,” he finally said. Tired of being tempted by long legs and immodest thoughts about a woman who wasn’t his wife. “Rose and I thank you for your hospitality, and your help. We won’t trouble you past the morning.”
“Fine, bud. Whatever you say.” She yawned and grasped the doorknob. “I’d turn you in to the police, but I don’t want to be found right now myself. You seem like you have that baby’s best interests at heart, and enough money to take care of her, so I’m not going to ask any more questions. All I ask is that you don’t come into my room again. Okay? If you need something, you can give a shout, but no more of the lock trick. It’s kind of stalkerish.”
It was his turn to frown. “You’re not my type,” he said. “You need have no fear of anything untoward from me.”
She looked at him. “Glad we understand each other.”
They didn’t, but it wasn’t important. “Good night,” he said, and busied himself changing Rose’s diaper. It was going to be a struggle, but he’d watched Auburn change one, and the plastic tapes didn’t seem as challenging as firing a gun at a moving target. Rose wiggled and he taped her leg, so he had to start over. He tried not to fumble under Auburn’s scrutiny—he could tell the whiskey-haired woman didn’t completely trust him with the baby.
And then he felt the strangest sensation run through him, like cold on a hot summer day, and a tingling that ran all over him in the worst kind of way—as if a ghost had just walked over his grave.
HE HATED DILLINGER KENT. He was going to kill the gunslinger the second he tracked his murdering carcass down. Pierre Hartskill stood in the ranch house where Dillinger lived, eyeing the place where his sister had been trapped in a loveless marriage. A few logs in the fireplace were charred, the embers below still gray and smoldering as if Dillinger had left in a hurry. Maybe he knew Pierre was on his way to kill him. Perhaps a black angel guarded Dillinger from reaping his just desserts, forewarning him of his impending death. Pierre wasn’t afraid of the reputed gunslinger. Fear was not an option, nor was mercy.
He was going to run him down as Dillinger had Polly, and then he was going to put a bullet through him. And no angel was going to save him.
On the writing desk lay a golden earring. Pierre recognized it. Polly had worn them often, loving the feel of the tiny bells as they danced against her skin. He picked the earring up with cold-chapped fingers, and gave it a shake to hear the bells tinkle again.
And from somewhere faraway, yet loud enough to seem as if it came from this very room, Pierre heard a man cry out.
AUBURN GASPED AS THE cowboy let out a yell of surprise and suddenly went airborne. Thank heaven he’d put the baby on her pallet! He tossed around violently in the air before landing on the couch. He lay still, gasping for breath, crumpled in his long duster, his boots hanging over the edge of the sofa.
“Are you all right?” Auburn wasn’t sure if she should touch him or stay far away. Dillinger was a funny color, his face ashen, as if he might be sick any second. She’d be sick if she’d gotten tossed around like that—she didn’t even like to ride the superdizzying
