Persian runner. The hallway in the modern-day house was carpeted.
“Oh, no,” she groaned, just lying there for a moment, trying to think what to do. The curtain in time that had permitted her to pass between one century and the other had closed, and she had no way of knowing when—or if—it would ever open again.
It was just possible that she was trapped in this rerun of Gunsmoke—permanently.
“Damn,” she groaned, getting to her feet and running her hands down the sooty denim of her jeans. When she’d managed to stop shaking, Rue approached one of the series of photographs lining the wall and looked up into the dour face of an old man with a bushy white beard and a look of fanatical righteousness about him. “I sure hope you’re not hanging around here somewhere,” she muttered.
Next, she cautiously opened the door of the room she’d slept in the night before—only it wasn’t the same. All the furniture was obviously antique, yet it looked new. Rue backed out and proceeded along the hallway, her sense of fascinated uneasiness growing with every passing moment.
“Through the looking glass,” she murmured to herself. “Any minute now, I should meet a talking rabbit with a pocket watch and a waistcoat.”
“Or a United States marshal,” said a deep male voice.
Rue whirled, light-headed with surprise, and watched in disbelief as a tall, broad-shouldered cowboy with a badge pinned to his vest mounted the last of the front stairs to stand in the hall. His rumpled brown hair was a touch too long, his turquoise eyes were narrowed with suspicion, and he was badly in need of a shave.
This guy was straight out of the late movie, but his personal magnetism was strictly high-tech.
“What’s your name?” he asked in that gravelly voice of his.
Rue couldn’t help thinking what a hit this guy would be in the average singles’ bar. Not only was he good-looking, in a rough, tough sort of way, he had macho down to an art form. “Rue Claridge,” she said, just a little too heartily, extending one hand in friendly greeting.
The marshal glanced at her hand, but failed to offer his own. “You make a habit of prowling around in other people’s houses?” he asked. His marvelous eyes widened as he took in her jeans, T-shirt and sneakers.
“I’m looking for my cousin Elisabeth.” Rue’s smile was a rigid curve, and she clung to it like someone dangling over the edge of a steep cliff. “I have reason to believe she might be in…these here parts.”
The lawman set his rifle carefully against the wall, and Rue gulped. His expression was dubious. “Who are you?” he demanded again, folding his powerful arms. Afternoon sunlight streamed in through the open door to nowhere, and Rue could smell charred wood.
“I told you, my name is Rue Claridge, and I’m looking for my cousin, Elisabeth McCartney.” Rue held up one hand to indicate a height comparable to her own. “She’s a very pretty blonde, with big, bluish green eyes and a gentle manner.”
The marshal’s eyebrows drew together. “Lizzie?”
Rue shrugged. She’d never known Elisabeth to call herself Lizzie, but then, she hadn’t visited another century, either. “She wrote me that she was in love with a man named Jonathan Fortner.”
At this, the peace officer smiled, and his craggy face was transformed. Rue felt a modicum of comfort for the first time since she’d stepped over the threshold. “They’re gone to San Francisco, Jon and Lizzie are,” he said. “Got married a few months back, right after her trial was over.”
Rue took a step closer to the marshal, one eyebrow raised, the peculiarities and implications of her situation temporarily forgotten. “Trial?”
“It’s a long story.” The splendid eyes swept over her clothes again and narrowed once more. “Where the devil did you get those duds?”
Rue drew in a deep breath and expelled it, making tendrils of her hair float for a few moments. “I come from another—place. What’s your name, anyhow?”
“Farley Haynes,” the cowboy answered.
Privately, Rue thought it was the dumbest handle she’d ever heard, but she was in no position to rile the man. “Well, Mr. Haynes,” she said brightly, “I am sorry that you had to come all the way out here for nothing. The thing is, I know Elisabeth—Lizzie—would want me to stay right here in this house.”
Haynes plunked his battered old hat back onto his head and regarded Rue from under the brim. “She never mentioned a cousin,” he said. “Maybe you’d better come to town with me and answer a few more questions.”
Rue’s first impulse was to dig in her heels, but she was an inveterate journalist, and despite the fact that her head was still spinning from the shock of sudden transport from one time to another, she was fiercely curious about this place.
“What year is this, anyway?” she asked, not realizing how odd the question sounded until it was already out of her mouth.
The lawman’s right hand cupped her elbow lightly as he ushered Rue down the front stairs. In his left, he carried the rifle with unnerving expertise. “It’s 1892,” he answered, giving her a sidelong look, probably wondering if he should slap the cuffs on her wrists. “The month is October.”
“I suppose you’re wondering why I didn’t know that.” Rue chatted on as the marshal escorted her out through the front door. There was a big sorrel gelding waiting beyond the whitewashed gate. “The fact is, I’ve—I’ve had a fever.”
“You look healthy enough to me,” Haynes responded, and just the timbre of his voice set some chord to vibrating deep inside Rue. He opened the gate and nodded for her to go through it ahead of him.
She took comfort from the presence of the horse; she’d always loved the animals, and some of the happiest times of her life had been spent in the saddle at Ribbon Creek. “Hello, big fella,” she said, patting the gelding’s sweaty neck.
In the next instant, Rue was grabbed around the waist and hoisted up into the saddle. Before she could react in any way, Marshal Haynes had thrust his rifle into the leather scabbard, stuck one booted foot in the stirrup and swung up behind her.
Rue felt seismic repercussions move up her spine in response.
“Am I under arrest?” she asked. He reached around her to grasp the reins, and again Rue was disturbed by the powerful contraction within her. Cowboy fantasies were one thing, she reminded herself, but this was a trip into the Twilight Zone, and she had an awful feeling her ticket was stamped “one-way.” She’d never been on an assignment where it was more important to keep her wits about her.
“That depends,” the marshal said, the words rumbling against her nape, “on whether or not you can explain how you came to be wearing Mrs. Fortner’s necklace.”
Leather creaked as Rue turned to look up into that rugged face, her mind racing in search of an explanation. “My—our aunt gave us each a necklace like this,” she lied, her fingers straying to the filigree pendant. The piece was definitely an original, with a history. “Elis—Lizzie’s probably wearing hers.”
Farley looked skeptical to say the least, but he let the topic drop for the moment. “I don’t
