THE COWBOY FROM CHRISTMAS PAST BUY THE BOOK from an independent bookstore via IndieBound or order through Amazon. EXCERPT Chapter One Somewhere in the Texas Panhandle, Christmas season of 1892 Chapter One For Dillinger Kent, retired gunslinger, life was quiet on his thousand acre spread in the Texas Panhandle town of Christmas River. The Christmas season with its promise of bitter cold and occasional snow, unlike the rest of the state, made his remote lifestyle even more distant. Springtime brought fullness to his ranch, with trees and grass adding green color to dress the stark landscape; summer and fall brought their own lustrous hues to warm the countryside. But the Christmas season was a harbinger of the icy cocoon soon to envelop him in its lightless grasp for the next three months. It was the middle of December, and deep winter crept closer. He'd chosen loneliness when he'd lost his wife, Polly Hartskill. They'd had plans for a family out here, a big home to raise them in. Christmas on the ranch, Polly said, would be so much fun with lots of little feet running around. Polly had a soul of gold—he loved her like he would never love anyone again. But Polly had taken ill with a pneumonia during the last Christmas season, and having a soul of gold hadn't saved her. He picked up a self-portrait Polly had done of herself for him that he'd put in a wooden frame. She was beautiful, even in charcoal. Her kindness and grace of spirit was captured in the lines of her likeness. He set the picture down and picked up a pair of small, dangling earrings, with tiny golden bells at the ends of hooks. Delicate, like Polly. He'd given them to her early for Christmas last year, a wedding gift he'd picked up on his last trip to California. She'd been thrilled with them, giggling when they lightly tinkled at her ears. The earrings felt like a tiny memory between his rough fingers, but he would never give them to another woman, would never part with them. Dillinger forced his mind away from Polly. He wondered if he might go crazy one day in the isolated countryside, decided he wouldn't. It was just the date on the calendar he'd bought at Gin's Feed Store that was making him maudlin. He'd make it to springtime—he had for the year Polly had been gone. He curled his fingers around the earrings, then set them back on the desk, barely able to turn loose of them. The wind whipped around outside the ten-room house he'd built with his own hands. No chill would seep in—he knew every inch of his house and it was tight against the elements. Dillinger closed his eyes, wondered if he should go check the livestock that would be huddled in close groups for warmth. Most likely it wasn't necessary. Still, he had the urge to look outside. Then he heard the wailing. Thin at first, carried by the wind, it wasn't an animal's cry—it sounded human. But at this time of night—nearly ten o'clock—there would be no people around. His ranch was far from town, hardly a convenient place for someone to stop by. Yet he heard it again. He fastened his long oilskin coat that reached below his knees. Grabbing gloves and pushing his cowboy hat tight on his head, he prepared for the gusts of wind that would tear at him. He stepped out and nearly onto a basket that had been laid on his porch. By God, it was a baby, a pink-wrapped thing in a wicker basket. There were no footprints in the snow leading away from the house but 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 leaving her child 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 him. Her parents had claimed that he was jealous, had become aware that another man wanted to court Polly, and 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 the basket up, cursing it, cursing himself, his life . . . and found himself in a shoot-out 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. His holster 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 the back any second. Somehow he had to get the baby to shelter. He ran to the nearest safe place he could find—a box called Security, empty for the moment—and looked down at the baby. Dillinger's chest heaved but the baby looked up at him, her now calm gaze on 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 was up in cascading curls, her green eyes huge as she shook her head at him. "Harry?" "Yeah. He's not going to be happy that you re-wrote the script. Nor that you had a baby onstage." Dillinger held the baby 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 took in 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 plan to wait. He needed help. "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." She pulled the black mole patch off the skin above 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 him to follow her from the box. "What about Harry?" He presumed Harry employed her and maybe more. "To hell with Harry," 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. Stick with me and I'll teach you how to handle an inconsiderate male." He watched protectively as she handled 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—gaudy yellow polyester thing—so she could do worse than an odd bird. At the moment, she couldn't really be picky. 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 and his family. 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 advisable. The baby was the carrot, and the cowboy stayed glued to her heels. He was a delicious 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 to her five four yet he moved gracefully, even holding 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/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. Twenty minutes later Auburn pulled into the penthouse parking. They'd purchased diapers, formula, 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 anything, 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 on the lighted overhead road sign as they'd driven along the highway which flashed with a description when a child had been stolen. Nothing. "What's your name?" Auburn asked her seatmate. He'd been staring at the baby in the back seat, almost as if reassuring himself that she was there. "My name?" "Yes." Auburn sighed. "You can relax. She's not going to disappear." That seemed to agitate him and he stared into the backseat at the newly-purchased car seat containing the baby. The man was edgy, and it began to occur to Auburn that she had to be an idiot for picking up a man who had no car (claimed he didn't), no diapers or food for a baby (bad sign), and had a major possessive streak going on. She was on the run from her wealthy fiancé who would be looking for her with enthusiasm since she'd just stranded him at his society altar, eager to explain away her flight with some proper excuse. Auburn had a headache; Auburn had a fit of nerves. Not Auburn decided she'd rather kiss a toad than marry me, which was the truth, if only lately realized. What she'd been thinking, she didn't know. "You're not that child's daddy," she said, blurting out her thoughts as she parked. To her shock, he didn't look like he was about to grab the baby and dash off. "I know," he said, "she was given to me." "People don't give away babies." "Trust me, I tried to give her back." Auburn considered that as she got out of the car. "Be careful when you take her out. Remove the entire carrier and bring it inside. I don't have a crib so she can sleep in her carrier if she's comfortable, at least for the time being. We can make her a nice, soft pallet on the floor if we need to." She watched as he handled the carrier like the baby was gold. A deep breath escaped her. Maybe he was telling the truth: most single men probably wouldn't be thrilled to have a baby thrust upon them. And he didn't look exactly scary; if anything, he was eye candy, the kind women of man would jump all over to have his child. Unlocking the door to her apartment, she said, "Back to your name." "Dillinger Kent." He waited beside her, curious as she opened the door. "What kind of place is this?" "My name's Auburn McGinnis," she said calmly, closing the door behind them, "and this is called a penthouse. Is that what you're asking?" He seemed overwhelmed. "I don't know," he said, sounding tired as he carefully set the baby down. "Do you believe in dreams?" She eyed him suspiciously. "I'm going to get out of this costume. Make yourself at home. There's a powder bath down the hall." "Powder bath?" Maybe his family called them something else. "A place to freshen up." He nodded, saying nothing more as he sank into the sofa, his gaze riveting to the baby once again. She slept peacefully in her car seat carrier, oblivious to any change in her fortunes. Auburn went to change and take off her stage makeup, and when she returned, the cowboy was sound asleep on her sofa, sitting up, his head lolling. He was truly delicious. If a woman liked her men hot, protective, and dark-haired, this one had all the right stuff. He also might be a baby thief. She ignored up her sudden awareness of how wonderfully chiseled his features were, locked her bedroom door, and went to bed. In the morning, she'd figure out what to do about the cowboy, and the baby. * * * Auburn awakened, aware of someone in the bedroom with her. She blinked tired eyes, coming straight awake as she realized the cowboy was beside her bed. "Eee!" she exclaimed, jumping out of the sheets and flipping on the light. "What are you doing in here?" He seemed as startled as she was. "I just came to tell you that the baby wants something." Auburn clutched her night shirt close to her. "How did you get in here?" She was positive she'd locked the door. It was locked now. She turned frightened eyes on the handsome stranger. "I walked in." He looked at her strangely. "I'm sorry. I should have knocked." "Yes, you should!" Auburn glared at him. "And why are you telling me that the baby wants something?" "Because I don't know what she wants!" he snapped. "I've never had a baby before!" She opened the door and swept past him to pick up the baby. "How long have you had her?" "Just a few minutes before I met you. I think." She took the baby from the carrier, handing her to Dillinger who seemed as surprised as the baby because she quit crying for the moment. "Look," Auburn said, going to prepare a bottle, "when the baby cries, she wants to have a bottle, probably about every three or so hours. She'll want her diaper changed, and you'll be in charge of that. Then she'll want to be cuddled and burped, and you'll be in charge of that." She handed him the bottle. "I'm not in charge of any of this. It's not my baby." "Mine, either, but I like her." He took the bottle, cradled the baby, and sat down on the sofa. Amber watched, curious. She knew something about the care of children, certainly. She'd volunteered in the church nursery; her family had babies running around from different branches of the family. But he didn't seem that well-versed in holding a baby or feeding one because it took him a few seconds to get the bottle just right so that the baby settled down enough to drink. He wasn't making it up, Auburn realized. This wasn't his baby, and there were no Amber alerts, at least not yet. "Who gave her to you?" she asked softly. "I don't know. She was left on my porch. Which was a strange thing to do, because it had to be all of twenty degrees outside." It was fifty-five in Dallas. Auburn shook her head. "Where do you live?" "Christmas River." "Texas?" He looked at her. "Yes." She pulled her Iphone from her purse, googling the town. A chill swept over. Nothing. It didn't exist. "There's no such place." He shook his head at her. "There is. I have a ranch there." "Is there a nickname the town goes by?" "It's Christmas River," he insisted. She googled Dillinger Kent, Christmas River. Her heart felt like it completely stopped. Notorious gunslingers Dillinger Kent shot and killed one of the most infamous stagecoach robbers of all time, Harmon Keith, outside of Carson City today. The date on the article was May 16, 1888. "What's your real name?" The baby stopped sucking on the bottle for an instant, then resumed. Dillinger looked at her. "I told you." "No, you gave me a name of a gunslinger from the 1880's." There were no other Dillinger Kents listed, though she could check Facebook next. She tapped the web address in quickly. Nothing. "I was a gunslinger," he said, "but I gave it up when I took a wife." Great. He was married. She should have known. The whole story was bogus. He'd had some kind of spat with his wife, snatched the baby and took off. Auburn backed into the bedroom doorway. This was a complication she totally didn't need. Chapter Two Dillinger was worried. Something was badly wrong. Either he was having a terrible dream, or... well, he didn't know what the or was. 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 wondered how to soothe the baby and Auburn's name popped into his mind—although she didn't seem like the type who would know a whole lot about babies—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 to 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 looked even more horrified. She had the same expression on her face that the people of Christmas River wore when they saw him now, 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 like she was a china doll. "I didn't kill my wife," he said dully. "I didn't say you did." "You didn't have to," he bit out. The baby in his arms hesitated again, searching his face for a few moments before continuing with her peaceful feeding. Something about the baby 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. 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 16th and 17th 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 he 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, and did he hear sarcasm in her tone? "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 anymore questions. All I ask is that you don't come into my room again. Okay? If you need something, you can give a shout-out, 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. "Goodnight," 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 squiggled 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—like 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, eying 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 the just desserts he deserved, 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 rough, cold-chapped fingers, and gave it a shake to hear the bells tinkle again. And from somewhere far away, 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 like a doll 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, like 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 super-dizzying rides at Six Flags. "I'm fine," he said on a groan. "You're not fine! What the heck did you just do?" He seemed too sick to harm her so she approached him, peering down at his prone body. "A lady doesn't swear," he said, groaning again. "And a man doesn't fly around a room. I suggest you explain that particular magic trick before I decide to call the law on you, buddy," she said sternly. "And don't you dare tell me not to swear!" He tried to sit up, failed. "No law. Please." Well, she wouldn't call the law on him—not yet—but she didn't want him doing that weird levitation again. "Hey, do you want a drink of water?" "Just take care of the baby," he said quietly—and then fell asleep. "Of all the nerve!" Auburn stared at both of them, sleeping like, well, babies, and a little pity slid into her heart. The man was too big to sleep on the tiny rental furniture, and he was pretty tangled up in that duster. He couldn't be comfortable. Carefully, she tugged his legs off the sofa so that at least he was on his back, hanging over one edge, sure, but at least he wasn't in a ball any longer. "You're weird," she told him, but he didn't move. So she dragged the blanket and comforter off her bed and bedded down on the floor beside the sofa next to the baby. "You have a scary daddy," she told Rose, but the funny thing was, Auburn wasn't really afraid of Dillinger anymore. She was afraid for him. * * * Thirty minutes later a knock on the door startled Auburn awake. If she hadn't been sound asleep, she might have thought twice about opening the door, but she was operating on auto. Sleepily opening the door, she awakened in a hurry when the security guard peered at her. "You left your car lights on," he said, "thought you might want to know." His gaze widened as he caught sight of the cowboy on her sofa and the baby on the floor. "Yes, thank you," Auburn said, hastily trying to close the door. "I'll take care of it right now." He was mentally cataloguing the strange scenario in her living room. This was trouble, since she didn't want any details left behind for an ex-fiancé who surely had people looking for her. "Thank you," she said again, more curtly this time, and closed the door. Locking it, she took a deep breath. Closed her eyes. Wondered why simply running out on a bad idea like a wedding had to be so worrying. She should never have said yes in the first place; should never have allowed her parents to make her feel that she had to find her Prince Charming. "What are you afraid of?" Dillinger asked, and Auburn jumped. "I'm not afraid of anything," she said, grabbing her keys from her purse. "What makes you say such a silly thing?" He sat up, shrugged. "Just seems that I'm not the only one with secrets." "No, but you are the only one who can make himself spin around in the air." He frowned. "What do you mean?" She looked at him. "Don't you remember?" "Remember what?" She circled a finger in the air. "Your levitation trick." He gave her a strange look, like he figured she was crazy. "I've been asleep on the sofa." He didn't remember. Chills ran over Auburn's skin. Yet she hadn't imagined it. "I'm going to go turn off my car lights. Then you and I should probably talk." Shrugging again, he pulled his hat low over his face. She took that as a masculine sign of agreement and left to turn off the car lights before her battery died. A dead car was the last thing she needed because she had a prickly sensation that it was time to hit the road. The only question left was whether she took companions with her or left them to their own confused journey. She wasn't sure she could do that to little Rose. Chapter Three Dillinger watched the redhead walk out the door to go fix her automobile—or so she said. Dillinger wasn't sure what the petite fireball was up to—maybe she thought she could make him think he was insane with that weird conversation about him floating—but a woman like that begged for caution. Her quick and soft conversation with the man who'd come to the door worried him, and he hadn't missed the gleam in her eyes when she looked at Rose. If there was ever a lady looking for a baby, Auburn was it. It showed in her concern, and her careful handling, and her distrust of him. He wouldn't trust him either, baby or not—but he could feel her longing for the baby like a man longed for peace and quiet. And she was on the run, another reason he didn't trust her. Everybody had something to hide—he did, too—but a woman who was used to running might just decide to run with his precious bundle. Over time he'd looked into the eyes of thieves. They carried a hungry, focused, almost desperate aura, all the while trying to fool you with their calm. He was in a strange place, with things he didn't recognize all around. All he knew was that he had to protect the one thing he had that had brought him here, if he ever hoped to get back home again, home to his ranch and to the memories of Polly. Carefully he snuggled Rose into his arms, wrapped up her things in a sack he found in Auburn's kitchen and slipped out the door. "Hey!" He heard Auburn's sweet-toned voice, tinged with some anxiety. She was in the stairwell, not gone long enough to get to her car. "What are you doing?" she demanded. "Leaving," he said, deciding one of them had to be honest. "We're in your way." "Not more than anything else," Auburn said. "Please don't go." That shocked him. He'd expected a protest from her but not a gentle request. "We need to." "You don't even know where you're going, do you?" He didn't. Why admit it? "Rose and I will do fine." "I don't understand," she said, and he hardened his heart. "You don't really need to. We only just met you. You're not our problem. I mean, we're not your problem." She cocked her head. "You're not a problem, really. Something's wrong." The confusion in her pretty eyes was very alluring. When she wasn't dolled up, and when she showed her soft side like this, she was quite fetching. Maybe not with Polly's innocent beauty, but enticing nonetheless. Dillinger didn't let himself recognize the sudden stab of unwelcome attraction he felt for the woman. "It's better this way." He wanted to walk past her on the stairwell, get away before Rose awakened and needed another bottle, but part of him seemed stuck to the carpeted stairs. "Hey," Auburn said, her voice soft, "I really need you." His brows raised of their own accord. "Why?" She seemed to choose her words carefully. "Protection." She'd already had one man visit her abode, the so-called security guard. She'd run with him from a boss named Harry. The kind of protection she needed didn't seem to require further description. "I—no. I'm not for hire." She stepped closer on the stairwell. He could smell her fresh-washed scent, look into her pleading gaze. Automatically, he shut off the part of him that wanted to ask what protection she could possibly need. "I need help," she said, "and a hired gun is just what I need." He narrowed his eyes. "You didn't believe me earlier when I told you who I was." She shook her head. "I don't know what to believe about you." "The sentiment is returned." "I think for Rose's sake we should travel together." He shook his head. "Lady, I know you want my baby, but you'll never get her from me." "I don't want to steal Rose." You want something. I can feel it." She slowly nodded. "Yes. I do. I want you to travel with me to the next place, and be my cover." "I don't even know how I got here. I don't want to travel again, whatever that means." Maybe she'd done it. Maybe it was her—the woman—who had pulled him forward through time, and not the baby. He desperately hoped it wasn't the woman who had somehow worked a magic spell to draw him to her. He could be stuck with her. "We'll just head west," she said soothingly, and west was a topic he knew well. Everyone always wanted to go west, for gold, for open land, for a new start. "What are you running from?" "An ex-fiancé. A wealthy ex-fiancé, whom I discovered has a shady past. I'm a little afraid that he'll find me." She took a breath. "And I'm not ready for that." He held Rose's carrier tightly in one hand, her sack of belongings in the other. Had Auburn brought him here because she wanted protection from a man? Needed a husband? All he knew was that he didn't trust this woman and her big eyes at all. "Because?" "He'll be embarrassed that I stood him up. And it's worse because my family owes their livelihood to him. I've always enjoyed a privileged lifestyle, but I thought my family earned their wealth on their own. The week before the wedding, I learned that my family had done deals over time with my fiancé. I began to feel uncomfortably like the fatted calf. Which sounds horrible because my family loves me. But I wanted to make it on my own in the world, not belong to someone. Does that sound crazy?" He didn't know. Women made agreements to marry for a dozen reasons, most complicated, some ridiculous but which made sense to the female mind. It was a complex issue. Polly had married him, she always said, because she couldn't love a man who couldn't manage her high spirit and her energy. But he hadn't managed Polly; she'd managed him. He'd enjoyed the light of her spirit, letting it flow over him. She could have married a lot better than a gunslinger, even though he'd changed everything about himself to win Polly. Her family had never forgotten about that, though they loved her dearly. Shame had been written all over their faces anytime they saw him. He was the man they couldn't believe had won their daughter's heart. He couldn't believe he had, either. But right now, this woman was standing in his way. She claimed to need him, and truthfully, he could use her, too, but only if she wasn't planning to make off with his baby. She struck him as the type who didn't make easy attachments, though he wasn't sure why he felt that way. It was just a feeling he had, and he always went with his feelings. "Listen, I like traveling alone." She perked up. "So do I! It's really more economical, isn't it? You don't have to share anything, you can go where you want to..." Her face fell. "On the other hand, it can be lonely." "I'm never lonely," he fibbed. He'd been lonely on the ranch after Polly died, desperately so. "Well, you're brave." She shrugged. "You and Rose can take the backseat, if you must feel alone. I'll be in the front, and we can ignore each other." He didn't think he could totally ignore her, any more than he could ignore a wasp stinging his buttocks. "How far west are you going?" "I was thinking New Mexico," she said, her tone breezy. "But you can choose, if you like." "I don't really care," he said on a growl, stopping himself from saying, but if you try to take my baby, I'll find you. "One condition," he said. "What?" He took a long, hard look at her, trying to see inside her soul. He had pretty good success with reading people; if you didn't have that sixth sense, you could wind up dead. "No more mothering this baby." She drew herself up, clearly hurt. "Fine, cowboy. You can take care of that child all by your little old self." "Good." "Fine." She swept past him on the stairwell. "Let me grab my things. I don't have much, and I'm paid up through the month here." Now was his moment to take off, get away from her and her spell. But she piqued his curiosity in the worst way. What if she was the instrument to his existence in this century? He had to find the key to getting himself sent back. "How do you pay by the month at a place like this?" "By understanding the travel industry. Anyway, you let me handle the arrangements, cowboy. You mind the angel." Fine. He didn't really want to know anymore about her than he had to, anyway. Just her traveling secret, and she'd just given herself away. Auburn understood the travel industry, both in this dimension and some others. He felt pretty smart at figuring her out so easily. * * * Men could be idiots. Auburn tried not to swear under her breath as she tossed her Louis Vuitton luggage into the trunk of her car, annoyed that Dillinger had tried to leave her high and dry. Steal his baby, hah! Anyway, she wasn't completely certain that was Dillinger's child but he'd turned bear-like, protective of his cub. She wouldn't touch his silly old baby, if he was going to be such an ass about it. "Get in the back," she told him crossly, "and strap that carrier in correctly, please." She sounded bossy and she knew it, but he complied, fumbling a bit with the straps before tightening the baby backwards in the seat. Auburn smiled a little at the baby, stiffening when she caught Dillinger looking at her. "You're getting better at that," she said airily, and he said, "like you're an expert at it, either." Turning on the car, she said, "I was trying to give you a compliment. Obviously, you're the kind of man whose ego won't let you accept one gracefully." "Probably." The rearview mirror showed him gazing with interest at the buildings downtown as they passed, not paying a whole lot of attention to her as she drove from the city. Auburn picked the highway marked West and pressed the pedal as far down as the speed limit would allow. * * * This was like a magic carpet ride, or a train that could go full-speed across the country. Dillinger was fascinated by the way Auburn flew past the cars and signs on the highway. It was amazing! There were things overhead she called airplanes—he didn't let on that he had barely heard of flying machines—and so much to see that his head was whirling. She was the reason he was here, he was positive. He had to convince her to send him and Rose back. They were not suited for living like this. First, he had to return Rose to her rightful mother, even if it meant helping the mother financially. He felt certain no one would abandon a baby on his porch unless they were destitute. The only thing he couldn't understand was why the mother had chosen his porch. He was miles from town. He had a bad reputation. He didn't darken the door of a church. And this was no frontier baby. Her clothes were store-made. Her socks were knit of finest lace and cotton, not rough country socks for warmth and work like his. Rose should be with a fine family of wealth, not him, if he could never find her birth mother. He knew it was imperative that he get the baby home as fast as possible. What if he could talk Auburn into taking him and Rose back home to the ranch, and going with them? She said she needed to hide away. She'd be safe at his ranch. No one would ever find her there. But did he want the opinionated woman in his home, where Polly had brought him such warmth and contentment? For Rose's sake, he could do it. He opened his mouth to broach the question, when suddenly he felt himself jerked against the seatbelt. * * * Pierre tossed the earring across the room. He's fallen asleep in a chair in Dillinger's den, awakening annoyed that the man hadn't yet returned. The snow outside was piling up, making a mess of the dirt-track road. If he wasn't careful, he'd get snowed in and trapped here for God only knew how long. Anger built inside him. He felt outsmarted by the gunslinger, and he hated it. Maybe he planned to be gone for weeks, months. Pierre felt bad for throwing his sister's earring. He picked the delicate bauble up, giving it one last shake just to hear her again. His heart heavy, he vowed to return next week, when Dillinger might be home and the snow and ice not in danger of encasing the house in a chilly tomb. Why the man chose to live out here when he could have lived in town puzzled him, but he'd had Polly all to himself this way. A beautiful flower like his sister hadn't deserved to wilt out here in the uncivilized wilderness of forested land and lack of gentility. He put the earring back on the writing desk, staring at it for a long time, tempted to take the trinket with him. Maybe the charcoal drawing of his sister would ease the ache in his heart more. But no, it didn't truly capture the fire Polly had possessed. He left everything just as it had been, so the gunslinger would never suspect someone had been waiting here, planning to kill him.