Hillary Kanter - Dead Men Are Easy To Love (20 page)

“We don’t have to fall in love.” My voice was low and husky. “And I don’t care if you’re going to be gone in ten minutes or in two weeks. I just want to be with you.”

He blinked again, saying nothing.

Seeing him sitting there, bare-chested in front of me, was more than I could stand. I got up and kneeled by the bed, throwing my arms around his waist.

He looked down, shaking his head. “I can’t believe you’re doin’ this, girl,” he whispered, his voice turning hoarse as he lost his resolve. “But since you are …” He reached around and yanked the comb from my hair, allowing it to cascade down my back. He ran his fingers through it. “Such beautiful auburn hair, like a river of spun silk.”

I undid my corset and stepped out of my petticoat.

His eyes never left me. “Good God, you’re gorgeous,” he said.

Let the devil be damned. There was no past, no present. Only this moment. Emboldened, I pushed him down and threw myself on top of him, covering his chest with kisses.

“Whoa, girl. Easy now. Slow it down.”

“But don’t you—”

“Oh, I want you, Ariel. Yes. But we don’t have to be in any hurry now, do we? I want to enjoy every inch of your body. We’ve got all night
.”

All night? I sure hoped so. Dear God, I hoped I didn’t get thrust back into the future right now.

Mr. James Ryan flipped me over so that he was the one on top, and he kissed me deeply. I could barely breathe—and it had nothing to do with the weight of him, the warm, glorious nearness of his body against mine. I can’t say how long it lasted, but when I woke to faint daylight peeking through the sheer curtains, we were still tangled in each other’s arms. He was out cold, and I dressed quietly then crept downstairs to my room. I lay down on the bed and, with exhaustion setting in, tried to gather my thoughts.

I was beginning to nod off, when I became aware of something digging into my back. As I reached under the thin mattress, my hand met a cold, hard object, and I gasped in realization.

A pistol!

And I don’t suppose James carried a permit.

Puzzled, I ran my fingers over the cool steel, wondering why in the world he would have a gun. This wasn’t the Wild West, after all. We were here in the city.

I placed it back under the mattress, and fell into a coma.

***

I was startled awake by James’s presence at the edge of the mattress.

“Rise and shine, morning glory,” he said, lightly touching my face.

“Good God, what time is it, James?” I rubbed my eyes. The clock on the nightstand read 7:00 a.m., and I leaped out of bed. Snow blanketed the ground outside, starting to melt in the sunshine.

“You ask what time it is, pretty lady? Don’t you
know?
It’s time for another taste of last night’s sweet dream, that’s what time it is.” Even as he said the words, he pinned me against the wall and bolted the door with his free hand.

“No,” I said. “What about Harry and Etta? They’re right next door. They could be awake. It’s not a good time for this.” Where, I wondered, had this voice of reason been last night? Obviously drowning under a sea of champagne and brandy.

With an exasperated sigh, he sank back down on the bed. “Well then, I’ll just have to settle for breakfast.”

 “All right, breakfast it is. I’ll meet you in the parlor after I get dressed,” I said, pushing him toward the door. “Now, out. Scram.”

Half an hour later, I arrived downstairs just as Harry and Etta appeared. Harry glanced from James to me, his face twisted by a mischievous grin.

“Did everybody sleep well last night?” he asked.

“Oh, that attic room was great,” said James. “I slept just like a baby—spit up and even peed my pants.”

I averted my eyes, laughing to myself.

When Mrs. Taylor served coffee and eggs a few minutes later, my hung-over state was eased. If the others were feeling the effects of last night, they hid it well, and we ate in temporary silence.

“Harry,” Etta piped up finally, “I’m just dying to go to that jewelry store I keep hearing about. It’s called Tiffany, and it’s so close by. Do you mind if we take a look?”

Tiffany? I couldn’t believe it. It was my favorite store, but I could ill-afford to buy much of anything there in my own time-period.

“I’d like to see it too,” I chimed in.

Harry laughed. “Well, Etta, it seems you’ve shopped every other major store in the city the last few days, so why not this one?”

“Let’s go then,” James said. “And later we can go to Central Park and do some ice-skating. After that great night of sleep you had last night, Ariel, you should be bustin’ with energy.”

I elbowed him in the ribs, throwing him a dirty look.

“Why, girl … is your face turning red?”

I elbowed him again.

The trip to Tiffany was short. Entering the store was like walking into a glittery, dreamlike, wonderland. The 1901 version was a bit smaller, but otherwise much the same. Crystal chandeliers hung above scores of glass-filled cases stuffed with jewels. As Etta moved from case to case, her eyes widened and she
ooh
-ed and
ahh
-ed. She stopped in front of one, studying a gold lapel watch, then motioned to the young male clerk behind the counter.

“May I see this one?”

“Why certainly, madam,” he answered. He removed it from the case and presented it to her, then watched her turn it over in her palm. “It’s a beauty, isn’t it? It’s eighteen-karat gold, and one of our finest timepieces. It’s priced well too, at $40.80.”

James glanced over his shoulder, watching her admire it. “We’ll take it,” he said, pulling out a money roll and peeling off several bills.

My, the cowboy business must’ve been more lucrative than I guessed.

“James, I can’t let you buy that. It’s much too expensive,” Etta protested.

“I won’t take no for an answer. What good’s money if you don’t spend it? Sir,” he said to the salesclerk, “would you please wrap that up?”

“Of course. Right away”

“And when you’re finished, would you please help me find something for my nice friend here?” he said, touching my arm.

“James, I couldn’t possibly,” I said.

“Yes, you could, possibly.” He took hold of my hand. “How ’bout a ring? You already have a necklace.”

“I couldn’t,” I said again.

“Why, that
is
a beautiful necklace,” the salesclerk said.

“It’s a quartz crystal,” I said, before he could ask.

The clerk handed Etta her package, then reached under the counter and pulled out a black-velvet tray with enough sparkling gemstone rings to blind a body. “These are some of our newest additions,” he said.

My eyes roamed past diamonds, rubies, and sapphires, and lit upon a small ring with a beautiful yellow stone in the center. I touched it.

“Ah, I see you’ve found our most exotic one in this group,” the salesclerk said with a gleam in his eye.

“What is it?” James asked.

“It’s a rare gem called a Canary diamond. They are naturally yellow. This specimen is one-quarter carat, set in platinum. Here,” he said. “Try it on.” He slipped it onto my finger.

“It fits perfectly,” I gasped.

“How much?” James wanted to know.

“The price is only $150.”

Where I came from, that was a steal, but I knew it was a fortune in the year 1901. “James, it’s way too much,” I said.

“I really want you to have it.” He turned to the young clerk, peeling off several more large bills. “We’ll take it. And could you engrave it? I’d like it to say ‘Love, James.’”

“Of course, sir. I’ll do that right now.”

Love?

Considering James and I had known each other for only twenty-four hours, this was faster than a bullet. Thinking of bullets made me think of guns—an issue I’d unpleasantly need to address soon.

It was only eleven-thirty when we departed Tiffany. Although I had agreed to go ice-skating at Central Park, my lack of sleep was catching up with me, making me more tired by the minute. Despite this, the trip was worth it. The air was crisp, the park’s landscape soaked with sunlight. We skated hand in hand, with James falling half a dozen times while Harry and Etta and I laughed. He could ride a horse, but he sure as hell could not ice-skate.

Tired but content, we finally called it quits.

As we strolled along a walkway beneath overhanging, snow-laden branches, I decided it was time to confront James. Taking a deep breath, I turned. “Can I ask you something?”

James stopped. “Sure. Shoot.”

Great choice of words.

“Okay.” I cleared my throat. “Well, last night I couldn’t sleep because there was something hard under the mattress.”

“You mean on
top
of the mattress,” he laughed. “Yeah, I’d say it was pretty hard.”

“Now quit. I’m being serious.” I blushed. “When I felt for it, it was a pistol.”

“A
pistol?
That’s a right good description of it,” he kidded again.

“Seriously, it scared me. James, why do you have a gun?”

“Oh, that,” he said, shrugging. “It belongs to a pal of mine in Texas. He asked me to hang onto it for a while and then see if I could sell it for him. Under the mattress was the best place I could think to hide it until I do. I’m sorry if it scared you.”

His explanation made sense. After all, he was from the Wild West.

“I wasn’t snooping, you know. It’s just, there it was.”

“No problem, Ariel.”

Before parting ways for the day, he asked if I wanted to spend the night with him again. I wanted to, but things were now moving a bit too fast for me. I told him I was going to stay with my sister who lived in the neighborhood, but promised we could meet up again in Central Park the next afternoon. How could I tell him had my own residence in the city, when I lived in a New York of a different century? My apartment building did not yet even exist.

“Here’s a little somethin’ for ya,” James said, handing me a note as I was turning to go.

“What is it?”

“It’s a private matter, Ariel. I want you to wait and read it later.”

Though intrigued, I agreed. I did have other matters to think of, such as how much longer this escapade into the past would last, and which hotel I should check into for the night. I decided to look for a place near Central Park, a decent hotel or a modest inn.

As I walked, I had the sense I was being followed. I lengthened my strides, moving faster, trying not to look behind me. A rotund gentleman with a bald head caught up with me, huffing and puffing. It was apparent he’d never seen the inside of an athletic club—not that there were any around in the early 1900s.

“Ma’am … ma’am,” he said, out of breath. “I’m awfully sorry to bother you, ma’am, but if … if you have a minute, I’d like to ask you a few questions. I’m Detective Frank Dimaio,” he added, flashing a Pinkerton Agency badge.

“I’m Ariel Richards. What can I do for you?” I said.

The detective pulled a photograph from his pocket and showed me a picture of five men seated together, dressed in suits and top hats. “Do you recognize this man?” he asked, pointing to one in particular.

“Well, yes, I do,” I said. “That’s James Ryan. I met him yesterday.”

Detective Dimaio nodded. “I thought that was him with you a few minutes ago. He disappeared pretty quickly, before I could get to him.”

“He’s not in some kind of trouble, is he?”

“Yes, ma’am, you could say he is. To begin with, his real name isn’t James Ryan.”

Something felt all wrong here. “It isn’t?” I said.

“Have you ever heard of Butch Cassidy, the outlaw?”

“Yes, I suppose I have.” The truth began to cast an ugly shadow.

“Well, he’s a hardened criminal, ma’am. I’m the agent assigned to this case, and I’ve been tracking him for a long time now.”

“That guy is
the
Butch Cassidy? Just my luck.” I twisted the Canary diamond ring on my finger, wondering why I hadn’t put two and two together. Oh, great. Another liar. First Hemingway, then Lindbergh, and now
this.
I sure didn’t need to go back in time a hundred years to be deceived by another man. There were plenty of those where I came from.

“I’m afraid he is,” Detective Dimaio said. “He’s wanted for countless bank and train robberies in Utah and Colorado. That picture was taken with a group of robbers he assembled. They’re known as the Wild Bunch, or sometimes they call themselves the Hole-in-the-Wall Gang.” Removing yet another photograph from his pocket, he said, “Can you identify these two people?”

I swallowed hard, feeling dizzy. “Well, that’s Harry and Etta. I mean, that’s Mr. and Mrs. Harry Place. But what do they have to do with any of this?”

“First of all, those aren’t their real names either, ma’am. He’s Harry Longabaugh, otherwise known as the Sundance Kid …”

This detective had to be shitting me.

“He’s on the ‘wanted’ list too,” Dimaio continued. “For armed robbery, maybe more. Now our boy Butch, we can’t say he’s for sure killed anyone, but we have every reason to believe that’s not the case with Harry. And that lady traveling with him, his girlfriend, she’s wanted too. Her name’s Etta Place.”

At least
someone
had given me a real name.

“And she says she’s a schoolteacher. Or,” I ventured, “was that part a lie too?”

“Actually, I’m afraid so, ma’am. She’s a prostitute from way down in Texas. That is, before she met Sundance. Actually Butch, he was her boyfriend first. He took her away from Fannie Porter’s bordello, down in Fort Worth. That’s what they say. She’s been identified as being with them when they robbed banks.”

So Etta was also James’s girlfriend? It all sounded incredibly sleazy.

“They’re all fleeing the law, ma’am. You say you met them when? Yesterday?”

“Yes. I first met James … I mean Butch, at a Broadway show. Then we all had dinner last night, and because of the blizzard I was stranded and forced to spend the night with them at Mrs. Taylor’s Boardinghouse—in my own room, of course.”

“So
that’s
where they were staying. I checked a bunch of places, but not there. Did these boys tell you anything about where they might be going? I heard from a reliable source they could be taking off at any minute.”