Journey to Yesterday (7 page)

He reached out and tapped the bottle. “It doesn’t feel like
any bottle I’ve ever seen.”

“It’s made out of plastic.” She put it aside and picked up
the small gray container. “This is an extra roll of film.” She put it down,
pointing at other items as she identified them. “This is sunscreen. This is a
cell phone, like a telephone, only portable.” She stared at it a minute,
wondering if anyone would answer if she dialed the operator. She swallowed the
bubble of hysterical laughter that rose in her throat as she imagined dialing
9-1-1 and asking for directions back to the twentieth century. “Anything else
you want to know?”

He stared at the small purple contraption in her hand. He
knew what a telephone was. He had seen one back east, but it hadn’t looked
anything like what she was holding. The one he had seen had been big and made
of wood and hung on the wall. With a shake of his head, he picked up her wallet
and removed her driver’s license and her credit cards.

“What are these?”

She plucked her driver’s license out of his hand. “This says
I can drive a car.” She took her credit cards from him, one by one. “These say
that my credit is good.”

He shook his head, clearly not understanding.

“A car is an automobile. A…a horseless carriage. Well,
anyway, it’s something you drive, and you need a license to do it. And credit
cards can be used instead of cash to buy clothes and food and anything else you
can think of.”

She blew out a sigh of exasperation. From his expression,
she knew he was more convinced than ever that she was crazy.

He gestured at the credit cards. “What kind of paper is
that?”

“It’s plastic.”

“Plastic?” He glanced at the bottle of Evian. She could
almost see his mind working, trying to figure out how two such diverse things
could be made of the same material.

“Think of it as hard paper.” She withdrew the last item from
her pack. “And this is my camera.”

Alejandro laughed at that. He knew what cameras looked like.
They were large bulky black boxes made of wood that sometimes took two men to
carry and operate, not little things like the one in her hand.

She lifted the camera in front of her face and said,
“Smile.”

He jumped as a burst of light exploded in his face. “What
the hell?”

“It’s just the flash.”

He frowned. There had been no little poof of smoke. He
glowered at her when she laughed.

Shaye put the camera on the bed, wondering if a
twentieth-century camera could capture the image of a nineteenth-century
chauvinist.

“Why are you dressed like that?” he asked. “Is that how
women dress in Los Angeles?”

“Yes, and it’s not considered immodest by any means.”

He ran a hand across his jaw. “Well, it’s down right
scandalous here in Bodie. No lady would dream of showing off her arms and legs
in such a brazen manner.”

“Maybe I’m not a lady,” Shaye retorted.

Arching a brow, he glanced at the bed. It wasn’t difficult
to guess what he was thinking. There were only two kinds of women in Bodie. If
she wasn’t a lady, then she must be a whore. For a fleeting moment, she
wondered if she would have to fight him off, although she knew instinctively
that he would never force a woman. With that face, that lazy velvet voice, he
wouldn’t have to.

He shoved his hands in his pants pockets and rocked back on
his heels. “Tell me who you are.”

“You know who I am. Shaye Montgomery.”

He studied her face intently, his probing gaze making her
uncomfortable. Why on earth was he looking at her like that?

“Have we met?” he asked. “You look familiar.”

She felt her heart skip a beat. “Do I?” Was it possible he
really had seen her that night at the jail?

He nodded slowly. “I’d bet my last dollar that I’ve seen you
before.”

Shaye shook her head. “That’s impossible. I’ve never been
here before. Never.”

At least not in this century, she added silently.

“Yeah, well, I never forget a face.” His gaze moved over her
again, a long, slow look that made her blood flow hot in her veins even as it
made her heart beat faster. He had beautiful eyes, deep dark brown eyes that
seemed to penetrate her very soul.

He lifted one hand and cupped her cheek, his thumb making
lazy circles on her skin. “Especially a face as beautiful as this.”

It felt as if all the air had been suddenly sucked out of
the room. She felt a rush of heat climb her neck and suffuse her cheeks and she
looked away, overcome by the fluttery feeling in her stomach. She had never
been one to melt at the sight of a handsome man, never turned to mush over a
few meaningless compliments.

She had been flattered before, by sweet-talking playboys and
an occasional celebrity, but none of them had ever had such an effect on her.
She had always laughed such praises off, knowing they were just empty words.
She wasn’t beautiful, and she knew it. But when Alejandro Valverde said it, she
almost believed it was true.

For one brief, crazy moment she thought he was going to kiss
her. And what was even crazier, she wanted him to. She looked up at him,
waiting, wondering…and then, with a shake of her head, she turned away. What
was she thinking? Instead of mooning over some nineteenth-century gambling man,
she should be trying to figure out how to get back to the twentieth century,
where she belonged.

Alejandro grunted softly and then, without a word, he left
the room, quietly closing the door behind him.

Alejandro stood in the corridor a moment; then, with a shake
of his head, he left the hotel. Strange woman, he mused as he crossed the
street and headed for the Queen of Bodie. Mighty strange, with her water in a…
He frowned, what was the word? Plastic. A plastic bottle. Plastic paper.
Carriages without horses. He swore under his breath, wondering if she had
escaped from a lunatic asylum somewhere. But even if that were true, it didn’t
explain the peculiar things in her peculiar bag.

He grinned, wondering if everything was made of plastic
where she came from, and then shook his head. He had been to Los Angeles last
year, and he hadn’t seen any horseless carriages, or plastic bottles of water.
Los Angeles. Was that where he had seen her? Dammit, why couldn’t he remember?

He shook his head again. He had done a lot of traveling in
the last ten years. He could have met her in any one of a dozen boom towns, and
yet he couldn’t shake the feeling that he had seen her here, in Bodie. But
when? And where?

He shouldered his way through the crowd in the saloon,
heading for his usual table in the back of the room. He had done James Rojas a
favor a few months back. In return, Rojas let Alejandro have a table of his own
for no charge. Five nights a week, Alejandro played poker with his own money.
What he lost, he lost; what he won, he kept. On the other two nights, he dealt
for the house. On those nights, Rojas covered Alejandro’s losses, which were
few, and took a hundred percent of his winnings. It was a deal that profited both
of them.

Alejandro smiled at the doves as he moved through the room:
Rosa, with her dark, knowing eyes; Frenchy with her dyed red hair and fake
accent; Sally with her porcelain skin and pouty pink lips; Lucy, with her
perfect figure; Alice, who had the face of an angel and the vocabulary of a
mule skinner.

He took his seat at the table, his back to the wall. Opening
a fresh deck of cards, he spread them, fan-like on the table, indicating he was
ready for business. In minutes, four men joined him and the night’s work had
begun.

He looked up as Nellie came to stand beside him. She was a
new girl, probably the youngest dove in the place. She was a pretty thing, with
curly yellow hair and dark blue eyes. She smiled at him and he smiled back.
Nellie thought she was in love with him, but he was used to that. He’d always
had a way with the doves, probably because he treated them like ladies instead
of whores, and because he never bedded any of the women where he worked.

“How about getting me a drink?” he asked, squeezing Nellie’s
hand.

“Whiskey?” She smiled at him again, her eyes glowing as she
ran her hand over his shoulder.

“Thanks, darlin’.” He winked at her, then turned his
attention back to the game. “Cards, gents?”

As the night wore on, he found his mind drifting all too
frequently in Shaye Montgomery’s direction. Strange woman, that one, with her
odd clothing and belongings. Pretty though, with her deep green eyes and
delicate features. And those long, long legs…

He shook her image from his mind when he lost the third hand
in a row. He couldn’t concentrate on the cards and think about her at the same
time.

* * * * *

Tired, but not sleepy, Shaye wandered around the small room.
There was a comb and bristle brush on top of the dresser, a couple of poker
chips, a deck of cards. Crossing the floor, she ran her fingers over one of his
coats, impulsively slipped it on. And had the strange feeling that his arms
were around her. Shaking her head at such foolishness, she took it off and hung
it back up. Maybe Alejandro was right. Maybe she was addle-brained.

Sitting on the edge of the bed, she took off her shoes and
socks, wiggled her toes. This couldn’t be happening, she thought, it had to be
a dream. It had to be. She glanced at the newspaper on the bedside table. Feeling
as though she were moving slow motion, she picked it up. Opened it. Searched
for the date. Tuesday, June 17, 1880.

She stared at the date, ran her hand over the paper, stared
at the faint black smudge on her thumb. It wasn’t a copy, but the genuine article.

So, it was true. Somehow, she had been transported into the
past. But why?

She had never been susceptible to suggestion, had never
possessed any psychic abilities. She didn’t know when the phone was going to
ring, or who would be on the line when she answered. She didn’t have hunches or
“feelings”. She had always been grounded in reality, so why had she been thrust
back in time? It should be Clark McDonald sitting here, she thought. He was the
one who had done research on Alejandro. Heck, he was even related to the man.
So, why had the Fates chosen her?

She glanced around the room again. His room. Picking up her
camera, she crossed the floor and opened the window. Pushing the curtains
aside, she took a couple of pictures of the activity in the street below, then
turned and took a picture of the room.

Placing the camera on the dresser, she removed the rubber
band from her braid, ran her fingers through her hair. She took off her tee
shirt and shorts and slipped into her nightshirt, wishing she had brought
something more substantial to sleep in, but then, she had never expected to
find herself spending her nights in the homes of strangers. Folding her
clothes, she put them on the bedside table.

Feeling chilly, she went to the dresser and opened the drawers,
one by one, until she found an old flannel shirt that looked soft and comfy.
She slipped it on and then crawled under the covers, turned onto her stomach,
and closed her eyes. His scent clung to the blankets, the pillow, his shirt.
Surrounding her. Alejandro Valverde. She fell asleep with his image in her
mind.

* * * * *

It was well after midnight when Alejandro returned to the
hotel. He’d had every intention of spending the night at the Queen, but Fate
and Rojas had conspired against him.

The woman was asleep in his bed. She had left the lamp
burning, and the light fell across her cheek and cast gold highlights in her
hair, tempting his touch. He moved quietly across the room and stood looking
down at her, again overcome by the certainty that he had seen her before.

With a shake of his head, he sat down on the chair and
removed his boots. It would come to him, sooner or later. He never forgot a
face, especially one like that.

He unbuckled his gunbelt and placed it on top of the
dresser, shrugged off his coat, removed his shirt. It had been a long, but
profitable night, once he’d got his mind off the woman and back on the cards
where it belonged.

He started to shuck his trousers, then thought better of it.
Putting out the light, he slid into bed, acutely aware of the woman sleeping
beside him. Muttering an oath, he put his back to her and closed his eyes.

Sleep was a long time coming.

Shaye woke slowly, reluctant to leave the dream behind.
Reluctant to leave the man behind. It had been so real, the feel of his arms
around her, the warmth of his breath on her skin, so real, she could feel it,
even now…

With a start, her eyes flew open. “You! What are you doing
in my bed?”

His gaze moved over her, heating her skin wherever it
touched. Oh, Lord, what if her dream had been reality? What if it had been his
breath on her skin, his lips on hers?

His smile was slow and devastating. “It is
you
who
are in
my
bed,
querida.
”

She started to deny it, and then felt a flush heat her
cheeks as she remembered where she was. “But…but I…you said you had a room at
the saloon. I thought…”

“Rojas hired a new dove last night. I had to move out.”

“A new dove?”

“A new saloon girl.”

“Oh.” He was too close. And too handsome. She stared at his
shoulders, visible above the blanket, and wondered if he was naked from the
waist down, too.

“You have beautiful eyes,” he murmured.

“Thank you.”

“Soft skin.”

Mesmerized, she watched his hand move toward her, felt her
heart skip a beat as his fingertips stroked her cheek. She should tell him to
stop, she thought, but couldn’t seem to find the words. His hand was big and
brown, yet his touch was gentle.

“So soft,” he repeated, and before she knew quite how it
happened, she was in his arms and he was kissing her.

Her eyelids fluttered down as heat flowed from his lips to
hers, spreading through her like liquid sunshine, warming every place it
touched. She put her hands on his chest, intending to push him away. Instead,
her fingers drifted slowly over his skin, sliding up over his shoulders and
down his arms, settling on his biceps. She had always had a weakness for
well-muscled arms, and his were firm and solid.

She was breathless when he took his mouth from hers.
Breathless and aching for more and terribly afraid that what little resistance
she possessed would vanish if he kissed her again. She was grateful for the two
layers of clothing that kept her modesty intact.

He cupped the back of her head in his hand, his eyes dark
with desire.

“What do you think you’re doing?” she gasped.

“This,” he replied softly, and kissed her again.

His second kiss was as soul-shattering as the first. She
might have melted into his arms, might have done any number of foolish things
if the sound of gunshots hadn’t jolted her back to reality. With a gasp, she
pushed Alejandro away and scrambled out of bed.

She stared down at him, the reality of where she was washing
over her and with it the knowledge that, in another few minutes, she would have
let him make love to her.

She turned away from him, stunned by what had almost happened.
She hadn’t let a man get close to her since her divorce. Walking to the window,
she stared down into the street. A look at her watch showed it was barely
seven-thirty, yet the streets were already crowded. Wagons churned the dust.
She saw a woman clad in a red silk wrapper leaning over the balcony of the
saloon across the street.

She wondered where the shots she’d heard earlier had come
from, and even as the thought crossed her mind, she saw three men carrying a
body out of the saloon.

“Another man for breakfast,” Alejandro drawled.

Shaye glanced over her shoulder. “What?”

He grinned. “Bodie has a man for breakfast just about every
day.”

“I hardly think it’s anything to laugh about.”

“Sometimes it’s more than one.”

Shaye blew out a breath. In a town where ten thousand men
had access to guns and booze and women twenty-four hours a day, she supposed it
wasn’t surprising that there would be arguments that ended in gun play.

“Why don’t you come back to bed?” Alejandro suggested.

It was tempting. He was tempting. Far too tempting, with his
broad shoulders and muscular arms and roguish grin. Her gaze moved over him. He
was lying on his side, his elbow bent, his head resting on his hand. Long black
hair framed the most handsome face she had ever seen, his deep brown eyes held
the promise of ecstasy.

She shook her head. “No. I need to…” To what? Find her way
back to her own time? Find a place to stay until she did? She needed to find a
job, since her credit cards wouldn’t do her any good. And clothes, she thought.
She definitely needed a change of clothes so she wouldn’t stand out from
everyone else.

Alejandro sat up, stretching, and she looked away. The man
had far too much appeal for his own good or her peace of mind.

She didn’t hear him move, but suddenly he was standing
behind her. She went rigid as his arms slid around her waist. “We’ve met
before, haven’t we?” he asked.

“No. No, we haven’t.”

“I’ve seen you somewhere before. I’d bet my last dollar on
it.”

What would he say if she told him the truth? Would he think
her insane? Addle-brained, he had called her before. Telling him she had come
here from the future would only convince him she was one brick short of a load.
He would never believe it. She didn’t want to believe it, either.

She moved out of his arms, ran a hand through her hair. “Mr.
Valverde…”

“We just spent the night together,” he said with a wry grin.
“I think you can call me Rio.”

“We did not spend the night together…I mean…never mind. I
need to…to…”

He lifted one brow. “To?”

“I need an…an outhouse.”

“There’s a chamber pot under the bed.”

“No thanks.”

He grinned at her. “Down the back stairs. Turn right.”

She muttered a quick thank you and left the room, only then
wondering what people in the past had used for toilet paper.

The visit to the outhouse made her long for home as nothing
else had. She had done a lot of traveling for the newspaper, but she had never
encountered such crude facilities. The smell alone had almost made her decide
to find a nice clean bush somewhere but, clad only in what she had slept in,
she had decided she’d better stay close to the hotel. And pages from an old
mail order catalog were a poor excuse for toilet paper.

When she returned to the room, Alejandro was standing in
front of the dresser, shaving. She felt a ripple of pleasure as she watched him
drag the razor over his jaw. There was something terribly intimate about
watching a man shave. Especially when that man wasn’t wearing a shirt.
Especially when he had a muscular chest sprinkled with curly black hair.

His gaze met hers in the mirror and he smiled. It was a
decidedly knowing smile. She had a sudden, overwhelming urge to stick her
tongue out at him.

“You hungry?” he asked.

Shaye nodded. She was starved, she thought. But not for
food.

“I’ll be finished here in a minute.”

She nodded again, mesmerized by the sight of the razor
moving over his skin. It was a wicked-looking blade. Josh used an electric
razor. She had never seen him shave, though. He hadn’t liked her to be in the
bathroom when he was there.