* * *
After walking a few miles on the dirt road through the pouring rain, Jessica wished miserably that she had worn her running shoes instead of her stupid “sexy-girl” shoes, but there wasn’t much she could do about it now. All she could do was try to ignore the excruciating sting of the blisters—which felt like hot coals burning the balls of her feet—and walk with an awkward limp.
A short while later, she sighed with relief when the setting sun finally peeked through the thick blanket of clouds. Raindrops glistened like tiny diamonds as they fell, weightless and softer now. Lifting her wrist to check the time, she realized she'd lost her watch. Damn. It was brand new.
Reaching a fork in the road, she stopped to look at a dilapidated wooden sign that read: DODGE CITY. The sign pointed left, so with little choice, she limped in that direction.
By the time she spotted a town up ahead—unfortunately it didn’t look like Dodge City-—the rain had stopped and darkness had folded over the terrain. Though she felt like a drowned rat, she was relieved to have found some signs of civilization.
She couldn’t wait to find a phone and call her parents. They were probably worried sick.
As she limped across an old plank bridge that led into the town, she heard the faint music of a brass band, and each time its cymbals crashed together, it was once too often for the pounding sensation in her head.
Then a horse-drawn wagon rumbled by.
She stopped abruptly and stared at it—what the heck?—then stepped off the bridge and walked up the wide main street. She glanced around for a phone booth, but found herself distracted by the buggies, the cowboy costumes on the men, and the music from inside a place that looked like an old saloon. A piano man played "Oh! Susanna," and a banjo plucked along with it.
That song again.
She stood shivering at the corner of two unpaved streets, looking left and right. Wide boarded sidewalks and hitching rails fronted the buildings; saddled horses and mules were lined up side by side.
Good God, there had to be at least six inches of slop underfoot and it smelled like horse poo.
What kind of place was this? Had she stumbled onto the set of one of those reality shows where they throw people into a historical time-period and watch how crazy they go?
When a couple of ragged looking cowboys staggered by, waving whisky bottles and revolvers in the air, Jessica decided to walk a little faster. She hadn't seen any women yet, only men, and she suspected this wasn’t the safest place to be standing around, taking in the sights, because it all looked pretty sketchy.
Stepping up onto the boardwalk, she paused outside a bar called the Long Branch Saloon, which made no sense because the Long Branch was part of the Dodge City Museum—a re-creation of historic Front Street, mostly visited by tourists. But this didn’t look anything like that. It seemed far more real. Almost too authentic.
She backed into a post to let a group of men in tattered cowboy costumes pass by, then glanced at the swinging doors. From where she stood, she could hear glasses clinking and dice rolling. There was a click and clatter of poker chips and billiard balls while a man hollered above the music, "Twenty-five-to-one!"
Her stomach churned again. She really needed to find a phone.
She decided to try the saloon, but shrank back when she glanced at the window. June bugs. She hated June bugs. When she was seven years old, her best friend's little brother had planted some in her bed during a camping trip and they’d given her the heebie-jeebies ever since.
Trying not to think about that anymore, Jessica shivered with disgust, pushed through the doors, and collided with a thick wall of cigar smoke. Her nose crinkled. Stifling a cough, she gazed uneasily over the crowd.
Most of the men wore hats and looked as if they'd just walked out of an old movie.
Focusing on what she had come in for, she approached the bar. "Excuse me. I've been in a car accident and I need to get to a phone. Do you have one that I could use?"
The bartender, who wore a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up, topped by a brown vest, stared at her while he polished a shot glass.
"Sir?" she asked again. "Can you at least tell me how I can get to Dodge City? The real Dodge City?"
"This is it, darlin’. You're exactly where you want to be."
Now this was getting ridiculous. "No, you don’t understand. I've been in an accident and I need a phone."
"Don't have no phone, but I’ve heard about ’em."
Jessica stared at the man for an agonizing second, then turned on her heels and walked to the window. A snake handler wandered by carrying a lantern. Following closely behind him was a squealing pig.
She rubbed her throbbing temples and squeezed her eyes shut. Maybe she did have a head injury and this was all a hallucination, or maybe she was unconscious and dreaming.
She returned to the bar. "Is there a telephone anywhere in this town?"
"Not that I know of." He turned around and placed the polished shot glass on a shelf.
Enough was enough. Jessica pushed a damp lock of her hair behind her ear and took a deep breath to calm herself.
"Are you fixin' to buy a drink, ma’am,” he asked, “or are you just gonna stand there and stare at me all night?"
Jessica glanced around the saloon at the rough and tough looking clientele, and held up a hand. “No thanks. I’ll find help elsewhere.” Struggling to keep it together, she walked out.
Squinting through the darkness, she searched for a friendly face or a shop with some lights on, but all she saw were those same two drunken cowboys flinging bottles, laughing uproariously and spitting tobacco.
Suddenly a shot rang out in the street. Panic exploded in her belly, and she ran back into the saloon. "Is there a police station nearby?” she said to the bartender. “I really need some help."
"You'd be looking for Sheriff Wade,” he casually replied. “He's just over that way in the city clerk’s office, not far from the depot and the water tank." He pointed a bottle of whisky toward the window.
"Is it far? I have to walk there by myself."
"Not far, but a young woman ain't safe roaming these streets alone during cattle season. These cowboys have been on the trail a while, and have a hankering for more than just the chuck wagon, if you understand my meaning." He leaned over the bar and glanced down at her skinny jeans and muddy red pumps. "They'll be takin' a shinin' to you, even dressed the way you are in those britches."
"I'll be fine." She turned and walked out the door.
She hopped off the boardwalk and down onto the street with a splash, groaning when she sank ankle-deep into the mud. No matter. She'd be at the sheriff's office soon enough, and this whole thing would be straightened out.
She stopped, however, when something tickled and buzzed behind her ear. She scratched and tousled her hair, then realized with a terrible surge of panic that a June bug was stuck in her hair!
Jessica shrieked. She tried to brush it away, but it was tangled in her long wet locks. She tossed her head around, flailed her arms in all directions, and jumped through the puddles to try and escape.
Boom! Another gunshot ripped through the night. Her heart exploded with fear, and she tripped backwards over a plank in the street. Down she went, splashing into a puddle on her backside. No sooner than her butt began to throb, she looked up to see a man falling out of a second story window!
He dropped onto the over-hanging roof and rolled straight toward her. Jessica scrambled to her feet and slipped through the slick muck, barely escaping the plummeting man's path. Just as she slid out of the way, he landed heavily in front of her, splashing muddy water onto her cheeks. A second later, a metal object dropped into a puddle beside her.
"Sir!" she hollered, dropping to her hands and knees to help him. "Are you all right?"
He was face down in the mud, and Jessica was just about to roll him over when the saloon doors swung open, smacking against the outside wall. Men and women poured out and gathered on the
boardwalk to stare at her in shocked silence.
"What in God's name happened?" someone asked.
“This man fell out of a window,” Jessica replied. “He needs help.”
The stranger ran toward her and together, they rolled the injured man onto his back. Jessica stared in horror at his face. A clean bullet hole gaped between his eyes, and blood trickled down his nose.
“Dear Lord,” the stranger said. He stood up and quickly backed away.
“Somebody call 911!” Jessica shouted. She pressed her ear to the man’s chest to listen for a heartbeat. When she heard nothing, she knew there was no hope, but she still wanted an ambulance. A cop car, too.
If there was such a thing in this backward place.
“Will somebody call an ambulance?” she shouted in frustration.
“Now...just be calm, miss,” the stranger said. “We don't want any trouble.”
“What are you talking about?” she replied. “I don't want to cause trouble. I’m trying to help him. Doesn’t anyone have a cell phone?”
That particular request was met with blank stares.
“I saw her wavin’ a gun around like some kind of lunatic!” someone offered.
“I wasn’t waving a gun,” she explained. “I was trying to kill a June bug."
There was a series of 'oohs' and 'ahs' from the crowd as everyone backed away in unison.
Realizing she was quickly becoming a primary suspect in this man’s murder, Jessica raised both hands in the air and stood. "Look, everyone needs to stay calm. It wasn't me. I was just trying to help him."
"Do you know who this is?" the stranger asked.
Jessica shook her head. “No.”
"That's Left Hand Lou!" someone called out from the crowd.
Before Jessica had a chance to comprehend what this meant, people rushed over to get a look at the corpse.
"He's wanted in three states!" someone hollered. "You just killed the fastest draw this side of the Mississippi!"
What did they think she had done? She hadn't shot him! And what did they mean—the fastest draw this side of the Mississippi? This wasn’t Gunsmoke, for pity’s sake.
"Wait a minute,” she said. “Seriously. There’s been a mistake.”
Just then, a deep voice cut through the commotion. "Can I ask what's going on in this little gathering of yours?"
Unable to discern from where the voice had come, she looked all around through the darkness.
"Ma’am? I asked you a question." The crowd parted, clearing a wide path for the inquiring man to approach. Jessica was finally able to get a glimpse at him, although the brim of his black hat shadowed his face from the dim lantern light spilling out of the saloon.
He moved slowly toward her, and she was taken aback by how handsome he was, with dark hair, blue eyes, and a fit, muscular build.
Closing the distance between them, he pushed his open black coat to the side. His purpose was clear as he rested his large hand on an ivory-handled revolver holstered to his leather gun belt.
His trousers—also black—were snug and worn at the knees, and his boots were spurred. Jessica hadn't actually looked at his feet, but as he walked, the sound of the spurs jingling alerted her senses to everything about him.
Someone moved aside, and a gentle stream of light reflected off the shiny star pinned to the man's lapel.
It read: Sheriff.
Thank God.
He angled his head and spoke in low voice – sort of like Clint Eastwood, but not exactly. "Ma’am, you look a little distressed. Can I be of some assistance?"
His observation, which couldn't have been closer to the truth, melted all her cool bravado in an instant, and she was so relieved, she could have grabbed hold of his shirt collar, pulled him toward her, and kissed him square on the lips.
"Yes, you can,” she replied. “I’m so glad you’re here. Thank you for coming so quickly."
He chuckled softly, but the smile in his eyes was cold and calculating.
“I wouldn’t thank me just yet,” he drawled, as he wrapped his big hand around her arm and tugged her closer. “Because by the look of things here, missy, you’re gonna be spending the night in my jailhouse.”
The crowd murmured approval, while Jessica glanced up at his ruggedly handsome features, bronzed by wind and sun, then cautiously lowered her eyes to the gun at his hip.
He shook his head at her, as if she’d been a very naughty girl, and said, “Tsk tsk tsk,” while she paused to think carefully about the best way to handle this.
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