Marlie's Mystery Man. Doris Rangel

      Chapter Two

      With a tentative forefinger, the woman touched the blue feather, for some reason far more interested in it than Caid’s rattlesnake hatband.

      “Coincidence,” he heard her whisper to herself. She turned the hat over to look inside the crown.

      Then, to Caid’s total amazement, this cute button of a woman did an extraordinary thing.

      Gazing at herself in the mirror, she put his hat on her head, where it immediately sank past her ears to cover her eyes and rest on the bridge of her nose. Grinning, she pushed it up again.

      “Howdy, partner,” she greeted her image in an exaggerated drawl.

      Fascinated, Caid watched as she stuck her thumbs in her belt loops and set her hips to rotating in a slow swivel.

      “Ah’m an ol’ cowhand,” she sang nasally, “from the Rio Grande, but mah…something ain’t…something, and mah cheeks ain’t tan….”

      Smiling broadly by now, and forgetting completely to keep his nose out the window, Caid turned more fully into the room, the better to appreciate the performance of that enticingly generous derriere.

      He sneezed.

      The woman stopped midtwang.

      Dammit, he’d swear she heard him, but instead of turning toward the sound as any normal person would, she just laughed and shook her head at the far wall, causing his Stetson to drop over her eyes again.

      This time, however, she took it off, replaced it on the dresser, flipped off the light and left the room.

      The show, apparently, was over.

      Disappointed, Caid sighed.

      And sneezed.

      Well, hell. If he was sharing the room with this woman, he was damn sure getting rid of the lotion she’d just used along with anything else she had that was lavender scented.

      And he was sharing the room. At the moment, it was the only place he had to hang his hat, literally, until he could figure out what was going on. Besides, the hotel owed him. Maybe he hadn’t paid for it yet, but he’d reserved the room before they gave it to the woman. Come to that, she owed him, too.

      He sneezed.

      It wasn’t late when Marlie slowly walked up the staircase to return to her room, but after her active day she could barely keep her eyes open. She’d read for an hour in the hotel’s charmingly Victorian front parlor and now clutched the Agatha Christie mystery, planning to take it to bed with her.

      Earlier, she’d asked Ann if the Hotel Limpia had any resident ghosts, but the desk clerk merely laughed, saying the only one she’d heard about, but never seen herself, mind you, was that of a soldier from the old fort.

      But it wasn’t a soldier Marlie thought she’d seen. For a split second, as she’d been wearing the hat with the coincidental blue feather and acting silly in front of the mirror, she thought she’d caught the vague outline of a cowboy standing near the window behind her. But then her neighbor sneezed, and of course there was nothing reflected in the mirror but herself.

      The Hotel Limpia, with its antique furnishings and bygone western charm, certainly had a way of sending the imagination into overdrive, she thought, unlocking the door to her room.

      Once inside, she didn’t bother with the overhead light but switched on the lamp near her bed. In the dimness outside its glow, she eyed with disfavor the double bed that matched her own. Its sheets and covers were lumpy and rumpled just as they’d been this morning.

      In all other respects, the hotel service was first rate, but its housekeeping staff left a lot to be desired. Marlie had meant to say something to Ann earlier and forgotten, but she was telling the desk clerk first thing in the morning. There was no excuse for an establishment of this caliber leaving beds unmade.

      Gathering clean panties and her pajamas, she headed for the bathroom and a long hot bath, but after stepping out of her jeans and partially unbuttoning her shirt, she remembered the soap she’d found today in one of the shops.

      Ah. The perfect end to a perfect day.

      Traipsing back to the bedroom, Marlie rummaged through a couple of sacks until she found it. But just as she turned toward the bathroom again, she thought she heard a breathy whistle from next door.

      It was just a whisper of sound, but for no apparent reason she suddenly became very aware of her bare legs and half-open shirt.

      She grimaced. Too bad there wasn’t another room available. As it was, she had a double room too big for her single self when what she needed was double walls.

      All was forgiven, however, when she lowered herself into the deep bathtub. Hot water and lavender soap. Life didn’t get any better.

      Unless, of course, a handsome someone scrubbed her back.

      Unh-huh. Cut that last thought. Nicholas wouldn’t scrub her back. He’d just tell her how bad hot water and perfumed soaps were for her skin.

      Forget Nicholas. And forget hats placed strategically by an interior decorator to enhance an old hotel’s western decor. Forget, especially, hats with blue feathers in the hatband.

      A half hour later, too pleasantly lethargic from her hot bath for even Agatha to have appeal, Marlie called it a day. Turning off the lamp, she sank into the old-fashioned bed’s very modern and oh-so-comfortable mattress.

      And heard a giant sneeze.

      Oh. Good. Grief.

      Still, if she could hear the people next door, they could surely hear her. “Don’t you have anything to take for that?” she asked the wall loudly.

      Silence.

      One might even say stunned silence, it was that thick. Apparently the elderlies in the next room didn’t realize how thin the walls were.

      There was another sneeze, followed by a muttered, “Well, hell.”

      “Bless you,” Marlie called out, grinning.

      “You can hear me?” a voice asked diffidently.

      Aha, Marlie thought. Masculine. One of the supposed maiden ladies still had some energy.

      “Yes, and you really ought to take something for that cold. We’d all sleep better.”

      “It’s not a cold,” the voice replied. A husky voice, with a hint of drawl. And it didn’t sound like that of an old man, either. It sounded velvety, downright sexy even, if a trifle cranky and stuffed up. One of the dears must have found herself a young stud while she was stargazing.

      “It’s allergies,” the voice continued. “I’m allergic to your soap.”

      And Marlie could swear that whoever spoke was right beside her. She heard a rustling in the other bed.

      With a shriek, she reached out and turned on the light.

      Nothing. Even better, no one.

      Sinking limply against the pillows, she sighed….

      Ker-choo!

      And bolted up again.

      “If you’d bathe with something besides lavender soap, we’d both be happier,” the