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better, I'd swear you're all in this with Blade.   I don't know what's going on here, but I'm not Lolita Belle."
           Lolita Belle?   Cole looked at her with renewed interest.   Was it possible?   He cast a questioning glance at the saloon-keeper.
           Goodfellow's eyes narrowed and he clamped down on his cigar so hard the tip probably broke off in his mouth.   "As much as I wish you weren't Lolita Belle, I can't imagine who else you could be."  
           "Are you?" Cole asked, watching her expression closely for any sign that she might be lying.
           "Definitely not.   This jerk thinks I am, but that's ridiculous."
           Cole's instincts insisted she told the truth, though common sense called him a fool.   He studied Goodfellow again.   "Well?"   He jabbed his thumb toward the woman.   "Is she Lolita Belle?   Really?"
           Goodfellow shook his head and yanked the cigar from his mouth.   "Damned if I know."   With a sigh, he cocked his head toward the Gold Mine Saloon.   "Dottie here says she found her asleep on the floor this morning, even though she isn't supposed to be here for weeks yet.   Besides, who else could she be with hair that color?"
           "Yeah, well, she doesn't–isn't...   Hell."   From the corner of his eye, Cole studied the woman's nicely shaped bosom.   The famous singer reportedly had breasts the size of melons, though that was probably an exaggeration.   Still, this woman could only claim nice-sized tomatoes.   Very nice.   "I thought..."
           Goodfellow wheezed a cynical chuckle.   "Yeah, you and me both.   Those handbills she sent sure had me fooled."
           Cole wanted to laugh.   Badly.   It served Goodfellow right, but one look at the woman's frightened expression sobered him.   Something was wrong here.   How could anyone as famous as Lolita Belle end up here in Devil's Gulch without knowing where she was?   Or who she was, for that matter?  
           But this woman's problem was none of his business.   Well, that wasn't entirely true, though he'd have to wait for confirmation.
           "She sure as hell better sing like a nightingale–that's all I can say."   Bitterness laced Goodfellow's words.   "You think the miners'll pay to hear her sing if they don't have the...other to look at?"
           "I...dunno."   Cole felt uncomfortable talking about the woman as if she weren't here.   "I reckon there's only one way to find out."
           "Yeah, let's just hope I can get my money's worth out of this deal somehow."   Goodfellow shot the woman a dubious glare and shook his head.   "Personally, I wouldn't pay a cent to hear her sing looking like that.   All we can do is hope she cleans up good."
           "You son of a bitch."  
           The woman's fierce whisper made Cole smile.   Maybe she wasn't ladylike, but she definitely had spunk.   And from the look of things, she was going to need her spunk...and a whole lot more.  
           Dottie stepped around Goodfellow and grabbed the supposed Miss Belle's upper arm.   "C'mon, honey," she said in a patronizing tone.   "Let's get you a hot bath and some food, then we'll talk about all this."
           The woman jerked her arm from Dottie's grasp.   "Get your hands off me."
           "See what I mean, Rupert?"   Dottie gave Goodfellow a smug look.   "I told you she ain't worth all the trouble she's causin'."
           "She sure as hell better be–that's all I can say."   Goodfellow reached out to grab her himself, but she dodged him.
           "Don't you touch me."
           Though her words sounded tough and clipped, she appeared dangerously close to tears.   Damn.   If there was one thing Cole Morrison couldn't stand, it was a bawling woman.   Hell, he knew the reason, too–something his late wife had learned very early in their marriage.   He'd never been able to say no to a