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threat?"   Anger finally succeeded in forcing her tears to beat a hasty retreat, and she folded her arms across her growling stomach.   Her bladder was so full it was about to abandon ship, and her head felt like rap music with the bass set to kill.   Putting it simply, she felt like total crap.
           "A promise, Miss Belle."   He leaned toward her.   "Now where is your trunk?   For that matter, how'd you get here?   The stage isn't due until three o'clock."
           "What stage?   I walked here."   Jackie swept the room with her gaze again.   It was almost as if–
           No.
           Still, the people, the saloon, Lolita...  
           She thought about the fire that had consumed the building– this building.   What bizarre aftermath had it left behind?   Could it be?   Had the fire somehow thrown her back in time?
           No, not the fire.   The painting.   She swallowed and tried to steady her breathing.   Time.   It was the only thing that made sense, in a twisted sort of way.   "I don't believe this."  
           "Trust me, that makes two of us."   Rupert's sneer was even worse now than before.   "I've commissioned an artist to paint your portrait.   Since you can't perform until either your trunk arrives or we can provide other attire, you can pose for your portrait."
           "Portrait?"   In her mind, Jackie pictured Lolita's smug smile, her mutant breasts, all that bare flesh...   "Oh, no.   You can't be serious."
           "I'm dead serious, Miss Belle."   Rupert's expression had changed from furious to cocky.   "The beauty of it is, you won't need any clothes at all for that."
           Jackie stared long and hard at Rupert, then shifted her gaze to Dottie and the ever-present trio of goons.   The polished bar, the unbroken furniture, no sign of a fire...
           Evidence?
           She had to know the truth.   "What...year is it?"   A roaring sound began in her head as she watched the flash of amusement in Rupert's eyes.   "Answer me.   Then..."
           "Then what?"   The man had that used-car-salesman air about him–he obviously smelled a hot deal in the making.   "Well?"
           Jackie held her breath for a moment, then said, "Then I'll pose for your damn portrait."  
           He nodded.   "The year, Miss Belle, is 1891."
          
     
     

 
    Chapter 3

     
           Stunned, Jackie allowed Dottie to lead her up the stairs that had been engulfed in flames last night.  
           No, not last night.
           Her escort opened a door near the end of the hall and Jackie followed her inside.   "This can't be happening," she whispered, looking around the room.   Dark green flocked paper covered the walls, its intricate pattern broken only by two long narrow windows flanking an ornate dressing table.
           "Rupert had this room fixed up special...just for you."   Disgust tinged Dottie's voice.   "Lord only knows why men can't appreciate what's right in front of them."
           Numbness filled Jackie–identical to when she'd first realized Lolita's portrait was missing.   "This just can't be...."
           "What's the matter?   Rupert said green was your favorite color.   Was that a lie, too?"   After an accusing glance at Jackie's bustline, Dottie flounced across the room to a tall wardrobe and threw open the doors.   "I suppose you'll have to wear somethin' after your bath."
           Taking a bath sounded so...normal.   Jackie pressed her hand against her breastbone, feeling the solid thud of her heart and her erratic breathing.   She was alive–this was real.
           No, I won't let it be real.
           Shifting her gaze from Dottie to the open window, Jackie saw the curtains fluttering in the gentle breeze.   She brought her hand to her hair and pulled a strand forward to stare.   Still red.
           A reality check,