Disclaimer: Alias Smith and Jones does not belong to me. This is fan fiction, not for profit.

Any references to people, places, businesses, etc. are entirely fictitious.

A/N – story presumes the details on the wanted posters are not entirely accurate. Story exists in the same No Amnesty - Smith and Jones story verse as previous stories.

Chapter 1: In From The Cold

-x-x-x-x-x-x-

"Mr. Owens' room please," requested the new arrival in a quiet, authoritative tone that carried across the hotel lobby. "I'm meeting my partner here."

The slender man leaned against the registration counter. His sharp eyed gaze surveyed the small room. Georgette Sinclair noticed he missed no one. A polite nod acknowledged Bertha as she staggered from the dining room to the kitchen with a load of supper dishes. A longer, assessing gaze lingered on Mr. Newton. Sprawled on the settee, his bald head tilted back, the drummer snored loudly. A smirk of dismissal and the sharp eyes settled on the fashionable young woman coming down the stairs. With one finger, the young man tilted his pointed black hat back at a jaunty angle. He flashed a dimpled smile.

"Mmmm," breathed George appreciatively. "Prospects are looking up."

The sultry brunette paused on the landing. The tall, dark haired man appeared to be close to her own twenty-five years. She twirled one finger in the long dark ringlets cascading over her shoulder in an attempt to keep his attention, but she didn't count on the desk clerk's barely audible response.

"We don't have anyone named Mr. Owens checked in," informed Mr. Johnson.

The newcomer snapped his head around to face the barrel chested middle-aged man behind the counter. The abrupt movement dislodged his hat. The felted headpiece fell backwards, dangling by stampede strings. The young man ran his hand through a head of dark brown hair.

"Hmmph," muttered George, piqued at being so easily forgotten.

Her lips crinkled up in a dismayed pout, she continued down the stairs. The now hat-less man leaned forward across the registry desk, his smile banished.

"What do you mean?" demanded a concerned voice. "He was supposed to be here already!"

"We don't have…"

"Perhaps Thaddeus Hale?" interrupted the younger man.

George's eyebrows went up at the second name. Hale was a rather common name she told herself, nothing to worry about. At the registration counter, Mr. Johnson looked up from the wide ledger in surprise too. His bushy eyebrows drew close together as his face tightened up in a frown.

"How many names does your partner have?" demanded the clerk in a suspicious tone.

For a moment, George thought she witnessed a slight hesitation. The dark haired man's confident exterior faltered, revealing a glimpse of wariness.

"He…"

Her feet reached the well-worn carpet in the lobby. George blinked in surprise. Just as quickly the man's expressive face changed back to an emotionless mask.

"Just one," answered the voice with a smooth tone. "One name."

Mr. Johnson didn't appear to have noticed the newcomer's hesitation, but the desk clerk's steely gaze demanded more.

"There was some trouble on the trail. We split up to avoid…," George caught the slight hesitation again, before the younger man continued with his explanation, "thieves. I just thought my partner might have checked in under a pseudonym."

"A su – do – what?" asked Mr. Johnson in a confused tone.

"An alias, a fake name to throw our pursuer's off," answered the dark eyed man. Graceful fingers made a gesture to the side of his head. "My partner is roughly my height, curly blond hair, blue eyes…"

"We don't have anyone matching that description registered here," stopped Mr. Johnson in a flat tone. "Not by any name."

"No one?" The slim man's voice ratcheted upwards in disbelief.

"No one," repeated Mr. Johnson firmly. "Now do you want a room? Or not?"

George could almost hear the dark haired man gulp as his Adam's apple bobbed up and down. A tight smile forced itself across the man's face.

"Yes, a room facing the street, with two beds," insisted the registrant with a hint of Kansas twang in his voice. In a determined tone, he added, "My partner will be here soon."

George wondered whether his last sentence was to convince the desk clerk, or himself.

"And where is the telegraph?" questioned the worried man. "I need to see if he's sent a message."

"Next to the bank, but you will have to wait until morning, they're closed now," answered Mr. Johnson. He pushed the heavy book towards the man. "Sign the registry and it's a dollar and six bits for a room."

"That much?" questioned the dark haired man in a sharp tone.

"Payable in advance," insisted Mr. Johnson, his jaw jutting out defiantly.

"Of course," responded the traveler. Nimble fingers reached for his vest pocket. "And I'll want a hot bath."

"Another two bits," countered the clerk. "Or you could go to the bathhouse by the springs in the morning."

George smirked. Cautious Mr. Johnson always demanded payment in advance, even for guests that appeared as prosperous as the new arrival. The younger man's finely tooled leather saddlebag thrown casually over his left shoulder didn't hide the cut of his elegantly tapered jacket. Tailored buff pants disappeared into shiny black boots with a low stacked heel. There was a momentary pause as the appropriate coinage was retrieved and placed on the counter before Mr. Johnson.

"Here you go," responded the man. He picked up the pen with a flourish and scrawled a hurried signature.

The older man nodded grudgingly and reached for the keys hanging behind the counter. The younger man slid the book back towards the desk clerk, retrieved his room key and turned towards the stairs. George found herself face to face with the new guest, staring into the depths of a pair of dark brown eyes. She smiled again, parting her lips to speak, when the desk clerk interrupted.

"I can't read this chicken scratch!" declared Mr. Johnson. "What's your name? Who are you?"

"Willard Rembacker," declared the dark haired man. With a nod to George, he stepped around her. "If you'll excuse me Ma'am."

-x-x-x-x-x-x-

The next morning, George was on her way to the dining room when she heard Mr. Rembacker stomp inside. Brushing flakes of snow from the sleeves of his dark jacket, he glowered at the morning desk clerk.

"You could have told me the telegraph office wasn't open yet!" grumbled Rembacker.

"You didn't ask," countered the youth. "Telegraph office opens at nine."

The thunderous expression on Mr. Rembacker's face might have cowed someone else, but the oblivious teen merely resumed straightening the desk.

"Mr. Rembacker," called George in a soft voice.

The dark haired man turned to face her. A dazzling, dimpled smile appeared. George sucked in a deep breath.

"Ma'am," acknowledged Rembacker. Sweeping his black hat off his head, he stepped towards her. Speaking with formal courtesy, he continued, "I must apologize, I don't remember being introduced. You have me at the advantage, I don't know your name."

George dropped her eyes discreetly. She extended one hand forward. Strong fingers took her hand in his. She looked up and batted her eyelashes.

"Georgette Sinclair, I heard you checking in last night," stated the woman. Then she continued with a total fabrication. "Forgive me if I am mistaken, but are you the same Mr. Rembacker my late husband introduced me to in Amarillo three years ago?"

A tiny tightening around the creases of his eyes told her Rembacker knew he'd never been introduced to her before. Bringing her hand to his lips for the faintest brush of a kiss along the back of her hand told her he wasn't going to expose her subterfuge, at least not yet. George smiled in relief.

"Dreadful sorry to hear of Sinclair's passing," murmured Rembacker going along with her story.

George smiled and gestured towards the dining room.

"The hotel restaurant serves a decent breakfast. Would you care to join me?" asked George. "And service is so slow that the telegraph office will surely be open by the time we finish."

-x-x-x-x-x-x-

Two cups of coffee, a plate of scrambled eggs, biscuits and sausage later, George huffed in exasperation. Every question she had posed to Mr. Rembacker had been turned back around to her.

"If I didn't know better," muttered George, "I'd think you were a scammer on the circuit."

The departing figure of Mr. Rembacker hurried outside into the snow. The dark haired man was determined to check the telegraph for the whereabouts of his partner. George reached across the table to his untouched plate. Tucking his sausage inside the biscuit, she hurriedly slipped the food inside her voluminous handbag. The money he'd left on the table was more than enough for both breakfasts and a generous tip, but she didn't touch that. Even a down on her luck con woman has her limits.

"Partner's six years?" whispered George, arching one eyebrow up at his disappearing figure. That tidbit of personal information had been his only slip up. If it had been a slip up. "Really? Do you expect anyone to believe that?"

-x-x-x-x-x-x-

The click of heels pacing across the lobby floor stopped. George looked up. From her seat on the sofa, she peered over the top of the outdated Denver newspaper in her hands. Mr. Rembacker stared out the front window. Mr. Johnson snoozed on the cot behind the registration desk. There was no one else in the lobby this late in the evening.

"What do you see?" asked George, hardly expecting an answer.

The flirtatious woman had tried to engage the dark haired man in conversation several times over the past three days. All she really knew about Mr. Rembacker was that he didn't pry into her plans, and made a point of asking her to join him for meals. Meals he paid for, but hardly touched. His silver tongue diverted her questions with ease. And he awaited the arrival of his partner. Anxiously awaited, if the incessant pacing was any indication.

"A rider coming," answered Willard Rembacker.

George rose to stand, pulling her knitted blue shawl snug around her arms. Crinolines swayed as the brunette moved towards the window. Outside, a rider on a large black horse plodded down the main street of Poncha Springs, just barely visible in the swirling snow.

"Is that your partner?" questioned George as she tried once more to pull some information out of the secretive man.

"Finally," answered Mr. Rembacker without taking his gaze off the rider. "He should have been here five days ago!"

The slender man turned away from the window and strode briskly towards the front door. Grabbing his hat and coat from the hall tree near the entrance he disappeared out into the storm, leaving George gaping. That answer had been the longest string of words she'd heard from him since their first breakfast together.

"Hmmph," huffed George. She returned back to the settee. "Hopefully your partner talks more than you do."

-x-x-x-x-x-x-

"Lean on me," urged a soft baritone voice.

George heard the heavy front door of the hotel thump against the wainscoting in the entryway. Two men loomed in the narrow opening. She recognized the figure of the mysterious Willard Rembacker. Snow flurried outside, sparkling bright white in the light of the kerosene lantern hanging on the porch post. Their voices carried clearly through the nearly empty lobby.

"Boots are muddy," rasped the hoarse voice of the man slumped against the outside door frame.

The man in the water stained sheepskin jacket meticulously began to scrape the sole of his left boot against the black cast iron scraper Mr. Johnson had bolted to the porch floor. George shifted the newspaper to one side in order to see better.

"Look at you! You're soaked," grumbled Rembacker's concerned voice.

Inside the doorway, the dark haired man shook his head in exasperation. He reached his right hand out towards the other man.

"Ahh!" gasped George.

The paper slipped through the fingers of her neatly manicured hands to land on the faded purple velvet sofa cushion.

"You can barely stand," observed the man with a critical gaze. "Cleaning your boots can wait."

"My mother taught me not to track mud in a house," replied a scratchy determined voice.

The man outside switched from standing on his right foot to wobble on his left foot as he began the process of scraping the sole of his right boot.

"You wouldn't be so muddy if…" huffed Rembacker's worried voice.

Whatever Rembacker was going to say was lost in the sound of coughing. The other man doubled over. George couldn't quite see his face, but she was sure, alright mostly sure, almost sure.

"Is it you?" asked George in a hopeful whisper. "Come on Kid look this way."

George caught a glimpse of blond curls peeking out from beneath his hat, before Rembacker stepped closer to pound his partner's back. The coughing finally stopped. The slender dark haired man backed up a step and George saw the bigger man in the bulky sheepskin coat straighten up.

"We gotta get you inside where it's warm," declared Rembacker in a firm tone.

The reticent man's floppy brown hat bobbed up and down as he nodded in agreement. A blast of cold air swept through the door and across the lobby, fluttering the pages of the guest registry. Johnson stood up from behind the front desk. Rubbing his sleepy eyes, he frowned at the proceedings. Rembacker wrapped his right arm around the waist of the quieter man.

"Put your arm over my shoulder," coaxed a warm tone.

Three staggered footsteps brought the men inside. The slender man nudged the door shut as he steadied his companion.

"This here is a respectable hotel," declared Johnson in a querulous tone. "We don't take in drunks."

The dark haired man's gaze shot up. Eyes blazed. George sucked in a deep breath. Mr. Johnson didn't quite shake in his boots, but the gray haired man did take a step back at the fierce look directed towards him.

"Neither one of us is drunk!" snarled the angry man. "My partner has been on the trail for the past three weeks."

The ungainly pair sidestepped their way across the threadbare carpet towards Johnson's desk, stopping midway as another fit of coughing kept the bedraggled man in the sheepskin jacket from speaking. As the pair came closer, George could see the mud caked along the fair haired man's wet blue jeans. Half dragging his partner forward, the dark haired man continued his tirade.

"My partner's horse slipped on ice crossing the stream outside Poncha Springs," declared Rembacker. As if Johnson was personally responsible for this problem, the slender man glowered at him. "He's soaked!"

A big hand grasped the edge of the desk as the man in the sheepskin jacket steadied himself. George narrowed her eyes as a faint memory teased at her mind. She tried to get a better look at the face beneath the dark brown hat. Johnson started to shake his head from left to right.

"Mr. Johnson, surely you're not going to say there's no room at the inn," cajoled George in a coquettish voice. "Not tonight of all nights."

"Huh?"

The older man paused. The dark haired man turned to look directly at George. His wide generous lips curled upwards in appreciation at her support. The other man's floppy brown hat tilted forward. There was a brief glimpse of blue eyes before the head ducked down, shoulders heaving with the force of his coughing. The brunette licked her lips.

"It's Christmas Eve," reminded George. "And Mr. Rembacker has already paid for the room."

Mr. Johnson pursed his thin lips for a moment, then nodded.

"You'd have to give him a refund if you turned them out," nudged George. She tilted her head to one side and smiled sweetly. "And it's not likely you'd rent the room tomorrow."

"Guess it wouldn't be the Christian thing to do," acknowledged the landlord. He frowned at Rembacker and his partner. "But I don't want no trouble."

The dark haired man half carried, half dragged his partner. In a matter of minutes, the two men were halfway up the stairs.

"And send for the doctor!" called the man registered as Willard Rembacker.

-x-x-x-x-x-x-

Two hours later, the doctor had come and gone. George tapped on the door to the large front guest room. Rembacker opened the door a crack. Dark eyes with a vigilant expression gazed back at her.

"Chicken soup," smiled George.

She raised the small lidded bucket so he could see it. The aromatic soup swung back and forth in her hand. Upon hearing that Mr. Rembacker's partner had finally arrived and was ill, Bertha had been kind enough to reopen the kitchen this late in the evening.

"It's the best thing for a bad cold," urged George.

Rembacker stepped back and opened the door wider. George's eyes widened as she realized he was holstering a pistol, but she stepped inside the room anyway. One brass bed had a black hat tossed casually atop the red and blue checked quilt. A jumbled pile of wet clothing and boots was on the floor next to the other bed. A familiar floppy brown hat was carefully placed atop the nearby bureau. Beneath the green and white quilt a man sized lump appeared.

"Thank you," started Rembacker, "but the doctor said…"

The lump groaned. Rembacker's worried dark brown eyes snapped towards his partner. Seizing the opportunity, George pushed past the slender dark haired man.

"I know you don't believe me, but I really did live in Amarillo a few years back," continued George in a cheerful tone as she stepped closer to the patient. "Six years ago as a matter of fact."

Familiar blond curls were plastered to a sweaty forehead. Blue eyes blinked, blinked again, trying to focus.

"A friend of mine from Kansas and I shared a room at a boarding house," confided George. "Clem had a real sweet boy wrapped around her finger."

"George," rasped the man on the bed.

"Hello Kid," greeted George. "I heard you got into some trouble after I departed Amarillo and that you left Texas to join up with some outlaws."

The blond man shook his head. Kid struggled to sit up. George turned to gaze back at the dark haired man.

"You must be the leader of the Devil's Hole Gang," continued George with a sardonic smile. "The bad influence, Hannibal Heyes."

-x-x-x-x-x-x-