Much Ado About Marshals (Hearts of Owyhee) (2011) (30 page)

“Psssst!”

He wiped the mahogany bar.

“Psssst!”

“Gotta deck of cards?” Rankin asked the bartender.

“Yup.” He tossed them on the bar. “Two bits.”

“Christ, I ain’t paying two bits to play cards by myself.”

Pete shrugged and, without a word, put the cards in a drawer behind the bar, then resumed polishing the shiny wood.

She tried to get his attention again. “Psssst!”

“Pete, you been holding out on me. There’s a pretty little calico in your back room, and I want her.”

Daisy plastered herself against the wall and froze, heart thumping and throat dry. She couldn’t get out the back door without being seen, and who knows what trouble that would cause.

“I ain’t got no new girl.”

“I seen her. Git ‘er. I’ll pay a dollar—that’s twice what Loretta Sue’s worth.”

“I told you, I ain’t got a new girl.”

“Well, then I’ll just go back and pluck that little lightskirt myself.”

Daisy heard a commotion—a barstool scraping on the plank floor and footsteps.

“Ain’t no one goes in my storeroom but me, but I’m telling you, the only sporting lady in this saloon is Loretta Sue. If you want her, I’ll get her.”

“I had her last night. She ain’t no better than humping a bag of spuds. I want the one back there.”

She heard footsteps coming toward her, and prayed it was Pete. As he walked through the door, she could tell the exact moment he caught sight of her—his eyebrows flew up and he came to an abrupt halt.

“Daisy, what the hell
…
what are you doing here?”

She put her finger to her lips in a silent
shhh
, then motioned for him to come closer. “I need Gib Rankins fingerprints.”

“Fingerprints?” he whispered incredulously. “Go on home now—this ain’t no place for a woman like you.”

“I heard.”

“Then you know you ain’t safe here.”

She nodded. “I know. But could you give him a clean glass for his next drink, and try not to touch it yourself?”

“Oh, for Chr
…
er, how’m I supposed to do that?”

“Put the glass on the bar using your towel, then pour the drink. When he's done, pick it up by the very lip and put it in my reticule.”

He shook his head.

“I’m not leaving without that fingerprint. You can pick up the glass at the store.”

Pete looked put upon. And skeptical. But she
had
to get that print and she stared at him until he agreed.

Shaking his head and muttering, he went back to the bar. “Have a drink on the house.”

She heard liquid being poured into a glass.

“I s’pose you think I’ll forgit that pretty little skirt back there, huh Pete.” She heard a gulp and the glass hit the bar. “One more, and I just might.”

Her heart still raced, and she wondered if it was all worth it. Of course it was—the marshal would be so proud, and she’d do just about anything to let him know she intended to be his helpmate in every way.

“Just a minute,” Pete said.

He brought the glass to her. She held her bag open and he dropped it in. “Now get the hell out of here before you get hurt.”

She didn’t need a second invitation. Head down, she scurried out the back door,
whump
, right into a man. “Oh, dear!” Then she relaxed. She’d know the smell of his bay rum and the feel of his chest for the rest of her life. “Marshal, what are you doing here?”

He kissed the top of her head. “Catching a criminal, which will have to wait. More to the point, what are
you
doing here?”

Should she tell him? Honesty was always better than a lie, for he’d find out anyway. “I had some business—I took fingerprints from Gib Rankin.”

“Fingerprints?” He chuckled. “I don’t know what you want with those. I don’t need fingerprints to know he broke his brother out of jail, and I don’t need them to know his brother stole boots from your dad’s store, either.” He put his hand on her waist and urged her along. “Come on, we need to get you away from here. This is no place for a respectable woman.”

His hand nearly seared a brand on her waist, and the tug of need made her face flush with heat. Other areas, too. Oh, my! And right there in public. She wondered if it would always be that way—she couldn’t imagine ever touching him without fireworks shooting through her veins.

Soon, they stepped on the boardwalk that led to the marshal’s office and the mercantile on down the street. Even though she had the definite impression that he intended to take her there, she ducked into his office.

“Daisy, it’s not right that we should be here alone.”

“But marshal, I have something to show you.” She dug her notepad out of the bag. “Look, I have fingerprints of
Mike Flynn
, Sam Jones, Mrs. Mueller, Sarah, and my brother.”

“And you’ll use them for…
?”

“Identification. No two people have the same fingerprints—at least that’s the theory. And while the courts don’t accept them as evidence yet, they’re still a useful tool in solving crimes.” She pulled the bottle of carbon dust from her bag and set it on the desk. “Here, let me take your print.”

“No.”

“No?” His lack of interest surprised her.

He kicked the door shut and backed her to the corner. “I have other things on my mind.” He lowered his lips to hers. He kissed her softly, then with urgency, his tongue tasting her. He seemed qu
ite interested.

Her mind went numb, then blank, focusing on his lips, his body pressed to hers, and the fire in her nether area. She pulled him closer to her, hoping he wouldn’t stop.

But he did, pulling away with a heated look in his eyes. “We can’t do this here.”

“Where, then?” She ran her hands over his shoulders and squeezed the muscles in his arms.

“Nowhere.” His voice caught. “We have to wait until our wedding night.”

She had no intention of letting him forget his desire for her, and the wedding was still several days away. She’d die of need before then. Her hands slid to his waist, then under the waistline of his britches. He sucked in air, and she smiled. “I thought you had other things on your mind.” She lowered her voice. “So do I.”

But then he removed her hands from his pants, murmuring, “You’re not making this easy.”

No, and she had no intentions of doing so, but at least she remembered what she’d originally wanted. “Then let me take your fingerprint.” She walked past him, making sure to brush her breast against him on the way. The contact made her nipples harden, but he did nothing to soothe her wanting.

She glanced back. He stared at the ceiling, his pants straining for her, his mind obviously warring against the idea. What a wondrous secret, the bond between a man and a woman. Even though they were ten feet apart, she could still feel his body pressing against her, making her want him so much.

“Come here, and let me dust your finger.”

He breathed out. After a few moments, he walked over and sat at his desk. “All right, but then I have work to do.”

She brushed his forefinger with the carbon dust, then put the notepad in front of him. “Here, just press your finger on this paper.” She held his hand and pushed his finger on the pad, then kissed the back of his neck.

He grabbed her and pulled her on top of him. She reveled in the warmth and protectiveness of his arms, and the hardness of the rod she sat on. She wiggled her backside against him.

He groaned, the very rumble sharpened her desire for him. “I can’t take much more of this.” But instead of pulling away, he held her closer.

She kissed his neck and nibbled on his ear.

He groaned again, then brushed his cheek against her breast until her nipple burned with anticipation. Tilting his head, he put his mouth on her breast, heating her until she wiggled more. He pushed his hand under her skirts and let it rest on her inner thigh.

She moved against him so that his hand rested on the spot he’d used to shatter the skies. Her breathing quickened and her face felt hot. She leaned into him, wanting more.

She heard the door open. The chair fell over backwards, sending them sprawling across the floor.

“Deputy Kunkle, I brought you some nice, hot cinnamon buns!”

Mrs. Proctor stepped into the room and gasped. “Oh, my stars!”

Chapter 16

Mrs. Proctor sniffed. “Well, I never!”

Bosco walked up behind her and shook his head. “Sure you did, just last night.” He grinned and patted her on the rump.

She lurched forward, tossing the cinnamon buns in the air. “Oh!”

Cole caught the sweet rolls, while Bosco caught Mrs. Proctor, her bonnet askew.

Bosco sniffed the air. “Let’s have one of them buns. I like ‘em sweet and hot, just like you.”

“You—you—cad!” She grabbed the buns from Cole and smashed them in Bosco’s face.

“Dang, Cordelia, them’s good!”

She marched out in a huff.

“Women,” Bosco said, then sighed. “I tell her what a good cook she is, and it makes her madder’n a deflowered skunk.” He peeled a bun off his forehead and took a bite.

Cole helped Daisy up. “Are you all right?” She nodded, then straightened her bonnet, although the petunias drooped a bit.

He turned to Bosco. “Most ladies don’t like it when you tell of your nightly adventures, and I’d guess Mrs. Proctor would be even less inclined to talk about it than others.”

“Nightly adven…Ah, you mean—
” Bosco scratched his head. “Shit-criminy, Cole, I was talking ‘bout her buns. She made hot cinnamon buns yesterday for supper.”

Daisy laughed, the second most wonderful sound in the world. The most wonderful, he thought, he best not even think about if he wanted to keep his wits about him. Still, all he could think about was kissing her—all over. She snuggled against his side, not helping matters a bit.

He pushed her away and handed Bosco a rag. “Wipe yourself off, Bosco. Then you better get your repentant hide over to Mrs. Proctor’s and apologize or you’re liable to go hungry. I’d be willing to bet Mrs. Courtney won’t be inviting you to her house for a few days.”

“No, I don’t expect so. Best I stop by the horse trough and wash up some.”

As soon as Bosco left, Cole wanted to start up with Daisy where he left off, although it was against his better judgment. He ached all over for want of her, but a little distance between them might help to cool things down. Of course, that had never worked before. Either he had been with her, or he’d been thinking about her since the day he first gazed into those magnificent green eyes.

She snuggled up to him again, pressing her breasts against his belly, wrapping her arms around him, and rubbing her hands on his back. Lord, how he wanted to bury himself inside her. He held her tight, wishing all his troubles would vanish, then he and Daisy could spend their nights—and days—making love until they’d used every ounce of strength they had.

“Marshal?”

“Hmmm?” he murmured, avoiding the cherry on her bonnet that threatened to slide up his nose. Whatever possessed women to wear these ridiculous things?

“I talked to my folks and we’ve set the date.” She turned her head, whapping his chin with a peach.

He jerked his head back to avoid further fruit pummelings. “Date?”

“Yes, our wedding date. We’re getting married on the Fifth of July!”

Fifth of July?
Hell and damnation, he had to be gone before then—before her sister came to town.

“Aren’t you excited? And Iris will be here.”

Exactly
. “Darlin’, can’t we be married today?”

She laughed. “No, silly. My dress isn’t done. Besides, if we’re married on the fifth, all the folks around the country will still be here. Like my folks said, there’s no use in them making two trips this busy time of year.”

He wondered what the odds were that Iris wouldn’t identify him, or Bosco. Low. Very low, if she were anything like Daisy. He had to convince her to marry him
now
, not later. “But until then, we can’t do this.” He kissed her neck slowly, sliding his tongue over her smooth skin. “Or this.” He held the weight of her breast in his hand, rubbing her nipple with his thumb.

She looked up at him, passion glazing her eyes, nearly bringing him to his knees for the want of her. “Yes, we can. We already did.”

“Where?”

“My cave. We can go to my cave.”

The cave sounded good. Damned good. But one of the two of them had to have some reason, and it seemed to be up to him. “Darlin’ Daisy, that’s five miles out of town—too long for us to be gone without being noticed. Besides, as worried as your mama was, I don’t think she’ll be letting you out of her sight for that long.”

She ran her hands over his chest. Hell, he’d go to the cave. Or toss up her skirts right where they stood.

“I can tell Mama that I’m at Aunt Grace’s. That’s what I always do when I go to the cave. My aunt is the only one who knows where I’m really going.”