Taken by the Cowboy (7 page)

"False,” he replied.
“So you keep saying."

His eyes held a cool
hint of suspicion that unnerved her. Or was it concern she saw in
those blue depths? Either way, he was onto her. He knew something
was off its axis, and he wanted to know what it was.

Why? So he could lock
her up again?

Or did he want to help
her? To make it all better?

If only she could tell
him the truth, but she couldn’t possibly. Who knows what he would
think?

Feeling the dizziness
begin to subside, she opened her eyes and squinted at him in the
sunshine. "Sheriff Wade, what are you going to do about Virgil?
That gun of his looked like it could put a hole in Moby Dick.”

Wade adjusted the brim
of his hat. “Don’t worry your pretty little head. He couldn't hit a
bull's ass with a handful of banjos. Most of the time he keeps to
the saloon, gambling. Occasionally he takes one of the saloon girls
upstairs—"

Jessica quickly raised
a hand. "Too much information. And don’t say
pretty little
head
."

He laughed. "Don't go
wakin' snakes. I was just gonna say he likes to play the fiddle for
them. That’s probably what he wanted to do with you. He's pretty
harmless."

"Well, I don't trust
him,” she replied. “Did you ask him where
he
was when Lou
was killed?"

Sheriff Wade regarded
her intently. "Lou was wanted dead or alive, and now he's dead.
You've accepted the reward, so there ain't no more questions to be
asked. Unless there’s something else you haven’t told me, which I
suspect there is."

Recognizing her
blunder, Jessica pushed a lock of hair behind her ear. She could
feel him searching her face for the truth again.

"I'm feeling better,
now," she said. "We should go."

Wade stood, offered his
hand, and pulled her to her feet. While she brushed off her skirt,
he gathered his coat and flapped it in the wind to shed the grass,
then picked up her parcel. A beam of sunlight reflected off his gun
and blinded her momentarily.

As they started walking
again, Jessica wondered about that shiny weapon and the action it
had seen. "Mr. Maxwell told me that since you've been sheriff in
Dodge, you haven't had to shoot anyone. Is that true?"

He spoke with a heavy
edge to his voice. "I didn't realize folks were keeping tabs on my
gunshots."

“There’s a rumor going
around that you killed ten men.”

Wade shook his head.
“No, not ten.”

She wasn’t sure if he
was quiet all of a sudden because she’d gotten the tally wrong, or
if he was simply annoyed at her for asking. "How many, exactly,
did
you kill?”

“Six.”

His spurs clinked a
steady, ominous rhythm as they walked.

“Six men,” she replied.
“Holy crap.”

Truman shot her a
surprised look, then stopped and removed his hat. Combing his
fingers through his dark, wavy hair, he said, "Look, Junebug. I
don’t like to share details about my personal life. Not with you or
anyone else, and I sure as hell ain’t trying to impress you with my
killing record." He started off again, walking faster this
time.

“Trust me, I’m not
impressed.”

When he didn’t look
back, she hurried to catch up. “What I meant to say is, have you
ever talked to anyone about...” —How could she phrase it?— “the
things you’ve done?”

He frowned at her.
“What do you mean—
talked
to anyone?”

“Well, you
know...really talked about it.”

She might as well have
suggested he stick his head in a brick oven.

“Why would I want to do
that?”

“Sometimes it
helps.”

He patted his
six-shooter. “I got all the help I need right here.”

Jessica continued to
hurry along beside him.

When they reached
Angus's gate, he held out Jessica’s parcel. She slipped her fingers
under the tight string just as a sudden gust of wind lifted her
skirts.

“Geez! Close your eyes,
Sheriff, before you get an eyeful.”

Slapping her free hand
on top of it to hold it down, she felt the sheriff's curious eyes
on her, and reluctantly looked up.

"I know you're hiding
something," he said in that low voice that had a way of making her
melt into a loose puddle of infatuation. "And your meddling
questions and flying skirts aren’t gonna distract me from finding
out what it is. In fact, the way you're asking about my shooting
record, Miss Delaney—if that's your name—is beginning to make me
suspect the worst." He drew his eyebrows together and rested one
hand on his gun. "You're not itchin' to put
my
name on one
of your bullets, are ya?"

* * *

It was a ridiculous
question and Truman knew it, but he wanted to shake her up a
little. Apparently, it was working. She looked like he'd just flung
her into the middle of next week.

“Now that is just plain
ridiculous,” she replied. “I’m not even going to dignify that with
an answer.”

She turned her back on
him and struggled with the gate latch, jiggling it to and fro.
Clank, clank, clank!

If he didn't do
something soon, she was going to damage the hardware. He reached
around her to release the latch, and breathed in the clean scent of
her chestnut hair, just as she grew frustrated with the latch and
bumped him twice - fast and firmly in the pelvis - with her soft,
sweet bottom.

"Oh!” She whirled
around. Then she surprised him yet again by laughing infectiously.
“You’re certainly getting your jollies with me today, aren’t you,
Sheriff?"

Hell and damnation.
What a smile she had.

He took full advantage
of her enticing nearness by allowing his gaze to wander over her
creamy complexion, her tiny sunburned nose, and those full, cherry
lips. He loved the way she smelled and wondered how long it had
been since he’d enjoyed rubbing and bumping up against an
attractive woman like her.

What the hell was he
thinking? He knew exactly how long it had been.

Adjusting his hat on
his head, he took a step back. "Just trying to be of assistance."
He leaned forward again and effortlessly unlatched the gate.
"Gently next time."

Miss Delaney turned and
entered the yard. “Thank you, Sheriff,” she said with a proud,
exaggerated lift of her chin.

Truman rested his hands
on his hips and watched her walk up Angus's porch steps, wiggling
her little bottom as she went. He had half a mind to follow her in
and ask her some more questions-like why she wore her hair down
long and loose like that without a single pin, much less a hat or a
bonnet.

Or why she always bit
her lower lip just before she lifted her right hand to push her
hair behind her ear. He'd seen her do it at least four times since
he’d met her.

And what a mouth on
her….

The things she
said….

Truman exhaled sharply
when the front door slammed shut behind her.

If he had any brains in
his head, he'd beat himself to a jelly for getting all hot and
bothered by her cute little backside, because the last thing he
wanted to do was get all tangled up with a tempting fireball like
Jessica Delaney and repeat past mistakes.

If he was ever going to
heed his own advice and avoid getting into a barrel of trouble, now
was the time, because this particular fireball was quite possibly a
killer, and at the very least, a liar.

Lucky for him, she was
a lousy one.

Bringing his fingers to
his lips, he whistled hard. A few seconds later, Thunder came
trotting up the street.

The next day, Jessica
walked into Sheriff Wade’s office and dropped the Wednesday issue
of
The Dodge City Chronicle
onto his desk in front of
him.

"Miss Delaney," he
drawled. "What a surprise."

He sat with his long
legs stretched out on the desk, a battered tin coffee cup in his
hand. The instant Jessica met his devilishly handsome blue eyes,
she forgot the function of that important organ inside her head and
had to work hard to remember the reason for her visit.

Ever since yesterday’s
titillating encounter by the gate, she’d been in a constant state
of frustration, for immediately after learning that Sheriff Wade
had killed six men in cold blood, all she’d been able to think
about were the naughty little thrills that had wracked her body
when her rear end collided with his manly parts.

How could she blame
herself, though?
Really
. He was a gorgeous hunk of
manhood, in every sense of the word - a hottie from all
perspectives, and he had a way of switching on her engine lights
every time he spoke.

He lifted the paper and
read the headline aloud. "The Shocking True Tale of Junebug Jess,
Famous Gunslinger and Killer of Soft-shelled Insects." He set it
down again and inclined his head at her. "Let me guess. You're here
to file a complaint."

Jessica - distracted
briefly by the hand-stitched designs on his black leather boots -
somehow managed to meet his gaze head on. She noticed a flirtatious
glimmer in his eyes this morning - the kind of look that makes a
woman check to make sure all her buttons are fastened – and she
felt a stirring of satisfaction.

"Yes,” she replied.
“That is exactly why I am here. This is getting out of hand."

Sheriff Wade finished
his coffee and set the cup down on the desk. "Now, now. Don't get
your knickers all in a twist. There's no harm done."

"No harm done? Not a
shred of this is true, and my knickers are
not
in a
twist."

"At least they got your
name right,” he mentioned. “And look - they even managed to spell
Virgil's name correctly."

Jessica sighed. "They
didn't even mention you. They said I fired the gun and scared
Virgil off. I wasn't even armed." She picked up the newspaper,
crumpled it in her hands, and threw it into the empty waste can.
When she looked up, Wade was leaning back in his chair, watching
her with narrowed eyes.

"Is there nothing you
can do?" she asked, finally. “I don’t want any more trouble, and I
don’t want people thinking I’m a killer, especially if I end up
staying here a while.”

He dropped his long
legs to the floor. "I thought you were just passing through.”

“Well, I’m not sure
yet,” she said. “I hope to be on my way soon.”

Wade tapped a finger on
the desk. “What does it matter what’s printed in the paper anyway?
It's just a few details they got wrong. It'll all be forgotten by
tomorrow."

"But people think I
drew a gun on Virgil when I wasn't even carrying one. It says I
sent them all scattering like a flock of frightened chickens. What
if this causes more problems for me? I can’t imagine Virgil will be
too pleased when he reads it. If he can even read."

"The editor just
stretched the truth a bit, that's all,” he replied. “Besides, folks
in Dodge don't care about a minor incident like this. It's just
another ruckus to them."

"Minor incident? There
was gunfire…and running and screaming."

He chuckled. “Now who’s
stretching the truth?” Wade stood and walked to the window. "Nobody
pays much attention to this paper anyway,” he said. “The editor's a
strange one. Folks around here read
The Times
for the real
news."

Jessica sat down on the
edge of the desk. Wade glanced at her briefly, then looked down as
if he mulled over what to do. "I'll tell you what-I’ll talk to
Gordon today. I'll see that he gets his stories straight about you
from now on."

"Thank you, Sheriff,”
she replied, rising to her feet. “And while I'm here,” she added,
not quite ready to leave just yet, “has my reward arrived?"

She wasn't sure how
long it would take to find a way home, and some ready cash would
come in handy.

"Not yet. It'll take a
few more days, at least."

"You'll let me know
right away?"

"Of course."

Wade crossed the room
and began sorting through some papers on a small wooden cabinet.
His long fingers moved one page aside, then another. Jessica found
herself staring transfixed at those big, rough, callused hands. She
knew they were a killer’s hands, yet at the same time she
remembered how gently he had stroked the lace on the dress she was
wearing.

Jessica lingered a
moment, watching him work, then noticed a few bullet holes in the
wall over his head. "How did they get there?" she asked, pointing
at them.

He glanced in the
direction of her outstretched finger. "Left Hand Lou."

"The man who was shot?”
She quickly corrected herself. “I mean, the man I shot?"

Those clever blue eyes
fixed intently on hers. "The same."

"What happened?"

Wade carried the papers
to his desk and sat down. "I had him locked up, but one of his pals
came in and busted him out. He fired three shots. Two bullets hit
the wall, and the other got me right here." He pointed to his left
side, just below his rib cage. “Don't remember much after that.
They got away, and I woke up on a table at Doc's place." After a
pensive pause, he added, "You did me a favor. I was tracking Lou
for a while."

“Is that how you
usually thank someone for doing your dirty work?” she asked. “By
locking them up?"

His lips inched into a
slow, tantalizing grin that made her go weak in the knees. "Tell
me, Junebug…how did you
want
to be thanked?"

She squirmed inwardly
at the wild rush of excitement. "You could have been nicer."

"Nicer."

"Yes." She raised an
eyebrow.

He leaned forward over
the desk. "If I had locked you up 'nicely,' you would have been
happier with me?"

She considered it for a
heated moment. "Well, maybe not. My point is you didn't have to
lock me up at all, because I didn't do anything wrong, and you knew
it."