Tempting the Marshal: (A Western Historical Romance) (Dodge City Brides Series Book 2) (13 page)

Feeling a fervor in his blood that he couldn’t contain any longer, Fletcher tapped his heels against Prince and started off down the hill, because Mrs. O’Malley—just the idea of her—was pulling him like a magnet.

At the bottom of the hill however, he caught sight of a man walking boldly out of the widow’s house and mounting an awaiting horse.

His stomach dropped. Was this Mrs. O’Malley’s secret lover? The man she had told him about the night she was shot?

For a moment, his heart sank with disappointment, until a closer look at the man made him sit up straighter in the saddle. He reached for the rifle from his saddle scabbard.

This man was no lover. He was Six-Shooter Hank.

* * *

With significant effort, on account of her wounded shoulder, Jo pinned her foot into the stirrup and mounted her horse, Mogie. At least everything was easier without her corset to restrict her movements. She reached for the reins, kicked her heels into Mogie’s firm belly and—with a plan to cut across the fields rather than risk meeting someone on the road—Jo steered him toward the north pasture.

About ten minutes later, as she rode Mogie along a fence, a gunshot shattered the silence. The noise spooked Mogie, who reared up and forced Jo to grab on to the horn for dear life, the muscles in her legs tightening around the frightened animal. Her wounded shoulder throbbed painfully with the sudden strain. Mogie skittered sideways, then bolted across the field.

Another shot rang out. Jo turned quickly to see where the gunfire was coming from, and a mere glance from the corner of her eye told her. She recognized that familiar slicker sailing on the wind and the black hat pressed forward on the man’s head. It was Fletcher.

Shock choked her as she shifted in the saddle, joining Mogie in his flight of terror. She kicked in her heels. “
Yah! Yah!
”

Hooves thundered behind her, then Fletcher shouted, “Stop! You’re under arrest!”

What was he doing here?

They raced across the open fields, the sharp wind stinging Jo’s cheeks and threatening to sweep her hat off her head. There was nowhere to go, nowhere to hide, and Mogie was breathing hard. He wouldn’t last much longer. She was surely done for.

Fletcher was gaining. The drumming hooves grew louder, pounding in Jo’s ears. Was there no way out of this?

He fired the rifle again. Was he shooting at
her
? She hadn’t thought he’d ever killed a man. Would she be his first?

Heart racing with desperation, she knew there was no escape. Mogie wouldn’t make it and she had to do something. Her life and Leo’s safety depended on it. With a muttered oath and hands that shook uncontrollably inside her loose gloves, she pulled her bandanna up over her face and drew her weapon.

* * *

Racing across the darkening fields after searching Mrs. O’Malley’s house and finding no one there—which had come as a relief, because he was worried what Hank might have done to her—Fletcher cursed the outlaw trying to outrun him. What was he doing at the O’Malley ranch and where was Josephine? If that gunman so much as plucked one hair from her head, Fletcher swore he would track him to the ends of the earth.

Fletcher kicked in his heels, but Prince was winded. Damn, he couldn’t lose now.

The outlaw drew his gun, turned in the saddle and took aim. Fletcher steered Prince in an arc, attempting to become a faster-moving target, but it gave the gunman the advantage of speed. The distance between them grew, and Fletcher knew the time for firing warning shots was over. If the rider wanted a gunfight, he was going to get one.

Fletcher reined Prince to a skidding halt, raised his Winchester, shut one eye to take aim, but hesitated. The gunman had lowered his weapon.

Confused, Fletcher watched the rider grow more distant. Hell, if he was going to stop Hank from getting away, he’d have to do it with a bullet and do it fast. He shut one eye, focusing…
don’t
miss, don’t miss.

But the rider disappeared suddenly, out of Fletcher’s sights. The fool had fallen off his horse!

“
Yah!
” Fletcher yelled, dropping his rifle back into his scabbard and breaking into a gallop. The outlaw’s horse was idly trotting away and the man lay motionless on the ground. Fletcher had seen men take spills at that speed before, and most of them didn’t come out of it too happily, if at all. He trotted up to the gunman’s lifeless form and dismounted.

Slowly, cautiously, he approached. The man was sprawled on his back, the red bandanna covering his face, the hat pressed down over his eyes. Fletcher was finally going to get a look at the man who’d destroyed his reputation on his first night in Dodge. He couldn’t wait to drag Six-Shooter Hank to the jailhouse and lock him up where he belonged.

“Hold it!” the outlaw yelled, sitting up and whipping a pistol out from under his coat, pointing it straight between Fletcher’s eyes.

In a flash of movement, Fletcher drew his Peacemaker and took aim. “Here we are again.”

The kid—
he was just a kid, damn it
—didn’t reply. He slowly rose to his feet, never taking his aim off Fletcher. They stood under the moonlight, a few feet apart.

Fletcher’s hand was steady. Hank’s hand trembled.

“I didn’t appreciate that leg wound,” Fletcher said. “It still smarts.”

The gunman nodded.

“Before this gets ugly, I’d like to know what you were doing at the O’Malley ranch,” Fletcher asked.

The kid’s voice was strained, as if he were trying too hard to sound older than he was. “Drop your gun.”

“Not a chance.” Fletcher rubbed the pad of his index finger over the trigger, ready to fire if he had to, but only if he had to.

“Listen kid, it ain’t worth it. You’re gonna get caught sooner or later. Better to give yourself up now and save yourself a murder charge.”

The kid frantically shook his head.

“It ain’t a suggestion. You’re coming with me, conscious or not. Take off the scarf.”

Without warning, Fletcher’s horse stepped sideways and took his attention for one vital moment. The kid came at him, swinging his gun.

Fletcher knew the move all too well and wasn’t about to get knocked out cold, not by this kid, of all people. Quick as a shot, he raised his arm in defense and swiped the weapon out of Hank’s hand.

Next thing he knew, Hank was coming at him in a tackle. Fletcher maintained his footing against the kid’s surprisingly light weight, but felt a second gun at his hip, so he did the only thing that made sense. He hauled back and punched the kid in the nose.

The squeal nearly struck Fletcher senseless.

While the kid staggered back, holding his nose, Fletcher swung a boot and kicked him off his feet, onto his back with a
thump.
Before the kid had a chance to realize he was seeing stars, Fletcher was on top of him, pinning him down and ripping the second gun from the holster.

Fletcher checked the weapon for bullets, then pointed it at Hank’s face, right between the eyes. “You gonna cooperate now?”

Hank nodded and Fletcher couldn’t wait to get his hands on that scarf. He reached for it, but Hank bit into the fabric and held it in place with his teeth. He was grunting and shaking his head until Fletcher tired of the game and finally yanked with all his might.

The bandanna came loose, Fletcher blinked a few times, then the breath sailed out of his lungs.

* * *

Her nose throbbing unbearably, and with her shoulder in no better state, Jo lay on her back, staring up at Fletcher’s stunned expression.

“What the hell’s going on?” he asked incredulously, swiping her hat off her head.

She’d never been punched in the face before.
God, it hurt!
Adrenaline sped through her veins, causing her to see red. Before she knew what she was doing, she instinctively balled up a fist and walloped Fletcher in the nose. He fell off her, onto his backside, and she was free at last.

Fletcher leaned up on one hand while he cupped his face with the other. Blood seeped between his fingers.

Jo scrambled to her feet. She examined her own hand for blood and found her glove stained crimson. “I’m bleeding.”

“So am I.” Fletcher gently pinched the bridge of his nose. “Hell, you broke it.”

For a moment, they both sat suffering with their own wounds, until Fletcher looked up at her. “Jeez, look what I did. If I’d known it was
you…”
He rose to his feet and tried to take her hand away from her face to assess the damage, but she elbowed him in the ribs.

“Just let me look,” he said, clutching his side. “It doesn’t look broken, thank God.”

At the sight of Fletcher’s bloody nose, which now looked a little crooked, Jo’s fear and fury began to wane. “I didn’t mean to do that to you, either,” she said. “But you had me pinned down, and you punched me! I didn’t like it.”

She touched his face, and he touched hers.

Between the gunshot wound, the fall from the horse, and the sore nose, she felt like she’d been hit by a train.

“Does it hurt very much?” Jo asked, regretting what she’d done.

“Yeah. But I reckon I had it coming.”

“You were just doing your job.”

“It ain’t my job to hit women.”

Jo shook her head and stepped back. “Not even if they’re trying to shoot you?”

He let out a breath of frustration. “What in tarnation were you
doing?”

She’d known that question was coming, and she should have been prepared for it, but she still hadn’t the foggiest idea how to reply. Jo pinched her nose and tipped her head back. “You wouldn’t understand.”

“Try me.” He tipped his head back, too.

How was she to tell this man that if he hadn’t caught her just now, she would be killing his brother-in-law this very night? She could barely believe it herself.

Feeling suddenly cold in the chill of the evening, she flopped onto the ground and sat on her knees.

Fletcher approached and handed the bandanna to her. “Wipe your nose with this.”

Thankful for his caring, she took it and wiped the blood from her face.

Fletcher knelt down before her. “Was it you that night? In Zeb’s store?”

She felt tears pool in eyes, which had been dry for many months, and knew exactly the reason why. This man’s presence was shining an unwelcome light on what she had nearly become—a cold-blooded killer with a future full of remorse. Sadly she nodded.

“Why?”

“I had a reason. I just can’t tell you what it is.”

“You’re putting me in a difficult position, Josephine.”

“I know. Why do you think I tried so hard to outrun you?” The sharp, steely blade of shame stabbed at her, its sting made worse by the fact that it was Fletcher wielding it.

He stared at her for another few seconds, as if contemplating her answer, then rose to his feet. She felt his gaze boring into the top of her head and knew with hopeless dread what was coming.

“Get up, please, Mrs. O’Malley.” His voice was cold and exact.

Jo looked up and saw the regret in Fletcher’s expression. Heaven help her, she could not bear to think of him despising her so deeply. He was a man who valued integrity and the law above all else, and she respected him for that, more than he could ever know. It was precisely why it killed her inside to have strayed so far from his ideals, ideals that had once been her own.

Her heart sank with shame and a desperate need to explain herself, even though she knew it was hopeless. He wasn’t a parent. He would never understand how far she was willing to go—as a mother—to protect her son.

“You’re under arrest for the shooting in Zeb’s store,” he said scathingly. “It was attempted robbery and attempted murder. Of both Zeb Stone…and me.”

Chapter Twelve

Jo rose to her feet to face Fletcher, her skin prickling with horror. “You can’t do this. You don’t understand.”

He wrapped his hand around her upper arm. She began to struggle impossibly against his grip, to pry his iron fingers away, but they wouldn’t budge. He dragged her toward his horse, then reached for his handcuffs while she twisted frantically so that her back was to him while she tried to squirm away.

“Please, Josephine,” Fletcher said, his voice and body straining. “Don’t make this more difficult than it has to be.” He held her around the waist to keep her from slipping free.

Bending and struggling in her husband’s loose clothing only served to make Jo more aware of Fletcher’s hard body, pressed tight up against her backside. “Fletcher, please, listen to me…”

“I can’t let you go,” he said, his voice husky in her ear.

Jo continued to squirm in his hold. The more she struggled, the tighter he held her—until she let out a sob.

Suddenly his grip loosened and her body relaxed.

Then all at once, he was holding her close in an intimate embrace…with the front of his hard body pressed against the back of hers, his arms locked around her waist, his warm breath beating on the nape of her neck. She shut her eyes, wanting to turn around and face him, to wrap her arms around his big shoulders and beg for his help and forgiveness.