Tempting the Marshal: (A Western Historical Romance) (Dodge City Brides Series Book 2) (15 page)

Fletcher’s brows drew together with tension. “Do you know how hard this is for me? You’ve been through so much and I feel…” He stopped himself and looked away. “I wish you had told me all this sooner.”

“I didn’t know if I could trust you. I still don’t.”

He met her gaze again, and she felt like she was falling from a very high place. “I’m just trying to do the right thing, and it’s not easy. If I were a different man, I would let you go. And right now, in this moment…” He ran his hand over the top of her thigh, and she quivered with an overwhelming rush of desire. “I would…”

He stopped himself again, and she wanted desperately to hear him finish.

He rubbed his hand over her leg and went on. “I was coming out to your ranch tonight because…I just wanted to
see
you, Jo. I thought maybe I could invite you to join me for dinner some evening.”

She let out a sigh, knowing the opportunity for something more intimate between them was lost forever. “I would have said yes.”

He gazed up at her for another moment, as if exploring in his mind any possible way out of this conundrum, then he withdrew his hand from her leg. She felt suddenly cold.

Fletcher gathered up the guns they’d dropped during their struggle. He stuffed them into his leather saddlebag, buckled it and yanked it tight, then reached for her horse’s reins. He mounted, and they started off across the dark pasture with only the moon lighting their way.

Jo rode in silence behind Fletcher for a mile or so, until she felt compelled to try one more time to change Fletcher’s mind. She cleared her throat and spoke up. “Is there nothing about Zeb that makes you uncomfortable?”

He didn’t look back. “Being rich and upper-class doesn’t make someone a murderer.”

“Does Elizabeth seem all right?”

Fletcher stopped the horses and turned around. “What are you suggesting?”

Jo shrugged. “If
my
sister was married to Zeb Stone, I’d be concerned.”

“My sister’s smart. She’s a good judge of character, and if there was a problem, she’d come to me.”

“Maybe. Maybe not. Isn’t there
anything
that makes you worry about Elizabeth? A gut feeling?”

“Gut feelings aren’t enough.” Fletcher faced front and continued toward town in silence. Jo’s last hope for his support shattered into a thousand irretrievable pieces.

* * *

Feeling unnerved by Jo’s suggestions about Elizabeth, Fletcher shifted in the saddle. Elizabeth hadn’t exactly been herself since she came to Dodge. There was a time she was more rebellious and free-spirited than she was now, living in Zeb’s big stone house on the hill. But Fletcher had assumed she was still mourning the death of their parents and maybe needed some time to adjust to married life, as any woman would in her circumstances.

The problem here was Jo. She could see through him as clearly as he could see through her, and she was dead right about the gut feeling. Hell, tracking outlaws over the years, he’d learned to use his instincts like a compass, and there
was
something about Zeb that rubbed him the wrong way. Always had been, from the first moment they met, but Fletcher had kept quiet about it because he had faith in his sister, and besides, she was in love with Zeb. He didn’t want to spoil that for her.

But why couldn’t he have confessed that to Jo just now, when she brought it up? He supposed he didn’t want to give her any false hopes that might make all of this more difficult in the end. For her
and
for him.

Prince nickered softly and twitched his ears. There were still a few awkward miles to go, more time for Fletcher to sit and suffer with a throbbing broken nose, beating himself up about this impossible situation.

Again, for some reason, his thoughts floated back to Elizabeth and how strange it was to see her in silk and satin on a daily basis, when she’d always preferred cool muslin, and had made a noisy fuss the one and only time their mother had suggested she wear ornamental combs in her hair.

Not that
that
was any reason to suspect her husband of murder, of course.

Fletcher shook his head. All that aside, there was no denying that he owed it to Jo to uncover the truth. Must he be so hardheaded about arresting her right now, this very minute?

But if he didn’t, she would likely make another attempt on Zeb’s life, and Fletcher couldn’t let her become a murderer. No matter how badly her grief and guilt tortured her, she didn’t have the heart of a killer—that much he knew. He’d seen it in her eyes the night in Zeb’s store.

Struck suddenly by the memory, Fletcher stopped his horse and turned around. “If you weren’t shot by a stray bullet outside the privy that night, who shot you?”

She raised her bound wrists to push a loose lock of hair away from her eyes. “You didn’t see Zeb pull out his gun, and you were unconscious when he fired. I meant to defend myself, but I panicked and missed, shooting you, instead. That’s when he shot me.” Fletcher hadn’t thought to ask Zeb if he’d fired his gun at the outlaw that night, and for reasons that were becoming clearer, Zeb hadn’t volunteered the information.

“So there was never any lover,” Fletcher added, realizing uncomfortably that this was the information he’d been after all along.

“It seemed like a good alibi at the time,” she replied, “especially with my reputation in town. It was the only thing I could come up with. I just wanted to distract you from the truth.”

“You didn’t shoot me on purpose, then.”

“Of course not,” she replied with a subtle smile he hadn’t expected. “I only punched you in the nose on purpose. And that particular business I do
not
regret.”

He saw humor in her eyes and heard it in her voice. Lord, she was one brave lady.

The sentiment made him stare through the darkness at her, her beautiful golden hair hidden beneath a man’s hat, her woman’s body cloaked by the long brown slicker. He had not felt a corset when she’d struggled in his arms earlier. Was there nothing beneath the man’s shirt she wore? Nothing but her bare breasts against the lightweight fabric?

A hot ache began to grow inside of him. Damn, he just couldn’t keep his eyes to himself, could he? He wanted to leap off his horse and pull her down onto the grass, convince her she was not a killer, then slide his hands up under those clothes and feel her soft, warm skin against his. To become the lover he’d imagined her with that night. To do all the things he’d imagined they’d done.

Instead, he bit back the urge and gazed forlornly across the flat, dark plains. The chilly night wind hissed through the grass and brushed over his cheeks. He pulled his collar up around his neck and readjusted the reins in his grip, his urges twisting like a knife inside him.

Fletcher walked his horse up next to Jo’s and decided that maybe it was time, for once, to relax the rules a little. “Who are these other people you think Zeb murdered?”

* * *

Jo sat back in the saddle and let out a deep breath of relief. Whatever his reasons, Fletcher was willing to listen.

“It happened about a year before Edwyn died. A man named Hennigar was killed by horse thieves, and when his wife reported everything to the marshal, she told him that one of the killers looked like Zeb Stone. The marshal questioned Zeb, who of course had an alibi, but a few days later, Mrs. Hennigar was found dead at the bottom of her stairs. People thought she’d been so devastated by her husband’s death, she’d taken her own life. Then the marshal who questioned Zeb was killed in the line of duty. Zeb had an alibi again, and mostly, people were sympathetic toward him, thinking he was wrongly suspected. I’m surprised you haven’t heard about it. Hadn’t Elizabeth mentioned it?”

Fletcher removed his hat and raked his fingers through his hair. “All that happened before she came here. Maybe she doesn’t know.”

“Most people have forgotten about it, I guess.”

“But
you
haven’t.”

“No,
I
haven’t.”

He gazed away from her, his face turned into the wind, and seemed to be thinking about things. “I can understand how you need to blame someone for your husband’s murder, but maybe you’re making connections where there are none. If Zeb had an alibi, he may be innocent.”

Jo rubbed a finger along her irritated wrist beneath the rope. “It was Zeb, I tell you. Even under the hood, I knew it was him.”

Jo’s heart pounded wildly while Fletcher considered her story. He had to believe her, he just had to….

After a few minutes, he looked into her eyes. “There’s not enough here to arrest him, and certainly nothing even close to what you’d need to convict.” Fletcher put his hat back on his head. “We’d need more proof before anything could be done. A motive at the very least.”

We.
“Would you be willing to help me find that proof?”

“I’d be interested in the motive first of all. Why would Zeb want your husband dead?”

“I wish I knew.”

“What about Hennigar? Did he know your husband?”

“All the ranchers know one another.”

Fletcher crossed his wrists over the saddle horn. “Hennigar was a rancher, too?” Jo nodded and Fletcher sat back, shaking his head. “That’s at least one connection between the murders, but I don’t see how it leads us to Zeb. He has no interests in ranching. He’s a little too
civilized
for that.”

Jo rubbed her wrists again with her middle finger.

“Is that too tight?” Fletcher asked.

“A little.”

He leaned across and untied the rope, then turned her palms up and looked at them. Her wrists were raw and chafed. “Why didn’t you say something?”

“There were more important things to say.”

He blew on the sensitive surface of her wounds. Jo stared transfixed at his handsome face in the moonlight, his eyes closed, his cool breath easing the rope burns. For a moment, she was tempted to lean in and press her lips to his, but the expression in his eyes sobered her intentions.

“This doesn’t change anything, Jo,” he said, his voice rippling with regret.

She pulled her hand away, reminding herself of his sworn duty and fighting to stay true to hers.

He leaned back in his saddle and the wind grew suddenly colder. “I reckon there’s something more than horse theft going on here, but that doesn’t mean I’m going to set you free. You’re still charged with attempted murder, no matter what happens, and I’m going to have to lock you up when we get to town.”

“What about the investigation?”

“That’s
my
job, not yours. Give me your hands.” He wrapped the rope around her wrists again. “I’ll try not to tie it so tight this time.”

* * *

By the time Fletcher led Jo into town on her horse, the nightly celebrations were in full swing. Music and singing from the vaudeville act in the Comique echoed in the street, and cowboys staggered around in the dust, laughing and hooting and dancing. Fletcher’s watchful gaze always went to their gun belts to ensure they hadn’t forgotten the city ordinance about carrying firearms in town, but usually they were merely swinging half-empty whisky bottles.

Fletcher led Jo around the back of the jailhouse, past the barred window that did not mask the sound of a raspy cough and someone spitting tobacco inside. Feeling more than a little uncomfortable about this, Fletcher dismounted, deciding he would crowd all the men into one cell and give Jo the other cell to herself.

When he helped her down from her horse, he saw that her face was drawn and pale. “Fletcher, if I’m locked up, I’m a fixed target. I have no way to protect myself.”

“Deputy Anderson will stand watch. You’ll be fine.”

“Take me with you.”

“I can’t do that. I have work to do.”

“But isn’t it your job to protect people? I’m in danger. I can feel it.” Her voice was growing more and more desperate to the point of panic.

“You’ll be safe in the jailhouse.” He led her around to the front, but in all honesty, he wasn’t comfortable with the idea of leaving her alone.

“Please, Fletcher. I can’t trust anyone.”

He made a move to go inside but hesitated at the door, his hand barely touching the latch. It was that need to protect her, niggling at him again. He certainly didn’t want to admit it was personal, not to himself or to her, so he made up some foolish, incomprehensible excuse: “If anyone sees you in this disguise, the story will spread like wildfire, and I won’t be able to investigate.” He turned to face her. “So there you have it—I changed my mind. Come upstairs with me.”

She looked so relieved, he thought she was going to throw her arms around his neck and kiss him, all over his face, to thank him. As much as he would have enjoyed her gratitude in a place more conducive to such expressions, he certainly didn’t want her—in
those
clothes—to do it here, when his reputation was already in shambles because of the unfortunate fainting incident. So, for the sake of his reputation, he grabbed her collar in his fist and dragged her along behind him.

They climbed the stairs and went into the office, which was dark and empty. Fletcher lit a lamp, carried it across the room and set it on the tall cabinet. He forced himself to focus on business, and it sure as hell wasn’t easy, now that he had her alone in a dimly lit room with a door that could be locked behind them—if he were inclined to make things more private. For purposes that had nothing to do with his job.