Tempting the Marshal: (A Western Historical Romance) (Dodge City Brides Series Book 2) (16 page)

He stood facing her flushed cheeks and full lips and heaving breasts, felt an irrepressible surge of heated attraction, and somehow managed to utter, “Do you know the exact date Hennigar was murdered?”

He wasn’t at all happy about the fact that he was flustered.

“It was last year, in early January.”

Fletcher flipped through the files, squinting through the dim, flickering light, pulling papers out one by one, but he found nothing. “Are you sure?”

“Yes, but you can’t find the report, can you?”

“Give me a minute. It might have been—”

“Misfiled. Just like Edwyn’s report. What a coincidence.” She sat down at one of the desks.

Fletcher soon gave up and closed the heavy drawer. “Okay, there’s definitely something going on here, and I want to get to the bottom of it.”

“What will you do?”

Fletcher paced the room and considered the situation, then began to untie Jo’s hands. “I’ll agree with you on one point. If Mrs. Hennigar
was
killed because she witnessed her husband’s murder, you might be the killer’s next matter of business once this investigation gets going. It’s my job to see that you’re safe. Come with me.”

Fletcher held out his hand and she slipped hers into it. Judging by the intense shudder he felt as he closed his fingers around hers and held them tightly, he would have to dig deep tonight for the strength to stay true to his principles.

Chapter Fourteen

Fighting nervousness, Jo followed Fletcher to the door. “Keep your head down,” he said to her, “don’t make eye contact with anyone. I’ll walk behind you about ten paces, keeping watch, and I promise I won’t let anything happen to you.” He stopped and faced her. “You look scared.”

“I
feel
scared.” But was it because she had to walk through town in this disguise, or was it a reaction to the sudden change in her alliance with Fletcher? He was suddenly bending the rules for her, acting as her protector instead of her jailor.

“Don’t worry, you’ll be fine. All you have to do is walk straight to Jensen’s Boardinghouse and don’t look back.”

“I can’t ask for a room. The Jensens know who I am.”

He placed a key into her palm. “Go straight to room number twenty-three on the second floor and let yourself in.”

“Is that where you live? At the boardinghouse?”

Fletcher lowered the wick in the lamp and the room went black. “I wouldn’t call it
living
, but it serves its purpose. Let’s go,” he said, his voice cool and authoritative.

“What about the horses?”

“I’ll lead yours to the stable behind the boardinghouse. Now, get going.”

“You’ll be right behind me?”

“Of course.”

She passed him in the doorway, her body brushing lightly against his, then she quickly descended the stairs on the outside of the building, stopping at the bottom when she heard Fletcher say, “Not so fast. You don’t want to look like you just robbed the livery.” The keys jingled as he locked the door behind him. Jo couldn’t stop herself from looking up at his dark, imposing figure on the stairs. Above his head, in the night sky, clouds changed shape and dissolved like smoke from a chimney.

“You’re wasting time.” He dropped the keys with a
clink
into his vest pocket.

Quickly turning on her heel, Jo buried her hands in her pockets and, with the moon lighting her way, crossed over the railroad tracks and headed west on Front Street. Cowboys and businessmen lined the boardwalks in front of Hoover’s saloon and the Long Branch. Alert and listening for the sound of Zeb’s voice somewhere in one of the small crowds, Jo forced herself to move with an air of calm.

She walked past the post office and saddle shop, keeping to the middle of the street, but once she turned up Third Avenue, she couldn’t help but quicken her pace. By the time she arrived at the boardinghouse, her pulse was racing. Head down, she went inside.

She took two steps at a time to the second floor, glancing quickly at the brass numbers on each door. Reaching room number twenty-three, at the very end of a narrow hall, she inserted the key into the keyhole. The lock clicked and the door creaked open. Wasting not a single second, she went inside, shut the door behind her and leaned against it, unable to see anything through the darkness.

Just then, a knock sounded, and Jo nearly leaped out of her skin. She cleared her throat to lower her voice. “Who is it?”

“Fletcher. Open up.”

Relieved, Jo let him in, then closed the door again.

“You made it in one piece,” he said.

“Yes. Now what?”

He crossed the room and closed the curtains. “We get some light in here.”

Jo removed her coat and looked around the room while Fletcher replaced a blackened glass chimney onto the kerosene lamp next to the bed.

“Don’t you own anything?” she asked, seeing empty surfaces everywhere she looked.

“I travel light. Makes it easier to do what I have to do.”

“And what’s that?”

“Be a lawman. I can’t get bogged down with stuff. Makes it too hard to leave a place, and I like to go where I’m needed.”

She wandered around the room, still looking. “If it weren’t for Zeb Stone, we wouldn’t have so much
need
for new lawmen.”

Fletcher set the matches down on the bedside table, then moved swiftly and purposefully toward Jo. Startled by his fast approach, she backed up against the wall until she couldn’t back up any farther and he was standing mere inches from her, grabbing hold of her wrists.

“What are you doing?” she asked. He was so close, she could feel his breath on her face.

He whirled her around and sat her onto the bed so quickly, she didn’t have a chance to object. “Lie back.”

Then he climbed on top of her, straddled her hips, and held her arms down, pressed tight to the mattress on either side of her. He held one wrist down with his knee.

“Hey, you’re supposed to be protecting me…
ouch!
That hurts!”

“Sorry,” he said, distracted by what he was doing, and when she tried to discern what, exactly, it was, she realized he was reaching down. His free hand was maneuvering about, fooling around down low as if he were unbuttoning his trousers. Outraged, Jo tried to struggle, but it was difficult to even breath under his weight. “Get off me, Fletcher!”

“You’re not helping things any. Just relax.” He pinned her tighter to the bed.

“I will
not
!”

The next thing she knew, a rope was twisting around one wrist, weaving through the steel bed rail under the mattress. He ran it over the top of her, bound her other wrist, and tied that to the rail on the other side. “I can’t trust you to stay put,” he said matter-of-factly. And I would have tied your hands to the bedframe, but I’m minding that shoulder of yours.”

Jo immediately went still, realizing only then what his intentions had been, and feeling foolish for having thought anything else.

“I can’t risk you making another attempt on Zeb’s life until I know what’s going on,” he continued.

“You’re going to leave me here?”

He pulled the knots tight at her wrists and leaned over her. “You’ll just have to forgive me, because it’s the only place I know you’ll be safe.”

He gazed intently into her eyes for a few seconds. Jo wet her lips and noticed his breath hitch. She felt another unexpected stirring of desire in her belly, hot and quick, and couldn’t move. She was completely captivated by him—by how handsome and manly he was, how he smelled like leather and horse and a hint of shaving soap.

I’m completely at your mercy now, bound to this bed. You could do anything to me that you wanted. You could kiss me hard, tear off my clothes, and have your way with me…

Heaven help her.
Where were those thoughts coming from? It wasn’t like her to think such things, to feel so wantonly aroused by a man. But how long had it been since she had been touched like that? Edwyn, in the
early
years of their marriage, had come to her in the night, but not often after Leo was born, and it was never very passionate. They had later moved to separate beds because of Edwyn’s snoring. At least that was their excuse.

Even so, had she ever wanted Edwyn’s husbandly advances the way she wanted Fletcher’s now? And would she ever not feel guilty about that…about wanting another man?

She tried to focus her thoughts on the matter at hand. “I’ll forgive you if you find something on Zeb.”

“I’ll try,” Fletcher replied, “but…now that I’ve got you here like this, it’s not so easy to leave.” He looked torn, frustrated, his expression dark. All his painstaking discipline seemed to dissolve into nothing as he gazed down at her.

The words barely made it past her dizzied senses. Stunned, Jo stared up at his slightly parted lips, realizing all at once that he was feeling the same pull of attraction she was, and he wasn’t even trying to deny it.

Nothing good could come of this, she thought miserably, then despite her mental warnings and her firm emotional objections, she found herself responding rather breathlessly. “
Don’t
leave, then.”

He considered it a moment, his gaze raking over her face, then his hand slipped slowly into her coat.

Jo’s body began to quiver with excitement at the sensation of his fingers moving over her clothing. He ran his hand along her hip, then he lowered his mouth to hers.

A passionate fluttering began in her belly as his tongue slid between her lips and mingled with hers. Never in her life had she been kissed like this—so slowly and seductively. It was deep and wet and it filled her with wanting.

She should have told him to stop, but she couldn’t help but kiss him back. She wiggled sensually on the bed, her wrists still bound and restricted, when all she really wanted was to be free to touch this man everywhere.

“Untie me,” she pleaded, wanting to hold onto him, to slide her hands under his clothes and feel the full length of his body, heavy upon hers.

He went still, and she thought for a moment he had heard something outside, but when she looked at his face, she saw the conflict of his emotions, and it had nothing to do with anything outside the room. Slowly pulling back, he perched on all fours above her and she knew wretchedly what he thought—that she was just trying to trick him, to seduce him into setting her free.

“I can’t untie you.” He backed away and stood.

“Why not?” She squirmed and her wrists burned painfully under the coarse rope. “You don’t have to
free
me. Just untie me. Temporarily. So we can…” She didn’t know how to say it, exactly.
So I can rip off your clothes and you can make love to me?

Fletcher shook his head. “You’re my prisoner. It wouldn’t be right.” He glanced around the room, the lines on his forehead deep with frustration.

“What’s wrong?” Jo asked, finally lying still.

“The problem with not having any belongings is that you don’t have extra rope around when you need it.”

Jo ground out a grumble, her body still reeling from the curtailment of her desire…from the memory of his hands and lips on her. “Trust me, I’m not going anywhere,” she said. “These knots are as good as steel.”

Once again, she tugged at them, releasing some of her own frustration, but it only served to chafe her tender skin even more. She decided to relax and surrender to an uncomfortable night in Fletcher’s bed.
Alone.

“What are you going to do?” she asked.

He pulled on his coat and settled his hat on his head. “I’m going to talk to Zeb.”

“Oh, that’s smart. You’re just going to walk up to him and ask him if he’s a murderer?”

“Whatever it takes. Try to get some sleep.”

Jo watched him leave the room and close the door behind him. She stared up at the unpainted plank ceiling with the beams exposed, and knew it was going to be a dreadfully long night.

* * *

Standing just inside the door of the smoky Long Branch saloon, surveying the crowd of cattlemen and gamblers who were listening to the five-piece orchestra, Fletcher wondered if he should have dunked himself in the water trough before coming in here. He had work to do, he had to stay focused, but he was still distracted by the memory of Jo’s scent and the seductive sound of her voice and the feel of her lush, passionate body beneath him.

Kissing her had been a big mistake. Now there could be no denying that he wanted her, and that he was conflicted about his responsibilities as a lawman, here in Dodge.

He cleared his throat and walked to the white-paneled bar, leaned on the dark mahogany countertop and shouted over the music. “Zeb been in here tonight?” he asked the bartender, who was standing on a chair, straightening the ornamental rack of horns above the mirror.

“He’s in the back room as usual.”

Fletcher thanked the man and walked toward the back, past the billiard table and coal stove, then pushed open the door to the private gambling room. Zeb and three other men sat around a table under a hanging lantern, their money piled in the center, their cards close to their chests and their chips stacked like small buildings in front of them. Smoke from the tips of their cigars snaked in serpentine streaks toward the ceiling.