Mail Order Prairie Bride: (A Western Historical Romance) (Dodge City Brides Book 1) (33 page)

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TAKEN BY THE COWBOY

(Dodge City Brides Series – Book 3)

HERO AND PROTECTOR

Former bounty hunter, expert gunslinger, and the toughest sheriff Dodge City has ever known, Truman Wade is a real man from the tip of his black Stetson right down to his spurs and leather boots. He’s never met his match in a gunfight, but he’s never met a gorgeous, gutsy woman from the twenty-first century either…

TORN BETWEEN TWO WORLDS

Newly single after a rocky breakup with her self-absorbed fiancé, newspaper columnist Jessica Delaney crashes her car in a lightning storm and soon finds herself dodging bullets in the Wild West. Before the night is out, she’s tossed in jail for a murder she didn’t commit, and if things don’t seem complicated enough, the impossibly handsome sheriff in charge of her arrest has danger written all over him—and a sexy swagger to die for. Jessica knows she needs to get home, but when Sheriff Wade’s enticing touch sets her passions on fire, she begins to wonder if fate has other plans for her, and soon she must choose between the life she longs for in the future…and the greatest love she’s ever known.

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Excerpt from

TEMPTING THE MARSHAL

Dodge City Brides Series – Book 2

Copyright © 2012 by Julianne MacLean

Chapter One

Dodge City, Kansas, 1876

Josephine O’Malley’s stomach clenched tight with panic as she peered through the night along the dusty street, watching for potential witnesses. She couldn’t let anyone recognize her in these clothes that had once belonged to her husband, God rest his soul. Especially after she pulled the trigger.

Fighting to keep calm, she opened her long slicker and palmed the walnut handle of her Colt .45—the handle her husband had worn smooth over the years. Her boots tapped lightly over the aging planks along the boardwalk, while her spurs chinked a slow rhythm. Music from a tinny saloon piano across the street seemed muffled beneath the erratic pulse that drummed in her ears, but she continued on, soberly watching the mannish lines of her shadow as she passed under a hanging lantern.

When she finally stopped outside Zeb Stone’s Dry Goods Store, she took a deep breath and tried to relax. Over the past six months, raw fear had compelled her to learn how to handle her late husband’s guns, preparing for this day, should it come. Hadn’t she pictured this moment over and over in her mind, wanted it, known it was necessary? Wasn’t it supposed to be filled with righteous determination?

Instead, she looked up at the huge painted sign bearing Zeb’s name and felt only a sickening knot of intimidation and a horrible surge of dread. She’d never killed a man, never thought she could. It went against everything she ever believed in.

But she had to do it now.
Didn’t she?
She couldn’t stand by and watch her son, Leo, choke to death in a noose like her husband. Leo had been poking around the finer details of his father’s murder lately, and Zeb, with his cold, black heart, was beginning to take notice.

No, the time had come for Jo to face Zeb once and for all. The law had done nothing to help her. If she was going to protect Leo now, she had to help herself.

Jo raised the red bandanna over her nose. As she reached for the brass doorknob, her hand trembled. She pulled it back and paused to fight the pulsing knot in her stomach, then pushed the door open. Bells clanged as she made her way quietly across the threshold.

Zeb Stone stood behind the counter wearing a black waistcoat and starched white shirt. His black bowler hat rested on the counter. His head was down as he scrawled in a notebook.

“We’re closed,” he said, his voice flat with disinterest. “Come back tomorrow.”

Jo shakily drew one of her weapons and held it with both hands in front of her. Anxiety spurted through her, but this was not the time for doubt or hesitation. It would take a cool head to carry this through.

She crossed the room in three swift strides, stopping at the glass counter and breathing fast with panic. She shoved the barrel of her gun against her enemy’s shiny forehead.

Zeb’s fearless gaze rose to meet hers. The familiarity of those black eyes sent a hideous chill through her. “You’re out of luck,” he said, not recognizing her face behind the bandanna. “The money’s already gone to the bank.”

“I didn’t come here for money,” Jo replied in a calm, low-pitched voice, but inside, her heart was beating a breakneck rhythm.

“What do you want, then? Supplies? I’d best warn you, mister, nobody steals from me and gets away with it.”

Jo stood motionless. So much of this did not seem real. It was as nightmarish as tossing that handful of earth on poor Edwyn’s casket.

She swallowed hard as a wave of desperation washed through her. She had to see this through no matter how terrible it seemed. Finish it once and for all.

She touched her thumb to the hammer of the gun and felt her insides lurch with dread. “Are you ready to die, Zeb Stone? Because I’m here to send you to hell, where you belong.”

* * *

Marshal Fletcher Collins led his horse to the Dodge House Hotel and flipped the soft leather reins around the hitching rail. He reached into his shirt pocket for half a carrot and stroked Prince’s warm muzzle. “Here you go, boy. I might be a while. I gotta make the right impression my first night on the job, if you know what I mean.”

Fletcher stepped onto the boardwalk, nodding to the cowboys sitting on the hotel steps. “Howdy, boys. Mighty fine evening.”

One man tipped his hat. “Welcome to Dodge, Marshal Collins. Headin’ down to the Long Branch for a drink?”

“Not tonight. I’m on duty.”

One of them called after him. “That never stopped Marshal Peavy from filling his holster!” The other two exploded with rowdy laughter.

Fletcher stopped and turned around. The laughter quickly died. Straightening his black Stetson, he continued on his way.

A buckboard wagon rumbled by, lifting a cloud of dust. When the clatter of hooves faded into the night, Fletcher listened with a keen ear to the hoots and hollers from the dance halls across the street, the boisterous banjo music, the laughter and foot stomping.

He passed in front of Meuller’s Boot Shop and glanced through the dark window. Looked quiet. In fact, he probably shouldn’t be wasting his time over here in the business district. He should be enforcing the gun ordinance over in the
Comique
, where there was bound to be some fool packing iron.

Fletcher paused on the boardwalk for a moment, then decided to finish this block. He walked by Zeb’s store and glanced through the window, but tensed when he saw Zeb—backed up against the wall with his hands in the air, facing an armed robber.

Fletcher hugged the brick wall just outside the door and drew his Peacemaker. He checked the cylinder for bullets, then clicked it shut and peered inside again. The thief looked like he was just itchin’ to shoot.

Fletcher took a deep breath. No
do-si-do
for him tonight. Dodge City was a trial by fire for the new marshal, and he sure didn’t aim to get burned.

* * *

With growing panic, Jo stared into Zeb’s dark eyes and rubbed the clammy pad of her index finger over the trigger. She clenched her teeth together. She
had
to do this.

He paled visibly, perhaps realizing she meant business. “You won’t get away with this. I have friends who—”

“I know what kind of friends you have. They’re gutter swine.” Jo pressed the barrel of the gun harder against his forehead. He squeezed his eyes shut, not so fearless now. It was a moment of terror he greatly deserved after all the pain he’d caused others.

A film of perspiration appeared around his dark mustache, but his voice remained calm. “I’ll give you anything you want. Just don’t shoot.”

Good Lord! She couldn’t do this! But what choice did she have?

Zeb cautiously opened his eyes.

Just then, the door flew open and slammed against the inside wall. The doorbells clanged and clattered to the floor.

Without thinking, Jo drew her second weapon. She aimed it at the flash of movement in her peripheral vision, hearing the man’s commanding voice before she could focus on him. “Drop the gun!
Now!
”

With a heavy weapon in each hand, Jo glanced back and forth from one opponent to the other. The stranger moved closer. She saw his black Stetson and his long brown coat open in front, but it was the barrel of his gun that held her attention—a small black hole pointing directly at her.

“I said drop it!” he yelled.

“You drop it, or I’ll kill him,” Jo replied, deepening her voice as best she could without it breaking.

“Do that, kid, and you’ll be waiting in line for a coffin.”

Perspiration dampened Jo’s forehead. Her bandanna began to slide down her nose. If it fell, she’d be done for. “This ain’t your fight, stranger.”

“I own every fight in this town.” He opened his coat to reveal the steel badge pinned to his brown leather vest.

Jo’s stomach did a sickening flip. Who in tarnation was this man? She’d been counting on Marshal Peavy taking his early evening nap in the jailhouse. She’d assumed this stranger was one of Zeb’s men.

Feeling her fate grow more precarious by the minute, she gave the marshal a more mindful once-over, concentrating on his face this time to see what she was up against, what manner of man could aim a gun at an opponent who held
two
of them—one in each hand—and still be as heartily confident as the day was long.

To her dismay, he was calm—too calm—and his bold self-assurance made her teeter alarmingly on her already unstable courage.

He must have been watching her carefully, because he seemed to know that she was faltering. He took another slow step closer and spoke in a subtle Texas drawl that crumbled her grit to dust. “I’m the new marshal, kid, and my patience is dyin’ fast. Either drop both guns now, or prepare to meet your maker.”

She glanced back at Zeb and saw a bead of sweat trickling down his cheek.

The lawman took a few steps sideways toward the counter, his movements smooth and fluid. “I can see you don’t want to kill anyone. Now do the right thing and lower your weapons.”

Jo’s mouth went completely dry at his gentle command. Her palms were wet and slipping on the handles of the guns. She didn’t want to die and she certainly couldn’t go to jail, not with Zeb alive to kill her son. But this man was right. Somehow he knew she wasn’t a killer, and his calm presence was stirring something inside her—something she didn’t want stirred.

Was it shame? Or was it compassion for a coldblooded killer who did not deserve it?

Strangely, she found herself backing away, lowering her arms to her sides. She could not fight this man, this unexpected intruder. It was time to surrender.

The lawman moved forward, his gun still fixed on her, his green eyes flickering with reassurance. Something in his expression spoke to her.
You’re not a killer,
he seemed to say, without uttering a word. The oddness of it all made her feel weak and dizzy.

She had done the right thing, she told herself. She had to stay alive for Leo. He was only eleven years old. He needed her.