Tempting the Marshal: (A Western Historical Romance) (Dodge City Brides Series Book 2) (5 page)

“Yes, I’m going to be fine, but I don’t think I’ll be gathering any eggs for a few weeks. I’m going to need you to take over some of my chores.”

Leo considered that a moment, then sat up straighter. “I can do everything. Don’t you worry about a thing, Ma. I’ll take charge.”

“Thank you, Leo. Matilda and I will be sure to depend on you.”

He smiled proudly, then his dark brows rose with excitement. “It must have been some gunfight. The marshal got shot, too, and he’s all bandaged up.”

“You saw him?” Jo asked worriedly, then she tried to sound casual and unperturbed. “What in heaven’s name did you talk about?”

“I asked him if he saw you get shot, but he said he didn’t.”

Matilda gazed at a framed sketch on the wall. “I didn’t like the look of that lawman. There was something about him…”

“Oh?” Jo questioned.

“I’m not certain what it was. Perhaps the way he asked my name. As if I were some sort of criminal.”

Jo shifted, trying to ease the pain in her back from lying still for so long. “Don’t fret, Matilda. I believe he’s suspicious of everyone. He told me quite plainly that he was inflexible and that Dodge would soon learn he was in charge.”

Matilda adjusted the small, round spectacles on the bridge of her nose. “Just what our town needs—another power-hungry man running things. What’s his background?”

“All I know is that he’s Zeb Stone’s brother-in-law. That’s how he got the job.” Jo wished she knew more.

“Strange. I hadn’t heard anything about that. Whatever happened to Marshal Peavy?”

“I don’t know. When he rode out to check on us a few weeks ago, he didn’t mention anything about leaving Dodge, although folks have been saying that ever since he took a bullet in Caldwell last year, he’s been wanting to retire to California.”

Leo broke in. “What’s everybody so surprised about? I knew Marshal Collins was coming to town. I saw Zeb Stone on the McCaffrey land the other day when I was fixing the fence. He came over to talk to me.”

Jo winced at the sound of Zeb’s name on her son’s lips. “You didn’t tell me about that.”

“Sorry, Ma, but you didn’t ask. You haven’t asked about much lately.”

It was true, and she regretted having become so obsessed with Zeb, that she had neglected the person she loved more than anything in the world. She tried to hide the fact that she was shaken, and got straight to the heart of the matter. “What did Mr. Stone say to you?”

“Nothing much, except that he was on his way to the depot to meet the new marshal.”

“That’s all? You didn’t bother him with any questions about your pa, did you?”

For the past six months, Jo had tried to keep a low profile and steer clear of Zeb’s watchfulness, but Leo’s newfound interest in solving his father’s murder had become such a dangerous problem it had driven her to desperation.
Good Lord, what was she going to do about all this?

“No, ma’am.” Leo lowered his gaze.

Jo’s head was pounding. She knew Leo must have said something and was afraid to tell her.

Matilda gave Jo a nod. “We best be getting on home. Your mother needs her rest.”

Leo moved forward to hug her.

“Be a good boy for Mrs. Honeyworth until I get home,” Jo said, patting Leo’s back and trying to keep her voice from quivering around the lump forming in her throat. Oh, she missed him so terribly much, and he was becoming a man so fast, changing every day, it seemed. She didn’t want to let him go.

“I will.” He gave her a carefree smile that only a child could muster, then walked to the door.

Matilda leaned down and kissed Jo on the forehead. When the door swung closed behind them, Jo looked at the window. Through a crack in the closed curtains, she could see the first glimmer of dawn, but sadly, the new day did not carry with it new hope.

* * *

With the morning sun uncomfortably hot on his back, his cane in hand, Fletcher limped down a Front Street boardwalk to get some breakfast. He could feel the curious stares from the townsfolk, ladies standing around with parasols, shopkeepers and barbers gathered in groups at their windows, chatting quietly. People wanted to get a look at the new marshal who had
fainted
in the middle of his first gunfight in town.

Fletcher clenched his jaw. What a circus. Now he had a reputation to fix. Hobbling around Dodge like a wounded dog didn’t exactly strike terror into the hearts of the local criminal element. He tugged the brim of his Stetson down over his forehead to cover the bandage and wondered if he could manage without the cane.

When he reached the Dodge House Hotel, he walked into the wallpapered dining room, removed his hat and chose a table by the window to watch for Deputy Anderson and his posse.

“You must be the new marshal,” the dark-haired waitress said, approaching. She carried a silver coffeepot and a newspaper, which she promptly set down on the white tablecloth. “Pleased to make your acquaintance. I’m Gert Bezel. My husband owns the place. Coffee?”

“Yes, thank you.”

She turned over the flowery china cup already placed in front of him and poured the coffee. “It’s a downright shame what happened to you last night. I saw them carry you off to the doctor. You looked like a big sack of flour. Most people thought you were dead.”

Fletcher felt his cheeks grow hot. “I’m still breathing.”

“Mr. Stone’s done so much for Dodge. It’s a pity he was robbed like that.”

“He’s a good man, for sure.”

Mrs. Bezel smiled warmly, but Fletcher knew he had some fancy footwork to do if he was ever going to regain confidence in this town. He leaned his cane against the dark wood wainscoting under the window.

“What can I get for you this morning?” Mrs. Bezel asked.

He ordered a plate of fried eggs, bacon and cornbread, and when Mrs. Bezel took her leave, he flipped open the newspaper, but the front page headline turned his appetite sour.

Frontier Fun

Dodge City’s Newest Marshal

Swoons at Gunpoint

Fletcher dropped his forehead into his hand and read on.

Last evening, Zeb Stone’s Dry Goods Store was held up by the man citizens are now calling “Six-Shooter Hank, Scariest Man Alive.” Marshal Fletcher Collins took one look at Hank and gracefully retired to the floor, not forgetting to introduce his head to the glass cabinet on the way down. For a few confused moments, it seemed as if the coroner and undertaker might have something to do, but a closer examination of the town’s new guardian revealed he was merely resting his eyes. Collins continued his nap while gunshots flew freely in the street, injuring Mrs. Josephine O’Malley, wife of murdered rancher, Edwyn O’Malley. Six-Shooter Hank made off with unknown amounts of cash and a posse on his tail. Marshal Collins has awakened from his nap and sources say he is recovering affably.

Fletcher leaned back in his chair and gave up trying to control his temper. He clenched his fists and hoped he’d be able to find a lead soon—anything to help him catch that outlaw.

Just then, four men on horseback rode into town, Deputy Anderson bringing up the rear.

Hopes rising, Fletcher slid his chair back and took his hat with him to the front door. “Anderson, any luck?”

The deputy walked his horse to the hitching rail. “Afraid not, Marshal. Didn’t find a trace of anything.”

“Did you talk to any of the cowboys out on the range?”

“Sure did. Nobody’s been bragging about a gunfight, but I reckon nobody wants to be a rat, either.”

Fletcher removed his hat and pulled the bandage off his head. With the posse’s failure, it was up to him now, so he decided right then and there that he would spare nothing to catch Six-Shooter Hank. Fletcher’s tarnished reputation depended on it. And as far as Hank being the scariest man alive? Well, Fletcher would just have to see about that.

Chapter Five

Growing more irritated by the minute, Jo slapped yesterday’s newspaper down on the bed. Marshal Collins had probably read the front-page headline and spent every waking hour since the alleged robbery trying to capture Six-Shooter Hank.

Six-Shooter Hank! Didn’t people have anything better to do than invent nicknames for criminals who had no business with fame?

She tapped her hand repeatedly on her leg. Her criminal disguise had been nestled beneath a public privy floor for two days, just waiting to be discovered by a disgruntled city marshal. She huffed in exasperation. Where was the doctor? He said he’d be in this afternoon to change her dressing and check her wound before releasing her. It must be past three by now, and she had to retrieve her bag and sneak it back home before anyone found it and turned it in.

Finally she heard footsteps in the hall and the door opened. “Good afternoon,” Mrs. Eisenbein said, walking in with a lunch tray. “How are you feeling?”

“I’m feeling fine. I’m ready to go home, if the doctor would complete his examination—”

“Yes, yes, I understand. The doctor will be in after he’s seen his patients.”

“His patients? Are there many out there?”

“A few.” She set the tray down on Jo’s lap and began to spoon-feed her the hot broth.

“How long will it take him? Because I really have to be on my way—”

“Open up,” Mrs. Eisenbein said, not waiting for Jo to finish. Before she knew it, she was swallowing the hot, salty-tasting liquid.

Just then, Jo looked up to see Marshal Collins standing in the doorway, his walking stick gone, his bandage removed.

Her insides whirled with alarm as she stared at him. He wore a clean white shirt and black vest, his black leather gun belt buckled loosely on an angle over his narrow hips. Jo eyed the shiny silver bullets, each with their own tiny pocket on the belt, and imagined those dangerous hands meticulously inserting each bullet while he imagined all the gruesome ways he would like to settle the score with Six-Shooter Hank.

Mentally shaking herself to force the disconcerting image away, she sank back onto her pillow, hoping he wasn’t here with her disguise already in hand.

“Is the patient giving you trouble, Mrs. Eisenbein?” he asked.

Jo wasn’t sure if he was joking or not. He wasn’t smiling.

Mrs. Eisenbein, on the other hand, grinned and set the silver spoon into the bowl. “No, Marshal. She’s just anxious to get home, is all, and the doctor hasn’t tended to her yet.”

Holding his tan-colored hat in his hands, the marshal leaned at his ease against the doorjamb. The steel badge pinned to his vest flashed brilliantly, reflecting sunlight from the open window. “Well, maybe I can speed the good doctor up a little. I’ll just threaten to polish his head with my six-shooter.”

Mrs. Eisenbein chuckled, but Jo was less inclined to see the humor. She was too busy trying to think clearly while battling her rapid pulse.

“And how are we feeling today?” the marshal asked, directing his gaze straight through her.

“Fine, thank you, Marshal. Any luck catching that outlaw?”

“Six-Shooter Hank? Not yet. But I’ll get him.”

Not if I keep my wits about me.
“Did the posse come back?”

“Yep, but they didn’t find anything. I’m not through with this yet, though. A man couldn’t disappear into thin air.”

“No, of course not. Could I have some more soup?” Jo asked Mrs. Eisenbein, trying to change the subject.

The woman gathered up the bowl and began feeding Jo again.

“So what’s the hurry?” Marshal Collins asked, crossing one brown leather boot over the other. “If I’m going to convince the doc to see you before his other patients, I’d better have a good reason.”

“Tea, please?” Jo asked.

“You don’t like to answer questions, do you?”

She glanced up long enough to get the impression he found her responses frustrating, which was only natural, she decided. She
was
avoiding his questions. “I’m hungry and I’m in a hurry to get home to my son, who is probably taking years off Mrs. Honeyworth’s life as we speak.”

“They expecting you for supper?”

“Yes, and Mrs. Honeyworth serves it precisely at six.”

“Well, we’d best get you on your way, then.” He leaned back to peer down the hall. “Doc should be done soon.”

Jo tried to sip her tea delicately, but was annoyed to find she couldn’t stop her fingers from trembling. In the silence of the room, the fine china cup rattled against the saucer.

Self-consciously, she glanced up at the marshal and saw that he was watching her. What would he do if he knew he was staring at the person who had caused that ugly lump on his forehead and the scar on his thigh?

She glanced at that thigh, able to see quite clearly the broad expanse of muscle, the hard contours beneath his trousers. He was a large man and a strong one. No wonder Zeb wanted him as the city marshal.

She cleared her throat, telling herself to keep her eyes to herself, stop jiggling the teacup like a dunderhead, and get out of there and back to the privy.

“Just so you know,” Marshal Collins said, interrupting the uncomfortable silence, “we’ll be spending some time together this afternoon. I rented myself a buggy and I’m going to take you back to your ranch myself.”