by Layla Chase
He reached the corner of the house and hesitated, listening for any sound that meant his presence had been discovered. With his back against the rough structure, he inched along toward the closest window. Weak light filtered through the grimy glass.
One glance through the window stopped him cold. He clamped his jaw against the primal shout building from deep in his throat.
Across the room, one of the bandits was advancing on Jazzy, lascivious intent written in his every move.
With her blonde hair loose and tumbling around her shoulders, she stood her ground, one hand resting on a cocked hip.
Damnation! He didn't know if he should charge inside and bury his fist in the bandit's face or cheer on her defiant attitude. In the next instant, he felt the cold metal of the doorknob against his palm. Jazzy was in danger and he had to get to her. He forced himself to take deep breaths and release the knob. That was not the solution. While running through several choices, weighing each to determine the safest, he eased back a few steps and positioned himself so he could see inside the room.
The man took another step closer, an arrogant grin displaying missing teeth.
Jazzy put out a restraining hand and her lips moved. With a toss of her hair and a coy look from under her lashes, she flirted with the man and inched her feet backward.
A slow anger burned in Slade's gut. What the hell was going on? Where were the others? And why was Jazzy alone with this bandit? He glanced around the sparsely furnished room and saw the object she must be attempting to reach. The candle stand on the table near the bed made a perfect weapon.
Then her gaze shifted in his direction and her eyes widened.
He connected with the outrage and determination in their depths. Taking a closer look, he spotted her hands drawn into fists and a poised readiness about her stance.
She narrowed her gaze and inclined her head toward the advancing man.
A signal? What was she up to? Slade shook his head.
Her eyes flashed him a look as cold as ice, then she turned all her attention on the man who almost had her penned in. She smiled and her fingers moved to the buttons of her blouse, undoing several.
He studied her face, trying to determine if she needed his help. She didn't look scared or worried about this seductive playacting. In fact, her movements were unhurried, almost as if she moved through a practiced routine. Familiar movements, like he'd seen—Realization hit him hard and he swallowed against a too-dry throat.
This diversion was easy because she'd clearly gone through the motions many times before. He flashed back to the familiar way she'd touched him at the side of the stage stop, to her provocative statements in her conversations with the other women, to her ease in accepting his presence in her room at the boardinghouse. She was a soiled dove ... a fancy lady ... a woman of ill-repute. A woman who operated on the opposite side of the very law he'd sworn an oath to enforce.
He ducked out of sight and dropped his head back against the house. What had he gotten himself into here? Had he been blind because she touched a part of him that had been untouchable for too long? How could he have missed the signs of who Jazzy really was?
The questions bouncing through his thoughts were drowned out by a single one. Did any of that matter?
A shrill laugh sounded from the room. “Oh, what's your hurry? Waiting will make it better."
Slade heard the nervous note in Jazzy's voice and his innate desire to defend her pushed away concerns over her past. He looked over his shoulder and clenched his jaw at how the situation had deteriorated so fast.
Laying across the mattress and supporting himself on his elbows, the man's hooded eyes followed each of Jazzy's movements.
She inched her blouse down her shoulders and sashayed her hips, sliding her feet along the floor.
From this angle, all Slade could see was the wolfish expression on the ruffian's face as he watched each glide of her sensuous hips. Things had gone on long enough.
Slade grabbed the doorknob, ready to charge through the door. With a last glance through the window, he saw a flash of movement.
Jazzy raised the candle stand and brought it down hard on the bandit's head.
He sagged against the bed and lay still.
She stumbled backwards and turned away from the bed, arms wrapped around her stomach.
Had she been hurt? Slade charged through the door and advanced on her. His gaze scanned her body, then narrowed on her pale face.
Her mouth rounded and she moved away until her back met the wall.
He didn't stop until scant inches separated their bodies. “What was that?” His words were ground out through clenched teeth.
Eyes flashing with determination, she raised her chin. “I figured a US marshal would know a diversion when he sees one."
Marshal? He tensed. So she'd learned who he was. They'd discuss that point later. Right now, he had a more important topic.
With steely control, he assumed a casual pose, resting a palm on the wall next to her head. “I knew what it was. I want to know why you put yourself at risk."
The faint scent of jasmine rose from her body. At that moment, the anxiety hit him square in the middle of his chest. This woman meant the world to him. He raised his other hand to grab a fistful of her hair and lowered his lips toward hers. He needed to know she was all right.
* * * *
At the last moment, Jazzy angled her head and felt the onslaught of his bruising kiss on her cheek. Slade Thomas was a lawman, a representative of the law she'd spent years avoiding. How could she be intimate with a marshal?
His lips coaxed and cajoled along her jaw line. The nerves under her skin tingled. She sagged against his hard chest and wrapped her arms around his neck. Slade was really here. He'd come back for her, just as she'd hoped and prayed he would. Right now was the most tempted she'd ever been to kiss a man.
Her doubts over his intentions still pulled at her feelings, confusing her. Had he come back to perform his sworn duty? Or had he come back because he cared about her safety?
He groaned and pulled away, touching his forehead to hers and sucking in a deep breath. “What you do to me, Jazzy girl!"
If she needed proof he'd come back for her, all she had to do was look into the depths of his lusty gaze. Or ... she angled her hips forward and pressed against the bulge of his shaft straining the front of his trousers. Oh, my!
A firm hand cupped her breast and squeezed. His breath was hot on her cheek as he kissed his way up her jaw.
“Ahh, Slade. We can't—” Her nipples drew into tight beads and her right leg circled his, the heel of her boot rubbing the back of his rock-hard calf. Dewy wetness dampened her pantalettes and her hips arched toward the heat of his body. She needed to feel him inside her. Completing what their bodies wanted wouldn't take long.
“Don't talk. Just let me touch you.” His lips tickled her neck and his voice was muffled. “When I came to in the desert and you were gone...” His hand on her breast stilled and he leaned heavily against her.
Something had changed. She sensed it in his touch. Instinctively, she ran a comforting hand up and down his back and tugged at an errant lock of hair that fell over one ear. He smelled of earthy male sweat, dirt and sun. “You found me ... us."
He loosened his hold and stared directly into her eyes, dark brows lowered in a frown. “Jazzy, I came for you."
Goose flesh rose on her arms and her heart sped. “I'm grateful."
A grin hiked up one side of his mouth and then he ran a finger along her jaw. “I'll collect on your gratitude later."
A scuffle and a shout sounded from the other room.
Jazzy stilled, a hand gripping the front of his shirt. “The other women. I almost forgot—"
Slade stepped back and instantly became US Marshal Thomas, his pistol held at his hip and weight balanced on the balls of his feet. He eased open the door and leaned out his head before slipping through the doorway and shoving aside the blanket.
Jazzy pushed in behind him and stopped, her jaw dropping at what she saw.
Feet braced apart and shoulders squared, Sarah Whitfield stood in the middle of the room and brandished a pistol at the remaining two bandits. “Get over in that corner."
Jazzy brushed past Slade and moved further into the room. “Sarah, what are you doing?” At her side, Slade shifted closer. Was he being protective? She wasn't sure, but, in an instant, his body heat infused her with confidence.
Sarah's hand moved in a steady arc until the pistol aimed at their side of the room. A knowing grin stretched her lips. “Ah, Marshal Slade, you're just a little too late. I'm grabbing my bag and getting out of here."
Jazzy couldn't believe what she was seeing. Was this the same woman who'd ridden beside her on the stagecoach? The shy lady who was traveling as a mail-order bride? The one who'd fainted at the thought of abduction? “Slade's here now, Sarah. He's rescuing us. We're all safe.” She moved a step closer, but felt the pressure of Slade's restraining hand on her elbow.
“Jazzy, no,” Slade commanded.
The pistol jerked back and forth, pointing toward the bandits in the corner and then Jazzy. “Stay where you are, Jessimay. All I want is my money."
Slade inched forward. “You mean the bank's money."
A sneer wrinkled Sarah's lip. She grabbed the handles of the satchel she'd kept close all during the trip. “Not any more. Let me see your other hand, Marshal."
Slade shifted his body away, the gun tight along his thigh. “I'm sworn to bring you in. No one wants any problems here. Put down the gun and toss aside the bag."
Sarah jeered and shook her head. “Can't do that."
“Well, I can't believe this.” Prudence's words were scathing. A spoon rattled against the stove and she stomped across the floor, hands on hips. “I've been sharing the stagecoach with a common thief."
In a moment of disbelief, Jazzy wondered what Prudence's reaction would be when the prissy woman learned the truth about her own former occupation. She turned back to Sarah and held out a staying hand to this suddenly brazen woman. “Sarah, you don't even know where we are. How can you get back to town?"
Sarah's gaze flicked over the occupants of the room, the pistol followed a beat behind. “Doesn't matter. All's I care about is holding onto my money and getting away."
A sudden movement blurred in the corner of Jazzy's eye and she saw Sarah spin in reaction.
In the same instant, a shot boomed and a blow slammed into her hip, making her stagger.
* * * *
Instinct pushed Slade into a crouch and he fired, aiming at the spot where he'd last seen Sarah. But quicker than the gun smoke lifted, she'd disappeared out the front door. He allowed himself one rapid scan of the room to check on the others before following his quarry, the bank robber.
Mrs. Harrington cowered by the table, and the bandits sat forward, eyes alert to the new situation.
Slade pointed his pistol toward them. “Don't give me a reason to use this.” He glanced out the door, but couldn't see in which direction she'd fled. “I'm going after Sarah. Jazzy, stay inside.” He glanced over his shoulder to make sure she knew he meant what he said. “Did you hear—"
Jazzy lay slumped against the wall, eyes wide with surprise. A hole surrounded by singed cloth marked her skirt along her left side.
Damn. Had she been hit?
* * *
CHAPTER 10
A hollow cry of denial rose from deep within Slade and he clamped his jaw tight to keep it inside. She couldn't be gutshot. A bullet to the abdomen often proved fatal, even with immediate medical care, which they didn't have here. He strode across the room and dropped to his knees, careful not to bump her. “Jazzy girl, I'm here."
With one sweeping glance, he tried to gauge the extent of her injuries. He'd seen plenty of gunshots in his years of law enforcement, even doctored some. Her arms and legs hung limp and splayed—no broken bones. Her head was angled to the right, probably just from the impact of her landing. Her breathing was rapid, her eyes clenched shut.
God, he needed to touch her. With a hand more shaky than he wanted to admit, he cupped her jaw and ran a thumb over her soft, warm cheek. “Look at me, Jazzy!"
She groaned and her eyelids fluttered.
At the pained sound, his gut clenched. If he'd been in better control of the situation, he'd be the one flat on his back and barely conscious. If he'd waited a moment longer, if he'd done his job right ... He pulled in a breath through tight lips and forced calm into his words. “Jazzy, let me see your beautiful eyes."
She rolled her head to the side and pressed her cheek against his hand. “Slade.” A gasp cut off the single word.
“I'm here.” He slipped his fingers down the side of her neck to check her pulse. Was it too fast? How in blazes could he tell? When he reached to brush away hair from her face, he felt the tickle of her breath against the back of his hand. Keep breathing, Jazzy girl.
Her eyelids flickered and her confused gaze, dark with pain, connected with his. “My side burns like fire."
The knot in his stomach tightened. Seeing hurt shadowing her gaze made his chest ache. “I know, darlin'.” He glanced over his shoulder. “Mrs. Harrington, get me some water and cloth."
The woman stood and shrugged her shoulders almost as high as her ears, hands lifted with palms upwards. “Look around. Where am I going to get cloth for bandages?"
“Damn it, woman.” He gritted his teeth and glared at the helpless female. “Tear the dress off your back if you have to. Just get me some cloth to tend Jazzy's wound.” He cut a glance toward the corner where the men watched him, their gazes calculating. With a flick of his wrist, he raised the pistol to remind them who was still in charge of this situation.
One eye on the bandits, he turned back to Jazzy, and the frustration at having to divide his attention sent his blood racing. He had to help her, but he feared he didn't know enough doctoring.
Her gaze was steady and her chest rose and fell in quick pants. “Slade, go after Sarah. It's your duty.” She struggled to sit straighter, but gasped. Her skin paled and she pressed her lips tightly together. Her hands folded into fists in the folds of her skirt. “I'll be fine."
Not for a moment was he fooled by her attempt to be brave. One look at her strained expression and tensed muscles told the real story. This spitfire was definitely too stubborn for her own good. “You're a terrible liar, Jazzy. And I'm not leaving you."
Mrs. Harrington arrived, carrying a dented pot and a wad of pale green fabric. “Here. This is what I found."
Slade checked on the men, who hadn't moved from their position. Maybe they wouldn't cause trouble, but he couldn't rely on it. His pistol stayed aimed toward the corner. He glanced at the older woman, who was becoming as annoying as a horsefly in July with her inability to take any kind of useful action. “Tear that bundle into strips. Woman, haven't you ever bound a wound?"
Mrs. Harrington grabbed the pale cloth and yanked at it, her cheeks stained an indignant red. “Coughs and colds I can remedy, Mr. Thomas.” She drew herself upright and pursed her lips together. “But I'm a civilized woman from an upstanding family and I'm used to mingling in polite, genteel company. I've never seen or tended a gunshot wound. I really have no interest in learning either.” A shudder ran through her body.
With growing impatience, he watched the woman struggle with the fabric for several moments, then reached for the garment. Wedging an edge between his elbow and his thigh, he pulled hard and was rewarded by the screech of ripping cloth. He handed it back to the woman, then lowered his gaze to Jazzy. “I want to take you into the bedroom—"
“Do you now?” A hint of a grin lifted the corners of her mouth.
He narrowed his eyes at her flirting. “To make you more comfortable. But I can't let those men out of my sight. If I do, all hell will break loose, and we'll have real trouble on our hands.” He'd give anything to sweep her into his arms, carry her into the bedroom, and make her prove
she could give him what her attitude promised. Maybe then his insides would unwind and his chest relax enough to draw a normal breath. “The best I can do is here, on the table."
“Always a first time."
The image of what she suggested flashed across his mind and his blood heated. With that sass, could she be stronger than he'd thought? “Jazzy.” He couldn't stop himself from drawing out her name, like a fading echo.
She rested a hand on his arm, all teasing gone from her eyes. “Stop looking so worried, Slade. You're scaring me."
Her words tore at his conscience. She was more important than bringing in those bandits and the bank robber. With one last look at the room's corner, he scooped her up and held her close to his chest. Adjusting his grip so the bandits could see he still held the pistol, he strode to the table and swept her feet across one end. Forks, cups, and tin plates thudded on the planking, spraying their contents onto the floor. “Mrs. Harrington, grab me something for her head."
The woman scurried to the upended baggage under a front window and started tossing aside the rumpled clothes. Her head jerked up and she stepped closer to the doorway. “Marshal, I hear horses coming."
Slade cursed under his breath and squinted at the clouds of dust rising in the distance. What else could happen? Did he truly need more than a hunted bank robber on the loose in the desert, a woman who seemed useless as a nurse, three bandits just itching to escape, and the woman he loved weakening before his eyes?
His admission of love stopped him. Love? He loved this sassy independent bit of a woman who set his heart pounding? No time to contemplate what that could mean for his future. Their future.
Pushing away those thoughts, he grabbed the wad of green fabric. “Here, Jazzy, press this against your side until it hurts. And keep it there, pushing hard.” With long strides, he crossed the room to the window, shifting his gaze between the bandits and the growing cloud of dust outside. “Mrs. Harrington, go help Jazzy."
