Bodyguards Boxed Set

by Julianne MacLean

  Wendy wrapped a blanket around Jessica’s shoulders and helped her to the top of the stairs. Jessica then limped down on her own while Truman watched from the parlor. He stood quickly, holding his hat in his hands.

  * * *

  TRUMAN HADN’T EXPECTED Jessica to be wearing a nightdress, or to be barefoot. As she descended the stairs with the light of a bracket lamp flickering behind her, he saw her toes peeking out from under the white hem, and the bandages around her ankle. Then he looked up at her face.

  What he saw there, in the compelling depths of her eyes, in the curving line of her lips, was an emotion he didn’t want to see. Disappointment. She was upset that he hadn’t been there to keep her safe.

  It reinforced every doubt he had about his ability to keep any woman safe. He shouldn’t have made that promise. He, of all people, should have known better.

  “You all right?” he asked.

  She limped to the sofa and sat down. Angus and Wendy went into the kitchen. “I’m fine.”

  “Your foot….”

  “I sprained my ankle when they knocked me down.”

  He wrestled violently with a sudden strike of fury when he imagined those ruffians man-handling her.

  “This was my fault,” he said. “I shouldn’t have left you alone.”

  The next thing he knew, he was moving closer, taking a seat beside her....

  He wrapped his arms around her, and she responded by kissing him lightly on the lips, then resting her cheek on his shoulder.

  His blood quickened at the nearness of her, at the softness of her flesh beneath the thin fabric of the nightgown. He cupped the back of her head, then ran his hand down the length of her silky hair to the small of her back, felt her breasts tight against his chest, and couldn’t seem to curb the intensity of his desires.

  He tried to tell himself he shouldn’t be falling in love with her. He was a lawman. He should be suspicious. Skeptical. On his guard. But all those instincts were lost to him now—long gone and irretrievable. If she was lying about what the gang wanted from her, he didn’t care. All that mattered was keeping her safe and to continue holding her like this.

  “Where were you?” she asked. “I tried to find you before I walked here, but no one knew where you went, and the gang came out of nowhere.”

  The trembling in her voice cut him like a blade. “It won’t happen again.”

  “That’s what you said before.”

  “I know. But this time...”

  He looked down at her swollen lip. Ghastly images of what those animals could have done to her slashed through his mind. He imagined what might have become of her had she not been rescued when she was.

  No thanks to him.

  “I don’t know what they’re after,” she said. “They think I have something that belongs to them.”

  He stood up and walked to the fireplace.

  Though she admitted openly to keeping secrets from him, every instinct told him to believe her about this.

  “Think back to the night Lou was shot,” he said. “Do you remember anything at all? Anything unusual?”

  “No, I don’t think so. I walked into town only minutes before.”

  “And you say you didn’t kill Lou, but if his gang thinks you did, that would explain why they think you have whatever it is they want.”

  “Yes.” She slouched back on the sofa.

  He had no idea if he was doing the right thing or not, but he needed to go with his instincts. It’s all he had. “They’re a dangerous bunch. You won’t be safe here.”

  “If not here, then where?”

  “Get your clothes,” he said, barely able to believe what he was about to suggest. “We’re leaving right away.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  * * *

  “WHERE WILL YOU take her?” Angus asked. “If you try to leave town, you’ll be seen.”

  “It’s best if you don’t know where she is,” Truman replied.

  Wendy moved forward. “When will we be able to see her?”

  “Can’t say for sure.”

  Jessica, wearing the clothes she had on when she arrived—her skinny jeans, white blouse, and black, belted jacket—took the leather satchel Wendy handed her, which contained the only two gowns she owned from this century, along with her red stiletto pumps.

  She couldn’t imagine ever wearing those shoes again. The thought made her sigh with regret.

  “Don’t worry,” Angus said. “The sheriff will take good care of you.”

  Jessica hugged them both, then limped out the front door and down the steps in her sensible shoes. She refused help from Truman until it came time to mount Thunder. Then she let him assist her into the saddle. He remained on foot to lead the horse down the street.

  Jessica watched him walking out front. There was a certain absurdity in the fact that she had not yet gotten her mind around his earlier conversation with the redheaded prostitute.

  She had entertained a number of theories, of course, regarding his whereabouts when she was attacked. Most of them involved a lewd image of the prostitute’s squeaky bed and a few wrinkled dollars, which made her want to spit.

  They headed down the street, and Jessica hoped Truman knew what he was doing. Those thugs could be watching them at this very moment. Her stomach churned with anxiety. Thankfully, she saw and heard no one.

  Eventually, he led Thunder between two buildings and toward the back entrance of a saloon.

  “Truman? What are we doing here?”

  He ran a hand down Thunder’s sleekly muscled neck. “This is where you’ll be staying until I get things straightened out.”

  Her eyes scanned the outside wall of the building. “But this is a saloon.”

  “You won’t be staying in the saloon.”

  She looked up at the windows on the second floor. “Then where are you taking me?”

  Truman reached out to help her off the horse. Her feet touched the ground and pain shot up her leg. She stood on her good foot, teetering back and forth to keep her balance, despising the fact that she was in such a weakened state.

  “You’ll be sleeping upstairs,” he explained.

  A tremor of aversion tightened her nerves as she came to understand what this place was....

  Before she could utter a single protest, Truman scooped her up into his arms like an impatient groom on his wedding night.

  “Are you out of your mind?” she blurted out.

  “Probably.”

  “Is this a whorehouse?”

  “Yep.”

  Though more than a little disgruntled, she tried to ignore the casual amusement in his voice so she didn’t attract attention.

  “You can’t just carry me up there like this,” she said between clenched teeth.

  “I reckon you’ve got a point there. Rosalie usually collects in advance.”

  “How would you know?”

  He stopped at the back door and glanced briefly at her. “You’re going to have to keep your voice down, Junebug.”

  “I am keeping my voice down, and stop calling me that. You know I don’t like it.”

  The corner of his mouth curled up a little. “I’ll take you through the kitchen and up the back stairs,” he quietly explained. “I don’t want anyone to see us.”

  Jessica breathed a sigh of frustration as she was shuffled about in his arms like a heavy sack of turnips.

  He struggled to open the door with two fingers, but she kept her arms around his neck, enjoying herself far too much while she watched him toil awkwardly at the task.

  Finally, she reached out and opened the door herself.

  “Thank you,” he said with a hint of sarcasm.

  “There’s no need for you to carry me,” she said. “I can walk just fine.”

  “I’m sure you can.”

  Jessica began to squirm in his arms. “Oh, just put me down. For pity’s sake. You’re making me feel like some silly cartoon damsel.”

  Truman set her down on the floor insid
e the empty back room of the saloon. She kept one hand on his shoulder for support.

  “What’s going to happen when you get me up there?”

  His eyes sparked with curious interest. “What did you have in mind?”

  She had a number of things in mind as she gazed into his irresistible eyes, but she kicked all those raunchy images away. “Just how long do I have to stay here?”

  He rested his hands on his hips in an impatient fashion, then pinched the bridge of his nose. “I don’t know yet.”

  After some thought, she decided it might be wise to simply do as he said and stop thinking about how frustrated she was, in more ways than one.

  Truman started up the back staircase. “Are you coming with me, or do you need me to come back down there and toss you over my shoulder?”

  Chuckling inwardly at how aroused she was by that particular suggestion, she followed him up.

  The narrow, enclosed staircase veered to the right after the fourth step. It was dark, and she had to move carefully on her sore ankle, and run her hand along the wall to judge where she was going.

  When they reached the top, a long hall stretched in front of them with a railing that overlooked the saloon.

  “Stay here,” Truman whispered before he knocked on the first door and quickly opened it.

  After he ensured the room was empty, he gestured for Jessica to follow. She glanced over the railing into the saloon where only a few gamblers and drinkers sat around square tables. It was quiet, except for the sound of some rolling dice at a far table.

  Once Jessica was safely inside the room, Truman shut and locked the door behind them. The floorboards creaked as he moved to inspect the lock on the window and check inside the wardrobe. A single kerosene lamp burned in the corner next to the wrought iron headboard.

  “You’re not to leave this room,” he instructed, kneeling to look under the bed.

  “What am I supposed to do? Just sit around and stare at the wall?”

  What she would give for her laptop and a wireless Internet connection.

  “I’ll get you a book,” he said dryly.

  Jessica limped to the chair, sat down, pulled off her shoe, and began unwrapping the bandages.

  “What are you doing?” he asked, rising to his feet. “Those should stay on.”

  “I need to fix it.”

  He approached and knelt before her. “Then let me help you.”

  With skillful fingers, he took hold of the bandages and rewrapped her ankle. It was another one of those moments when she found it difficult to imagine him shooting anyone.

  After he retied the bandage, he looked up at her. “Is there anything else I can do for you?”

  Yes, you can slide your hand up my leg, and it wouldn’t hurt to kiss me like you did in the boardinghouse .

  “No, I’m quite fine,” she replied.

  “Then get some sleep.” He stood up and held out his hand to help her to the bed.

  But she didn’t want his help—not like that. She wanted something else, and she didn’t want to be alone.

  “Will you stay with me?” she asked.

  A muscle flicked at his jaw while he looked down at her.

  “No,” he finally said. “I can’t do that. But I’ll be in the saloon, where I can watch your door all night. Dempsey will be outside, keeping an eye on your window.”

  It wasn’t quite what she had in mind, but he had a job to do, so she resigned herself to the fact that it would have to be enough.

  A few agonizing seconds ticked by, then Truman turned to leave.

  All at once, before she could stop herself, she stood up and limped across the room to block his exit.

  “Don’t go,” she said. “Stay.” The air between them sparked with electricity. “I don’t want to be alone.”

  “Jessica...” He looked so uncertain.

  Knowing it was a mistake to play with fire like this, she moved closer and laid her open hand upon his chest. “Just for tonight.”

  He drew back to look into her eyes, and his Adam’s apple bobbed.

  God, how she ached to slide her hands inside his shirt and slowly peel it off him....

  “Don’t do this,” he said in a husky voice, heavy with arousal.

  “Why not?”

  “Because you’ll make it too hard for me to protect you. And resist you.”

  She pressed her body close. “Then don’t resist me. I don’t want you to. I just want you to stay for a while.” She slid her hand around his waist. “That’s all I need.”

  An undeniable surge of passion rose up between them, and she felt his breathing grow fast and ragged. Then he cupped the side of her face in a hand, looked down at her lips with ravenous hunger, and roughly pulled her to him, as if he were still trying to fight the potent attraction that pulsed in the air. At last he took her mouth with an almost brutal intensity, smothering her gasp with the delicious, intoxicating flavor of his kiss.

  She met it recklessly, running her hands through his thick hair as he braced her up against the door. Their tongues mingled quickly and hotly, sending a feverish sexual yearning into her blood.

  He kissed the side of her mouth, then buried his face in the crook of her neck and shoulder, kissing the sensitive flesh at her collarbone.

  Jessica tipped her head back while he stroked his thumb along her cheekbone and held her body tight, cupping her buttocks in one hand, thrusting his hips firmly up against hers. As she lifted her knee to stroke the outside of his leg with her inner thigh, she bumped into his leather holster and felt the barrel of his gun.

  In that moment she remembered the situation, and looked down.

  “This isn’t right,” he said, as if waking from a dream.

  He dragged his mouth from hers, while her heart, pounding violently in her chest, felt the loss.

  After a moment or two of agonizing indecision, he stepped back and raked his fingers through his hair.

  “Don’t do this to me,” he said, a muscle flicking at his jaw. “I have a job to do, and you’re not helping.”

  She couldn’t miss the heightened level of his displeasure. “I’m sorry.” She moved away from the door and sat down in the chair. “It was my fault.”

  “No. It was mine, but you should know to keep away from me. Don’t tempt me like that.” He reached for the doorknob.

  “Why?”

  “Because I’m not someone you should get to know real well. I’m bad luck, and I don’t need this. I don’t want this. You shouldn’t either.”

  He pulled the door open, walked out, and shut it behind him.

  Jessica listened. She could hear his boots pounding quickly down the hall.

  She stared at the door, heart racing, breaths coming hard and fast.

  Rising to her feet and limping to the bed, she flopped down and buried her face in the scratchy wool blanket, feeling utterly rejected and frustrated—both sexually and emotionally.

  He said he didn’t want this, but she knew that he did. He desired her. There was no question about that. Something else was holding him back, and whatever it was, she wanted very badly to conquer it.

  But maybe he was right. This whole situation was spinning out of control so quickly. They were two vastly different people from different worlds and different times. He was a gunfighter, a man of violence who lived in a lawless place. She was a woman from the future who loved technology, hated guns, and considered the sexual revolution an historic event.

  She could never resign herself to the idea of hiding her ankles and giving up the right to vote. Besides those things, she couldn’t be happy knowing that she would never see her family again.

  This magnetic pull she felt toward Truman was a powerful distraction, and it was preventing her from finding a way home.

  If there even was a way. What if there wasn’t?

  * * *

  TRUMAN HADN’T GAMBLED in years, but since a drink was out of the question, tonight he was going to lay his money on the table.

&
nbsp; Because of the late hour, there were only a few gamblers in the saloon, so he walked up to the card table and waved the dealer over. He sat at an angle to keep Jessica’s door in view and waited for the first card to be dealt.

  “Didn’t take you for a gamblin’ man, Sheriff,” the dealer said, as he sat down and shuffled the cards.

  “I ain’t.”

  “Feelin’ lucky?”

  “I wouldn’t put it that way.”

  “How would you put it, then?” the dealer asked, snapping each card down.

  “I’d call it deserving of punishment.” Truman leaned back in his chair, every so often glancing up at that door.

  “How’s that now?”

  “It ain’t worth talking about.”

  The truth was, Truman hadn’t talked about anything personal to anyone in the full two years since Dorothy’s death. It just seemed easier to keep it secret. If no one knew what happened, maybe he could forget it too. Pretend that part of his life never existed. He could even forget he’d been married.

  But Jessica—with all her questions—had been pushing him to remember things. She’d been digging up the past. Rousing him when he didn’t want to be roused.

  Was it just physical? he wondered broodingly. It certainly felt that way—like his body was thawing out and yearning for the kind of pleasure he’d not enjoyed in a very long time. He was a man, after all. He supposed he couldn’t deny that forever.

  But was that all it was? His body’s aching need for sexual release and nothing else? If he satisfied it, would that be the end of it?

  Truman played a card without thinking, then leaned forward to rest his elbows on the table. He glanced up at Jessica’s door again, wondering what she was doing in there. Had she undressed and gotten into bed? Was she thinking about him at all, wishing he’d come back and pick up where they’d left off?

  Clenching his jaw, he played another card. He could feel it again—that deep sexual need, the ache to hold her and feel his bare skin heating up close to hers. He hadn’t enjoyed that kind of sexual pleasure in a long time. He wanted it now.