Capturing The Marshal's Heart (Escape From Texas)

by Carroll-Bradd, Linda

  Capturing The Marshal’s Heart

  By Linda Carroll-Bradd

  This is a work of fiction. Names, place, characters and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Copyright © Linda Carroll-Bradd All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce, distribute or transmit in any form or by any means without express permission from author or publisher.

  Published by Inked Figments

  Cover artist: Tamra Westberry

  Published in the United States

  ISBN: 978-1-940546-00-1

  First printing August, 2013

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  About the Author

  Excerpt from Dreams of Gold

  Chapter One

  1868, South Texas

  A knock sounded on the door. “Two minutes until locking up time, Miss Jazzy.”

  The bedsprings squeaked when Jazzy Morgan stood, dropping a handful of coins into a porcelain box on her nightstand. She pressed her lips together to hold back a sigh before calling out. “Thanks, Ben.”

  Henry Jackson buttoned his shirt and planted both hands on his thin hips. “Does th-that man ever forget which g-gal has a v-visitor?”

  The idea of this scrawny rancher going against Miss Veronica’s Pleasure Emporium’s bruiser of a bouncer made her smile. She raised a hand to her head, and brushed her long hair away from her face. “Never that I can recall. Ben knows how serious Miss Veronica is about getting her percentage.” She brushed her long hair over her shoulders and walked toward the door. On impulse, she spoke with hurried words. “Henry, after church services, walk right up to Miss Simms and offer to escort her home. Don’t wait any longer for the rest of your life to happen.”

  “I’ll th-think on it, M-Miss Jazzy.” His fingers tightened on the brass doorknob until his knuckles blanched white.

  “No more thinking, Henry.” She stretched up on her toes and brushed a kiss against his cheek. “Time for action.”

  “A k-kiss?” With a shake of his head and a muttered goodbye, Henry walked into the hallway. “You’ll b-be seeing me next w-week.”

  Not so. Her years as a fancy lady were over. Jazzy sagged against the closed door, relief flooding her senses. Now she’d discover what the next part of her life had to offer. A life that did not include being the wife of a farmer. She shuddered at the image of Tucker Flanagan professing his unending devotion and vowing he’d be back to claim her when he sold his prize bull.

  She marched across the room, grabbed her petticoat with double eagle coins sewn into little pockets to carry her life savings, and tied it around her waist. As she dressed into the traveling suit she’d had the dressmaker copy from a drawing in a ladies journal, she couldn’t stop her hands from shaking. Excitement bubbled inside her.

  In only a few hours, her new life would begin.

  * * *

  Damn wind! US Marshal Slade Thomas strode after his hat as it rolled down the dusty San Antonio street. It teetered and landed flat, and he scooped it up. He pivoted and headed back toward the westbound stagecoach, brushing off the dirt from the brim as he walked. Blazes, he was tired. Ten days on the trail of a bank robber and always two steps behind. But he had a mission to finish.

  “Is this your bag, mister?” A wiry man with piercing blue eyes stood on the sidewalk and pointed at the lone leather satchel.

  “It is.” Slade quickened his steps and bent to grab the handles. He didn’t need the stagecoach driver discovering what sat at the bottom of his scuffed case. “I’ll load it.”

  The older man lifted a shoulder and shook his head. “Fine by me. Soon as it’s stowed, we can leave.”

  Slade pressed the satchel into a corner of the rack on the roof, then opened the door and scanned the dim interior—an elderly gentleman, a young boy, and four women of varying ages. Being the last one to board left him with a middle seat. He removed his hat, hunched his shoulders, and stepped up into the crowded stage. As he maneuvered backwards into the space, he kicked the gentleman’s cane and jostled against the knee of a woman dressed in red. “Beg your pardon, folks.”

  He wedged himself onto the backward-facing cushion, tucked his boots close to the seat, and balanced his hat on his knee. Stagecoaches were not built for men with long legs. He glanced up and saw his actions were the focus of the other passengers’ attention. With a start, he realized both women on the opposite bench were of average size, had no distinguishable facial marks, blue eyes, and light brown hair.

  Just like the wanted poster.

  A voice called to the horses and the stagecoach jerked into motion. People on the sides grabbed at the walls to steady themselves.

  Great, he’d been lucky enough to get the lumpiest seat he’d ever sat on.

  A tug against his right thigh drew his attention. He turned and something tickled his cheek.

  The feather on the top of the woman’s black hat bobbed into his sight. She leaned left against the side wall, using both hands to pull on her skirts. “Excuse me, sir. My skirt is surely trapped.” She pressed a hand against his thigh and shoved. “Can you move your as—can you assist me?”

  He froze. Surely, he’d heard her wrong. As his mind scrambled to make sense of her words, his leg heated through his trousers under her touch. He’d definitely been without female company for too long. With one hand flattened against the door-frame over the head of the passenger on his other side and the other tugging on the overhead strap, he easily lifted his hips, until she’d gathered her skirts off the cracked leather seat.

  “Thank you kindly, sir.”

  He eased down to the bench and turned to his right. Out of habit, Slade reached toward his forehead to touch the brim of his hat.

  The woman dressed in green gazed up at him with a smile across her shapely lips.

  As he opened his mouth to speak, he scanned her face. “You’re—” Light brown hair, no distinguishing marks. Exasperation stole his words. Average size and blue eyes—blue as a summer sky. Damn, not a third one. And why did her assessing gaze have to be in the prettiest face he’d seen in months?

  Her gaze frosted and she turned to the side, a rounded hip pressing into his upper thigh.

  With three suspects, his chances of an easy end to a tough case were getting slimmer by the minute. In fact, his work had just increased. Now he had to identify which of these passengers was the guilty party, make the arrest, and haul her back to Oklahoma City.

  Earlier, while the passengers were gathering, he’d positioned himself on the bench closest to the ticket window. From there, Slade had managed to catch most of the passengers’ names, but hadn’t wanted to draw undue attention by studying their faces.

  A quick movement and flash of color caught his eye. The woman next to him lifted the shade and peered outside, a frown wrinkling her forehead.

  “Have pity on us and pull that shade tight, Miss Morgan.”

  “I beg your pardon, Mrs. Harrington.” Her widened gaze focused on the older woman who’d spoken.

  Slade wished he had a straight-on view of the woman beside him. He had to be content with side glances and the weight of her petticoated skirts pressed the length of his leg.

  Miss Morgan released the shade, letting
it bounce against the side of the door. “Don’t y’all wonder about the country you’re travelin’ through? Lordy, I was hoping for a bitty breeze.”

  Slade detected a Texas sprawl in her speech. She savored her words before letting them escape between her lips—her full, lush lips. Damn, what was he thinking? He had a suspect to apprehend.

  “None of us want to breathe all that dust.” Mrs. Harrington scanned the cramped space, looking for confirmation from the other passengers.

  Slade heard the mousy woman to his left, a Miss Torrance, agree in a quiet voice, and the elderly gentleman, Grove Denton, emphasized his assent by rapping his cane on the floor of the coach.

  Miss Morgan leaned back against the cushion and let out a groan. “The air is stiflin’ and I just can’t breathe. If you won’t let me open the shade, I’ll just get cool another way.” Her pale hand rose to the buttons at her neck.

  In fascination, Slade watched, using only short glances, as she undid her collar and then the first two buttons on her blouse, exposing a regal neck and creamy skin. Awareness of this woman hit him in the gut and his body reacted. Damnation! He shifted on the seat to ease the strain on his trousers and accidentally bumped Miss Morgan’s knee.

  She shot him a questioning look from under her lashes and slowly pressed her leg the length of his. From her reticule, she pulled out and flourished a fan painted with red roses. Waving her left hand, the fan moved quickly in front of her face and she sighed. “That’s better.”

  Slade detected a look of envy from the quiet woman across from him. On this point, he agreed with the outspoken Miss Morgan. The coach was unbearably hot, enough so that he planned to remove his waistcoat at the next stop. Keeping up the image of a traveling rancher be hanged.

  Mrs. Harrington sniffed. “Proper young ladies don’t use fans in public. That’s vulgar.”

  Miss Morgan pinched the front of her blouse between two fingers and pulled it several inches away from her chest.

  Without realizing he’d even moved, Slade eased his head sideways and spied a glimpse of her cleavage. Abundant curves. He froze, suddenly aware of how disrespectful his action must appear. What the hell was he doing?

  After flashing the complainer a syrupy smile, Miss Morgan aimed the fan directly over the blouse opening and flicked her hand back and forth. “There’s times when a body’s comfort comes afore all else.” She sighed, lolled her head to look directly at him, and batted her eyelashes. “Don’t you agree, sir?”

  Captured by her knowing gaze, Slade stiffened and fought for a casual answer. He opened his mouth to respond and felt the distinct glide of a boot tip run along the back of his calf. His mouth snapped closed and he swallowed hard.

  Blood pounded in his ears and his hands fisted on his thighs. Too many months had passed since his last visit to a parlor house. That had to be why he was misinterpreting the casual bumps and touches caused by the jostling stagecoach. No other explanation made sense.

  The saucy gal turned toward the middle of the coach. “I surely don’t know how you ladies wear all these layers of clothes in this heat.”

  What had she just said? Slade narrowed his gaze and scrutinized every detail about Miss Morgan. From the wisps of light brown hair that framed her face to the green jacket hugging narrow shoulders and rounded curves to the skirt that revealed a tantalizing flash of booted ankle.

  Who was this woman?

  Mrs. Harrington clapped her hands over the ears of the small boy resting his head on her knee. “Well, I never! Miss, you are most assuredly a disgrace.”

  Miss Morgan lifted her head, gazed at the woman, and shrugged. “Maybe so, but I bet I’m cooler.”

  A chuckle threatened to rumble from his chest, but he forced a yawn instead. “I’ll say, today is a real scorcher.” He let his gaze circle the coach and spread his lips into the smile that had disarmed suspects and prisoners into divulging information they should have kept to themselves. “Does anyone mind if I raise the shade for a bit? We might be lucky and catch a breeze.”

  Her fan stopped in mid-stroke, Miss Morgan met his gaze and beamed. “That’s a mighty fine idea, mister.”

  * * *

  Jazzy breathed in the scent of bay rum and eyed the fine cut of the tall man’s suit. She could still feel the press of his upper body against her shoulder when he’d leaned to release her skirt. Such solid chest muscles. From the corner of her eye, she gauged the cost of his tailored suit and fine felt hat, and started figuring the fee she could charge. Miss Veronica’s Rule #1: Aim for the highest reward. In her experience, a man with looks, money, and all his own teeth was a rarity.

  Stop…no more thinking about fees. Her gaze flicked to the open window and she saw dry earth, low shrubs, and dust.

  Miss Veronica’s was part of her old life.

  When the handsome stranger first looked at her and cut off his own response, she’d feared he’d seen past her new traveling suit to the parlor girl beneath. Then she got to thinking this man could be the first conquest in her new life. The decision to invite him to her bed would be hers and hers alone. With regret, she shook away that thought. Her plan didn’t include seducing a man on her very first day of freedom. She had a goal, a destination, and higher aspirations.

  The coach jostled over a rut and rocked violently. Jazzy’s head bumped against the wooden wall. “Ouch!”

  “Ma’am, are you alright?”

  The deep voice of the man to her left tickled up and down her spine. She loved raspy voices that hinted at secrets with every spoken word. Wouldn’t I love to learn his secrets? “I’m fine. The movement just surprised me.”

  He leaned forward to look into her face. “Perhaps if we switch places, you’ll be saved from further injury.”

  Jazzy gazed into dark brown eyes that seemed caring, and could only blink. This stranger was concerned about a bitty bump on her head? And they didn’t even know one another. “That is right kindly, sir.”

  When he stood, she couldn’t help but admire how well the woolen trousers fit, displaying taut muscles. She curled her fingers into her palms to keep from reaching out to touch him. Miss Veronica’s Rule #3: No touching allowed until the fee is set.

  How many hours left on this leg of the trip?

  * * *

  A knock sounded on the coach roof. “Rest stop coming up.”

  “Ah, how timely.” Slade lifted his hat from his head and used it to fan his damp face. “We all could use a stretch of our legs.” A few minutes later, he handed a quiet female passenger down the coach steps. He’d been paying so much attention to Miss Morgan that he couldn’t remember if this woman was Miss Torrance or Miss Whitfield. “There you go, miss.”

  Her mouth quirked into a bashful smile, but her gaze didn’t meet his. She ducked her head and hurried toward the building.

  He turned to assist Miss Morgan, but the coach was empty. The opposite door swung wide from movements made by the other passengers’ exits. Obviously, the vocal woman had managed on her own. As Slade unbuttoned the front of his waistcoat, he scanned the area to make sure he was alone.

  In the corral, the driver spoke with a man fitting the coach harnesses onto fresh horses. The other passengers must have gone inside the stage stop for refreshments. With his back toward the building, he quickly slid off his jacket and waistcoat, folding his marshal’s badge into the center of the vest.

  A breeze molded his shirt to his damp skin, making him wish for the freedom of traveling without the jacket. But to do his job, he had to look and act like an average rancher or businessman. Not considered proper attire, the absence of a jacket would draw undue attention. Immediately, the image of Miss Morgan crossed his mind and he couldn’t keep a smile from his lips. There was a woman who gave little thought to proper behavior.

  Intriguing. He had to find out who she was. He stepped up onto the coach floor, stretched for the overhead rack, and snapped open his valise. With his vest safely stuffed inside, he strode to the building, intent on asking the unusual
Miss Morgan a few questions.

  A gray-haired woman wearing a calico dress and smudged apron greeted him. “Good day, sir. Would you like coffee?”

  Moving from the bright sunlight into the dark stage-stop cabin made him squint to view the surroundings. A pot-belly stove radiated heat on one end of the room. Two long plank tables with benches for seating occupied the middle space. He scanned the room and spotted Miss Morgan at the window, peering through the dusty pane. A quick nod and he turned back to the woman. “That would be fine.”

  “Please take a seat. There’s cornbread on the table.”

  Two long steps brought him to an open spot on the closest bench, but he remained standing until his coffee arrived. With a square of cornbread in one hand and his tin cup in the other, he sauntered across the room, his boots resounding on the wooden floor.

  Miss Morgan glanced around at his approach, wrinkled her brows, and turned back to the window. Her head angled from side to side to take in the view from all directions.

  “May I join you?” He waited until he saw her blue-eyed gaze connect with his, then angled his head in the direction of the table. “Can’t see why those folks are in a hurry to be sitting?”

  A smile played at the corners of her mouth. “My feelings exactly. I’ll be sitting again soon enough.”

  “Name’s Slade Thomas.” Best to save the title of US Marshal for later.

  She dipped her chin. “I’m sure you’ve learned my name, Mr. Thomas.” A laugh escaped her. With a look of shared confidence, she leaned close. “Mrs. Harrington surely does relish using it with each admonition about my hedonistic behavior.”

  Her easy manner washed over his senses and he soaked her in—her open smile, her friendly nature, her eyes brimming with mirth. His job seldom allowed for casual socializing, but he was strangely drawn to this woman. “Yes, ma’am, I do admit to hearing Miss Morgan more than once.”

  “Oh, Miss Morgan is so stuffy.” Her head shook and she pursed her lips. “Nobody back home calls me that.”

  An avenue of questioning he’d wanted to pursue. “What do they call you back home?”