by Tamara Gill
The marble felt cool to her hand, not yet having absorbed heat from the sun. Anna rested in the chair, leaning back against its coolness, inhaling the sweet smell of flowers floating on the air. Yes, definitely a place for peaceful reflection.
Her mind wandered. Truth be told, it had been a good thing she’d caught Robbie and Sarah. What a nightmare marriage to that philanderer would have been. She took in another deep breath. Yes, one day she would find a man who respected her as an independent woman, but would love and cherish her. Unlike her father. What she’d been chasing after, a man who would not desert her, physically or emotionally. She inhaled once more. Robbie had proven not to be that person.
Would she ever find such a man? She closed her eyes at the satisfaction of another fathomless breath of flower-scented air. She tilted her face up toward the sun, the warmth enveloping her, freeing her mind.
***
Anna’s eyelids flickered as she yawned and stretched. Goodness, she must’ve fallen asleep. She grinned. This was truly the peace chair. Her sleep had been deep and refreshing. Maybe she could ask the old woman where to buy a chair like this one. She chuckled, and feeling better and more in accord with herself than she had in ages, headed back to the adobe store.
Her mind occupied with plans for an apartment search, she hadn’t noticed the absence of the squat adobe building until she’d walked almost a half mile. She looked around, her brows furrowed. She must’ve walked in the wrong direction when she left the oasis. Shrugging, she turned and headed back to the crest of the hill.
And gasped.
The oasis was no longer there. She spun around, making herself dizzy, her heart pounding in her chest. For miles in every direction the only thing stretched before her was prairie. No adobe store, no parking lot with her familiar blue car sitting there, no entrance to Highway 83 to Tulsa, no peaceful oasis. She pinched herself. Nope, not dreaming.
What the hell?
CHAPTER TWO
Denton, Kansas 1870
Marshal Wesley Shannon tugged the wooden jailhouse door closed and headed to the café for his noon meal. The stagecoach was due to arrive in another half hour, carrying a large deposit from the Colorado gold mines, and he intended to meet it. So far he’d managed to keep the town mostly crime free, and planned for it to stay that way. It had been the main reason he’d taken this job. Low stress.
The aroma of ham and cabbage reached him before he was halfway across the street, nudging him to move quicker. His stomach rumbled as he took a seat near the window and peered out at the street. The warmth of the crowded restaurant added to the gathering heat of the early summer day.
“Hey, marshal, when ya gonna come courtin’ my girl?” Pete Martin slapped him on the back, almost causing Wes’s mouthful of food to fly across the table.
Wes wiped his mouth and nodded in the huge man’s direction. “One of these days, Pete. Still settling into the job, you know.”
“You’ve been here for months now. Time to get yourself a wife and have a kid or two. Ya ain’t gettin’ no younger, ya know.”
Wes flinched. “Soon.”
After gripping his shoulder in a painful vise meant to show manly friendship, Pete wandered toward the door, stopping a few times to slap other unsuspecting diners on the back.
A fine sheen of sweat broke out on Wes’s face, having nothing to do with the heat of the room. Courting. Something he wouldn’t be able to do. Ever. And Pete’s sweet daughter, Laura, deserved more than him anyway, even if she had caught his eye. He’d noticed the petite blonde glancing in his direction a few times over her hymnal in church. She deserved a real man, not a broken one. He sighed and finished his lunch.
As he stood and examined his bill, the familiar feeling of isolation washed over him. This was the best place he’d landed in since the war had ended, and this time he intended to stay. Time to push the torturous memories to the back of his mind, maybe give the lovely Laura Martin a chance.
Wes had no sooner stepped off the boardwalk when the Wells Fargo Stage barreled down the dusty street, the driver whipping the horses into a frenzy even though he would stop in a matter of less than a mile. He spewed a stream of tobacco juice over the side, barely missing Wes’s foot.
“Dammit, Slug, slow down before you run someone over.”
The driver grinned and shouted, “Got a package here for ya, marshal.”
Wes watched a cloud of dust rise from the stagecoach wheels as it continued on, and frowned. A package? Aside from the deposit for the bank, he wasn’t expecting anything. He shrugged and strode to catch up.
Slug jumped from the bench and yanked the door open. An older woman huffed and glared at the driver as she climbed from the coach, rearranging her hat. “The Wells Fargo people will hear about your driving, sir.”
Slug nodded. “Yes, ma’am.” Since drivers were difficult to hang onto, Wes doubted any complaints about Slug would have an effect on him.
Two men followed her, brushing dust from their coat sleeves. When no one else exited, Wes glanced at Slug. The driver motioned with his head toward the inside of the coach. Wes peered into the darkness. It appeared someone huddled in the corner, making no effort to leave.
“There’s yore package, marshal.” Wes almost lost his footing as Slug slapped him on the back. Didn’t anyone in this town know how to speak to someone without causing bodily harm?
“Come on out, now, honey. The marshal here will take good care of ya.” Slug turned from where he spoke to the reluctant passenger and winked at Wes. “Wait till ya see this one.”
“No! I want to go back to the Indian store.” A very feminine−and angry−voice came from within the darkness.
Slug gestured toward the coach. “She’s all yores, marshal. I gotta get this deposit to the bank.” Giving a slight salute, he gripped two canvas bags from the floor of the upper bench.
“Now, wait just a minute here.” Wes caught Slug’s shoulder. “Who is this woman, and why is she my problem?”
“Found her wandering around out there.” He waved in the direction he’d come from. “Doesn’t seem to know what she wants, or even where she’s at.”
Wes cleared his throat, then stuck his head back in the coach. In the dim light from where the window shade let in a bit of sunlight, his eyes focused on a young woman, her arms folded over her chest. She had sun-darkened skin, deep brown eyes, and was dressed−oh my Lord−in men’s trousers with no more than a yellow scrap of material around her breasts. Breasts, Wes noticed, that were full, and peeking out between her crossed arms. His mouth dried up and he whipped his head around. “Who is she?”
Slug shifted his wad of tobacco. “Don’t know. Like I said, I found her wandering.”
Wes tried again. “Miss, I can I get you to step out, please?”
After several seconds, a deep sigh came from within the coach, and the young woman slid over on the seat, stepped down, then blinked furiously at the bright sunlight. She had a pouch over her shoulder that she hugged securely to her side.
Now that she stood in daylight, Wes had a hard time keeping his gaze from drifting toward her breasts. A twitch in his pants, signaling the resurgence of feelings kept buried for five long years startled him, and drew his scrutiny to the woman’s face. She glared at him like a defiant child, her lips pursed. Her dark hair had been pulled back in some type of a braid, and the scattering of light freckles across the bridge of her nose gave her a look of youth and innocence. Except no innocent woman would dress so scandalously. Was she one of Miss Ethel’s new girls?
Wes took a deep breath to quell his racing heart. “What’s your name, honey?”
The woman gasped. “‘Honey?’ Don’t call me that. What’s the matter with you? I’ve had enough condescension from law enforcement males. I should file charges with your superior.”
Slug and Wes stared at each other, eyebrows raised.
Wes tugged on his hat. “I apologize, miss. I meant no disrespect. Can you please tell me your name?”
<
br /> “It’s Anna Devlin.”
He smiled to think she looked like an Anna. “Now, where is it you’re headed?”
“Home.”
“And where is home, little lady?” Slug chimed in.
“I don’t friggin’ believe this!” Anna slammed her fists on her hips, and the pouch she’d clung to slid down her arm. She rested it at her feet, then poked Wes in his chest with a very hard index finger. “I don’t know how y’all get away with this, but believe me when I tell you someone is going to hear about the way you two talk to women.”
“Whadda I say?” Slug spat more tobacco juice, wiping his chin with an open palm. Anna wrinkled her cute little nose and threw her hands up as if invoking the heavens.
Slug scratched his head, then picked up her pouch. “Miss, I’ll just move this to the side, so’s I can be on my way.”
She winced as she tugged the pouch from him, hugging it to her chest. “Be careful with this, mister. It’s a Coach.”
Again Wes and Slug stared at each other.
“Um, no, miss. What you just came out of is the coach.” Wes wiped the sweat from his forehead, and cast her a glance. This was by far the strangest conversation he’d ever had, and he needed to get his libido under control and away from her disturbing presence. If she was indeed intended for Miss Ethel’s Bordello, he would be tempted to break his cardinal rule and make a visit. Real soon.
“Whatever. I’m going to see if I can find a phone, since last week I smashed my cell in a fit.”
Wes clutched her arm as she moved to walk around him. “No, wait a minute there, Miss Devlin.”
Anna raised her eyebrows, and looked down her nose at him. A remarkable feat, since he had a good foot on her.
“I’m sorry, but you can’t walk around town dressed like that.” Wes’s face flushed, and he coughed, looking toward Slug.
***
Anna stood dumbfounded, staring at the man. First the Indian store disappeared, then this old codger scared the hell out of her when he’d almost run her over with what looked like a stagecoach from an old John Wayne movie. The smelly weird woman in the coach had tsked all the way to town, mumbling about harlots. Now this hunk of a marshal talked to her like he’d never heard of political correctness.
“Why not? What’s wrong with how I’m dressed?”
He waved his hand toward her. “You’re wearing men’s pants. And you’re missing most of your shirt.”
“My shirt isn’t missing anything.” She glanced down. Men’s pants? “I don’t get it. Is this a movie set or something?”
The marshal rubbed the back of his neck and peered at her, frowning. “Movie?”
“Okay, maybe a tourist town? And you’re the big, bad marshal?”
“Big bad marshal?”
She rolled her eyes. “Could you say something else besides repeating my questions?”
The annoying yet exceedingly handsome man, with the ‘Marshal’ badge pinned to his muscled chest, glanced over her head. Anna turned in time to see the old driver making circles with his index finger along the side of his head. The marshal nodded. They thought she was crazy?
“All right. I’m done with this game. Where’s the Indian store? And where the heck is Route 83?”
Wes pushed back the brim of his hat. “Miss Devlin, are you here to work with Miss Ethel?”
“Nope. No idea who Miss Ethel is, but if she’s waiting for someone to arrive, it’s not me.”
His shoulders slumped as if disappointed in her answer. “Why don’t you let me take you to the doctor’s house? It’s a short walk from here, and you can lie down. I think you may have been in the sun too long.” The hunk grabbed her elbow and attempted to move her forward.
She yanked her arm from his hand, rubbing the spot where heat sizzled her skin. Her thoughts clouded for a moment, but then she snapped, “Now wait a minute. I don’t need a doctor. I’m fine. Y’all are crazy. Dressed up like a movie set, trying to make me think this is for real.” She pointed her finger at him. “Believe me, I’ve had my problems lately, but I sure as hell haven’t lost my mind.”
Both men sucked in air. “Miss, we don’t allow cussing in public. Especially from ladies,” the marshal said.
Anna shifted her purse strap up on her shoulder and tried to calm her racing heart. “Look. marshal. I have no idea where I am. I left the Indian store, found the damn peace chair, sat there for a while and fell asleep. When I woke up it was all gone. And your buddy here,” she nodded with her chin toward the driver, “gave me a lift to the nearest town in the strangest mode of transportation I’ve ever ridden in.” She turned slowly, her gaze taking in the facades, the boardwalk, and the prairie beyond the end of the street. “And this town looks like something from the old west.”
“Come on, Miss Devlin.” The marshal grasped her upper arm and moved her forward. “Let’s pay the doc a call.”
Heat again on her arm where those strong fingers wrapped around her, racing this time to her middle where the dance of the butterflies began. Anna glared at him, more confused by his touch than her surroundings.
“I told you I don’t need a doctor. Just direct me to the nearest pay phone, and I’ll call . . . someone.” Lord, who could she call? Certainly not Robbie. Maybe her boss, Lenny. He’d have to get up off his lazy ass and come get her. Satisfied with the solution, she tapped her foot. “Well?”
“Well, what?”
“Where’s the nearest pay phone?”
The marshal rotated his neck, took off his hat, and ran his fingers through his hair. Longish, thick and wavy. Dark brown with golden highlights. And whiskey colored eyes that seemed almost transparent in the sunlight. Damn, this must be a movie set. This guy is too good looking to be anything but an actor.
“All right, Miss Devlin. If you won’t go to see the doc, then let’s take a stroll to the jail.”
Her jaw dropped. “You’re arresting me? For what?”
He replaced the hat. “No. Not arresting you. Just want to get you off the street with that getup on.”
Honestly, the man was a prude, but his heated gaze increased the tempo of the butterflies in her stomach. “Do you have a phone I can use at the jailhouse?”
“Come with me.” Ignoring her very reasonable question, he once again grasped her elbow and hauled her forward. Didn’t this knuckle-dragging Neanderthal know she could slap a lawsuit on him for manhandling?
Anna glanced at his hand. Long, tanned fingers, a thin, lighter line, most likely a scar, on one finger. Strong. If this man was an actor, he spent a lot of time at the gym. She took in his long legs, a gun resting in a holster wrapped around his slim hips, and anchored to his bulging thigh with a thin strip of leather. With her knowledge of guns, she’d bet it was real, but not like anything she’d ever seen. What kind of a tourist town or movie set would allow an actor to parade around with a real gun?
Anna finished her perusal of his body. Trim waist, broad shoulders. He stood a good six feet or more. She glanced upward, and found his mesmerizing eyes staring at her, with a smirk on his face. Gawd! Just want she needed, to fan the flames of an actor’s already overblown ego.
She quickly looked away. “How far to the jail?”
“Couple more streets.”
“Aren’t you actor types supposed to have a horse named Trigger or something that you ride off into the sunset with, the girl wrapped securely in your arms?”
He broke out into a grin that seized her lungs and caused her mouth to dry up. This actor must have a harem of girlfriends.
“By the way, marshal, you never introduced yourself. Who is it that’s hauling me off to jail?”
He tipped his hat, a slow, lazy smile this time. “Sorry, Miss Devlin. My name is Wesley Shannon, but people call me Wes−or just plain ‘Marshal.’”
“Is Wes your stage name or real name?”
His brows drew together. “It’s my real name.”
“Well, Anna Devlin is my real name, too. But everyone calls me An
na.”
Wes released her elbow and pushed open a door right below a hand-painted sign that stated Marshal. “We’re here. Why don’t you rest for a while? There’s a small cot in the other room that I use when I have to be here all night.”
“Marshal Shannon, or Wes, or whatever your name, real or imagined, you don’t seem to understand. I’m not crazy, not underdressed, not tired, and not sick. I don’t need a doctor or a cot to lie down in. I just need a phone so I can call my boss and have him pick me up so I can find my own car.”
“Miss Devlin−”
“Anna,” she interrupted.
“Anna. I don’t know what you mean by a ‘phone.’ And I really do think you need to either see the doc or lie down for a while.”
“No.”
Wes sighed and took a seat behind a large scarred desk. He waved his hand at the rickety chair in front of the desk. “Have a seat.” He pulled open a drawer, withdrew a sheet of paper and a pencil. Licking the tip of the pencil, he wrote Anna Devlin across the top.
“Now. Let’s see if we can help you get home.”
Anna took the seat he’d offered and plopped her purse in her lap. This actor was carrying things a little bit too far. Didn’t know what a phone was? Once she was out of this stupid tourist town or movie set, or whatever, someone in charge would definitely hear from her. This was not funny−or entertaining.
Wes leaned back in the chair, the creaking sound like chalk on a blackboard. “Where did you say you were from?”
“I didn’t. But I’m from Tulsa.”
He tapped the pencil on the desk. “And where is Tulsa?”
She inhaled, trying very hard to keep her patience. “Duh. Oklahoma?”
He dropped the pencil and crossed his arms. “Where is Oklahoma?”
Anna stood. “That’s enough. I’m truly done with this place.” She shifted her purse strap over her shoulder. “I’m leaving now, marshal. I’m going to find a phone, call my boss, and get the hell out of Dodge.”
