Taken by the Cowboy - A Time Travel Romance

by Julianne MacLean

  Jessica glared up at the man’s brute size and took in the foul stench of his clothes. She clenched her jaw and demanded, "What do you want?"

  He stroked her cheek with his knuckles. "You sure got soft skin."

  Jessica jerked away from his loathsome touch.

  "She's shy, boys!"

  Another approached and cocked his head to the side. "She sure is pretty, Bart. What do ya' say we take her for a ride?"

  "Sounds like a fine idea, Corey. Then we can search her." The others laughed. One of them hawked and spit tobacco onto the ground.

  "If you lay one hand on me…" Jessica threatened through gritted teeth.

  "Yeah?"

  "I swear you’ll wake up tomorrow and wish you were dead."

  He scowled. "I don't think you'll get a chance to take your revenge out on me, Junebug. Not when we’re through with you."

  The one named Corey grabbed her wrists, but she kicked the leader in the shin. He groaned and crouched down, while Corey shoved her up against the fence pickets. The point dug painfully into her skin beneath the fabric of her dress and forced her into submission as he brushed his lips over her ear. His foul breath sent shivers of revulsion down her spine.

  "Now, listen here," Corey said.

  "Help!" she screamed, but he quickly covered her mouth with his clammy hand while he clamped both her wrists in the other.

  Jessica bit him. He hollered and let her go. She took off toward the dance, shouting for help. The other three followed in quick pursuit.

  "Someone, help me!" she screamed.

  It wasn’t long before one of the gang members threw himself into a tackle and knocked her down. Her ankle twisted as she tried to keep from falling, but she fell anyway. The gritty dirt scraped into her palms, and her chin hit the ground. She bit her tongue. Pain shot to her temples.

  Scrambling to her hands and knees, she crawled away from him, but he wrapped his arms around her waist. He flipped her over onto her back and straddled her.

  "Get off me!" she hollered.

  Corey and the leader, Bart, came running, out of breath, watching her with amused expressions while she squirmed and wriggled helplessly beneath the heavy brute. Where was Truman?

  She quit fighting when a gun cocked in front of her eyes. Paralyzed with fear, she stared down its long, black barrel.

  "Now, calm down, Junebug. We ain't gonna hurt ya’." Bart knelt down next to her and held the weapon steady. The cold barrel brushed over her eyebrow. Jessica squeezed her eyes shut.

  "Now, where is it?" he asked.

  "Where is what?”

  "Ah, come on. You know what I'm talkin' about."

  She shot him a fierce glare. "No, I don’t. Let me go."

  "Think hard, sweetness."

  Jessica glanced sideways at the gun, while searching the far corners of her mind for an answer. "You mean...the reward?"

  "Hell, no."

  She shook her head quickly. "Then I don't know what you’re looking for."

  Bart squeezed her cheeks together in one hand so her lips puckered like a fish. "That's an awfully pretty face you got there. I'd hate to see it messed up."

  "Just tell me what you want!" she pleaded.

  "You know what we want! Where is it?"

  Somewhere, a door opened and smacked against the outside wall of a house. A skinny, little old man in a white nightshirt, partially silhouetted by the light shining through the open doorway behind him, stepped onto his porch and aimed a shotgun.

  Bart's gaze darted wildly toward him. "You stay out of this, mister!" he called out.

  "You let the lady go, ya' hear?" the little man replied.

  Bart's eyes burned with rage. "I said stay out of this, you old coot!"

  Just then, voices called out from the bottom of the hill, accompanied by the welcome clatter of speedy footsteps.

  "Let's go, boys," Bart said.

  The gang took off like a pack of wolves.

  Jessica rolled over onto her hands and knees, then rose unsteadily to her feet. Limping toward the side of the road, she leaned on a wagon and looked up to see a crowd of townsfolk running toward her.

  Bart and his gang were long gone.

  Barely able to support her weight on her twisted ankle, Jessica hung onto the side of the wagon.

  "Miss? You all right?" someone asked.

  She looked up at a worried face. It was the little old man with the shotgun. He must have leaped out of bed to come to her aid, for he wore no shoes.

  "I’m fine now,” she said. “Thank you so much. I don’t know what I would have done.”

  "I think you better come and sit down." He helped her to a rocking chair on his covered porch. The anxious group of rescuers followed and began to ask a confusing mix of questions.

  "Do you know who they were?" someone asked.

  "How’s your foot?" The boy looked really worried.

  "What's your name, Miss?" another asked.

  She wished all these people would just slow down.

  Jessica rubbed her temples and squeezed her eyes shut. "I think someone better get the sheriff."

  "I'll go!" The young boy bolted back to the main street before anyone else had a chance to offer.

  The old man knelt beside her. "Can I get you anything? I got whisky."

  "Yes, please."

  He went inside, leaving her in the protection of the crowd.

  "I can't thank you enough," Jessica said, wiping the blood from her lip. She wasn't sure whose blood it was at first, until she felt the sting and swelling when she ran her tongue across the inside of her mouth.

  A few minutes later, she heard the rapid beating of hooves approaching.

  "It's Wade!" someone yelled, and Jessica felt a swirl of anger rise up within her.

  ‘I'll protect you,’ he had said. If he hadn't been so distracted by that red-headed, big-breasted harlot, he might have been paying closer attention.

  The crowd parted as Truman dismounted and shouldered his way through. He leaned forward, but Jessica turned her cheek away when he tried to touch her swollen lip with his thumb.

  "Bastards," he whispered, straightening.

  In a flash, he hopped off the porch, his spurs chinking as he landed in the dirt. "Which way did they go?" he asked, heading for his horse.

  "That way, Sheriff!" someone answered.

  He mounted and said, “Take care of her!” Then he clicked his tongue and took off at a gallop.

  Jessica watched the cloud of dust that swirled up in his wake. As it faded into the darkness, tears filled her eyes. Cupping her forehead in a hand, she silently cursed this God-forsaken place and wished like hell there was a fast plane out of here. If there were, she’d be on it, and wouldn’t look back.

  * * *

  "I saw you dancing with Sheriff Wade," Wendy said an hour later, sitting at the foot of Jessica's bed in Angus’s house. “It looked like you were having a nice time. Why did you leave?"

  Jessica turned her eyes toward the dark window. "Because I couldn’t find you or him, and I didn’t feel safe among all those drunken cowboys. Besides that, I saw Truman talking to a prostitute tonight, and I suppose I was a little miffed."

  Wendy touched her hand. "It doesn’t mean anything if they were just talking."

  “But I saw him give her money."

  Wendy paused. "Well...we don't know that it was payment for anything…immoral. He’s a gentleman, Jessica. Ain’t no man finer than him in this town. Except maybe Mr. Maxwell."

  Leaning back against the headboard, Jessica regarded Wendy keenly. "Why are you so concerned with what I think of Sheriff Wade anyway?"

  Wendy shrugged and stood up to open the window. A light breeze blew in and lifted the white linen curtains.

  "He just seems different these days, that’s all. His scowl is gone."

  "What scowl?" Jessica didn’t understand what Wendy was getting at.

  Wendy returned to the bed. "He's always had this real intense look about him, like he's conce
ntrating real hard. He never stops to chat, but over the past week, he's been saying hello to people. Sometimes he smiles."

  "That's not so strange."

  "I think he likes you more than you know."

  Jessica couldn’t help but chuckle at that. "Likes me? You think he likes me because he's not scowling?"

  Wendy wagged a finger. "You two looked nice together when you were dancing."

  “Just because two people look good together doesn’t mean they’re meant for each other.”

  Yet she couldn’t stop thinking about how wonderful and exhilarating it felt just to be in his presence. The whole time she was dancing with him, her body was on fire with excitement, and she hadn’t wanted it to end.

  Nevertheless, she searched her mind for a non-committal answer. "He's a good dancer."

  "I never saw him dance before."

  "Not even with his wife?"

  Wendy cocked her head to the side. "Sheriff Wade's not married."

  "He used to be."

  Wendy leaned forward. "Are you sure?"

  "Yes, he told me she died."

  Wendy let out a breath. "I had no idea. What happened to her?"

  "I was hoping you would know."

  She shook her head. "I don't think anybody in Dodge knows about it."

  Jessica and Wendy stopped talking when they heard a horse gallop up to the house, followed by footsteps up the walk, and a knock at the front door.

  "Sheriff Wade, come in," Angus said from downstairs.

  "Maybe he caught the gang," Wendy whispered, as they tried to listen to the conversation, but couldn't make out much of anything.

  A minute later, Angus's footsteps tapped up the stairs, and he knocked at the bedroom door. "Jessica? Sheriff Wade wants to see you."

  Her heartbeat skyrocketed. "Tell him I'll be right down," she answered through the closed door.

  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 inside 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?"