Tempting the Marshal: (A Western Historical Romance) (Dodge City Brides Series Book 2)

by Julianne MacLean

  Jo’s heart began to beat faster until she could hear it pounding in her ears. “Of course I am.”

  “In order for me to do my job, I need you to trust me and tell me where you really were when you were shot.”

  How could he know all this? It wasn’t possible. “I don’t know what you’re referring to, Marshal.”

  He watched her with discerning green eyes that told her she could hide nothing from him. “I know you weren’t injured in the dress you were wearing when Deputy Anderson brought you here. After Dr. Green transferred you from his operating table to this room, I was curious about the extent of your wound. Please forgive me, but I examined the bodice of your dress. There was no bullet hole.”

  Jo stared blankly at the marshal, knowing she couldn’t stand up to him much longer. Surely, she was done for.

  “So let me ask you again, Mrs. O’Malley. Where were you when the bullet struck your shoulder?”

  Chapter Three

  Marshal Collins sat with his forefinger resting on his temple, studying Jo and seeming to find her as guilty as the last fox who’d emptied her chicken coop.

  All Jo could do was stare into those green-and-gold flecked eyes and scramble for an explanation. Why wouldn’t she have been wearing her dress when she was shot? she asked herself. What possible reason could there be?

  “Mrs. O’Malley, I only want to know the truth so I can find and arrest the man who shot you.”

  “The truth.”

  “Well, yes, ma’am.”

  She tried to imagine herself not wearing her bodice outdoors in the full dark of night, why any person would ever do such a thing. Anyone respectable, that is. At the same time, she knew what folks had been saying about her living on her ranch with all those cowhands in her bunkhouse, and those same folks probably wouldn’t be the least bit surprised to hear she’d been out behind the saloons in her unmentionables.

  Maybe those rumors might get her out of this—at least temporarily.

  Jo pursed her lips. What did it matter if she told a little lie? After all the gossip, she couldn’t possibly do any more damage to her reputation.

  She tried to speak with conviction. “I…I was with someone.”

  “I’m not sure I understand.”

  “Marshal, this conversation is highly improper.”

  At that instant, he seemed to grasp her meaning and his elbow slipped right off the armrest. He quickly pulled it back and cleared his throat.

  “This is awkward, I know,” she said, lowering her eyes. “That’s why I don’t wish to speak about it any further.”

  The chair creaked as he shifted uncomfortably. “But perhaps whoever you were with might have seen something more.”

  “No, he’d already left.”

  “Left…left where? The privy? You were in the privy together?”

  “No, we were in back of Zimmerman’s. As I told you before, I was on my way to the privy before heading home when I was shot.”

  The marshal seemed reluctant to believe it. “Can I have his name? He might have seen something.”

  “Absolutely not.”

  “Mrs. O’Malley, this is a deadly situation. You have my word as a peace officer that I will do my best not to repeat what you tell me.”

  “I’m sorry, Marshal Collins, I can’t say.”

  They lingered in a thick silence while Dr. Green paced the hall outside, his shoes clicking lightly across the plank floor.

  After a few minutes, the marshal took in a deep breath and sighed. Jo braced herself for whatever he was about to say next.

  “I’m sorry to tell you this when you’re in such a state, but your refusal to answer my question is an obstruction of justice. Are you aware of that?”

  Jo could only nod, still unable to look up at him after the lie she’d just told. She’d told so many lies tonight, they were all taking their toll on her conscience—a conscience that by now was rapt with guilt and regret and a dozen other things that could make her toes curl if she let them.

  “I’d like to go easy on you,” he went on, “given the circumstances, but when it comes to the law, I’m about as inflexible as a branding iron. I need to ask this person some questions, so if you don’t give me his name, I’m going to have to take you to the jailhouse.” By the firmness of his voice alone, Jo knew he meant every word. She had to put an end to this discussion, and fast.

  “I’m waiting, Mrs. O’Malley.”

  “It’s not what you think,” she said, stalling. “It’s not that I don’t want to tell you, it’s that I can’t.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “I can’t because…I don’t know his name.” She was digging herself in deeper and deeper. She just wanted it all to end.

  He rubbed his stubbled chin with his big, manly hand—the same hand that had pointed a gun at her earlier that evening, and her skin prickled at the frightening image.

  “I see. He didn’t hurt you, did he?”

  “No, no, it was nothing like that.” Good Lord, what was she saying?

  “So let me get this straight,” the marshal said, rubbing his forehead in disbelief. “You were out behind Zimmerman’s with a stranger, not wearing your bodice. The stranger left you there, you were shot, then you took the time to put your bodice back on and refasten all the buttons?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Why did you go to the privy? Why not just go straight to the doctor’s office?”

  Jo tried to stay alert, but it was proving more and more difficult with all these questions. “I was afraid of being shot again. I was in search of a safe place to hide.” She met his gaze head-on. He wasn’t going to outsmart her. “Marshal Collins,” she said, in her best no-nonsense voice, “I don’t know the man’s name, I probably wouldn’t even recognize him. It was dark. Now if you don’t mind, I’d like to get some rest.”

  She swallowed hard, unable to believe what she’d just said, but knowing she’d had to come up with something to explain herself. Biting her lip, she heard the marshal rock back and forth in the creaky chair. Why wasn’t he leaving?

  “I don’t mean any disrespect, ma’am, but I intend to find the man who shot you, and if that means I have to ask questions that might dent your delicate sensibilities, well…” He shrugged.

  Frustrated and exhausted, Jo closed her eyes. She wished with all her heart that this night had never happened, that she could go back to a day when her husband was alive and there was never anything more distressing in her life other than a damaged corral fence or a few too many chores to complete before breakfast. Those things, those little problems, seemed so insignificant to her now, so easy to mend and put away. Her life had been simple once. There had been nothing to fear.

  Or at least that was what, in all her precious innocence, she had believed.

  “I just want to go home and be with my son,” she said.

  “I understand that, Mrs. O’Malley. I’m…I’m just hoping you can help me out. That gunman broke the law, and with first impressions being what they are, folks are going to think their new marshal is a little soft, and that just ain’t the case. To be frank about it, I got a score to settle here.” He stopped rocking and locked his large hands together. “Besides, Zeb Stone wants the man brought to justice, and I owe it to my sister to see that it happens.”

  Jo’s breath caught in her lungs. “Your sister?”

  “She’s married to Zeb.”

  “Zeb Stone is your…your brother-in-law?”

  He nodded. “That’s right. And besides being family, he’s the one who convinced the town council to hire me. I owe him.”

  Jo could only stare in stunned silence as her enemy’s kin rose from his chair to stand tall before her, his words leaving her whole body chilled to the bone with despair.

  * * *

  Fletcher gazed into Mrs. O’Malley’s wide-open blue eyes and struggled to keep his hopes from sinking. She’d given him nothing that would lead him to the gunman. And now she was obviously going to b
e ill. “Doc, could you come in here?”

  The doctor hurried in to her bedside. “What’s the problem?”

  Mrs. O’Malley put her hand over her mouth and the doctor saw what was about to happen. He reached for a pan and held it under her chin while she was sick into it. Fletcher stared at his boots, shaking his head with a note of irritation.

  Not so much at Mrs. O’Malley, of course—she couldn’t very well stop herself from being sick after what she’d been through. He’d just hoped for something more to go on.

  “It’s a reaction to the surgery,” Doc said, then turned to Fletcher. “You’ll have to leave. She’s answered enough of your questions.”

  Hearing the doctor’s chilly tone, Fletcher felt a hint of guilt, then backed out of the room. He closed the door behind him and leaned his weary forehead against it. Perhaps he had been too hard on Mrs. O’Malley, but when it came to tracking leads, he found it difficult to see past his own nose.

  Fletcher turned away from the door and took two painful strides down the hall. Suddenly the image of Mrs. O’Malley having a willing “encounter” with a stranger hit him like a brick in the face: Mrs. O’Malley, doing that in the dark of night, out behind Zimmerman’s hardware store?

  Fletcher stiffened uncomfortably. Was it really a stranger? he wondered, finding it almost impossible to believe. Had Mrs. O’Malley sought the man out or was it the other way around? She must have been as hot as a two-dollar pistol to risk such a scandal, especially with what people were saying about her. But why outside by the privy? Why not somewhere more private?

  Fletcher started off again, leaning on his cane, reminding himself that he was an impartial lawman, and what Mrs. O’Malley did with her personal life, no matter how outlandish and risqué, was none of his concern.

  He reached the doctor’s front office and sat on the straight pine bench by the window, pulling the lace curtain aside to peer out into the predawn darkness. Except for a mangy rat terrier sniffing around the water troughs, Front Street was about as quiet as a turkey pen after Thanksgiving.

  The sound of hoofbeats and a jingling harness alerted him to an approaching wagon. He leaned closer to the window as a rickety buckboard came to a slow stop in front of the doctor’s office. A young boy hopped down and landed with a thud on the dry street. An older woman set the brake and tied the reins, and with some difficulty, wiggled her wide bottom down from the high seat.

  Before Fletcher had a chance to stand, the door opened. “Where’s my ma?” the boy asked in a panic, pausing in the open doorway. “She was shot.” Fletcher stared into the same wide-eyed, fearful innocence that had thrown him off balance in the back room a few minutes ago.

  “I just met your ma. She’s fine. What’s your name?”

  “Leo.” His shoulders relaxed slightly.

  The older woman appeared behind him. “Go inside and close the door, Leo. The mosquitoes are getting in.”

  As they moved into the dimly lit room, Fletcher managed to rise to his feet, silently cursing his sore leg. When the woman noticed him, she pulled her black shawl tighter around her shoulders and raised her chin. “You’re not the doctor.”

  “No, ma’am. I’m the new marshal. And you are…?”

  “Shouldn’t you be out looking for the man who shot Mrs. O’Malley? From what I hear, and no thanks to you, he’s roaming the town as free as a wild prairie dog.”

  Fletcher’s annoyance doubled as he hopped to keep his balance. “It’s being taken care of. And your name is…?”

  Indignantly, she lifted her double chin even higher.

  Her cheeks were fleshy and red like a couple of ripe tomatoes. “I’m Matilda Honeyworth. I work for Mrs. O’Malley. Where is she?”

  Fletcher gestured toward the back room. “The doctor’s with her.”

  “Can I see her?” Leo asked, his dark eyebrows drawn together with worry.

  When Fletcher remembered the tragic details about the late Mr. O’Malley, his heart went out to the boy. He must have been terrified when he heard about his mother. “You’ll have to ask the doctor, son. He should be out in a minute or two.”

  Leo leaned into the front hall and tried to peer past the stairs. “So you’re the new marshal?” He turned to Fletcher and held out his hand. “I’m a rancher.”

  “Is that right?” Fletcher replied, trying to suppress a smile that might insult the young man’s proud spirit. “I’m Fletcher Collins.” He shook the boy’s hand.

  “Did you see it happen?” Leo asked.

  “If you mean did I see your ma get shot, no, I’m afraid I didn’t.”

  “But you saw the rest of it? Were you there? Is that why you got that bandage around your head?”

  “Leo! That’s none of our business!” Mrs. Honeyworth scolded.

  Leo ignored the reprimand. “Did you shoot anyone?”

  “Leo!”

  “Gunfighting’s a serious matter, son. I do my best to avoid it. When I can.”

  Dr. Green walked into the room and stopped in the doorway. “Mrs. Honeyworth, it was good of you to come.”

  “How’s my ma?” Leo asked.

  The doc smiled down at him. “She’s going to be fine, Leo. Would you like to see her?”

  “Yes!”

  “Come this way, both of you.”

  Fletcher watched them walk down the hall. He limped to the bench and sat down again, looking out the window at the slowly brightening sky, then he rubbed his tired eyes and listened to the quiet laughter coming from the back room. They seemed like a nice enough family. Obviously been through a lot lately.

  Hell, he didn’t want to tarnish Mrs. O’Malley’s reputation any more than it was already, especially after meeting her son, but the lover she was protecting might have seen something that would help solve this case. Was Fletcher to set aside his personal oath to uphold the law because he felt sorry for her and her son? Wasn’t that the same kind of thing that had caused his own father’s tragic death?

  Fletcher pinched the bridge of his nose, thinking. It was impossible to leave that rock unturned, he knew. The way things stood at the moment, he had nothing to go on, not a single shred of a clue, and that didn’t help his present mood. It was the kind of situation that would grate across his nerves—and his conscience—until he caught that gunman and brought him to justice.

  One way…or another.

  Chapter Four

  Hearing footsteps in the hall outside her room, Jo felt her pulse quicken. Had she left another clue somewhere? A trail of blood perhaps?

  The doorknob turned, the door slowly squeaked open, and there stood her darling, dark-haired boy. He wore a plaid shirt with suspenders, and duck trousers that had recently become too short and now showed off his loose socks pooling almost comically around his ankles.

  “Leo,” she said with a rush of relief that could not compare to anything she’d ever known. The pain in her shoulder seemed to disappear momentarily as she regarded her son.

  He ran in, his loosely laced work boots stomping noisily across the floor, and gave her the hug she so desperately yearned for. “Ma, are you okay?”

  She loved him so much, her heart ached with it. She squeezed his slender body and when she felt his boyish weight upon her chest, she wished that life could go back to what it had once been.

  As she considered it further, however, she knew she could never go back, even if Leo’s father could somehow return from the dead and take over his duties on the ranch. After what she’d gone through, nothing would ever be the same again: she was not the same person she was, not the trusting woman who took safety and well-being for granted.

  She began to wonder uneasily how the change in her personality would affect her relationship with Edwyn, if he actually did come back from the dead. Would he even notice? Then she swept the thought away and squeezed Leo tighter. It was a foolish, foolish notion to imagine Edwyn ever returning to her.

  Leo withdrew from her embrace. Reluctantly, she let him go and noticed Matilda standing
just inside the door. The older woman smiled warmly, her concern showing. She hadn’t known what Jo had set out to do, only thought she was running errands, and she must have been devastated to learn what had happened. “We’re very glad to see you,” Matilda said.

  “I’m happy to see you, too,” Jo replied, wishing she could confide in Matilda about all of this, but afraid the knowledge might put her at risk. Matilda was a friend Jo could not do without.

  “When can you come home?” Leo asked.

  “The doctor says I’ll have to stay here for another day, so he can keep an eye on me.”

  “But you’re going to be all right, aren’t you?”

  “Yes, I’m going to be fine, but I don’t think I’ll be gathering any eggs for a few weeks. I’m going to need you to take over some of my chores.”

  Leo considered that a moment, then sat up straighter. “I can do everything. Don’t you worry about a thing, Ma. I’ll take charge.”

  “Thank you, Leo. Matilda and I will be sure to depend on you.”

  He smiled proudly, then his dark brows rose with excitement. “It must have been some gunfight. The marshal got shot, too, and he’s all bandaged up.”

  “You saw him?” Jo asked worriedly, then she tried to sound casual and unperturbed. “What in heaven’s name did you talk about?”

  “I asked him if he saw you get shot, but he said he didn’t.”

  Matilda gazed at a framed sketch on the wall. “I didn’t like the look of that lawman. There was something about him…”

  “Oh?” Jo questioned.

  “I’m not certain what it was. Perhaps the way he asked my name. As if I were some sort of criminal.”

  Jo shifted, trying to ease the pain in her back from lying still for so long. “Don’t fret, Matilda. I believe he’s suspicious of everyone. He told me quite plainly that he was inflexible and that Dodge would soon learn he was in charge.”

  Matilda adjusted the small, round spectacles on the bridge of her nose. “Just what our town needs—another power-hungry man running things. What’s his background?”