“All I know is that he’s Zeb Stone’s brother-in-law. That’s how he got the job.” Jo wished she knew more.
“Strange. I hadn’t heard anything about that. Whatever happened to Marshal Peavy?”
“I don’t know. When he rode out to check on us a few weeks ago, he didn’t mention anything about leaving Dodge, although folks have been saying that ever since he took a bullet in Caldwell last year, he’s been wanting to retire to California.”
Leo broke in. “What’s everybody so surprised about? I knew Marshal Collins was coming to town. I saw Zeb Stone on the McCaffrey land the other day when I was fixing the fence. He came over to talk to me.”
Jo winced at the sound of Zeb’s name on her son’s lips. “You didn’t tell me about that.”
“Sorry, Ma, but you didn’t ask. You haven’t asked about much lately.”
It was true, and she regretted having become so obsessed with Zeb, that she had neglected the person she loved more than anything in the world. She tried to hide the fact that she was shaken, and got straight to the heart of the matter. “What did Mr. Stone say to you?”
“Nothing much, except that he was on his way to the depot to meet the new marshal.”
“That’s all? You didn’t bother him with any questions about your pa, did you?”
For the past six months, Jo had tried to keep a low profile and steer clear of Zeb’s watchfulness, but Leo’s newfound interest in solving his father’s murder had become such a dangerous problem it had driven her to desperation. Good Lord, what was she going to do about all this?
“No, ma’am.” Leo lowered his gaze.
Jo’s head was pounding. She knew Leo must have said something and was afraid to tell her.
Matilda gave Jo a nod. “We best be getting on home. Your mother needs her rest.”
Leo moved forward to hug her.
“Be a good boy for Mrs. Honeyworth until I get home,” Jo said, patting Leo’s back and trying to keep her voice from quivering around the lump forming in her throat. Oh, she missed him so terribly much, and he was becoming a man so fast, changing every day, it seemed. She didn’t want to let him go.
“I will.” He gave her a carefree smile that only a child could muster, then walked to the door.
Matilda leaned down and kissed Jo on the forehead. When the door swung closed behind them, Jo looked at the window. Through a crack in the closed curtains, she could see the first glimmer of dawn, but sadly, the new day did not carry with it new hope.
* * *
With the morning sun uncomfortably hot on his back, his cane in hand, Fletcher limped down a Front Street boardwalk to get some breakfast. He could feel the curious stares from the townsfolk, ladies standing around with parasols, shopkeepers and barbers gathered in groups at their windows, chatting quietly. People wanted to get a look at the new marshal who had fainted in the middle of his first gunfight in town.
Fletcher clenched his jaw. What a circus. Now he had a reputation to fix. Hobbling around Dodge like a wounded dog didn’t exactly strike terror into the hearts of the local criminal element. He tugged the brim of his Stetson down over his forehead to cover the bandage and wondered if he could manage without the cane.
When he reached the Dodge House Hotel, he walked into the wallpapered dining room, removed his hat and chose a table by the window to watch for Deputy Anderson and his posse.
“You must be the new marshal,” the dark-haired waitress said, approaching. She carried a silver coffeepot and a newspaper, which she promptly set down on the white tablecloth. “Pleased to make your acquaintance. I’m Gert Bezel. My husband owns the place. Coffee?”
“Yes, thank you.”
She turned over the flowery china cup already placed in front of him and poured the coffee. “It’s a downright shame what happened to you last night. I saw them carry you off to the doctor. You looked like a big sack of flour. Most people thought you were dead.”
Fletcher felt his cheeks grow hot. “I’m still breathing.”
“Mr. Stone’s done so much for Dodge. It’s a pity he was robbed like that.”
“He’s a good man, for sure.”
Mrs. Bezel smiled warmly, but Fletcher knew he had some fancy footwork to do if he was ever going to regain confidence in this town. He leaned his cane against the dark wood wainscoting under the window.
“What can I get for you this morning?” Mrs. Bezel asked.
He ordered a plate of fried eggs, bacon and cornbread, and when Mrs. Bezel took her leave, he flipped open the newspaper, but the front page headline turned his appetite sour.
Frontier Fun
Dodge City’s Newest Marshal
Swoons at Gunpoint
Fletcher dropped his forehead into his hand and read on.
Last evening, Zeb Stone’s Dry Goods Store was held up by the man citizens are now calling “Six-Shooter Hank, Scariest Man Alive.” Marshal Fletcher Collins took one look at Hank and gracefully retired to the floor, not forgetting to introduce his head to the glass cabinet on the way down. For a few confused moments, it seemed as if the coroner and undertaker might have something to do, but a closer examination of the town’s new guardian revealed he was merely resting his eyes. Collins continued his nap while gunshots flew freely in the street, injuring Mrs. Josephine O’Malley, wife of murdered rancher, Edwyn O’Malley. Six-Shooter Hank made off with unknown amounts of cash and a posse on his tail. Marshal Collins has awakened from his nap and sources say he is recovering affably.
Fletcher leaned back in his chair and gave up trying to control his temper. He clenched his fists and hoped he’d be able to find a lead soon—anything to help him catch that outlaw.
Just then, four men on horseback rode into town, Deputy Anderson bringing up the rear.
Hopes rising, Fletcher slid his chair back and took his hat with him to the front door. “Anderson, any luck?”
The deputy walked his horse to the hitching rail. “Afraid not, Marshal. Didn’t find a trace of anything.”
“Did you talk to any of the cowboys out on the range?”
“Sure did. Nobody’s been bragging about a gunfight, but I reckon nobody wants to be a rat, either.”
Fletcher removed his hat and pulled the bandage off his head. With the posse’s failure, it was up to him now, so he decided right then and there that he would spare nothing to catch Six-Shooter Hank. Fletcher’s tarnished reputation depended on it. And as far as Hank being the scariest man alive? Well, Fletcher would just have to see about that.
Chapter Five
Growing more irritated by the minute, Jo slapped yesterday’s newspaper down on the bed. Marshal Collins had probably read the front-page headline and spent every waking hour since the alleged robbery trying to capture Six-Shooter Hank.
Six-Shooter Hank! Didn’t people have anything better to do than invent nicknames for criminals who had no business with fame?
She tapped her hand repeatedly on her leg. Her criminal disguise had been nestled beneath a public privy floor for two days, just waiting to be discovered by a disgruntled city marshal. She huffed in exasperation. Where was the doctor? He said he’d be in this afternoon to change her dressing and check her wound before releasing her. It must be past three by now, and she had to retrieve her bag and sneak it back home before anyone found it and turned it in.
Finally she heard footsteps in the hall and the door opened. “Good afternoon,” Mrs. Eisenbein said, walking in with a lunch tray. “How are you feeling?”
“I’m feeling fine. I’m ready to go home, if the doctor would complete his examination—”
“Yes, yes, I understand. The doctor will be in after he’s seen his patients.”
“His patients? Are there many out there?”
“A few.” She set the tray down on Jo’s lap and began to spoon-feed her the hot broth.
“How long will it take him? Because I really have to be on my way—”
“Open up,” Mrs. Eisenbein said, not waiting for Jo to finish.
Before she knew it, she was swallowing the hot, salty-tasting liquid.
Just then, Jo looked up to see Marshal Collins standing in the doorway, his walking stick gone, his bandage removed.
Her insides whirled with alarm as she stared at him. He wore a clean white shirt and black vest, his black leather gun belt buckled loosely on an angle over his narrow hips. Jo eyed the shiny silver bullets, each with their own tiny pocket on the belt, and imagined those dangerous hands meticulously inserting each bullet while he imagined all the gruesome ways he would like to settle the score with Six-Shooter Hank.
Mentally shaking herself to force the disconcerting image away, she sank back onto her pillow, hoping he wasn’t here with her disguise already in hand.
“Is the patient giving you trouble, Mrs. Eisenbein?” he asked.
Jo wasn’t sure if he was joking or not. He wasn’t smiling.
Mrs. Eisenbein, on the other hand, grinned and set the silver spoon into the bowl. “No, Marshal. She’s just anxious to get home, is all, and the doctor hasn’t tended to her yet.”
Holding his tan-colored hat in his hands, the marshal leaned at his ease against the doorjamb. The steel badge pinned to his vest flashed brilliantly, reflecting sunlight from the open window. “Well, maybe I can speed the good doctor up a little. I’ll just threaten to polish his head with my six-shooter.”
Mrs. Eisenbein chuckled, but Jo was less inclined to see the humor. She was too busy trying to think clearly while battling her rapid pulse.
“And how are we feeling today?” the marshal asked, directing his gaze straight through her.
“Fine, thank you, Marshal. Any luck catching that outlaw?”
“Six-Shooter Hank? Not yet. But I’ll get him.”
Not if I keep my wits about me. “Did the posse come back?”
“Yep, but they didn’t find anything. I’m not through with this yet, though. A man couldn’t disappear into thin air.”
“No, of course not. Could I have some more soup?” Jo asked Mrs. Eisenbein, trying to change the subject.
The woman gathered up the bowl and began feeding Jo again.
“So what’s the hurry?” Marshal Collins asked, crossing one brown leather boot over the other. “If I’m going to convince the doc to see you before his other patients, I’d better have a good reason.”
“Tea, please?” Jo asked.
“You don’t like to answer questions, do you?”
She glanced up long enough to get the impression he found her responses frustrating, which was only natural, she decided. She was avoiding his questions. “I’m hungry and I’m in a hurry to get home to my son, who is probably taking years off Mrs. Honeyworth’s life as we speak.”
“They expecting you for supper?”
“Yes, and Mrs. Honeyworth serves it precisely at six.”
“Well, we’d best get you on your way, then.” He leaned back to peer down the hall. “Doc should be done soon.”
Jo tried to sip her tea delicately, but was annoyed to find she couldn’t stop her fingers from trembling. In the silence of the room, the fine china cup rattled against the saucer.
Self-consciously, she glanced up at the marshal and saw that he was watching her. What would he do if he knew he was staring at the person who had caused that ugly lump on his forehead and the scar on his thigh?
She glanced at that thigh, able to see quite clearly the broad expanse of muscle, the hard contours beneath his trousers. He was a large man and a strong one. No wonder Zeb wanted him as the city marshal.
She cleared her throat, telling herself to keep her eyes to herself, stop jiggling the teacup like a dunderhead, and get out of there and back to the privy.
“Just so you know,” Marshal Collins said, interrupting the uncomfortable silence, “we’ll be spending some time together this afternoon. I rented myself a buggy and I’m going to take you back to your ranch myself.”
Jo tried not to choke on her tea. “But Mrs. Honeyworth is supposed to come for me.”
“I told her I’d get you home.”
“Why would you want to do that?”
“Maybe I enjoy your conversation.”
Mrs. Eisenbein’s playful gaze flicked up at Jo.
“What is it that you want to discuss with me?” Jo asked pointedly. “Whatever it is, you can ask me now.”
“There’s nothing to discuss. I just want to see that you get home safely. Mrs. Honeyworth isn’t coming, and your ranch is four miles outside of town, I hear. That’s at least an hour’s walk and it’s powerful hot out there. Not a good risk in your condition.”
“Thank you, but it’s not necessary. I wouldn’t want to trouble you.”
“On the contrary, it would trouble me if you refused.” His eyes darkened with a cast-iron message that Jo understood all too clearly. He could see through her charade and he wanted to knock her off balance. Get her to say something incriminating.
She set her cup and saucer on the side table and looked to Mrs. Eisenbein for help, but the woman lowered her gaze and began to gather up the tray.
“Something tells me you won’t take no for an answer,” Jo said to the marshal.
“Something tells me you’re right.”
She stared at him, considering her options. If she refused, he’d become even more suspicious than he was already, and probably follow her to the privy. But if she said yes, she’d have to leave her bag there for another day.
Without waiting for her response, the marshal backed into the hall. “I’ll go get that buggy and fetch the doctor.” He placed his hat on his head and disappeared from sight, the rhythmic sound of his boots lingering on the surface of Jo’s frayed consciousness.
“That was kind of the marshal, don’t you think?” Mrs. Eisenbein said, the dishes clinking on her tray as she stood.
But Jo knew with plunging hopes that the marshal’s offer had nothing to do with kindness.
* * *
After the doctor came to the room and checked Jo’s wound for infection, Mrs. Eisenbein entered with Jo’s laundered gown and helped her slip into it. A few minutes later, Jo was at last being escorted down the hall to the front office.
While she arranged payment, the door squeaked open and the distinctive rhythm of the marshal’s heavy boots rattled her nerves as he came up behind her. “All set to go, Mrs. O’Malley?”
She faced him. “Yes, but it really isn’t necessary for you to take me. I’m perfectly capable of walking. I do it all the time.”
“Not with a bullet hole in your shoulder.”
“The marshal’s right,” Dr. Green said. “No sense taking chances. It’s best to have someone with you, in case anything happens.”
Marshal Collins settled his hat onto his head. “There, you see?”
Why did he have to be right all the time?
They walked onto the sunny porch and the marshal took her elbow as she descended the stairs. Feeling the stability of that hand on her arm only made her more uneasy, but she fought the urge to pull away. She had no choice but to allow him to assist her. Any hostile behavior might alert him to her apprehensive feelings, and she had to keep a calm head if she wanted him to leave her alone long enough to retrieve her bag from the privy. She only hoped it would remain there untouched until she could return for it.
“Careful now,” the marshal said, helping her into a black canopied buggy with a shiny red seat. The leather creaked as she slid across. “It’s been a while since I’ve driven one of these.” He climbed in beside her and gently flicked the long leather reins. “I’m usually in a saddle.” The buggy lurched forward and the harness jingled as the horse flicked his ears at the flies hovering around his head.
They rolled smoothly down Front Street in silence, the round buggy wheels grinding two straight tracks down the dusty street. The marshal paid the fare to cross the toll bridge over the river, then they drove onto it and faced the wide-open prairie, speckled with longhorn cattle as far as the eye could see. The buggy wheels rattled over
the wooden bridge, the horse’s hooves clopping while Jo mentally went over the alibi she’d given to the marshal the other day. She only hoped she would remember it correctly if he asked about it again.
Once the buggy rolled off the edge of the bridge, the ride grew rougher. Jo hugged her arm to her chest to keep her sore bones from knocking into each other.
“You okay?” the marshal asked, then they leaped over another bump.
“Ouch! I’m fine.”
He bounced toward her and his knee touched hers. She felt a keen awareness of it and slid away.
“I could slow down,” he offered.
Going slower meant spending more time with him in this confined space, and she wasn’t sure that was such a good idea. “I told you, I could have walked. And slowing down won’t make the ruts in the road go away. Why don’t you stop and let me out?”
“I don’t think that would be wise, ma’am.”
“You can follow along behind if you like.”
“It’s a long way.”
“I know how far it is. I’ll be fine. I feel wonderful right now.” They bounced one more time and she winced noticeably. “Except for the bumps.”
He drove another few yards, then pulled the lumbering horse to a halt with a gently spoken “whoa.” They were surrounded by hundreds of longhorn cattle, idly grazing. The horse nickered and shook beneath the harness.
“You don’t want to talk to me, do you?” Marshal Collins said, all too perceptively.
“Where would you get such a notion? I simply prefer to walk, that’s all.”
He stared at her a moment, his eyes calculating. “All right. You can walk if it’s easier for you. I’ll drive behind in case you get tired, but don’t overdo it.”
“I won’t get tired.” She tried to step down, but had some difficulty holding on to the thin steel rail. Before she knew it, the marshal appeared with his hands around her waist. Her insides did a flip as he lowered her to the ground, her calico skirts billowing upon the wind. He remained there looking down at her for a moment.
“Thank you,” she said politely, staring at the short, stubbly grass with the pretext of examining the toe of her boot, all the while relieved that she could hide her eyes beneath the brim of her sunbonnet.
Tempting the Marshal: (A Western Historical Romance) (Dodge City Brides Series Book 2) Page 4
