Later, of course. After dark. When her son wasn’t around….
He hung his hat on a hook by the door, and raked his fingers through his hair to distract himself from the heat in his blood. He went around the back of the largest desk and unlocked the top drawer to retrieve a second set of keys that jingled between his fingers.
All the while, Mrs. O’Malley stood quietly by the door—seemingly unaware of how much her presence affected him—while Leo walked around the room, looking at the “Wanted” posters on the walls.
“Is it true what Zeb said?” Mrs. O’Malley asked curiously. “That you plan to run for sheriff?”
Half laughing, Fletcher replied, “No. I reckon Zeb was just trying to make up for what happened the other night, to give folks something new to talk about.” He set down the report he was looking at and added, “I’m not the political type, nor am I interested in anything that permanent.”
“But it’s a very prestigious position.”
“Doesn’t matter much to me. I don’t plan on stayin’ in Dodge forever. I’m only going to hang around long enough to establish some law around here and clean up the town’s reputation. Make sure Elizabeth’s okay.”
“Why wouldn’t she be? She’s married to the future mayor.” Mrs. O’Malley stared into Fletcher’s eyes with a scrutiny he didn’t quite understand but wished he did.
She seemed to be searching for something, waiting for him to say something….
Then she grew uncomfortable for some reason and turned away, joining Leo, who was still reading the posters.
Fletcher took a moment to clear his desk, then changed the subject. “I know this can’t be easy for either of you—” he crossed the room to a tall cabinet and unlocked it “—but I’ll need to know the exact date your husband was killed, Mrs. O’Malley.”
“It was the night of February 26,” she replied, facing him. She clutched her small reticule in both hands in front of her. “Twenty minutes past ten.” Fletcher hesitated at her exactness, and felt his mood grow suddenly somber as he reached for the police court dockets. He flipped through the papers, but didn’t find what he was searching for. “February 26 of this year?”
“Yes,” Jo answered.
He closed the drawer and opened another. “The report must have been misfiled. Has anyone looked at it recently?”
Leo eyed his mother, questioningly.
“Not that I know of.” She didn’t seem all that surprised by this.
Fletcher closed the last drawer and walked to his desk. He searched for the report there but found nothing. “You’re sure that was the day?”
Mrs. O’Malley tilted her head at him.
“Of course it was. Forgive me.”
Leo’s voice filled with panic. “You mean you can’t find it? The evidence is gone?”
“There was no evidence, Leo, that’s the point,” Jo said. “There was only the information I gave to the marshal that night about what I saw.”
Fletcher sat down. “Was that Marshal Samson?”
“Yes. He was only here a few months, and left town shortly after Edwyn died.”
“I know. This city seems to have trouble holding onto their lawmen. Care to tell the story again, Mrs. O’Malley? Leo gave me the rundown, but you were the one who found your husband.” Fletcher gestured to the chair on the opposite side of his desk, knowing this wouldn’t be easy for her.
Hesitantly, Jo sat. “Thank you, Marshal.”
“Call me Fletcher.”
She gave him a look, then cleared her throat and began, but her tone was surprisingly dry and emotionless. Fletcher wasn’t sure what to make of it.
“Edwyn was in the barn late that night because one of the horses was delivering a foal. I had been reading in the parlor when I heard hoofbeats and went to the window to look. It was very dark and I didn’t see anyone, but for some reason I felt concern—call it a woman’s instinct—and decided to go out to check on Edwyn. I put on my overcoat and went to the barn. My husband was dead when I got there. They’d hanged him.”
Fletcher leaned straight back in the chair. “I’m very sorry, Mrs. O’Malley. I wish I had been here then. Maybe I could have—”
He stopped himself. Could have what? Held her? Comforted her?
Mrs. O’Malley only nodded.
“And they took horses?” he asked, trying to focus on the crime and not easing the heart of the beautiful, grieving widow across from him.
“Yes, they took two, I discovered. I ran back into the house to wake Matilda, then I saddled a horse and rode straight here without thinking.”
Leo interrupted. “Ma told me the next morning.” Fletcher nodded compassionately. “And what was done about it, Mrs. O’Malley?”
“A posse went after them at dawn, but a heavy snowfall covered the trail. The posse came back two days later with nothing. The horses were never recovered or seen again. No one even had any idea which direction the gang had gone.”
“Do you feel confident that everything that could have been done for you was done?”
Mrs. O’Malley considered the question for a long time, then answered, “With the information I provided that night about the events? Yes.”
He studied her a moment, and knew she was holding something back. But then again, he always seemed to feel that way around her. Always wanted her to give him something more.
“Did the marshal examine the barn for evidence?” he asked.
“Yes, but he didn’t find anything.”
Fletcher stared intently at her. Where was the desperation? The desire for justice he had expected to see in her eyes? He saw it only in Leo’s.
Fletcher couldn’t help probing a little further. “And there’s nothing else you can tell me? Nothing for me to look into?”
Mrs. O’Malley seemed frozen in her chair, the question hanging between them on a thread. What was she hiding?
Leo touched her shoulder again. “Are you all right, Ma?”
She covered his hand with hers. “I’m fine, but we’ve done all we can do today. We should be going.”
Abruptly she stood and held out her gloved hand. Fletcher shook it, and noted the direct and purposeful way she looked at him. He was aware of everything about her—the moisture on her lips, the pace of her breathing, the clear dewy softness of her complexion and the reflection of sunlight in the pupils of her eyes.
Feeling downright aroused by her touch, Fletcher said goodbye to Mrs. O’Malley and Leo. Then he stood at the second-floor window, watching them cross Front Street. Mrs. O’Malley kept checking over her shoulder. She tried to hold Leo’s arm a few times, and each time, the boy pulled away from the protective gesture, like any boy his age would do.
When they disappeared into Wright’s store, Fletcher leaned his shoulder against the window frame.
Why in hell was he so drawn to this woman who obviously didn’t want anyone to get close to her? And was he only interested in this case because he couldn’t stop thinking about how she smelled so fresh, like sweet orange water, and how he wanted to touch her curvy, soft body, slide his hands around her waist, press his lips into the crook of her neck? Hear her sigh with pleasure? See her with her hair down and tousled, smiling up at him? Her shoulders bare?
Stop it, Fletcher, he thought, turning away from the window and taking a deep breath to wrestle his urges under control.
Think about the case…the case.
Yeah, that’s better.
Something about it was, in fact, niggling at him. The fact that Mrs. O’Malley hadn’t seen much of anything didn’t bother him so much as the look she had given him just now when he asked if the marshal had done everything he could at the time to catch the thieves. It was almost a challenge. A plea for him to see the truth in her eyes, to hear more than what she was actually saying.
With the information I provided that night about the events…
Was there something else she hadn’t told anyone? Maybe something she later remembered? And why were the misfiled
papers bothering him so much? Was it the fact that Mrs. O’Malley hadn’t seemed surprised they were missing?
Fletcher went to the cabinet to lock it, then dropped the key into his desk drawer and locked it, too. He shouldn’t be thinking about a six-month-old murder case when everybody in town was expecting the speedy capture of the notorious Six-Shooter Hank. But he couldn’t help it. He couldn’t keep his mind off anything that had to do with Mrs. O’Malley.
Ironically, she was the only potential lead he had to Six-Shooter Hank at the moment anyway—a good excuse to go out to her ranch again tonight.
Well, so be it. Perhaps some unexpected tidbit of information might fall into his lap. With any luck, it would be Mrs. O’Malley herself.
Chapter Eleven
Shortly after dinner, Zeb walked out of the house to find himself a poker game and some good whisky. He climbed into his shiny black carriage, which was waiting for him just outside the door, and cracked the whip to get the animals moving.
As the horses’ hooves clattered down his stone driveway, he thought about the best way to eliminate both the widow O’Malley and her meddlesome son without creating any suspicious gossip. He wondered with amused curiosity how she’d managed to keep herself hidden that night in her barn, what she’d seen exactly, and how the blazes she had been so dim-witted to let it slip this afternoon. More proof that you couldn’t trust a woman to control a tongue that was, by nature, created to flap.
Zeb supposed it didn’t matter what she’d seen or if she had any proof of it. He simply couldn’t afford gossip with the election coming up. He would have to discuss a solution with MacGregor, his hired man, pay him a little extra to see that the “solution” was carried out properly.
* * *
How many ways were there, exactly, to kill a man? Jo wondered uneasily. She felt sick about the things she was thinking. Over the past five hours, she had considered poison, strangulation and a house fire. She’d even fantasized about a public stoning, but nothing seemed as quick and reliable as her Colt .45.
She only wished it didn’t have to be so violent. The last time she’d attempted this, she’d discovered she was not the killer she thought she was. Oh, yes, she’d spent countless nights imagining pulling the trigger, but when it came down to it, she couldn’t do it.
Now, standing in front of her bedroom mirror and staring at the fugitive known only as Six-Shooter Hank, she told herself she would not think of her morals. After what happened with Zeb today, her life depended on it.
At least she had managed to convince Leo and Matilda to get on the evening train out of Dodge City. It hadn’t been easy, but she had told Leo that Matilda needed some time away from the ranch, that she was in need of rest, and Leo had believed the story and was eager to take care of Matilda in her time of need. Jo only hoped Leo didn’t tell Matilda that.
Reaching for Edwyn’s brown hat, Jo pulled it down snugly over her knotted hair and tied the red bandanna around the back of her neck. Edwyn’s old trousers and shirt were a perfect disguise, and the long slicker she’d worn the other night conveniently covered her feminine curves. She was unrecognizable.
The only things missing were her holster and guns.
She turned around. There they lay on her bed—the place Leo was conceived. A disturbing thought at this moment.
Jo fought against the sickening lump forming in her stomach as she picked up her weapons. She buckled the brown leather belt around her hips. Slowly she withdrew one pistol and squeezed the smooth walnut handle. She sat on the edge of the bed and clicked open the cylinder to check it one more time.
Five bullets. She clicked the cylinder closed and thumbed back the hammer. The cylinder rotated; the trigger was set and in working order. She reset the hammer to rest on an empty chamber again and slid the gun back into the brown leather casing.
After repeating the inspection with the second weapon, Jo stood by the bed and took one last look in the mirror. Six-Shooter Hank gazed back at her from beneath the wide brim of his hat. He was turning out to be a useful character. When Zeb’s body was discovered, everyone and their dog would be searching for the elusive gunman, and Jo would be sitting assuredly back at home in her tight corset and blue gingham day dress. She only hoped she would be able to live with herself.
She inhaled a deep breath and walked out of the room. Dressed like a man, it felt natural to walk like one, to stomp down the stairs instead of float down, to grip and squeeze the railing instead of skimming her delicate gloved fingers over it. Down the stairs she went, full of purpose and conviction, and determined—this time—to crush her conscience if it threatened to intervene.
She straightened Edwyn’s portrait in the front hall and glanced at the clock on the mantel in the parlor. Seven-thirty. Time to go. She’d worked out every detail of her plan right down to the minute, sending all the ranch hands on errands to each of the cow camps, so that no one would see her leave the house.
* * *
Swaying back and forth in the creaky leather saddle and listening to the ghostly sounds of cows lowing in the distance, Fletcher walked his horse up the last gentle rise on the way to the O’Malley ranch. Phoebes and mockers made short sweeps across the fields, skimming the ground and chirping into the dusk. The sun had dipped behind a field dotted with cattle, and the long shadows of twilight were fast disappearing.
When he reached the crest of the hill, he gently pulled on the reins. The horse paused, snorting, then lowered his head to munch on some buffalo grass at the roadside.
Fletcher crossed his wrists over the saddle horn and sighed. He could see the ranch now, tucked cozily in the small valley. There was a puzzle-like pattern to the corral fences, and the windmill was spinning sleepily, silhouetted against the darkening sky. The buildings seemed so grand in the middle of this vast, empty prairie.
Was this the right thing to do? he wondered uneasily. Ride down there and pretend to ask more questions about the shooting, when he knew darn well it was just an excuse to see Mrs. O’Malley again—and explore what might occur if they were in the same room together again. Alone. Because he darn well couldn’t get her out of his head.
As if coming here would help. It would likely only make things worse.
He sat there another moment, considering it, then leaned back in the saddle and considered it some more. But instead of a clearheaded deliberation about his duties as a lawman, he imagined her standing on her covered porch, smiling knowingly at him as he rode up, fully aware of why he had come…
Feeling a fervor in his blood that he couldn’t contain any longer, Fletcher tapped his heels against Prince and started off down the hill, because Mrs. O’Malley—just the idea of her—was pulling him like a magnet.
At the bottom of the hill however, he caught sight of a man walking boldly out of the widow’s house and mounting an awaiting horse.
His stomach dropped. Was this Mrs. O’Malley’s secret lover? The man she had told him about the night she was shot?
For a moment, his heart sank with disappointment, until a closer look at the man made him sit up straighter in the saddle. He reached for the rifle from his saddle scabbard.
This man was no lover. He was Six-Shooter Hank.
* * *
With significant effort, on account of her wounded shoulder, Jo pinned her foot into the stirrup and mounted her horse, Mogie. At least everything was easier without her corset to restrict her movements. She reached for the reins, kicked her heels into Mogie’s firm belly and—with a plan to cut across the fields rather than risk meeting someone on the road—Jo steered him toward the north pasture.
About ten minutes later, as she rode Mogie along a fence, a gunshot shattered the silence. The noise spooked Mogie, who reared up and forced Jo to grab on to the horn for dear life, the muscles in her legs tightening around the frightened animal. Her wounded shoulder throbbed painfully with the sudden strain. Mogie skittered sideways, then bolted across the field.
Another shot rang out. Jo tur
ned quickly to see where the gunfire was coming from, and a mere glance from the corner of her eye told her. She recognized that familiar slicker sailing on the wind and the black hat pressed forward on the man’s head. It was Fletcher.
Shock choked her as she shifted in the saddle, joining Mogie in his flight of terror. She kicked in her heels. “Yah! Yah!”
Hooves thundered behind her, then Fletcher shouted, “Stop! You’re under arrest!”
What was he doing here?
They raced across the open fields, the sharp wind stinging Jo’s cheeks and threatening to sweep her hat off her head. There was nowhere to go, nowhere to hide, and Mogie was breathing hard. He wouldn’t last much longer. She was surely done for.
Fletcher was gaining. The drumming hooves grew louder, pounding in Jo’s ears. Was there no way out of this?
He fired the rifle again. Was he shooting at her? She hadn’t thought he’d ever killed a man. Would she be his first?
Heart racing with desperation, she knew there was no escape. Mogie wouldn’t make it and she had to do something. Her life and Leo’s safety depended on it. With a muttered oath and hands that shook uncontrollably inside her loose gloves, she pulled her bandanna up over her face and drew her weapon.
* * *
Racing across the darkening fields after searching Mrs. O’Malley’s house and finding no one there—which had come as a relief, because he was worried what Hank might have done to her—Fletcher cursed the outlaw trying to outrun him. What was he doing at the O’Malley ranch and where was Josephine? If that gunman so much as plucked one hair from her head, Fletcher swore he would track him to the ends of the earth.
Fletcher kicked in his heels, but Prince was winded. Damn, he couldn’t lose now.
The outlaw drew his gun, turned in the saddle and took aim. Fletcher steered Prince in an arc, attempting to become a faster-moving target, but it gave the gunman the advantage of speed. The distance between them grew, and Fletcher knew the time for firing warning shots was over. If the rider wanted a gunfight, he was going to get one.
Tempting the Marshal: (A Western Historical Romance) (Dodge City Brides Series Book 2) Page 9
