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

by Julianne MacLean

  “And you think you can?”

  “Just give me a chance to explain what I think. Maybe Zeb is running a cattle-rustling ring, and that’s why he was so vague last night about what he hired you to do. Maybe Zeb killed Edwyn because of the letters he sent to the city council.”

  “How long has this cattle rustling been going on?”

  “You saw the books. A few years, maybe. It seems normal to most people now.”

  Fletcher took a sip of coffee and nodded his head, still without looking up. “A few years, you say. If this has been going on for a few years, don’t you think it’s possible that you might be the teeniest bit mistaken about Zeb? After all, he’s only been in these parts for two.”

  Feeling as if her theory had been quashed, Jo tried to prevent the inevitable loss of color to her cheeks. “Where was he before that?”

  “Chicago. Meeting my sister for the first time.”

  Jo shifted in her chair and cleared her throat, her hopes sinking at this supposed alibi. “Are you sure?”

  “Elizabeth told me she met him briefly in her first year of college—the year his family died and left him all his money. Then he courted her and proposed to her during her third and final year.”

  “But he could have been back and forth that first year.”

  “He opened his dry goods store exactly two years ago,” Fletcher said, “and before that, he was burying his parents in Chicago. It was only after he inherited his money that he decided to invest it out here, in the West.”

  Jo twisted her wedding ring around on her finger. “Perhaps, with your resources as marshal, you could look into it. His past may very well be a fabrication.”

  “And my sister imagined meeting him in Chicago three years ago?”

  Jo squeezed the smooth arm of the chair. She had held a loaded gun to Zeb’s head and very nearly pulled the trigger. She would not have done that without the strongest of convictions about his murderous heart. “Maybe Zeb became involved with whoever started this cattle-rustling ring after he came here.” Proud of herself for that little suggestion, she raised her chin.

  Fletcher set down his coffee cup and wiped his hands on the linen napkin. “Your theories are all well and good, Jo, but you know I need real evidence. I’m willing to look into these cattle thefts, but I don’t know how to do it without locking you up.”

  “But Fletcher—”

  “There’s no other way to keep you safe and in custody at the same time.”

  “But I won’t be safe in jail,” she argued. “I can’t trust anyone, not even your deputies. Zeb might own them already, and you said yourself that if people find out why you arrested me, you won’t be able to investigate.”

  “What do you suggest we do, then?” Fletcher rose from the chair and threw his napkin on the tray. “I can’t let you off, and I can’t take you with me. That would look just as suspicious. If I believe that I can’t trust my deputies…”

  He paced the room for a few minutes while Jo sat there, watching him.

  “Unless…” he said, not looking at her, his thoughts only on his job, it seemed, and the best way to do it.

  “What’s your idea?” she asked.

  Fletcher rested his hands on his hips. “This may sound strange, but after my altercation just now with your foreman, John—news of which will probably be all over town by midday—we could tell people we’re engaged.”

  Despite the sleep she badly needed, Jo felt instantly wide-awake. “You’re not serious.”

  “I know it sounds crazy, but it would just be an act to distract people. If you were my fiancée, we could be seen constantly together without raising suspicion. There’d be all sorts of gossip and no one would question what was really going on. I’d only be doing it to keep watch over you without raising suspicion, and to solve this case at the same time, as quickly as possible. If there’s any truth to what you say about Zeb, this will rattle his cage for sure.” Fletcher paced the carpet, never making eye contact. “And you’d only be doing it to help find the men who killed your husband,” he added. “Maybe lighten your sentence a bit, if the judge is sympathetic.”

  “If it means Zeb will get what’s coming to him,” she replied, “I’d be willing to go along with it. Just don’t expect me to play the lovesick fool. I have more important things to accomplish.”

  That last little bit was her pride talking, and she suspected he knew it.

  * * *

  It was nearly noon by the time Zeb forced himself to roll over and slide out of his luxurious mahogany bed. His bare toes touched the cold floor, and he cursed the maid for not making his house more comfortable with a fire at dawn, especially when he paid her far more than her pathetic, stubby fingers were worth.

  Only then did he realize, with another irritated curse, that he’d worn his blue silk nightshirt to bed inside out.

  Squeezing his hammering temples, he swallowed against the dry, detestable taste of the morning in his mouth. He was glad Elizabeth had risen early, as was her usual habit, for if she were here, just the sound of her high-pitched, chattery voice would have driven him mad.

  Zeb rang for his manservant, Matthews, who assisted him in dressing and shaving, then he made his way downstairs, trying not to move too quickly. He was on his way to the library for a medicinal shot of brandy when he heard Elizabeth’s heels clicking fast across the polished floor behind him, and he had to fight the urge to whip around and silence her with a slap, as he had silenced her last night.

  “What is it, Elizabeth? And don’t ask me how I slept.”

  She stopped in the center of the wide hall and cleared her throat. “I…I’m sorry to disturb you, Zeb, but Fletcher is in the drawing room. He has some news, but he wanted to wait for you before he said anything. I believe it’s about Mrs. O’Malley.”

  Ah! Good news to wake up to for a change.

  Fletcher had come, no doubt, to deliver bad news about a fire and a dead widow—news that would cure Zeb’s headache just as effectively as half a bottle of brandy.

  He guided Elizabeth back toward the drawing room. “Nothing wrong with the woman, I hope.”

  “I don’t know. He’s been very secretive about it.”

  “Well, we shall find out soon enough.”

  * * *

  Fletcher stood in his sister’s drawing room at the window, his gaze following Zeb’s tree-lined driveway, his worries drifting back to Jo. He hoped she was still sitting in the church confessional where he’d left her. He felt badly about tying her to the bench leg, especially after she’d protested, but he still couldn’t be sure she wouldn’t try to escape, and he wanted to deliver this news on his own, without distraction.

  He turned when he heard Elizabeth and Zeb enter the room. Watching them together—her slender arm looped through Zeb’s, both of them richly dressed in the finest attire Dodge had to offer—Fletcher felt his heart darken with regret.

  Maybe Jo was wrong about Zeb. He was Elizabeth’s husband, after all. The man she had chosen above all others, the future she had embraced with her whole heart when she’d married him.

  Fletcher wondered uneasily if he was prepared to kick it all out from under her.

  Zeb stopped in the doorway. “Good heavens, you look exhausted. What in the world has happened?”

  “I am a little tired,” Fletcher confessed. “I was up most of the night.”

  Zeb moved fully into the room. “Busy, were you? Please sit down and tell us all about it.”

  Fletcher studied Zeb’s eyes, hoping he would not see what he’d come here to find. “Truthfully, I wasn’t busy. I was up all night, just thinking.”

  Zeb sat silently, staring. “About what?”

  “Marriage.”

  Elizabeth strode toward him, her cheeks flushing, her eyes regaining some of the radiance Fletcher had not seen in her lately. “Marriage? Fletcher, what do you mean?”

  “You, Liz, of all people, should know exactly what I mean. Can’t you tell by looking at me?” He had
to swallow the bitter realization that he’d never lied to his sister before now.

  Zeb continued to stare at Fletcher, dumbfounded, and Fletcher stared right back at him, searching.

  Elizabeth smiled. “Oh, do say it, Fletcher! Is it what I think?”

  He would come clean soon enough, he told himself, trying to ease some of the guilt. Just as soon as all this nasty business of murder and cattle rustling was cleared up.

  “You said you had bad news about Mrs. O’Malley,” Zeb interrupted with a frown.

  “I never said it was bad,” Fletcher said, “but you can judge that for yourself.” Fletcher’s gut wrenched at Zeb’s slipup, but he tried to hide it as the lie spilled from his lips. “Mrs. O’Malley and I are going to be married.”

  “Oh!” Elizabeth squealed, but Fletcher was watching Zeb, who cupped his head and winced with pain at his wife’s jolly outcry. She hurried to sit beside Fletcher and threw her arms around his neck. “I’m so happy!”

  “So am I,” he replied, still digesting Zeb’s words.

  “But you’ve only known her a few days!” Elizabeth said with a smile. “She must be incredibly special. I thought her so when I met her. She and I will be like sisters, I know it!”

  Fletcher watched Zeb, who rose to his feet and dutifully offered his hand. “I suppose congratulations are in order.”

  “Thank you, Zeb.” Fletcher stood and shook hands with his brother-in-law.

  “You’ve asked her, I presume.”

  “Of course,” Fletcher replied.

  “When? You must have ridden out there very early this morning,” he commented, his tone brimming with curiosity and impatience.

  Fletcher thought carefully about how he should answer that loaded observation. Was it best to let Zeb believe, for a little longer, that Jo might be dead, if that was in fact why he was asking?

  Or was it worth the risk to see Zeb’s face when he found out that she was still among the living?

  “I asked her first thing this morning,” Fletcher replied matter-of-factly. Then he paused to await Zeb’s reaction.

  The man’s jaw twitched.

  “She came into town to buy some things for her house,” Fletcher continued, laying down more information for Zeb to take in. “There was a fire in her parlor.”

  “What a shame,” Zeb replied, his eyes void of any sentiment.

  Elizabeth covered her mouth with her hand. “Good gracious. No one was hurt, I hope.”

  “It was a small fire,” Fletcher replied. “Clumsily started, I think.”

  “No doubt,” Zeb said, his mood dark.

  “Will you bring her for supper this evening?” Elizabeth asked. “We can all celebrate.”

  Fletcher glanced at his sister, so lighthearted and smiling, and he wanted to sink through the floor at the thought of capsizing her perfect new life.

  Then he glanced at Zeb, saw the annoyance hovering in his eyes, and felt his instincts begin to boil. He had no definite proof of anything, but he knew something was up with Zeb, and it was his duty to find out what it was.

  He supposed it was time to surrender to the one thing he’d wanted to avoid—a social evening with Zeb and Jo together.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Jo stood inside the city clerk’s office while Fletcher dug into his pocket for keys.

  “I’m curious what the city council did about your husband’s letters,” he said, unlocking and opening a drawer in the large desk under the window. “Were they publicized at all?”

  “Not that I know of. I never heard another word about it after he sent them.”

  “He didn’t send them to the newspaper or anything like that?”

  “Definitely not. Edwyn didn’t like to bring attention to himself.”

  Fletcher nodded in understanding. “He took the time to make copies of the letters, so he must have been serious about the situation.” Fletcher pulled a large hard-covered book out of the drawer and set it on the desk. He began to flip through the pages. “I’m looking for the city council minutes of last July. That’s when he sent the first letter.”

  Jo leaned forward over Fletcher’s shoulder, trying to ignore the subtle scent of leather from his gun belt as she watched his sun-bronzed hands turn page after page of the ruled paper. “Here it is—council meeting on July 23. Look for your husband’s name.”

  They both read over the minutes, but Edwyn’s letters were never mentioned.

  “Are you sure the first letter was dated in July?” she asked, refusing to give up hope that they would find something.

  “Positive. I’ll check August. Maybe he sent it late.” They searched through the records, page after page, every month in the whole year.

  “There’s nothing,” Fletcher said grimly. “No mention of either of Edwyn’s letters or any cattle-theft problem.” He set the book back in the drawer and leaned against the desk, the heel of his palm braced upon the top while he rubbed his forehead with the other hand.

  Jo stood before him, watching the stress lines deepen around his eyes. “Zeb got rid of those letters. He must be involved in the cattle-rustling ring and that’s why he came after Edwyn, and why he destroyed the police records about Edwyn’s death.”

  “We can’t be certain of that yet.”

  “But Zeb has the power and the access to these records.”

  “So do a lot of other people.”

  “But I know it was Zeb that night. This only confirms it. Why can’t you at least say it’s possible? Give me that much?”

  At last, Fletcher surrendered to her on that point, and she had to fight the urge to wrap her arms around his neck and thank him properly.

  “I won’t say it’s impossible,” he replied, “but we still have to keep looking.” Fletcher locked the desk and retrieved his hat from the hook by the door. “Which is exactly why I want to know more about this cattle-rustling problem.” He pressed the hat onto his head.

  “At least we’re in agreement on that.” Jo followed Fletcher outside into the bright sunlight and shaded her eyes with her gloved hand. He locked the door behind them and began to descend the steps ahead of her. “Let’s move fast,” he said, “I want to get to the stockyard before the train comes in.”

  Picking up her skirts in one hand, Jo hurried down the steps and followed him over the tracks toward Front Street.

  A few minutes later, Fletcher and Jo approached the cattle-loading pens, packed tight with Texas longhorns shrieking and snorting and clacking their horns together, while they awaited the train that would take them east to a Chicago slaughterhouse.

  Fletcher guided Jo past the station depot, and as soon as his hand touched the small of her back, he noticed a knot in his gut the size of a watermelon—which had nothing to do with stockyards, cows, or cattle-rustling. Things were getting pretty dicey around here, and he was finding it more and more difficult by the second to keep his mind on his job, when all he wanted to do was take Jo back to his room at the boardinghouse, tie her to his bed again and see where things might go from there.

  God, he wanted her too much. He cared too much. And having her with him all the time like this, while pretending to be engaged, was turning into a cruel form of torture. But he had to remember his position. She was his prisoner and she wanted her own brand of justice with a passion that was simply too dangerous, not to mention illegal.

  Hence, the colossal knot in his gut he couldn’t quash…

  They approached a short, stocky cowhand and Fletcher forced himself to get his mind back on business.

  “Mornin’,” Fletcher said to the man, who was leaning back against the gate, his face leather-brown from hours spent in the saddle under the scorching western sun. “You responsible for this herd?”

  The man took one look at Fletcher’s badge and stepped away from the fence. “Yes, sir. I’m the trail boss, Cory Hays.” He glanced at Jo and fingered his hat. “Morning, ma’am.”

  “Where you from?”

  “I come from Montana originally, s
ir.”

  Fletcher nodded. “This herd from Texas?”

  “Yes, sir. It belongs to Mr. Addison of San Antonio. There a problem, Marshal?”

  Fletcher glanced at the branding on one of the steers—the letter A in two places—on the shoulder and back hip.

  Jo stepped forward and the young man smiled nervously at her. “Have you lost any head to rustlers, Mr. Hays?” she asked directly.

  Fletcher gave her a look, wishing she would remember that she was supposed to be his fiancée, not his deputy marshal.

  “As a matter of fact, ma’am, yes. Or at least, that’s what we think. They just seem to disappear. Mr. Addison hired extra hands this season, hoping to figure out what was happening, maybe put a stop to it. But the size of the herd keeps getting smaller and smaller as we drive ’em up the trail. It don’t make a lick of sense.”

  “How many have you lost?” Jo asked.

  “He ships about fifty thousand head a year, altogether. He probably lost close to five thousand, and he ain’t too happy about it.”

  Fletcher squinted across the top of the pen, over the heads of cattle toward the treeless, unbroken horizon. “Do you lose them off the ranch in Texas, or just along the drive?” Fletcher asked.

  “Both, sir. All year round. And it ain’t just the Western Trail. I hear they go missing off the Chisholm Trail, too.”

  Fletcher inclined his head in a way of saying thanks. “You can tell Addison that there’s a new marshal in Dodge, and I’ll be looking into things for him. I’ll do my best to put an end to this problem.”

  “Yes, sir, Marshal Collins. I’ll tell him today, when I send the wire.”

  Fletcher placed his hand on the small of Jo’s back again and directed her toward town. “I’m supposed to be asking the questions,” he told her quietly. “You’re just supposed to be my fiancée.”