“I’m only trying to speed things up.”
She said nothing more, but he felt her frustration in the way she moved—the straight set of her shoulders, the sway of her hips. He found himself wanting to explain everything better, to talk openly and reveal how completely torn he felt about all this.
“Let’s go to the bakery for some bread and a pie,” he suggested, hoping to untie that bothersome knot in his gut. “I hear the lady who works there has a nose for gossip, and it wouldn’t hurt to get the town talking, create a diversion while we poke around a bit.”
“It’s the widow Harper you must be referring to,” Jo said. “And she definitely loves to talk.”
Fletcher offered Jo his arm and escorted her past the crowd of curious onlookers who stood in front of the Dodge House Hotel.
“I’m not sure how you’ll feel about this,” he said, leaning in and stealing the opportunity to breathe in the sweet scent of her perfume. “But maybe it’s time you removed your wedding ring. Folks might wonder about it otherwise.”
And he had to wonder, himself, why—after all his efforts to keep his mind on business—he’d noticed that she still wore the ring, and why he was pleased to have an excuse to ask her to take it off.
Jo stopped and appeared flustered. “Of course.” She fumbled to pull off her gloves and fumbled even more to pull the gold band off her slender finger. “There.” She popped it into her reticule and pulled the drawstring closed.
Fletcher offered his arm again, feeling far more pleased than he should.
* * *
“I haven’t told you this yet,” Fletcher mentioned later, as he steered Jo’s wagon across the toll bridge toward the open plains, “but we’ve been invited to supper tonight.”
Jo held on to the spring seat as they bumped along, her sunbonnet tied tightly under her chin. “Something tells me I shouldn’t ask who our dinner companions will be.”
“I couldn’t very well refuse the offer,” he went on, apologetically. “I’m supposed to be proud about us getting engaged, and Elizabeth…well, she was just so darn happy.”
“Really?” Jo replied, trying not to feel too flattered. Why should it matter that Fletcher’s sister approved of her?
“They’re expecting us at seven, but I don’t know if it’s such a good idea. I don’t want you in the same room with Zeb.”
“Are you worried about me, or him?”
Fletcher shook his head with what seemed surprisingly like admiration. “I’ve never met a woman quite like you before.”
“I wasn’t trying to impress you,” she said, bumping shoulders with him.
“I know. That’s what impresses me the most.” A sexy grin passed across his lips. Jo had to force herself to look away.
Fletcher steered the wagon off the bridge and over the short grass toward a cowhand, sitting against his bedroll with one knee up while he watched his herd, his horse grazing nearby.
“Howdy,” the young man greeted as he rose to stand and brush off his pants.
“Morning. I’m Fletcher Collins, the new marshal.”
“I know who you are. What can I do for you?”
Fletcher held the reins loosely. “I’m looking into some missing cattle.”
The cowhand removed his black sombrero and brushed the dust off it. “You’ll be looking into it for a while, Marshal. Nobody seems to know where they end up.”
“I take it you’ve lost some head yourself?”
“You take it right, but I can’t help you any. It’s a mystery.”
Fletcher tipped his hat and they drove on, asking every cowhand they came upon if they knew anything, and the answer was always the same.
An hour later, Jo reached for the bread they’d bought at the bakery and tore off a section. “Are you hungry? It must be midday.”
She handed Fletcher a thick chunk, which he ate while steering them back toward town. The cattle on either side of the road grazed quietly, stopping to raise their heads only when the wagon rolled by.
“When will Leo and Matilda be back?” Fletcher asked.
“In about a week. I wanted them to be safe. The less they know about what’s going on, the better.” She swallowed some bread. “Although, they’ll find out soon enough, I suppose.”
Fletcher didn’t comment on that. He stared straight ahead and clicked his tongue at the horses. “So your house is empty?”
“What’s left of it, yes. The hands sleep in the bunkhouse, of course. Why do you ask?”
He answered her in a calm, indifferent tone. “I’m just thinking ahead to tonight. It might be a bit of a problem. Being engaged doesn’t make it okay for me to spend the night at your house. Especially when the engagement will eventually be broken. I don’t want to spoil any chances you might have for…well, for moving on.”
Jo tried to suppress her hurt. Why did he feel it necessary to remind her that he was anxious to be finished with her?
She made an attempt to lighten the mood with a joke. “Well, I refuse to marry today, if that’s what you’re suggesting.”
He chuckled. “It may come as a surprise to you, but there are limits to what I’m willing to do in the name of the law.”
Jo playfully rolled her eyes. “Thank you! That was most flattering.”
His warm gaze met hers and they shared in the moment of humor, which felt all too brief.
“It still doesn’t solve our problem,” he said, getting back to the more serious matter at hand. “I doubt I’ll have your husband’s killer behind bars by nightfall, and I’m not taking any chances with your safety. You’ll need to be in hiding again.”
Jo settled back in her seat, considering her options. “Your room won’t do, now that everyone thinks we’re engaged. That’ll be the first place Zeb will look for me if I’m not at home.”
She handed him another chunk of bread, and they both ate in silence for a few minutes.
“I suppose the only way around this,” Jo said, swiping at the crumbs on her skirt and trying to block out all thoughts of Fletcher keeping watch over her bed, “is to prove Zeb’s guilt before the sun goes down. What are the chances of that?”
He simply shook his head, which did nothing to ease her mind.
Chapter Twenty
Steering Jo’s wagon onto Front Street after a fruitless search for information on the plains, Fletcher watched two local ranchers shuffle out of Zimmerman’s Hardware Store. They were carrying a potbellied stove toward their wagon. One of them spotted him and yelled into the street, “Congratulations, Marshal!” In his excitement, he nearly dropped the stove.
Fletcher tipped his hat and nodded, reminding himself not to feel too proud. This was just a performance.
Jo wiggled in her seat beside him. “I hope we’re doing the right thing.”
“We are.” Fletcher steered the wagon toward the depot again, determined to get his mind off betrothals and back where it belonged—on this alleged cattle-rustling ring. “I want to ask about the herd loading onto the rail car.”
“Wait, stop.” Jo touched his arm. “Deputy Anderson is waving at us. Over there by the barbershop.”
Fletcher pulled the wagon to a halt. Anderson walked across the street, one hand in the air to signal them to stop, the other holding a newspaper.
“Where you been, Marshal Collins?” he asked curiously. “I been looking for you all day.” He handed the newspaper up to Fletcher. “You sure have a way of making headlines. And what happened to your nose?”
“It’s a long story.”
Hesitantly, Fletcher unfolded the paper and read the front page. Jo leaned over his arm to look on. “Bruiser To Marry Local Widow.”
“Oh, don’t tell me…” Jo said, taking hold of the corner of the page to read the small print aloud.
“‘Marshal Collins, the newest addition to Dodge City’s band of lawmen, has decided to take a wife. The lucky lady is the reclusive widow O’Malley, who has squashed the long-held notion that she prefers to keep to herself. Oth
er news today, Mr. Garry Owens of Walnut Street has a new overcoat.’”
Jo sat back in her seat. “Does the editor have nothing better to do?”
“Congratulations to you both,” Deputy Anderson said, tipping his hat. “When’s the big day?”
Fletcher glanced at Jo, who met his gaze with equal uncertainty. They were getting into this deeper and deeper by the minute. “We thought we’d wait until after the election,” he replied, tapping her knee.
“Of course,” Anderson said. “The family’s busy enough, I reckon.”
“Any goings-on this morning?” Fletcher asked, trying to change the subject.
“Nope. But folks are wondering what happened to Six-Shooter Hank and why we haven’t caught him yet.”
Fletcher flicked the reins. “Tell them I have a lead. We’ll get him.”
He felt Jo tense beside him as the wagon lurched forward and they started toward the depot, leaving Deputy Anderson to deal with a pig who had wandered into the middle of the street and stopped traffic with its squeal.
“Just wait till the newspapers get wind of what’s really going on,” Jo said. “You and I will be famous from here to the Panhandle.”
“I’ll do my best to keep this from turning into a circus.”
“I doubt that’ll be possible, even for you.”
Her sharp tone cut through his resolve and made him wonder if any of this was worth it.
“Come with me,” he said, pulling the wagon to a halt behind the depot where he could see cattle being loaded into the rail car, their hooves thumping madly over the wooden ramp, their moos and snorts muted below the hiss of steam from the train. “I don’t want to leave you alone.”
He climbed down and circled around the front of the team to help Jo down. She rested her hands on his shoulders while he cupped his around her tiny waist, lifting her lightly to the ground. The faint scent of orange flower water drifted on a breeze under his nose and made him all too aware of her womanly presence in his arms. Damn, but it felt good to hold her.
“I hear you two are getting married,” a voice said from behind.
Startled, Fletcher dropped his hand to his gun and turned around. He found himself staring at the cowboy who had been gambling with Zeb the night before.
“What’s the hurry, Marshal?” he asked. “You only just got here a few days ago. Don’t you want to taste what delicacies Dodge has to offer before you settle on beef and potatoes for the rest of your days?” Glancing down at Jo, he licked his lips.
Fletcher squeezed the handle of his Peacemaker in an effort to keep control, then reached around to touch Jo’s arm and sweep her behind him where this brute wouldn’t be able to even look at her. He glared into the man’s narrowing eyes, smelled tobacco on his stale breath and noticed a scar through his eyebrow.
“This your herd?” Fletcher demanded.
“Yeah, what’s it to ya?”
“You work for George Greer?”
“As far as I’m concerned, there ain’t no other outfits in Texas worth the effort.”
Fletcher glanced at the large brand that covered almost the entire side of each steer.
“Any of your herd go missing on the drive?”
The trail boss smirked. “If you’re talking about the rustling ring that’s got everybody in a huff, you’re wasting your time with me and my boys. We know how to handle a herd. Greer pays us well to make sure he gets the best. And to answer your question, Greer cattle doesn’t go missing.”
Fletcher nodded his head, still resting his hand on his gun. He could feel Jo behind him, and sensing her desire to say something, he figured he’d better move on before she found a chance to open her mouth. Taking her arm as he backed away, he helped her into the wagon, then called to the trail boss, “What’s your name?”
“Why? You want to invite me to your weddin’?”
“What’s your name?”
The man spit on the ground. “MacGregor. Will MacGregor.”
Fletcher climbed into the wagon, in a hurry to take this new information with him to the telegraph office. He had some friends in Texas who owed him favors. With any luck, he’d get replies back before he and Jo had to clink champagne glasses with Zeb over his fancy red silk tablecloth.
* * *
Jo sat across from Fletcher in the city clerk’s office above the jail, tapping her foot while they waited for the telegraph replies to come in. Fletcher had asked the operator to send them over right away, without wasting a minute, but nothing seemed to be happening. No one seemed to be at the other end of the wires.
“What time is it?” Fletcher asked, pacing the floor behind his desk.
Jo took her timepiece out of her bodice pocket. “It’s almost six-thirty. I don’t think we’re going to hear back from anyone before seven. We’ll just have to go to Zeb’s house for supper.”
He stopped pacing, his brows drawing together. “You don’t sound too uncomfortable with that.”
“Frankly, I’m not. We’ve looked in the streets and on the plains and we’ve found nothing. I’m after proof to use against Zeb. What better place to find it than his own home?”
Fletcher raised his hand. “Wait a second. I’m not going to let you rifle through his things, and I certainly hope you don’t intend to shoot him in front of my sister.”
Jo’s shoulders slumped with a sigh. “Of course not. And I presume he won’t try to shoot me in front of her, either. That’s why it’s the best opportunity I can hope for.”
“No.”
“No?” She slid him a look. “Why not? What have you got to lose? You’ll be there to watch over me, and if Zeb is as innocent as you think he is, we’ll find nothing and be on our way. If he’s guilty…” She stopped at that, not sure what would happen if they discovered something, what Fletcher would do.
What she would do.
“At least we’ll get a fancy meal out of it,” she said, trying to put a tidy finish on her thoughts.
Just then, footsteps thumped up the stairs on the outside of the building and the door opened. Deputy Anderson walked in with a telegraph message.
“What does it say?” Jo asked, standing.
Fletcher took it from Anderson and read it. His mouth became a hard line as he slapped the note against his thigh. “Why hasn’t anyone looked into this before?”
Deputy Anderson sheepishly removed his hat. “I guess nobody was suspecting a rancher like George Greer of stealing. He’s the richest there is.”
Fletcher picked his hat up off the desk and pressed it onto his head. “Rich or not, he doesn’t own a square inch of land in Texas.”
“Maybe he’s just using the free range, like everybody else,” Anderson suggested.
“This says he hasn’t leased anything from the state. Where’s he grazing his herds over the winter? He doesn’t even own a headquarters site.”
Jo stood, realizing uneasily that George Greer was casting a shadow over Zeb and his reason to kill Edwyn. “Maybe he has a ranch in Colorado or New Mexico.”
“Not according to his employees and everyone who’s heard of him. But we might as well know for sure.” Fletcher pointed the telegraph message at Deputy Anderson. “I want you to send a couple of wires to check it out. Then find Greer’s trail boss, Will MacGregor, and bring him in to see me. He was down at the depot, loading a herd not long ago.”
“Sure thing,” Anderson replied, going out the door.
Fletcher turned to Jo. “We’ll have to cancel our dinner plans.”
She swallowed hard, trying to contain her irritation. “We can’t do that.”
“Why not? This is the first lead we’ve had on your husband’s murder, and I want to follow it.”
“Fletcher, I’m a witness. What better lead can you ask for than that? It was Zeb who killed Edwyn, not George Greer, whoever he is.”
“But if the killers were wearing hoods, you’re not an eyewitness, Jo, and my instincts are telling me that there’s something not right about Greer.”
>
“Why don’t you ask Zeb about him?” she suggested. “He’s a prestigious merchant, soon to be mayor. If anyone knows anything about Greer, surely Zeb would. Maybe he’s even done business with him.”
Fletcher eyed her suspiciously. “You’re trying to manipulate me.”
Jo sighed. “You have to admit I have a point.”
He hesitated, considering it. “I suppose you do. Zeb supplies the cattlemen all the time. Not to mention that he was gambling with MacGregor last night. Maybe I should talk to him.”
Trying not to show how relieved she was, Jo gathered up her gloves. “We should go, then. It’s almost seven.” Fletcher stood to face her. “All right, we’ll go, but I don’t want you asking questions about any of this. Leave it to me.”
“Can I comment on the wine or is that off-limits, too?”
Fletcher offered her his arm. “Just try and control yourself. Remember the part you’re playing. Your only task tonight, Josephine, is to be hopelessly in love with me.”
* * *
When Zeb Stone’s large front door swung open, Jo stood dumbfounded, staring at the tall butler who stood in the doorway to greet them. A sudden ripple of tension made her body go weak. Could she fool the man who had murdered her husband? Could she even face him?
Without a word, the butler invited them into the wide front hall.
Jo walked into the magnificent house, and staring at Zeb’s gilt-framed wedding portrait the size of a window, she felt instantly humbled. Elizabeth sat poised in an armchair while Zeb stood behind her resting his white-gloved hand on her bare shoulder. She looked like a princess in her sheer, lacy veil and white silk gown, the skirt trimmed with enough satin drapery to cover half the windows in this house. Zeb looked as he always did—impressive and intimidating with his dark brows, dark mustache and expensive black jacket. He was a striking figure in any context.
“Mrs. Stone is waiting for you in the drawing room,” the butler announced, taking Jo’s shawl and Fletcher’s hat, and showing them across the shiny floor and past the ornately carved mahogany staircase.
Jo felt underdressed in her plain calico bodice and skirt, but when she glanced at Fletcher, whose spurs were chinking with each step, she thought better of it.
Tempting the Marshal: (A Western Historical Romance) (Dodge City Brides Series Book 2) Page 17
