The Marshal and Mrs. O'Malley

by Julianne MacLean

  “Zeb, I’ll see you later,” Fletcher said.

  They descended the steps. Jo could not resist the temptation to take one last look back at Zeb. He stood watching, his eyes shaded by the dark brim of his hat. He glared with brows drawn together, eyes so dark it sent chills skittering across her skin.

  For the first time, she was glad she and Leo were with the marshal.

  Fletcher followed Leo and Mrs. O’Malley around the back of the two-story city clerk’s office, noticing that she checked over her shoulder every few seconds. She seemed nervous. He wondered if it was because her husband’s killers were never caught. Maybe by checking into it, he would find something that would change that, and help her move on with her life.

  He was not completely comfortable with how much he wanted her to move on—to be free from the tragedy that seemed to haunt her so intensely, to look at him and see more than just his badge.

  They climbed the back stairs on the outside of the building to the second floor that served as city offices and police court. Fletcher removed his hat, trying to struggle free of the invisible web of attraction he was caught in, trying to focus on his job instead of wishing his potential witness was ready for him to take her into his arms and make her feel safe again.

  He hung his hat on a hook by the door, and raked his fingers through his hair. 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. 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 nailed to the walls.

  “Is it true what Zeb said?” Mrs. O’Malley asked curiously. “That you plan to run for sheriff?”

  Half laughing, he 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 much matter 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.”

  “But your sister…I thought you came here to be closer to her.”

  “Only for a while. Until I know she’s okay.”

  “Why wouldn’t she be? She’s married to the future mayor.” Mrs. O’Malley stared into his eyes with a scrutiny he didn’t understand but wished he did. She seemed to be searching for something, waiting for him to say something….

  He studied her eyes in return until 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, turning to face him. She clutched her small reticule in both hands in front of her. “Twenty minutes past ten.”

  Fletcher hesitated at her exactness, feeling his mood grow suddenly somber, and 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 at all disturbed 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,” he said gently, hating himself for being so insensitive. All he wanted from this was to give her some peace of mind, not add to her woes.

  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 keeping 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.”

  To his distress, he realized he wanted her to tell him what had happened so that he could feel closer to her.

  “I didn’t witness anything,” she blurted out, then she glanced at Leo’s hopeful gaze and her face softened. “I’ll try to tell you what happened.”

  “Why don’t you sit down.” 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.”

  “Please call me Fletcher.”

  Leo stood behind her and rested his hand on her shoulder. “It’s okay, Ma. You can do it.”

  She 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, imagining her that night and wishing for her sake that it had never happened. Heavy silence weighed down on all three of them.

  Fletcher was silent for a minute. “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 awaken Matilda and tell her what had happened, 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 he knew she was holding back. But then again, he always seemed to know that. Always seemed to want 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 desperate tone? The hope for justice that 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. “Yes, I’m fine, but we’ve do
ne all we can do today. We really must be going.”

  Abruptly she stood and held out her gloved hand. Fletcher shook it, surprised at the intensity in her eyes, the purposeful way she looked at him.

  And that she did not let go of his hand right away.

  A few minutes later, feeling shaken by her touch, Fletcher said goodbye to Mrs. O’Malley and Leo. He stood at the second-floor window watching them walk across Front Street. Mrs. O’Malley kept looking over her shoulder. She tried to hold Leo’s arm a few times, and each time, he pulled away from the protective gesture, like any boy his age would do.

  When they disappeared into Wright’s store, Fletcher leaned his head against the window frame. Why was he so drawn to this woman who obviously didn’t want anyone to get close to her? And was he interested in this case just as a way of being around her?

  No, he thought, telling himself he was still in control.

  Something about that murder case was 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 gave him 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 through her eyes, to hear more than what she was 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 would fall into his lap. With any luck, it would be Mrs. O’Malley.

  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. This time, there would be no mistakes.

  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 right down to it, she couldn’t go through with 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 had happened with Zeb today, her life depended upon 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. The sixth chamber she left empty for the hammer to rest against in case of accidental discharge in the holster. 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 hand 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.

  Fletcher tugged down on his Stetson and then at the collar of his long coat, and tried to shrug away the evening chill. At least there was no wind, and with any luck, Matilda would offer him a cup of hot coffee.

  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 puzzlelike 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 nervously. Ride down there and pretend to ask more questions about the shooting, when he knew darn well it was all just an excuse to see Mrs. O’Malley again—to learn more about why she’d looked so desperate in the city clerk’s office today.

  He sat there another moment, considering it, then leaned back in the saddle and considered some more. But instead of a clearheaded delibe
ration about his duties as a lawman, all he wanted to think about was the lovely widow. He imagined her standing on her covered porch, smiling lightheartedly at him as he rode up.

  Smiling lightheartedly. It was not something Fletcher had seen her do before. He supposed that wasn’t surprising, given her grief over her husband.

  But damn, how he wanted to see her eyes twinkle with joy, just for him.

  Her smile needed to be rescued, he decided, and despite common sense, despite his resolve to avoid a commitment, he wanted to be the one to do it.

  Tarnation, what was happening to him? If he knew what was good for him, he’d turn around now and go back to town.

  Shaking his head at the decision not to—so contrary to every instinct, every other decision he’d made since his father died—Fletcher tapped his heels against Prince and started off down the hill in anticipation. Mrs. O’Malley—just the idea of her—was pulling him like a magnet. He couldn’t wait to look into those big blue eyes, full of childlike innocence, to see if he could get her to smile. Where it would go from there, he had no idea, and it scared the dust right off his boots.

  At the bottom of the hill though, Fletcher’s senses shook at the sight of a man walking boldly out of the widow’s house and pounding down the porch steps. Fletcher stopped again. Prince nickered while Fletcher watched the man mount an awaiting horse.

  His heart suddenly pounded with dread. The man had no facial hair like the other ranch hands. Was this Mrs. O’Malley’s lover? he wondered in shock. It was a startling realization that left him feeling ridiculously wounded. Was this the man she had told him about the night she was shot? Had she been telling the truth about that after all? No, he couldn’t believe it.

  For a moment, his arms and legs went numb 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 a surprising ease and swiftness, Jo pinned her foot into the stirrup and mounted her horse, Mogie. Everything was so much easier without her corset to restrict her movements.