The Marshal and Mrs. O'Malley

by Julianne MacLean

  She pulled on her husband’s brown leather gloves and reached for the reins, then kicked her heels into Mogie’s firm belly. He broke into a trot. With a plan to cut across the fields rather than risk meeting someone on the road, Jo steered her gelding toward the north pasture.

  About ten minutes later, as she rode Mogie along a fence, a gunshot shattered the stillness. The noise echoed off the sky and spooked Mogie, who reared up on his hind legs 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 turned quickly to see where the gunfire was coming from, and a mere glance from the corner of her eye told her. She recognized the slicker sailing on the wind and the shoulder-length hair spilling out from beneath the tan-colored hat pressed forward on his head. It was Fletcher.

  Shock choked her as she shifted in the saddle, joining Mogie in his flight of terror and kicking in her heels. “Go! Go!”

  She could hear hooves thundering behind her, then Fletcher’s angry voice. “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 ruined.

  Fletcher was gaining. The drumming hooves were getting louder and 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, Fletcher cursed the outlaw trying to outrun him. What had he been 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 at the sky was over. If the rider wanted a gunfight, he was going to get one.

  Fletcher reined Prince to a skidding stop, raised his Winchester, shut one eye to take aim, but hesitated. The gunman had lowered his weapon.

  Confused, Fletcher watched the rider grow more distant. Hell, if he was going to stop the man from getting away, he’d have to do it with a bullet and do it now. He shut one eye, focusing…don’t miss, don’t miss.

  But the rider suddenly dropped out of Fletcher’s sights. The fool had fallen off his horse!

  “Yah!” Fletcher yelled, dropping his rifle back into his scabbard and breaking into a gallop. The outlaw’s horse was idly trotting away and the man lay motionless on the ground. Fletcher had seen men take spills at that speed and most of them didn’t come out of it too happily, if at all. He trotted up to the gunman’s lifeless form and dismounted.

  Slowly, cautiously, he approached. The man was sprawled on his back, the red bandanna covering his face, the hat pressed down over his eyes. Fletcher was finally going to get a look at the kid who’d destroyed his reputation. He couldn’t wait to drag Six-Shooter Hank to the jailhouse and lock him up where he belonged.

  “Hold it!” the outlaw yelled, whipping a gun out from under his coat and pointing it straight at Fletcher’s nose.

  Fletcher drew his Peacemaker before he even realized he’d thought about it. “Here we are again.”

  The kid—he was just a kid, damn it!—didn’t reply. He slowly rose to his feet, never taking his aim off Fletcher. They stood under the moonlight, a few feet apart, weapons aimed.

  Fletcher’s hand was steady. Hank’s hand trembled.

  “I didn’t appreciate that leg wound,” Fletcher said. “It still smarts.”

  The gunman nodded.

  “Before this gets ugly, I’d like to know what you were doing at the O’Malley ranch.”

  The kid’s voice was strained, as if he was trying too hard to sound older than he really was. “Drop your gun.”

  Fletcher couldn’t help laughing.

  “I said drop it.”

  “Not a chance.”

  A few more seconds passed. Fletcher rubbed the pad of his index finger over the trigger, ready to fire if he had to, but only if he had to.

  “Listen kid, it ain’t worth it. You’re gonna get caught sooner or later. Better to give yourself up now and save yourself a murder charge.”

  The kid frantically shook his head.

  “It wasn’t a suggestion. You’re coming with me, conscious or not. Take off the scarf.”

  Without warning, Fletcher’s horse stepped sideways and took his attention for one vital moment. The kid came at him, swinging his gun.

  Fletcher knew the move all too well and wasn’t about to get knocked out cold, not by this kid, of all people. Quick as a shot, he raised his arm in defense and swiped the weapon out of Hank’s hand.

  Next thing he knew, Hank was coming at him in a tackle. Fletcher maintained his footing against the kid’s surprisingly light weight, but felt a second gun at his hip, so he did the only thing that made sense. He hauled back and punched the kid in the nose.

  The squeal nearly struck Fletcher senseless.

  While the kid staggered and held his nose, Fletcher swung a boot back and swept him off his feet, onto his back again with a thump. Before the kid had a chance to realize he was staring at the stars, Fletcher was on top of him, pinning him down and ripping the second gun from the holster.

  Fletcher checked the weapon for bullets, then pointed it into Hank’s face, right between the eyes. “You gonna cooperate now?”

  Hank nodded and Fletcher couldn’t wait to get his hands on that scarf. He reached for it, but Hank bit into the fabric and held it in place with his teeth. He was grunting and shaking his head until Fletcher tired of the game and finally yanked with all his might.

  The bandanna came loose, Fletcher blinked a few times, then his blood ran cold.

  Her nose throbbing unbearably, Jo lay on her back staring up at Fletcher’s stunned expression. Her fear shifted course to unmitigated anger.

  “What the hell’s going on?” he asked incredulously, swiping her hat off her head.

  Figuring she owed it to him, she balled up a fist and walloped him in the nose. Fletcher fell onto his backside, leaning up on one hand while he cupped his nose with the other. Blood seeped between his fingers.

  Jo scrambled to her feet. She examined her own hand for blood and found her glove stained crimson. “I’m bleeding.”

  “So am I.” Fletcher gently pinched the bridge of his nose. “Hell, you broke it.”

  For a moment, they both sat suffering with their own wounds, until Fletcher looked up at her. “Jeez, look what I did. If I’d known it was you…” He rose to his feet and tried to take her hand away from her face to assess the damage, but she elbowed him in the ribs.

  “Just let me look,” he said, clutching his side. “It doesn’t look broken, thank God.”

  At the sight of Fletcher’s bloody nose, which now looked a little crooked, Jo’s fury began to die a little. “Oh dear. I didn’t mean to do that to you, either.”

  She touched his face; he touched hers, and they stared for a moment at each other, saying nothing.

  “Does it hurt terribly much?” Jo asked.

  “Yeah. But I had it coming.”

 
“You were just doing your job.”

  “It isn’t my job to hit women.”

  “Not even if they’re trying to shoot you?”

  He shook his head in disbelief. “What in tarnation were you doing?”

  She’d known that question was coming, should have been prepared for it, but still hadn’t the foggiest idea how to reply. Jo pinched her nose and tipped her head back. “You wouldn’t understand.”

  “Try me.” He tipped his head back, too.

  How was she to tell this man that if he hadn’t caught her just now, she would be out killing his brother-in-law? She could barely believe it herself.

  Feeling suddenly cold in the evening chill, she flopped onto the ground and sat on her knees.

  Fletcher approached and handed the bandanna to her. “Wipe your nose with this.”

  Thankful for his caring, she took it and wiped the blood off her face.

  Fletcher knelt down in front of her. “Was it you that night? In Zeb’s store?”

  She could feel tears pooling in eyes that had been dry for many months, and she knew exactly the reason why. This man’s presence was shining an unwelcome light on what she had nearly become—a cold-blooded killer with a future full of remorse. Sadly she nodded.

  “Why?”

  “I had a reason. I just can’t tell you what it is.”

  “You’re putting me in a difficult position.”

  “I know. Why do you think I tried so hard to outrun you?” The sharp, steely blade of shame stabbed at her, its sting made worse by the fact that it was Fletcher wielding it.

  He stared at her for another few seconds, as if contemplating her answer, then rose to his feet. She could feel his gaze boring into the top of her head and knew with hopeless dread what was coming.

  “Get up, please, Mrs. O’Malley.” His voice was cold and exact.

  Not surprised, but unwilling to believe what was happening, Jo looked up and saw the color drain from Fletcher’s face. Heaven help her, she could not bear to think of him despising her so deeply. He was a man who valued integrity above all else and she respected him for that, more than he could ever know. It was precisely why it killed her inside to have strayed so far from his ideals, ideals that had once been her own. Her heart sank with shame and regret and a desperate need to explain herself even though she knew it was hopeless.

  “You’re under arrest for the night in Zeb’s store,” he said scathingly. “It was attempted robbery and attempted murder. Of both Zeb Stone…and me.”

  Chapter Twelve

  Jo rose to her feet to face Fletcher, her skin prickling with horror. “You can’t do this. You don’t understand.”

  “That’s because you won’t tell me.”

  He wrapped his hand around her upper arm. She began to struggle impossibly against his grip, to pry his iron fingers away, but they would not budge. He dragged her toward his horse, then reached for his handcuffs while she twisted frantically so that her back was to him while she tried to squirm away.

  “Please, Jo,” Fletcher said, straining. “Don’t make this more difficult than it already is.” He held her around the waist to keep her from slipping free.

  Bending and struggling in her husband’s loose clothing only served to make Jo more aware of Fletcher’s hard body, pressed tight against her backside.

  “Fletcher, please, listen.”

  “You know I can’t let you go.”

  Jo continued to squirm in his hold. The more she struggled, the tighter he held her—until she let out a sob.

  Suddenly his hold loosened and her body relaxed. Then he was hugging her, his warm breath tickling the back of her neck. She closed her eyes, wanting to turn around to face him, to hold him and touch him and beg for his help and forgiveness.

  “Jo,” he whispered hotly in her ear, sending goose-flesh to the farthest reaches of her body.

  She turned her face to feel his stubbled cheek press against hers. Her whole existence became lost in the impossible waiting, then his lips grazed the side of her mouth.

  “Please, Fletcher…” She wasn’t sure what she was asking for, drowning in the feel of his body so snugly behind her.

  Reaching around, she buried her fingers into the hair at his nape, pulling him closer, tipping her face up to the sky as he dropped wet kisses onto her tingling neck.

  “Jo, I’m sorry, but it’s my job.”

  She looked up at the starry sky and felt reality crash down upon her mounting desires. What good would it do, to have feelings for this man who had lost all respect for her—and rightly so—the moment he knew the truth about her infernal soul? She had seen the disappointment in his eyes, heard it in his voice and it had crushed her heart to dust. Oh, how she wished she didn’t care what he thought of her. Why did it have to matter so much?

  Jo broke away from his hold. She felt the urge to sob again but bit it back. She had to talk to him, to make him understand. It was her only hope. “It’s not like it seems.”

  He stood motionless, not making a move to handcuff her at least. “I’m listening.”

  She tried to find the right way to say this—there was so much riding upon her explanation—but there was no right way to talk of murder.

  She licked her parched, throbbing lips. “I…I wasn’t trying to rob Zeb’s store. It was much more complicated than that.”

  “Continue.”

  Jo’s ribs were squeezing around her heart. “I was there that night because I had no other choice left to me. I had to protect myself. And Leo.”

  “You’re not making sense.”

  “I know. Just give me a chance. The problems began long before the night I walked into Zeb’s store. I…I lied about what I saw the night Edwyn was murdered.”

  Fletcher stared at her for a moment, then his eyes softened and he helped her to sit down in the grass, away from the horses. She felt the weight of his anger lift a little and prayed it would continue in that vein.

  “I knew something was wrong today when you came to the clerk’s office,” he said. “I knew you were scared and alone and I really wanted to help you.”

  “You knew?”

  She worked hard to keep her voice steady as he sat down beside her. When had anyone seen the fear she fought to hide, and known she had needed help? Matilda hadn’t seen it. Leo had seen a change, but he’d not understood it.

  She pulled off her glove and took Fletcher’s hand, knowing with surprising certainty that it was time to tell this story to someone. To him.

  “I didn’t find Edwyn murdered, Fletcher. I…I saw it happen.”

  “God, Jo, I’m so sorry.”

  He pulled her close and she let her forehead rest on his strong shoulder, remembering the horror of what had happened that night and realizing only now that by keeping this secret bottled up tight inside, she had not let herself express all of her grief for Edwyn. It was such a liberating comfort to do so now.

  “What happened?” he asked.

  “We were both in the barn late one night, waiting for a mare to deliver. There was some commotion outside, and Edwyn went out to see what was going on. I could hear him yelling and then it was just a lot of angry voices. I backed into a stall, not sure what was happening. Then the barn door swung open and three men wearing hoods walked in dragging Edwyn, who was weak and staggering. They must have beaten him.”

  She began to feel sick recalling the horrid details. She paused a moment, searching for strength. “They tossed a rope over a beam, forced Edwyn onto a chair and into the noose, and without a second’s hesitation, kicked the chair out from under him. It happened very quickly and I watched everything.”

  Fletcher stroked the hair away from her eyes and kissed the top of her head. Heavy silence weighed down upon them as a cloud floated in front of the moon.

  “The men stayed to watch until Edwyn stopped struggling, and I knew if I tried to stop it, I’d be dead too, and I had to stay alive for Leo. I couldn’t move, I was so terrified. By the time they left, it was too
late. Edwyn was…gone, and I’d done nothing to stop it.”

  “I’m sorry, Jo.”

  She pressed her face into his coat, feeling a single tear soak into the thick fabric. “Why couldn’t I have done something?”

  “Believe me, you did the right thing. You were outnumbered. Anyone in your position would have done the same. You can’t blame yourself.”

  “But I do, I do.”

  A deep well of tears she had not known existed overflowed. To her utter dismay, she realized that where she thought she had been winning the battle against them, she had only been postponing them while they multiplied inside her. “I want to be strong, for Leo,” she cried. “He’s all I have left and I love him so much.”

  “I know that. I can see it. Everything’s going to be okay.”

  “How?” she asked hopelessly, sniffling and gazing up at him with tearstained cheeks.

  “Did you get a look at the men?”

  This was the difficult part—the truth about that night. Would Fletcher believe her? If he didn’t, there was no hope for her life or for Leo’s. She sat back, wiped her eyes and whispered, “Yes.”

  Fletcher’s astonishment showed on his face, and Jo knew he was connecting these events to the ones that had brought them both here. He was remembering the night in the store, when they’d first met and when Jo had shot him in the leg. He stared speechless at her, then shook his head in disbelief. “Jo, you don’t think that Zeb—”

  He stopped midsentence and laughed skeptically, but it was void of humor.

  “I saw it happen, Fletcher.”

  “But you said they were wearing hoods. How can you be sure it was him?”

  Jo looked down at her hands in her lap. “I know. I heard his voice, saw the way he moved. It was him.”

  Fletcher stood up and raked his fingers through his hair. “Zeb Stone is my sister’s husband, a respected, prominent citizen. You can’t make accusations like that without some kind of proof.”

  “I realize that. That’s why I’m not making accusations.”