The Marshal and Mrs. O'Malley

by Julianne MacLean

  Fletcher turned away, staring across the dark prairie, the fast wind lifting his hair. “You can’t do that, Jo. I won’t let you. It’s not right.”

  “Not right?” Jo stood up and pulled him to face her. “You dare talk to me about what’s right? My husband dangled from a rope and struggled for his life, and all I could do was watch. Zeb forced me to choose between my husband and my son and I made that choice, but not without a lot of pain. I’ve not slept a full night since. I’ve felt so much hate and anger and guilt…I’ll never be the woman I was. Six months ago, I never would have even considered taking a man’s life, but now, I just can’t see any other way to protect my family, even if it destroys me inside. So don’t tell me about what’s right.”

  Jo let out a breath. The realization hit hard—she’d been surrounding her heart with ice just to hide the pain and escape her conscience, and this was the first time the ice had broken. The truth was out. Finally someone knew what she had suffered and what sinful, shameful impulses now lived within her ill-fated heart.

  Fletcher stared down at her. She waited with dread for him to say something, but there were no words. He took a step forward and gathered her into his arms. “I’m sorry that happened to you, Jo. I know what it’s like.”

  Surprised, she pressed her cheek into the warmth of his chest. “Your father…”

  “Yes, and there was nothing I could do. Just like you, I was too late.”

  “That’s why I have to do this now.”

  Fletcher gently pushed her back a step so that he could see her face. “No, you don’t.”

  “Zeb is a dangerous man. He’ll kill anyone who gets in his way. I’ve kept my secret all this time, knowing he would never let me live if he knew what I’d seen. But he knows now, Fletcher. Leo and I are in danger.”

  She saw panic flicker across his face. “What do you mean?”

  “Today, I saw it in his eyes that he knew.”

  “Saw it in his eyes! You can’t base decisions on something as subjective as that!” He waved an arm in frustration. “What if you’re wrong? What if it was someone else who just sounded like Zeb? He’s a wealthy man with everything going for him. Why would he kill your husband and steal your horses?”

  “I don’t know, and there’s no way to find out without him getting suspicious. I have no other choice.”

  “Jo, you’re being driven by guilt. You’re trying to do now what you couldn’t do that night in the barn.”

  His quick, concise and all too certain summary of the matter caught her off guard and left her reeling. Was he right? she wondered, saying nothing while she mentally squirmed to understand her emotions.

  “Did you ever try to have Zeb investigated?”

  “A few tried before, and they ended up dead. I won’t let that happen to Leo and me.”

  “You’re saying you think Zeb has killed others? Jo, I need proof before I can believe something like that.”

  “I know, I know. Proof. The impossible.”

  “It’s not impossible.”

  “It is. Zeb’s too smart.”

  There was no sign of surrender in his eyes when he replied. “I can’t just accept all this. Even if it’s true, it still doesn’t excuse you. You tried to kill an innocent man—”

  “He’s not innocent!”

  “He is, in the eyes of the law, and that’s how I see things. Through the eyes of the law. I’ll take your suspicions about Zeb into consideration, but for now, the only person I know for sure is guilty is you. I’m sorry about this Jo, but I took an oath as a lawman. I have to take you as my prisoner.”

  All the explaining in the world, it seemed, wasn’t going to change his mind. He did not understand, nor did he want to, and that fact alone made her heart ache.

  “Please come with me willingly. I don’t want to hurt you,” he said gently, closing his eyes for a moment. She could see that he was struggling with himself, but it didn’t ease her pain.

  The thought to escape and disappear with Leo filled her mind—as it had on many occasions before—but she knew she could not outsmart or outmaneuver Fletcher. He would find them. He would never give up. He had never in his career let any outlaw go free.

  And so, she asked something else of him. “Just promise, if anything happens to me, you’ll look out for Leo. There’s really no one else I can ask.”

  He looked stricken by the request and after a moment’s deliberation, only nodded. Then he took her by the hand and led her toward his horse. She went without a fight, but not without hope. There was still one possibility—one more thing she could say—and it just might be the thing to get through to him.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Jo offered her bared wrists to Fletcher and he clicked the cuffs around them. “Is that too tight?”

  With no effort at all, she slipped them off her tiny wrists.

  “I guess not,” he said softly.

  For a moment she thought she might be spared the humiliation of being cuffed, until he reached into his saddlebag and pulled out a small rope.

  “I guess this’ll have to do.” He wrapped the prickly rope around her wrists and tied it in a knot, then whistled to Jo’s horse. “Can I help you into the saddle?”

  “I’m not going to fly up there.”

  He bent forward, weaving his fingers together for Jo to step into his palms. He lifted her slowly and she managed to grab on to the horn and swing her leg over the other side, and then, before she knew it, she was sitting high in the creaky leather saddle with her wrists bound together, trying to hold on to some shred of dignity when all she felt was morose, painful regret.

  Fletcher rested his warm hand on her thigh, a shockingly inappropriate gesture if she imagined herself in her skirts. She stared into his shadowed eyes and saw agony and confusion, felt the same things herself, but what did it matter? she thought miserably. They were adversaries and always would be once he put her in jail.

  Fletcher’s brows drew together, the muscles in his forehead tensing. “Do you know how hard this is for me? You’ve been through so much and I felt—I wish you had told me all this sooner.”

  “I didn’t know if I could trust you. I still don’t.”

  “I’m just trying to do the right thing, Jo, and the right thing for me is very…what’s the word… circumscribed. If I was a different man, I would let you go.”

  He rubbed his hand over her leg and went on. “I was coming out to your ranch tonight because I wanted to see you. I had thought maybe we could—” He stopped short, his face bleak.

  She wished he hadn’t stopped. She wanted desperately to know what he was going to say.

  Then at last he did say it. “I was going to invite you to join me for dinner some evening.”

  Jo smiled, but sadly, knowing the opportunity for something between them was lost forever. “I would have liked that” was her only reply.

  He gazed up at her for another moment, as if exploring in his mind all the possibilities of the relationship that would never be, then he withdrew his hand from her leg. The place where it had rested felt suddenly cold.

  Fletcher gathered the guns they’d dropped during their struggle. He stuffed them into his leather saddlebag, buckled it and yanked it tight, then reached for her horse’s reins. He mounted, and they started off across the dark pasture with only the moon lighting their way.

  Jo rode in silence behind Fletcher for a mile or so, until she felt the time had come to try at her last prospect. She cleared her throat and spoke up. “Is there nothing about Zeb that makes you uncomfortable?”

  He didn’t look back. “Being rich and upper-class doesn’t make someone a murderer.”

  “Does Elizabeth seem okay?”

  Fletcher stopped the horses and turned around. He fingered the brim of his hat. “What are you suggesting?”

  Jo shrugged. “If my sister was married to Zeb Stone, I’d be concerned.”

  “My sister can take care of herself.”

  “So could Edwyn.” />
  Fletcher’s horse grew restless and took a few steps sideways. “You’re trying to manipulate me, Jo.”

  “No, I’m just trying to give you more reason to look into this. Is there anything that makes you worry about Elizabeth? A gut feeling?”

  “Gut feelings aren’t enough for me.” Fletcher faced front and continued toward town in a cold silence. Jo’s last hope for his support shattered into a thousand irretrievable pieces.

  Feeling shaken by Jo’s suggestions about Elizabeth, Fletcher shifted in the smooth leather saddle. Elizabeth hadn’t exactly been herself since she came to Dodge. There was a time she was more rebellious and free-spirited than she was now, living in Zeb’s big stone house on the hill. But Fletcher had assumed she was still mourning the death of their parents and maybe needed some time to adjust to married life, as any woman would in her circumstances.

  The problem here was Jo. She could see through him as clearly as he could see through her, and she was dead right about the gut feeling. Hell, tracking outlaws over the years, he’d learned to use his instincts like a compass.

  But why couldn’t he have told her that back there when she brought it up? He supposed he didn’t want to give her any false hopes that might make all this more difficult in the end. For her and for him.

  Prince nickered softly and twitched his ears. There were still a few awkward miles to go, more time for Fletcher to sit and suffer with a throbbing broken nose, beating himself up about this impossible situation.

  Again, for some reason, his thoughts floated back to Elizabeth and how strange it was to see her in silk and satin on a daily basis when she’d always preferred cool muslin, and had made a noisy fuss the one and only time their mother had suggested she wear ornamental combs in her hair.

  Not that that was any reason to suspect her husband of murder, of course.

  Fletcher shook his head. All that aside, he wondered if he didn’t owe it to Jo to uncover the truth. Must he be so hardheaded about arresting her right now, this very minute?

  But if he didn’t, she would make another attempt on Zeb’s life, he knew, and Fletcher couldn’t let her become a murderer. No matter how much her grief and guilt tortured her, she did not possess the heart of a killer, that much was clear to him. He’d seen it in her eyes the night in Zeb’s store.

  Struck suddenly by the memory, Fletcher stopped his horse and turned around. “If you weren’t shot by a stray bullet outside the privy that night, who shot you?”

  She raised her bound wrists to push a loose lock of hair away from her eyes. “You didn’t see Zeb pull out his gun and you were unconscious when he fired. I meant to defend myself, but I panicked and missed, shooting you, instead. That’s when he shot me.”

  Fletcher hadn’t thought to ask Zeb if he’d fired his gun at the outlaw that night, and for reasons that were becoming clearer, Zeb hadn’t volunteered the information.

  “So there was never any lover,” Fletcher added, realizing uncomfortably that this was the information he’d been after all along.

  “It seemed like a good alibi at the time, especially with my reputation in town. It was the only thing I could come up with. I just wanted to distract you from the truth.”

  “You didn’t shoot me on purpose, then.”

  “No,” she replied with a subtle smile he hadn’t expected. “I only punched you in the nose on purpose. And that particular business I do not regret.”

  He saw humor in her eyes and heard it in her voice. Lord, she was one brave lady.

  The sentiment made him stare through the darkness at her, her beautiful golden hair hidden beneath a man’s hat, her woman’s body cloaked by the long brown slicker. He had not felt a corset when she’d struggled in his arms earlier. Was there nothing beneath the man’s shirt she wore? Nothing but her bare breasts against the lightweight fabric?

  For the first time, a hot ache began to grow inside of him. Damn, he just couldn’t keep his eyes to himself, could he? He wanted to leap off his horse and pull her down into the grass, convince her she was not a killer, then reach under those clothes and feel her soft, warm skin against his. To become the lover he’d imagined her with that night. To do all the things he’d imagined they’d done.

  Instead, he bit back the urge and gazed forlornly across the flat, dark plains. The chilly night wind hissed through the grass and brushed over his cheeks. He pulled his collar up around his neck and readjusted the reins in his grip, his urges twisting like a knife inside him.

  Fletcher walked his horse up next to Jo’s. Maybe, with the question he was about to ask, he was going somewhere he shouldn’t be going, but he had to know. He fought hard to stay in control as he asked, “Who are these other people you think Zeb murdered?”

  Jo sat back in the saddle, wanting to let out a deep sigh of relief. Whatever his reasons, Fletcher was willing to listen.

  “It happened a few months before Edwyn died. A man named Hennigar was killed by horse thieves, and when his wife reported everything to the marshal, she told him that one of the killers looked like Zeb Stone. The marshal questioned Zeb, who of course had an alibi, but a few days later, Mrs. Hennigar was found dead at the bottom of her stairs. People thought she’d been so devastated by her husband’s death, she’d taken her own life. Then the marshal who had questioned Zeb was killed in the line of duty. Zeb had an alibi again, and mostly, people were sympathetic toward him, thinking he was wrongly suspected. I’m surprised you haven’t heard about it. Hadn’t Elizabeth mentioned it?”

  Fletcher removed his hat and raked his fingers through his wavy hair. “All that happened before she came here. Maybe she doesn’t know.”

  “Most people have forgotten about it, I guess.”

  “But you haven’t.”

  “No, I haven’t.”

  He gazed away from her, his face turned into the wind so that his hair blew off his shoulders, and seemed to be thinking about things. “I can understand how you need to blame someone for your husband’s murder, but maybe you’re making connections where there are none. If Zeb had an alibi, he may be innocent.”

  Jo rubbed a finger along her irritated wrist beneath the rope. “It was Zeb, I tell you. Even under the hood, I knew it was him.”

  Jo’s heart pounded wildly while Fletcher considered her story. He had to believe her, he just had to….

  After a few minutes, he looked into her eyes. “There’s not enough here to arrest him, and certainly nothing even close to what you’d need to convict.”

  Fletcher put his hat back on his head. “We’d need more proof before anything could be done. A motive at the very least.”

  We. “Would you be willing to help me find that proof?”

  “I’d be interested in the motive first of all. Why would Zeb want your husband dead?”

  “I wish I knew.”

  “What about Hennigar? Did he know your husband?”

  “All the ranchers know one another.”

  Fletcher crossed his wrists over the saddle horn. “Hennigar was a rancher, too?” Jo nodded and Fletcher sat back, shaking his head. “That’s at least one connection between the murders, but I don’t see how it leads us to Zeb. He has no interests in ranching. He’s a little too civilized for that.”

  Jo rubbed her wrists again with her middle finger.

  “Is that too tight?” Fletcher asked.

  “A little.”

  He leaned across and untied the rope, then turned her palms up and looked at them. Her wrists were raw and chafed. “Why didn’t you say something?”

  “There were more important things to say.”

  He blew on the sensitive surface of her wounds. Jo stared transfixed at his beautiful face in the moonlight, his eyes closed, his cool breath easing the rope burns. For a moment, she was tempted to lean in and press her lips to his, but the expression in his eyes sobered her intentions.

  “This doesn’t change anything, Jo,” he said, his voice rippling with regret.

  She pulled her hand away, rem
inding herself of his sworn duty and fighting to stay true to hers.

  He leaned back in his saddle and the wind grew suddenly colder. “I reckon there’s something more than horse theft going on here, but that doesn’t mean I’m going to set you free. You’re still charged with attempted murder, Jo, no matter what happens, and I’m going to have to lock you up when we get to town.”

  “What about the investigation?”

  “That’s my job, not yours. Give me your hands.” He wrapped the rope around her wrists again. “I’ll try not to tie it so tight this time.”

  By the time Fletcher led Jo into town on her horse, the nightly celebrations were in full swing. Music and singing from the vaudeville act in the Comique echoed in the street, and cowboys staggered around in the dust, laughing and hooting and dancing. Fletcher’s watchful gaze always went to their gun belts to ensure they hadn’t forgotten the city ordinance about carrying firearms in town, but usually they were merely swinging half-empty whisky bottles.

  He led Jo around the back of the jailhouse, past the barred window that did not mask the sound of a raspy cough and someone spitting tobacco inside. Feeling more than a little uncomfortable about this, Fletcher dismounted, deciding he would crowd all the men into one cell and give Jo the other cell to herself.

  When he helped her down from her horse, he saw that her face was drawn and pale. “Fletcher, if I’m locked up, I’m a fixed target. I have no way to protect myself.”

  “Deputy Anderson will stand watch. You’ll be fine.”

  “Take me with you.”

  “I can’t do that. I have work to do.”

  “But isn’t it your job to protect people? I’m in danger. I can feel it.” Her voice was growing more and more desperate to the point of panic.

  “You’ll be safe in the jailhouse.” He led her around to the front, but he wasn’t too comfortable with the idea of leaving her alone.

  “Please, Fletcher. I can’t trust anyone.”

  He made a move to go inside but hesitated at the door, his hand barely touching the latch. It was that need to protect her niggling at him again. He certainly didn’t want to admit it was personal, not to himself or to her, so he made up some foolish, incomprehensible excuse: “If anyone sees you in this disguise, the story will spread like wildfire and I won’t be able to investigate.” He turned to face her. “So there you have it— I changed my mind. Come upstairs with me.”