The Marshal and Mrs. O'Malley

by Julianne MacLean

  Fletcher managed a devious smile. “Anyone will do?”

  Zeb laughed. “Now you’re starting to sound like a man who’s going places. Elizabeth will be pleased to hear you’re thinking of settling here. What changed your mind?”

  “I figure my prospects are good, with family around.”

  “Yes, yes, yes. Family loyalty is important. You can always be sure of it. Having said that, if you’re going to stay, I’d like to set you up more comfortably. You won’t get far on seventy-five a month. Your salary is pathetic. How does an additional hundred sound?”

  Fletcher wondered if Zeb would be saying this if he were sober. “Sounds good to me, but you might have trouble convincing the city council.”

  “I’m not talking about city funds. I’d put you on my payroll.”

  Raising his hands, Fletcher laughed. “No offense, but I never saw myself in the mercantile business.”

  “Rest assured, I don’t see you there, either. You have talents that we could put to better use than counting bags of flour.”

  Fletcher leaned forward. “What business are we talking about?”

  Zeb seemed to consider his reply. After a long pause, he blinked his bloodshot eyes. “The business of being family, of course. Elizabeth wants you to stay here, and if more money will keep you, then that’s what you’ll get. For now.”

  For now. Fletcher knew there was something more to this than just being family. Unfortunately, Zeb wasn’t ready to trust him with it yet.

  “I like to earn what I make.”

  “Be patient. You will.”

  Someone rapped at the door, then one of the cowboys peered in. “You want to finish the game, boss? ’Cause Billy wants to meet a lady across the street.”

  “Tell him if he wants to back out, he’ll have to pay me what he owes me.”

  The cowboy disappeared briefly, then returned. “He said his money’s on the table, but only if you say it’s okay for him to go.”

  Zeb shook his head at Fletcher. “Sheep,” he whispered, then turned to the cowboy. “Tell him to go meet his lady friend and you can go, too, but don’t forget you have a job to do.”

  “Yes, sir!” The cowboy closed the door and Fletcher heard them hoot as they left the saloon.

  “What’s this job all about?” he asked.

  Zeb stared blankly, then spread his arms wide. “The job of getting the whores into bed, of course!”

  Trying not to reveal his aversion for the distasteful answer, Fletcher stood and walked around the table to help Zeb up, and the future mayor wobbled to and fro as he gathered up his cash and stuffed it into both his breast pockets. “You’ll be by for supper tomorrow evening?”

  If Fletcher was going to gain Zeb’s trust and find out what was really going on with this so-called family business, he had best accept the invitation. Even if it meant tying Jo to his bed again for another night.

  “I’ll be there,” he answered, then he walked Zeb all the way home, just to make sure he made it back to Elizabeth in one piece.

  Chapter Fifteen

  It was nearly three-thirty in the morning when Fletcher returned to the boardinghouse and led his horse into the small stable. He’d spent the night on duty, asking casual questions about the Hennigar murder Jo had told him about, to anyone who seemed willing to talk. He learned nothing that Jo hadn’t already told him, and discovered that Zeb Stone had held the town’s sympathy back then—a man wrongly accused.

  Perhaps he was. Perhaps he wasn’t. Fletcher had wrestled with the idea all night long, wondering what kind of work Zeb had planned for him, now that he was on his so-called payroll.

  Fletcher was beginning to see that Jo was right to be suspicious of Zeb about something, considering the shady characters that were calling him “boss,” but with the information Fletcher had gathered so far, he wasn’t ready to arrest Zeb for murder.

  Exhausted, he fed and watered the horses, then dragged himself up the boardinghouse steps. With any luck, Jo had managed to sleep a little. He thought about what lay ahead for them, and he still couldn’t consider making an official arrest and locking her up in the city jail. People would want to know why, and if he told them, he would thwart his own investigation.

  He just hoped he could convince Jo to cooperate. If he was going to uncover the truth, she had to go on with her life as if nothing were out of the ordinary; otherwise, Zeb would suspect something. At the same time, Fletcher had to keep her safe from a potential murderer—whoever that might be—and safe from becoming one herself.

  He unlocked the door and went inside, relieved to find Jo still secure on his bed, her body limp with sleep. Trying not to wake her, he removed his coat and draped it over the foot of the bed, then unbuckled his gun belt and laid it gently on the chest of drawers. How she managed to sleep with her wrists bound over her head, he could not imagine. She must have been dog-tired.

  Needing sleep himself, he carefully moved closer, but paused by the side of the bed when he caught sight of Jo’s face, illuminated by the moonlight from the window.

  Good Lord, she had a black eye. What had he done?

  Wanting to kick himself clear across town, he sat on the bed beside her, trying not to create a stir while he let his fingers hover in the air above her bruised eye. Better not to touch it, he reasoned, when she was so peacefully asleep. He’d done her enough harm already.

  He considered the gentlemanly thing—curling up on the floor, but when he thought of what he and Jo had been through together so far, propriety seemed far beyond repair.

  Or maybe he was just telling himself that. He might as well admit that what he really wanted was to be close to her. What damage could it do at this point?

  Fletcher lowered his weary body down, on his side with his back intentionally to Jo. Feeling her warmth even through his clothing, he considered the floor again, thinking he might in fact sleep better there, but when his eyes fell closed, there was no hope in getting them open again.

  Jo awakened from her deep slumber when she tried to turn over onto her side, only to discover her arms were stretched over her head and her wrists were still bound tightly to the steel bed frame.

  Flat on her back in the darkness, feeling the muscles in her shoulders cramping into corkscrews, she wiggled uncomfortably on the lumpy mattress. Her hip struck something and her groggy mind suddenly cleared. Fletcher was sleeping soundly beside her, his head resting in his hands, his backside connecting with her hip.

  How, she wondered with senses now buzzing to life, had this situation spun so impossibly out of control?

  Through fading hope, Jo looked toward the window to estimate the time, and hearing meadowlarks chirping a full symphony, she guessed it must be between four and five in the morning. It wouldn’t be long before her ranch hands awakened and came looking for their breakfast. What would they do when they found the house empty?

  Fletcher breathed deeply and rolled into her. He stirred and opened his eyes as if her anchored presence in his bed was the most common thing in the world. “You’re awake.”

  “Yes, no thanks to these ropes. My arms have fallen asleep and it feels like a hundred thousand pins and needles.”

  He sat up and began to tug at the knots. “I guess I can untie you for now. You’re not going anywhere while I’m here.”

  “Guess not.” Finally she could rub her sleeping arms and hands and scratch all the places that itched. “What happened last night? Did you talk to Zeb?”

  Fletcher sat up on the edge of the bed and lit the lamp. “Yes.”

  “Well? What did you say? What did he say?”

  The room flickered with a dim, golden light, and Fletcher’s large shadow loomed against the wall as he stood. “Nothing to suggest he killed anyone, though I didn’t exactly ask him.”

  “Couldn’t you have hinted at something?”

  “You know as well as I do that Zeb is an intelligent man. I don’t want him to know I’m checking into his affairs. It’s best if he trusts me. Th
at way, he might let down his guard.”

  “So you do suspect him?”

  Fletcher settled back against the wall, one ankle crossed casually over the other. “I didn’t say that, but he’s got something going on that he’s being vague about. Some kind of business. I’d like to know what it is, considering I’m an employee.”

  “An employee?”

  “Yeah. If he even remembers saying it, that is. He was a little inebriated. He told me he’d put me on his ‘payroll,’ calling it a ‘family thing.’ He’s going to pay me to stick around for Elizabeth’s sake. Maybe that’s all it is, but—”

  “He’s trying to make you feel you owe him something. To trap you.”

  Fletcher watched her in an intent way, and she felt as if he was forming judgments about her in his mind. She wished she knew what they were.

  He took his time to reply. “I’m not jumping to any conclusions, but I’m not ruling anything out, either.” He pushed his disheveled hair away from his face. “Did you get enough sleep? How’s your nose?”

  “My nose is fine, and sleeping’s not my first concern right now. I’m worried about my ranch hands, what they’ll do when they discover I’m missing.”

  Fletcher went to the window and looked outside, the faint light gracing the smooth lines of his sculpted shoulders and arms. “That’s a good point. They’ll probably go looking for you, or worse, report your disappearance to the deputy.” He reached for his gun belt on the chest of drawers and buckled it around his waist. “What about Leo and Matilda? They might have already noticed.”

  “I sent them away last night. They went to Newton and the house is empty.”

  Assuming she and Fletcher would be leaving soon, Jo crawled off the bed and went to look in the small mirror on the wall over the washstand. “Good heavens, look at my eye!” It was puffy and ugly, her shirt was wrinkled and coming untucked, and her hair, still in a bun, looked like a great big hornet’s nest.

  Fletcher moved toward her, his voice soft and apologetic. “If I’d known it was you last night…”

  “Just forget about it,” she said despondently.

  She tucked one tangled strand of hair here, another there. “So what are you going to do with me? If it doesn’t make any difference to you, I’d like to stay out of sight—Zeb’s in particular.”

  “Zeb’s at home with Elizabeth till noon every day and I imagine he’ll be sleeping extra late this morning.”

  “You’re not listening to me. I’m in danger.”

  He strode toward her and pulled a hairpin from her hair, letting the whole mess fall onto her shoulders. She shivered at the silky play of his fingers around her neck. “I am listening. I said I wasn’t ruling anything out. That means I’ll keep you safe. You need to fix your hair.”

  Unmoving, Jo stared up at him. “I asked you what you were going to do with me.”

  He stroked her cheek with his thumb. “Take you home.”

  “I won’t be safe there.”

  “You will be, if I’m watching over you.”

  She tried not to acknowledge the one teasing finger that traced the outline of her ear. “And just how do you plan to investigate Zeb from my front parlor?”

  “I’m only taking you back to avoid a panic and a search. You’ll fix breakfast for the men just like always, while I look at some of Edwyn’s things. I might be able to find something that will shed light on all this. You can make up some excuse to be away from the house for the day. I don’t want anything to seem out of the ordinary until I can get some answers.”

  “You’re not going to lock me up?”

  Fletcher wet his mouth and gazed down at hers.

  Rattled, worrying that he was going to kiss her again, Jo tried to quench the fire that was snapping and sparking inside her belly.

  “Not today,” he answered.

  A stress-induced daze wiggled into her brain as she looked up at him, waiting. Then a muscle quivered at his jaw and he seemed to awaken from some kind of trance. He turned his back on her, pulled out his gun and checked it for bullets, and the clicking sound was like a bucket of cold water on Jo’s frazzled emotions.

  He dropped the weapon into its holster and strode to the door. “Put your hair up and get your hat on, Jo. We have to get you home before sunrise.”

  The prairie grass glistened like diamonds with morning dew, reflecting the first gleam of dawn. Warm beneath her coat, Jo could see Mogie’s panting breath coming in little puffs like steam from a train as she urged him to trot over the last rise. She and Fletcher had decided to circle the long way around the corral to avoid waking anyone in the bunkhouse. They would hide his horse in the chicken coop where the cowhands never ventured.

  Fletcher reached the top of the hill first, stopping on the road when Prince grew skittish.

  “What is it?” Jo asked. “What’s the matter?”

  “I thought you said the house was empty.”

  She caught up to him and reined in her mount. “I did say that.”

  “Then what’s that light in your parlor?”

  Jo stood up in the stirrups, squinting through the hazy dawn. Her bones went limp at the sight. “I don’t know.”

  “I’d better go down there. You wait here.” Fletcher reached for his gun.

  “I’m coming with you.”

  “No, you’re not. It’s too dangerous.”

  “I know, that’s why I have to go. You might need me.”

  He glared at her as if considering all options, then reached into his saddlebag. “Take this, then.” He moved closer and handed her her weapon. She checked the chamber for bullets.

  “You’re giving a loaded gun to a prisoner?”

  His eyes told her he trusted her, and she couldn’t deny being pleased about it. “Just come on. Stay behind me and wait outside while I check the house.”

  They trotted down the hill, but as they grew closer, Jo noticed the light in the parlor window growing brighter. She stopped. “Wait a minute.”

  Fletcher stopped, too.

  “That’s no lantern light,” she said.

  “You’re right. It’s a fire!”

  Jo and Fletcher kicked in their heels and galloped to the house just as the lace curtains went up in flames.

  “Fire!” she screamed, leaping off Mogie.

  Five men from the bunkhouse ran outside looking flustered and sleepy, some wearing their clothes, some wearing only their undershirts and drawers. It took only seconds for all of them to bolt to the barn in their bare feet and grab buckets.

  Fletcher hopped down from the saddle, ripped off his coat and dunked it in the water barrel by the bunkhouse. He was the first to enter the house, slapping at flames in the window with his wet slicker. Jo followed his lead, dunking her coat, running inside and striking the fire that was consuming the sofa.

  Smoke burned her eyes and stung her throat. She covered her mouth with one sleeve, coughing, while she whipped her coat mercilessly through the smoke-filled air.

  The ranch hands all ran in with buckets of sloshing water, dousing the flames that were eating the rugs and walls. Jo could see her wedding picture simmering on the mantel, and the fact that she made no move to rescue it sat for a while in her brain as if waiting to be comprehended, until she forced her attention to stay with more urgent matters, like saving her home.

  While Fletcher ripped down the curtain rod and smothered the flames it carried, she slapped ruthlessly at the hot blazes that were nipping perilously close to the bottom of his trousers.

  Men ran in and out, tossing water through the air in long silver streaks. Jo coughed and sputtered. Her lungs felt tight as she gasped for breath. Fletcher turned and grabbed her arm, dragging her toward the front door. “You have to get out of here!”

  “No!” She shook his hand away.

  They stood in the front hall. The bright fire crackled and hissed behind him. “Just go outside and breathe a minute, or you’ll suffocate!”

  “What about you?”

&nbs
p; “I’ll be fine!” He ran back into the parlor and fought the flames that were devouring Jo’s rocking chair and mantel. Jo ran outside and dunked her coat in the barrel again. She sucked in a few essential breaths, then ran back toward the house with her dripping cargo.

  John, her foreman, ran past her in his scarlet knit drawers and matching undershirt, carrying two buckets. He met her at the door and halted. “Mrs. O’Malley! Your eye!”

  She didn’t stop to explain. “Hurry, John! Help Fletcher!”

  He hesitated a moment, then ran in with his two buckets and threw water onto the flames at the mantel. Fletcher was wheezing, covering his face with a sleeve while he battered the fire. Three men came in at once and a torrent of water covered the floor and walls. The blaze winced and recoiled, gasping its last breath in one fatal hissing sizzle.

  Coughing, Jo looked at Fletcher, who began to stagger. She ran to his side as he collapsed his heavy frame onto her tiny one. She struggled to stay upright, grabbing his arm and pulling it around her sore shoulder to support him.

  “Somebody help me!” she shouted.

  John came running. On each side of Fletcher, they helped him through the front hall and down the porch steps. He dropped to his knees in the dirt, fighting for breath. Jo dropped down beside him with her hand on his back. “Are you all right? John, get him a glass of water!”

  John ran back to the house.

  Fletcher drew in one long, deep breath that sounded hideously thin. “Is the fire out?”

  “Yes. It’s out.” She looked back at the house. “Are you men all right in there?”

  One came out, waving. “We’re okay. Just making sure it ain’t gonna start up again.”

  She turned her attention back to Fletcher, who was rubbing his eyes. “You were lucky,” he said.

  “I know. We caught it just in time.”

  “No, I mean you were lucky, because that fire was set to get rid of you.”

  Jo sat back on her heels in disbelief. “How can you be sure?”

  He leaned forward, coughed a few times, then tried to clear his throat. “Because the curtains were doused in kerosene. I could smell it, and the can was tossed into the fireplace. A shoddy job, really.”