The Marshal and Mrs. O'Malley

by Julianne MacLean

  Jo turned. “No, you found it.”

  “Don’t be too hard on yourself. I only found it because I’m used to following tracks. Hoofprints or a trail of paper, it’s all the same to me.” He pulled a chair across the rug toward the table and sat down to eat.

  Jo paced back and forth behind him, remembering the night Edwyn was killed and all the times she’d seen Zeb Stone, before and after. She’d never connected him with the business of ranching. Even Fletcher had called him too civilized to meddle in it.

  Unable to come up with any answers herself, she sat down in the leather chair across from Fletcher and watched him eat. “How much do you know about the cattle thefts around Dodge?”

  He didn’t look up as he cut his eggs. “Not a whole lot. You’ve been my chief concern since I got here. You and Six-Shooter Hank, that is.”

  She tried not to let him make her feel guilty. “I apologize for that. Perhaps I can make it up to you by filling you in on some of the local crime. I do read the papers, and there’s at least one herd with missing cattle reported each week. Different ranchers, small outfits and large ones, Texas-based herds driving up the trail. They start out with a certain-sized herd, then arrive in Dodge with a much smaller one, and the cowboys can’t explain it.”

  “And you think you can?”

  “Just give me a chance to explain what I think. Maybe Zeb is running a cattle-rustling ring and that’s why he was so vague last night about what he hired you to do. Maybe Zeb killed Edwyn because of the letters he sent to the city council.”

  “How long has this cattle rustling been going on?”

  “You saw the books. A few years, perhaps. It seems normal to most people now.”

  Fletcher took a sip of coffee and nodded his head, still without looking up. “A few years, you say. If this has been going on for a few years, don’t you think it’s possible that you might be the teeniest bit mistaken about Zeb? After all, he’s only been in these parts for two.”

  Feeling as if her theory had been quashed, Jo tried to prevent the inevitable loss of color to her cheeks. “Where was he before that?”

  “Chicago. Meeting my sister for the first time.”

  Jo shifted in her chair and cleared her throat, her hopes sinking at this supposed alibi. “Are you sure?”

  “Elizabeth told me she met him briefly in her first year of college—the year his family died and left him all his money—then he courted her and proposed to her during her third and final year.”

  “But he could have been back and forth that first year.”

  “He opened his dry goods store exactly two years ago, and before that, he was burying his parents in Chicago. It was only after he inherited his money that he decided to invest it out here, in the West.”

  Jo twisted her wedding ring around on her finger. “Perhaps, with your resources as city marshal, you could look into it. His past may very well be a fabrication.”

  “And my sister imagined meeting him in Chicago three years ago?”

  Jo squeezed the smooth arm of the chair. She had held a loaded gun to Zeb’s head and very nearly pulled the trigger. She would not have done that without the strongest of convictions about his murderous heart. “Perhaps Zeb became involved with whoever started this cattle-rustling ring after he came here.” Proud of herself for that little suggestion, she raised her chin.

  Fletcher set down his coffee cup and wiped his hands on the linen napkin. “Your theories are all well and good, Jo, but you know I need real evidence. I’m willing to look into these cattle thefts, but I don’t know how to do it without locking you up.”

  “But Fletcher—”

  “There’s no other way to keep you safe and in custody at the same time.”

  “But I won’t be safe in jail. I can’t trust anyone, not even your deputies. Zeb might own them already, and you said yourself that if people find out why you arrested me, you won’t be able to investigate without—”

  “What do you suggest we do, then?” Fletcher rose from the chair and threw his napkin on the tray. “I can’t let you off and I can’t take you with me. That would look just as suspicious. If I believe you that I can’t trust my deputies to help me—”

  He paced the room for a few minutes while Jo just sat there, watching him.

  “Unless…” he said, not looking at her, his thoughts only on his job, it seemed, and the best way to do it.

  “What’s your idea?”

  Fletcher rested his hands on his hips. “This may sound strange, but we should get engaged.”

  Despite the sleep she badly needed, Jo was instantly wide-awake. “You can’t be serious.”

  “I know it sounds ridiculous, but it would just be an act to distract people, of course. If you were my fiancée, we could be seen constantly together without raising suspicion. There’d be all kinds of gossip and no one would question what was really going on. Look, I’m between a rock and a hard place. I want nothing more than to solve this murder and to…”

  She knew what he was going to say. To get away from you.

  “I’d only be doing it to keep watch over you without raising suspicions, and to solve this case at the same time, as quickly as possible. If there’s any truth to what you say about Zeb, this will rattle his cage for sure.”

  He paced the carpet, never making eye contact. “And you’d only be doing it to help find the men who killed your husband,” he added. “Maybe lighten your sentence a bit, if the judge is sympathetic.”

  “What a perfectly romantic marriage proposal, Fletcher,” Jo said, trying to keep her voice clear of emotion. “But if it means Zeb will get what’s coming to him, I’m willing to go along with it. Just don’t expect me to play the lovesick fool. I have more important things to accomplish.”

  That last little bit was her pride talking and she suspected that he knew it.

  He sat down and leaned back in his chair, staring into her eyes as she struggled to force away any sorrow or regret she might have felt, realizing uneasily that she was in for a hard battle.

  It was nearly noon by the time Zeb forced himself to roll over and slide out of his mahogany four-poster bed. His bare toes touched the cold floor, and he cursed the maid for not making his house more comfortable, especially when he paid her far more than her pathetic, stubby fingers were worth.

  Only then did he realize, with another irritated curse, that he’d worn his blue silk nightshirt to bed inside out.

  Squeezing his hammering temples, he swallowed against the dry, detestable taste in his mouth. He was glad Elizabeth had risen early, as was her usual habit, for if she were here, just the sound of her high-pitched, chattery voice would have driven him insane.

  Zeb rang for Matthews, who assisted him in dressing and shaving, then he made his way downstairs, trying not to move too quickly. He was on his way to the library for a medicinal shot of brandy when he heard Elizabeth’s heels clicking across the polished floor behind him, and he had to fight the urge to whip around and silence her with a slap as he had silenced her last night. “What is it, Elizabeth? And don’t ask me how I slept.”

  She stopped in the center of the wide hall and cleared her throat. “I…I’m sorry to disturb you, Zeb, but Fletcher is in the drawing room. He has some news, but he wanted to wait for you before he said anything. I believe it’s about Mrs. O’Malley.”

  Ah. Fletcher had come, no doubt, to deliver bad news about a fire and a dead widow—news that would cure this headache just as effectively as a glass of brandy, Zeb thought with some complacency. He guided Elizabeth back toward the drawing room. “Nothing wrong with the woman, I hope.”

  “I don’t know. He’s been exceedingly secretive about it.”

  “Well, we shall find out soon enough.”

  Fletcher stood in the drawing room at the window, his gaze following Zeb’s tree-lined driveway, his worries drifting to Jo. He hoped she was still sitting in the church confessional where he’d left her. He felt bad about tying her to the bench leg, especial
ly after she’d protested, but he still couldn’t be sure she wouldn’t try to escape and he wanted to deliver this news on his own, without distraction. And Jo pretending to be his fiancée would definitely have been a distraction.

  He turned when he heard Elizabeth and Zeb enter the room. Watching them together—her slender arm looped through his, both of them richly dressed in the finest attire Dodge had to offer—Fletcher felt his heart darken with regret.

  Maybe Jo was wrong about Zeb. He was Elizabeth’s husband, after all. The man she had chosen above all others, the future she had embraced when she’d married him.

  Fletcher wondered uneasily if he was prepared to kick it all out from under her.

  Zeb stopped in the doorway. “Good heavens, you look exhausted. What has happened?”

  “I am a little tired. I was up most of the night.”

  Zeb moved fully into the room. “Busy, were you? Please sit down and tell us all about it.”

  Fletcher studied Zeb’s eyes, hoping he would not see what he’d come here to find. “Truthfully, I wasn’t busy. I was up all night, just thinking.”

  Zeb sat silently, staring. “About what?”

  “About marriage.”

  Elizabeth glided closer, her cheeks flushing, her eyes regaining some of the radiance Fletcher all of a sudden noticed had been missing lately. “Marriage? Fletcher, what do you mean?”

  “You, Liz, of all people, should know what I mean. Can’t you tell by looking at me?” He had to swallow the bitter realization that he’d never lied to his sister before now.

  Zeb continued to stare at Fletcher, dumbfounded, and Fletcher stared right back at him, searching.

  “Oh, do say it, Fletcher! Is it what I think?”

  He would come clean soon enough, he told himself, trying to ease some of the guilt. Just as soon as all this nasty business of murder and cattle rustling was cleared up.

  “You said you had bad news about Mrs. O’Malley,” Zeb interrupted, his tone heavy.

  “I never said it was bad, but you can judge that for yourself.” Fletcher’s gut wrenched at Zeb’s slipup, but he tried to hide it as the lie spilled from his lips. “Mrs. O’Malley and I are going to be…married.”

  “Ohh!” Elizabeth squealed, but Fletcher was watching Zeb, who cupped his head and winced with pain at his wife’s jolly outcry.

  She hurried to sit beside Fletcher and throw her arms around his neck. “I’m so happy!”

  “Me, too,” he replied, still digesting Zeb’s words.

  “But you’ve only known her a few days! She must be wonderfully special. I thought her so when I met her. She and I will be like sisters, I know it.”

  Fletcher watched Zeb, who rose and dutifully offered his hand. “I suppose congratulations are in order.”

  “Thank you, Zeb.” Fletcher stood and shook his brother-in-law’s hand.

  “You’ve asked her, I presume.”

  “Of course.”

  “When? You must have ridden out there very early this morning,” he commented, his tone brimming over with impatient curiosity.

  Fletcher thought carefully about how he should answer that loaded observation. Was it best to let Zeb believe, for a little longer, that Jo might be dead, if that was in fact why he was asking?

  Or was it worth the risk to see his face when he found out she was still among the living?

  “I asked her this morning,” Fletcher replied matter-of-factly. Then he paused to await Zeb’s reaction.

  The tall man’s jaw twitched.

  “She came into town to buy some things for her house,” Fletcher continued, laying down more information for Zeb to take in. “There was a fire in her parlor.”

  “What a shame,” Zeb replied, his eyes void of any sentiment.

  Elizabeth covered her mouth with her hand. “No one was hurt, I hope.”

  “No. It was a small fire. Clumsily started, I think.”

  “No doubt,” Zeb said, his mood dark.

  “Will you bring her for supper this evening?” Elizabeth asked. “We could celebrate.”

  Fletcher glanced at his sister, so lighthearted and smiling, and he wanted to sink through the floor at the thought of capsizing her new life. He glanced at Zeb, saw the annoyance hovering in his eyes, and Fletcher felt his instincts begin to boil. He had no definite proof of anything, but he knew something was up with Zeb, and it was his duty to find out what it was.

  He supposed it was time to surrender to the one thing he’d wanted to avoid—a social evening with Zeb and Jo together.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Jo stood inside the city clerk’s office while Fletcher dug into his pocket for keys.

  “I’m curious what the city council did about your husband’s letters,” he said, unlocking and opening a drawer in the large desk under the window. “Were they publicized at all?”

  “Not that I know of. I never heard another word about it after he sent them.”

  “He didn’t send them to the newspaper or anything like that?”

  “No, definitely not. Edwyn didn’t like to bring attention to himself.”

  Fletcher nodded his understanding. “He took the time to make copies of the letters, so he must have been serious about the situation.” Fletcher pulled a large hard-covered book out of the drawer and set it on the desk. He began to flip through the pages. “I’m looking for the city council minutes of last July. That’s when he sent the first letter.”

  Jo leaned forward over Fletcher’s shoulder, trying to ignore the subtle scent of leather from his gun belt as she watched his sun-bronzed hands turn page after page of the ruled paper. “Here it is—council meeting on July 23. Look for your husband’s name.”

  They both read over the minutes, but Edwyn’s letters were never mentioned.

  “Are you sure the first letter was dated in July?” she asked, refusing to give up hope that they would find something.

  “Positive. I’ll check August. Maybe he sent it late.”

  They searched through the records, page after page, every month in the whole year.

  “There’s nothing,” Fletcher said grimly. “No mention of either of Edwyn’s letters or any cattle-theft problem.” He set the book back in the drawer and leaned against the desk, the heel of his palm braced upon the top while he rubbed his forehead with the other hand.

  Jo stood before him, watching the stress lines deepen around his eyes. “Zeb got rid of those letters. He must be involved in the cattle-rustling ring and that’s why he came after Edwyn and why he destroyed the police records about Edwyn’s death.”

  “We can’t be certain of that yet.”

  “But Zeb has the power and the access to these records.”

  “So do a lot of other people.”

  “But I know it was Zeb that night. This only confirms it. Why can’t you at least say it’s possible? Give me that much?”

  She saw an apology in his eyes and wanted to shake him for something more than that. “I’d like to believe you, Jo, but we’ll have to keep looking.”

  Jo watched Fletcher lock the desk and retrieve his hat from the hook by the door. She began to worry that he’d change his mind about not locking her up.

  “I want to know more about this cattle-rustling problem,” he said, pressing the hat onto his head.

  Frustrated and feeling stuck, Jo followed Fletcher outside into the bright sunlight and shaded her eyes with her gloved hand. “Shouldn’t we be focusing on Zeb’s affairs?”

  “I’m not investigating Zeb, I’m investigating your husband’s murder. If what I find leads to Zeb, then I’ll look there. Until then—”

  “Fletcher, this isn’t fair.”

  “What’s not fair?” He locked the door behind them and began to descend the steps ahead of her.

  “You’re supposed to be doing your job, the thing you say matters most to you, but the way it looks to me, you’re not willing to see past your sister. You don’t want to spoil things for her and it’s influencing your judgment.
”

  He paused at the bottom of the stairs, then turned to look up at Jo, his bruised eyes shadowed beneath the brim of his hat. “Nothing is influencing my judgment. I’m just trying to do my job right. Hurry up, I want to get to the stockyard before the train comes in.”

  Picking up her skirts in one gloved hand, Jo glided down the stairs and followed him over the tracks toward Front Street. “Fletcher, stop and listen to me. Please. I swear, Zeb could steal the badge off your vest, right under your nose, and you still wouldn’t see it. You’re protecting him so Elizabeth won’t get hurt.”

  “I’m not protecting him. I just need to be sure. I need solid proof.”

  Walking fast to keep up, she tried to lower her voice so that no one would hear. “Can’t you see you’re doing exactly what your father did? You’re trying to protect your kin. You don’t want Elizabeth to suffer so you’re resisting me and what I’m telling you.”

  He looked straight into her eyes and spoke with a surprising rigidity. “It’s not my kin I’m trying to protect right now. Trust me on that.”

  She stopped in the middle of the street. A noisy buckboard rattled by behind her, blowing dust onto her yellow skirt. Standing there, she felt her confused emotions peak. “If you’re going to bend the rules for someone you care about, why can’t you bend them for me? Do I mean that little to you?”

  A few feet ahead of her, Fletcher stopped. She watched his broad back, could see his shoulders fall slightly, and she wanted to kick herself for revealing so much.

  Fletcher slowly turned around. Jo stared at him, feeling desperate for his touch and hating herself for that weakness. He was not a person she could turn to, no matter how badly she needed him.

  He walked toward her, his strides long and deliberate. “Firstly, I’m not bending the rules for anyone. I need proof, and in the eyes of the law, your word and what we’ve found so far just isn’t enough. Let me do my job. If what you say about Zeb is true, I’ll find what we need to convict him. And I will convict him, Jo, whether he’s my brother-in-law or not.”