The Marshal and Mrs. O'Malley

by Julianne MacLean

  He stood before her, staring into her eyes, as if looking to find something there. She met his gaze without flinching.

  “And secondly?” she asked, trying to break the angry tension blazing between them.

  “Secondly…secondly, the way I do my job has nothing to do with how I feel about you, and I wish you could stop reminding me about what’s been happening between us.” He glanced toward the boardwalk in front of the butcher shop where a couple of older women were standing in the shade watching, twirling their parasols. He lowered his voice to an angry whisper. “You were the one to say all the kissing we did was a mistake.”

  She squared her shoulders. “I said it was rash. I don’t remember calling it a mistake. I hope you don’t twist my words in court.”

  Fletcher ripped off his hat and raked his fingers through his wavy hair. He made no effort to hide his frustration as he glanced back at the women on the boardwalk. “Whether you called it a mistake or not, that’s what you meant, and don’t try to deny it.”

  “I’m not…I…” She heard her voice break and hated herself for it. Then, the very next second, she found herself rambling like a fool about her feelings and confessing the most intimate details to him, yet again. “Fletcher, this is too hard. I want to be with you and know you and talk to you about things that have nothing to do with Zeb or cattle theft, and it makes no sense because I know you’re going to arrest me. God, I should hate you, not feel as if I’m falling in love with you.”

  The words flooded out before she had a chance to stop them, and when she saw the agony in Fletcher’s eyes—oh, how she wished she could take them back.

  Fletcher sighed deeply, his brow creasing with what looked like regret. Jo wanted to disappear into the ground.

  When he finally responded, his voice was quiet and tender. “Am I the first man you’ve kissed since Edwyn died?”

  The question caught her off guard. “Yes, but that has nothing to do with—”

  “Maybe you should think about that.”

  “No, Fletcher, I—”

  “Hear me out, Jo. You’ve been telling me a lot of personal things about the night he was killed and I’m the first person to offer any comfort or understanding about that, and I reckon you’re confusing me with the general onslaught of emotions you must be feeling.

  “And even though you’re my prisoner, there’s been an element of…” He paused a moment, as if searching for just the right word. “An element of intimacy between us. We’ve been together almost constantly the past few days and now we’re pretending to be engaged. Maybe that wasn’t such a good idea.”

  “Wait a minute,” she said harshly, holding up her hand. “I can handle this.”

  “I’m sure you can. It’s just that…it’s hard for me, too.”

  She stared at him, dumbfounded, realizing she was overjoyed to hear him say that.

  Until he finished what he meant to say.

  “But we can’t let ourselves get caught up in the way we’ve been feeling. We have no future together, Jo. I’m the law and you’re my prisoner, and even if you weren’t, this wouldn’t be right. You’re not over your husband yet. I see how you’re always straightening that picture of him and staring at it. You need time to grieve and get over him.”

  There was so much about her relationship with Edwyn that Fletcher did not know, but it was not something she wished to discuss with him now, not here in the street.

  “Besides that,” he went on, “I’m not the marrying kind. I never stay in one place very long and you’re the opposite. You deserve better—a man who’ll stick around and be a father to Leo.”

  Not wanting him to see in her eyes that her heart was breaking, she dropped her sad gaze to the ground. “Fletcher, I only know how I feel.”

  A moment of silence lingered between them, then without warning, he wrapped his large hands around her waist, pulled her close and pressed his lips to hers right there for all the world to see.

  For an instant she was paralyzed with shock, until she felt his strong arms embrace her. All she could do was arch her back into him and relax her burning lips, taste the manly flavor of his mouth. Eyes falling closed, she wondered what in heaven’s name she would do when this moment ended, if she had the strength to even stand.

  Jo had not the faintest idea how long the kiss lasted, only that it was hot and intoxicating, and when those lips pulled away from hers, her knees felt weaker than watered-down whisky. She tried to open her eyes and realized numbly that she was being supported in Fletcher’s arms in the middle of the street with every last cowboy looking on, her feet barely touching the ground.

  “Why did you do that?” she asked, her voice a light whisper.

  “Because I wanted to. And because those ladies over there are looking for something to gossip about, and it ain’t gonna be what we’re investigating.”

  Instantly sobered by his answer, and annoyed at herself for thinking he could forget about his job while she was laying her heart out on her sleeve, Jo stepped back and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. “Of course. Always thinking with that badge.”

  His eyes colored with a shade of contrition that surprised her. “Not always, Jo.”

  She recognized the tenderness in his tone but did not want to acknowledge it. If she did, she’d be done for…back in his arms whether those ladies were watching or not.

  “You were right,” she said, covering what she truly felt. “There they go into the bakery to spread the news. Our engagement will distract the entire town. I just hope it works on Zeb. Now can we get going? I don’t like standing here in the middle of the street.”

  Glancing over her shoulder, she picked up her skirts and walked off toward the stockyards, her body still trembling from his kiss. She knew she had to concentrate on sweeping it from her heart and mind, no matter how much it hurt. She had to focus on finding something—anything—that would lead them to Zeb before he found a way to keep her quiet forever, and kissing Fletcher Collins would only make it harder.

  Fletcher and Jo approached the cattle-loading pens, packed tight with Texas longhorns shrieking and snorting and clacking their horns together while they awaited the train that would take them east to a Chicago slaughterhouse.

  Fletcher guided Jo past the station depot, not knowing what to say about what had happened between them in the street. All he knew was that there was a lump in his gut the size of a watermelon; he could feel his brows pulling together, the muscles in his forehead tight with a tension that just wouldn’t quit.

  God, he wanted her too much. He cared too much. He wanted to talk to her about her life and her marriage and her son; he wanted to be the shoulder she cried on about Edwyn, to help her grieve and put it behind her and feel closer to him. He wanted to tell her everything he suspected about Zeb, confide in her with every thought and feeling he had…but how could he? He had to remember his position. She was his prisoner and she wanted her own brand of justice with a passion that was simply too dangerous.

  On top of all that—and most importantly—he just couldn’t be the man she needed him to be.

  They approached a short, stocky cowhand and Fletcher had to work hard to get his mind back on business.

  “Mornin’,” Fletcher said to the man, who was leaning back against the gate, his dusty brown shirt damp with perspiration under the arms, his face leather-brown from hours spent in the saddle under the scorching western sun. “You responsible for this herd?”

  The young man took one look at Fletcher’s badge and stepped away from the fence. “Yes, sir. I’m the trail boss, Curly Hays.” He glanced at Jo and fingered his hat. “Morning, ma’am.”

  “Where you from?”

  “I come from Montana originally, sir.”

  Fletcher nodded. “This herd from Texas?”

  “Yes, sir. It belongs to Mr. Addison of San Antonio. There a problem, Marshal?”

  Fletcher glanced at the branding on one of the steers—the letter A in two places—on the shoul
der and back hip.

  Jo stepped forward and the young man smiled nervously at her. “Have you lost any head to rustlers, Mr. Hays?” she asked directly.

  Fletcher gave her a long, dark stare, wishing she would remember that she was pretending to be his fiancée, not his deputy.

  “As a matter of fact, ma’am, yes. Or at least, that’s what we think. They just seem to disappear. Mr. Addison hired extra hands this season, hoping to figure out what was happening, maybe put a stop to it. But the size of the herd keeps getting smaller and smaller as we drive ’em up the trail. It don’t make a lick of sense.”

  “How many have you lost?” Jo asked.

  “He ships about fifty thousand head a year, altogether. He probably lost close to five thousand and he ain’t too happy about it.”

  Jo nodded her understanding and gave Fletcher an I told you so look.

  He squinted across the top of the pen, over the heads of cattle toward the treeless, unbroken horizon. “Do you lose them off the ranch in Texas, Hays, or just along the drive?” Fletcher asked.

  “Both, sir. All year round. And it ain’t just the Western Trail. I hear they go missing off the Chisolm Trail, too.”

  Fletcher inclined his head in a way of saying thanks. “You can tell Addison that there’s a new marshal in Dodge, and I’ll be looking into things for him. I’ll do my best to clear up this problem.”

  “Yes, sir, Marshal Collins. I’ll tell him today when I send the wire.”

  Fletcher placed his hand on the small of Jo’s back and directed her toward town. “I’m supposed to be asking the questions,” he told her quietly. “You’re just supposed to be my fiancée.”

  “I’m trying to speed things up, that’s all.”

  “Just trust me and let me take care of this.”

  She said nothing more and he could feel her frustration in the way she moved—the straight set of her shoulders, the sway of her hips. He found himself wanting to explain everything better, to talk openly and reveal how completely torn he felt about all this. Maybe then she would understand his position, not resent him so much.

  “Let’s go to the bakery for some bread and a pie,” he suggested, trying to push that lump farther down in his gut.

  “I’m not hungry, thank you.”

  “Neither am I, but I hear the lady who works there has a nose for gossip.”

  “It’s the widow Harper you’re talking about, but I doubt she’d know who’s stealing the cattle.”

  “Maybe not, but we’ll need something for our engagement picnic.” Sensing her surprise, he took hold of her arm and looped it through his, held it tightly as they walked past the crowd of curious onlookers standing in front of the Dodge House Hotel.

  “I wasn’t sure when I should mention this,” he said, leaning in and taking advantage of the opportunity to smell her hair. “But maybe it’s time you removed your wedding ring. Folks might wonder about it otherwise.”

  And he had to wonder, himself, why—after all his efforts to keep from caring about her—he’d noticed that she still wore the ring and why he was pleased for this excuse to get her to take it off.

  Jo stopped, appearing flustered. “Of course.” She fumbled to pull off her gloves and fumbled even more to pull the tight gold band off her slim finger. “There.” She popped it into her reticule and pulled the drawstring closed.

  Fletcher offered his arm again, feeling uneasy. He didn’t want to lose this battle with his emotions, but it was becoming more and more difficult with every passing moment.

  “I haven’t told you this,” Fletcher mentioned as he steered Jo’s wagon across the toll bridge toward the open plains, “but we’ve been invited to supper tonight.”

  Jo held on to the spring seat as they bumped along, her sunbonnet tied tightly under her chin. “Something tells me I shouldn’t ask who our dinner companions will be.”

  “I couldn’t very well refuse the offer,” he went on apologetically. “I’m supposed to be proud about us getting engaged, and Elizabeth…well, she was just so darn happy.”

  “Really?” Jo replied, trying not to feel too flattered. Why should it matter that Fletcher’s sister had approved of her?

  “They’re expecting us at seven, but I don’t know if it’s such a good idea. I don’t want you in the same room with Zeb.”

  “Are you worried about me or him?”

  He shook his head with what seemed surprisingly like admiration. “I’ve never met a woman quite like you before.”

  “I wasn’t trying to impress you,” she said, bumping shoulders with him.

  “I know. That’s what impresses me the most.” A subtle grin with a hint of melancholy passed across his lips. Jo had to force herself to look away.

  Fletcher steered the wagon off the bridge and over the short grass toward a cowhand, sitting against his bedroll with one knee up while he watched his herd, his horse grazing nearby.

  “Howdy,” the young man greeted as he rose to stand and brush off his pants.

  “Morning. I’m Fletcher Collins, the new marshal.”

  “I know who you are. What can I do for you?”

  Fletcher held the reins loosely. “I’m looking into some missing cattle.”

  The cowhand removed his black sombrero and brushed the dust off it. “You’ll be looking for a while, Marshal. Nobody seems to know where they end up.”

  “I take it you’ve lost some head?”

  “You take it right, but I can’t help you any. It’s a mystery.”

  Fletcher tipped his hat and they drove on, asking every cowhand they came upon if they knew anything, and the answer was always the same.

  An hour later, Jo reached for the bread they’d bought at the bakery and tore off a section. “Are you hungry? It must be midday.”

  She handed Fletcher a thick chunk, which he ate while steering them toward town. The cattle on either side of the road grazed quietly, stopping to raise their heads only when the wagon rolled by.

  “This isn’t much of an engagement picnic, eating on the road like this,” he said.

  Jo considered a string of possible replies, but to protect her heart and prevent any more kissing, she settled with, “It’s probably best.”

  He nodded at her, telling her with his eyes that he agreed, then he changed the subject. “When will Leo and Matilda be back?”

  “In about a week. I wanted them to be safe. The less they know about what’s going on, the better.” She swallowed some bread. “Though they’ll find out soon enough, I suppose.”

  Fletcher didn’t comment on that. He stared straight ahead and clicked his tongue at the horses. “So your house is empty?”

  “What’s left of it, yes. The hands sleep in the bunkhouse, of course. Why do you ask?”

  He answered her in a calm, indifferent tone. “Just thinking ahead to tonight. It might be a bit of a problem. Being engaged doesn’t make it okay for me to spend the night at your house. Especially when the engagement is going to be broken. I don’t want to spoil any chances you might have for…well, for moving on.”

  Jo tried to suppress her hurt. Why did he have to keep reminding her that he was anxious to be finished with her?

  She made an attempt to lighten the mood with a joke. “Well, we’re not getting married today, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

  “It may come as a surprise to you, but there are limits to what I’m willing to do in the name of the law.”

  “Thank you very much. That was most flattering.”

  His warm gaze met hers and they shared in the moment of humor, all too brief.

  “It still doesn’t solve our problem,” he said. “I doubt I’ll have your husband’s killer behind bars by nightfall, and I’m not taking any chances with your safety. You’ll need to be in hiding again.”

  Jo settled back in her seat, considering her options. “Your room won’t do, now that everyone thinks we’re engaged. That’ll be the first place Zeb will look for me if I’m not at home.”

&n
bsp; She handed him another chunk of bread and they both ate in silence for a few minutes.

  “I suppose the only way around this,” Jo said, swiping at the crumbs on her skirt and trying to block out all thoughts of Fletcher keeping watch over her bed, “is to prove Zeb’s guilt before the sun goes down.”

  Chapter Twenty

  Steering Jo’s wagon onto Front Street after a fruitless search for information on the plains, Fletcher watched two gentlemen shuffle out of Zimmerman’s Hardware Store. They were carrying a potbellied stove toward their wagon. One of them spotted him and yelled into the street, “Congratulations, Marshal!” and in his excitement, he nearly dropped the heavy stove.

  Fletcher tipped his hat and nodded, reminding himself not to feel too proud. This was just a performance.

  Jo wiggled in her seat beside him. “I hope we’re doing the right thing.”

  “We are.” Fletcher steered the wagon toward the depot again, determined to get his mind off betrothals and back where it belonged—on his job. “I want to ask about the herd loading onto the rail car.”

  “Wait, stop.” Jo touched his arm with her gloved hand. “Deputy Anderson is waving at us. Over there by the barbershop.”

  Fletcher pulled the wagon to a gentle halt. Anderson walked across the street, one hand in the air to signal them to stop, the other holding a newspaper.

  “Where you been, Marshal Collins?” he asked curiously. “I been looking for you all day.” He handed the newspaper up to Fletcher. “You sure have a way of making headlines. And what happened to your nose?”

  “It’s a long story.”

  Hesitantly, Fletcher unfolded the paper and read the front page, feeling Jo lean over his arm to look on. “Bruiser To Marry Local Widow.”

  “Oh, don’t tell me…” Jo said, taking hold of the corner of the page to read the small print aloud.

  “‘Marshal Collins, the newest addition to Dodge City’s band of lawmen, has decided to take a wife. The lucky lady is the reclusive widow O’Malley, who has squashed the long-held notion that she prefers to keep to herself. Other news, Mr. Garry Owens of Walnut Street has a new overcoat.”’