Tempting the Marshal: (A Western Historical Romance) (Dodge City Brides Series Book 2) (18 page)

It was puffy and ugly, her shirt was wrinkled and coming untucked, and her hair, still in a bun, looked like a hornet’s nest.

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

“Don’t worry 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 sights, in particular.”

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

“You’re not hearing me,” Jo said, facing him directly. “I’m in danger.”

Fletcher 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
hearing you. 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, and she shivered pleasurably at the contact. “I’m going to take you home.”

“I thought you were going to lock me up.”

He shook his head. “Not today.”

She swallowed uneasily, not sure why he had changed his mind. “But I won’t be safe at home.”

“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’s affairs from my front parlor?” she asked.

“I’m only taking you back to avoid a panic and a search for you,” Fletcher explained. “You’ll fix breakfast for the men just like always, while I look through 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.”

He turned to face her, and a stress-induced haze wiggled into her brain as she looked up at him, waiting for him to say that it was time to go. A muscle quivered at his jaw and she wanted desperately to step into his arms again, to feel his hands on her body and his lips on her mouth.

He gazed down at her for a moment, then he seemed to wake from some sort of trance. He turned his back on her, pulled out his gun and checked it for bullets. The clicking sound was like a bucket of cold water on Jo’s frazzled nerves.

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.”

She did as he asked, but it didn’t change the fact that she still wanted to feel his mouth on hers.

* * *

The prairie grass glistened like diamonds with morning dew, reflecting the first light of dawn. Warm beneath her coat, Jo watched 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,” Jo replied. “That’s why I have to go with you. 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 own weapon from the night before. She checked the chamber for bullets.

“You’re giving a loaded gun to a prisoner?” she asked with a raised eyebrow.

His eyes told her he trusted her, and she couldn’t deny that she was pleased about it.

“Just come on,” he said. “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 saw 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 fix on 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 nipped 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?”

“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.

“Someone 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. “Do you really think so?”

He leaned forward, coughed a few times, then cleared his throat. “The curtains were doused in kerosene. I smelled it, and the can was tossed into the fireplace. A shoddy job, really.”

She’d expected something like this, but the reality of it infuriated her far beyond any imagining. A stranger—no doubt one of Zeb’s hired men—had found his way onto her land and into her home. She looked all around, then rose to her feet. “We have to go after Zeb.”

“Oh, no, we don’t.”

“He’s not getting away with this!”

She strode purposefully to her horse, grazing by the fence, and took hold of the reins. Before she could lift her foot into the stirrup, she felt a hand on her shoulder.

“You’re not going anywhere.”

“Let me go, Fletcher.”

“Not on your life.”

“I said let me go!” She tried to struggle free of him, but he held her tight around the waist.

Growing more angry by the second, Jo elbowed Fletcher in the ribs.

In an instant, her feet were swept out from under her and she landed hard on the ground with a heavy
thump
. The cool handle of a Colt .45 came down to rest gently on her forehead, its light pressure a clear message not to move. She blinked up at Fletcher’s irate gaze.

“I don’t want to knock you out, Jo, but I will if I have to.”

Relaxing the back of her head on the ground, she let out an exasperated breath, then noticed John’s bare feet in the dirt beside her. He was holding the glass of water she had asked for.

“What the hell’s going on here?” he demanded. He glared at Fletcher. “Did
you
give Mrs. O’Malley that black eye?”

Jo tried to get up. “John, you don’t understand.”

His gaze moved up and down her manly attire and settled on her eye again. “I think I do, ma’am. I know the house was empty last night, and seeing how you’re riding back here so early with the marshal…”

John passed the glass of water to Jo and balled his hands into fists. “What kind of lily-livered vermin are you, hitting a woman? If you can dish it out, Marshal Collins, you sure as hell better be able to take it.”

Chapter Sixteen

Barely able to get a full breath into his tight lungs, Fletcher dropped his gun into his holster. He took in John’s snug-fitting red underwear and bare toes. “Now, listen here…”

“Don’t you ‘
now listen here’
me!” John shouted. “I’m about as savage as a meat ax over what you did!”

“It’s not what it looks like,” Jo tried to say.

“You stay out of this, Mrs. O’Malley.”

“It is
my
business, not yours!” she replied.

Before Fletcher had a chance to explain anything, a tight fist came hurling through the air, straight for his nose.

“No, wait!” Jo cried.

The crack of bone against bone cleared Fletcher’s lungs in a hurry. His cheekbones vibrated with agonizing spasms of pain that shot straight to his brain until his whole head hammered. “Ah, hell! Not again!” He cupped his throbbing nose, feeling blood flow out of his nostrils.

“John! Stop it!” Jo yelled. The other ranch hands emerged from the house and gathered on the covered porch to watch.

John pounced away like an amateur boxer. With both fists drawn, he bobbed up and down on the balls of his bare feet. “Face me like a man, Marshal.”

“Let’s talk about this,” Fletcher said, holding up a hand to try and calm the situation.

“What’s there to talk about?” John asked. “Somebody’s gotta stand up for the lady.”

Furious, Jo ripped off her hat and threw it onto the ground. “I can take care of myself!”

“No lady should have to take care of herself against a man like him,” John said. “Preying on this lonely widow—listening to the gossip about her, no doubt. You’re a disgrace to your badge!”

Fletcher bent forward, still holding his nose. “Jeez, what next?”

“If you weren’t such a bastard, I’d force you to marry her!”

“Marry her?” Fletcher replied, looking up.

“Marry me!” Jo echoed.

Not sure what to say, Fletcher tried to stand up straight. He wiped his bloody nose on his sleeve. John bounced like a March Hare toward him and threw another punch. Fletcher dodged it.

“But you ain’t good enough for someone like her. So if you ain’t gonna honor her by proposing, I will!” Another punch flew past Fletcher’s ear. He wiped more blood off his throbbing nose, his nerves just about at the breaking point.

“Nobody’s marrying anybody,” Fletcher said.