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

A surge of clarity sliced through her mind. She had come here tonight to kill Zeb Stone. If she was going to plunge into hell in the attempt, she would take him with her.

Jo cocked both her guns. She raised her arm in a flash and aimed at her enemy, then shut her eyes and pulled the trigger. The gun blasted, kicked back in her hand, and she heard a body drop to the floor with a dull thud. Feeling almost sick, she opened her eyes.

Oh, dear God.
Jo stared numbly at the man lying in front of the counter. She felt as if her heart had stopped beating.

She’d shot the lawman!

A thunderous boom sounded and a bullet from Zeb’s gun ripped painfully through her shoulder. The impact knocked her off balance and she stumbled back.

Nausea weaved through her stomach. She clenched her pistols as she staggered about in disbelief, fighting the reality of what was happening. Dazed, she felt warm blood stream down to the top of the corset she wore beneath the disguise. Jo heard a
click
and recognized the sound—the hammer of Zeb’s gun. Her eyes darted up to that dark barrel again, and she knew he wanted her dead. No mistakes this time.

Determined to save herself, Jo leaped through the air just as Zeb fired. The gun boomed like a thunderclap, and behind her, a bag of flour exploded in a cloud of white dust. Jo hit the floor and rolled, pain stabbing her in the shoulder with each frantic breath.

Rising to her feet, she saw a window, her only escape. She heard Zeb cocking his gun again. There was no time to think. Fighting panic, Jo yanked her hat down over her face, took off in a run and threw herself into the glass.

Panes smashed and shattered all around her. She flew through the air and landed hard on the dry dirt in the alley, scrambled to her feet and ran around the back of the buildings, brushing the glass off herself as she went.

Panting uncontrollably, Jo fought the pain where the bullet was lodged. Her stomach burned with fear. She heard Zeb yelling after her, heard his pistol fire two more times, but she was out of range.

She hugged her arm to her side to steady her aching shoulder and ran through the darkness like a hunted animal. Her boots pounded over the hard ground. Her frenzied breaths matched the rhythm. She had to reach the privy before anyone saw her.

She skidded to a halt, swung the door open and spun inside. A turn and a
click…
the door was latched. The thick stench of stale excrement assaulted her senses. A grunt escaped her. Thank God, the lantern she’d left there was still burning.

Jo dropped to her knees and felt around for the loose board, raised it and pulled out her bag. She ripped off her coat and pain sliced like daggers down her arm.

Within seconds, she was fastening the tiny buttons on her bodice with shaking fingers. “Faster, faster,” she whispered, trying in a panic to hurry, trying to ignore the blood that had soaked her chemise and was now staining her bodice, the blood that would drain the life from her if she did not somehow get out of there.

Voices echoed in the street, ricocheting off buildings like bullets. Jo tied her muslin bonnet ribbons under her chin, but pushed the bonnet back from her face to rest on her back. She swiftly stuffed the disguise into her bag, set it back into the compartment beneath the floor and lowered the boards.

She took a quick glance around the privy, then blew out the lantern. Blackness enveloped the fetid, makeshift haven, which would have been as silent as the grave, if not for Jo’s small, frantic breaths.

Outside, desperate screams cut through the dark night. Footsteps. Hoofbeats. The town was alive in a mad search for the outlaw. They would not find him, she told herself, and tried to gather some courage from that fact.

Suddenly aware of the sick feeling in her stomach, Jo felt her head begin to spin. She tried to lean on the splintery wall, but toppled back onto the bench. An icy chill seeped into her veins and she began to shiver. She tried to calm herself, to take deep breaths to stop the shaking, but it was no use. She’d never felt so out of control.

She needed to get to a doctor. She stood, then staggered in the darkness, her trembling hands fumbling over bristly wood in search of the door latch.

Please, someone help me. I’m not going to make it.

Suddenly the door whipped open and she stared into another gun barrel.

“Mrs. O’Malley! You’re bleeding!”

Jo couldn’t look up until the gun lowered and dropped easily into a holster. A pair of hands were reaching out to her. Where was she? What was happening?

Arms encircled her and she fell into them. “Help me,” she mumbled.

“I’ve got you. It’s Deputy Anderson.”

Relief poured through her as he hoisted her into his arms and carried her into the night.

Chapter Two

Flat on his back on the examination table, Fletcher tried to focus on a small black spider crawling across the white ceiling, instead of the stabbing pain in his right thigh. Nothing against Doc Green, but the man seemed to be using a knitting needle to stitch him up instead of a surgeon’s needle.

“You’re a lucky man,” Dr. Green said, pulling the needle through the bloody mess on Fletcher’s thigh. “Bullet barely even grazed the muscle. This should heal in no time. It’s your head wound that worries me. I want to keep you here overnight.”

Fletcher grit his teeth. Some city marshal he was—shot in the leg and collapsing like a schoolgirl, right into Zeb’s glass display case. Dead to the world before he even hit the floor. “Thanks for the concern, Doc, but that’s not necessary.”

“You were out cold when they brought you in, Marshal. Even with guns going off like the Fourth of July, you didn’t flinch.”

What else had he missed? Fletcher wondered as he covered his eyes with one hand and sighed, trying not to wince when the doctor pierced the wound again with that aggravating needle. For all Fletcher knew, the kid in Zeb’s store tonight might have killed ten men on his way out of town.

The doctor tied the thread and began to dress the wound. Fletcher’s head throbbed where he’d knocked himself out, but it was his leg that ached the worst, even though he tried to withstand it.

It could have been a lot worse, he supposed. He’d seen other men shot before, and most times they didn’t live to see the dawn, so in that way, the doc was right. Fletcher should count himself lucky.

Just then, the door opened. Startled, Fletcher leaned up on one elbow to see Deputy Anderson hurrying inside with a woman in his arms, looking like an anxious groom carrying his bride over the threshold on his wedding night. But this woman was no bride. She lay lifeless like a rag doll in the deputy’s arms.

“Another casualty, Doc,” Anderson said. “It’s Mrs. O’Malley. I found her in the privy behind Zimmerman’s. She must have gotten in the way of a stray bullet.”

Dr. Green quickly cleared off another examination table. “Set her down here.”

Anderson laid her on the table and her face tilted away from Fletcher. He saw the disorderly twist of honey-colored hair at the back of her head, then his gaze fell to the accompanying blood stain on her shoulder.

This was what happened when men didn’t respect the law. Innocent, law-abiding folks got hurt, and if they weren’t lucky, they got killed, too. He hoped this poor woman wouldn’t be one of the unlucky ones.

Her long skirts fell over the side and touched the floor like a fancy tablecloth. Fletcher noticed with some interest that she wore men’s work boots.

The doctor searched for a pulse at her neck. “Was she conscious when you found her?”

“Yes, but she fainted straight away.”

Doc began to unbutton her bloody bodice.

Wanting to do something to help, Fletcher tried to sit up but felt suddenly nauseous and dizzy. He dropped back down and watched the ceiling spin over his head.

The deputy approached. “Marshal! Thank the Lord! I heard you were shot in the head.”

“No, just the leg,” he answered.

“What’s this, then?” Anderson asked, pointing at the bloodstained dressing around Fletcher’s head.

“Don’t ask.”

“He knocked himself out on the corner of Zeb’s jewelry case,” Doc answered.

“Well, I’ll be,” Anderson said. “Your first showdown in Dodge and you didn’t even get to see how it ended.”

Fletcher ignored Anderson’s teasing tone. “Did anyone catch the guy?”

“Not yet.”

“Who’s the woman?”

Anderson walked around the table, watching Doc examine the wound. “Josephine O’Malley. Her husband was killed about six months ago by some horse thieves. Right in his own barn.”

Fletcher shifted uncomfortably. “Did anyone ever catch them?”

Anderson shook his head. “No witnesses.”

Fletcher glanced at Mrs. O’Malley, her arm hanging limply over the side of the table. “Where was
she?”

“
In the house, I reckon. Now, she keeps to herself. A bit of a recluse. Doesn’t even let her kid come to town. She lives out on her ranch with a bunch of cowhands and that causes a lot of talk in town, if you know what I mean.”

The doctor glanced at Anderson with disapproval, then began unfastening the woman’s corset. “Deputy, you’ll have to wait outside.”

Anderson left the office and closed the door behind him. The doctor gathered his instruments.

“Need any help, Doc?” Fletcher asked.

“No. But I suggest you look the other way if you’re feeling queasy.”

Fletcher lay flat on his back and stared at the ceiling, searching for the little spider that had distracted him last time, but as luck would have it, he was gone. So Fletcher turned his attention to the bookshelf, but reading the spines of all those medical books made his head pound harder than a steel mallet, so he resigned himself to staring at the empty ceiling again.

If he could’ve relaxed, he would have been fine, but all he could think of was the woman beside him, her delicate skin being sliced open, all because of a smalltime thief who didn’t seem old enough to use a razor.

Fletcher touched the blood-soaked dressing on his forehead and tried to fight his anger. He’d taken this job to try and stop the killing, to uphold the law, to be strong where his father had been weak. A fine job he’d done tonight. Gunfire in the streets and innocent people shot down.

The woman moaned and Fletcher couldn’t help but turn to look. The doctor stood over her with a bloody scalpel in his hand. He set it down and began digging around with another instrument. Fletcher felt ill, but at the same time, he couldn’t tear his eyes away.

The doctor soon began to work with a needle he held in a clamp.

The woman groggily turned her head, and at last, Fletcher saw her profile—her tiny upturned nose and her moist, full lips the color of a pale red rose. Her long, delicate lashes were swept down upon her cheeks, and she moaned again in a delirious stupor that seemed almost sexual to Fletcher, who immediately chastised himself for thinking such a thing. The doctor quickly reached for a bottle, tipped it over a white cloth and pressed it to her face. Within seconds, her head fell limp toward Fletcher. The moaning stopped and the doctor went back to work.

Seeing her face for the first time, Fletcher took note of how pale she looked, albeit tanned. Obviously she possessed an unfashionable preference for sunshine. And her tiny, rough hands told him she had not abandoned her husband’s chores after he died. Fletcher couldn’t help but feel sympathy toward her for all she must have endured.

Dr. Green cleared his throat. Fletcher looked up at him and saw the perspiration dotting his forehead. “You okay, Doc?”

He nodded. “I’ve never seen such a close call. If the bullet had gone in any lower—and I’m talking the width of a thread—she would have bled to death.”

The wound in Fletcher’s leg throbbed as he leaned up on one elbow. “Will she be all right?”

“I hope so. There’s always the risk of infection, but like I said, she was lucky.”

Fletcher’s blood burned at the thought of her suffering. It was so damned unnecessary.

He would catch the man responsible for this, he swore to himself. He would see him brought to justice in front of everyone in a court of law, and he would show this town that—where their new marshal was concerned
—the law was the law.

He wondered if Mrs. O’Malley would remember what had happened to her. Fletcher closed his eyes and decided to be there when she woke to ask her that very question. If this woman survived, she would see justice.

He would give her his word on it.

* * *

Consciousness bloomed slowly, as if from an empty, black abyss. Jo heard the murmur of voices, but could only lie immobile, fighting to awaken her mind from its dazed stupor, all the while becoming more and more aware of a throbbing pain in her shoulder. She had to concentrate to force her heavy eyelids open.

Where was she? she wondered, trying to sit up. In someone’s bed, no doubt, but whose? Nothing seemed familiar. Her sleepy gaze darted from the blue gingham curtains on the window to the unpainted pine washstand, then across the small room to a kerosene lamp flickering atop a tall chest of drawers.

She heard the voices again. They spoke quietly, probably in the next room if her ears were working properly. What had happened? Was Zeb still alive? And what about the lawman? Had she killed him?