Capturing The Marshal's Heart (Escape From Texas) (10 page)

Jazzy fisted her hands at her sides and planted her feet.

Her trusting gaze implored Slade to do something, but his whole body went cold at the futility of his situation. Damn, he hated not being able to offer her a word of encouragement. His fingers itched to pull the trigger, but he couldn’t risk hitting her or not killing her captor instantly. Through a throat dry with frustration, he forced out his words. “Do what he says.” His gaze told her,
You’ll be all right.

The outlaw pulled her farther away until he’d reached his partners and nudged them with his boot. “Out cold. We’ll need the stage to carry them.”

At his words, Jazzy stiffened and shifted her weight, her expression mutinous. Her gaze flashed between the stagecoach and the surrounding where she stood.

Dread clamped hard in his stomach. Slade spotted her movement and stifled a curse. Did the crazy woman think she could escape? He narrowed his gaze, trying to warn her not to do anything stupid.

The man’s dark gaze flicked to the side and back, his expression blank.

Slade froze and listened hard, straining to hear the sound of someone approaching from a direction he couldn’t see. Nothing. He couldn’t risk taking his gaze off the knife posed at Jazzy’s pristine neck. If he did, he feared he’d never see that soft white flesh unscathed again.

Head shaking, she leaned her body forward, straining against her captor’s hold.

A moment later came a gritty scrape and a whisper of movement from behind him. Slade tensed and twisted toward the sound, gun ready at his waist. All he saw was a blur of darkness before the blow hit his temple, forcing bright lights to bounce through his head before they faded to gray. His knees buckled and he pitched to the ground, struggling to fight the inevitable.

Stay strong, Jazzy
. Then blackness embraced him.

* * *

At the sight of Slade’s body crumpled on the dirt, Jazzy sagged against her captor’s grasp. Disappointment dulled her senses and she barely noticed the sting of the knife on her neck. Slade had been the passengers’ only hope of getting out of this mess.

“Check if he’s breathing.” Gruff words sounded from directly behind, and the man shoved her away from his body.

She stumbled forward, a growing unease weighing down her limbs. Slade hadn’t moved since the bandit had crept up from behind and cracked him in the head with the butt of his gun.
Be all right, Slade.
Dropping to her knees next to his prone form, she saw his neck and shirt collar were coated with blood.

Her lungs tightened and she swallowed hard against a nervous stomach that threatened to upend. She hated the sight of blood. Fighting to keep her voice even, she glanced over her shoulder. “There’s b-blood everywhere.” She wished for the time to tend his wound, but knew that wouldn’t be allowed.

“Don’t take all day. Just listen for his breathing.” A raspy laugh erupted from under the mustache. “I sure as hell don’t need a murder charge on my hands.”

“Give me a minute. I never did this afore.” Her throat felt as dry as the red dirt that clung to the hem of her skirts.
Please don’t be dead.
She drew in a deep breath and stared at this man who had become so special in just a short time. Her gaze carefully avoided the injury on his head. His strong, muscled shoulders, normally so active, now lay slack. She stared at the dark eyebrows so capable of telegraphing his moods—now disturbingly still. For the first time, she noticed his nose must have been broken sometime earlier in his life. His firm lips that changed in the blink of an eye from a teasing half grin to a menacing grimace were parted and relaxed.

Unable to resist touching him—praying this time wouldn’t be the last—she rested a hand between his shoulders and braced her other hand on the dirt. Under her fingers, his body was firm and warm. She leaned close to his face until she could hear the slow, steady whoosh of his breathing. He was alive! A wave of intense relief loosened her chest, and she took her first deep breath since he fell.

A strand of her loosened hair fell against his cheek and she whispered, “I’ve a notion they’re fixin’ to take us away. Watch for my clues along the way and please find us.” Her throat drew tight from thoughts of the uncertainty of what was to come. She brushed her fingertips along the line of his shoulder and blinked to fight the unshed tears burning the backs of her eyes. “I need you, Slade.”

“Hey, blondie, is he alive or ain’t he?” an impatient voice called out.

The crunch of approaching footsteps propelled Jazzy to her feet. Her gaze clung to a last look at Slade’s features, her heart aching for his pain and praying this wasn’t the last time she’d ever see him. “No murder charge this time. He’s breathing.” She spun and marched across the clearing toward the coach, not sparing a sideways look toward the bandit who’d threatened her.

Once she was among the other passengers, she ran her gaze over the group and noted they were pale and frightened, but unhurt. Dipping her knees, she pretended to adjust the laces on her boot and scanned the ground on the other side of the coach wheel for Pete’s legs. She’d seen him fall in the early moments of the fight and hoped, by now, he’d recovered enough to lend a hand. He lay in a heap and wasn’t moving. With a sinking feeling in her stomach, she realized they were in the same position as before. Was the poor man mortally wounded?

“This is the way it’s gonna be.” The one who acted like the leader stood five feet away, a large hand resting on the butt of his holstered gun. “You, old man and the kid, move away from the coach. Women, you’ll be joining us fer a ride.”

Choked sobs sounded from the other women.

“My son!” Mrs. Harrington clasped a hand on her breast and cried, her head shaking side to side. “He’s just a young boy. Oh, Chester has to come with me.”

A scowl wrinkled his brows and in a flash, the bandit brandished his gun in their direction. “Get in the coach, lady. Believe me, where we’re going is no place fer a kid.”

With an arthritic hand resting on the boy’s shoulder, Mr. Denton straightened his back and looked across the group. “I’ll watch out for him, ma’am. And do what I can for the others.”

Jazzy huffed out a pent-up breath. This man would look after Slade—he’d be safe. She climbed the coach steps and dropped into the closest corner, positioning herself so she could still see Slade’s body, willing him to waken. If he did, he’d figure a way to keep the group together.

The stage swayed as Miss Torrance climbed aboard and scooted to the far corner of Jazzy’s bench. Tears streaked her face, and she sniffled back a sob.

Miss Whitfield cowered on the opposite bench, arms wrapped around her satchel and a handkerchief pressed to her eyes. “What is to become of us?”

“I won’t leave my son.” The door banged against the coach as Mrs. Harrington braced her arms across the opening.

Sarah dropped the handkerchief and leaned forward. “Prudence, you must do as they say.”

“Get inside, lady, and stop your caterwauling.” The man’s voice was strained.

“Chester. My boy.” A struggling Mrs. Harrington was pushed onto the coach floor and the door slammed. “No! I can’t leave my son.”

“You don’t have a choice.” Jazzy leaned forward and grabbed the frantic woman’s arm, guiding her to a seat. “Mr. Denton will watch out for him.” As she spoke, she honestly didn’t know if she meant Chester or Slade.

The stage lurched into motion and Jazzy stuck her head out the window for a final glimpse of Slade. Chester and Mr. Denton knelt at his side, probably trying to rouse him. Then the stagecoach turned and all she saw were rocks, red dirt, and creosote bushes. She turned to the women across from her. “Okay, ladies, we’re on our own.”

“Surely, the men will—” Miss Torrance leaned forward.

“With what? They are afoot on the desert. Help will not come from them.”

“Oh, we’ll be raped,” Sarah wailed and covered her face with shaking hands.

Jazzy narrowed her gaze. “There’s worse things.”

Sarah’s head jerked as if she’d been slapped. “What’s worse than that?”

“Getting killed.”

With a squeal, Miss Whitfield’s eyes rolled backwards and she fainted, banging her head against the side of the coach.

Deep, blubbering sobs erupted from Miss Torrance.

Mrs. Harrington scooted to the side and eased the woman across the bench, then shot a dark look at Jazzy. “Must you be so blunt? I swear you have the worst manners—”

“Got no time for manners, Mrs. Harrington. The four of us”—she eyed the inert form of Sarah Whitfield with a questioning look—“make that the three of us have to come up with a plan or else we’re dead.”

Jazzy leaned her elbows on her knees and held out her open hand in front of the older, panicked woman and the sniffling younger one. “We’re being held against our will.” She tapped her thumb as if counting down. “We’re in a stagecoach headed to unknown parts of the southern frontier.” Tapped a finger. “Could be headed to Mexico for all I know.” Tapped another finger. “And our escorts have little or no scruples.”

Prudence Harrington pinched her lips together. “What about my poor Chester?”

“I’m sorry for your son, but we’re the ones being hauled away to hell-and-gone. He and Mr. Denton are on their way to safety.”
Didn’t this woman have the slightest idea of what men like these bandits might do to helpless women? Most likely not.
She shot a sideways glance at Miss Torrance, who had retreated into the corner, hands slack in her lap. No help there.

Jazzy figured she was the one with the most experience dealing with men and their attitudes. The responsibility of what she knew to be true pulled at her. The planning had to be hers and hers alone. She scooted into the corner of the coach and lifted her skirt to the knee.

“Miss Morgan, must you be so vulgar?”

“If this works, I’ll accept your thanks later.

Starting at the side seam of her emerald silk petticoat, she used the fingernail of her pinky finger to loosen the stitches. With twisting pulls, she tore strips of the fabric, stuffed most in her reticule, and dropped a few, spaced apart by the count of twenty, out the side window. She tried to convince herself Slade had a small chance of finding these clues. Until she glanced outside and spotted green cloth half-buried in the red Texas dirt.

Then that small chance shrank to a nigh-on impossibility.

Chapter Eight

After what seemed like hours of bumping over uneven ground, the coach slowed and came to a stop. Thinking up a way out of this fix was tough over the whimpers and wails of three scared women. About all Jazzy’d come up with was the promise of more money if they were released unhurt.

“Remember, ladies,” whispered Jazzy, as she leaned forward and waited for their gazes to connect with hers, “keep alert to everything around you. And stick together.”

From outside came the crunch of boots approaching on the rocky soil. “I’ll git the women,” a harsh voice shouted. “Ralph, Jimmy John, head on inside and clear out any varmints that’s snuck in while we were gone.”

“Right, Charley.”

With a squeak, the door opened and slammed against the side of the coach.

Sarah sucked in a harsh breath, and Prudence clutched the other woman’s hand. Miss Torrance sat erect next to Jazzy.

A bandit stuck in his head and grinned, exposing a gap where he was missing a canine tooth. “You’ve arrived at the Desert Hotel.” A nasty chuckle followed his snide greeting.

Jazzy squared her shoulders and glanced at the women. “I’ll go first.” She grabbed the front of her skirts and climbed down, turning to help the others. All the while, her gaze scanned the area surrounding the adobe house before them. The terrain here was rockier, with less loose dirt, and more creosote bushes than mesquite. To the west, she saw a long line of meandering cottonwoods and wondered which river or creek they edged. Was it the Rio Grande, or were they even still in Texas?

The tall leader named Charley stepped forward and swept a disdainful gaze over the group. “I hope one of you knows how to cook. We’ll be wantin’ some grub right quick. And tote those bags inside.”

Jazzy stilled, willing her mouth not to smart off and put them in even more jeopardy.

Prudence stepped forward, her back ramrod straight and her haughty nose lifted in the air. “Surely, you’re mistaken. Ladies shouldn’t be climbing on top of any stagecoach.”

With arms folded over his chest, he narrowed his gaze, lips pressed into a hard line. “I ain’t mistaken. Unload the damn bags.”

Cooking and toting could be the least of their demands
. Jazzy put a hand on the older woman’s arm. “I don’t mind, Prudence. Really, I don’t. Sarah, I’ll pass them down to you. Amanda can help you carry them inside.”

At the sound of their names, the shaken women blinked hard and nodded.

Not wanting to get her feet tangled in her skirts, Jazzy reached between her legs, grabbed a handful of the back hem, pulled the bulk of the skirts through to the front, and tucked the bunched fabric into the waistband of her skirt. Her silky petticoat had lost most of its bulk because of the strips she’d torn off, dropping out the window in hopes Slade would be able to follow their trail.

She climbed into the driver’s seat and then leaned on her hands to reach the luggage rack, all the while scanning the surrounding landscape. No boulders, thick bushes, or groupings of trees obscured the view from the back and sides of the house outward. A rescue, if one occurred, would not come from those directions.

A few muttered catcalls and raucous laughter erupted from the men standing in the shadow of the house. In irritation, she glanced over her shoulder.
Three men!
Where was the fourth? Her gaze raked the area, but she didn’t see the other. One must have slipped away to stand guard.

For a moment, Jazzy stilled. She’d been around enough men speaking in those insinuating tones to know which of her body parts they were discussing. With a grunt, she hoisted a bag and dropped it to Sarah’s waiting hands. When she touched one of her own bags, she worried about the security of the rolls of coins she’d sewn into the bag’s bottom and selected another to unload. Her new life depended on keeping that money. With any luck, they wouldn’t find her stash. The next was a portmanteau with fancy metal work on the latches.
No need guessing whose this was
. She struggled to balance it on the edge of the rack. “Sarah, get Amanda’s help. This is heavy.”