Capturing The Marshal's Heart (Escape From Texas) (2 page)

The coach jostled over a rut and rocked violently. Jazzy’s head bumped against the wooden wall. “Ouch!”

“Ma’am, are you alright?”

The deep voice of the man to her left tickled up and down her spine. She loved raspy voices that hinted at secrets with every spoken word.
Wouldn’t I love to learn his secrets?
“I’m fine. The movement just surprised me.”

He leaned forward to look into her face. “Perhaps if we switch places, you’ll be saved from further injury.”

Jazzy gazed into dark brown eyes that seemed caring, and could only blink. This stranger was concerned about a bitty bump on her head? And they didn’t even know one another. “That is right kindly, sir.”

When he stood, she couldn’t help but admire how well the woolen trousers fit, displaying taut muscles. She curled her fingers into her palms to keep from reaching out to touch him.
Miss Veronica’s Rule #3: No touching allowed until the fee is set
.

How many hours left on this leg of the trip?

* * *

A knock sounded on the coach roof. “Rest stop coming up.”

“Ah, how timely.” Slade lifted his hat from his head and used it to fan his damp face. “We all could use a stretch of our legs.” A few minutes later, he handed a quiet female passenger down the coach steps. He’d been paying so much attention to Miss Morgan that he couldn’t remember if this woman was Miss Torrance or Miss Whitfield. “There you go, miss.”

Her mouth quirked into a bashful smile, but her gaze didn’t meet his. She ducked her head and hurried toward the building.

He turned to assist Miss Morgan, but the coach was empty. The opposite door swung wide from movements made by the other passengers’ exits. Obviously, the vocal woman had managed on her own. As Slade unbuttoned the front of his waistcoat, he scanned the area to make sure he was alone.

In the corral, the driver spoke with a man fitting the coach harnesses onto fresh horses. The other passengers must have gone inside the stage stop for refreshments. With his back toward the building, he quickly slid off his jacket and waistcoat, folding his marshal’s badge into the center of the vest.

A breeze molded his shirt to his damp skin, making him wish for the freedom of traveling without the jacket. But to do his job, he had to look and act like an average rancher or businessman. Not considered proper attire, the absence of a jacket would draw undue attention. Immediately, the image of Miss Morgan crossed his mind and he couldn’t keep a smile from his lips. There was a woman who gave little thought to proper behavior.

Intriguing
. He had to find out who she was. He stepped up onto the coach floor, stretched for the overhead rack, and snapped open his valise. With his vest safely stuffed inside, he strode to the building, intent on asking the unusual Miss Morgan a few questions.

A gray-haired woman wearing a calico dress and smudged apron greeted him. “Good day, sir. Would you like coffee?”

Moving from the bright sunlight into the dark stage-stop cabin made him squint to view the surroundings. A pot-belly stove radiated heat on one end of the room. Two long plank tables with benches for seating occupied the middle space. He scanned the room and spotted Miss Morgan at the window, peering through the dusty pane. A quick nod and he turned back to the woman. “That would be fine.”

“Please take a seat. There’s cornbread on the table.”

Two long steps brought him to an open spot on the closest bench, but he remained standing until his coffee arrived. With a square of cornbread in one hand and his tin cup in the other, he sauntered across the room, his boots resounding on the wooden floor.

Miss Morgan glanced around at his approach, wrinkled her brows, and turned back to the window. Her head angled from side to side to take in the view from all directions.

“May I join you?” He waited until he saw her blue-eyed gaze connect with his, then angled his head in the direction of the table. “Can’t see why those folks are in a hurry to be sitting?”

A smile played at the corners of her mouth. “My feelings exactly. I’ll be sitting again soon enough.”

“Name’s Slade Thomas.”
Best to save the title of US Marshal for later.

She dipped her chin. “I’m sure you’ve learned my name, Mr. Thomas.” A laugh escaped her. With a look of shared confidence, she leaned close. “Mrs. Harrington surely does relish using it with each admonition about my hedonistic behavior.”

Her easy manner washed over his senses and he soaked her in—her open smile, her friendly nature, her eyes brimming with mirth. His job seldom allowed for casual socializing, but he was strangely drawn to this woman. “Yes, ma’am, I do admit to hearing Miss Morgan more than once.”

“Oh, Miss Morgan is so stuffy.” Her head shook and she pursed her lips. “Nobody back home calls me that.”

An avenue of questioning he’d wanted to pursue. “What do they call you back home?”

“Jaz—um, I mean Jessimay.”

His interest piqued. Why stumble over your own name? “That’s a pretty name.”

Her gaze shifted to the window, scanned the landscape, and reconnected with his, a smile crinkling the skin around her eyes. “It was Granny’s name, my granny on my daddy’s side. But she died afore I was born. Some say I favor her looks, but I only know her through family stories.” Eyes wide, she sucked in a breath. “Lordy, bet you didn’t expect my family history.”

“I’m interested in people. Might say it’s my hobby.” He watched her over the rim of his cup. Every emotion this woman experienced was showcased on her face. Questioning her was almost too easy. “Where’s back home?”

She glanced at the people chatting quietly around the table. “A little bitty place outside of Boerne.” After a pause, she continued. “Which is a small town outside of San Antonio.”

A plausible region nearby enough to explain her presence on this particular stage. “Where are you headed?”

“Mountains.” The single word was spoken on a whoosh of air.

The sigh pierced him and his chest tightened. “Excuse me? Do you mean Mountain City, Colorado?”

“No, I’m headed to whatever mountains are the closest. My ticket here gets me as far as Raton, New Mexico.” She moved a step closer, her gaze searching his face. “Have you been there?”

How her blue eyes sparkle when she asks questions
. Her strange words pricked his curiosity. What kind of person considered mountains a destination?
A person who wants to hide out
.
Maybe bury the money from the bank robbery and go back later to recover it
. Pushing aside a twinge of disappointment, he nodded. “A time or two.”

“You have?” She laid a hand on his forearm, her gaze wide and open. “Are the mountains beautiful?”

The scent of jasmine floated in the air. His body tensed and his nostrils flared, instinct forcing him to breath in more of this fascinating woman. His stomach clenched, followed by his logic reminding him this woman was a suspect in a bank robbery. “I suppose you’ve got someone…a man waiting.”

For an instant, she stiffened and narrowed her eyes, then leaned a shoulder against the wall, and braced a hand on her left hip. “Nobody’s awaitin’.” Her gaze ran his length from head to toe. “What did you have in mind?” Then, with a jerk, she straightened and turned back toward the window.

The front door banged open and their driver Pete stepped inside. “Leaving in five minutes, folks.”

Slade barely heard the driver’s voice. His mind was numb with the echo of Jessimay’s sultry words. His job didn’t allow for much time spent in one place, and he’d always vowed not to bring a woman close. He’d been without a woman so long he must have imagined her proposition. “Excuse me, miss?” His words came out partway between a question and a statement. Did he dare find out what she meant? Before she could respond, he set the cup on the edge of the table and headed toward the back door.

Outside, he ran a shaky hand through his hair and drew several deep breaths. This was crazy. He could not be responding to a woman he suspected of being a criminal. His hands balled into fists and he stomped to the outhouse. The pounding of his boots caused lizards to skitter under the rocks where they’d been sunning.

Stick to your job, Thomas.
Minutes later, Slade closed the door to the privy and started back toward the stage stop.

At the far corner of the building, Jessimay peeked out her head and crooked her finger.

Intrigued at her odd behavior, he walked in her direction and stopped at a respectable distance. “Do you need assistance?”

A sly smile crossed her lips which she covered with the wave of her fan. “I’m thinking you’re the one who needs help.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Sure you do.” She stepped closer, leaving a mere six inches between their bodies. “Those looks you shot me in the stagecoach were more than casual acknowledgement.”

At her closeness, his whole body stiffened and his mouth went dry. She’d been aware of his perusal? Had she also figured out the reason for his pretense?

With a flourish, she closed the fan and used the tip to rub a small circle on his chest. “I see you’ve removed your vest. Smart man.”

His chest muscles twitched at her touch. Had his jacket opened enough earlier to expose the badge? Did she know who he really was? Until he knew for sure, he had to go along with whatever her game was. Her flowery scent surrounded him, and he swallowed hard before answering. “Because of the heat.”

From under her eyelashes, she watched him and then her mouth down-turned to a pout. “I wish I had the same choice. But everyone gets so upset when I just undo a couple of silly buttons.”

Remembering his reaction to those exact loosened buttons, he swallowed hard. “Proper behavior
is
the mortar of civilization.”

“Oh, I do like listening to a learned man.” She rested the fan on his forearm and pressed a hand against his chest. “I wanted to express my thanks for your backing me up about the window shade. You can’t know how much that means to a woman. Being with a man who makes her feel…safe.”

His eyes drifted shut and he inhaled sharply. For a moment, he allowed himself to enjoy the weight of her soft fingers against his rigid muscles. To allow the sensations she created run through his body, to bring light into his dark corners. Then the meaning of her words filtered through the fog in his mind.
Who the hell was this woman?
He blew out his breath and stepped back. “Our being alone is not suitable. Your reputation is at risk, Miss Morgan.”

“I suppose you’re correct, Mr. Thomas. But I like to give appreciation where it’s due.”

The velvety purr of her voice filled her words with innuendo but her wide blue eyes displayed an honest intent. For just a moment, he let his gaze drop to her pink lips and wondered at their taste. Sweet like a wild strawberry, or tart like an elderberry? A man with a profession and a past like his couldn’t allow a woman to get too close. No matter how much he wanted to.

Slade shook away those thoughts. “I doubt I’ve earned your appreciation, miss.” With a wrench he felt all the way to his bones, he turned and walked toward the front of the building.

Chapter Two

With hands fisted on her hips, Jazzy could only stare at Slade’s straight back and stiff stride. Oh, all right, her gaze was focused a bit lower than his back. On occasion, she’d been known to appreciate a fine arrangement of muscle and sinew. And she’d just broken
Miss Veronica’s Rule #2: Never let a prospect walk away
. Was she losing her touch?

How dare he!
No male had walked away from her. Ever. Not when every boy in school pushed and shoved for the chance to carry her lunch pail. Not when Billy Weston stood up to his mean, scary daddy to court her. Not even in her terrifying first week as a fifteen-year-old new to the life in Miss Veronica’s. A soul-numbing experience that taught her to count on no one but herself.

With a groan, she sagged against the rough-planked building, banging her forehead with both fists.
Dumb, dumb, dumb!
What had she just done? Her actions had not been those of a genteel lady. Of course, he’d lit out like his boots were on fire. Any proper gentleman would.

Alone with a male above the age of puberty for only a few minutes and her basest instincts had taken over. In truth, her old habits had run full steam ahead from the moment that particular man had boarded the stage. Before he’d opened his mouth to greet the others, she’d started sizing him up—judging his worth by the cut of his clothes and the way he conducted himself—and set her askin’ price. The longer she’d watched, the more she’d been tempted to cut him a bargain deal. In her experience, a good-looking male in possession of God-given parts in such fine shape didn’t happen by very often. Her willpower wasn’t strong enough to keep her away.

“Stagecoach is heading out.”

Pete’s voice drifted into her thoughts, and she shook her head.

He stood at the corner of the building and jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “All passengers must board now.”

Huffing short breaths through tight lips, Jazzy squared her shoulders and stomped off toward the stage. She had to put that part of her life behind her. Time to concentrate on her future—a future that involved traveling to a mountain city and opening her own shop.

A hand smoothed along the fabric and patted the folds of her skirt, checking for the coins sewn into her petticoat. A sigh of relief escaped. As long as she had her money, everything would be okay.

She rounded the corner of the building and spotted Pete standing beside the open door of the coach. Mr. Thomas must already be aboard. Her steps immediately shortened. She didn’t feel up to sharing the small space with that handsome but infuriating man. At the very thought, she became aware of a most unexpected heat rising up her neck and into her cheeks. Embarrassment? Not likely. Expectation? Out of the question!

Pete waved her forward. “There ye be, missy. Thought you’d figured on waitin’ fer the next coach.”

Well, shi--, saints be praised
. Hope bubbled in her chest and she stopped a few steps from the door. “There’s another one? When?”