Taken by the Cowboy (15 page)

A few minutes later,
she heard the rapid beating of hooves approaching.

"It's Wade!" someone
yelled, and Jessica felt a swirl of anger rise up within her.

‘I'll protect you,’ he
had said. If he hadn't been so distracted by that red-headed,
big-breasted harlot, he might have been paying closer
attention.

The crowd parted as
Truman dismounted and shouldered his way through. He leaned
forward, but Jessica turned her cheek away when he tried to touch
her swollen lip with his thumb.

"Bastards," he
whispered, straightening.

In a flash, he hopped
off the porch, his spurs chinking as he landed in the dirt. "Which
way did they go?" he asked, heading for his horse.

"That way, Sheriff!"
someone answered.

He mounted and said,
“Take care of her!” Then he clicked his tongue and took off at a
gallop.

Jessica watched the
cloud of dust that swirled up in his wake. As it faded into the
darkness, tears filled her eyes. Cupping her forehead in a hand,
she silently cursed this God-forsaken place and wished like hell
there was a fast plane out of here. If there were, she’d be on it,
and wouldn’t look back.

* * *

"I saw you dancing with
Sheriff Wade," Wendy said an hour later, sitting at the foot of
Jessica's bed in Angus’s house. “It looked like you were having a
nice time. Why did you leave?"

Jessica turned her eyes
toward the dark window. "Because I couldn’t find you or him, and I
didn’t feel safe among all those drunken cowboys. Besides that, I
saw Truman talking to a prostitute tonight, and I suppose I was a
little miffed."

Wendy touched her hand.
"It doesn’t mean anything if they were just talking."

“But I saw him give her
money."

Wendy paused.
"Well...we don't know that it was payment for anything…immoral.
He’s a gentleman, Jessica. Ain’t no man finer than him in this
town. Except maybe Mr. Maxwell."

Leaning back against
the headboard, Jessica regarded Wendy keenly. "Why are you so
concerned with what I think of Sheriff Wade anyway?"

Wendy shrugged and
stood up to open the window. A light breeze blew in and lifted the
white linen curtains.

"He just seems
different these days, that’s all. His scowl is gone."

"What scowl?" Jessica
didn’t understand what Wendy was getting at.

Wendy returned to the
bed. "He's always had this real intense look about him, like he's
concentrating real hard. He never stops to chat, but over the past
week, he's been saying hello to people. Sometimes he smiles."

"That's not so
strange."

"I think he likes you
more than you know."

Jessica couldn’t help
but chuckle at that. "Likes me? You think he likes me because he's
not scowling?"

Wendy wagged a finger.
"You two looked nice together when you were dancing."

“Just because two
people look good together doesn’t mean they’re meant for each
other.”

Yet she couldn’t stop
thinking about how wonderful and exhilarating it felt just to be in
his presence. The whole time she was dancing with him, her body was
on fire with excitement, and she hadn’t wanted it to end.

Nevertheless, she
searched her mind for a non-committal answer. "He's a good
dancer."

"I never saw him dance
before."

"Not even with his
wife?"

Wendy cocked her head
to the side. "Sheriff Wade's not married."

"He used to be."

Wendy leaned forward.
"Are you sure?"

"Yes, he told me she
died."

Wendy let out a breath.
"I had no idea. What happened to her?"

"I was hoping you would
know."

She shook her head. "I
don't think anybody in Dodge knows about it."

Jessica and Wendy
stopped talking when they heard a horse gallop up to the house,
followed by footsteps up the walk, and a knock at the front
door.

"Sheriff Wade, come
in," Angus said from downstairs.

"Maybe he caught the
gang," Wendy whispered, as they tried to listen to the
conversation, but couldn't make out much of anything.

A minute later, Angus's
footsteps tapped up the stairs, and he knocked at the bedroom door.
"Jessica? Sheriff Wade wants to see you."

Her heartbeat
skyrocketed. "Tell him I'll be right down," she answered through
the closed door.

Wendy wrapped a blanket
around Jessica's shoulders and helped her to the top of the stairs.
Jessica then limped down on her own while Truman watched from the
parlor. He stood quickly, holding his hat in his hands.

* * *

Truman hadn't expected
Jessica to be wearing a nightdress, or to be barefoot. As she
descended the stairs with the light of a bracket lamp flickering
behind her, he saw her toes peeking out from under the white hem,
and the bandages around her ankle. Then he looked up at her
face.

What he saw there, in
the compelling depths of her eyes, in the curving line of her lips,
was an emotion he didn’t want to see. Disappointment. She was upset
that he hadn’t been there to keep her safe.

It reinforced every
doubt he had about his ability to keep
any
woman safe. He
shouldn’t have made that promise. He, of all people, should have
known better.

"You all right?" he
asked.

She limped to the sofa
and sat down. Angus and Wendy went into the kitchen. "I'm
fine."

"Your foot…."

"I sprained my ankle
when they knocked me down."

He wrestled violently
with a sudden strike of fury when he imagined those ruffians
man-handling her.

"This was my fault,” he
said. “I shouldn't have left you alone."

The next thing he knew,
he was moving closer, taking a seat beside her....

He wrapped his arms
around her, and she responded by kissing him lightly on the lips,
then resting her cheek on his shoulder.

His blood quickened at
the nearness of her, at the softness of her flesh beneath the thin
fabric of the nightgown. He cupped the back of her head, then ran
his hand down the length of her silky hair to the small of her
back, felt her breasts tight against his chest, and couldn’t seem
to curb the intensity of his desires.

He tried to tell
himself he shouldn’t be falling in love with her. He was a lawman.
He should be suspicious. Skeptical. On his guard. But all those
instincts were lost to him now—long gone and irretrievable. If she
was lying about what the gang wanted from her, he didn't care. All
that mattered was keeping her safe and to continue holding her like
this.

"Where were you?" she
asked. "I tried to find you before I walked here, but no one knew
where you went, and the gang came out of nowhere."

The trembling in her
voice cut him like a blade. "It won't happen again."

"That's what you said
before."

"I know. But this
time..."

He looked down at her
swollen lip. Ghastly images of what those animals could have done
to her slashed through his mind. He imagined what might have become
of her had she not been rescued when she was.

No thanks to him.

"I don’t know what
they’re after,” she said. “They think I have something that belongs
to them."

He stood up and walked
to the fireplace.

Though she admitted
openly to keeping secrets from him, every instinct told him to
believe her about this.

"Think back to the
night Lou was shot,” he said. “Do you remember anything at all?
Anything unusual?"

"No, I don't think so.
I walked into town only minutes before."

"And you say you didn't
kill Lou, but if his gang thinks you did, that would explain why
they think you have whatever it is they want."

"Yes." She slouched
back on the sofa.

He had no idea if he
was doing the right thing or not, but he needed to go with his
instincts. It’s all he had. "They're a dangerous bunch. You won't
be safe here."

"If not here, then
where?"

"Get your clothes," he
said, barely able to believe what he was about to suggest. "We're
leaving right away."

"Where will you take
her?" Angus asked. “If you try to leave town, you’ll be seen.”

"It's best if you don’t
know where she is," Truman replied.

Wendy moved forward.
"When will we be able to see her?"

"Can't say for
sure."

Jessica, wearing the
clothes she had on when she arrived—her skinny jeans, white blouse,
and black, belted jacket—took the leather satchel Wendy handed her,
which contained the only two gowns she owned from this century,
along with her red stiletto pumps.

She couldn’t imagine
ever wearing those shoes again. The thought made her sigh with
regret.

"Don't worry," Angus
said. "The sheriff will take good care of you."

Jessica hugged them
both, then limped out the front door and down the steps in her
sensible shoes. She refused help from Truman until it came time to
mount Thunder. Then she let him assist her into the saddle. He
remained on foot to lead the horse down the street.

Jessica watched him
walking out front. There was a certain absurdity in the fact that
she had not yet gotten her mind around his earlier conversation
with the redheaded prostitute.

She had entertained a
number of theories, of course, regarding his whereabouts when she
was attacked. Most of them involved a lewd image of the
prostitute's squeaky bed and a few wrinkled dollars, which made her
want to spit.

They headed down the
street, and Jessica hoped Truman knew what he was doing. Those
thugs could be watching them at this very moment. Her stomach
churned with anxiety. Thankfully, she saw and heard no one.

Eventually, he led
Thunder between two buildings and toward the back entrance of a
saloon.

"Truman? What are we
doing here?"

He ran a hand down
Thunder’s sleekly muscled neck. "This is where you'll be staying
until I get things straightened out."

Her eyes scanned the
outside wall of the building. "But this is a saloon."

"You won't be staying
in the saloon."

She looked up at the
windows on the second floor. "Then where are you taking me?"

Truman reached out to
help her off the horse. Her feet touched the ground and pain shot
up her leg. She stood on her good foot, teetering back and forth to
keep her balance, despising the fact that she was in such a
weakened state.

"You'll be sleeping
upstairs," he explained.

A tremor of aversion
tightened her nerves as she came to understand what this place
was....

Before she could utter
a single protest, Truman scooped her up into his arms like an
impatient groom on his wedding night.

"Are you out of your
mind?" she blurted out.

"Probably."

"Is this a
whorehouse?"

"Yep."

Though more than a
little disgruntled, she tried to ignore the casual amusement in his
voice so she didn’t attract attention.

"You can't just carry
me up there like this," she said between clenched teeth.

"I reckon you've got a
point there. Rosalie usually collects in advance."

"How would you
know?"

He stopped at the back
door and glanced briefly at her. "You're going to have to keep your
voice down, Junebug.”

“I
am
keeping
my voice down, and stop calling me that. You know I don’t like
it.”

The corner of his mouth
curled up a little. “I'll take you through the kitchen and up the
back stairs,” he quietly explained. “I don't want anyone to see
us."

Jessica breathed a sigh
of frustration as she was shuffled about in his arms like a heavy
sack of turnips.

He struggled to open
the door with two fingers, but she kept her arms around his neck,
enjoying herself far too much while she watched him toil awkwardly
at the task.

Finally, she reached
out and opened the door herself.

"Thank you," he said
with a hint of sarcasm.

"There's no need for
you to carry me,” she said. “I can walk just fine."

"I'm sure you can."

Jessica began to squirm
in his arms. "Oh, just put me down. For pity’s sake. You’re making
me feel like some silly cartoon damsel."

Truman set her down on
the floor inside the empty back room of the saloon. She kept one
hand on his shoulder for support.

"What's going to happen
when you get me up there?"

His eyes sparked with
curious interest. "What did you have in mind?"

She had a number of
things in mind as she gazed into his irresistible eyes, but she
kicked all those raunchy images away. "Just how long do I have to
stay here?"

He rested his hands on
his hips in an impatient fashion, then pinched the bridge of his
nose. "I don’t know yet."

After some thought, she
decided it might be wise to simply do as he said and stop thinking
about how frustrated she was, in more ways than one.

Truman started up the
back staircase. "Are you coming with me, or do you need me to come
back down there and toss you over my shoulder?"

Chuckling inwardly at
how aroused she was by that particular suggestion, she followed him
up.

The narrow, enclosed
staircase veered to the right after the fourth step. It was dark,
and she had to move carefully on her sore ankle, and run her hand
along the wall to judge where she was going.

When they reached the
top, a long hall stretched in front of them with a railing that
overlooked the saloon.

"Stay here," Truman
whispered before he knocked on the first door and quickly opened
it.

After he ensured the
room was empty, he gestured for Jessica to follow. She glanced over
the railing into the saloon where only a few gamblers and drinkers
sat around square tables. It was quiet, except for the sound of
some rolling dice at a far table.