Tempting the Marshal: (A Western Historical Romance) (Dodge City Brides Series Book 2) (17 page)

“Well, well, well,” Zeb greeted, looking up from his hand. He set his cards face-down on the table and slid his chair back. The half-empty whisky bottle in front of him teetered. “Did you come to join us, Fletcher, or to dance to the magnificent orchestral arrangements only the Long Branch can provide?”

“Didn’t think they allowed dancing in here,” one of the men blurted out, as if he’d been missing out on something.

Zeb glared at him. “It was a joke, my dear man. Now lay down your cards, all of you, and go get yourselves some drinks. I want to talk to my brother-in-law.”

All three of the cowmen rose from the table without argument. When the door closed behind them, Fletcher sat down. “They all friends of yours?”

Zeb tossed back a shot of whisky. “Not really. They’re just a few transient fools willing to part with their hard-earned money, and I can never say no to that.” He dragged on his cigar until the tip flared red. “Do you know that they only make thirty dollars a month on a drive? I have to wonder if they’re all imbeciles.”

“Maybe they can’t do any better,” Fletcher replied, keeping his thoughts to himself. “Maybe they don’t know the right people.”

Zeb eyed him speculatively, then nodded. “You’re absolutely right. It’s all about who you know, isn’t it? What happened to your nose?”

Fletcher touched it lightly, and felt that it was still swollen and slightly crooked. “Saloon brawl.”

“I hope the other man looks worse than you do. Did you bruise his head?”

“I gave it a tap.”

“Good for you.” They stared intently at each other for a moment, then Zeb reached for the whisky bottle in front of him and poured Fletcher a drink. When he slid it across the table, Fletcher accepted it and raised it before swallowing a bitter mouthful.

“I came to talk to you about something,” Fletcher said.

Zeb leaned back in his chair and crossed one leg over the other. “The sheriff’s office. You want to settle in Dodge, I hope.”

“How’d you guess?”

“Never let it be said that women are the only intuitive creatures God put on this earth.” Zeb flicked cigar ashes into a dish. “Before we get down to that bit of business though, where were you tonight? I wanted to talk to you.”

Fletcher relaxed back in his chair, wondering how to answer that. He decided to make something up. “I went to meet a fellow who said he knew something about the shooting the other night.”

“Indeed. Was he helpful?”

Fletcher thought carefully before he answered. “He didn’t show.”

“No? That’s suspicious. Must be hiding something. Maybe he knows the identity of our enigmatic Six-Shooter Hank.” Zeb’s speech was slurred.

“Maybe.”

“Or better yet, maybe he
is
Six-Shooter Hank.” He laughed at his drunken wittiness. “It could be anyone, you know. The night he came into the store, he was well covered-up.”

“Any ideas?” Fletcher asked. “I’m all out of suspects.”

“I’d be willing to wager it’s someone right under our noses, yours being the bigger one this evening.”

Fletcher humored Zeb, who was clearly drunker than a lord. “What makes you say that?”

“My punctilious instinct. What I’d do without it, I cannot begin to imagine.” Zeb raised his glass and downed the whole of it, as if celebrating something. “Instinct aside, you really have to apprehend
someone
if we’re going to get you into the sheriff’s office.”

Fletcher managed a devious smile. “Anyone will do?”

Zeb laughed. “Now you’re starting to sound like a man who’s going places. Elizabeth will be pleased to hear you’re thinking of settling here. What changed your mind?”

“I figured my prospects are good, with family around.”

“Yes, yes, indeed. Family loyalty is important. You can always be sure of it. Having said that, if you’re going to stay, I’d like to set you up more comfortably. You won’t get far on seventy-five a month. Your salary is pathetic. How does an additional hundred sound?”

Fletcher wondered if Zeb would be saying any of this if he were sober. “Sounds good to me, but you might have trouble convincing the city council.”

“I’m not talking about city funds. I’d put you on
my
payroll.”

Raising his hands, Fletcher laughed. “No offense, but I never saw myself in the mercantile business.”

“Rest assured, I don’t see you there, either. You have talents that we could put to better use than counting bags of flour.”

Fletcher leaned forward. “And what business are we talking about?”

Zeb seemed to consider his reply with great care. After a long pause, he blinked his bloodshot eyes. “The business of being family, of course. Elizabeth wants you to stay here, and if more money will keep you, then that’s what you’ll get. For now.”

For now.
Fletcher knew there was something more to this than just being family. Unfortunately, Zeb wasn’t ready to trust him with it yet.

“I like to
earn
my keep.”

“Be patient. You will.”

Someone rapped at the door, then one of the cowmen peered in. “You want to finish the game, boss? ’Cause Billy wants to meet a lady across the street.”

“Tell him if he wants to back out, he’ll have to pay me what he owes me.”

The cowman disappeared briefly, then returned. “He said his money’s on the table, but only if you say it’s okay for him to go.”

Zeb shook his head at Fletcher. “Sheep,” he whispered, then turned to the cowboy. “Tell him to go meet his lady friend, and you can go, too, but don’t forget you have a job to do.”

“Yes, sir.” The cowhand closed the door and Fletcher heard them hoot as they left the saloon.

“What’s this
job
all about?” he asked.

Zeb stared blankly, in a stupor, then spread his arms wide. “The job of getting the whores into bed, of course!”

Trying not to reveal his aversion for the distasteful reply, Fletcher stood up and walked around the table to help Zeb up. The future mayor wobbled to and fro as he gathered up his cash and stuffed it into both his breast pockets. “You’ll be by for supper tomorrow evening?”

If Fletcher was going to gain Zeb’s trust and find out what was really going on with this so-called family business, he had best accept the invitation. Even if it meant tying Jo to his bed again for another night.

“I’ll be there,” he answered, then he walked Zeb all the way home, just to make sure he made it back to Elizabeth in one piece.

Chapter Fifteen

It was nearly three-thirty in the morning when Fletcher returned to the boardinghouse and led his horse into the small stable. He’d spent the night on duty, asking casual questions about the Hennigar murder Jo had told him about, to anyone who seemed willing to talk. He learned nothing that Jo hadn’t already told him, and discovered that Zeb Stone had held the town’s sympathy back then—a man wrongly accused.

Maybe he was. Maybe he wasn’t. Fletcher had wrestled with the idea all night long, wondering what kind of work Zeb had planned for him, now that he was on his so-called payroll.

Fletcher was beginning to see that Jo was right to be suspicious of Zeb about something, considering the shady characters that were calling him “boss,” but with the information Fletcher had gathered so far, he wasn’t ready to arrest Zeb for murder.

Exhausted, he fed and watered his horse, then dragged himself up the boardinghouse steps. With any luck, Jo had managed to sleep a little. He thought about what lay ahead for them, and he still couldn’t consider making an official arrest and locking her up in the city jail. People would want to know why, and if he told them, he would thwart his own investigation.

He just hoped he could convince Jo to cooperate. If he was going to uncover the truth, she had to go on with her life as if nothing were out of the ordinary. Otherwise, Zeb would suspect something. At the same time, Fletcher had to keep her safe from a potential murderer—whoever that might be—and safe from becoming one herself.

He unlocked the door and went inside, relieved to find Jo still secure on his bed, her body quiet and still with sleep. Trying not to wake her, he removed his coat and draped it over the foot of the bed, then unbuckled his gun belt and laid it gently on the chest of drawers. How she managed to sleep tied down on her back like that, he couldn’t imagine. She must have been dog-tired.

Needing sleep himself, he carefully moved closer, but paused by the side of the bed when he caught sight of Jo’s face, illuminated by the moonlight coming through the window.

Good Lord, she had a black eye. What had he done?

Wanting to kick himself clear across town, he sat on the bed beside her, trying not to create a stir while he let his fingers hover in the air above her bruised eye. Better not to touch it, he reasoned, when she was so peaceful in sleep. He’d done her enough harm already.

He considered the gentlemanly thing—curling up on the floor, but when he thought of what he and Jo had been through together so far, propriety seemed far beyond repair.

Or maybe he was just telling himself that. He might as well admit that what he really wanted was to be close to her. What damage could it do at this point?

Fletcher lowered his weary body down, on his side with his back intentionally to Jo. Feeling her warmth, even through his clothing, he considered the floor again, thinking he might in fact sleep better there, but when his eyes fell closed, there was no hope in getting them open again.

* * *

Jo woke from a deep slumber when she tried to turn over onto her side, but couldn’t.

Flat on her back in the darkness, feeling the muscles in her back cramping into corkscrews, she wiggled uncomfortably on the lumpy mattress. Her hip struck something and her groggy mind suddenly cleared. Fletcher was sleeping soundly beside her, his head resting in his hands, his backside connecting with her hip.

How, she wondered with senses now buzzing to life, had this situation spun so impossibly out of control?

Through fading hope, Jo looked toward the window to estimate the time, and hearing meadowlarks chirping a full symphony, she guessed it must be between four and five in the morning. It wouldn’t be long before her ranch hands woke and came looking for their breakfast. What would they do when they found the house empty?

Fletcher breathed deeply and rolled into her. He stirred and opened his eyes, as if her anchored presence in his bed was the most common thing in the world. “You’re awake.”

“Yes, no thanks to these ropes. My arms have fallen asleep and it feels like a hundred-thousand pins and needles.”

He sat up and began to tug at the knots. “I guess I can untie you for now. You’re not going anywhere while I’m here.”

“I guess not.” Finally she could rub her sleeping arms and hands and scratch all the places that itched. “What happened last night? Did you talk to Zeb?”

Fletcher sat up on the edge of the bed and lit the lamp. “Yes.”

“What did he say? Or more importantly, what did
you
say?”

The room flickered with a dim, golden light, and Fletcher’s large shadow loomed against the wall as he stood. “Nothing to suggest he killed anyone, though I didn’t exactly ask him that, specifically.”

“Couldn’t you have hinted at something?”

“You know as well as I do that Zeb is an intelligent man. I don’t want him to know I’m checking into his affairs. It’s best if he trusts me. That way, he might let down his guard.”

“So you
do
suspect him?”

Fletcher settled back against the wall, one ankle crossed casually over the other. “I didn’t say that, but he’s got something going on that he’s being real vague about. Some kind of business. I’d like to know what it is, considering I’m an employee.”

“An employee?”

“Yes ma’am,” Fletcher replied. “If he even remembers saying it, that is. He was a little inebriated. He told me he’d put me on his ‘payroll,’ calling it a ‘family thing.’ He’s going to pay me to stick around for Elizabeth’s sake. Maybe that’s all it is, but—”

“He’s trying to make you feel like you owe him something. To trap you.”

Fletcher watched her in an intent way, and she felt as if he were forming judgments about her in his mind. She wished she knew what they were.

He took his time to reply. “I’m not jumping to any conclusions, but I’m not ruling anything out, either.” He pushed his disheveled hair away from his face. “Did you get enough sleep? How’s your nose?”

“My nose is fine, and sleeping’s not my first concern right now. I’m worried about my ranch hands, and what they’ll do when they discover I’m missing.”

Fletcher went to the window and looked outside. The faint light of dawn graced the smooth lines of his sculpted facial features. “That’s a good point. They’ll probably go looking for you, or worse, report your disappearance to the deputy.” He reached for his gun belt on the chest of drawers and buckled it around his waist. “What about Leo and Matilda? They must have already noticed.”

“I sent them away last night, for obvious reasons,” she told him. “They went to Newton. The house is empty.”

Assuming she and Fletcher would be leaving soon, Jo crawled off the bed and went to look in the small mirror on the wall over the washstand. “Good gracious, look at my eye.”