Tempting the Marshal: (A Western Historical Romance) (Dodge City Brides Series Book 2) (24 page)

Trying not to show how relieved she was, Jo gathered up her gloves. “We should go, then. It’s almost seven.” Fletcher stood to face her. “All right, we’ll go, but I don’t want you asking questions about any of this. Leave it to me.”

“Can I comment on the wine or is that off-limits, too?”

Fletcher offered her his arm. “Just try and control yourself. Remember the part you’re playing. Your only task tonight, Josephine, is to be hopelessly in love with me.”

* * *

When Zeb Stone’s large front door swung open, Jo stood dumbfounded, staring at the tall butler who stood in the doorway to greet them. A sudden ripple of tension made her body go weak. Could she fool the man who had murdered her husband? Could she even face him?

Without a word, the butler invited them into the wide front hall.

Jo walked into the magnificent house, and staring at Zeb’s gilt-framed wedding portrait the size of a window, she felt instantly humbled. Elizabeth sat poised in an armchair while Zeb stood behind her resting his white-gloved hand on her bare shoulder. She looked like a princess in her sheer, lacy veil and white silk gown, the skirt trimmed with enough satin drapery to cover half the windows in this house. Zeb looked as he always did—impressive and intimidating with his dark brows, dark mustache and expensive black jacket. He was a striking figure in any context.

“Mrs. Stone is waiting for you in the drawing room,” the butler announced, taking Jo’s shawl and Fletcher’s hat, and showing them across the shiny floor and past the ornately carved mahogany staircase.

Jo felt underdressed in her plain calico bodice and skirt, but when she glanced at Fletcher, whose spurs were chinking with each step, she thought better of it.

They walked into the drawing room, and there was Elizabeth in a pale yellow evening gown with white lace ruffles on the train, standing in front of the fireplace with her back to the door. As soon as the butler announced Jo and Fletcher, she turned gracefully from rearranging a vase of pink roses on the mantel.

“Fletcher! Mrs. O’Malley!” Elizabeth approached and took Jo’s hands. “Congratulations. It seems we will be sisters.” She leaned forward and kissed Jo on the cheek.

Jo glanced at Fletcher, who dropped his gaze to the floor.

“Please, call me Jo,” she replied.

Elizabeth turned Jo’s hands over and looked at them. “No ring yet, I see.” She gave Fletcher a lighthearted wink. “I’ve been waiting all day for this moment.”

She moved toward a round table adorned with glass figurines and vases of colorful wildflowers, and picked up a small silver-plated box.

Fletcher’s lips parted with recognition. “Elizabeth, that’s not necessary. I know how much that means to you.”

Jo listened to Fletcher’s voice, so full of guilt and anguish at having to lie to his sister this way. Seeing the sisterly love in Elizabeth’s eyes as she handed the box to him made Jo realize why Fletcher was so reluctant to accept the truth about Zeb. Why she, too, now wished it was not so.

Fletcher took the small box from Elizabeth and held it in his hand. A vein pulsed at his temple. Jo saw it and touched his arm. “Are you all right?” she asked quietly.

Elizabeth gazed back and forth between the two of them, then spoke to Jo. “It’s our mother’s wedding ring. She wanted it to be passed down.”

Jo had to swallow the guilt-ridden lump forming in the back of her throat. She glanced from Elizabeth to Fletcher, back to Elizabeth again.

“But you should have it,” Jo suggested. “You were her only daughter.”

Elizabeth shook her head. “No, Zeb wanted me to have something he picked out himself.”

Jo glimpsed down and was not surprised at the enormous diamond on Elizabeth’s finger, meant to impress even the wealthiest Dodge City patrons and voters.

“I don’t know, Liz,” Fletcher said, still holding the box, turning it over in his hand.

“Please,” she replied, “it would break my heart if you didn’t accept it. I know Mother would have wanted you to have it. She always wanted you to be happy.”

Fletcher walked to the window and stood in front of the drawn velvet curtains, his back to Jo and Elizabeth. Alone, head down, he opened the box and looked at the ring.

Jo stood in the center of the room, unable to tear her gaze away from him as he heaved with a sigh. A cold knot formed in her belly. How she wanted to go to him. To tell him to call off this charade before they all got hurt.

Elizabeth strolled forward and placed her hand on her brother’s shoulder. “Take the ring, Fletcher. It’s been too long since you’ve been happy.”

He turned slightly and looked at Jo. She wasn’t certain if it was guilt she saw in his eyes, or something closer to what she was feeling—a sense of regret that this engagement was only a pretense, and that they were deceiving everyone.

Perhaps they could at least tell his sister the truth.

Jo stepped forward. “Elizabeth…”

Fletcher quickly crossed toward her. “Jo, please don’t say another word. Elizabeth is right. Our mother would have wanted you to wear this.”

Any hope for revealing the truth vanished beneath her surprise. She could barely control her breathing as Fletcher took hold of her hand, raised it to his lips, and placed a soft, warm kiss on her knuckles—a kiss so genuine, she could have sworn he’d meant what he said.

Did
he mean it? And was there any way to deny that she wanted it to be real?
All
of it?

“It fits,” Fletcher said rather contentedly as he slipped the ring, carved with tiny hearts, onto her finger.

“It must be fate, then,” Elizabeth said, approaching. “Mother had the most beautiful, graceful hands, just like yours, Josephine.”

“Oh, hardly,” Jo remarked self-consciously, pulling her hand from Fletcher’s and dropping it to her side. “With all the work I do at the ranch.”

“That’s what makes them beautiful,” Elizabeth returned.

Just then, the door of the drawing room swung open and Jo turned around.

The moment immediately lost all its magic as she found herself staring heatedly into the dark eyes of Elizabeth’s husband—who was also, without a doubt, her own husband’s killer.

Chapter Twenty-One

“Zeb, you’re back,” Elizabeth said uneasily, crossing the room to greet him. “I hadn’t expected you so soon. I’d instructed Matthews to hold supper for another half hour.”

Zeb stood in the wide doorway, staring into Jo’s eyes. He bowed slightly at the waist. “Welcome to my home, Mrs. O’Malley.”

Elizabeth gave him a smile. “They arrived only a few minutes ago.”

“I see that.”

He eyed Jo with interest, and despite her hellish wrath toward this man, and her desire to see him totally defeated, she felt her heart wash with fear as she whisked her hands behind her back.

“What is that you’re hiding?” he asked.

He strode toward her and her stomach flared with dread. She thought she had been prepared for this, but she wasn’t. Not at all. All she could think of was how he had strung a rope over the beam in her barn and ended her husband’s life. The terror of that moment came rushing back at her, and her heart pummeled the inside of her ribcage.

“What are you referring to?” she asked.

“Come now, Mrs. O’Malley. You can’t hide anything from me.” He stood too close, attempting to lean around her to see what she hid in her hands.

Taking in the hint of whisky on his breath, Jo had to fight the urge to pound her fists on his chest and shake him senseless for an explanation as to why he was such an unfeeling monster.

Fletcher reached for her hand and laced his fingers through hers. The contact pulled her abruptly from her contentious urges and reminded her what she had come here to do.

She let her hand relax into Fletcher’s, who stood next to her, appearing relaxed and composed.

“She’s hiding a wedding ring she shouldn’t be wearing yet,” Fletcher answered good-naturedly, raising her hand to show off the gold band.

Zeb glanced at it, nodded once in an exaggerated, patronizing manner that suggested that, even if the wedding was real, she would not live to see the day.

“Sorry I’m late,” he said, changing the subject and stepping back to signal the butler. “I had some important business to attend to. Get us some brandy, Matthews. No, on second thought, make it champagne. This celebration requires something bubbly.”

Taking advantage of the distraction, Jo took a few deep breaths to calm herself.

The butler returned with a bottle of French champagne and four glasses on a silver tray. He filled each one and made his way around the room.

“Here’s to family,” Zeb toasted, raising his glass. “May we all prosper.”

With that, they dutifully sipped.

Jo watched Elizabeth, curious what had drawn a woman like her to this man. She could only guess it had something to do with being alone in the world, naïve and romantic. It was the only thing that made any sense.

When Fletcher and Zeb began to discuss city matters, Elizabeth invited Jo to join her on the sofa. “I would love to see your ranch,” she said, setting her glass on the marble-topped table in front of them. “I so admire you, Josephine, running it on your own. How big is your herd?”

Odd, to hear Elizabeth, adorned in silk, satin and jewels, ask about cattle. “We drive about ten thousand head up from Texas every year,” Jo replied, “but we keep seven thousand breeding cows. Edwyn believed the future was in winter feeding, fencing and breeding, and I must say I agree.”

“Yes, I’ve often thought that—”

“What’s this?” Zeb interrupted as he helped himself to another glass of champagne. “Ladies discussing ranching. I believe I’ve heard it all.” He glanced at Fletcher, expecting him to join him in laughing, but Fletcher ignored the remark and set his glass down on a table.

Jo hoped her eyes were not conveying the loathing she felt.

Elizabeth fiddled with an earring. “But Mrs. O’Malley is running her husband’s—”

“She has cowhands for that, we all know. I hear your foreman, John Cook, is an ambitious man.”

“He is indeed,” Jo replied, hiding her hostility beneath a polite smile. “But he doesn’t make decisions about land that belongs to
me.”

Zeb strode forward and leaned his elbow on the mantel. “Maybe you should let him make some of the decisions. I hear that you’re building more fences, when any wise businessman knows that cattle can be grazed for almost nothing on the free range in Texas. To dispense large amounts of capital on acres and acres of grass here, and to fence it in, is ludicrous.”

“I don’t believe that building something to last is ever ludicrous, Mr. Stone, especially when it can be passed down to future generations and—”

Zeb smirked and raised an eyebrow. “Why not build your bank account instead, and pass that down if you want to leave something behind. I’d wager your son would prefer a stack of cash over an obligation to break his back making hay.”

Elizabeth spoke to her husband, but directed her gaze at Jo. “Perhaps Mrs. O’Malley has a point. I’ve heard that the open range has been overgrazed to the point of—”

“Don’t be daft, Elizabeth,” he replied. “The farmers are starting those rumors. Texas will never be overgrazed. There’s enough acreage to feed a—”

“It’s not the quantity of land that’s the problem,” Fletcher broke in, and everyone fell silent. “One of these days, a bad winter is going to wipe out entire herds and folks are starting to think about that. I reckon, in the future, more ranchers are going to move toward winter feeding. Like the O’Malleys.” Fletcher sat in the red upholstered armchair beside Jo and crossed his legs. “But I didn’t know you had an interest in ranching, Zeb.”

“Doesn’t everyone?” he replied haughtily. “This
is
a cow town.”

Fletcher sat very still, watching Zeb until the door to the drawing room opened and the butler stepped inside. “There is someone here wishing to see Marshal Collins.”

“Who is it?” Fletcher asked, still watching Zeb, who moved to sit in the wing chair in front of the fireplace.

“Yes, who is interrupting our intriguing discussion?” Zeb asked. “I hope it’s important.”

“It’s Deputy Anderson, sir.”

Fletcher turned in his chair. “Anderson is here?”

“Yes, Marshal Collins. He wishes to speak with you.”

Fletcher stood. “I’ll be right back. Liz, I’ll trust you to make sure this lady doesn’t run out on me?”

With a teasing smile, Elizabeth touched Jo’s arm. “I doubt she’d want to do that.”

Fletcher swept his hand lightly over Jo’s cheek. “I won’t be long.”

She nodded. “I’ll wait.”

Jo anxiously watched the butler close the double doors behind Fletcher. Then she felt Zeb’s dark gaze rake over her. With a subtle, sinister grin, he raised an eyebrow.

* * *

“What do you mean, he was dead?” Fletcher whispered to Anderson, as he led him across the wide hall and into the dining room, where the butler wouldn’t hear them speak.

“I mean he was dead, Marshal Collins. Laid out cold behind the Long Branch saloon.”

“Any bullet wounds?”