Tempting the Marshal: (A Western Historical Romance) (Dodge City Brides Series Book 2) (9 page)

Feeling defeated, she rested her head against the timber wall of the barn and closed her eyes. She needed a moment to think, and began to make excuses, as she always did: Perhaps she didn’t
need
to go in. More than a few things the marshal had said to her during the day had surprised her and cast doubt upon his involvement with Zeb. Maybe he wasn’t such an adversary after all. She wished she knew. Maybe what he was saying to Leo privately would reveal something. Give her hope that some lawmen could be trusted. That Zeb didn’t own everything in Dodge City.

Hearing laughter from the tack room, Jo knew she would not be going into the barn tonight. And though it would drain her already depleted patience, she would have to wait to find out what the marshal with the questionable integrity had said to her son.

* * *

Precisely fifteen minutes later by her pocket watch, Jo sat on the porch swing, tapping her foot. What was taking them so long? What could they possibly be talking about?

At last, the light from the barn went out and the door swung open. Jo stood up, pressing her palm to her chest, relieved to see her son appear from the dark and silent interior where Edwyn had gasped his last breath.

Leo stepped into the moonlight, then the marshal walked out and closed the barn door behind them. As they approached the house, he rested a hand on Leo’s shoulder. Leo laughed at something. It made Jo feel disturbingly territorial. Until tonight, Leo would not speak to her—or anyone, for that matter—when he disappeared into the barn. What was it about the marshal that he admired so much? Was it because Fletcher had lost his father, too? Had he spoken of that to Leo?

They reached the porch, and only then did the marshal look up and notice Jo sitting there with her watch in her hand. She forced a smile, stood up and walked to the top of the steps. “Is everything all right?”

“Yes, Ma. Can I go to bed now?” Leo replied.

Jo swallowed the urge to ask him anything more. “Yes, you may.”

“Night, Marshal Collins. Night, Ma.”

“Good night, Leo.”

Jo watched her son go into the house and listened to his footsteps tap eagerly up the stairs. She took a deep breath and turned to face the marshal, not knowing what to expect.

When their eyes met, her emotions dipped alarmingly. He stood at the bottom of the porch stairs with one boot resting on the second step, his hand on his raised knee. He gave her a subtle, reassuring smile and she found herself knocked slightly off kilter by how devastatingly handsome, muscular, and manly he was.

That smile
…It was an absolute killer.

“What happened?” she asked, fighting to breathe steadily and not get lost in the whirlwind of his good looks.

“Nothing much. We just talked.”

Just talked.
Leo hadn’t
just talked
to anyone in six months. “What about?” She tried to sound nonchalant.

The marshal didn’t answer right away. He walked calmly up the steps, moved around Jo, sat himself down on the porch swing and leaned back. “Care to join me for a minute or two?”

The invitation—the thought of sitting so close to him—made her insides grow hot with nervous excitement. She tried to smother the reaction and stiffly made her way to the swing and sat down, keeping her backside perched forward on the wooden seat to avoid touching his muscular arm, which rested across the back of the swing.

“How’s your shoulder?” he asked.

“It still pains me a great deal. I’m anxious to retire.”

The corner of his mouth turned up, as if he were amused by her constant attempts to get rid of him. “I see. Can you stay awake long enough to hear what your son had to say?”

“Of course.” She met his gaze directly. “I’m always interested in what Leo has to say.”

“I’m sure that’s true. Only problem is, he doesn’t think so.”

Jo felt as if she’d been blasted by another pistol, this time straight through the heart. She knew she and Leo had been having problems since Edwyn died, but she didn’t want to hear it from Marshal Collins, of all people.

“He’ll come around in time,” she said, working hard to be guarded and abrupt with this man who seemed to be pushing to get closer, to understand her and Leo. Could that be true? Could he be as sincere as he sounded?

The marshal leaned forward, rested his elbows on his knees and laced his fingers together. “He told me what happened to your husband.”

Jo let her eyes follow the erratic flight of a bat overhead.
But he didn’t tell you the truth. I’m the only one who knows what really happened.

The marshal continued. “You can’t let that stop you from letting your son grow up. He thinks you don’t trust him with things. That you don’t have any confidence that he can take over the ranch.”

“He’s just a boy. Taking over the ranch is a long way off.”

“Not in his mind. He feels he’s ready to be a man. He wants some freedom.”

Jo knew this already. She’d known it for a long time. She just couldn’t bring herself to give that kind of independence to Leo. How could she, when she knew he only wanted to be out from under her protective wing so that he could investigate his father’s murder?

Part of what angered her now was that she was being told this by a man who had no business with her family. In fact, he was the last person on earth she wanted involved.

“Did he talk to you about Edwyn?” she asked, hoping desperately that Leo hadn’t tried to elicit the marshal’s help in finding his father’s killers.

“He said things were different when he was alive.”

“Of course they were different—” She heard her angry tone and cut herself off before she spilled out all her woes to the marshal right then and there.

But oh, how she needed to spill her woes to
someone
. It had been so long since she’d had anyone to trust with the workings of her heart—her doubts and fears in the middle of the darkest nights….

And what was it about this man that made her feel safe, even against her better judgement?

“I know how you feel,” he said gently, and his kindness, which she had been working hard to deflect, nearly broke her.

She had to move away from him. She stood up, and the swing twisted to and fro. The porch planks creaked beneath her feet.

“Just try talking to him,” Fletcher said. “Let him know why you’re prudent, and maybe you could relax the rules a little. Let him do the things he used to do.”

A chilly evening breeze blew her skirts as she stood resting her hands on the white-painted porch rail, gazing across the dark hills. “I can’t,” she whispered, feeling as though the ground was slipping out from under her.

“You have to. Or you’ll lose him.”

Jo swallowed a sob that rose up in her throat. Either way, she would lose.

She heard the swing creak behind her as the marshal rose and approached. Jo closed her eyes, feeling his nearness. He was going to touch her. She sensed it. Her heart was racing and her body was growing warm at the mere thought of it.

Oh, God, how long had it been since she’d been touched? Since she’d felt any sort of sensual pleasure?

Fletcher laid a hand on her good shoulder. She felt his breath on the back of her neck, knew he was smelling the orange flower water she’d splashed on before supper.

Her skin tingled with desire and she wanted to touch his hand. To thank him, oddly enough, for wanting to help Leo, even though she’d not wanted him to. It had been a while since Leo had looked to anyone for advice. None of the ranch hands seemed wise enough. Mature enough.

But the marshal…he was so much of a man.

He gently squeezed her shoulder and she sucked in a shaky breath. She could respond to him now, turn around and…

Oh
, she wanted to. She longed to touch him. Her heart was beating wildly in her breast, imploring her, pushing her…

She bowed her head, fighting the urges and desires she hadn’t known she was capable of feeling. She felt so wildly confused and physically tormented. Even if the marshal was ignorant of Zeb’s crimes—and she couldn’t be sure of that—he would still feel some duty to protect him. Zeb was his sister’s husband, after all. Why was she feeling this burning attraction to him? It made no sense.

A few seconds later, Fletcher withdrew his hand from her shoulder and stepped back. Jo felt a chill of disappointment move through her.

“I should be on my way,” he said in a low and husky voice that slid over her like velvet. “I’ll just get my hat.”

The door squeaked open and Jo looked up at the starry sky, so impossibly distant. She heard Fletcher thanking Matilda, then the door squeaked again and he stepped onto the porch. The evening crickets chirped a steady rhythm and she clung to such normal things, to distract herself from her unexpected desires.

He stood behind her for a moment, and she realized he had not asked her any more questions about the shooting. Had she managed to convince him she’d said everything there was to say? Or had Leo simply distracted him from it?

Or had he felt the same things she had felt? Was he fighting desire?

Jo turned around and faced him.

He donned his hat. “Thank you for supper, ma’am. I’m much obliged. Good night, now.”

With that, he breezed by her and walked to the rented buggy. It bounced as he got in, and the horse nickered. Fletcher flicked the reins and turned the buggy around in the yard, gifting Jo with one last look as he passed by the house.

For a long moment, she felt as if she were floating in a lake of erotic bliss. He touched the brim of his hat, staring a little longer than would be considered proper, but Jo stared back all the same, wishing she could trust him to take care of all this for her, to make it all go away.

Confused, she stood on the porch watching the back of the buggy until it disappeared over the moonlit hill. The relief she was expecting from his departure eluded her. All she wanted, strangely enough and in the most unsettling way, was for him to return and touch her again. To whisper softly in her ear so that she could feel his hot, moist breath upon her neck.

* * *

Fletcher drove away from the O’Malley ranch, fighting the urge to turn back and take that reclusive widow into his arms and satisfy the rampant flood of desires he’d been trying to fight all night long. He was certain he’d seen something in her eyes that suggested she didn’t want him to go, that she was aroused physically, as he had been. That she wanted him.

He drove over the hill and simply
had
to pull the horse to a halt. His body was on fire with yearning, and after that pleading look in her eye just now, he began to wonder if there wasn’t something more going on here—besides an obvious attraction he couldn’t be mistaken about. But maybe she’d actually seen the gunman the other night, and that’s why he’d shot her. Maybe that’s why she was so secretive. She was afraid the gunman might come back to finish her off if he knew she could identify him, and she wanted Fletcher to know.

But it still didn’t explain why there had been no bullet hole in her dress, he thought with some irritation. After spending time with her, he was finding it harder and harder to accept the explanation she’d given him, despite the rumors about her.

Come to think of it, he was finding it harder to accept the rumors, too.

Unable to make sense of this, Fletcher sat alone on the dark prairie, squeezing the soft leather reins in his hands. He wanted—needed—to protect her from whatever danger he sensed she might be in.

But how was he to stay on his toes and maintain his professional impartiality when all he wanted to do now was put his hands on her body, taste those sweet lips, and carry her off to his bed? He hadn’t wanted a woman with such extreme desire in a very long time, and he certainly didn’t want anything like this to happen
now
. It would never work to take a wife. He’d known that when he chose this career path. He shouldn’t be having these thoughts.

He took a deep breath and tried to think rationally. If he went back there, it would be personal—that much he knew—and it made him clench his fists in frustration.

But despite it all, he flicked the reins and began to turn the buggy back around toward the ranch, with no idea what he would say or do when he got there.

* * *

The fragrant prairie breeze cooled Jo’s flushed cheeks as she stood on the porch, watching the dark horizon. All she could think of was the intimate conversation she’d just had with the marshal when she knew he was a man she could not trust—the brother-in-law of her husband’s murderer and the man her son had confided in instead of her.

Why then, was she staring after him? Why was her body thrumming with heat and passion for something she had no business wanting? She was a widow. Her husband hadn’t been dead long enough for
that
.

She waited a few moments, then sighed heavily and went into the warm, lantern-lit house where all was quiet. Leo was in bed, Matilda was in the kitchen, and the ranch hands had retired to the bunkhouse.

Jo stood in the front hall staring at Edwyn’s large tilting portrait. The black-and-white photograph had captured him well—his brown eyes serious, brows in a straight line, mouth covered by a long bushy mustache that made him appear to be frowning, even though he wasn’t.