Stagecoach Capture

by Layla Chase

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  Stagecoach Capture

  by Layla Chase

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  Erotica/Historical Fiction

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  Amber Quill Press

  www.amberquill.com

  Copyright ©2006 by Layla Chase

  NOTICE: This work is copyrighted. It is licensed only for use by the original purchaser. Making copies of this work or distributing it to any unauthorized person by any means, including without limit email, floppy disk, file transfer, paper print out, or any other method constitutes a violation of International copyright law and subjects the violator to severe fines or imprisonment.

  * * *

  STAGECOACH CAPTURE

  By

  LAYLA CHASE

  * * * *

  ISBN 1-59279-567-6

  Amber Quill Press, LLC

  www.amberquill.com

  * * *

  DEDICATION

  My heartfelt thanks go to DD, who started me on this path, and the Mt. Helicon Muses for their support and encouragement throughout the writing of this story

  * * *

  CHAPTER 1

  1868

  South Texas

  “Whooey, Miss Jazzy. That was a g-good'un."

  Jazzy Morgan blew out a sigh and rolled off her most frequent customer. That was her last paying trick. She perched on the edge of the sagging mattress and straightened the neckline of her chemise before turning to the wiry ranch hand. “Henry, you say that every week."

  “Don't know why you m-moved on t-top, but that sure b-brought m-my pecker b-back to life.” He ran his fingers through his sandy brown hair.

  “Just wanted something different. Don't you ever want that sometimes?” With a still-gasping Henry Johansen as her unknowing witness, she'd vowed to never again engage in sex not of her own choosing.

  “If something works fine, why ch-change it? Not p-proper, you know, with the woman on t-top."

  “And I say, why not? The new way may be lots better."

  “M-maybe.” Henry yawned and braced his head with his entwined hands. “Spending t-time in your room is the high p-point of m-my w-week."

  One glance around her sparsely furnished room convinced Jazzy the poor man's life didn't include much excitement. Her chest tightened and burned. She would not spend a single moment regretting her decision to leave. “That's real nice, but if I wasn't here, you'd just pick one of the other girls."

  His narrow gaze sharpened. “You w-winding up to say g-goodbye?"

  Alarm shot through her. She couldn't have him spreading stories that might get back to Tucker, the man who swore he was set on marrying her and taking her away from this life. Not if she had her say. She forced a laugh and patted his cheek, her mind racing for another topic to distract him. “Can't a girl say a few nice words to her favorite visitor?"

  A knock sounded on the door. “Two minutes until locking up time, Jazzy."

  She pressed her lips together to hold back the sigh that threatened to escape. “Thanks, Ben."

  Henry pushed himself to a sitting position, reached for his trousers hanging on the foot post and stood, facing away from her. “Does th-that man ever forget which g-gal has a v-visitor?"

  She shook her head. “Never that I can recall. Ben knows how serious Miss Veronica is about getting her percentage.” She straightened her clothes, brushed her hair over her shoulders and walked toward the door. On impulse, she spoke with hurried words. “Henry, after church services, walk right up to Miss Simms and offer to escort her home. Don't wait any longer for the rest of your life to happen."

  His fingers on the brass doorknob tightened until his knuckles blanched white. “I'll th-think on it, M-miss Jazzy."

  “No more thinking, Henry.” She stretched up on her toes and brushed a kiss against his cheek. “Time for action."

  With a shake of his head and a muttered goodbye, Henry walked into the hallway.

  Jazzy sagged against the closed door, relief flooding her senses. Her years as a fancy lady were over. Now she'd discover what else life had to offer. She marched across the room, grabbed her small Bowie knife from the nightstand and pried up the loose floorboard. Underneath was the cloth bundle holding her life savings. Her hand shook and excitement bubbled inside her. She wasn't waiting another hour before starting her new life.

  * * * *

  Damn wind! US Marshal Slade Thomas strode after his hat as it rolled down the dusty San Antonio street. It teetered and landed flat, and he scooped it up. Blazes, he was tired. He pivoted and headed back toward the westbound stagecoach, brushing off the dirt as he walked. Ten days on the trail of a bank robber and always two steps behind. But he had a mission to carry out.

  “Is this your bag, mister?” A wiry man with piercing blue eyes stood on the sidewalk and pointed at the lone leather satchel.

  “It is.” Slade quickened his steps and bent to grab the handles. He didn't need the driver discovering what sat at the bottom of his scuffed case. “I'll load it."

  He lifted a shoulder and shook his head. “Fine by me. Soon as it's stowed, we can leave."

  Slade pressed the satchel into a corner of the rack on the roof, then opened the door and scanned the dim interior—an elderly gentleman, a young boy, and three women of varying ages. Being the last one to board left him with a middle seat. He removed his hat, hunched his shoulders and stepped up into the crowded stage. As he maneuvered backwards into the space, he kicked the gentleman's cane and jostled against the knee of a woman dressed in red.

  “Beg your pardon, folks."

  He wedged himself onto the bench, tucked his boots close to the seat, and balanced his hat on his knee. Stagecoaches were not built for men with long legs. He glanced up and saw his actions were the focus of the other passengers’ attention. With a start, he realized both women on the opposite bench were of average size, had no distinguishable facial marks, blue eyes and light brown hair.

  Just like the wanted poster.

  A voice called to the horses and the stagecoach jerked into motion. People on the sides grabbed at the walls of the stage to steady themselves.

  Great, he'd been lucky enough to get the lumpiest seat he'd ever sat on.

  A tug against his right thigh drew his attention. He turned and something tickled his cheek.

  The feather on the top of the woman's black hat bobbed into his sight. She sat beside him, using both hands to pull on her skirts. “Excuse me, sir. My skirt is surely trapped.” She pressed a hand against his thigh. “Can you move your as—can you assist me?"

  He froze. Surely, he'd heard her wrong. As his mind scrambled to make sense of her words, his leg heated through his trousers under her touch. He'd definitely been without female company for too long. With one hand flattened against the doorframe over the head of the passenger on his other side, he easily lifted his hips, until she'd gathered her skirts off the cracked leather seat.

  “Thank you kindly, sir."

  He eased down to the bench and turned to his right. Out of habit, Slade reached toward his forehead to touch the brim of his hat.

  The woman dressed in red gazed up at him with a smile across her shapely lips.

  As he opened his mouth to speak, he scanned her face. “You're—” Light brown hair, no distinguishing marks. Exasperation stole his words. Average size and blue eyes—blue as a summer sky. Damn, not a third one. And why did her assessing gaze have to be in the prettiest face he'd seen in months?

  Her gaze frosted and she turned to the side, a rounded hip pressing into his upper thigh.

  With three suspects, this would not be the easy end to a tough case. His work of identifying which suspect to arrest and haul back to Oklahoma City had j
ust increased.

  By positioning himself close to the ticket window, Slade had managed to catch most of the passengers’ names.

  A quick movement and flash of color caught his eye. The woman next to him lifted the shade and peered outside, a frown wrinkling her forehead.

  “Have pity on us and pull that shade tight, Miss Morgan."

  “I beg your pardon, Mrs. Harrington.” Her widened gaze focused on the older woman who'd spoken.

  Slade wished he had a straight-on view of the woman beside him. He had to be content with side glances and the feel of her petticoated skirts pressed the length of his leg.

  Miss Morgan released the shade, letting it bounce against the side of the door. “Don't y'all wonder about the country you're travelin’ through? Lordy, I was hoping for a bitty breeze."

  Slade detected a Texas sprawl in her speech. She savored her words before letting them escape between her lips—her full, lush lips. Damn, what was he thinking? He had a suspect to apprehend.

  “None of us want to breathe all that dust.” Mrs. Harrington scanned the cramped space, looking for confirmation from the other passengers.

  Slade heard the mousy woman agree in a quiet voice, and the elderly gentleman, Grove Denton, emphasized his assent by rapping his cane on the floor of the coach.

  Miss Morgan leaned back against the cushion and let out a groan. “The air is stiflin’ and I just can't breathe. If you won't let me open the shade, I'll just get cool another way.” Her pale hand rose to the buttons at her neck.

  In fascination, Slade watched, using only short glances, as she undid her collar and then the first two buttons on her blouse, exposing a regal neck and creamy skin. Awareness of this woman hit him in the gut and his body reacted. Damnation! He shifted on the seat to ease his hardened cock inside his trousers and accidentally bumped Miss Morgan's knee.

  She shot him a questioning look from under her lashes and slowly pressed her leg the length of his. From her reticule, she pulled out and flourished a fan painted with red roses. The fan moved quickly in front of her face and she sighed. “That's better."

  Slade detected a look of envy from the quiet woman across from him. On this point, he agreed with the outspoken Miss Morgan. The coach was unbearably hot, enough so that he planned to remove his waistcoat at the next stop. Keeping up the rancher image be damned.

  Mrs. Harrington sniffed. “Proper young ladies don't use fans in public. That's vulgar."

  Miss Morgan pinched the front of her blouse between two fingers and pulled it several inches away from her chest.

  Without realizing that he'd even moved, Slade eased his head sideways and got a glimpse of her cleavage. Pillow-soft-looking mounds. Abundant curves. He froze, suddenly aware of how disrespectful his action must appear. What the hell was he doing?

  After flashing the complainer a syrupy smile, Miss Morgan aimed the fan directly over the blouse opening and flicked her hand back and forth. “There's times when one's comfort comes afore all else.” She sighed and lolled her head to look directly at him. “Don't you agree?"

  Captured by her knowing gaze, Slade stiffened and fought for a casual answer. He opened his mouth to respond and felt the distinct glide of a boot tip run along the back of his calf. His mouth snapped closed and he swallowed hard.

  Blood pounded in his ears and his hands fisted on his thighs. Too many months had passed since his last visit to a parlor house. That had to be why he was misinterpreting the casual bumps and touches caused by the jerky stagecoach. No other explanation made sense.

  The saucy gal turned toward the middle of the coach. “I surely don't know how you ladies wear all these layers of clothes every single day."

  What had she just said? Slade narrowed his gaze and scrutinized every detail about Miss Morgan. From the wisps of honey-colored hair that framed her face to the reddish jacket over narrow shoulders and hugging rounded breasts to the skirt that revealed a tantalizing flash of booted ankle.

  Who was this woman?

  Mrs. Harrington clapped her hands over the ears of the small boy resting his head on her knee. “Well, I never! Miss, you are most assuredly a disgrace."

  Miss Morgan lifted her head, gazed at the woman, and shrugged. “Maybe so, but I bet I'm cooler."

  A chuckle threatened to rumble from his chest, but he forced a yawn instead. “I'll say, today is a real scorcher.” He let his gaze circle the coach and spread his lips into the smile that had cajoled secrets from suspects and prisoners, secrets they'd never intended to divulge. “Does anyone mind if I raise the shade for a bit? We might be lucky and catch a breeze."

  Her fan stopped in mid-stroke, Miss Morgan met his gaze and beamed. “That's a mighty fine idea, mister."

  * * * *

  Jazzy breathed in the scent of bay rum and eyed the fine cut of the tall man's suit. She could still feel the press of his upper body against her shoulder when he'd leaned to release her skirt. Such solid chest muscles. From the corner of her eye, she gauged the cost of his tailored suit and started figuring the fee she could charge. In her experience, a man with looks, money and all his own teeth was a rarity.

  Stop ... no more thinking about fees.

  That was part of her old life.

  When he'd first looked at her and cut off his own response, she'd feared he'd seen past her new traveling suit to the parlor girl beneath. Then she got to thinking this man could be her first conquest. The decision to invite him to her bed would be hers and hers alone. With regret, she shook away that thought. An upstanding citizen like him did not fit into her plan.

  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.

  “I'm fine.” She loved raspy voices that hinted at secrets with every spoken word. Wouldn't she love to learn his secrets? “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 the woolen trousers tightened over his ass, displaying taut muscles. She curled her fingers into her palms to keep from reaching out to touch him.

  * * * *

  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 bit of a stretch."

  A few minutes later, Slade handed the quiet female passenger down the coach steps. He didn't remember hearing her name. “There you go, miss."

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

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

  In the corral, the driver joked with a man fitting harnesses onto fresh horses. The others must have gone inside the stage stop for refreshments. With his back toward the building, he quickly slid off his jacket and waistcoat, hiding his marshal's badge in the center of the vest.

  A breeze molded his shirt to his damp skin and he wished for the freedom of traveling without the jacket. To do his job, he had to look and act like an average rancher or businessman. Not considered proper gentlemanly attire, the absence of a jacket would draw 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.

  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 turned and 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?"

  He scanned the room and spotted Miss Morgan at the window, peering out. A quick nod and he turned back to the woman. “That would be fine."

  “Take a seat. There's cornbread on the table."

  He moved to an open spot on the bench, but 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 plank floors.

  Miss Morgan glanced around at his approach, wrinkled her brows and turned back to the window.

  “May I join you?” He waited until she turned in his direction, 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."

  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 relishes using it with each admonition."

  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."

  She pursed her lips. “Oh, Miss Morgan is so stuffy. 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 at the hesitation. “That's a pretty name."

  Her gaze shifted to the window, scanned the landscape and back. “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.” She sucked in a breath and her gaze widened. “Lordy, bet you didn't expect my family history."