Stagecoach Capture

by Layla Chase

  “I'm interested in people. You might say it's a hobby.” He watched her over the rim of his cup. Every emotion this woman experienced was showcased on her face. Questioning this woman was almost too easy. “So, where's back home?"

  She glanced at the people chatting quietly around the table. “A little bitty place outside of Boerne."

  A plausible region nearby enough to explain her presence on this particular stage. “Where are you headed?"

  “Mountains.” The single word was spoken on a whoosh of air.

  The sigh pierced him and his chest tightened. “Excuse me? Do you mean Mountain City, Colorado?"

  “No, I'm headed to whatever mountains are the closest. My ticket gets me as far as Raton, New Mexico.” She moved a step closer, her gaze searching his face. “Have you been there?"

  Her strange words pricked his curiosity. What kind of person considered mountains a destination? A person who wanted to hide out. Pushing aside a twinge of disappointment, he nodded. “A time or two."

  “You have?” She laid a hand on his forearm, excitement brightening her gaze. “Are the mountains beautiful?"

  The scent of jasmine floated in the air. His body tensed and his nostrils flared, instinctively breathing in more of this fascinating woman. The clamp on his gut tightened and he felt his member hardening. Damnation. That hadn't happened since he was a randy youngster. He had to stop this type of thinking. “I suppose you've got someone ... a man waiting."

  She stiffened for an instant, narrowed her eyes, then leaned a shoulder against the wall and braced her hand on her left hip. Her gaze boldly assessed him from head to toe. “Nobody's awaitin'. What did you have in mind?"

  The front door banged open and their driver Pete stepped inside. “We're leaving in five minutes, folks."

  Slade barely heard the driver's voice. His mind was numb with the echo of Jessimay's sultry words. His job didn't allow for much time spent in one place, and he'd always vowed not to bring a woman close. He'd been without a woman so long he must have imagined her proposition. “Excuse me, miss?” His words came out partway between a question and a statement. He didn't dare find out what she meant. Before she could respond, he set the cup on the edge of the table and headed toward the back door.

  Outside, he ran a shaky hand through his hair and drew several deep breaths. This was crazy. He could not be responding to a woman he suspected of being a criminal. His hands balled into fists and he stomped to the outhouse.

  Stick to your job, Thomas.

  Minutes later, Slade closed the door to the privy and started back toward the stage stop.

  At the far corner of the building, Jessimay peeked out her head and crooked her finger.

  Intrigued at her odd behavior, he walked in her direction and stopped at a respectable distance. “Do you need assistance?"

  A sly smile crossed her lips. “I'm thinking you're the one who needs help."

  “I don't understand."

  “Sure you do.” She stepped closer, reached out a finger and ran it along his jaw. “Those looks you shot me in the stagecoach were so full of heat I feared your pants might burst into flames."

  His whole body stiffened and his mouth went dry. She'd been aware of his perusal? Had she also figured out the reason for his pretense?

  Her hand traveled down to his chest where she rubbed a small circle. “I see you've removed your vest. Smart man."

  His chest muscles twitched at her touch. Had his jacket opened enough for the badge to be seen? Did she know who he really was? He had to go along with whatever her game was until he knew for sure. Her flowery scent surrounded him, and he swallowed hard before answering, “Because of the heat."

  She caressed his stomach, watching him from under her eyelashes. “I wish I had the same choice. But everyone gets so upset when I just undo a couple of silly buttons."

  Blood pooled in his groin and he swallowed hard, remembering his reaction to those exact loose buttons. “Proper behavior is the mortar of civilization."

  “Oh, I do like listening to a learned man.” Her hand slipped below his belt and cupped him, moving her hand as if weighing his cock. “Mmmm, nice. Is this a display of proper behavior, Mr. Thomas?"

  His eyes drifted shut and he inhaled sharply. For a moment, he allowed himself to enjoy the feel of her soft fingers massaging his hardened shaft. To allow the sensations she created run through his body, to bring light into his dark corners. Then the meaning of her words filtered through the fog in his mind. Who the hell was this woman? He blew out his breath. “Our behavior is not proper. How can you do this, Miss Morgan?"

  “I'm only doing what you so obviously need."

  The velvety purr of her voice reached inside his lonely heart. Gathering every ounce of willpower he possessed, he stepped back. A man with a profession and a past like his couldn't allow a woman to get too close. “You're mistaken, miss."

  With a wrench he felt all the way to his bones, he turned and walked toward the front of the building.

  * * *

  CHAPTER 2

  With hands fisted on her hips, Jazzy could only stare at Slade's straight back and stiff stride. Oh, all right, her gaze was focused a bit lower than his back. She appreciated a fine arrangement of muscle and sinew.

  How dare he! No male had walked away from her. Ever. Not when every boy in school pushed and shoved for the chance to carry her lunch pail. Not when Billy Weston stood up to his daddy to court her. Not even in her terrifying first week as a fifteen-year-old new to the life in Miss Veronica's. A soul-numbing experience that taught her to count on no one but herself.

  She groaned and sagged against the rough-planked building, banging her forehead with both fists. Dumb, dumb, dumb! What had she just done? Her actions had not been those of a genteel lady. Of course, he'd lit out like his boots were on fire. Any proper gentleman would.

  Alone with a male above the age of puberty for only a few minutes and her basest instincts had taken over. In truth, her old habits had been running full steam from the moment that particular man had boarded the stage. Before he'd opened his mouth to greet the others, she'd started sizing him up—judging his worth by the cut of his clothes and the way he conducted himself—and set her asking price. The longer she'd watched, the more she'd been tempted to cut him a deal. In her experience, a truly good-looking male in possession of God-given parts in such fine shape didn't happen by very often.

  “Stagecoach is heading out,” Pete's voice drifted into her thoughts. He stood at the corner of the building and jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “All passengers must board now."

  Huffing short breaths through tight lips, Jazzy squared her shoulders and stomped off toward the stage. She had to put that part of her life behind her. Time to concentrate on her future—a future that involved traveling to a mountain city and opening her own shop.

  Her hand smoothed along the fabric and patted the folds of her skirt, checking for the coins sewn into numerous pockets in her petticoat. A sigh of relief escaped her. As long as she had her money, everything would be okay.

  She rounded the corner of the building and spotted Pete standing beside the open door of the coach. Her steps immediately shortened. She didn't feel up to sharing the small space with that infuriating man. Yet she became aware of a most unexpected heat rising up her neck and into her cheeks. Embarrassment? Not likely. Expectation? Out of the question!

  Pete waved her forward. “There ye be, miss. Thought you'd figured on waiting fer the next coach."

  Had fate intervened with another choice? Hope bubbled in her chest and she stopped a few steps from the door. “There's another one? When?"

  The driver scratched his chin. “In four days."

  Her shoulders slumped. “Oh.” As much as she wanted to avoid Mr. Thomas, she wanted to get on with her new life more.

  “Driver!” Mrs. Harrington stuck her head into the doorway and narrowed her gaze at Jazzy. “Are we still on schedule?"

  Pete's wiry hand at Jazzy's e
lbow guided her into the coach. Being last meant she was wedged in the middle between the quiet woman and the older gentleman.

  “Close enough, Miz Harrington.” Pete crossed his arms and rocked back on the heels of his boots. “Folks, I allowed a bit more time at this stop and may do the same for supper. Been some trouble at a station down the line. Bandits stole the reserve horses, so we may have to stop for the night."

  “Bandits!” several voices chorused.

  Jazzy gasped, her hands freezing in the folds of her skirts. Thieves in the night! A knot formed in her stomach. Her money. Instinctively, her gaze swung to Slade, the most powerful of the group, and she studied his face for a reaction. His jaw tightened, but otherwise his face remained calm.

  Slade's hand gripped the window frame. “Anyone hurt?"

  At the realization she looked at him as a protector, she forced away her gaze and focused on the driver's leathery face. Jazzy relied on Jazzy.

  Pete shook his head. “Naw, the cowards snuck in at night. When they knew there'd be no resistance. If we can't find replacements, we'll have to let the horses rest."

  “This is horrible luck!” Mrs. Harrington stiffened and shifted in her seat, jostling the boy squeezed next to her. “Now we'll be even later."

  “It happens.” Pete stood silent for a moment, then shrugged and moved out of sight. The coach tilted to one side as Pete climbed aboard. A moment later, the whip sounded and the coach lurched forward.

  Jazzy leaned back, her thoughts in a whirl. Would replacements be found? Were they headed into danger? Life outside of Miss Veronica's was surely full of surprises. The thought about her former employer reminded her about Tucker and his solemn intent to marry her! From where she now sat, she couldn't check out a rear window. She'd watched along the back trail for two days and hadn't spotted anyone following the coach. Maybe he'd forgotten all about her.

  With this talk of danger, all the stories of the Wild West came flooding back from the penny novels she'd read. Of hold-ups, thieving bandits and runaway stagecoaches. Although the stories were exciting to read, she'd never put much stock in those stories being true. The other passengers seemed concerned aplenty about Pete's news.

  Minutes dragged with not one spoken word. Each passenger digested the driver's information in his or her own way. Indirect glances skittered away. Positions shifted on the hard seats. Fingers tugged on bonnet ties. Knees bounced, shoes tapped.

  The quiet tension gnawed on Jazzy's nerves and she edged forward. What would happen later on the trip would happen, whether she worried on it or not. Might as well start figuring out what type of shop could be profitable. “Mrs. Harrington, your traveling suit looks to be so much in fashion. Tell me about the type of shop where you bought it."

  With an intake of breath and a pleased smile, Mrs. Harrington brushed a hand down the front of her navy blue jacket. “Do you like it? I've just come from a visit with my sister, who lives in St. Louis. She wore one in a deep forest green to an afternoon tea during my stay. The cut was all wrong for her, but she wouldn't listen to my suggestions.” She adjusted the folds of her skirt and glanced up. “I believe the style suits me better."

  Jazzy wrinkled her brows at the expectant look on the woman's face, waiting for the rest of the information she sought. Oh! “Yes, the style truly does compliment you.” Making polite conversation sure made a body pay attention.

  “I knew I must have the same pattern. So I provided the expertise and her modiste stitched it."

  A dressmaker. Jazzy leaned forward in her seat. A dressmaking shop. If the amounts she and the ladies had spent were any indication, a dress shop could turn a handsome profit. In her first months at Miss Veronica's, she'd earned her room and board by keeping the ladies’ clothes in good repair. Recently she'd only lifted a needle to stitch on accent lace or bows. Maybe with practice, her stitching could improve. She made a mental note to look into the rates dressmakers charged.

  The stage jostled through a rut and she braced her feet on the floorboards to steady herself. She glanced at the woman on her right and noticed the crisp fabric of her dress. The color was all wrong for the woman's complexion, the fit was bad, and the style definitely needed a touch of some lace or bows to perk it up.

  Jazzy angled her shoulders to peer around the brim of the woman's bonnet and smiled. “I don't believe we've been introduced. I'm Jessimay Morgan."

  The woman started, her pale blue eyes flicked up to Jazzy's, then away. “How do you do? I'm Sarah Whitfield."

  The skin along Jazzy's neck tingled and instinct told her Slade had turned his gaze on her face. She refused to respond. If she did, she'd get too distracted. This conversation was her salvation from thinking about her stupid actions with that man.

  Jazzy pushed her lips into a wide smile and plunged ahead. “Where are you from, Sarah?"

  “Kansas."

  “I'm from right here in Texas, born and raised.” Finding out a body's birthplace or hometown was the secret of opening conversation. Get the man to talk about himself—that's what the ladies back at Miss Veronica's had taught her before her first night of entertaining gentlemen. Jazzy supposed the same worked with women. “I enter—, uh, met someone from Kansas once. He talked about the flat land and the constant wind. Was your part of Kansas like that?"

  Sarah's eyes flicked up again and widened. “Um, I grew up in a city."

  Jazzy drew in a breath. “Oh, which one? Kansas City? Wichita? Topeka? Are cities like those just the most excitin’ places you ever saw?"

  The woman hesitated, a frown wrinkling her brow. Her arms tightened on the satchel in her lap. “I'm heading to a quieter life."

  “I'm askin’ because I'm interested in your dress. It looks new and I admire the fabric.” Mercy, she sounded like a pesky busybody. “I'm wondering about the type of shop where you bought it."

  Sarah's gaze swept the other passengers before she spoke. “I picked this up in a mercantile in Oklahoma City. To wear when I meet the man I'm traveling to marry."

  A mercantile! Jazzy felt her breath quicken. She was on the right track. “A wedding, how exciting. So, the dress is ready-made? Would I be too bold to ask how much you paid for it?"

  Sarah's lips twitched. “Seven dollars and fifty cents."

  “Really?” Jazzy focused on the plain woman. “Was that full price? Or did you try to bargain? Back home, the ladies, um, my friends and I never paid full price for our clothes. We could always work out a deal with the mercantile owner."

  The other woman drew back, eyes wide in surprise, and shook her head. “Full price!"

  Mrs. Harrington gasped and covered her son's ears.

  From the corner of her eye, Jazzy saw Slade turn his head, his dark-eyed gaze intent on her.

  Why in the world was a man like him so interested in women's fashion?

  * * * *

  At the sight of buildings on the horizon, Slade let out a relieved breath. Soon he'd put needed distance between himself and the infuriating, but bewitching, Miss Morgan.

  Most women would have clammed up from embarrassment after pulling the crazy stunt she had. Not this female. She'd tangled gazes with him only a few times during the afternoon drive, but not once had he detected a single sign of regret. If he hadn't been the recipient of her caresses ... His mind drifted to the gentle rubbing of her soft hand on his hard cock. To his body's instant response to her touch. To the few seconds of pure pleasure that had flooded him.

  On a reflex, his gaze shifted to Jazzy's side of the coach. He noticed her open smile and the sassy jut of her chin, and the way her hands moved when she talked. Heat again filled his groin. Damn! He had no right to think of her in that way. With as natural a movement as he could manage, he raised a knee and shifted his butt on the coach's hard cushion to lessen the pressure from his trousers.

  He could allow himself no carnal lusting after a woman under suspicion of being the wanted bank robber. A woman innocent of the subterfuge necessary to get away with such a crime would n
ever have been intimidated by Mrs. Harrington's comments. Surely her conversation about women's fashions had involved more than innocent questions. Her questions kept coming back to seek information about opening a business. A logical inquiry only for someone who possessed a great quantity of money.

  When the women's discussion unraveled into comparisons of fabrics, laces, buttons, and bows, he'd closed off his mind to their chatter. Concentrating on the known facts, he ran the pieces of information through his mind, searching for the one detail that would pinpoint which woman was the culprit.

  The stage slowed and the driver hollered for the horses to stop. For a moment no one moved, as if each savored the quiet, a welcome reprieve from the endless jostling, creaking harnesses, clopping hoof beats, and the crunch of ironclad wheels on rocks. Stillness settled over the passengers, quickly followed by a layer of road dust.

  Pete thumped the roof of the coach. “This here's Silveridge, our stop for the night. Rooms are let at Ella's boardinghouse down the street on your left."

  Mrs. Harrington shook her son's shoulders and nudged him upright. “Get up and open the door, Chester. We must hurry to get the pick of rooms."

  Yawning, the boy rubbed fists in his half-opened eyes and fumbled with the door.

  “Allow me, son.” Slade reached over and turned the handle.

  Mrs. Harrington bustled past his outstretched hand, a frown pinching her mouth tight. “Take Mother's hand, Chester. No dilly-dallying. We want to have first choice of rooms."

  Slade eased his frame through the door and arched his back against the aches that had settled there hours before. A day on horseback never bothered him. But the same time spent traveling by stage, forcing his long legs into a narrow space, made him feel as tightly wound as a new spring.

  A rustling of fabric from behind brought his attention to the remaining women. He turned to offer a hand to Miss Whitfield, but Mr. Denton must have assisted the ladies.