Stagecoach Capture

by Layla Chase

  From another room, a clock started to chime. Pete tossed back the last of his coffee and stood. “Fifteen minutes, folks. We'll be rollin’ at quarter past the hour."

  She shook away thoughts of Slade and willed herself to think only of her plan for her future. Her hand crept to the pockets of money hidden in her skirts and her resolve deepened. With her precious savings, she was free to start a new life. And this time, the choice of how she earned her money was hers and hers alone.

  Jessimay Morgan counted only on herself ... and no man, not even Slade Thomas, was going to change that.

  * * * *

  Across the street from the boardinghouse, Slade leaned against an awning support and watched the stagecoach. He counted himself lucky the sheriff had deferred to the jurisdiction of the US marshal's office on the bank robber case. Not all law enforcement individuals Slade had met were as reasonable. The minute he'd finished with the sheriff and headed back toward the chatter of voices in the dining room, he'd known he couldn't make polite conversation around a breakfast table—not after last night with Jazzy. He'd used the back hallway to exit through the kitchen, grabbing a handful of Ella's biscuits and an apple before scooting out into the fresh air.

  His actions from the previous night weighed heavily. He'd had a suspect in hand, bound in the iron grips of justice, and he'd released her from those metal restraints. That had never happened before. Shouldn't have happened. Nor could he let it happen again.

  Of course, none of the criminals he'd ever taken in had eyes bluer than Texas bluebonnets, hair the color of Kansas prairie grass that rippled in golden waves, or lips redder than Indian paintbrushes.

  He rolled his eyes. Jesus, man! He'd gone as poetic as a schoolboy in knee britches. Plus he'd recited Shakespeare to the woman.

  But more than her good looks and fetching smile, she had an unbounded and irresistible spirit. Not only had she been delightfully adventurous under the sheets, willing to try whatever he suggested, but she'd aroused him like no other woman before had even come close. He'd never forget the way she'd come apart at the touch of his hand.

  Uncrossing his boots, he moved his legs apart on the warped boards of the sidewalk to ease the pressure in his groin. No good would come from getting himself fired up with heated memories of their late-night romps. Today's travel would prove trying enough without having to hide his vigorous physical reaction to the sweet Miss Morgan.

  Pete exited the boardinghouse and walked to the head of the team, a hand patting the horses as he moved. He scratched the lead horse's forehead and started checking the harnesses.

  Slade stepped into the packed dirt of the roadway, eyed the street for early morning wagons or riders, and quickly crossed. “'Mornin', Pete. Can I help?"

  Pete turned and smiled, the wrinkles around his eyes deepening into crevasses. “Howdy, Slade. I'm superstitious about checking the tack myself. But I wouldn't stop ya from loading the baggage."

  Slade walked around to the back of the coach, grabbed his case from under a bench and loaded it in the box. As the other passengers stepped onto the sidewalk, he grabbed their satchels and fitted them on the top rack as best he could, watching the females with renewed interest.

  Jazzy was the last to exit the building and their gazes tangled for only a moment. A hesitant smile twitched at the corner of her lips and she tugged at the dress's collar.

  He smiled, dipped his chin and let his gaze take in the woman from head to toe. Damn, the dress she wore was all tucked in and buttoned up and had her looking as virtuous and pious as a Sunday school teacher. Where was the wanton beauty who'd filled his arms just hours ago? Could he stop himself from asking her that exact question?

  She took a few steps toward him, as if wanting to converse. What could he possibly say to explain his actions? He stood rooted to the spot and kept his head down, concentrating on the luggage. He wanted to assure her that he didn't normally invade women's bedrooms. But raising that subject could brew questions about why he had been there in the first place. He couldn't afford to tip her off about being a robbery suspect in his investigation. Not before he knew for sure, before he found the needed proof.

  The scent of jasmine he'd forever link to Jazzy drifted to his nostrils, sparking simultaneous aches in his heart and points south. In that moment, he was sure he couldn't preserve either of their reputations if he had to ride for hours looking at her. Each whiff of her perfume would remind him of every body part with that scent he'd kissed. The torment could drive him crazy!

  He needed time and room to think. “Hey, Pete, mind if I ride up top? I'd like seeing the countryside today."

  From the corner of his eye, he spotted the snap of Jazzy's blonde head and thought he saw disappointment drop her mouth open. In an instant, she squared her shoulders and marched into the coach, skirts swishing behind her like an angry rattler.

  Not the hardest decision he'd ever made, but maybe the smartest. Without a doubt, the safest.

  * * *

  CHAPTER 6

  Slade's snub hurt, but she wasn't about to let him see that. Jazzy ducked her head and stepped up into the darkened stagecoach. After a quick glance at the other passengers, she flounced into the nearest corner.

  From outside, Pete called, “Hup!” to the horses and the coach lurched into motion.

  The jerky movement forced her forward and she grabbed onto the doorframe to keep from sliding off the seat. Being forced to ride facing backwards was one more thing she could heap on Slade's shoulders. If she hadn't dawdled over her breakfast hoping to catch a word with him, she would have had a better seat choice. With a yank, she straightened her skirts, wishing her rampant feelings were as easy to control.

  Jaw clamped tight with irritation, she muttered with each movement. “How dare he!” She ran a hand down the skirt front. “Just like all the others,” she groused, and tucked the puffy petticoat under her saying, “With hardly a howdy-do.” With surreptitious movements, she checked for her precious stash of coins.

  “Excuse me, Miss Morgan. Are you speaking to me?"

  At the sound of Mrs. Harrington's voice, Jazzy's head snapped up, and she looked at the amused gazes turned her way. She forced her lips into a strained smile. “I've got a little ol’ bee in my bonnet, but nothing for y'all to worry about."

  “Well, if it has anything to do with the state of last night's accommodations, I'd have to agree.” Mrs. Harrington shook her head and lifted her nose even higher than usual in the air. “That was the lumpiest mattress I've slept on in years."

  At the woman's mention of a mattress, Jazzy's thoughts flashed to the previous night. As mad as she was, she couldn't stop from thinking of the fun and games that had taken place in her room. Or of her and Slade's naked bodies moving over every square inch of her mattress. And the last thing she'd been paying attention to was if the mattress was lumpy or sagging or hard.

  “And the bed frame screeched like a banshee.” She sighed heavily, lifting a hand to push at a stray lock of hair. “I heard that horrible sound every time Miss Whitfield or I turned over. I tell you my nerves are frayed this morning."

  Jazzy stilled. Had the bed in her room made noise? Had she and Slade announced their lovemaking with squeaks from her iron bed frame? She closed her eyes and her mind instantly filled with images of Slade's tanned skin, muscles, and dark hair. Such a handsome man. All Jazzy remembered were the uneven breaths and exclamations of a healthy man and woman enjoying the ages-old rhythmic dance of lovers.

  “Miss Morgan? Did you hear my question?"

  Jazzy stiffened and shook her head to dispel the pictures. “I'm sorry, I ... my mind wandered, Mrs. Harrington. What did you say?"

  Mrs. Harrington frowned and peered closer. “My, my, you do look tired. You must have spent a sleepless night, too."

  Jazzy forced her immediate giggle into an exaggerated yawn, hoping the woman would quit talking. Rather than listening to Mrs. Harrington's petty complaints, Jazzy had to make a plan. She needed to figure out
what she could possibly say to Slade that would keep him from realizing what her behavior said about her past. No matter how much fun they'd had in that upstairs boardinghouse bedroom, those kind of games were part of her past and didn't fit with her future.

  When she left Miss Veronica's Pleasure Emporium, she'd vowed to hold her behavior to a higher moral standard. She wanted to learn to be a proper lady—one who would blend in with the working people of a friendly town. Last night had been a stumble backwards, but she was the one in control of her own life once again. Now that she knew Slade wouldn't acknowledge her with the same courtesy he gave other women, he could die hoping for a repeat performance.

  Even if she still yearned for the man who'd become so special in just one night.

  “Did you see the handbill Pete had?"

  Jazzy pinched her leg as punishment for letting her thoughts stray again. With a sigh, she turned her head toward the insistent woman and brought her attention to the present. “Handbill? I don't believe I did."

  Mrs. Harrington leaned forward, squirming with excitement. “Actually, it was a wanted poster."

  The small boy on the bench next to the woman looked up, his blue eyes shining. “I seed it and told Mama. It was fer a wady wobber."

  “Chester, Mother was speaking.” Mrs. Harrington drew the boy closer to her side and covered his mouth. “Little boys are to be seen and not heard."

  The coach bumped into a rut and jostled the occupants against one another. Apologies murmured all around.

  “A lady robber?” Dread tightened her stomach and Jazzy glanced at the other passengers, who all nodded in agreement. “I didn't know."

  Mr. Denton cleared his throat and tapped his cane on the coach floor. “I've never heard of such impudence! What is the world coming to when women don't know their proper place?"

  Sarah Whitfield settled her handbag more securely at her side. “I wonder if that's why the sheriff stopped by. Maybe he'd intended to speak with us, but was distracted by whatever business Mr. Thomas needed to discuss."

  These were the longest sentences Jazzy had heard Sarah speak. Obviously, this was big news. “Did he tell you why he was interested?"

  Sarah sniffed and shrugged. “Something about a resemblance to the robber's description and drawing."

  Annoyance shot through Jazzy. Not only did she not get to see and speak to Slade, but she'd obviously missed something mighty interesting. Maybe that explained why Slade had chosen to ride outside. He could be getting additional information from Pete. She leaned back and contemplated what this could all mean, bouncing against the coach wall with each bump in the road.

  “Folks,” Pete's shout interrupted. “Trouble's acomin'."

  Jazzy lifted the shade and peered out, but all she saw were mesquite bushes, reddish dirt and plenty of rocks.

  A dark figure brushed past the window and bumped against the side of the coach.

  “Who?” She gasped and shrank back.

  The door was wrenched open, letting in a dusty breeze. Slade dropped onto the middle bench, his hat gripped in a hand.

  “Well,” Mrs. Harrington gasped. “I never—"

  “Listen. All of you.” Slade bit off his words and his scowl silenced the passengers.

  Jazzy couldn't take her gaze off him. A muscle jumped in his clenched jaw and his mouth was drawn into a thin line. His forceful gaze shifted between the shade he held away from the door and the people inside the coach. The man crouched just inches away was almost a stranger, yet she knew him intimately. His tightly held body, ready for action, seemed so different from the languid man she'd shared a bed with the night before.

  “Riders approaching from the west.” Urgency clipped his words. “Three, maybe four, and they're coming fast."

  Sarah's hand crept to her throat. “What does this mean?"

  Jazzy didn't need an explanation. Her money! Slowly and as if it moved on its own, Jazzy's hand went to the line of pockets she'd sewn into her petticoats and fingered her cache of coins. She'd sacrificed five years of her life for this money and she couldn't lose it. Not when it represented her chance for a new life.

  Slade's alert gaze followed her movements and one dark eyebrow quirked. His eyes held a question.

  For an instant, her hand froze, then she smoothed her wrinkled skirt. Well, at least he was looking her in the eye again. As much as she told herself to ignore it, she couldn't fight back a trill of excitement.

  He turned away, his gaze scanning the people leaning toward him. “If there's trouble, do what you're told and give them what they want."

  Mrs. Harrington drew herself up. “Are you telling us these riders intend to rob us?"

  He gave a sharp nod. “Most likely. They'll grab what valuables they can easily find and be gone."

  “Bandits?” Sarah's eyes were wide as she looked at the other passengers and she let out a strangled laugh. “In the desert?"

  Slade frowned at the suddenly pale woman and glanced at Jazzy. His dark gaze held hers, as if assuring himself she could handle what was happening.

  The connection between them was back, like it had been the previous night. From deep inside, she felt a growing heat, but wished she could read his expression more clearly. Was the concern in his gaze for her as a passenger, or as someone who was special?

  The sharp report of two gunshots sounded. Pete called out a loud, “Whoa.” The stagecoach pulled to a hasty stop, nearly tossing the rear passengers onto those in the front seat.

  Slade's hand slapped at his right hip, then stopped, his eyes scanning the interior of the coach before his hand rested on his thigh. “Do any of you have a gun?"

  Jazzy glanced between his hand and his face and raised her eyebrows.

  The interior went silent as people just stared. No weapons were dug from within reticules or from inside jacket pockets.

  He grimaced and shook his head, then spoke in a calm, but commanding, voice, “Remember, folks, just give them whatever they want. No necklace or pocket watch is worth your safety."

  Jazzy marveled at the strength in his voice. This man was used to being in charge and expected others to obey his orders. Goose flesh rose on her arms and a warm, wet thrill zapped straight to the apex of her thighs.

  She went weak in the knees for a man who took control.

  Something thumped twice against the outside of the stage and the door yanked open. Leading with a large pistol, a man with dark eyes and thick eyebrows stuck his head in the opening. A bandana covered the lower part of his face. “Get outside, form a line and keep your hands where we can see them.” He stepped back and cocked the gun's hammer. “Hurry."

  As Jazzy looked through the open door, she felt dread weigh heavily in the pit of her stomach. Three mounted riders, with guns drawn, watched in half-circle formation from twenty feet away. Their faces were covered with bandanas like the first.

  Definitely a bad situation.

  Quickly, she tumbled behind her fellow passengers—including Slade—from the coach onto the rocky soil and stood with her hands raised. Her stomach knotted. She was counting on the man of action she'd glimpsed a moment ago having a plan for getting them all out of this situation alive. Hopefully with her small savings of coins intact! Glancing up, she tried to spot her carpetbag on the top of the coach. Would they search the bags, too?

  Pete narrowed his gaze at her and jutted his chin, repeatedly shifting his eyes toward Slade.

  Why was the stage drive looking to Slade for answers?

  “All right, folks.” Mr. Mustache called for their attention in a gravelly voice. “We want your jewelry and your money. All of it. Rings, timepieces, necklaces ... take them off and drop them in this here hat I'm passing. Do it fast and there won't be no problems."

  This was really happening. A robbery. Her mouth went bone dry and her legs trembled, threatening to give out. These despicable men, who looked like they hadn't bathed in weeks, were trying to steal the money she worked so hard for years to earn. With shaky hands, Jazz
y struggled with the clasp of the gold locket she wore. Maybe they'd be satisfied with what they took off the passengers and leave.

  The man paused in front of her, his gaze moving over the other people. “Give me the necklace, lady."

  The nerve! This locket had cost her three nights’ wages. “Don't rush me.” Her fingers fumbled with the clasp.

  The man stopped and leaned only inches from her face, his slitted gaze as cold as a snake's. “I'm giving the orders."

  The stench of sweaty male and unwashed clothes rose in her nostrils and she swallowed hard against gagging. Breathing through her mouth, she wrenched at the clasp. “It's stuck."

  The man closed his hand around the locket and yanked the chain downward. When the chain broke, his hand grazed her bust, and he leered in a yellowed, snaggle-toothed grin.

  Jazzy heard one of the women gasp. Although her skin crawled, she only stared at the man. She refused to give him the satisfaction of reacting to her broken necklace or to his unwanted touch.

  He tossed the locket in his hand and grinned. “Hey, we got us a feisty one."

  Out of the corner of her eye, she saw a quick movement and sensed it was Slade.

  A fidgety rider urged his equally nervous horse forward. “Stand where you are, mister."

  She didn't dare lose her head of steam so she refrained from looking Slade's way. The bandits could have her jewelry and the money in her handbag—she could manage without those. But not her savings. She had to figure out a diversion to keep them from searching her clothing.

  The man moved close and pointed a dirty finger toward her ears. “Now, those fancy ear things.” As he waited, his leering gaze ran over her face.

  Although she'd had men look at her in this impersonal way many times before, something deep inside snapped. No more would she be the victim or helpless in the face of such a man. Reaching to pull off the ear bobs, she burned his image into her memory, starting with the color of his hair, the exact shade of his eyes, and the mole on his left temple.