Stagecoach Capture

by Layla Chase

  “Mrs. Harrington this and Mrs. Harrington that.” She shook her head and mumbled as she filled her hands with garments. “Let me tell you something, Mr. Thomas. You're not the lord of the manor and I'm not a serving girl for you to order about."

  “Ah, Slade, there's one that's not on our list.” Jazzy's words were barely above a whisper.

  Slade let Mrs. Harrington's grumbling roll off him. He cut a glance at Jazzy and bit back a curse at the pallor of her face. Whoever approached the house would arrive whether he watched or not. He had enough to deal with inside these four walls. And that meant tending Jazzy. “Come help me, Mrs. Harrington.” He speared her with a dark look. “Now."

  Mrs. Harrington stopped at the side of the table, a wad of red silk in her hand.

  “Oh, my favorite petticoat.” Jazzy raised a limp hand toward the garment.

  His chest tightened. His doctoring skills weren't worth a damn, but there was no one else. “Tell me where you're hurt. Look at me, Jazzy."

  “I'm looking.” Her head angled toward his voice, and she blinked several times before forcing her eyes wide open. “Hi, Slade."

  “Hey, darlin'.” To keep his expression neutral and his words soothing just about killed him. “I've got to find your wound and see how bad it is. I don't have time to undress you carefully."

  “Could ... be ... fun."

  Mrs. Harrington sucked in a gasp. “Scandalous! I won't be a party to—"

  “Good.” He silenced her with a menacing glare. “You can stand guard on the bandits over there.” Slade slapped the pistol into her outstretched hand and wrapped her other hand around it. “The hammer is already back. Just keep it pointed at those two in that corner.” He narrowed his gaze in the direction of the no-count thieves. “If either of them moves, pull back on the trigger. And for God's sakes, don't shoot one of us!"

  Shaking her head, Mrs. Harrington stepped back and lowered the weapon. “But ... I don't think—"

  Slade yanked her arms, lining up her outstretched hands with the corner. He gave her a stony stare and ground out the words, “Just do it.” He waited for her answering nod, knowing he would accept no resistance.

  With relief, he turned his attention back to Jazzy and slipped a knife from his pocket. A couple of quick slashes at the hem, then he tore the skirt fabric up to the charred bullet hole. On her green petticoat underneath was a growing bloodstain.

  His worst fear was confirmed. The bullet had hit her.

  “Oh, Slade, why did you ruin my new dress?” Jazzy levered up to one elbow and gazed down at her clothes. Her eyes widened at the bloody mess and she sucked in a quick breath. “Is all that blood mine? I can't stand ... Oooh...” Her words faded, then she fell back on the table, her head thumping hollowly against the wooden surface.

  He froze and fought back panic, trying to convince himself this new situation was better. Now he could tend to her wound without worrying about increasing her pain. With quick strokes, he pierced the next layer of silky fabric and cut, his progress stopped in places by some damn metal supports. Trying not to think about whose blood covered the petticoat he held, he concentrated on not cutting Jazzy's skin.

  Outside, hooves thundered close and slowed to a stop.

  At this point, US Marshal Thomas didn't care enough to face the door. All Slade's attention was on the woman stretched out on the table. He placed the back of his hand between her breasts and felt her chest move with each shallow breath. Good, keep breathing. That's half the battle.

  “Hello in the house.” A gruff voice boomed from outside. “I'm Sheriff Simmons from Silveridge."

  Help had arrived. Slade's over-tense muscles started to relax. The load he'd been shouldering alone lightened. “Hello, Sheriff. US Marshal Thomas. We spoke at Ella's boardinghouse. Got three stagecoach bandits in here, one's unconscious in a back room."

  “The driver Pete told us they were headed this way.” The voice was confident and definitely closer.

  Good old Pete. Slade lifted away the petticoat, curious at its weight, and exposed an angry gash that ran upwards high on Jazzy's hip. He dipped a strip in the water and dabbed at the slash in her pantalettes to clean away the blood. “Got two coach passengers here, too. One's been shot. Can't tell how bad."

  “Thomas, I'm coming in."

  Slade stepped in between the table and the door to block Jazzy's partially disrobed body from the doorway, then glanced over his shoulder. “Come on in."

  The room dimmed as the tall man, gun moving in a slow, sweeping arc, paused in the doorway.

  A single glance told Slade his fellow lawman was in control of the room. “Obliged if you'd relieve my guard there.” He cut his gaze toward Mrs. Harrington, whose arms were shaking from the effort of keeping the gun steady.

  Simmons scanned the room, nodded and gestured to someone still outside. “Pete said three women were on the stage. Where's the third?"

  Another man entered the house, stepped to Mrs. Harrington and eased the gun from her shaky hand.

  Good, now Slade could concentrate on what was truly important. He pressed the bandage tighter against Jazzy's hip. “Turned out the third passenger, a seemingly timid Miss Whitfield, fooled me. She's the woman on the wanted poster. While I was"—the memory of his body pressed close to Jazzy's against the wall flashed through his mind and he cleared his throat before continuing—"occupied with a third stage robber in the back room, she drew down on the bandits. I couldn't get close enough to disarm her. Unfortunately, she wasn't fooling about her aim. Shot once into the group, hit this lady with her bullet, then escaped."

  The sheriff stepped back to the door and hollered, “Got a female loose and set on escaping. Send Jimmy Greenbush to scout tracks moving away from the cabin. Then send Taylor in here ... and tell him to bring his bag."

  Slade jerked up his head, afraid to believe. “You got a doctor with you?"

  “Sure do.” Simmons pushed his hat back on his forehead. “Doc Taylor's ridden with every posse for as long as I can remember."

  Relief flooded through Slade and he leaned a hip against the table, not trusting his suddenly shaky legs. Help was here for his Jazzy girl.

  A gray-haired man crossed the floor with surprising speed, his assessing gaze taking in the situation. “Fainted?"

  “Yeah, a few minutes now. She was talking fine, even joking a bit and then she just...” He swallowed hard, pushing away the dread that threatened to choke off his throat.

  “Move away, son. I'll take over.” The doctor's lips curled into a tight grin. He set his bag on the corner of the table and removed his jacket. “Go get some coffee or have a smoke. This may be a while."

  Slade stepped back enough to give the doctor room to do what was necessary, but he didn't leave. Moving to the opposite side of the table, he clasped her hand. He'd promised Jazzy he'd be there by her side and he'd meant it.

  * * * *

  Muffled voices speaking too slowly reached her ears. A sharp smell tingled the inside of her nose. She shifted and a fiery pain ran along her left hip. A groan slipped through her clenched lips. Lordy, had that croak come from her mouth?

  A firm hand held her leg in place. “Lie still. Doc's helping you."

  She knew that voice. “Slade?"

  “I'm right here, Jazzy. I didn't go anywhere."

  A calloused finger brushed her check, and her heart warmed at the sound of his familiar voice, at his touch that set her heart racing with even the most casual of caresses.

  Why did she need a doctor? She struggled to lift her eyelids. The sunlight filtering through the open doorway stabbed her eyes. Her hip burned, her head pounded, and her whole body ached.

  A warm hand rested on hers and squeezed. “What do you need, Jazzy girl?"

  “Water."

  A strong arm slipped under her shoulders and lifted her several inches. Ah, the scent that was her Slade—leather and coffee and the special musk that was his alone. A cool metal cup pressed against her lips and then sweet water flowed
into her dry mouth. Too soon it stopped. “More."

  “Later.” Slade's word tickled her cheek.

  She tried to nestle closer to his voice, but felt only empty air. Disappointment nagged at her thoughts. Why wasn't Slade next to her?

  “Doc isn't done yet."

  She opened her eyes enough to focus on Slade's face. His brows were tangled into a deep frown. “Done with what?"

  “Don't you remember?” He narrowed his gaze and stared hard, then jerked up his head and focused on a point above her. “Hey, Doc, is that normal?"

  At that moment, she felt a tug at her hip and gasped. A cool breeze brushed along her bare leg. Why was her skirt up and her leg displayed?

  “How's she doing, Doc?"

  She started at the question spoken by a stranger's voice and grabbed at her skirt to cover her exposed skin. “Slade, who is that?"

  “The sheriff from Silveridge.” He flashed her a grin and squeezed her hand. “He's come to help with the bandits."

  Bandits?

  “Sheriff, I've tied them up. Should I take them outside?"

  Another stranger? Jazzy levered herself up on one elbow and looked around Slade to where a second strange man stood, gun drawn. “Just how many people are in this cabin? And me lying here in torn clothing."

  “Hello, Miss Morgan.” Mrs. Harrington leaned forward in her chair and waved her hand in weak greeting.

  Seeing the ornery woman brought the events of the past day flooding back. The stagecoach, the dirty men who'd hijacked them, the despicable one who beat Slade, the torn shreds of petticoat she'd left as a trail, the sight of lusty men pawing through—

  Her belongings! Jazzy sat upright, ignoring the sudden pinch in her skin as her hip bent. Panic settled in her stomach. “Where's my money?"

  “Lay back.” Slade's words were harsh. “What money?"

  Jazzy barely noticed his change in tone. She scanned the table and a nearby chair. Where was her petticoat? The petticoat with hand-sewn pockets for all her money. Five years of savings couldn't be lost! With her fist gathering the cloth of her skirt at her hip, she slid down from the table and her knees buckled.

  A hand clasped her arm and steadied her. “Whoa, little lady. Where are you going?"

  Why was the floor moving? Buzzing sounded in her ears. “I've got to find my money."

  “Hold on.” The older man's words cajoled. “You've got to stay right here and rest. Your money isn't the most important thing right now."

  She reeled on her feet and grabbed the edge of the table, closing her eyes to stop the dizziness. Stay here ... money ... important ... Those words circled in her head, as if trying to outrace one another. Then thoughts clicked into their proper places and a feeling like she'd never known filled her from the inside out.

  Slade had stayed at her side when she'd been injured. He hadn't chased after Sarah and the bank's money. He should have gone because that was his job, and Slade Thomas was a man whose job was most important.

  Her heart raced and a thrill ran over her skin. He cared more for her than he did for his duties. That had to be why he'd stayed. She fought to hold on to the wonderful discovery that this strong, protective man cared for her. Jessimay Morgan, the little lost orphan, finally had someone who cared.

  From behind her, Slade cleared his throat. “I asked you, what money?” His words were steely cold.

  She turned and looked into the face of the lawman she'd glimpsed on the stagecoach the first day. US Marshal Slade Thomas—watchful and distant.

  His shuttered gaze shriveled her joy like a late frost on the first buds of spring. This relationship was hopeless. She couldn't deny she loved this wonderful man, but now doubted any good would come of such a foolish emotion. What would an honest man like Slade want with a woman who'd invited men who could pay the right price into her bed? A woman who'd spent the past five years on her back so she could afford a stagecoach ticket headed toward an uncertain future?

  She breathed deeply and pulled her spine straight, swaying backwards. She'd started this trip alone and she was strong enough to finish it the same way. True, she might have an empty hole where her heart used to be, but she'd finish what she started. Squaring her shoulders, she jutted out her chin. “The money I need to start my new life."

  He shook his head and stepped closer, concern warming his gaze. “Forget about it, Jazzy. Sit yourself in that chair before you fall down."

  She refused to acknowledge the caring tone in his words. Better not get distracted by what won't be there in the end. “I'm fine. If you'd worked as hard as I did for that money, you wouldn't be quick to forget it. I earned every last nickel.” With a toss of her head, she gazed around the small cabin and spotted her petticoat in a heap under the table. When she leaned over to grab it, the floor wavered and she dropped to one knee before both legs collapsed.

  A strong hand grasped her upper arm and held her steady. “Damn it, woman. Why won't you listen?"

  His scent wrapped around her and she inhaled, fearing this was the last time he'd willingly touch her. “Oh, I've gone from Jazzy girl to damn woman. I'm not surprised.” At least, he'd stayed long enough to make sure she got help—a gesture she'd always remember.

  “What are you rambling about?"

  “I am not rambling. Maybe a few minutes ago, my thoughts were fanciful.” She yanked her arm from his grasp and forced herself to stand upright, the petticoat held tight in her hand. Pressing it against her exposed thigh, she grabbed handfuls of cloth and let out a sigh of relief when her fingers outlined the large coins. Her money was safe. “Look, it's right here.” She extended her arm and shook the petticoat in the air. “I've got my priorities in order again. I remember what's important, and the most important thing is my freedom."

  A frown creased Slade's forehead and his lips drew into a tight line. “Jazzy, you've had a scare—"

  “Thomas,” Sheriff Simmons called from across the room, “you coming?"

  Slade glanced over his shoulder. “Hold on a bit.” When he turned back, his expression had softened. “The sheriff is probably reorganizing the posse. Why don't you lie down in the bedroom?"

  Now that she knew her future was still hers to guide, weariness flooded her limbs. She was so tired and only heard his last words. Irritation tightened her grip on her petticoat. Was he no better than her previous customers? Had she been mistaken about thinking he cared for her? “Hoping for a last tumble before joining the posse? Off to chase the glory that's due you?"

  He cupped her shoulders and held her in his firm grasp until she met his gaze. “Why are you talking like this?"

  Didn't he know she was only trying to save her pride? Even though she yearned to be pulled tight against his body and surrounded by his strength. She had to build a protective covering over her heart so the sight of him walking out of her life didn't devastate her. If she heaped his image with enough mud, she might bear living without him in the long empty years that stretched ahead.

  Suddenly, her body ached for one last embrace. One last time to be held and cherished. Tempted by the memory of how safe she'd felt in his arms, she glanced into his eyes and swayed forward.

  “That's it. I'm putting you to bed.” Slade scooped her into his arms and strode across the room, using her extended feet to push wide the door into the back room. He lowered her to the ticking, pulled the petticoat from her grasp and tossed it on a nearby chair. From the foot of the mattress, he yanked off a thin blanket, shook it vigorously and covered her body. “You're so tired, you're talking nonsense. I've got business to discuss with the sheriff before I come back and set things right with you.” With a clenched jaw and lowered eyebrows, he pointed a finger in her direction. “Stay here until I tell you to get up."

  For a moment, Jazzy thrilled at his masterful manner. Memories of their time together at the boardinghouse flashed through her mind. What wouldn't she give to repeat that wonderful night? Maybe she could convince Slade to join her here in the bed when he was finished with th
e sheriff. What were those new playacting roles Mrs. Harrington mentioned?

  “Jazzy, promise me."

  Weariness dragged at her thoughts and she shook her head. “Promise what?"

  He drew a hand down his face and narrowed his gaze. “That you'll rest until I get back. Then we have to set some things straight."

  Cold dread settled on her thoughts. Saints alive, had he found out about her past? She forced a thin smile to her lips and nodded. What were her chances of copying Sarah's escape?

  * * *

  CHAPTER 11

  Slade barely heard the instructions Sheriff Simmons relayed to the men of the posse crowded in the dusty yard. The man sounded competent enough and the others appeared willing to carry out his instructions. For once, Slade didn't mind letting someone else take the lead. His thoughts were in the back room of this ramshackle cabin. More particularly, with the spitfire of a stubborn woman who made him crazy with the burning need to protect her.

  Doc had warned him the blow to Jazzy's head might muddy her thoughts for a spell. Her talk about starting a new life and freedom was all-wrong. Hadn't she already realized their futures were linked? Wasn't that what their night together had meant? Truth be told, he admitted to himself, he hadn't exactly spoken any tender words of promise or the future. In his mind, however, their shared passion counted more than any flowery words ever could.

  “Thomas.” The tall lawman stood staring at Slade, arms crossed, eyebrows slanted at a quizzical angle.

  Ignoring the man's knowing look, Slade pulled his thoughts back to the job at hand. Once he'd dealt with his final obligation involving the sheriff and the bank robber on the loose, he could concentrate on what really mattered. Or rather, whom. “Sheriff."

  “Do you have any changes to my plan?"

  Plan? What had the man been saying? Something about having more people to transport than the stagecoach had seats. “I'm sure you've laid out the best use of your men."