Capturing The Marshal's Heart (Escape From Texas)

by Carroll-Bradd, Linda

  “Jaz—um, I mean Jessimay.”

  His interest piqued. Why stumble over your own name? “That’s a pretty name.”

  Her gaze shifted to the window, scanned the landscape, and reconnected with his, a smile crinkling the skin around her eyes. “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.” Eyes wide, she sucked in a breath. “Lordy, bet you didn’t expect my family history.”

  “I’m interested in people. Might say it’s my hobby.” He watched her over the rim of his cup. Every emotion this woman experienced was showcased on her face. Questioning her was almost too easy. “Where’s back home?”

  She glanced at the people chatting quietly around the table. “A little bitty place outside of Boerne.” After a pause, she continued. “Which is a small town outside of San Antonio.”

  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 here gets me as far as Raton, New Mexico.” She moved a step closer, her gaze searching his face. “Have you been there?”

  How her blue eyes sparkle when she asks questions. Her strange words pricked his curiosity. What kind of person considered mountains a destination? A person who wants to hide out. Maybe bury the money from the bank robbery and go back later to recover it. Pushing aside a twinge of disappointment, he nodded. “A time or two.”

  “You have?” She laid a hand on his forearm, her gaze wide and open. “Are the mountains beautiful?”

  The scent of jasmine floated in the air. His body tensed and his nostrils flared, instinct forcing him to breath in more of this fascinating woman. His stomach clenched, followed by his logic reminding him this woman was a suspect in a bank robbery. “I suppose you’ve got someone…a man waiting.”

  For an instant, she stiffened and narrowed her eyes, then leaned a shoulder against the wall, and braced a hand on her left hip. “Nobody’s awaitin’.” Her gaze ran his length from head to toe. “What did you have in mind?” Then, with a jerk, she straightened and turned back toward the window.

  The front door banged open and their driver Pete stepped inside. “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. Did he 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. The pounding of his boots caused lizards to skitter under the rocks where they’d been sunning.

  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 which she covered with the wave of her fan. “I’m thinking you’re the one who needs help.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Sure you do.” She stepped closer, leaving a mere six inches between their bodies. “Those looks you shot me in the stagecoach were more than casual acknowledgement.”

  At her closeness, 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?

  With a flourish, she closed the fan and used the tip to rub a small circle on his chest. “I see you’ve removed your vest. Smart man.”

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

  From under her eyelashes, she watched him and then her mouth down-turned to a pout. “I wish I had the same choice. But everyone gets so upset when I just undo a couple of silly buttons.”

  Remembering his reaction to those exact loosened buttons, he swallowed hard. “Proper behavior is the mortar of civilization.”

  “Oh, I do like listening to a learned man.” She rested the fan on his forearm and pressed a hand against his chest. “I wanted to express my thanks for your backing me up about the window shade. You can’t know how much that means to a woman. Being with a man who makes her feel…safe.”

  His eyes drifted shut and he inhaled sharply. For a moment, he allowed himself to enjoy the weight of her soft fingers against his rigid muscles. 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 and stepped back. “Our being alone is not suitable. Your reputation is at risk, Miss Morgan.”

  “I suppose you’re correct, Mr. Thomas. But I like to give appreciation where it’s due.”

  The velvety purr of her voice filled her words with innuendo but her wide blue eyes displayed an honest intent. For just a moment, he let his gaze drop to her pink lips and wondered at their taste. Sweet like a wild strawberry, or tart like an elderberry? A man with a profession and a past like his couldn’t allow a woman to get too close. No matter how much he wanted to.

  Slade shook away those thoughts. “I doubt I’ve earned your appreciation, miss.” With a wrench he felt all the way to his bones, he turned and walked toward the front of the building.

  Chapter Two

  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. On occasion, she’d been known to appreciate a fine arrangement of muscle and sinew. And she’d just broken Miss Veronica’s Rule #2: Never let a prospect walk away. Was she losing her touch?

  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 mean, scary 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.

  With a groan, she 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 run full steam ahead 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 askin’ price. The longer she’d watched, the more she’d been tempted to cut him a bargain deal. In her experience, a good-looking male in possession of God-given parts in such fine shape didn’t happen by very often. Her willpower wasn’t strong enough to keep her away.

  “Stagecoach is heading out.”

  Pete’s voice drifted into her thoughts, and she shook her head.

  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.

  A hand smoothed along the fabric and patted the folds of her skirt, checking for the coins sewn into her petticoat. A sigh of relief escaped. 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. Mr. Thomas must already be aboard. Her steps immediately shortened. She didn’t feel up to sharing the small space with that handsome but infuriating man. At the very thought, 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, missy. Thought you’d figured on waitin’ fer the next coach.”

  Well, shi--, saints be praised. 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 seeing or speaking to Mr. Thomas, she wanted to get on with her new life more.

  “Driver!” Mrs. Harrington stuck her head out the doorway and narrowed her gaze at Jazzy. Her plump lips rounded into an “o” and an eyebrow winged high. “Are we still on schedule?”

  Pete’s wiry hand at Jazzy’s elbow guided her into the coach. Being last meant she was wedged in the middle between the shy, quiet woman dressed in faded calico 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 the next one. Been some trouble at the home station on down the line. Bandits stole the reserve horses, so we may have to stop for the night.”

  “Bandits!” Several voices chorused together and bodies leaned forward.

  Jazzy gasped, her hands freezing in the folds of her skirts. Thieves in the night! A knot formed in her stomach. Her money. On sheer instinct, 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 appeared calm. The tightness in her chest eased.

  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. As a child, she’d had the safety of a mama and papa to watch out for her. But for many years now, Jazzy relied on Jazzy.

  Pete shook his head. “Naw, the cowards snuck in at night. When they knowed there’d be no resistance. If we can’t find replacements, we’ll have to let these 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 he climbed aboard. A moment later, the crack of a 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 of her former employer reminded her about Tucker Flanagan, one of her best customers, and his solemn intent to marry her. From her perch in the middle, she couldn’t check out a rear window. For two days, she’d watched along the stage’s back trail and hadn’t spotted anyone following the coach. Maybe he’d forgotten all about her. Or he was looking in town because he hadn’t figured she’d be on the stage.

  With the talk of danger, all the stories of the Wild West came flooding back from the dime novels she’d read. Of hold-ups, thieving bandits, and runaway stagecoaches. Although the novels were exciting to read, she’d never put much stock in those stories being true. Her gaze scanned the interior of the coach, noting foreheads wrinkled with furrows, teeth biting into lower lips, and hands clenched into fists. 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, fingers drummed, and shoes tapped.

  The quiet tension gnawed on Jazzy’s nerves and she edged forward. What would happen at a later point on the trip would happen, whether she worried on it or not. Might as well start figuring out what type of shop could be the most profitable to open.

  Turning to the quiet woman on her left, she extended her hand and stated her name. “Nice to make your acquaintance. Did I see you coming out of the tea shop near the depot? What did you think of the inside decor, and the refreshments?”

  “I’m Amanda Torrance.” The woman gave a limp hand shake. “I was in the shop, although the proprietor could use lessons on brewing a brisk cup of tea.”

  Something Jazzy knew nothing about. But this woman dressed in a years-old dress did? Interesting. “Takes skill, does it?”

  “True, as does baking the proper cakes and biscuits.”

  Yikes, I have no talent in that area. So, a tea shop is not to be considered. Jazzy tapped a finger on her chin and cast her gaze around the coach. The expensive-looking tucks, darts, and insets on the older woman’s clothes caught her attention.

  Remember, butter up the old harridan. Looking past the little boy’s swaying body perched on the middle bench, she pasted on her friendliest smile. “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 social during my stay. The cut was all wrong for her, but she wouldn’t listen to my suggestions.” With pudgy fingers, she adjusted the folds of her skirt and glanced up. “I believe the style suits me better.”

  Waiting for the rest of the information, Jazzy wrinkled her brows at the expectant look on the woman’s face. Her eyes shot wide. Oh! “Yes, the style truly does compliment you.” Polite conversation sure made a body pay attention.

  “Thank you. That’s what I thought. I knew I must have the same pattern. So I provided the expertise and her modiste stitched it.”

  A dressmaker, and a fancy one at that. Jazzy leaned forward in her seat. A dressmaking shop. If the sums she and the other ladies from Miss Veronica’s had spent on their clothing 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 fancy ladies’ clothes in good repair. Over the last few years, she’d only lifted a needle to stitch on accent lace or bows to gussy up a plain design. Maybe with practice, her stitching would improve. She made a mental note to look into the rates dressmakers charged.

  Beside her, the woman who Jazzy hadn’t heard speak a single word sat slumped, her head nodding toward her chest. The faded calico dress with whitened edges at the sleeve edges didn’t inspire her interest. Nothing new to be learned by talking to this passenger.

  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 lace edging or some fancy buttons to perk it up.

  Jazzy angled her shoulders to peer around the deep 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-eyed gaze flicked up to Jazzy’s then darted 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 exasperating 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. Miss Veronica’s Rule #4--Get the man to talk about himself. That’s what the ladies back at the Pleasure Emporium 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 gaze flicked up again and widened. “Um, I grew up in a city.”

  So, this method also works on women. Jazzy drew in a breath. “Oh, which one? Kansas City? Wichita? Topeka? Are big cities like those just the most excitin’ places you ever saw?”

  “Sometimes, too exciting.” The woman hesitated, a frown wrinkling her brow. Her arms tightened on the threadbare 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 gossipy 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 to, um, my sister’s wedding.”

  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 woman whose hair was pulled back into a severe bun and whose face had become paler during the conversation. “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.” Leaning close, she set the back of her hand beside her mouth. “If you know what I mean.”