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 narrowed and intent on her.
Jazzy straightened. Why in the world is a man like him so interested in women’s fashion?
* * *
At the edge of the horizon, the roofs of a group of buildings jutted upward like jagged teeth on a gear. Seeing their destination, Slade let out a relieved breath. Soon, he’d have the freedom to 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 chest. 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. His blood pounded faster. 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 behind his trousers.
He could allow himself no carnal lusting after a woman he couldn’t rule out as the wanted bank robber. A woman with the skillful subterfuge necessary to carry out such a crime would never have been intimidated by Mrs. Harrington’s comments. Logic dictated her conversation about women’s fashions involved more than innocent questions. Her questions kept coming back to gathering information about opening a business. The type of details needed only by 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 of the four was the culprit. At this point, he’d almost ruled out Mrs. Harrington because of her age. Although, traveling with a child could just be subterfuge.
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 an insinuating layer of road dust.
Pete thumped the roof of the coach. “This here’s Silveridge. The stage company corral looks to be empty of replacement horses. We’ll be stopping for the night. Rooms are let at Ella’s boarding house down the street on your left.”
Mrs. Harrington shook her young 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 latch.
“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 get there first.”
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.
“Slade?” Pete’s voice came from atop the wagon. “Help hand down these bags, will ya?”
Within moments, the passengers’ bags sat on the boardwalk and Pete stood staring at the imposing pile. “Do you suppose Mrs. Harrington is expecting me to haul her bags up to Ella’s right away?”
Slade thumbed back his hat and ran a hand over his jaw. The rasp of beard stubble reminded him of a promise he’d made to himself. “I’ll carry them. This town got a good bathhouse?”
Pete jabbed him in the ribs and gave him a broad wink. “Gonna get gussied up and visit The Lucky Strike?” He jerked his head up the street.
Slade eyed a saloon two buildings along the boardwalk with tinny piano noise and raucous laughter coming from its doorway. For a few moments, he thought of wetting his parched throat with a tangy beer or two but shook his head. “Just lookin’ to soak my aching muscles.”
“Soak?” Jessimay turned from where she had bent over the pile of bags and satchels, her eyes wide. “As in a hot bath? I would pay a pretty penny for a long bath with lots of steamy water”—she sighed—“and maybe some rose petals floating on the top.”
In his mind, Slade pictured the scene. He saw her slender form approach the steaming bathtub. In a graceful move, she shrugged her shoulders and a silky garment dropped to her feet, exposing creamy, smooth skin. Skin that his hands itched to touch. He wasn’t halfway done looking his fill, but her luscious body slowly disappeared under the bubbly water. The images he’d conjured heated his blood. His stomach clenched and his hands drew into fists.
Weeks had passed without him acknowledging his need for a woman. Trailing the bank robber had occupied all his thoughts. Now, lush curves and creamy skin were all he could think of. What was it about this particular woman that unsettled him?
Action. He needed physical activity. Plus, he needed to put distance between himself and the woman who stood three feet away. Slade hefted all the unclaimed bags into his arms. “I’ll be taking these now. See ya in the morning, Pete.” He dipped his chin in her direction, but didn’t trust himself to look her in the eye. “Miss Morgan.” With that he started off, cursing himself as the biggest fool this side of the Mississippi.
“Ah, Mr. Thomas?”
Slade tensed. Had she figured out what he’d been thinking? Not trusting his voice, he glanced over his shoulder and raised a questioning eyebrow.
Her gaze darted from the boardwalk to the street and back, as the smile on her pink lips flashed, then disappeared. “Would you mind escortin’ me? I’m a bit overwhelmed by crowds.”
Crowds? Slade glanced around and counted no more than twenty people in sight. Was she actually nervous? The bold and defiant Miss Jessimay Morgan? More likely, this was another ploy by an accomplished con artist. For purely investigative reasons, he nodded and moved to the outside of the boardwalk. Her hand gripped the inside of his elbow and held tight.
He gritted his teeth against the instant heat her touch caused, shifted the bags in his arms, and walked toward the boarding house.
“I do appreciate this favor.”
With precision, he forced out a polite reply. “Of course, ma’am.” Damn, he sounded like a schoolboy answering a teacher.
They paused to allow a harried woman with a small child anchored to each hand cross in front of them to enter the mercantile.
A few more feet along the boardwalk, Jessimay leaned close and whispered, “And I wanted to explain about my earlier behavior.”
The exact subject he preferred not to have mentioned again. At least, not within earshot of polite company. “No need. It’s forgotten.”
“Well, isn’t that sad.”
At her words, he glanced around, looking for an injured animal or a raggedly clothed child. Nothing. “Beg your pardon?”
At the next business establishment, someone stepped through a doorway without looking and bumped into Jessimay, pushing her against him.
Her soft breast nudged his forearm and, even through his jacket sleeve, his skin was scorched. Branded by the intimate contact. He gritted his teeth and breathed in quickly through his nose.
“Oh, pardon me.”
&nbs
p; Slade glanced over Jazzy’s head and spotted Mrs. Harrington. Her voice was apologetic, until she spotted whom she’d bumped into.
Jerking up her chin, she sniffed loudly. “Oh, it’s you. About time someone arrived with our bags.” She reached for hers and pulled.
Slade broke contact with Jessimay and juggled the bags as best as he could against her insistent tugging. “I’ll be glad to carry these into the boarding house, ma’am.”
“But I need mine right away. I simply must have a change of clothing before supper.”
Irritation at this bossy woman stiffened his hold. He strode over the threshold and dumped the bags at the foot of an iron coat rack.
“Careful. I’ve got delicates packed in there.” Mrs. Harrington swooped down on the pile and pried free her bags.
From the corner of the room, Miss Whitfield and Miss Torrance moved forward and claimed their satchels. “Thank you, sir.”
Slade touched the brim of his hat. “Ladies.”
A tall, smiling woman approached, drying her hands on her apron. “I’m Ella. Welcome to my establishment. Supper is ready whenever you are—beef stew, fresh bread and apple cobbler. You’ll be wanting separate rooms?”
Miss Torrance lifted a hand and waved it. “I wish to rent my own room.”
“No,” Mrs. Harrington spoke up, her hand moving between herself and the quiet woman. “Miss Whitfield and I wish to share a room. Safety in numbers, you know.”
Jazzy shook her head, curls bobbing around her face. “What’s the fun there?”
Astonished faces turned to stare at the woman whose eyes had widened and whose face had blushed pink.
Slade gulped back a laugh. Her outlook on life constantly surprised him. As did the way she apparently spoke aloud whatever popped into her mind.
“Oh!” Jessimay’s hand covered her mouth and she gazed at the circle of people around her. She dropped her hand to her side and grabbed a handful of skirt. “I meant to say there’d be no fun in sharing with me because I snore so horribly. A trait passed down by my dear departed papa. Louder than a hornet’s nest—” she bobbed her head, “—and a wet hornet’s nest at that. Mama always did say that about me.”
Suspicion raised the hair on his neck. She was lying. Including too many details in an explanation was a surefire tell.
With quick movements of her hands, Ella waved them forward. “So, that’s four rooms. Follow me.”
Slade allowed the ladies to go first and then he scooped up his bag, making sure he lagged behind the group. He was very interested in learning which room the fascinating Miss Morgan was given. A few minutes looking through her belongings would be time well spent. If he could arrest her tonight, this investigation would end, and he’d be free to get on with the rest of his life. Alone, and back home on his small ranch in the Rocky Mountains.
On the second floor landing, he leaned against the newel post and watched Ella show the rooms to the ladies, pointing out the advantages of each. Finally, the two ladies settled on the east room at the end of the hall away from the street, at Mrs. Harrington’s insistence.
The quietest woman, Miss Torrance, disappeared into the room at the end on the west side.
Jessimay stood with her hand on the knob to the middle room to the right of the stairs. Her gaze rested on him and didn’t waver.
Something in her eyes beckoned him, and he stepped closer. “Do you need help, Miss Morgan?”
She tilted her head and tapped a finger at the corner of her mouth. “I must need something.”
“I don’t understand.” His gaze fixated on her moving finger, pulling his awareness to her lush mouth like a bee to honey.
“That is just so sad.” She turned to her room and pushed open the door, mumbling under her breath, “If you’ve forgotten those private moments outside the stage stop, I’m losing my touch.”
* * *
An hour later, Jazzy stomped up the stairs of the boarding house muttering, “Twenty-five cents! For a sponge bath! Outrageous for a basin of tepid water, stinky homemade soap, and a dingy gray towel.” Maybe she’d consider opening a bath house with her savings. And if she did, she’d supply fine-smelling French soaps and offer linen towels. As she contemplated the idea, she crossed the hallway and grabbed the doorknob to Room 3.
Scuffling sounded from the other side of the door and the bedsprings squeaked. Her breath hitched in her throat and gooseflesh rose on her skin.
Light filtered from the door opening and the acrid smell of a kerosene lamp tickled her nose. Jazzy hesitated—she hadn’t left the lamp burning. Almost on its own, her hand patted the folds of her skirt. Her money was safe.
A foot away stood a small hall table with several books in a stack. She lifted the top one and hefted it, weighing its effectiveness as a weapon. What she owned might not be much, but the objects were hers.
With no time to call for help, she quickly drew back her arm into throwing position and stepped inside. She froze at the sight before her. The book dropped from her grasp, dully thudding on the wooden floor. Slade Thomas lay on the counterpane of her iron bed, his jacket hung from the bedpost, and his stocking feet were crossed at the ankles. Even from across the room, she sensed the poised strength of this potent man.
Against the fabric of her camisole, her breasts grew heavy and tingled. The man was too handsome for her peace of mind. Before she started her questions, she breathed deeply. A definite mistake. The movement only teased her sensitized flesh. “I reckon you’re in the wrong room, Mr. Thomas.”
One dark eyebrow rose in question. “Oh?”
Why did he have to be so manly? She nodded and cast her gaze around the room, surreptitiously checking her personal items in plain view. All seemed to be in place. “This is my room. Number 3.”
A grin eased his lips apart, showing a flash of white teeth. “Three has always been my lucky number.”
His low-pitched voice flowed around her, as smooth as Kentucky sipping whiskey. Deep, rumbling voices were her particular weakness. A shiver ran over her skin, yet her blood burned. Years of practice settled like a cloak over her movements. She shifted her weight and rested a hand on her forward hip. “So, you’re feelin’ lucky, are you?”
His gaze skittered to the side and back to her face, then slowly ran down the length of her body. He levered himself up onto an elbow and leaned toward the middle of the springy mattress. “Yes, ma’am.”
That throaty voice again. She sighed. With an exaggerated swing in her step, Jazzy approached the end of the bed. So, those gazes she’d felt all day had been leading to this.
His gaze riveted on her bust line.
As she moved, she lifted her hand to loosen the front buttons of her jacket and shrugged it off her shoulders. Folding it to hide her mother’s cameo, she let the garment drop to the seat of a nearby chair.
Maybe there was another reason for his visit—a reason that didn’t involve the two of them rolling around in the middle of this bed, aroused and completely naked. Best not make another mistake like she had earlier. “Slade?”
“Yeah.” His gaze lifted to hers and held.
His cinnamon-colored eyes darkened with desire. A look she’d seen often enough to recognize. She eased several buttons through the buttonholes of her blouse, then rested her forearms along the top bar of the iron foot rail. “Please tell me you’ve come for more than a discussion about tomorrow’s travels.” A half step brought her breasts in contact with her arms and she leaned forward, feeling her breasts push against the upper confines of her corset.
His gaze slipped to her exposed skin, and she watched his hands tighten into fists. The man was obviously conflicted in his desire. The air between them felt as heavy and electrically charged as the moments leading up to a summer thunderstorm. “That I have.”
As often as she’d seen a similar reaction, she felt a special thrill at this obvious interest from a man who looked like he knew more than one way to act on that desire. Lordy, this man’s expression set her s
enses reeling. A sheen of dewy perspiration broke out on her chest and her body seemed weighed down by too much clothing.
In a flash, Jazzy knew she wanted this time to be different. She didn’t want to direct the encounter, to force herself to go through any of the regular routines. Tonight, she wanted to be wooed, to have him remove her clothes, slowly and with his kisses skimming along her skin as each additional inch was exposed. She wanted to give herself permission to truly feel the encounter, maybe even enjoy the sensations.
Pushing away from the rail, she shook her head. What had put those crazy ideas into her mind? This night wasn’t much different than the past fourteen hundred others—give or take a few. Her weighted petticoat banged lightly against her thighs. Inside was all the money she had in the world, and it needed to stay hidden from those she didn’t know well.
In other words, everyone.
Covering for her apparent indecision, Jazzy spun to face him and undulated her hips in an alluring fashion. A trick that often distracted her customers. “Do tell? I’m not sure I understand your meaning, sir.”
Slade pushed a hand against the mattress and rose to his feet, seeming intent on crossing the floor to where she stood.
No, she didn’t want him close. Not yet. Not while she still wore her petticoat with her precious double eagles. In three steps, she was close enough to reach out and lay a hand flat against his chest. The palm of her hand touched solid muscle and she brazenly savored his strength. Oh, my! She swallowed hard before speaking, “Sit back and relax, Slade.” With a gentle shove, she toppled him backwards onto the bed.
A chuckle rumbled from deep in his chest and his gaze was thorough in a slow perusal of her entire body.
Careful to position her feet in the middle of the small rug at the side of the bed, she kept her hips moving and leaned forward to flash him plenty of cleavage. At the same time, her fingers worked the buttons at the waistband of her skirt. Her common sense told her she would regret this taste of paradise, but her wish for adventure argued this was a night for making memories.
Capturing The Marshal's Heart (Escape From Texas) Page 3