He rose up on an elbow and gazed openly at her exposed skin, a gleam heating his gaze.
Oh! Self-preservation took over and she grabbed at the sheet, yanking it up to her chin. Only her highest paying customers saw her totally naked. As she winced at her instinctive reaction, she relaxed her grip. Slade was not a customer.
Rosy-tinted light streamed through the window. He lifted his head and squinted at the brightening room. “Jeez, it was a lark. Morning’s almost here.” He threw back the sheet and pushed himself off the bed.
The mattress dipped and bounced with his shifting weight. Jazzy turned on her side and snuggled a crooked arm into the pillows. Toned muscles flexed as he stooped to collect his union suit and trousers. The view was irresistible.
As he buttoned the trousers’ fly, he looked around the room for the rest of his clothes, a frown wrinkling his brow. His gaze met hers and quickly slid away. “I’m sorry, Jazzy.”
Breath caught in her chest and burned. Their night together had been so fine, wild, and, at the same time, the most tender encounter she’d ever had. They would not have another, but she couldn’t bear to hear his apology. She struggled to harden her heart and told herself to stop caring about this man’s every word.
His gaze connected with hers and softened. “I never meant to stay this late. I promise not to make a sound on the way out.” He scooped up his socks, stuffed them into his trouser pockets, and whispered, “Where’s my shirt?”
Wanting him gone as quickly as possible, she thrust out a stiff arm and pointed. “On the chair.” Why she was getting so mad? She’d never felt like this when others gathered their clothes before skedaddlin’ out the door.
“Thanks.” With rapid movements, he shoved his arms into the sleeves then sat on the chair to pull on his boots. “Where’d my jacket get to?”
“I don’t know.” Did the man go blind during the night? “Maybe it slipped off the post.”
Two strides brought him to the foot of the bed. With a hand on the mattress, he leaned down and swung his jacket upwards. It hit the bed rail with a dull, metallic clunk.
The handcuffs.
Jazzy’s eyes widened and her gaze sought Slade’s. Although she’d heard plenty of stories from the other ladies at Miss Veronica’s, using those silver bracelets had been a first for her. Since he owned the restraints, she doubted the same could be said for Slade.
His eyes had darkened to the shade of chocolate and a grin played at the corner of his mouth. He stepped to the bed, leaned close, and brushed his lips on her cheek. “See you later, darlin’.” In an instant, he’d disappeared through the door and out into the hallway.
Darlin’? Confusion hit hard and Jazzy flopped back onto the mattress, a hand touching the spot on her cheek he’d kissed. He’d called her by a sweetheart’s name. What had he meant? That’s what her papa had called her mama when he had that certain gleam in his eye. She blew out an exasperated breath.
Every time she’d seen his intention to kiss her mouth, she’d turned away, sometimes only at the last second. What if she’d let him kiss her lips? Saints alive, her mind was sorely muddled around this man.
Thirty minutes later, Jazzy hesitated in the doorway of the boardinghouse dining room and braced herself for what might come. Her kind of luck would never let their glorious night go undetected. She scanned the room and spotted Slade standing at the window with a cup of coffee in his hand. Her heartbeat kicked up and she touched the top button on her shirtwaist, making sure it was still closed. No open collars today or someone would surely notice the love bite Slade had given her. Another first.
Miss Whitfield looked up from the table and then quickly away, her fingers toying with the edge of the tablecloth.
Pete nodded. “’Morning, Miss Morgan. Did you sleep all right?”
Jazzy balled her hands into fists and scanned his face, checking to see if he held back a grin. His expression seemed straightforward enough. She forced a smile before answering in a cheery voice, “Right as rain, Pete.”
Slade turned and connected with her gaze, his brows pulled down over his eyes. He took one step toward the table, then stopped, and turned his attention back to the window.
Ella breezed in from the kitchen. “’Morning, miss. Here’s hot biscuits. Coffee’s in the middle of the table. Fried ham and eggs will be out in two minutes.”
Jazzy slid into a chair opposite the blue-speckled coffee pot and poured some of the steaming liquid into a crockery mug. Sipping the rich brew, she relaxed. No one had found them out. She reached for a biscuit and bit into its fluffy warmth, savoring the buttery goodness.
Trying not to be obvious, she allowed her gaze to move around the room. Blue-and-white gingham curtains accented walls painted a cheery yellow. The navy tablecloth was faded at the edges, but clean. As much as she hated to admit the fact, she’d hoped to talk with Slade. Although what she would say to the man in the presence of others was still a mystery.
Ella set platters of sizzling ham and fried eggs in the middle of the table. Jazzy inhaled the savory aromas and sighed. Her appetite was as big as the Texas sky after last night’s gyrations. The roomers reached to serve food onto their plates, but Slade didn’t join them. Subdued conversation buzzed around her.
The front door opened, jingling the small bell overhead. The thud of heavy footsteps preceded a tall man into the room. “Good morning, folks.”
Out of the corner of her eye, Jazzy saw Slade straighten, take a step closer to the table, and set down his mug. She glanced at the newcomer and her breath caught in her throat. The confident stance of a lawman—shoulders thrown back, shiny star on his vest, feet spread wide—always affected her. Worry settled in her stomach, but she fought to keep her expression blank.
Ella walked into the room, wiping her hands on her apron. “Why, Sheriff Simmons, I’m surprised to see you. Is Cathleen ill? Are you here to eat?”
“’Morning, Ella.” The sheriff lifted his hat from his head and held it in his hand. “She’s fine, thank you. I’m here on other business.”
Jazzy shot a look across the room, but Slade’s attention was focused on the sheriff. A rustling of petticoats sounded from beside her, but she ignored everything except what the sheriff would say next.
“Folks,” the sheriff started, then reached into his jacket pocket for a piece of paper, “I’ve got something here that I want to talk—”
Her mouth gone dry, Jazzy gripped the edge of the table. Oh no, did Tucker wire ahead to get this sheriff to detain her? She couldn’t bear Slade seeing the wire first.
With long strides, Slade crossed the floor and stuck out his right hand. “Sheriff Simmons, the name’s Slade Thomas. I wonder if we might have a word in private.”
The sheriff’s forehead wrinkled with his frown. “Sir, I’ve got business with these passengers.”
Slade nodded and swept his hand to include the group. “Their meal has just been served. Why not talk with me first? They’ll be finished eating and ready to hear you out when we’re done.”
A tense moment passed as two strong-minded men exchanged narrowed stares.
Jazzy couldn’t figure out what Slade was doing. What did a proper businessman need with a lawman?
Ella crossed to the men. “Sheriff, go ahead and take Mr. Thomas into the front parlor. Let my customers eat their meal while it’s still hot.” She waved them into the hallway and turned to the table with a wide smile. “Eat up, y’all. I want my cooking enjoyed like it’s meant to be eaten.”
The others around the table spoke in hushed whispers as they worked on their meals. “Do you think they found the horse thieves?” “Wonder what was on that paper in the sheriff’s hands?”
Jazzy ignored their supposings and tried to swallow a bite of egg past the lump in her dry throat. What were the men talking about? Deep in her gut, she knew what they spoke on would cross tracks with her future.
The food quickly disappeared. And all the while, she strained for the sound of the sher
iff’s departure and fretted about what would happen when she and Slade spoke again. The embarrassed looks, the shuffled feet, the cleared throats. Judging by his haste in leaving her room, Slade Thomas was probably no different from any other man she’d ever known. They wanted every little bit of her time and attention in the moonlight, but only gave a scant nod of greeting in the daylight.
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, would 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. Instead, he’d used the back hallway to exit through the kitchen, grabbing a handful of Ella’s biscuits and a couple apples 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. Hell, man! He’d gone as poetic as a schoolboy in knee britches. Plus he’d even 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 boardwalk to ease the pressure in his groin. No good would come from getting himself fired up with heated memories of their late-night romping. Today’s travel would prove trying enough without having to hide his vigorous physical reaction to the sweet and seductive 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 down onto 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 a mite 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 that 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 baggage. 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…or even that he was investigating. Or the fact that he wasn’t a rancher. 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 within arm’s reach of her body. Each whiff of her perfume would remind him of every body part with that scent he’d kissed. The torment would 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 honey-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 Six
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 second 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. How about you, Amanda?”
Miss Torrance cleared her throat. “My bed squeaked, too.”
Jazzy stilled. Had the bed in her room made the same 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 tan
ned 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 wither up and die waiting for a repeat performance.
Even if she still yearned for the rugged 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 lady wobber.”
Capturing The Marshal's Heart (Escape From Texas) Page 6