Much Ado About Marshals (Hearts of Owyhee) (2011)

by Jacquie Rogers

  True words, Cole thought. True words. “I better spell Bosco. See you tomorrow, and tell the folks I had a real good time.”

  With the aid of various hitching rails and walls, he wobbled to the jailhouse. It was Bosco’s turn to weather the storm.

  * * * * *

  Daisy watched Mrs. Courtney take a dose of Hostetter’s Stomach Bitters right out of the bottle, then screw up her face and make a beeline for Mrs. Proctor, who danced with Deputy Kunkle. While cutting in was the normal practice and nobody thought anything about it one way or the other, Daisy thought the widows carried it too far.

  When the deputy had come in, Mrs. Proctor had seen him first and pulled him onto the dance floor. Then Mrs. Courtney had cut in. Then Mrs. Proctor. Now, Mrs. Courtney looked ready for bear. She didn’t just tap her estranged sister’s shoulder, she literally pulled her away!

  Mad as a one-winged mosquito, Mrs. Proctor tromped off the floor. Unluckily for Daisy, she was the widow’s next target.

  “Tell that woman she has no right to cut in like that.”

  Daisy had no intention of telling the widow’s sister any such thing. She knew better than to get in between the two warring sisters. They’d been married to business partners, both of whom were killed in a mining accident. First the women fought over money, then heirlooms, then refused to speak to each other. All that happened several years previous, before her family had even moved to Oreana.

  “I’m sure you can have the next dance, Mrs. Proctor.” Daisy handed her a plate of cookies and a glass of punch. “Have a little something to eat, and I bet before you’re finished, another fine gentleman will ask you to dance. After all, you’ve danced nearly every dance so far.”

  But her words were obviously of no comfort to the angry widow. “I don’t want those other men. I want Deputy Kunkle. That woman didn’t even so much as boil water for him until I gave him a nice meal. Of course, she tried to outdo me, but then he likes my cooking better.” She sniffed. “Deputy Kunkle told me so.”

  “Yes, you’re a very good cook.” Daisy didn’t know who had cooked the deputy his first meal, but it didn’t really matter. Those two old biddies warred about everything, and woe unto anyone who got in their way. They could have just as vicious a fight over a puppy or a piece of calico in the store.

  One thing for sure, she had to get away from this situation, the faster the better. She hadn’t seen the marshal for some time now, so she figured he was on his rounds while Deputy Kunkle enjoyed the dance. Now was her perfect opportunity to get him alone—and show him the fingerprint kit! That was it. A great excuse. She mentally patted herself on the back.

  But her dad would notice if she slipped out, so she needed a legitimate excuse to leave, and he definitely wouldn’t cater to the fingerprinting story. No, it would be better to make a clean getaway, and while the town danced, she’d bag the marshal, and get him to propose, good and proper. Maybe other things not so proper. She giggled.

  “What’s so funny?” Mrs. Proctor glowered at her.

  Daisy had forgotten the woman was there. “Oh, nothing.” She eyed the blackberry punch, and wondered if it would permanently stain green silk. Probably so, and this was her best dress. She dismissed the thought, although it would have been a very good reason to leave.

  At the end of the song, Deputy Kunkle and Mrs. Courtney made their way to the refreshment table. The widow wagged her finger in Daisy’s face. “Tell that woman to leave me alone while I’m dancing.”

  Mrs. Proctor stepped forward. “Tell her she’s rude and inconsiderate, and that good manners will win in the end.”

  Deputy Kunkle eased himself to the other end of the table and helped himself to a three-inch slice of Mrs. Curtis’s cake.

  “Good manners?” Mrs. Courtney leaned closer to Daisy, crowding her. “Tell that old hag that if good manners win a man, she never would have landed the good Mr. Proctor.”

  “Well, I never!” And with that, Mrs. Proctor threw her punch at Mrs. Courtney, who dodged behind Daisy.

  Her green silk took the worst of it—now she’d find out for sure if blackberry punch stains silk. She grabbed a towel and dabbed at herself. “Now look what you’ve done!” Then blushed as she realized she was the focus of every single person in attendance.

  Her mother rushed over to her and helped mop the punch off her dress. “You’ll have to get this off and soaking in cold water right away. Do you want me to come with you?”

  “No, mama. I’ll be back after I’ve changed.”

  “I’m so sorry, dear.”

  Daisy wasn’t.

  Cole thought the walk had done him good—his head did seem a little clearer, but he never knew zig-zagging through wagons could get so complicated. His roiling stomach, though, was another story. At least it had had the decency to wait until Bosco was gone before he had to dash for the outhouse. He never made it. Right there, in front of Mrs. Howard’s Boarding House, came Mueller’s beer, Jonas’s whiskey, and Gardner’s plum wine.

  He dunked his head in the horse trough to rinse off, and made his way back toward the safety of his cot, watching his feet every careful step. It had to have been the plum wine that did it. The buildings kept moving up and down, and the office seemed five miles away. Christ, he’d never take another drink again as long as he lived.

  Finally, using every ounce of strength left, he reached his office. He’d feel so much better if only he could lie down. It was all he could do to make the five paces to his cot, and he flopped down with a groan. He ignored the vague niggling that he should take off his boots. They were just too damned far down on his legs for that to be a reasonable proposition.

  At least the dusky room had stopped spinning. The rounds could wait—the bad guys could have their fun tonight. He shut his eyes, hoping for a nice, long snooze.

  His body relaxed, totally. But his mind raced, recalling every detail of Miss Daisy’s evening, how he wanted her smile to be for him. He pictured her lips, full and ready to kiss. He ached to waltz with her so he could pull her to him, her breasts soft against his chest. He’d kiss the top of her head, then she’d raise her face to him, inviting him to kiss her full on the mouth. In front of everyone.

  And that he had the right to kiss her in front of everyone, except he wanted her alone, out of that pretty dress, out of the corset, pressing herself against him. That she wanted him and only him, for him to touch her hair, her throat, her naked breasts. Oh, how he loved her perfectly rounded breasts, to flick his tongue across her nipples, to feel her squirm against him for more.

  He opened his eyes. The dusky room had grown darker and his britches had grown tighter. Damn, he wished he had the energy to shuck them off. He mustered his strength to turn on his side so his eternally optimistic private part could have a little more room.

  Nothing helped. Whether his eyes were open or closed, all he could think of was Miss Daisy, head tossed back, swaying to his harmonica.

  Oh, his harmonica, it could use a little blowing.

  Daisy ran all the way home. She had her dress off and her corset unlaced before she scrambled halfway up the stairs. She poked the bodice portion of her dress in the water pitcher—that would just have to do for the soaking. Her future was worth the sacrifice of one dress, even if it was her best one. She yanked off her petticoats and left them where they fell.

  The corset would just get in the way of what she planned. She threw it on her bed, then stopped and stared at it. What if he thought her a loose woman? No decent woman would go outside her bedroom without a corset, and she was sure the marshal would never associate with a woman who didn’t wear one. Reluctantly, she put it back on. Besides, she reasoned, none of her dresses would fit without it, and she could hardly wear her nightgown.

  She chose a turquoise calico for her mission. It wasn’t exactly alluring, but it had fewer buttons and ties than any of her other dresses. It also had a matching bonnet and gloves. No parasol, but she hated the dreadful things.

  Swallowing didn
’t help her dry throat, and her tense midriff could not be attributed to the corset. She wondered if she were making a dreadful mistake. But her mind was set—this was the night she would seduce the marshal, not so that he would propose, but so he’d see that he couldn’t live without her.

  She shoved her gloves on and grabbed her fingerprinting kit. After staring at the door momentarily, she took a deep breath, pursed her lips, and yanked the door open. She’d go at him with both barrels. She looked down at her breasts. Too bad she was a ten-gauge rather than a double-aught.

  Every step to the marshal’s office brought her more resolve. The marshal would be hers by the end of the night, she vowed. But when her hand touched the doorknob, her courage failed her. She bit her bottom lip and closed her eyes. Could she do this?

  Relations with a man couldn’t possibly be that bad; otherwise, there wouldn’t be many babies born. Almost every woman had at least one baby, so they must all have let a man do…whatever they did…at least once.

  You big coward! Daisy turned the knob and opened the door. There weren’t any lights on, but she knew the marshal was out on his rounds. After she placed the fingerprinting kit on his desk, she removed her gloves. Should she sit in his chair, or on his bed? In for a penny, in for a pound. She’d just sit on his bed until he got there.

  Chapter 11

  Daisy felt her way to the back of the marshal’s office, veering to the right. The marshal slept on the right side of the doorway to the jail. Deputy Kunkle slept on the left side. Her heart thumped. What if Deputy Kunkle decided to come home early?

  Dismissing the possibility as an unreasonable fear—after all, the deputy seemed quite happy with the Widows Proctor and Courtney fighting over him—she decided to stick to her plan. Honey Beaulieu certainly didn’t change her plans in the middle of an operation. She had contingencies. Daisy would have contingencies, too. If Deputy Kunkle came in, then she’d just have to ask him to leave, and that was that.

  Besides, she was just being a ninny. After a few more steps, she felt the bedstead, then the sheets. She took another step and sat.

  “Oomph!”

  Daisy sprang to her feet, heart thumping and dizzy with mortification. The marshal was in his bed!

  His arm snaked out, grabbed her by the waist, and pulled her to the bed, tucking her in front of him. A catch in her breath and a momentarily struggle brought no results, but then she realized he was falling right into her plan. She snuggled into his warmth, his breath fluttering through the hair on the nape of her neck.

  Soon, he lay still, a quiet snore his only sound. What a pickle! How could she possibly seduce a sleeping man?

  She rolled over—a delicate maneuver on such a narrow cot occupied by such a large man whose arms were wrapped around her—and shook him. “Marshal,” she whispered.

  “Ummm.” He pulled her closer and kissed the top of her head.

  She lifted her face. “Marshal!”

  He kissed her full on the mouth, so tenderly. “Kiss me back, Daisy.”

  Her pulse raced, and she fought to keep her composure. After all, she was supposed to be the one doing the seducing, and now he was asking her to do just that! She’d kissed him before, she could do it again. She pressed her lips to his, her tummy tightening, her breasts aching for his touch. His body relaxed and settled into the bed. Mid-kiss, he resumed snoring.

  “You oaf!” She balled up her fist and clobbered him in the ribs. “You’re drunk.”

  “Oompf!” He raised his head, then collapsed to the pillow again.

  She struggled against his arms, but he didn’t have the least inclination to let her go. Nor did he seem to have the inclination to do whatever it was that came after kissing. Nor did she have the foggiest notion what to do next. She’d always heard that men were easy prey to a woman’s charms, and that men were especially amorous after a few drinks. The marshal had obviously had a few drinks too many.

  “Water,” the marshal rasped.

  “If you’d get your paws off of me and let me off this bed, I could get you some water,” she snapped, “although you don’t deserve it.”

  But then she reconsidered. Maybe water would wake him up long enough to do the deed. She sure couldn’t do it herself. The schoolgirl whispers had been decidedly vague concerning the next stage of lovemaking that came after the kissing part. All she knew was that his lower appendage got big—she’d noticed that before, so he couldn’t possibly be immune to her charms—and it went inside her. How that happened was a mystery that she aimed to solve.

  And while the whole process sounded disgusting, her body disagreed and seemed quite anxious for the marshal to work his magic. She pushed his arms away from her and jumped out of bed before he could grab her again. In order to seduce him, she’d have to wake him up, and to wake him up, she’d fully comply with his request for water.

  She lit both lanterns, hoping light would register in his drunken mind, then poured a glass of water. She brought both the pitcher and the glass to his bedside. “Here’s your water, marshal.”

  “Hmmm.” He put his hand over his eyes. “Marshal?”

  She sighed. Then man was truly discombobulated. “Here’s your water.”

  Still he didn’t take it. She heard a snore, then visualized herself stuck in the middle of nowhere, feeding chickens, with forty-seven children of various ages hollering at her. Heavens above! She upended the water pitcher and doused the drunken marshal.

  He shot up, spluttering.

  She handed him the glass. “Here’s your water, marshal,” Daisy said, using her absolute sweetest tone.

  “Thanks.” He downed the entire glassful. “Aw, hell, my bed is soaked.” He struggled to his feet. “What’d you do that for?”

  She crossed her arms under her breasts and tapped her toe on the plank floor. “I think, marshal, you are entirely inebriated.”

  And that her mission of seduction had gone down in a blaze of flames—or a pitcher of water. Chickens, here I come.

  Cole wiped the water from his face and combed his fingers through his hair. His body ached with need as he remembered Miss Daisy’s kiss and her body pressed against his. Somehow, he had to sort out what he’d imagined and what really did happen.

  He studied her face. She still held the water pitcher, frowning. But did he also see passion in her eyes? Passion to match his own? But he was in no shape to get the job done. Except he could have sworn she had lain beside him, and his groin agreed. He had to have her. Now.

  The fuzz in his brain warned him of some vague threat, but his need demanded he take care of business with the woman who had tantalized him for a month. He drew the outline of her lips with his fingertip, then lowered his mouth to hers. The kiss only fueled the fire.

  He unbuttoned the front of her dress, kissing her throat and watching her green eyes turn darker after each button was freed. She wanted him—her eyes couldn’t lie—and his already intense need for her heightened.

  He pushed her shimmy down to expose the tops of her breasts. The glimpse of them he’d had once before had branded them in his mind, and not a night went by but what he dreamt of kissing them. His lips tingled, and he had to kiss them.

  She stood statue still as he memorized her, not responding except for a tiny sharp intake of breath. He ached all over as he trailed kisses from her throat to those inviting rounded mounds pushed up by her corset. He had to have more.

  The corset, that was the problem. He pushed, but it didn’t budge. The corset had to go, but, for the life of him, he couldn’t remember how to get the damned thing off. Only that he shouldn’t, but that he would. “Take it off.”

  Obediently, she pulled her dress over her head and threw it on Bosco’s cot. Then, slowly, slowly enough to make him shudder with need, she began unlacing that infernal corset. “Don’t you want to remove your wet shirt, marshal?”

  Yeah, good idea. He ripped it off, buttons flying, all the while not able to take his eyes off her. She fumbled with her laces, then the
hooks. Finally, the cursed garment came loose and she threw it on top of her dress.

  Cole had never seen such a beautiful sight in his entire life as Daisy standing before him in only her shimmy. Again, a disturbing thought that he should send her away plagued him. She stepped forward and ran her hands down his chest and hooked her fingers inside the waist of his pants. The ache to plunge inside her was so great, he would have done damned near anything to get her under him.

  Still, he knew he shouldn’t do this, although he couldn’t remember why. He pushed those thoughts away and kissed her again, his tongue probing her warmth, readying her for more. He was sure as hell ready. She wiggled against him and he nearly lost it right then and there. “Take off your shimmy.”

  She shucked it without hesitation. Cole growled when he saw her perfect breasts—full, rounded, with nipples perked up just waiting for his mouth. He obliged, licking, sucking, laving his tongue over one of the sweet tips. Her breath quickened, and he grew even harder knowing she loved his touch as much as he loved touching her, feeling her nipples with his lips. He moved to the left breast, sucking the left one while tugging on the other one with his hand.

  Her knees buckled. He caught her as she fell into him, kissing him the way he’d kissed her. But a man could only stand so much before the shootin’ match was over. He pushed her down on the cot, and fell on top of her, nuzzling the soft skin of her neck.

  “Marshal?” Her voice sounded soft and breathless.

  He brushed his hand along her side.

  “Marshal?”

  He slid his hand over her thigh.

  “Marshal!”

  “Yes, sweetheart,” he groaned, “anything you want.”

  “You’re smashing me.” She pushed on his chest. “I can’t breathe.”

  He rolled off her, nearly falling off the bed. The narrow cot was barely big enough for him, let alone the two of them.