Between the Marshal & the Vampire

by Tricia Owens

  Between the Marshal & the Vampire

  Tricia Owens

  Copyright © 2016 Tricia Owens All rights reserved.

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  Between the Marshal & the Vampire

  1

  Deputy Marshal Clay Carson was a mighty fine officer of the law. He was brave, intelligent, an excellent shot, fair-minded and possessed the sort of sunny good looks that turned the heads of most women from young to old. He was going to be trouble as far Mariel was concerned.

  Her eyes narrowed as she took in his lounging form, stretched across the length of the bench seat on the opposite side of their train compartment. He was dressed for travel. Worn brown trousers encased his long legs, and above them he wore a white shirt with a leather vest. The camel-colored coat, when he was upright, covered the muscular globes of his buttocks, much to the dismay of any woman who passed behind him or watched him exit a room. Above the neck…Mariel's dismay deepened. It was too bad that good-looking men only passed through her life; they never stuck around.

  "Now that's a face a girl makes when she's sucked on a lemon," drawled a deep voice from beneath the hat that rested over the Marshal's face. "It's not a face that a pretty thing like you should be wearing."

  Mariel crossed her arms over her chest. She'd been running her pa's small inn for the past six years now. She'd heard and seen it all, or as much as passed through Willowtown, which admittedly was only a speck compared to the bustling fort they were heading to. But still, she wasn't a shy young thing. She'd shot men and she'd even fought men, albeit with a broom or a bottle of whiskey. She'd heard everything, too, including condescending drivel such as what the Marshal tended to spout.

  "You're supposed to be sleeping," she told him, "not worrying about what a pretty thing like me is doing."

  He reached up and tipped the hat back, revealing a large, brown eye. Mariel was a sucker for nice eyes, and unfortunately Marshal Carson had beautiful ones: the same color as whiskey when it caught the sunlight. They were the kinds of eyes you saw on dogs or puppies. The kind that sucked you in and melted your heart. They were also the kind that could twinkle and tumble you into bed before you realized you should be careful. Mariel had vowed to always know what was happening when it came to men like him with eyes like those.

  "I wouldn't be much use to you, Miss Johnston, if I lost all sense of awareness just because I shut my eyes. Not that I'd be able to lose track of you even if I were hit over the head with a blackie's anvil."

  "Prove it," she said.

  He grinned. It was devastating because of course the Marshal had a crooked grin that was equal parts boyish and seductive, the kind that tricked you out of your knickers but didn't let you regret it.

  "Prove that I can't stop being aware of you no matter whether I’m sleeping or awake?"

  The flirting was cheap, but…it didn't annoy her as much as it probably should have. She'd always prided herself on not being a fluffy-headed girl, not that there were many in Mountain Sky Territory. It was one of the rougher states in the Empire and to survive you had to be not only good with a gun but as smart as a criminal. Or at least able to recognize one. Not that she thought the Marshal was anything but a man committed heart and soul to upholding the law. She did, however, know better than to cave in to his charms.

  "Your reputation mystifies me, Marshal," she said, deciding to go on the offensive. Maybe that would put him off the pointless flirting that only served to depress her by taunting her with what could never be. "How is it you're able to bed so many women while apprehending all the criminals you have? By the stories, you've captured more Wanted Men than any law enforcement officer in the Empire, and bedded at least one woman in every town in Mountain Sky. Are those stories—either of them—inflated? You don't strike me as a man able to concentrate on more than one task at a time."

  He laughed. "You think I'm single-minded, do you?"

  "Very."

  "Well, that's only on account of my mind having found something worth focusing all its attention on." He studied her thoughtfully. "Two men are about to walk past our compartment. One's wearing spurs; the other is in steel-tipped dress shoes. Outside, we've just passed the curve of the River Wickedly where it bends back on itself and heads into Shadow Valley Territory."

  Mariel looked out the window, which was too high for the Marshal to see through from his incline position, and just glimpsed the sun dappled surface of the river, hidden between stands of pine and fir trees. Ten seconds later she heard the sound of men's voices and watched through the half-window of the door of their compartment as a rancher and a man who looked more like an accountant or a barrister walked down the length of the train.

  Marshal Carson didn't wink, but his smile was all sorts of smug. "Don't you worry about what I pay attention to, Miss Johnston. I don't miss a thing."

  Reluctantly impressed, she vowed not to show him as much. The Marshal wore his ego alongside his five-pointed star.

  "Something tells me you're not too keen on my presence here," he drawled. He didn't sound too terribly concerned, though. Then again, with his looks and charm it probably wasn't often that he was treated like an unwanted guest.

  "Not particularly," she replied. At least she would stand out in his mind as the one woman who didn't swoon at his feet.

  With a sigh, he sat up and placed his hat beside him on the bench. The sun coming in through the window of their compartment picked out blond highlights in his light brown hair. He was in need of a cut and a shave, but Mariel had to admit the shaggy look suited him. Made him look a touch wild and unpredictable, like you didn't know if he'd kiss your hand or haul you up over his shoulder and kidnap you for a ravishing.

  "It's a long train ride to Everton Fort," he said, his tone apologetic but with a glint in his eyes that belied his pleasure at having to spend so much time with her. "I'm sorry that you've been forced into this position an
d I admire you for handling the situation with the grace that you have."

  Her lips twitched as she suppressed a smile. They both knew she hadn't accepted this trip with any grace at all.

  "Most women I know would be too afraid to undertake this journey and help bring Rhody Beaufort to justice." He inclined his head at her with what she was mollified to see was genuine respect. "I'm indebted to you, as is the entire state of Mountain Sky, Miss Johnston. If it's within my power to make this journey—and my company—more bearable, I beg you to share it with me."

  She doubted Marshal Carson had ever begged for anything. He'd undoubtedly been given everything he'd ever wanted. It was in stark contrast to her own life, in which she and her father had worked and struggled for everything. Maybe she was jealous, which was a sobering revelation. It wasn't Marshal Carson's fault that he'd had a comfortable, easy life.

  Then again, if it was so easy, why had he become a Deputy Marshal of the Empire, one of the most dangerous occupations in the country? Maybe there's more to him than meets the eye, Mariel.

  "I don't need anything from you, Marshal," she began.

  "We're going to be traveling together for three weeks." He smiled. "We're going to be friends by the end so you may as well begin calling me Clay."

  "Marshal, I didn't volunteer for this journey," she continued as if she hadn't heard. "I have a business to run. Every day that I'm here with you I'm losing money and money is scarce in Willowtown. All I want is to get through this ordeal as quickly and painlessly as possible so I can return to my life."

  "I understand that, Miss Johnston, and you have my sympathies. But Rhody Beaufort is a man the Empire has been after for years now, and to finally have him in custody is a tremendous opportunity to break the crime network that's been running the length of Mountain Sky Territory. As the only living witness to his robbery of the Mint Hall Bank, your beautiful personage is the key to convicting him."

  Mariel swallowed, but she refused to look away. "Because all the other witnesses are dead."

  "Yes."

  She gave him points for not shying from the truth.

  "Killed by Rhody's gang."

  A muscle rippled in his strong jaw. She could tell he wasn't happy with the plain fact. "I won't lie to you. His gang is motivated to keep him free. But those other witnesses weren't under the protection of the Marshals' service. They weren't watched over by me."

  "You believe you're better than the other Marshals?"

  He nodded soberly. "I know am. And I give you my word that I will get you to Everton Fort safely and return you to Willowtown to resume your life. That's my sworn duty and I will uphold it."

  Mariel believed that he meant it—the Marshal had a very earnest and determined look about him when he wasn't trying to be charming—but she understood the danger very well. She was the key to ending a criminal network. She looked out the window, searching in vain for sight of the second Marshal who rode alongside the train by horseback. Would two guards be enough? Her gut feeling told her no.

  "I'm the most important person in the world to Rhody right now," she said quietly. "If I were in his boots, I'd stop at nothing to kill me before I reached the fort."

  She startled as a warm hand settled over her wrist. Clay's warm, brown gaze held her firmly.

  "I won't allow anything to happen to you, Miss Johnston. I swear it on my life."

  Mariel didn't want his life. She wanted her own back, but deep inside, she knew she wouldn't have been able to live with the knowledge that she'd allowed Rhody Beaufort to go free just because she didn't want to be inconvenienced. The gang leader was a terrible man, a known murderer and rapist. A lucky shot by one of the Mint Hall's bank guards, catching the gang leader in the thigh, was the only reason Rhody had been captured while the rest of his gang rode to freedom. And now she was the last of the bank's customers on that fateful day who could testify against him.

  It wasn't any sort of an honor and, truth be told, she was afraid.

  "I won't let him hurt you," Clay insisted. There was nothing playful at all about him. In fact, there was something dark in those whiskey-colored eyes that suggested the handsome Marshal had done terrible deeds in the past and had been scarred by them. He wasn't just a pretty face. He was a hardened law enforcement agent with the kind of experience beneath his belt that made even the most cynical and fearful person feel safe. To Mariel's surprise, because she'd told herself from the beginning of the trip that she would only tolerate the man, she felt comforted by his presence. Maybe, just maybe, she would survive this thing.

  "I'm—I'm glad it's you," she heard herself say, and she meant it. Certainly there were worse ways to travel across the territory than with such a handsome and capable man by her side. Maybe it wouldn't hurt to let down her guard a little with him. After all, their acquaintance would be short. When again would she be able to share such intimate company with a man like this? At least for the time it took to travel to Everton, Mariel would be the focus of the Marshal's world. It was…rather nice, when put that way.

  "It's understandable to be scared," he told her, "but you won't come to harm. I'll do everything in my power to ensure that."

  In the face of that promise, it felt petty to continue keeping him at a distance. "Thank you… Clay."

  That brought out a rakish smile. He sat back. "Now that's more like it. May I have the honor of calling you Mariel? It's a lovely name. Rolls right off the tongue."

  She could imagine him whispering it in the dark, in fact. She looked out the window again to avoid his amused, knowing gaze.

  Mariel was no virgin. She'd been married, briefly, but Carl had succumbed to Scarlet Fever only two months into their marriage. Their brief union hadn't produced children, thank goodness, but Mariel knew enough of bedding a man. She knew exactly what Marshal Carson's—Clay's—look meant.

  And she was troubled by her indecisiveness regarding it. The man would toss her skirts and move on. He had no business in Willowtown. He was too important, and his reputation proved that he wasn't interested in settling down with a single woman. I have my pride, she thought to herself. I don't need him to feel special.

  But another part of her, long buried with her husband, yearned to know what it would feel like to give in to Clay's interest. The man was experienced. He likely knew all sorts of ways to bring a woman pleasure. What would sex be like with a man like that? She wished part of her didn't badly want to know.

  "You may call me Mariel," she said tentatively, aware she'd opened a door between them and Clay, being who he was, would saunter right through it.

  "Excellent," he said softly.

  To her relief, Clay twisted around to stretch out on the bench again. "I'd best catch a few winks since it'll be my turn out there tonight. Wouldn't want to fall off my horse just because I was knackered. You might accuse me of being distracted."

  She smiled at his comical look of dismay.

  He picked up his hat. "Until this evening..Mariel."

  He winked before settling his hat once more over his face. Released from his confident regard, Mariel breathed a quiet sigh of relief.

  ~~~~~

  Clay awoke when the dinner trolley paused on the rail just outside their compartment door and politely chimed for service.

  "Only downside to having the last compartment in the last passenger car is you get served last," he grumbled before yawning.

  Mariel figured their positioning on the train was strategic in some way, perhaps putting their backs to a wall so no one could sneak up on them from behind. She was hungry, though, and agreed with him that it had taken too long to receive food. She eagerly looked through the selections within the warming case.

  "Do you think there's any chance we'll make it to Everton Fort unmolested?" she asked casually once she'd selected a meat pie and sat back with the dining table pulled out between them.

  Clay, who'd selected a hearty-looking roll stuffed with beef as well as a slice of cherry pie, considered the pie from seve
ral angles as he replied. "There's a chance of anything, though not much of one if I'm being honest." He looked at her. "And I'll always be honest with you, Mariel. You deserve that for what you're risking here."

  The pie burned her fingers but she ignored it. "Then tell me: will I survive this trip?"

  Clay lowered his roll. "I promise you: I will breathe my last before you do."

  It was hardly consolation, even if he meant it that way. Mariel regarded her pie, her appetite now gone. "So this is suicide."

  "Mariel."

  She raised her gaze to his.

  "I'm no green boy playing with his first six-shooter. And Darrell is a crack shot as well. We're the best men you could have defending you. But maybe our skills won't be needed. Beaufort's gang may attempt to break him out of jail instead. Or they may storm the courthouse and try to rescue him there. There's no guarantee that you're their focus. They're aware that you've been put under the protection of the Marshals. Attacking you would bring on the added heat of attacking the Empire. I'm thinking that may make them think twice about hitting the train."

  She wanted to believe him. She was only twenty-six. Far too young to die and she had responsibilities, such as an inn to run. Clay had said the trip would take approximately three weeks. If she wanted to return home with her nerves and sanity intact, she'd have to trust him, even if that involved a good measure of self-delusion.

  "Here."

  He held a dripping, glazed cherry toward her mouth. Rather than pull away as she knew she should, she parted her lips. Clay's gaze held hers as he gently placed the fruit between her lips. She pulled the globe into her mouth and licked the glaze from her lip. Clay was slow in moving his fingers away. If she extended her tongue, she would touch him.

  Do I want to touch him?

  She pondered the question. A better one might be:

  Do I think this may be the last time I get to? I might end up dead before too long.