The Marshal and Mrs. O'Malley

by Julianne MacLean

  “Good heavens,” Jo said, sitting back in her seat. “Does the editor have nothing better to do?”

  “Congratulations to you both,” Deputy Anderson said, tipping his hat. “When’s the big day?”

  Fletcher glanced at Jo, who met his gaze with equal uncertainty. They were getting into this deeper and deeper by the minute. “We thought we’d wait until after the election,” he replied, tapping her knee.

  “Of course,” Anderson said. “The family’s busy enough, I reckon.”

  “Any goings-on this morning?” Fletcher asked, trying to change the subject.

  “Nope. But folks are wondering what happened to Six-Shooter Hank and why we haven’t caught him yet.”

  Fletcher flicked the reins. “Tell them I have a lead. We’ll get him.”

  He felt Jo tense beside him and wished he could have answered the deputy differently, but as always he’d been thinking of his reputation, and he quickly realized he wasn’t proud of himself for it.

  The wagon lurched forward and they started toward the depot, leaving Deputy Anderson to deal with a pig who had wandered into the middle of the street and stopped traffic with its squeal.

  “Just wait till the newspapers get wind of what’s really going on,” Jo said. “You and I will be famous from here to the Panhandle.”

  “I’ll do my best to keep this from turning into a circus.”

  “I doubt that’ll be possible, even for you.”

  Her sharp tone cut through his resolve and made him wonder if any of this was worth it.

  “Come with me,” he said, pulling the wagon to a halt behind the depot where he could see cattle being loaded into the rail car, their hooves thumping madly over the wooden ramp, their moos and snorts muted below the hiss of steam from the train. “I don’t want to leave you alone.”

  He climbed down and circled around the front of the team to help Jo down. She rested her hands on his shoulders while he cupped his around her tiny waist, lifting her lightly to the ground. The faint scent of orange flower water drifted on a breeze under his nose and made him all too aware of her womanly presence in his arms. Damn, but it felt good to hold her.

  “I hear you two are getting married,” a voice said from behind.

  Startled, Fletcher dropped his hand to his gun and turned around. He found himself staring at the cowboy who had been gambling with Zeb the night before.

  “What’s the hurry, Marshal?” he asked. “You only just got here a few days ago. Don’t you want to taste what delicacies Dodge has to offer before you settle on beef and potatoes for the rest of your days?” Glancing down at Jo, he licked his lips.

  Fletcher squeezed the handle of his Peacemaker in an effort to keep control, then reached around to touch Jo’s arm and urge her directly behind him where this brute wouldn’t be able to even look at her. He glared into the man’s narrowing eyes, smelled tobacco on his stale breath and noticed a scar through his eyebrow.

  “This your herd?” Fletcher demanded.

  “Yeah, what’s it to ya?”

  “You work for George Greer?”

  “As far as I’m concerned, there ain’t no other outfits in Texas worth the effort.”

  Fletcher glanced at the large brand that covered almost the entire side of each steer.

  “Any of your herd go missing on the drive?”

  The trail boss smirked. “If you’re talking about the rustling ring that’s got everybody in a huff, you’re wasting your time with me and my boys. We know how to handle a herd. Greer pays well to make sure he gets the best. And to answer your question, Greer cattle doesn’t go missing.”

  Fletcher nodded his head, still resting his hand on his gun. He could feel Jo behind him, and sensing her desire to say something, he figured he’d better move on before she found a chance to open her mouth. Taking her arm as he backed away, he helped her into the wagon, then called to the trail boss, “What’s your name?”

  “Why? You want to invite me to your weddin’?”

  “What’s your name?”

  The man spit on the ground. “MacGregor. Will MacGregor.”

  Fletcher climbed into the wagon, in a hurry to take this new information with him to the telegraph office. He had some friends in Texas who owed him favors. With any luck, he’d get replies back before he and Jo had to clink champagne glasses with Zeb over his fancy red silk tablecloth.

  Jo sat across from Fletcher in the city clerk’s office above the jail, tapping her foot while they waited for the telegraph replies to come in. Fletcher had asked the operator to send them over right away, without wasting a minute, but nothing seemed to be happening. No one seemed to be at the other end of the wires.

  “What time is it?” Fletcher asked, pacing the floor behind his desk.

  Jo took her timepiece out of her bodice pocket. “It’s almost six-thirty. I don’t think we’re going to hear back from anyone before seven. We’ll just have to go to Zeb’s house for supper.”

  He stopped pacing, his brows drawing together. “You don’t sound too uncomfortable with that.”

  “Quite frankly, I’m not. We’ve looked in the streets and on the plains and we’ve found nothing. I’m after proof to use against Zeb. What better place to find it than his own home?”

  Fletcher raised his hand. “Wait a second. I’m not going to let you rifle through his things, and I certainly hope you don’t want to shoot him in front of my sister.”

  Jo’s shoulders slumped with a sigh. “Of course not. And I presume he won’t try to shoot me in front of her, either. That’s why it’s the best opportunity I can hope for.”

  “No.”

  “Why not? What have you got to lose? You’ll be there to watch over me, and if Zeb is as innocent as you think he is, we’ll find nothing and be on our way. If he’s guilty…” She stopped at that, not sure what would happen if they discovered something, what Fletcher would do.

  What she would do.

  “At least we’ll get a fancy meal out of it,” she said, trying to put a tidy finish on her thoughts.

  Just then, footsteps thumped up the stairs on the outside of the building and the door opened. Deputy Anderson walked in with a telegraph message.

  “What does it say?” Jo asked, standing.

  Fletcher took it from Anderson and read it. His mouth became a hard line as he slapped the note against his thigh. “Why hasn’t anyone looked into this before?”

  Deputy Anderson sheepishly removed his hat. “I guess nobody was suspecting a rancher like George Greer of stealing. He’s the richest there is.”

  Fletcher picked his hat up off the desk and pressed it onto his head. “Rich or not, he doesn’t own a square inch of land in Texas.”

  “Maybe he’s just using the free range, like everybody else,” Anderson suggested.

  “This says he hasn’t leased anything from the state. Where’s he grazing his herds over the winter? He doesn’t even own a headquarters site.”

  Jo stood, realizing uneasily that George Greer was casting a shadow over Zeb and his reason to kill Edwyn. “Maybe he has a ranch in Colorado or New Mexico.”

  “Not according to his employees and everyone who’s heard of him. But we might as well know for sure.” He pointed the telegraph message at Deputy Anderson. “I want you to send a couple of wires to check it out. Then find Greer’s trail boss, Will MacGregor, and bring him to see me. He was down at the depot loading a herd not long ago.”

  “Sure thing,” Anderson replied, going out the door.

  Fletcher turned to Jo. “We’ll have to cancel our dinner plans.”

  She swallowed hard, trying to control her irritation. “We can’t do that.”

  “Why not? This is the first lead we’ve had on your husband’s murder and I want to follow it through.”

  “Fletcher, I’m a witness. What better lead can you ask for than that? It was Zeb who killed Edwyn, not George Greer, whoever he is.”

  “But if the killers were wearing hoods, you’re not an eyewitn
ess, Jo, and my instincts are telling me that there’s something not right about Greer.”

  “Why don’t you ask Zeb about him?” she suggested. “He’s a prestigious merchant, soon to be mayor. If anyone knows anything about Greer, surely Zeb would. Maybe he’s even done business with him.”

  Fletcher eyed her suspiciously. “You’re trying to manipulate me.”

  Jo sighed. “You have to admit I have a point.”

  He hesitated, considering it. “I suppose you do. Zeb supplies the cattlemen all the time. Not to mention that he was gambling with MacGregor last night. Maybe I should talk to him.”

  Trying not to show how relieved she was, Jo gathered up her gloves. “We should go, then. It’s almost seven.”

  Fletcher stood to face her. “All right, we’ll go, but I don’t want you asking questions about any of this. Leave it to me.”

  “Can I comment on the wine or is that off-limits, too?”

  Fletcher offered his arm. “Just try and control yourself. Remember the part you’re playing. Your only task tonight, Mrs. O’Malley, is to be hopelessly in love with me.”

  When Zeb Stone’s large front door swung open, Jo stood dumbfounded, staring at the tall butler who stood in the doorway to greet them. A sudden ripple of tension made her body go weak. Could she fool the man who had murdered her husband? Could she even face him?

  Without a word, the butler invited them into the wide front hall.

  Jo walked into the magnificent house, and staring at Zeb’s gilt-framed wedding portrait the size of a window, she felt instantly humbled. Elizabeth sat poised in an armchair while Zeb stood behind her resting his white-gloved hand on her bare shoulder. She looked like a princess in her sheer, lacy veil and white silk gown, the skirt trimmed with enough satin drapery to cover every window in this house. Zeb looked as he always did—impressive and intimidating with his dark brows, dark mustache and expensive black jacket. He was a striking figure in any context.

  “Mrs. Stone is waiting for you in the drawing room,” the butler announced, taking Jo’s shawl and Fletcher’s hat, and showing them across the shiny floor and past the ornately carved mahogany staircase.

  Jo felt underdressed in her plain calico bodice and skirt, but when she glanced at Fletcher, whose spurs were chinking with each step, she thought better of it.

  They walked into the drawing room and there was Elizabeth in a pale yellow evening gown with white lace ruffles on the train, standing in front of the fireplace with her back to the door. As soon as the butler announced Jo and Fletcher, she turned gracefully from rearranging a vase of pink roses on the mantel.

  “Fletcher! Mrs. O’Malley!” Elizabeth approached and took Jo’s hands. “Congratulations. It seems we will be sisters.” She leaned forward and kissed Jo on the cheek.

  Jo glanced at Fletcher, who dropped his gaze to the floor.

  “Please, call me Jo,” she replied.

  Elizabeth turned Jo’s hands over and looked at them. “No ring yet, I see.” She gave Fletcher a lighthearted wink. “I’ve been waiting all day for this moment.”

  She moved toward a round table adorned with glass figurines and vases of colorful wildflowers, and picked up a small silver-plated box.

  Fletcher’s lips parted with recognition. “Elizabeth, that’s not necessary. I know how much that means to you.”

  Jo listened to Fletcher’s voice, so full of regret and guilt and anguish at having to lie to his sister this way. Seeing the sisterly love in Elizabeth’s eyes as she handed the box to him made Jo realize why Fletcher was so reluctant to accept the truth about Zeb. Why she, too, now wished it was not so.

  Fletcher took the small box from Elizabeth and held it in his hand, staring down without saying a word. A vein pulsed at his temple. Jo saw it and touched his arm. “Are you all right?” she asked quietly.

  Elizabeth gazed back and forth between the two of them, then spoke to Jo. “It’s our mother’s wedding ring. She wanted it to be passed down.”

  Jo had to swallow the guilt-ridden lump forming in the back of her throat. She glanced from Elizabeth to Fletcher, back to Elizabeth again. “But you should have it,” she suggested. “You were her only daughter.”

  Elizabeth shook her head. “No, Zeb wanted me to have something he picked out himself.”

  Jo glimpsed down and was not surprised at the large diamond on Elizabeth’s finger, meant to impress even the wealthiest Dodge City patrons and voters.

  “I don’t know, Liz,” Fletcher said, still holding the box, turning it over in his strong hand.

  “Please, it would break my heart if you didn’t accept it. I know Mother would have wanted you to have it. You know how she believed in you, Fletcher. She always wanted you to be happy.”

  Fletcher walked to the window and stood in front of the drawn velvet curtains, his back to Jo and Elizabeth. Alone, head down, he opened the box and looked at the ring.

  Jo stood in the center of the room, unable to tear her gaze away from him as he heaved with a sigh. A cold knot formed in her stomach. How she wanted to go to him. To tell him to call off this charade before they all got hurt.

  Elizabeth strolled forward and placed her delicate hand on her brother’s broad shoulder. “Take the ring, Fletcher. It’s been too long since you’ve been happy.”

  He turned slightly and looked at Jo. The pained intensity in his eyes shattered the last remnants of her resolve. She wasn’t certain if it was guilt she saw there, or if it was something closer to what she was feeling— a sense of anguish that this engagement was only a game. It would never be real.

  What were they doing? How could they pretend like this?

  Jo stepped forward. “Elizabeth, I think there’s something you should know about Fletcher and me.” A long silence squeezed around them. Elizabeth cupped her hands in front of her and turned to face Jo.

  “This is very difficult, but—”

  Fletcher quickly crossed the red Oriental rug that separated them. “Jo, don’t say another word. Elizabeth is right. Our mother would have wanted you to wear this.”

  Any hope for revealing the truth vanished beneath her surprise. She could barely control her breathing as Fletcher took her hand, raised it to his lips and placed a warm, soft kiss on her knuckles—a kiss so genuine she could have sworn he’d meant what he said.

  Did he mean it?

  Unable to grasp at words, she gave in to Fletcher’s lead and allowed him to remove her glove and slip the ring carved with tiny hearts onto her trembling finger.

  “It fits,” was all he said, staring into her eyes as if he was trying to tell her something. Or was she only hoping he was?

  “It must be fate, then,” Elizabeth said, approaching. “Mother had the most beautiful hands, like yours.”

  “Oh, hardly,” Jo said self-consciously, pulling her hand from Fletcher’s and dropping it to her side. “With all the work I do at the ranch.”

  “That’s what makes them beautiful,” Elizabeth returned.

  Just then, the door of the drawing room swung open and Jo turned, startled, to look into the dark eyes of her husband’s killer.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  “Zeb, you’re back,” Elizabeth said uneasily, crossing the room to greet him. “I hadn’t expected you so soon. I’d instructed Matthews to hold supper for another half hour.”

  He stood in the wide doorway, staring into Jo’s eyes, and bowed at the waist. “Welcome to my home, Mrs. O’Malley.”

  Elizabeth gave him a nervous smile. “They arrived only a few minutes ago.”

  “I see that.”

  He eyed Jo curiously, and she felt her heart wash with fear as she whisked her hands behind her back.

  “What’s that you’re hiding?”

  He strode toward her and her stomach flared with dread. She thought she had been prepared for this, but she wasn’t. “What do you mean?”

  “Oh, come now, you can’t hide anything from me.” He stood too close, trying to lean around her to see what she h
ad.

  Not aware of anything but the reality of facing Zeb in person, close enough to smell the hint of whisky on his breath and take in the extravagant quality of his black suit jacket, Jo had to fight the urge to slam her hands onto his chest and shake him for an explanation as to why he had killed her husband.

  Fletcher reached for her hand and laced his fingers through hers. The supportive gesture pulled her abruptly from her fury and reminded her what she had come here to do.

  She let her hand relax into Fletcher’s, who stood next to her, tall and composed.

  “She’s hiding a wedding ring she shouldn’t be wearing yet,” Fletcher said good-naturedly, raising her hand to show off the gold band.

  Zeb glanced at it, nodded once in an exaggerated, patronizing manner that suggested to Jo that even if the wedding was real, she would not live to see it.

  “Sorry I’m late,” he said, changing the subject and stepping back to wave at the butler. “I had some important business to attend to. Get us some brandy, Matthews. No, on second thought, make it champagne. This celebration requires something bubbly.”

  Seizing the distraction, Jo managed to take a few deep breaths that helped calm her a bit. She reminded herself of her role as Fletcher’s fiancée while he and Zeb spoke casually.

  The butler returned with a bottle of French champagne and four glasses on a silver tray. He filled each one and made his way around the room with them.

  “Here’s to family,” Zeb toasted, raising his glass. “May we all prosper.”

  With that, they dutifully sipped the cold, fizzing champagne.

  Jo watched Elizabeth, curious what had drawn a woman like her to this man. She could only guess it had something to do with being alone in the world and being naively romantic. It was the only thing that made any sense.

  When Fletcher and Zeb began to discuss city matters, Elizabeth invited Jo to join her on the green damask sofa. “I would very much like to see your ranch,” she said, setting her glass on the marble-topped table in front of them. “I do so admire you, running it on your own. How big is your herd?”