Capturing The Marshal's Heart (Escape From Texas) Page 9

  “And your walk is real fine.”

  Standing nearby, Prudence’s hands drew into fists and her body stiffened.

  Jazzy walked close and bumped into the angry woman, forcing her to shift her gaze. “He’s looking to start trouble. Grab a bag and ignore him.”

  Within a few minutes, the bags sat in a heap against a wall and the women were grouped on the opposite side of the entry doorway. From her position, Jazzy could see a wall with an arch in the middle. A coarsely woven blanket hung across the opening that she assumed led to a second room, possibly a bedroom. Knowing everything about this house was essential for planning their escape.

  “The trip was a long one.” She cleared her throat and waved her hand to indicate all four women. “We could all use a visit to the, um”— for effect, she cast down her gaze before finishing her soft-spoken request—“the necessary.”

  “Only one of you at a time. The others, get to cookin’ some food.”

  Jazzy turned her back to the men and whispered, “Let me go first. I need to check the layout of the place. Besides, I haven’t cooked a meal in over five years.” A final glance told her the women were doing all right so she turned and headed out the door.

  Jimmy John fell into step, the crunch of his boots echoing hers.

  She stopped and glanced over her shoulder. “I’ve been going to the necessary alone since I was a young’un. I can find it on my own.”

  “I’m yer escort. It’s around the back.”

  Exactly where they normally are. Jazzy stepped quickly around the side of the adobe and scanned the horizon for the fourth man who must have been posted somewhere as a guard. Nothing. She wished she’d noticed when he’d abandoned the group. Around another corner stood a rickety stable and a tilting outhouse that looked like it would collapse in a stiff wind. A second door led from the back wall of the house that contained a single window.

  Her heart beat a bit faster. Finally, something was going right.

  Once inside the outhouse, she tried not to notice how close to the structure the man stood. Let Jimmy John think he was bothering her. She had more important things to ponder—like holding on until help arrived.

  Now, all she had to do was keep the situation calm until Slade showed up. Although their acquaintance was short, she knew him to be the type of man who would do all he could to find and rescue kidnapped women. Slade wouldn’t leave her in the hands of this gang of thieves.

  For his part, Slade had to be well enough to ride, then get a horse, follow her path of petticoat strips, and sneak up on this house from just the right angle to set them free.

  Their rescue could work exactly like that. Yeah, if this were a story from one of those dime novels.

  As best she could, she smoothed down her skirts and opened the door to step out.

  Gunshots erupted from inside the house, followed by a stream of loud curses.

  “Come on.” The guard grabbed her arm, propelled her across the yard in his bruising grip, and burst through the back door.

  Breathing hard at the uncertainty, she took a moment to scan the room and glimpsed several beds and a crude table with a candlestick in the center. When they entered the main room, Jazzy first looked for the other women. They were across the open floor, unhurt and clutching each other, eyes wide. The long table in the center of the room was turned on its side and a chair was upended.

  Waving something shiny in his hand, Charley stomped around the floor and kicked at a tin coffee cup. “I can’t believe it.”

  Ralph rubbed a hand over his jaw. “Was he the one who spooked my horse? And gave me this sore back?”

  “What’s wrong?” Jimmy John’s head moved back and forth between the angry, pacing men. “What did I miss?”

  “I shoulda knowed by the way he fought.” Charley made a sound deep in his throat and spat on the dirt floor in disgust. “A damned marshal!”

  Marshal? Jazzy sucked in a breath, her chest tight. Slade was a lawman?

  Her knees melted to jelly and she dropped onto a nearby bench. Her Slade—the man who cared enough to undress her slowly, carefully removing each article of clothing, and kissing her skin alive. The man who brought her body to the highest fever pitch she’d ever enjoyed.

  A marshal? The sworn enemy of parlor ladies everywhere. Her skin cooled like she stood outdoors in January during a blue norther.

  How could he have hidden this important fact? He’d spoken sweet words about her eyes, her hair, her body. For pity’s sake, the man recited poetry. Had the man who’d been so playful and attentive have another reason—

  Mercy! Her hand gripped the bench’s edge and she barely registered the pain of the rough-hewn planks. He’d hinted at his identity. When he’d first put on the handcuffs, she’d teased about what game they’d play. He’d suggested the sheriff and the bank robber. But as wrapped up in the excitement as she’d been, she hadn’t really paid attention to his words.

  What a fool she’d been. Slade hadn’t come to her room in response to anything she’d said. He’d come because he thought she might be the woman in the wanted poster.

  Suddenly, her blood ran hot. Slade Thomas thought she was a common thief. The nerve of that rat.

  ***

  Slade trudged along one side of the bandit’s runaway horse, forcing himself to put one foot in front of the other. With each step, pain like a pounding hammer shot through the inside of his skull. He clenched his jaw, tasting grit in his teeth, and tried to think only about getting this pitiful group to safety.

  On the other side of the horse, Mr. Denton struggled to keep up with the pace Slade set. When roused by the kid and the old man, Slade’s worst suspicions had been verified. The bandits had taken the women and the stagecoach.

  Pete was weak from a gunshot wound high in his shoulder. The injured man was woozy and barely able to hold up his head, so Slade cinched him to the saddle horn. The boy rode behind, steadying Pete when he swayed in the saddle. He’d survive, if Slade got him to a doctor before he lost too much more blood. “Pete, how’re you doing?”

  A long silence, then a mumbled, “I’m all right,”

  “Do you need a rest?” As much as he hated to lose the time, Slade had to give the injured man the opportunity. The water from the bandit’s canteen was long gone, so a few minutes of rest was all he had to offer.

  “Nah.” His voice came out through clenched teeth. “Keep going. Ain’t far now.”

  From directly overhead, the sun beat down on Slade’s dark hair, doubling the sharp pains at his temple. His shirt stuck to his skin in several places. He told himself his hand only rested on the horse’s flank in case the boy started to tumble off. Getting this rag-tag group to town was his first goal. The second was a couple of shots of whisky to ease the throbbing in his skull.

  Twenty minutes later, Chester pointed toward the horizon. “Hey, mister, I see a church steeple.”

  Slade squinted and spotted the rooftops of the same town they’d left that morning. Had only four hours passed since the coach had departed from the porch in front of Ella’s boarding house? Seemed much longer.

  Pete straightened and feebly grappled with the knot binding him to the saddle. “Untie this.”

  “Stop messing with the rope.” Slade’s words croaked from a dry throat. “Don’t want you falling off.”

  “I can git there from here.” Pete looked straight at him and jerked his head back the way they’d come. “You got more important matters to tend to.”

  Relief cut through him at the possibility of the trip being shortened. “Are you sure?” Even as he spoke words that might change the driver’s mind, he yanked at the rope, feeling the fibers loosen under his fingers.

  Leaning on his cane, Mr. Denton stepped around the front of the horse, resting a wrinkled hand against the horse’s withers. “We’ll go slow. The boy and I’ll help him.”

  “I’m thirsty,” whined Chester.

  “I know, son.” Slade lifted the boy off the back of the horse an
d put a hand on Chester’s shoulder. He couldn’t imagine what thoughts the boy was having after seeing his mother abducted. “Not much longer before you’ll be sitting at Ella’s with a glass of cold milk in front of you.” He turned to help Pete slide down and braced him until his legs supported his weight.

  “Lean on me.” Mr. Denton slipped his arm around Pete’s back. “And Chester, you get around to Pete’s other side, and let him rest a hand on your shoulder.”

  They hesitated, watching Slade for a reaction.

  With a short nod, he coiled the rope and slung it over the saddle horn. Fearful of what the exertion would cause, he clamped his jaw, set his boot in the stirrup, and swung his leg over the horse. White light flashed behind his eyes and his stomach roiled with nausea. For several moments, he felt his heart pounding in his ears then the sound faded.

  Leaning an arm on the saddle horn, he looked at the three figures before him. They looked shakier than the last maple leaf dangling from the branch at the onset of winter. Could he really leave them on their own to get to town?

  “Go on,” Pete urged with a jerk of his chin. “I’ll head straight for Sheriff Simmons’s office and report the robbery. A posse will be on your tracks within the hour.”

  “Appreciate this, Pete. Take as much time as you need, and you should be fine.” He raised a hand in farewell and clucked to the horse. Once the horse turned toward the way they’d come, Slade’s thoughts centered on how to find the women in this wide, open country. He’d have to go back to where he’d last seen the stagecoach and follow what tracks remained. And then hope for one shot in hell that he’d locate the kidnapped women in the vast Texas desert.

  The constant throb at his left temple muddied his thoughts, but he couldn’t afford the time to wait for the pain to lessen. His duty demanded he track down the bandits. His heart demanded he rescue Jazzy. The memory of her stricken face and the way she struggled against her captor in his last seconds of awareness set his blood racing.

  What if the impetuous girl refused to cooperate with the bandits? Dread grabbed hold of his gut and twisted. Something told him she wouldn’t keep silent about being abducted.

  What niggled at him, and had to be faced, was the possibility he wouldn’t succeed. Normally, he was pretty confident in his capabilities. Maybe the heavy heat was getting to him, or the fact these bastards had beaten him once. Or maybe he hesitated over the near impossibility of discovering which direction they’d headed. His temples pounded with the rhythm of a carpenter’s hammer, and he fought to stay in the saddle.

  If he were honest, he’d have to admit he could be wasting his time and energy. Those women could be halfway to Mexico. His chest pinched and, although the movement cost him dearly, he shook his head.

  Or they could already be dead.

  Chapter Nine

  The sun hung low in the sky, shading the clouds pink that hovered against the mountains. Slade squinted at the distant horizon and frustration tightened his jaw. About two hours of daylight remained. He didn’t want to think about the wild ideas those vermin might get after nightfall.

  Spotting a dark spiral of smoke, he coaxed the horse forward, the urgency to see Jazzy again fueling his movements. Within a few hundred yards, the breeze carried the aroma of frying bacon to his nose.

  He’d found someone. And he hoped he’d interpreted the signs right.

  His fingers moved to his vest pocket stuffed with scraps from a green silk petticoat he’d been picking up along the way.

  A trail left for him by one smart, resourceful female. Every nerve in his body tingled with the thought of her being within his reach.

  Slade tied the horse to a bush and crept forward, the scent of the meat guiding him in the right direction. Eliminating the posted guard had been as simple as finding the guy snoozing in the shade of the tallest bush and whacking him over the head with a rock. At the moment, the careless bandit was taking a longer nap than he’d originally planned.

  He figured this bunch hadn’t pulled off many robberies and had relied on a single sentry. But underestimating them could be fatal. Slade moved cautiously over the uneven ground, his pistol drawn in his steady hand. When the adobe house came into view, he stopped and scanned the terrain. A door and two windows were visible in the front. No one moved outside. To avoid being seen, he dropped back and walked a wide circle, checking the area surrounding the house.

  The smell of biscuits, beans, and bacon grew stronger, and his stomach rumbled. He tried not to think about how many hours had passed since the apple and biscuits he’d eaten for breakfast. For several minutes, he watched the back of the house, waiting for evidence of anyone checking through the window or door. Then he crept forward, using the lean-to stable and outhouse as cover.

  Instinct urged him forward, closer to Jazzy. He reached the corner of the house and hesitated, listening for any sound that meant his presence had been discovered. With his back against the rough structure, he inched along toward the window.

  Weak light filtered through the grimy glass, casting shadows over the room. One glance through the window stopped him cold. He clamped his jaw against the primal shout building from deep in his throat.

  Across the room, one of the bandits was advancing on Jazzy, lascivious intent written in his every move.

  With her blonde hair loose and tumbling around her shoulders, she stood her ground, one hand resting on a cocked hip.

  Damnation. He didn’t know if he should charge inside and bury his fist in the bandit’s face or cheer on her defiant attitude. In the next instant, he felt the cold metal of the doorknob against his palm. Jazzy was in danger and he had to get to her. He forced himself to take deep breaths and release the knob. That was not the solution. While running through several choices, weighing each to determine the safest, he eased back a few steps and positioned himself so he could see inside the room.

  The man took another step closer, an arrogant grin displaying missing teeth.

  Jazzy put out a restraining hand and her lips moved. With a toss of her hair and a coy look from under her lashes, she flirted with the man and inched her feet backward.

  A slow anger burned in Slade’s gut. What the hell was going on? Where were the others? And why was Jazzy alone with this bandit? He glanced around the sparsely furnished room and saw the object she must be attempting to reach. The metal candle stand on the table near the bed made a perfect weapon.

  Then her gaze shifted in his direction, and her eyes widened.

  He connected with the outrage and determination in their depths. Taking a closer look, he spotted her hands drawn into fists and a poised readiness about her stance.

  She narrowed her gaze and inclined her head toward the advancing man.

  A signal? What was she up to? Slade shook his head.

  Her eyes flashed him a look as cold as ice, then she turned all her attention on the man who almost had her penned in. Dipping her head, she smiled and her fingers moved to the buttons of her blouse, undoing several.

  Trying to determine if she needed his help, he studied her face. She didn’t look scared or worried about this seductive playacting. In fact, her movements were unhurried, almost as if she moved through a practiced routine. Familiar movements, like he’d seen—realization hit him hard, and he swallowed against a too-dry throat.

  This diversion was easy because she’d clearly gone through the motions many times before. He flashed back to the familiar way she’d touched him at the side of the stage stop, to her provocative statements in her conversations with the other women, to her ease in accepting his presence in her room at the boarding house. Blood pounded in his ears. She was a soiled dove…a fancy lady…a woman of ill-repute. A woman who operated on the opposite side of the very law he’d sworn an oath to enforce.

  Pulling in a sharp breath through his nostrils, he ducked out of sight and dropped his head back against the house. What had he gotten himself into here? Had he been blind because she touched a part of him that had been untouc
hed for too long? How could he have missed the signs of who Jazzy really was?

  The questions bouncing through his thoughts were drowned out by a single one. Did any of that matter?

  A shrill laugh sounded from inside the room. “Oh, what’s your hurry? Waiting will make it better.”

  Slade heard the nervous note in Jazzy’s voice and his innate desire to defend her pushed away concerns over her past. He looked over his shoulder and clenched his jaw at how the situation had deteriorated so fast.

  Laying across the mattress and supporting himself on his elbows, the man watched, his hooded eyes and the pistol he held followed each of Jazzy’s movements.

  She inched her blouse down her shoulders and sashayed her hips, sliding her feet along the floor.

  From this angle, all Slade could see was the wolfish expression on the ruffian’s face as he watched each glide of her sensuous hips. Things had gone on long enough.

  Slade grabbed the doorknob, ready to charge through the door. With a last glance through the window, he saw a flash of movement.

  Jazzy raised the candle stand and brought it down hard on the bandit’s head.

  He sagged against the bed and lay still, his pistol resting in lax fingers.

  Shoulders heaving, she stumbled backwards and turned away from the bed, arms wrapped around her stomach.

  Had she been hurt? Slade charged through the door and advanced on her. His gaze scanned her body then narrowed on her pale face.

  Her mouth rounded and she moved away until her back met the wall.

  Gaze unwavering from her face, he didn’t stop until scant inches separated their bodies. “What was that?” His words were ground out through clenched teeth.