Capturing The Marshal's Heart (Escape From Texas) (13 page)

Mrs. Harrington cowered by the table, Amanda stood flat against the cabin wall, and the bandits sat forward, gazes alert to the new situation.

Slade pointed his pistol toward them. “Don’t give me a reason to use this.” He then glanced out the door, but couldn’t see in which direction she fled. “I’m going after Sarah. Jazzy, stay inside.” He glanced over his shoulder to make sure she knew he meant what he said. “Did you hear—”

Jazzy sat slumped on a bench against the wall, eyes wide and jaw dropped. A hole surrounded by singed cloth marked her skirt along her left side.

Damn. She’d been hit.

Chapter Ten

A hollow cry of denial rose from deep within Slade, and he clamped his jaw tight to keep it inside. Not gut-shot—she couldn’t be. A bullet to the abdomen often proved fatal, even with immediate medical care, which they didn’t have here. He strode across the room and dropped to his knees, careful not to bump her. “Jazzy girl, I’m here.”

With one sweeping glance, he tried to gauge the extent of her injuries. In his years of law enforcement, he’d seen plenty of gunshots, even doctored some. Her arms and legs hung limp and splayed—no broken bones. Her head was angled to the right, probably just from the impact of her landing. Her breathing was rapid, and now, her eyes were clenched shut.

God, he needed to touch her. With a hand more shaky than he wanted to admit, he cupped her jaw and ran a thumb over her soft, warm cheek. “Look at me, Jazzy.”

A groan sounded and her eyelids fluttered.

At the pained sound, his gut clenched. If he’d been in better control of the situation, he’d be the one flat on his back and barely conscious. If he’d waited a moment longer, if he’d done his job right… He pulled in a breath through tight lips and forced calm into his words. “Jazzy, let me see your beautiful blue eyes.”

She rolled her head to the side and pressed her cheek against his hand. “Slade—” A gasp cut off the single word.

“I’m here.” He slipped his fingers down the side of her neck to check her pulse.
Is it too fast?
How in blazes could he tell? When he reached to brush away hair from her face, he felt the tickle of her breath against the back of his hand.
Keep breathing, Jazzy girl.

Her eyelids flickered and her confused gaze, dark with pain, connected with his. “My side burns like fire.”

The knot in his stomach tightened. Seeing pain shadowing her gaze made his chest ache. “I know, darlin’.” He looked at the bloody spot on her skirt then glanced over his shoulder. “Mrs. Harrington, get me some water and cloth.”

The woman stood and shrugged her shoulders almost as high as her ears, hands lifted with palms upwards. “Look around. Where am I going to get cloth for bandages?”

“Damn it, woman.” He gritted his teeth and glared at the helpless female and shifted his gaze to the younger woman. “You, Miss Torrance—go through the bags and find a nightshirt. Tear the dress off your back if you have to. Just get me clean cloth to tend Jazzy’s wound.” He cut a glance toward the corner where the men watched him, their gazes calculating. With a flick of his wrist, he raised the pistol to remind them who was still in charge of this situation.

One eye on the bandits, he turned back to Jazzy, and the frustration at having to divide his attention sent his blood racing. He had to help her, but he feared he didn’t know enough about doctoring.

Her gaze was steady and her chest rose and fell in quick pants. “Slade, go after Sarah. It’s your duty.” She struggled to sit straighter, but gasped. Her skin paled and she pressed her lips tightly together. Her hands folded into fists in the folds of her skirt. “I’ll be fine.”

Not for a moment was he fooled by her attempt to be brave. One look at her strained expression and tensed muscles told the real story. This spitfire was definitely too stubborn for her own good. “You’re a terrible liar, Jazzy. And I’m not leaving you.”

Mrs. Harrington arrived, carrying a dented pot and a wad of pale green fabric. “Here. This is what I found.”

Slade checked on the men, who hadn’t moved from their position. Maybe they wouldn’t cause trouble, but he couldn’t rely on it. His pistol stayed aimed toward the corner. He glanced at the older woman, who was becoming as annoying as a horsefly in July with her inability to take any kind of useful action. “Tear that bundle into strips. Woman, haven’t you ever bound a wound?”

Mrs. Harrington grabbed the pale cloth and yanked at it, her cheeks stained an indignant red. “Coughs and colds I can remedy, Mr. Thomas.” She drew herself upright and pursed her lips together. “But I’m a civilized woman from an upstanding family, and I’m used to mingling in polite, genteel company. I’ve never tended or even seen a gunshot wound. I really have no interest in learning either.” A shudder ran through her body.

Miss Torrance crossed the space and held out her hands. “Let me, I know how. Got several rowdy brothers who were always getting into scrapes.”

With growing impatience, he watched the younger woman struggle with the fabric for several moments, and then he reached for the garment. Wedging an edge between his elbow and his thigh, he pulled hard and was rewarded by the screech of ripping cloth. He handed it back to the woman then lowered his gaze to Jazzy. “I want to take you into the bedroom—”

“Do you now?” A hint of a grin lifted the corners of her mouth.

He narrowed his eyes at her flirting. “To make you more comfortable. But I can’t let those men out of my sight. If I do, all hell will break loose, and we’ll have real trouble on our hands.” He’d give anything to sweep her into his arms, carry her into the bedroom, and make her prove she could give him what her attitude promised. Maybe then his insides would unwind and his chest might relax enough to draw a normal breath. “Miss Torrance, lend a hand please.”

Within a minute or two, they set the table on its legs and angled it so the fireplace light would shine its length.

After a nod of thanks toward his helper, he swept a hand to indicate its position. “The best I can do is here, on the table.”

“Always a first time.”

The image of what she suggested flashed across his mind and his blood heated. With that sass, could she be stronger than he’d thought? The growing splotch of dark color on her green skirt indicated otherwise. “Jazzy.” He couldn’t stop himself from drawing out her name, like a fading echo.

She rested a trembling hand on his arm, all teasing gone from her eyes. “Stop looking so worried, Slade. You’re scaring me.”

Her words tore at his conscience. Right now, she was more important than bringing in those bandits and the bank robber. With one last glare toward the occupants in the room’s corner, he scooped up Jazzy and held her close to his chest. Adjusting his grip so the bandits could see he still held the pistol, he strode to the table and swept her feet across one end. “Mrs. Harrington, grab me something for her head.”

The woman scurried to the upended baggage under a front window and started tossing aside the rumpled clothes. Her head jerked up and she stepped closer to the doorway, angling her head to peer outside. “Marshal, I hear horses coming.”

Slade cursed under his breath and squinted through the closest window at the clouds of dust rising in the distance. What else could happen? Did he truly need more than a hunted bank robber on the loose in the desert, a couple of woman who seemed useless as nurses, three bandits just itching to escape, and the woman he loved weakening before his eyes?

His admission of love stopped him.
Love?
He loved this sassy independent bit of a woman who set his heart pounding? No time to contemplate what that could mean for his future. Their future.

Pushing away those thoughts, he grabbed the wad of green fabric. “Here, Jazzy, press this against your side until it hurts. And keep it there, pushing hard.” With long strides, he crossed the room to the window, shifting his gaze between the bandits and the growing cloud of dust outside. “Mrs. Harrington, go help Jazzy.”

“Mrs. Harrington this and Mrs. Harrington that.” She shook her head and mumbled as she filled her hands with garments. “Let me tell you something, Mr. Thomas. You’re not the lord of the manor, and I’m not a serving girl for you to order about.”

“Ah, Slade, there’s one that’s not on our list.” Jazzy’s words were barely louder than a whisper.

Slade let Mrs. Harrington’s grumbling roll off him. He cut a glance at Jazzy and bit back a curse at the pallor of her face. Whoever approached the house would arrive whether he watched or not. “Miss Torrance, you watch at the window.” He had enough to deal with inside these four walls. Most important meant tending to Jazzy. “Come help me, Mrs. Harrington.” He speared her with a dark look. “Now.”

Mrs. Harrington stopped at the side of the table, a wad of red silk in her hand.

“Oh, my favorite petticoat.” Jazzy raised a limp hand toward the garment.

His chest tightened. His doctoring skills weren’t worth a damn, but there was no one else. “Tell me where you’re hurt. Look at me, Jazzy.”

“I’m looking.” Her head angled toward his voice, and she blinked several times before forcing her eyes wide open. “Hi, Slade.”

“Hey, darlin’.” To keep his expression neutral and his words soothing just about killed him. “I’ve got to find your wound and see how bad it is. I don’t have time to undress you carefully.”

“Could…be…fun.”

“Scandalous!” Mrs. Harrington sucked in a gasp. “I won’t be a party to—”

“Good.” He silenced her with a menacing glare. “You can stand guard on the bandits over there.” Slade slapped the pistol into her outstretched hand and wrapped her other hand around it. “The hammer is already back. Just keep it pointed at those two in that corner.” He narrowed his gaze in the direction of the no-count thieves. “If either of them moves, pull back on the trigger. And for God’s sakes, don’t shoot one of us!”

Shaking her head, Mrs. Harrington stepped back and lowered the weapon. “But…I don’t think—”

“Prudence, go to the window.” Miss Torrance moved across the dirt floor. “I’ve been known to handle a gun or two in my life. Mr. Thomas, if I may?” She extended her right hand.

“Much obliged, ma’am.” He waited for her answering nod, knowing he would accept no resistance.

With relief, he turned his attention back to Jazzy and slipped a knife from his pocket. A couple of quick slashes at the hem, then he tore the skirt fabric up to the charred bullet hole. On her green petticoat underneath was a growing bloodstain.

His jaw clamped hard. His worst fear was confirmed. The bullet had hit her body, and the wound was long and oozing blood.

“Oh, Slade, why did you ruin my new dress?” Jazzy levered up to one elbow and gazed down at her shredded clothes.

“Had to. But you’ll be okay, and I’m staying right here.”

Her eyes widened at the bloody mess and she sucked in a quick breath. “Is all that blood mine? I can’t stand… Oooh…” Her words faded, then she fell back on the table, her head thumping like a gourd against the wooden surface.

He froze and fought back panic, trying to convince himself her new status was better. Now he could tend to her wound without the worry over increasing her pain. With quick strokes, he pierced the next layer of silky fabric and cut, his progress stopped in places by some damn metal supports. Trying not to think about whose blood covered the petticoat he held, he concentrated on not cutting Jazzy’s skin.

Outside, the beat of horse hooves thundered close and slowed to a stop.

“They’re here.” Mrs. Harrington called out.

Great lookout
. At this point, US Marshal Thomas didn’t care enough to face the door. All Slade’s attention was on the woman stretched out on the table. He placed the back of his hand between her breasts and felt her chest move with each shallow breath.
Good, keep breathing.
That’s half the battle.

“Howdy in the house.” A gruff voice boomed from outside. “I’m Sheriff Simmons from Silveridge.”

Help had arrived. Slade’s over-tense muscles started to relax. The load he’d been shouldering alone lightened. “Sheriff, US Marshal Thomas here. We spoke at Ella’s boarding house. Got three stagecoach bandits in here, one’s unconscious in a back room.”

“The driver Pete told us they were headed this way.” The voice sounded confident and definitely closer.

Good old Pete.
Slade lifted away the petticoat, curious at its weight, and exposed an angry gash that ran downwards high on Jazzy’s hip. He dipped a strip in the water and dabbed at the slash in her pantalettes to clean away the blood. “Got three coach passengers here, too. One’s been shot. Can’t tell how bad.”

“Thomas, I’m coming in.”

Slade stepped in between the table and the door to block Jazzy’s partially disrobed body from the doorway, then glanced over his shoulder. “Come on.”

For a few seconds, the room dimmed as the tall man, gun moving in a slow, sweeping arc, paused in the doorway.

A single glance told Slade his fellow lawman was in control of the room. “Obliged if you’d relieve my guard there.” He cut his gaze toward Miss Torrance, whose arms were trembling from the effort of keeping the gun steady.

Simmons scanned the room, nodded, and gestured to someone still outside. “Pete said four women were on the stage. Where’s the fourth?”

Another man entered the house, stepped to Miss Torrance, and eased the gun from her shaky hand.

Good, now Slade could concentrate on what was truly important. He pressed the bandage tighter against Jazzy’s hip. “Turned out one of the passengers, a seemingly timid Miss Sarah Whitfield, fooled me.
She’s
the woman on the wanted poster. While I was”—the memory of his body pressed close to Jazzy’s against the wall flashed through his mind, and he cleared his throat before continuing—“occupied with a third robber in the back room, she drew down on the bandits. I couldn’t get close enough to disarm her. Unfortunately, she wasn’t fooling about her aim. Shot once into the group, hit this lady with her bullet, then escaped, probably took one of their horses.”