Capturing The Marshal's Heart (Escape From Texas) (3 page)

The driver scratched his chin. “In four days.”

Her shoulders slumped. “Oh.” As much as she wanted to avoid seeing or speaking to Mr. Thomas, she wanted to get on with her new life more.

“Driver!” Mrs. Harrington stuck her head out the doorway and narrowed her gaze at Jazzy. Her plump lips rounded into an “o” and an eyebrow winged high. “Are we still on schedule?”

Pete’s wiry hand at Jazzy’s elbow guided her into the coach. Being last meant she was wedged in the middle between the shy, quiet woman dressed in faded calico and the older gentleman.

“Close enough, Miz Harrington.” Pete crossed his arms and rocked back on the heels of his boots. “Folks, I allowed a bit more time at this stop and may do the same for the next one. Been some trouble at the home station on down the line. Bandits stole the reserve horses, so we may have to stop for the night.”

“Bandits!” Several voices chorused together and bodies leaned forward.

Jazzy gasped, her hands freezing in the folds of her skirts. Thieves in the night! A knot formed in her stomach. Her money. On sheer instinct, her gaze swung to Slade, the most powerful of the group, and she studied his face for a reaction. His jaw tightened, but otherwise, his face appeared calm. The tightness in her chest eased.

Slade’s hand gripped the window frame. “Anyone hurt?”

At the realization she looked at him as a protector, she forced away her gaze and focused on the driver’s leathery face. As a child, she’d had the safety of a mama and papa to watch out for her. But for many years now, Jazzy relied on Jazzy.

Pete shook his head. “Naw, the cowards snuck in at night. When they knowed there’d be no resistance. If we can’t find replacements, we’ll have to let these horses rest.”

“This is horrible luck!” Mrs. Harrington stiffened and shifted in her seat, jostling the boy squeezed next to her. “Now, we’ll be even later.”

“It happens.” Pete stood silent for a moment, then shrugged, and moved out of sight. The coach tilted to one side as he climbed aboard. A moment later, the crack of a whip sounded and the coach lurched forward.

Jazzy leaned back, her thoughts in a whirl. Would replacements be found? Were they headed into danger? Life outside of Miss Veronica’s was surely full of surprises. The thought of her former employer reminded her about Tucker Flanagan, one of her best customers, and his solemn intent to marry her. From her perch in the middle, she couldn’t check out a rear window. For two days, she’d watched along the stage’s back trail and hadn’t spotted anyone following the coach. Maybe he’d forgotten all about her. Or he was looking in town because he hadn’t figured she’d be on the stage.

With the talk of danger, all the stories of the Wild West came flooding back from the dime novels she’d read. Of hold-ups, thieving bandits, and runaway stagecoaches. Although the novels were exciting to read, she’d never put much stock in those stories being true. Her gaze scanned the interior of the coach, noting foreheads wrinkled with furrows, teeth biting into lower lips, and hands clenched into fists. The other passengers seemed concerned aplenty about Pete’s news.

Minutes dragged with not one spoken word. Each passenger digested the driver’s information in his or her own way. Indirect glances skittered away. Positions shifted on the hard seats. Fingers tugged on bonnet ties. Knees bounced, fingers drummed, and shoes tapped.

The quiet tension gnawed on Jazzy’s nerves and she edged forward. What would happen at a later point on the trip would happen, whether she worried on it or not. Might as well start figuring out what type of shop could be the most profitable to open.

Turning to the quiet woman on her left, she extended her hand and stated her name. “Nice to make your acquaintance. Did I see you coming out of the tea shop near the depot? What did you think of the inside decor, and the refreshments?”

“I’m Amanda Torrance.” The woman gave a limp hand shake. “I was in the shop, although the proprietor could use lessons on brewing a brisk cup of tea.”

Something Jazzy knew nothing about. But this woman dressed in a years-old dress did?
Interesting
. “Takes skill, does it?”

“True, as does baking the proper cakes and biscuits.”

Yikes, I have no talent in that area. So, a tea shop is not to be considered.
Jazzy tapped a finger on her chin and cast her gaze around the coach. The expensive-looking tucks, darts, and insets on the older woman’s clothes caught her attention.

Remember, butter up the old harridan
. Looking past the little boy’s swaying body perched on the middle bench, she pasted on her friendliest smile. “Mrs. Harrington, your traveling suit looks to be so much in fashion. Tell me about the type of shop where you bought it.”

With an intake of breath and a pleased smile, Mrs. Harrington brushed a hand down the front of her navy blue jacket. “Do you like it? I’ve just come from a visit with my sister, who lives in St. Louis. She wore one in a deep forest green to an afternoon tea social during my stay. The cut was all wrong for her, but she wouldn’t listen to my suggestions.” With pudgy fingers, she adjusted the folds of her skirt and glanced up. “I believe the style suits me better.”

Waiting for the rest of the information, Jazzy wrinkled her brows at the expectant look on the woman’s face. Her eyes shot wide.
Oh!
“Yes, the style truly does compliment you.” Polite conversation sure made a body pay attention.

“Thank you. That’s what I thought. I knew I must have the same pattern. So I provided the expertise and her
modiste
stitched it.”

A dressmaker, and a fancy one at that.
Jazzy leaned forward in her seat. A dressmaking shop. If the sums she and the other ladies from Miss Veronica’s had spent on their clothing were any indication, a dress shop could turn a handsome profit. In her first months at Miss Veronica’s, she’d earned her room and board by keeping the fancy ladies’ clothes in good repair. Over the last few years, she’d only lifted a needle to stitch on accent lace or bows to gussy up a plain design. Maybe with practice, her stitching would improve. She made a mental note to look into the rates dressmakers charged.

Beside her, the woman who Jazzy hadn’t heard speak a single word sat slumped, her head nodding toward her chest. The faded calico dress with whitened edges at the sleeve edges didn’t inspire her interest.
Nothing new to be learned by talking to this passenger.

The stage jostled through a rut and she braced her feet on the floorboards to steady herself. She glanced at the woman on her right and noticed the crisp fabric of her dress. The color was all wrong for the woman’s complexion, the fit was bad, and the style definitely needed a touch of lace edging or some fancy buttons to perk it up.

Jazzy angled her shoulders to peer around the deep brim of the woman’s bonnet and smiled. “I don’t believe we’ve been introduced. I’m Jessimay Morgan.”

The woman started, her pale blue-eyed gaze flicked up to Jazzy’s then darted away. “How do you do? I’m Sarah Whitfield.”

The skin along Jazzy’s neck tingled and instinct told her Slade had turned his gaze on her face. She refused to respond. If she did, she’d get too distracted. This conversation was her salvation from thinking about her stupid actions with that exasperating man.

Jazzy pushed her lips into a wide smile and plunged ahead. “Where are you from, Sarah?”

“Kansas.”

“I’m from right here in Texas, born and raised.” Finding out a body’s birthplace or hometown was the secret of opening conversation.
Miss Veronica’s Rule #4--Get the man to talk about himself.
That’s what the ladies back at the Pleasure Emporium had taught her before her first night of entertaining gentlemen. Jazzy supposed the same worked with women. “I enter—, uh, met someone from Kansas once. He talked about the flat land and the constant wind. Was your part of Kansas like that?”

Sarah’s gaze flicked up again and widened. “Um, I grew up in a city.”

So, this method also works on women
. Jazzy drew in a breath. “Oh, which one? Kansas City? Wichita? Topeka? Are big cities like those just the most excitin’ places you ever saw?”

“Sometimes, too exciting.” The woman hesitated, a frown wrinkling her brow. Her arms tightened on the threadbare satchel in her lap. “I’m heading to a quieter life.”

“I’m askin’ because I’m interested in your dress. It looks new and I admire the fabric.” Mercy, she sounded like a gossipy busybody. “I’m wondering about the type of shop where you bought it.”

Sarah’s gaze swept the other passengers before she spoke. “I picked this up in a mercantile in Oklahoma City. To wear to, um, my sister’s wedding.”

A mercantile!
Jazzy felt her breath quicken. She was on the right track. “A wedding, how exciting. So, the dress is ready-made? Would I be too bold to ask how much you paid for it?”

Sarah’s lips twitched. “Seven dollars and fifty cents.”

“Really?” Jazzy focused on the woman whose hair was pulled back into a severe bun and whose face had become paler during the conversation. “Was that full price? Or did you try to bargain? Back home, the ladies, um, my friends and I never paid full price for our clothes. We could always work out a deal with the mercantile owner.” Leaning close, she set the back of her hand beside her mouth. “If you know what I mean.”

The other woman drew back, eyes wide in surprise, and shook her head. “Full price!”

Mrs. Harrington gasped and covered her son’s ears.

From the corner of her eye, Jazzy saw Slade turn his head, his dark-eyed gaze narrowed and intent on her.

Jazzy straightened.
Why in the world is a man like him so interested in women’s fashion?

* * *

At the edge of the horizon, the roofs of a group of buildings jutted upward like jagged teeth on a gear. Seeing their destination, Slade let out a relieved breath. Soon, he’d have the freedom to put needed distance between himself and the infuriating, but bewitching, Miss Morgan.

Most women would have clammed up from embarrassment after pulling the crazy stunt she had. Not this female. She’d tangled gazes with him only a few times during the afternoon drive, but not once had he detected a single sign of regret. If he hadn’t been the recipient of her caresses… His mind drifted to the gentle rubbing of her soft hand on his chest. To his body’s instant response to her touch. To the few seconds of pure pleasure that had flooded him.

On a reflex, his gaze shifted to Jazzy’s side of the coach. He noticed her open smile and the sassy jut of her chin, and the way her hands moved when she talked. His blood pounded faster.
Damn!
He had no right to think of her in that way. With as natural a movement as he could manage, he raised a knee and shifted his butt on the coach’s hard cushion to lessen the pressure behind his trousers.

He could allow himself no carnal lusting after a woman he couldn’t rule out as the wanted bank robber. A woman with the skillful subterfuge necessary to carry out such a crime would never have been intimidated by Mrs. Harrington’s comments. Logic dictated her conversation about women’s fashions involved more than innocent questions. Her questions kept coming back to gathering information about opening a business. The type of details needed only by someone who possessed a great quantity of money.

When the women’s discussion unraveled into comparisons of fabrics, laces, buttons, and bows, he’d closed off his mind to their chatter. Concentrating on the known facts, he ran the pieces of information through his mind, searching for the one detail that would pinpoint which woman of the four was the culprit. At this point, he’d almost ruled out Mrs. Harrington because of her age. Although, traveling with a child could just be subterfuge.

The stage slowed and the driver hollered for the horses to stop. For a moment no one moved, as if each savored the quiet, a welcome reprieve from the endless jostling, creaking harnesses, clopping hoof beats, and the crunch of ironclad wheels on rocks. Stillness settled over the passengers, quickly followed by an insinuating layer of road dust.

Pete thumped the roof of the coach. “This here’s Silveridge. The stage company corral looks to be empty of replacement horses. We’ll be stopping for the night. Rooms are let at Ella’s boarding house down the street on your left.”

Mrs. Harrington shook her young son’s shoulders and nudged him upright. “Get up and open the door, Chester. We must hurry to get the pick of rooms.”

Yawning, the boy rubbed fists in his half-opened eyes and fumbled with the door latch.

“Allow me, son.” Slade reached over and turned the handle.

Mrs. Harrington bustled past his outstretched hand, a frown pinching her mouth tight. “Take Mother’s hand, Chester. No dilly-dallying. We want to get there first.”

Slade eased his frame through the door and arched his back against the aches that had settled there hours before. A day on horseback never bothered him. But the same time spent traveling by stage, forcing his long legs into a narrow space, made him feel as tightly wound as a new spring.

A rustling of fabric from behind brought his attention to the remaining women. He turned to offer a hand to Miss Whitfield, but Mr. Denton must have assisted the ladies.

“Slade?” Pete’s voice came from atop the wagon. “Help hand down these bags, will ya?”

Within moments, the passengers’ bags sat on the boardwalk and Pete stood staring at the imposing pile. “Do you suppose Mrs. Harrington is expecting me to haul her bags up to Ella’s right away?”

Slade thumbed back his hat and ran a hand over his jaw. The rasp of beard stubble reminded him of a promise he’d made to himself. “I’ll carry them. This town got a good bathhouse?”

Pete jabbed him in the ribs and gave him a broad wink. “Gonna get gussied up and visit The Lucky Strike?” He jerked his head up the street.

Slade eyed a saloon two buildings along the boardwalk with tinny piano noise and raucous laughter coming from its doorway. For a few moments, he thought of wetting his parched throat with a tangy beer or two but shook his head. “Just lookin’ to soak my aching muscles.”