Stagecoach Capture Page 11

  Sheriff Simmons's lips twitched into a half smile for just a moment, then pressed into a line. “That I have, but I'm asking about your official involvement. This is your case. You've trailed the female robber for weeks and you captured these thieves. Can I count on you to drive the stage back to Silveridge?"

  Logical for the lawman to expect him to want that duty. In any other capture, Slade would have offered, insisted even, before the question was spoken.

  Not this time.

  He shook his head. “Better assign someone else. I'm staying behind with the injured passenger. Doc says she ought to rest."

  Simmons squinted at the sun hanging low in the western sky. “Don't know if I can get fresh horses out before dark."

  Slade edged closer and pitched his voice so only the sheriff could hear. “I'm counting on that."

  “Thought you might be.” He winked and tugged down the brim of his hat. “I'm leaving behind a rifle and a box of shells. Never know what varmint will cross your path in these parts."

  “Obliged, sheriff. I'll drop by your office to sign off the paperwork in the next day or two."

  A lean rider astride a pinto approached. “Sheriff, the bandits are corralled like calves to be branded inside the coach. They won't be giving us any more trouble."

  Nodding, the tall man leaned toward the yard and pointed at the rider. “Jeffers, you drive the stage. Help Mrs. Harrington onto your horse, making her as comfortable as you can.” Simmons turned back to Slade and stuck out his hand. “Always glad to assist another lawman."

  Slade shook hands. “Best of luck in finding Sarah."

  “Our tracker's one of the best.” He dipped his chin to accompany his words and stepped toward the edge of the porch. “The rest of you mount up."

  Slade leaned a shoulder against the doorframe and waited until the group moved out of sight beneath a cloud of dust. That obligation would be taken care of soon. This had been his last hunt as a marshal, and no regrets lingered over not finishing the assignment. Sheriff Simmons seemed competent to finish it. He shoved off the frame, turned away from the waning light and walked to the back of the cabin. Now he could concentrate on getting an explanation.

  The door opened with a creak and he winced at how the sound pierced his throbbing head. He raised a hand toward the back of his head and pressed below the aching bump. Hard to believe he'd been attacked and left unconscious in the dirt less than six hours earlier.

  Jazzy lay on her side with one hand tucked under her cheek, her lips open and inviting. Heat pooled low in his belly. Even as tired as he was, Slade felt desire flood his senses. He remembered how well her curves fit against his body. And the feeling of completeness he'd felt falling asleep at her side. Had that only been the previous night? They'd experienced so much in these past few hours.

  Enough for him to know she was the woman he wanted to wake up with for the rest of his life.

  He toed off his boots, unbuckled his holster and dropped his trousers to the floor. Making sure his gun was within easy reach under the bed, he slipped onto the ticking mattress and fitted his long legs behind hers. He bit back a tired sigh. With an instinct that now felt natural, he slid his arms around her warm body and closed his eyes.

  * * * *

  Jazzy snuggled deeper into the mattress and tried to adjust her position, but something weighed heavily on her waist. She yanked on the blanket and her hand touched a warm, muscled weight. Her heart raced with panic, and she stiffened and pulled away her hand. Someone—a man—was in bed with her.

  But she always slept alone.

  Then vague familiarity crept into her senses. She'd heard that raspy breathing before. The body curved behind her fit mighty fine. This was the exact position she'd wakened in the morning before. In the stagecoach line's boardinghouse after a night of the best sex she'd ever enjoyed.

  Where was she? She cracked open one eye to look at her surroundings. The room was lit with only a shaft of moonlight filtering through the single dirty window. She recognized the crude cabin where the bandits had brought the stagecoach and their hostages. The events of the past day crashed through her memory.

  Waking up in Slade's arms ... his avoidance of sitting with her over breakfast ... his concern when the bandits approached ... watching him get beaten bloody as he tried to save her and the other women ... the crushing pain she'd felt at the sight of him sprawled in the dirt ... the relief at seeing his face through that very window ... knowing he hadn't pursued the bank's money to stay behind and tend her wound.

  As if on cue, all her aches and pains throbbed—the bump on her head, the cut on her hip, but mostly, the emptiness in her heart. Her throat constricted and a prickling at the back of her eyes hinted at tears. She slid her hand down the rough blanket until it rested on Slade's arm—the solid arm of the man who'd come to mean so much in such a short time.

  Three days ago, when she'd boarded the stage in San Antonio, she'd known what she wanted most—to see mountains and to start a new life.

  She bit the inside of her lower lip to keep a sob from escaping. When this day dawned, she would say goodbye to Slade. An honest man like him had no room in his life for a woman like her. But she could soak in every texture and every scent of this moment for as long as it lasted.

  “You're thinking too hard,” Slade's voice rumbled in her ear.

  So, the moment had ended already. “Oh, you're awake."

  “Hard to sleep when a desirable woman is stretched out along my body and stroking my arm."

  Her hand stilled. How long had she been doing that? Touching him had become so natural. “Sorry, I didn't mean to wake you."

  “No need to apologize. I like the feel of your hands on me.” His hand settled over her stomach, his thumb rubbing a slow arc toward her breasts. “And mine on you."

  She gritted her teeth against the rightness of his action. Part of her wanted to belong to this man. But she had to face the truth. “What's happening, Slade?"

  “The sheriff and the posse carted the bandits and Mrs. Harrington back to Silveridge. And he's got a tracker and some men looking for Sarah. And you're resting up—Doc's orders."

  Was the man blind? Couldn't he see that she'd meant what was happening inside this room? Between them? She had to have answers. “Why are you in bed with me?"

  His hand stilled. “Only one bed in this place and I was tired. I had one hell of a day."

  Her jaw ached from being tightly clamped. Don't get swayed by the security of his embrace. Jessimay Morgan, you have a dream and a goal. Think on that and put some space between yourself and this alluring man. She pushed against his arm and scooted toward the edge of the bed. “I need to get up."

  His arm tightened. “Stay beside me."

  His words touched her deep inside. What was he really asking? “I can't."

  “Why? Doesn't being together feel right?"

  Right. He would have to use that word. “Slade, there are...” She took a deep breath, trying to still her wild thoughts. “I'm not who you think I am."

  He pulled her closer and chuckled close to her ear. “You're not Jessimay Morgan, named after your daddy's mama, who likes to ride with the stagecoach curtain up? A woman who's headed to unnamed mountains and wants to open either a dress shop or a tea shop?"

  She shivered. He remembered about her name? A pang of longing shot through her. “Yes, I'm that woman. But that's not who I've always been."

  “I really don't care.” His fingers tangled in her hair and he brushed a kiss on the nape of her neck.

  Instinctively, she angled her head to allow him access. Had she heard his words right? No, she couldn't have. She wouldn't risk that once he knew what she'd done for the past five years, he'd walk away. If that was going to happen, she wanted it to be now. Before she gave away another piece of her heart. “But I have to say this. Are you listening?"

  He rolled away and lay flat on his back. “Since all you're doing with your mouth is talking, I guess I'm listening."


  The absence of his body created an aching hollow in her insides. She turned toward the middle of the bed and looked at him. His arm was crooked over his eyes. Dark stubble shadowed his jaw and lines bracketed his mouth. The man had been through so much over the last day.

  Where to start? She swallowed, suddenly afraid of what the next minutes would bring. “I wanted to be sure to thank you for finding us. I don't think I did that yesterday."

  He dipped his chin in acknowledgement. “Part of my job."

  “And for staying with me when Sarah took off."

  “You're welcome.” His arm dropped away and he pinned her with a narrowed look. “That's what you wanted to say? A list of thank yous?"

  Heat spiraled low in her belly. Would she ever remain untouched by his gaze? Yikes, the man was distracting. “I'm working up to it.” She gripped a fistful of blanket and plucked at its rough edge. “You put yourself between the women and danger. Not every man would have done that."

  “Any lawman would."

  “Maybe not if he knew who he was really protecting."

  Slade's body tensed and he rolled to his side. “What does that mean?"

  She couldn't meet his direct gaze. Why not just leave with him thinking well of her? She could get on the next westbound stagecoach and force herself to forget about the first man who'd stirred her heart.

  He ran a knuckle down her arm. “Jazzy, talk to me."

  The gentle stroke warmed her skin and she leaned his way. “My petticoat—"

  “Damn!” The bed shifted when he swung an arm toward the far corner. “It's safe on the chair over there. You sure were worried about that flimsy scrap of cloth."

  Her gaze darted to where he'd pointed and she recognized the garment. One problem settled. “Sewed inside that petticoat is every one of the coins I've saved over the last five years."

  “You mentioned that. Earlier you acted like the money was more important than your well-being.” He covered her hand with his and squeezed. “Money isn't important, but people are."

  Warmth embraced her hand and traveled straight to her heart. She did not deserve this man. And certainly not without telling him the truth. All of it. “But this money is mine. And I have to tell you how I earned it."

  “I don't care.” He draped an arm over her waist and urged her backwards. “The bandits are headed toward justice, you're safe and that's what matters."

  If only she could believe. “Those words may change when you hear me out."

  He ran a finger down her cheek. “I doubt that."

  She closed her eyes and inhaled, knowing she'd have to get out the truth in one sentence. “I earned that money over the past five years in Room 13 on the second floor of Miss Veronica's Pleasure Emporium."

  His lips grazed her cheek. “I know."

  “What?” Her eyes shot open and she wriggled out of his embrace. “You know? What in blue blazes do you mean?"

  “What else can my words mean, Jazzy? I know you were a hooker."

  For a moment, a roaring echoed in her head and her blood chilled in her body. Images of untidy women in unkempt clothing waiting in the windows along dark alleys came to mind. Women reduced to enticing customers by baring cleavage or the length of their legs for all to see. Denial rose from the tips of her toes. “I was not."

  She tossed back the blanket and jumped to the floor. With hands jammed onto her hips, she squared off to face the bed, wincing at the sharp twinge in her side. Don't be stupid, Jazzy, think before you let the words fly. “I was a paid companion!"

  “A companion?” He shook his head and the corner of his mouth quirked upward. “So you accompanied these men? Where exactly did you go?"

  “Oooohh!” She glared at his smug expression and stomped across the room, ignoring the chilly morning air on her bare feet and the burning ache where she'd been shot. “Miss Veronica's was a high-class bordello. I was a parlor girl who entertained clients with witty conversation and dances—"

  “Jazzy...” He narrowed his gaze, his lips thinned into a hard line. “I don't care what fancy words you use, you were a whore."

  She gasped. Irritation as hot as a Texas wind chased along her skin. “Miss Veronica never allowed such crude language around her girls. All the gentlemen customers were warned and"—her throat threatened to close before she finished—"we were always treated sp-special.” How dare he?

  “Then she created a fool's paradise.” He grabbed a pillow and stuffed it behind his head.

  “I don't know what you mean.” Why did their parting have to happen like this? Was one last day of him thinking kindly of her before going their separate ways too much to ask?

  “I've seen scores of fancy houses over the years, from both sides of the badge.” He snorted, his words shooting from his mouth. “I don't care what crap that madam fed you, I know what people think of houses like she kept, and the women who work in them."

  Jazzy pressed a hand over her bandaged wound and paced. This couldn't be happening. She'd always feared his reaction if he learned about her past, and she couldn't bear him thinking of her in that way. “Surely not a fancy place like Miss Veronica's. The town ladies even visited from time to time."

  “Visited, Jazzy?” His voice was quieter. “Or came collecting for their pet charity?"

  No, he couldn't be right. She stopped and wrapped her arms around her stomach. “Miss Veronica's had refinement and class. The sofas were covered in silk all the way from China. In the parlor, velvet curtains hung at the windows. We drank wine from crystal goblets and there was a piano. Estelle knew a few nice tunes and a quiet girl named Katy sang along. The men enjoyed our socials.” She whirled and faced him, trying to judge the impact of her words. “Does that sound like a common brothel?"

  “Sounds like Miss Veronica ran a nice place, Jazzy.” He scratched a hand along his jaw and shook his head slowly. “But the fact is, you spread your legs to various men for money."

  Lord almighty, the man was blunt. Pain seized her chest and she stumbled to the chair, grabbing hold of her weighted petticoat and easing herself to the seat. “But ... not just any man walked through that red varnished door. Our rates weren't affordable by most.” She covered her mouth with a shaky hand and stared at the wooden plank floor, vowing not to come any more unglued in front of Slade.

  With a roll of his shoulders, he stretched and hung his hands on the headboard railing. “Okay, only men who had the right price could buy your favors for a few hours."

  Even as shaken as she was, she couldn't ignore the defined muscles of his chest and the dark hair that ran down his taut—She shook away that distracting thought. “And only men who Miss Veronica personally knew to be gentlemen. She didn't abide bullies or known drunks.” She had to make him understand she hadn't lifted her skirts to a rough clientele. “We always had the say of who was allowed into our rooms."

  “Really?” His eyebrows shot up. “How do you think that worked, from the profit angle, I mean? Doesn't sound like any whorehouse I've ever been in."

  Her spine stiffened and she inhaled deeply. “I told you, it wasn't a—"

  Slade ran a hand down his face and scooted to the edge of the mattress. “I heard you.” He swung his feet to the floor and reached for his long johns, jamming his feet into the legs. “But did you ever refuse a man she presented? Did you see any of the other ladies turn away a customer?"

  She gripped the cloth and felt the weight of her freedom money. Funny, but the knowledge it was safe didn't fill her with reassurance the way it used to. Awareness of what he was saying hit her hard, shaking her convictions. Could she have said “not tonight” to Miss Veronica? If the ability to keep a man out of her room hadn't been truly hers, then what had she been? Dread coiled in her stomach. Slade couldn't be right. He just couldn't. “Like I said before, Miss Veronica checked them out first."

  His head jerked up and he glared. “Come on, Jazzy. I've accepted the choice you made.” He stood and pulled up the legs of his underwear, fastening only enough b
uttons so the garment hung loosely on his hips.

  The sight of his tight ass and muscular legs made her heart thump. She averted her gaze and struggled to answer him. “You think I had a choice?"

  “Sure.” He shrugged. “Why not?"

  Ah, here was the truth of what he thought of her. With a heavy sigh, she drew up her knees and hugged them tightly. So much time had passed since she'd thought of her family. She steeled her thoughts against bad memories and took a deep breath. “I had just turned fourteen and I wanted a special trip to town, without my younger brother and sister tagging along. Mama understood and shushed Papa when he complained about me delayin’ my chores. I rode in a shiny horse cart with my best friend Amelia and her parents.” She glanced at Slade, but couldn't hold his questioning gaze.

  Through the dusty window, she spotted a mesquite bush silhouetted on a rise and focused on it as the sunlight strengthened. “I remember Amelia's daddy treated us to sarsaparillas at the general store, and I bought penny candies for Jimmy and Tess. All of a sudden, the store grew as dark as night and a roar like I'd never heard clambered in our ears.

  “The windows and doors rattled and the old dog, who always slept through the noisiest batch of children, started howling. The most god-awfulest sound that raised gooseflesh on my arms.” Right now, her skin reacted in the exact same way and she rocked slightly in the straight-legged chair. “All we could do was hold tight to each other and wait."

  She swallowed hard before continuing, “When we walked outside five minutes later, nothing was the same. The tornado had cut a path through town, ripping up the cemetery, but leaving the church whole.” She cleared her throat, fighting to get the words past the flow of tears. “When we reached my family's farm, the only thing still standing was the chicken coop. I never saw my family again."

  He moved toward her, a soft expression in his gaze. “Aw, Jazzy, I'm sorry. I didn't—"

  “So you thought I had a choice.” Shoulders squared and chin raised, she dashed a hand across her wet cheeks and stood. The petticoat slid from her grasp and hit the floor with a dull thud that barely registered on her senses. “I'll tell you what choice I had. I was too old and gawky to be adopted into a loving family. But a farmer, a Mr. Standhold, wanted help for his wife with the kitchen duties and their six children.