Tempting the Marshal: (A Western Historical Romance) (Dodge City Brides Series Book 2) Read online

  Tempting the Marshal

  Dodge City Brides Series

  by

  Julianne MacLean

  Tempting the Marshal

  Copyright © 2016 by Julianne MacLean

  Digital Edition ISBN: 978-1-927675-42-7

  Originally published by Harlequin as

  The Marshal and Mrs. O’Malley

  Copyright © 2001 by Julianne MacLean

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, or a portion thereof, in any form. This book may not be resold or uploaded for distribution to others.

  This is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real locales are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Table of Contents

  Copyright

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Author’s Note

  Other Books in the Dodge City Brides Series

  Excerpt from TAKEN BY THE COWBOY

  About the Author

  Other Books by Julianne MacLean

  Chapter One

  Dodge City, Kansas, 1876

  Josephine O’Malley’s stomach clenched tight with panic as she peered through the night along the dusty street, watching for potential witnesses. She couldn’t let anyone recognize her in these clothes that had once belonged to her husband, God rest his soul. Especially after she pulled the trigger.

  Fighting to keep calm, she opened her long slicker and palmed the walnut handle of her Colt .45—the handle her husband had worn smooth over the years. Her boots tapped lightly over the aging planks along the boardwalk, while her spurs chinked a slow rhythm. Music from a tinny saloon piano across the street seemed muffled beneath the erratic pulse that drummed in her ears, but she continued on, soberly watching the mannish lines of her shadow as she passed under a hanging lantern.

  When she finally stopped outside Zeb Stone’s Dry Goods Store, she took a deep breath and tried to relax. Over the past six months, raw fear had compelled her to learn how to handle her late husband’s guns, preparing for this day, should it come. Hadn’t she pictured this moment over and over in her mind, wanted it, known it was necessary? Wasn’t it supposed to be filled with righteous determination?

  Instead, she looked up at the huge painted sign bearing Zeb’s name and felt only a sickening knot of intimidation and a horrible surge of dread. She’d never killed a man, never thought she could. It went against everything she ever believed in.

  But she had to do it now. Didn’t she? She couldn’t stand by and watch her son, Leo, choke to death in a noose like her husband. Leo had been poking around the finer details of his father’s murder lately, and Zeb, with his cold, black heart, was beginning to take notice.

  No, the time had come for Jo to face Zeb once and for all. The law had done nothing to help her. If she was going to protect Leo now, she had to help herself.

  Jo raised the red bandanna over her nose. As she reached for the brass doorknob, her hand trembled. She pulled it back and paused to fight the pulsing knot in her stomach, then pushed the door open. Bells clanged as she made her way quietly across the threshold.

  Zeb Stone stood behind the counter wearing a black waistcoat and starched white shirt. His black bowler hat rested on the counter. His head was down as he scrawled in a notebook.

  “We’re closed,” he said, his voice flat with disinterest. “Come back tomorrow.”

  Jo shakily drew one of her weapons and held it with both hands in front of her. Anxiety spurted through her, but this was not the time for doubt or hesitation. It would take a cool head to carry this through.

  She crossed the room in three swift strides, stopping at the glass counter and breathing fast with panic. She shoved the barrel of her gun against her enemy’s shiny forehead.

  Zeb’s fearless gaze rose to meet hers. The familiarity of those black eyes sent a hideous chill through her. “You’re out of luck,” he said, not recognizing her face behind the bandanna. “The money’s already gone to the bank.”

  “I didn’t come here for money,” Jo replied in a calm, low-pitched voice, but inside, her heart was beating a breakneck rhythm.

  “What do you want, then? Supplies? I’d best warn you, mister, nobody steals from me and gets away with it.”

  Jo stood motionless. So much of this did not seem real. It was as nightmarish as tossing that handful of earth on poor Edwyn’s casket.

  She swallowed hard as a wave of desperation washed through her. She had to see this through no matter how terrible it seemed. Finish it once and for all.

  She touched her thumb to the hammer of the gun and felt her insides lurch with dread. “Are you ready to die, Zeb Stone? Because I’m here to send you to hell, where you belong.”

  * * *

  Marshal Fletcher Collins led his horse to the Dodge House Hotel and flipped the soft leather reins around the hitching rail. He reached into his shirt pocket for half a carrot and stroked Prince’s warm muzzle. “Here you go, boy. I might be a while. I gotta make the right impression my first night on the job, if you know what I mean.”

  Fletcher stepped onto the boardwalk, nodding to the cowboys sitting on the hotel steps. “Howdy, boys. Mighty fine evening.”

  One man tipped his hat. “Welcome to Dodge, Marshal Collins. Headin’ down to the Long Branch for a drink?”

  “Not tonight. I’m on duty.”

  One of them called after him. “That never stopped Marshal Peavy from filling his holster!” The other two exploded with rowdy laughter.

  Fletcher stopped and turned around. The laughter quickly died. Straightening his black Stetson, he continued on his way.

  A buckboard wagon rumbled by, lifting a cloud of dust. When the clatter of hooves faded into the night, Fletcher listened with a keen ear to the hoots and hollers from the dance halls across the street, the boisterous banjo music, the laughter and foot stomping.

  He passed in front of Meuller’s Boot Shop and glanced through the dark window. Looked quiet. In fact, he probably shouldn’t be wasting his time over here in the business district. He should be enforcing the gun ordinance over in the Comique, where there was bound to be some fool packing iron.

  Fletcher paused on the boardwalk for a moment, then decided to finish this block. He walked by Zeb’s store and glanced through the window, but tensed when he saw Zeb—backed up against the wall with his hands in the air, facing an armed robber.

  Fletcher hugged the brick wall just outside the door and drew his Peacemaker. He checked the cylinder for bullets, then clicked it shut and peered inside again. The thief looked like he was just itchin’ to shoot.

  Fletcher took a deep breath. No do-si-do for him
tonight. Dodge City was a trial by fire for the new marshal, and he sure didn’t aim to get burned.

  * * *

  With growing panic, Jo stared into Zeb’s dark eyes and rubbed the clammy pad of her index finger over the trigger. She clenched her teeth together. She had to do this.

  He paled visibly, perhaps realizing she meant business. “You won’t get away with this. I have friends who—”

  “I know what kind of friends you have. They’re gutter swine.” Jo pressed the barrel of the gun harder against his forehead. He squeezed his eyes shut, not so fearless now. It was a moment of terror he greatly deserved after all the pain he’d caused others.

  A film of perspiration appeared around his dark mustache, but his voice remained calm. “I’ll give you anything you want. Just don’t shoot.”

  Good Lord! She couldn’t do this! But what choice did she have?

  Zeb cautiously opened his eyes.

  Just then, the door flew open and slammed against the inside wall. The doorbells clanged and clattered to the floor.

  Without thinking, Jo drew her second weapon. She aimed it at the flash of movement in her peripheral vision, hearing the man’s commanding voice before she could focus on him. “Drop the gun! Now!”

  With a heavy weapon in each hand, Jo glanced back and forth from one opponent to the other. The stranger moved closer. She saw his black Stetson and his long brown coat open in front, but it was the barrel of his gun that held her attention—a small black hole pointing directly at her.

  “I said drop it!” he yelled.

  “You drop it, or I’ll kill him,” Jo replied, deepening her voice as best she could without it breaking.

  “Do that, kid, and you’ll be waiting in line for a coffin.”

  Perspiration dampened Jo’s forehead. Her bandanna began to slide down her nose. If it fell, she’d be done for. “This ain’t your fight, stranger.”

  “I own every fight in this town.” He opened his coat to reveal the steel badge pinned to his brown leather vest.

  Jo’s stomach did a sickening flip. Who in tarnation was this man? She’d been counting on Marshal Peavy taking his early evening nap in the jailhouse. She’d assumed this stranger was one of Zeb’s men.

  Feeling her fate grow more precarious by the minute, she gave the marshal a more mindful once-over, concentrating on his face this time to see what she was up against, what manner of man could aim a gun at an opponent who held two of them—one in each hand—and still be as heartily confident as the day was long.

  To her dismay, he was calm—too calm—and his bold self-assurance made her teeter alarmingly on her already unstable courage.

  He must have been watching her carefully, because he seemed to know that she was faltering. He took another slow step closer and spoke in a subtle Texas drawl that crumbled her grit to dust. “I’m the new marshal, kid, and my patience is dyin’ fast. Either drop both guns now, or prepare to meet your maker.”

  She glanced back at Zeb and saw a bead of sweat trickling down his cheek.

  The lawman took a few steps sideways toward the counter, his movements smooth and fluid. “I can see you don’t want to kill anyone. Now do the right thing and lower your weapons.”

  Jo’s mouth went completely dry at his gentle command. Her palms were wet and slipping on the handles of the guns. She didn’t want to die and she certainly couldn’t go to jail, not with Zeb alive to kill her son. But this man was right. Somehow he knew she wasn’t a killer, and his calm presence was stirring something inside her—something she didn’t want stirred.

  Was it shame? Or was it compassion for a coldblooded killer who did not deserve it?

  Strangely, she found herself backing away, lowering her arms to her sides. She could not fight this man, this unexpected intruder. It was time to surrender.

  The lawman moved forward, his gun still fixed on her, his green eyes flickering with reassurance. Something in his expression spoke to her. You’re not a killer, he seemed to say, without uttering a word. The oddness of it all made her feel weak and dizzy.

  She had done the right thing, she told herself. She had to stay alive for Leo. He was only eleven years old. He needed her.

  All of a sudden, Zeb bent forward. Jo froze. She watched transfixed as he drew a pistol from under the counter, the steel barrel rising up as if in slow motion to confront her.

  A surge of clarity sliced through her mind. She had come here tonight to kill Zeb Stone. If she was going to plunge into hell in the attempt, she would take him with her.

  Jo cocked both her guns. She raised her arm in a flash and aimed at her enemy, then shut her eyes and pulled the trigger. The gun blasted, kicked back in her hand, and she heard a body drop to the floor with a dull thud. Feeling almost sick, she opened her eyes.

  Oh, dear God. Jo stared numbly at the man lying in front of the counter. She felt as if her heart had stopped beating.

  She’d shot the lawman!

  A thunderous boom sounded and a bullet from Zeb’s gun ripped painfully through her shoulder. The impact knocked her off balance and she stumbled back.

  Nausea weaved through her stomach. She clenched her pistols as she staggered about in disbelief, fighting the reality of what was happening. Dazed, she felt warm blood stream down to the top of the corset she wore beneath the disguise. Jo heard a click and recognized the sound—the hammer of Zeb’s gun. Her eyes darted up to that dark barrel again, and she knew he wanted her dead. No mistakes this time.

  Determined to save herself, Jo leaped through the air just as Zeb fired. The gun boomed like a thunderclap, and behind her, a bag of flour exploded in a cloud of white dust. Jo hit the floor and rolled, pain stabbing her in the shoulder with each frantic breath.

  Rising to her feet, she saw a window, her only escape. She heard Zeb cocking his gun again. There was no time to think. Fighting panic, Jo yanked her hat down over her face, took off in a run and threw herself into the glass.

  Panes smashed and shattered all around her. She flew through the air and landed hard on the dry dirt in the alley, scrambled to her feet and ran around the back of the buildings, brushing the glass off herself as she went.

  Panting uncontrollably, Jo fought the pain where the bullet was lodged. Her stomach burned with fear. She heard Zeb yelling after her, heard his pistol fire two more times, but she was out of range.

  She hugged her arm to her side to steady her aching shoulder and ran through the darkness like a hunted animal. Her boots pounded over the hard ground. Her frenzied breaths matched the rhythm. She had to reach the privy before anyone saw her.

  She skidded to a halt, swung the door open and spun inside. A turn and a click…the door was latched. The thick stench of stale excrement assaulted her senses. A grunt escaped her. Thank God, the lantern she’d left there was still burning.

  Jo dropped to her knees and felt around for the loose board, raised it and pulled out her bag. She ripped off her coat and pain sliced like daggers down her arm.

  Within seconds, she was fastening the tiny buttons on her bodice with shaking fingers. “Faster, faster,” she whispered, trying in a panic to hurry, trying to ignore the blood that had soaked her chemise and was now staining her bodice, the blood that would drain the life from her if she did not somehow get out of there.

  Voices echoed in the street, ricocheting off buildings like bullets. Jo tied her muslin bonnet ribbons under her chin, but pushed the bonnet back from her face to rest on her back. She swiftly stuffed the disguise into her bag, set it back into the compartment beneath the floor and lowered the boards.

  She took a quick glance around the privy, then blew out the lantern. Blackness enveloped the fetid, makeshift haven, which would have been as silent as the grave, if not for Jo’s small, frantic breaths.

  Outside, desperate screams cut through the dark night. Footsteps. Hoofbeats. The town was alive in a mad search for the outlaw. They would not find him, she told herself, and tried to gather some courage from that fact.

&nbs
p; Suddenly aware of the sick feeling in her stomach, Jo felt her head begin to spin. She tried to lean on the splintery wall, but toppled back onto the bench. An icy chill seeped into her veins and she began to shiver. She tried to calm herself, to take deep breaths to stop the shaking, but it was no use. She’d never felt so out of control.

  She needed to get to a doctor. She stood, then staggered in the darkness, her trembling hands fumbling over bristly wood in search of the door latch.

  Please, someone help me. I’m not going to make it.

  Suddenly the door whipped open and she stared into another gun barrel.

  “Mrs. O’Malley! You’re bleeding!”

  Jo couldn’t look up until the gun lowered and dropped easily into a holster. A pair of hands were reaching out to her. Where was she? What was happening?

  Arms encircled her and she fell into them. “Help me,” she mumbled.

  “I’ve got you. It’s Deputy Anderson.”

  Relief poured through her as he hoisted her into his arms and carried her into the night.

  Chapter Two

  Flat on his back on the examination table, Fletcher tried to focus on a small black spider crawling across the white ceiling, instead of the stabbing pain in his right thigh. Nothing against Doc Green, but the man seemed to be using a knitting needle to stitch him up instead of a surgeon’s needle.

  “You’re a lucky man,” Dr. Green said, pulling the needle through the bloody mess on Fletcher’s thigh. “Bullet barely even grazed the muscle. This should heal in no time. It’s your head wound that worries me. I want to keep you here overnight.”