Capturing The Marshal's Heart (Escape From Texas) (18 page)

She’d have it all. A new life, mountains, and Slade.

About the Author

As a child, Linda was often found lying on her bed reading about characters having exciting adventures in places far away. Upon reaching a landmark birthday, she decided to write one of those romances she loved so much. Easier said than done. Perseverance paid out and twelve years later, she received her first call from a publisher offering a contract on a confession story.

Now, Linda writes heartwarming contemporary and historical stories —some sweet and some sensual—but all have a touch of humor and a bit of sass, and many have a tie to her previous home of Texas. She currently lives in the southern California mountains with her husband of more than three decades and their two much-loved dogs.

To connect with Linda on the web:

Website

Blog

Facebook

Twitter

Goodreads

Amazon Author Central

Historical releases

Dreams of Gold

The Ring That Binds

Contemporary Releases

A Legend of Ireland
(paranormal)

Dipping In A Toe

On With The Show

Only For One Night

Stepping Out of Line

Ten Fantasy Wishes

All authors appreciate hearing how their artistic creations are received by readers. With so many titles available, standing out from the crowd takes a bit of extra effort. I would humbly appreciate you spending a few moments to give your honest opinion on this title by going either to the book page on Amazon or Goodreads and listing a short review.

Dreams Of Gold

1871, Wyoming Territory

Although common enough in Wyoming territory, a late stagecoach was still an unraveled thread. And Sheriff Quinn Riley hated loose ends. He dragged his boots off the scarred wooden desk, pushed to his feet, and pulled out a pocket watch.

Officially three hours late.

A glance through a nearby window showed him nature brewed to spit out a thunderous storm. For most of the day, clouds had hung dark and heavy over the mountain town of Bull City. He swiped a palm across sweat beading on his forehead. Damn. More often than not, troubling weather translated to trouble of a human kind. Humidity soured even the sweetest temperaments and sharpened bad tempers. Elements that didn’t bode well for a quiet night. Hands pressed to his back, he stretched stiff muscles and glanced at the sole occupant of the jail.

Patrick O’Malley laid full length on his cot, an arm thrown over his eyes. A grifter and card sharp with a slippery Irish tongue, the man had waited almost two weeks for the circuit judge’s arrival.

“O’Malley!”

“Begging yer pardon?” a sleepy voice said.

“I’m walking perimeter. Need anything before I go?”

The man sat upright and ran a hand through tousled red hair. “Ah, me ears would sing at the click of your precious key springing the lock on me door.”

“Try again.” Quinn’s harsh laugh bounced off the walls of the small office. “What I’m offering is water or coffee.”

“Not a wee bit of sportin’ in your soul, man.” The freckle-faced man shook his head and clicked his tongue. “’Tis a pity in a young lad such as yerself.”

“I’ll take that as a no.” Quinn ambled to the round mirror hung on the storeroom door leading to what too often doubled as his bedroom. He lifted a black Stetson off the hook and set it on his head, shifting the fit until it rested snugly around his forehead. Fine hats were a personal weakness, and he owned one from each city where he’d served on a U.S. Marshal assignment.

With long strides that echoed against the wood plank floor, he crossed the room and paused at the door. In a couple quick moves, he pulled out his revolver and double-checked that all chambers were full. A habit that had saved him more than once in his past. The door opened to the slanted afternoon sun breaking through a patch of clouds.

Squinting at the brightness, he paused and let his eyes adjust as he listened to the sounds of a lazy afternoon in Bull City, Wyoming Territory. A loaded wagon rattled away from the mercantile, a family entered the café two buildings down, and smoke from the blacksmith’s forge spiraled into the air at the far end of the street.

He stepped off the porch onto the small expanse of weeds covering the rise separating the jail from the street. Some said a previous sheriff chose the location to give the building more importance. Others said the jail was built next to the biggest, strongest tree in the vicinity for a practical reason.

The low rumble of galloping horse hooves reached his ears. From the corner of his eye, he caught a quick movement and watched as the west-bound stagecoach came into view past the blacksmith shop. He stilled. The four-horse team ran wild, tossing their heads and kicking up dust clouds. The coach zigzagged down the center of town, the groan of leather harnesses and the creak of wheels getting louder.

Hell
. Instinct pushed him to action. Quinn sprinted to the middle of Main Street and unholstered his gun. Waiting until the horses were close, he aimed his gun over the roof of the jail and fired.

The horses skidded to a stop and shuddered, foam dripping from their mouths and puddling in the dusty street. At the sudden change in movement, the stagecoach swayed, its springs squeaking. All activity on the sidewalks stopped. No one spoke.

A quick glance down the street confirmed no riders followed the stage. He reholstered his gun and strode toward the team, noting several jagged holes in the side door. In a low tone, he spoke to the still quivering lead horse and ran a loose grip along the reins. Ready in case they spooked again.

“Hey, driver.” He shot a glance at the top seat.
What the hell?
A slender, yellow feather bobbed above the driver’s seat. He set a boot on the wheel hub and levered himself up for a better look. On the near side of the seat slumped the stage’s regular driver, Pete McGinnis, blood staining the right side of his shirt.

Quinn stretched to lay a hand on the young man’s chest. Relief shot through him when he felt a shallow rise with each labored breath. Alive, but struggling.

Twisting to his left, he scanned the nearby storefronts and spotted a young boy scratching a stick in the dirt. “Hey, Billy. Run and fetch the doctor.” From a vest pocket, he pulled out a coin and flipped it at the boy’s feet. “Hurry now.”

As soon as the boy started off, Quinn turned back to the coach. “Ma’am?” The female now leaned against the back of the seat—head still down, stiff arms extended. “Miss?” He reached a hand over her fists and pulled on the reins. Under his touch, her arms trembled, but her fists remained clenched. Was the woman deaf? He hopped down and jogged around the back of the coach, glancing through the window at empty bench seats.

With a hand braced on the side of the coach, he set the brake. “Miss, release the reins.” He gently pried open the young woman’s gloved fists so he could tie off the reins. Under the hat brim, her eyes were squeezed shut, and he feared she might be injured, too.

“Are you hurt, ma’am?” He glanced over her slim figure clothed in a dark green jacket and skirt. Lean legs outlined by the dusty skirt and a rounded bosom moving in quick rhythm woke heat in his gut. At the inexplicable reaction, he clenched his jaw. Assessing possible injuries was part of his duty, but ogling a defenseless lady was not.

Had she fainted? He slid a finger under her chin and lifted. Her skin was as smooth as silk. Light brown lashes lay against creamy cheeks dusted with freckles. “Ma’am?”

She moaned, and her eyelids fluttered and then opened. “Are we safe? Did I drive us to a town?”

Hers were the greenest eyes he’d ever seen. Jade…that was the color. The intensity of her gaze hit him like a roundhouse punch straight to his chest. “You’re in Bull City, ma’am. I’m Sheriff Riley. Can you tell me what happened?”

“R-robbed.” She cleared her throat and spoke with determination. “Masked men stole our valuables and dragged a poor gentleman from the stage. Mr. McGinnis objected and they…they shot him.” She raised a gloved hand to cover her mouth, her eyes widening. “Is he all right?” Her gaze flicked to the blood-stained man sprawled nearby and jerked back. A gasp whooshed.

“Has he…is he dead?”

“He’s still breathing, and I’ve sent for the doctor.” Hands on her shoulders, he eased her upright, carefully watching her movements for any signs of injury. “Are you hurt? I don’t see blood on your clothing.” Behind him, feet shuffled and whispers buzzed as townsfolk gathered along the boardwalk.

She raised an unsteady hand to her forehead. “No, I’m not injured, but I do need a moment to catch my breath.”

“Let me help you down and get you into the café. You’ll feel better after a glass of water or something to eat.”

“Sheriff,” a man’s voice called out. “There’s another woman inside the stage. Looks like she fainted.”

Quinn kept watching the woman close at hand. Her reactions were slow as she blinked several times and looked around at the buildings. Didn’t need another to pass out. “Thanks for that information, Albert.” His duty to the others pressed on him, and he fought to keep his voice calm. “Miss, I need to check the other passenger.”

“Of course. That’s Miss Fairchild.” She sat straighter and brushed a hand at the front of her skirt. “She fainted at the first sight of the masked men.”

So that passenger was okay for a few more minutes. “Back down the steps, and I’ll guide you to the ground.”

Standing, she swayed for a second, and then gathered her skirts and followed his instructions.

Quinn glimpsed a flash of a well-shaped calf sheathed in a dark stocking and purple petticoats, and then a rounded bottom in green cloth filled his vision. He clasped hands around her trim waist and lifted her the remaining three feet to the ground. In case she was still shaky from the panicky ride, he allowed his hands to linger a bit longer. At least, that’s what he told himself.

“Thank you, sir.” Easing from his grasp, she turned and tugged down the hem of her jacket. “Where might I get that drink of water?”

Her hat tilted at a crazy angle, and waves of auburn hair hung around her face. Rather than unkempt, she appeared innocent and vulnerable. Like someone who needed his attention. He shook his head at the errant thought and gestured. “Uh, your hat is…”

“My hat?” She lifted her hands to where it should have been and then patted gently until she touched it. With a few movements, she tucked her hair under the hat and secured it atop her head. “I apologize for my disheveled appearance, Sheriff.”

Her words carried an unfamiliar accent, but he didn’t have time to decipher it. His task was to get her safely to the café. The crowd of people gathered on the sidewalk stared and whispered behind their hands at the sight of the shaken stranger.

Doctor Anderson, a worn leather medical bag in one hand, ran to the group. “Who needs attention here, Sheriff?”

“In the driver’s seat. Pete McGinnis took a bullet in the shoulder. Inside, a young woman has fainted.”

“Okay, they’re my responsibility now.” He turned to the crowd. “Gents, as soon as I check these folks, I’ll need help carrying them to my office.”

Quinn checked his stride, allowing for the woman’s shorter legs. The intensity of her grip on his arm indicated he might be the only thing keeping her upright. A rush of protectiveness toward this dainty creature surged through him. Dainty? At this additional errant thought, irritation stiffened his moves.

Focus on the robbery
. “Excuse us, folks. I need to get this woman into the café. Albert, will you open that door?” Quinn moved behind the woman, resting a hand on her back, and held the door as she stepped over the threshold. “Sit at this table.”

The woman dropped onto the closest chair and laid her forearms on the table, grasping the far edge. “Ah, thank heaven, a stable place to sit.”

“Two cups of coffee over here, Betsy.” Quinn pulled out a chair and waved at the young daughter of the couple who owned the café.

“I’d prefer tea.” The green-eyed woman stopped dusting off her clothing and smiled at the serving girl. “If it’s available. Please.”

“Betsy, one coffee and one tea.” He waited until the serving girl nodded, and then turned back to the slight figure across from him. Her hands trembled as they skimmed over her jacket and skirt. “Should I call the doc in here to look at you, ma’am?”

A resolute shake of her head tilted the hat precariously to one side. “Leave him to help the others. A bit of rest on solid ground and a bracing cup of tea will do me fine.”

A plucky spirit. This was an attitude he could handle. “What’s your name?”

Her hands dropped into her lap, and she met his questioning gaze. “Ciara. Miss Ciara Mu—Morrissey.”

The name was lyrical to his ears and rolled off her tongue like a song. He still couldn’t place the origins of her accent.

Betsy set earthenware mugs of steaming liquid in front of them and positioned a small crock of cream close to the traveler. “Sorry, ma’am, no china cups for your tea.”

“This is fine.” Ciara grabbed her mug and wrapped trembling fingers around it. “I have never been prone to the faints, but my hands won’t stop shaking.”

“Understandable.” The urge to ride out and check the road for clues drew his muscles taut. Years of experience had taught him not to set out without a plan. And that plan involved information this woman possessed. “The experience was probably upsetting. I’m sorry to keep you from resting, but I have no choice. You’re the only person who can provide information. Are you up to answering questions?”

From over the rim of her mug, her gaze connected with his, and her eyes narrowed. “I’m not sure what I can tell you.”

“How far away from town did the men stop the stage?”