Capturing The Marshal's Heart (Escape From Texas) (9 page)

Slade frowned at the agitated, pale woman and glanced at Jazzy. His dark gaze held hers.

The connection between them was back, like it had been the previous night. From deep inside, she felt a growing heat, but wished she could read his expression more clearly. Was the concern in his gaze for her as a passenger, or as someone who was special?

The sharp report of two gunshots sounded. Pete called out a loud, “Whoa.” The stagecoach pulled to a hasty stop, nearly tossing the rear passengers into the laps of those in the forward seat.

Slade’s hand slapped at his right hip, then stopped, his gaze scanning the interior of the coach before his hand rested on his thigh. “Do any of you have a sidearm?”

Interesting motion
. Jazzy glanced between his hand and his face and raised her eyebrows.

The interior went silent as people just stared, a couple shook their heads. No weapons were dug from within reticules or from inside jacket pockets.

He grimaced and shook his head, then spoke in a calm, but commanding, voice, “Remember, folks, just give them whatever they want. Don’t give them a reason to linger. No necklace or pocket watch is worth your safety.”

Jazzy marveled at the strength in his voice while faced with this dangerous situation. This man was used to being in charge and expected others to obey his orders. Goose flesh rose on her arms and a warmth grew in the center of her chest.

Call her silly, but she went weak in the knees for a man who took control.

Something thumped twice against the outside of the stage, and the door yanked open. Leading with a large pistol, a dark-skinned man with dark eyes and thick eyebrows stuck his head in the opening. A faded red bandana covered the lower part of his face. “Get outside, form a straight line, and keep your hands where we can see them.” He stepped back and cocked the gun’s hammer. “Hurry.”

As Jazzy looked through the open door, she felt dread clump in the pit of her stomach. Three mounted riders, with guns drawn, watched in half-circle formation from twenty feet away. Like the first bandit, their faces were covered with bandanas.

Definitely a bad situation.

Quickly, she tumbled behind her fellow passengers—including Slade—from the coach onto the rocky soil and stood with both hands raised. Her stomach knotted. She was counting on the man of action she’d glimpsed a moment ago having a plan for getting them all out of this situation alive. Hopefully with her personal cache of coins intact. Glancing up, she tried to spot her carpetbag on the top of the coach. Would they search the bags, too?

Pete narrowed his gaze at her and jutted his chin, repeatedly shifting his eyes toward Slade.

Why was the stage driver looking to Slade for answers?

“All right, folks.” Mr. Eyebrows called for their attention in a gravelly voice. “We want your jewelry and your money. All of it. Rings, ear bobs, timepieces, necklaces…take them off and drop them in this here hat I’m passing. Do it fast, and there won’t be no problems.”

This was really happening. A robbery. Her mouth went bone dry and her legs trembled, threatening to give out. These despicable men, who looked like they hadn’t bathed in weeks, were trying to steal the money she worked so hard for years to earn. With shaky hands, Jazzy struggled with the clasp of the gold locket she wore. Maybe they’d be satisfied with what they took off the passengers and leave.

The man paused in front of her, his gaze moving over the other people. “Give me the necklace, lady.”

Of all the nerve!
This locket had cost her three nights’ wages. “Don’t rush me.” Her fingers fumbled with the clasp.

“I’m giving the orders.” The man stopped and leaned only inches from her face, his slitted gaze as cold as a snake’s.

The stench of sweaty male and unwashed clothes rose in her nostrils, and she swallowed hard against gagging. Breathing through her mouth, she wrenched at the clasp. “It’s stuck.”

The man closed his hand around the locket and yanked downward. When the chain broke, his hand grazed her bust, and he leered in a yellowed, snaggle-toothed grin.

Jazzy heard one of the other women gasp. Although her skin crawled, she only stared at the man. She refused to give him the satisfaction of seeing her react to her broken necklace or to his unwanted touch.

Grinning, he tossed the locket in his hand. “Hey, we got us a feisty one.” The tip of his pistol trailed the length of her arm.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw a quick movement and sensed it was Slade.

A fidgety rider urged his equally nervous horse forward. “Stand where you are, mister.”

Aware she didn’t dare lose her head of steam, she refrained from looking Slade’s way. The bandits could have her jewelry and the few dollars in her handbag—she could manage without those. But not her savings. She had to figure out a diversion to keep them from searching her clothing.

The man moved close and pointed a dirty finger toward her ears. “Now, those fancy ear gee-gaws.” As he waited, his leering gaze ran over her face.

Although she’d had men appraise her in this impersonal way many times before, something deep inside snapped. No more would she be the victim or act helpless in the face of such a man. Reaching to pull off the ear bobs, she narrowed her eyes and stared, burning his image into her memory—starting with the color of his hair, the exact shade of his eyes, and the mole on his left temple.

“Like what you see, eh, sister?”

“Not at all.” She extended her arm and held the ear bobs over the upturned hat. “I’m studying your face so I can be sure my description of you to the sheriff is accurate.”

A throaty cough sounded, and she glanced to the side where Slade stood.

Slade narrowed his gaze and shook his head once. His intense dark eyes held a warning. Both hands were fisted at his sides, and his body was tight and poised.

The fidgety bandit on his wide-eyed horse, now just a few feet away, leveled his gun toward the center of Slade’s chest.

She gasped and a shudder ran through her, freezing her actions. What was she doing? No jewelry was special enough to risk getting Slade injured. She could accept that they might never see one another after this stage trip, but she wouldn’t be the cause of him getting hurt.

Or worse.

Then the bandit grabbed her hand and twisted it to release the ear bobs.

A cry of pain escaped her lips before she could bite it back. Her blood surged hot, and self-preservation took over. She swore she could hear the echoes of Miss Veronica’s teachings as she stomped a boot heel on the man’s toes and jabbed an elbow upward against his throat.

What followed was a confusion of strangled yells, high-pitched screams, threatening curses, and rising clouds of choking dust.

Chapter Seven

Seeing Jazzy’s narrowed gaze and clamped jaw made Slade’s blood run cold. What the hell was that independent slip of a woman contemplating? She had no chance against a band of armed outlaws. Jazzy must know that.

Four against one weren’t good odds. Slade had faced worse situations in his past and survived, but at those times, he’d only had to take care of himself. Pete was out of his line of sight, so he didn’t know if he could count on the driver for any assistance. Protecting the cussed little fool would be tough, but not impossible.

The sound of Jazzy’s pained cry cut straight through Slade’s reasoning and he jumped into motion. Ramming a shoulder into the closest horse, he flew under the thrashing front hooves at the man who’d hurt her. “Get away, Jazzy.”

In that instant, the world erupted in noise and motion. He and the bandit went down hard and tumbled on the ground, grappling for control with hands, knees, and feet. Slade was taller and heavier, but this wiry man was strong. A strength that came from having to fight to stay alive. Skittish horses neighed and snorted. Nearby, hooves gouged the dry ground, tossing up great clouds of choking, powdery dust.

Bitter anger over Jazzy’s pain and fear for her safety tore at him, fueling his actions. He levered up on an elbow and swung with his right fist, landing a hard punch on the bandit’s jaw.

With a grunt, the man’s head snapped back and the grip on Slade’s shirt loosened.

Slade rolled away from the horses and jumped to a crouch, balancing his weight on the balls of his feet. On instinct, his hand moved toward his right hip. Damn, he missed the familiar weight of his revolver. He felt naked without it. He looked through the swirling dirt clouds for Jazzy. There, against the outline of the coach, was a darker shadow he figured must be the group of passengers.

Instantaneous relief calmed his thoughts. At least for the moment, she was safe.

His boot stubbed up a fist-sized rock and he stooped to pick it up. Not his first choice of weapon, but it counted for something. Better than being empty-handed. Squinting through the haze of dust, he tried to spot the positions of the mounted outlaws.

“Slade! Behind you!”

Jazzy’s sweet voice cut through the mêlée. He spun and immediately jumped back, barely avoiding being trampled by a charging horse. At the last moment, he let the rock fly and was rewarded by the sound of a solid thud and a man’s surprised curse. Quickly, he grappled around in the surrounding dirt and filled each hand with other rocks. He hated using such primitive weapons and willed himself to ignore the futility of his stand.

This damned dust!
Maintaining a crouching stance, he swung his arm in front of his face, hoping to clear his field of vision. From the corner of his eye, he spotted a man moving from his left, gun held at waist height as he inched forward. Like all the times he’d skipped stones on Dickerson’s Pond as a kid, he brought his hand to his waist, then flung the rock hard with a sideways motion.

The rock knocked the gun out of the outlaw’s hand and he doubled over with a muttered curse. The second rock, thrown overhand as hard as he could, felled the man like a tree. Slade strode to the dropped pistol and scooped it up, then squared off opposite where he figured the remaining bandits were. An eerie silence fell. No bird cried, no desert animal skittered, no breeze rustled the mesquite bushes.

As the choking veil of dust settled, he heard a devilish chuckle that raised the hair on the back of his neck. Advancing across the open ground was a sight that froze his movements and chilled him to the bone.

A tall man, one arm crooked around Jazzy’s shoulders and the other holding a knife to her tender neck, stopped about ten feet away.

They were close enough for Slade to take in every detail of the stubborn woman. She must have put up a struggle. Strands of honey-blonde hair hung loose at the sides of her flushed face, and one sleeve was partially torn away from her jacket shoulder. Her eyes were wide and unblinking. The expression in their blue depths pleaded for rescue.

The glint of metal against her white skin riled him until he could barely think straight. This filthy man threatened the life of a woman he held dear. Frustration burned in his gut. He had to figure a way out of this mess.

He’d downed two bandits, but another of the bastards, other than the one gripping Jazzy, still moved free and out of sight. The outlaw held Jazzy too close for Slade to draw a bead on him. He couldn’t risk a shot that wasn’t an instant kill. The guy looked like he could do deadly damage with that knife in his last seconds of life.

“Toss down the gun,” rasped the tall bandit, his bandana skewed enough to reveal a bushy mustache.

Slade glanced around, hoping to gauge Pete’s location and what chance he really had. He shifted his stance to scan the area near the front of the stagecoach, but still couldn’t spot the driver. All he saw were the passengers cowering near the back wheels, the women with handkerchiefs to their faces.

Had Pete found a hiding place and was even now tracking the bandits in his rifle sights? Was he just waiting for the right time to pick off this guy? The fact he hadn’t given a signal persuaded Slade not to count on help from that corner.

“I said ditch the weapon.” The man’s voice was colder and he yanked his arm tighter around Jazzy’s chest. “Or I spill this pretty lady’s blood.”

Jazzy stretched away from the knife, but remained alert and silent. Her mouth was twisted into a tight line. Unshed tears shimmered in her eyes.

Slade watched as she blinked fast to keep them from falling. Fiery anger and icy determination warred for dominance of his thoughts. The fact Jazzy was in serious danger burned in his belly. He would make these men pay for what they’d put her through. But cold reason screamed at Slade not to give up the weapon that represented his only chance.

He looked into her eyes and she stared back, belief in him shining through her fear. Suddenly, he was transported to the previous night and the heat of passion he’d seen in her eyes. What they’d shared was special and he refused to let that go without a fight. He narrowed his gaze, trying to send her a message to stay calm, that he’d figure a way out of this mess. “Tell us what you want. Maybe we can work out a deal.”

The man snorted. “Don’t need no deal. We’re taking what we want and this here knife’s our guarantee.”

Sweat pooled on Slade’s forehead and dripped along his temples. Refusing to show weakness, he resisted swiping at his face with his sleeve. Where the hell was Pete? Without back up, Slade doubted his chances and this guy didn’t look like he wanted to bargain. “You grabbed the valuables, so clear out.” He waved his gun in the direction of the open desert, wishing he could signal Jazzy to go limp and drop to the ground. All he needed was one clear shot to take down this guy.

The bandit bristled and took a step forward, dragging Jazzy along. “Big talk for a man all alone.”

“I’ve already knocked out two of your buddies.” Slade eyed the distance between the two of them and wondered if he dared try to rush the guy.

“José? Jimmy John?” With a hasty glance around the area, the bandit lowered his brows. “Shit, Ralph’s horse ran off again.” He glanced over his shoulder at his fallen friends, then quickly back. “Move this way, blondie.”