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Marielle’s Marshal

“If you don’t know how to use that thing, you’d better put it down, sugar.”

The pistol shook in Marielle’s hands. The unfamiliar weight threatened to drag her arms down, but her determination kept it upright and pointed at the man in front of her.

“I will not let you rob this stagecoach. Turn that pony around and ride on out before I put a hole in you that you didn’t have yesterday.” She was proud of the fact that her voice didn’t break. God knows her heart beat fast enough to make her ears hurt.

The masked man on the huge sorrel leaned on his saddle horn and turned his head toward her. She couldn’t make out much information about him, other than the fact that he was big and his clothes hadn’t been washed in a dog’s year. Fortunately the wind blew toward him or the stench might have forced her to surrender.

“You’re a sassy little thing,” he drawled. “You know there’s no way in hell I ain’t robbing this stage so just drop that peashooter and play nice.”

The cowboy she’d initiated a flirtation with in the coach stood next to her. It had been enough to make her warm just looking at his smiling face. He had even smelled nice, a rarity in the West. When the robber stopped the coach, he’d been sleeping, or at least dozing. Marielle had been enjoying the view when all hell broke loose, and he had sat there like a bump on a log.

The cowboy leaned in close. “I think he’s right, ma’am. You’d do best to just give him the pistol. Don’t know why you took it from me anyway.”

“Because you did nothing, you coward. He shot that poor driver and made Mrs. Philpot cry and now he wants to take my bag. I absolutely refuse to hand over my things.” This time her voice did shake—with fury. “I’ve worked too hard over the last seven years to surrender so easily.” She narrowed her eyes at the bandit. “What have you done besides kill people and steal their belongings? You’re obviously not a Christian man, and maybe neither was your mama. Does she know what you’re doing?”

The longer she talked, the angrier she got.

“Shut up,” the cowboy hissed.

“I will not.” Marielle kept her aim straight and true at the lone bandit. “You get your sorry hide out of here with what you’ve already taken, but I refuse to give you one damn cent.”

“Oooh, you cuss too? I might have to take you with me.” He cocked his rifle in a blur of movement and pointed it at the unconscious Mrs. Philpot lying on the dusty road in her purple traveling dress. The older woman had fainted dead away when the bandit reached into her corset for her valuables. “Your choice, sugar, you put down that gun or the old hag gets it.”

Marielle pursed her lips together and sighed long and hard. The bastard. “I’ll take my chances.” She pulled the hammer back on the pistol. “You decide to take yours. Maybe I’ll shoot you before you can shoot her.”

The air around them grew heavy and time seemed to slow to a crawl. Marielle kept her gaze trained on his trigger finger. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw a bead of sweat snaking down his temple. She hoped it was from anxiety and not the warm June weather.

“Ma’am,” the cowboy whispered.

It was all the distraction the bandit needed. She knew he was going to shoot so she fired off a shot just as his finger squeezed on the trigger. Her shot hit the barrel of the rifle. His went wild and slammed into the stagecoach next to her head. The cowboy grabbed her and threw her to the ground as the bandit’s horse reared and screamed.

La Mirage

Sweat dripped down the back of Savanna Blaine’s neck and ran into the collar of her blouse. She moaned in annoyance and stole a glance at Ben Lantano who sat across from her behind the wheel of the ancient Chevy pickup he lovingly called Delilah.

Ben gave her an apologetic grin. “She leaks Freon sometimes.” With his dark brows arched over deep blue eyes, his sidelong glance caused an involuntary tingle down her spine. Despite her discomfort, Savanna found it hard to maintain her annoyance at the sweltering heat in the pickup’s cab. Unfortunately, Ben’s smile only served to ratchet the temperature up a few more degrees past the one-hundred mark.

Another drop of sweat rolled down Savanna’s neck and over her collarbone, then made a dive into the deep valley between her breasts.

Why had she gone for the Vicky’s Mysteries push-up bra this morning? In the late August heat wave the powder blue lace-and-satin construction felt like a medieval torture device. Next time she had an interview in the Nevada desert in August, she’d wear loose clothing and make sure her photographer’s car had better air conditioning. She felt like a wilted bouquet, cinched at the stems, her petals shapeless and drooping.

“Why don’t we make a pit stop at the next diner and get some cold drinks?” Ben, the eternal optimist, wore a sheen of sweat, too, but for some reason on him it looked good. The collar of his light green T-shirt had darkened in a ring around his neck, and the ends of his short black hair stuck out over his forehead and his nape in damp spikes.

“Fine with me. You’re buying.” Savanna smirked. She’d had her doubts about Delilah when Ben picked her up at her apartment on Thursday morning for the trek out to Jackson Deveraux’s secluded desert ranch. Of course, then it had been overcast with a faint breeze, the remnant of a passing storm. Her enthusiasm for the plum interview with the media tycoon had overshadowed any thoughts about the tenacity of a vehicle with silver duct tape patching a rust hole in the driver’s side door.

“What’s that noise?” A metallic ping with a regular beat interrupted Savanna’s thoughts and Ben’s grin faded. He reached over to shut off the useless air conditioner and his fingers brushed dangerously close to her left knee.

“It’s nothing,” he said.

It was Savanna’s turn to arch her eyebrows. “You don’t sound convinced.”

“When we stop, I’ll take a look under the hood. Sounds like we kicked up a rock. That’s all.”

Savanna eyed the landscape ahead, which was curiously identical to the landscape behind them. Endless waves of sand and rock in romantic shades like sienna and umber folded upon themselves in every direction. The lonely stretch of I-95 seemed to go on forever.

“How far is it?”

“A couple of miles.”

The rumbling ping grew louder and then Delilah’s engine misfired. Savanna shot Ben a sharp look. “That wasn’t nothing.”

“Probably needs a little water.” Ben licked his lips and Savanna found herself concentrating far too closely on the movement of his tongue. It was too hot for these kinds of thoughts. She had to keep her mind on business, which at the moment consisted of willing Ben’s ancient pickup to keep moving along the empty highway.

“Don’t we all,” she said finally after managing to drag her attention away from Ben’s profile. She looked around the cab. The thermos in the footwell beside her legs held tepid coffee left over from the diner breakfast they’d had at nine a.m. after an uncomfortable night spent at a motel outside of Black Rock. They’d had to stay in the motel overnight after the interview because the abandoned ghost town Deveraux was planning to purchase with his newly minted millions offered little in the way of amenities at the moment.

The coffee wouldn’t do any good for Delilah or her occupants at this point.

“I just had a tune-up last week,” Ben offered when the engine misfired again.

“How old is this thing, anyway?”

“Old enough. Delilah is my first. I love her and she loves me. Though she’s been a little temperamental since I cut my hair.”

Savanna opened her mouth but decided to hold her comment. Instead, she rolled her eyes and Ben laughed.

“Gets ’em every time.”

“Men.” Why did they think of their cars like women? If only Savanna could find a man to be as loyal to her as Ben was to his Delilah.

Fijian Fling

“Listen, Nick.” Sophie twirled a cube of fish around on her fork. “I wanted to apologize for this afternoon. For being rude.”

“Nothing I didn’t deserve.”

“Still. I didn’t mean to suggest you sleep with all your female guests.”

His lips twitched upward. “Are you saying you don’t think I do, after all?”

She narrowed her eyes at him. “I’m sure I don’t know what you do, or don’t do.”

“Well, just so you know,” he said, giving her a slow, heated smile, “I don’t have a policy against it or anything.”

He got a kick out of the way her lips curved, her face flushed. “Thank you for keeping me informed, Nick.”

“Anytime.” Sophie easily picked up on the implication that he wasn’t just talking about keeping her informed.

She tried to clear the lump of tension from her throat as surreptitiously as possible. “I’m curious as to how you came about owning this place.” She was curious, and eager to bring the flirty banter down a notch or two. She didn’t think her nerves could handle it.

It was several moments before he replied. “Life takes you to some pretty unexpected places.”

When she realized he wasn’t going to elaborate, Sophie remarked, “That’s not exactly an answer.”

“I bet you make a great lawyer.”

“You see, you have me at a disadvantage. You know so much about me and I know essentially nothing about you.”

“Women like men of mystery, I’m told.” His enigmatic smile made her wonder who had told him so. More specifically, which woman or women had told him so. “Besides, I hardly know anything about you, either.”

Sophie crossed her cutlery over her plate and started counting things off on her fingers. “You know my name, my occupation, my home address, my credit card number, my relationship status…”

He held up a hand, a plea for mercy. “Alright, lawyer lady, you win. My name, proper name, is Dominick Albert Dufour.”

“It’s French, right?”

“The family tree’s a little vague but yeah, I’m one-quarter French. Three-quarters mongrel.” His lips curled with wry humor, taking the sting out of that last statement. “Occupation you know. Home address, you’re looking at it. Credit card number—I don’t have one. I’ve always been partial to cash myself. As for relationship status… I’ll remain silent, lest I incriminate myself.”

Sophie rested her chin on her hand, enchanted by the way he’d managed to talk about himself without imparting much in the way of tangible information. He would have made a great lawyer himself. Or maybe a politician, although it was impossible to imagine him in a suit and not the floral bula shirt and cargo shorts he was wearing. “I’d be willing to bet money you don’t usually concern yourself too much with incriminating yourself.”

“Au contraire.”

Sophie’s smile widened because his distinct Australian twang rendered his French accent abominable. “Are you sure you’re one-quarter French?”

“Are you making fun of my accent?” His expression of mock offense was the last straw. Sophie’s smile gave way to laughter, real laughter that she felt all the way to the pit of her stomach. She used her napkin to dab at the moisture gathering in her eyes. When at last she recovered her sobriety, she glanced across the table to see Nick watching her with an intense gaze that made her smile stumble and fall.

“Christ, Sophie,” he breathed at last. “You’re beautiful.”

The trio playing guitar and singing island songs finished their set and a smattering of applause broke out. Sophie couldn’t have torn her eyes away from Nick’s if she’d even had the wherewithal to applaud. Her breath backed up in her throat, her heart sledgehammering. Oh, how she wished she could believe he was delivering a well-practiced line. Somehow, the suspicion that he was merely being straightforward was doubly frightening.

“I’m not sure I’m up for this, Nick,” she burst out.

He didn’t ask what she meant. “Why not?”

Beyond the Tears

The last time her home felt so large and lonely was after Bobby died. During the week after his death the house had been filled with concerned and grieving friends and relatives. Then one morning, Cassidy awoke to realize that the place was empty. Everyone had returned to their own homes and resumed their own lives, leaving Cassidy to deal with the aftermath. For days, she wandered around the house, crying and feeling sorry for herself. Now, as she walked through the door, those same feelings of sadness and dread flooded over her.

To make matters worse, the airline had lost her luggage. Two hours of arguing with the baggage claim supervisors resulted in speculation that her baggage had accidentally been routed to Denver. Dallas/Denver, they both started with the letter D so she could see where that simple mistake could have been made. Idiots! Thank God she’d put Chase’s shirt in her carry-on bag. Leaving with only a promise of the luggage being delivered to her home when it was located, Cassidy made the nearly three-hour drive back to Killeen and her empty house.

She dropped her keys on the foyer table and bent to pick up the slew of mail covering the hardwood floor. Thumbing through the stack, she discovered a letter from Bobby’s mother. Cassidy glanced over at the quilt Bobby’s mother made for their first anniversary resting on the back of the sofa.

She tossed the rest of the mail on the table, picked up her bag and went to her bedroom. After changing into a pair of cotton shorts, Cassidy donned Chase’s shirt and headed back downstairs with the letter still in hand.

Pictures of her and Bobby hung on the wall, reminding her of happier times. She set the letter on the coffee table and went to the kitchen to make herself a cup of hot tea. Bobby’s favorite mug, with the words “Support our Troops—Do a Soldier” scrawled on the side, rested in the dish drainer. Maybe it was time to move away from the memories and start fresh.

Cassidy curled up on the couch with her mug, picked up the letter and ripped open the envelope.

Dear Cassidy,

I’m so sorry we missed you at Easter this year, but I understand your need to be with your own family. Thank you for the beautiful flower basket you sent. I plan on planting the bulbs around Robert’s grave.

Since we haven’t seen you since Christmas, Dad and I would love for you to take a week this summer and visit. I know it’s been a difficult year for you. It has been for us too, but we’re dealing with the pain and learning to move on. We can only hope that you eventually will too. Just know that no matter whom you meet or what happens in the future, you’ll always be a part of our life.

I know you’re busy, but I’d love to hear from you, so please give me a call when you get a chance.

Love,

Mom

Cassidy drew in a deep breath and set the letter back on the table. Seeing his parents at Christmas had been so painful that she’d made a point to avoid them ever since. It was wrong and she’d have to try to make things right. Maybe spending a couple of days with them and facing her pain was what she needed to move on. After all, hiding inside the house only kept her rooted in the past, perpetuating her suffering.

Her focus wandered to the wedding picture sitting proudly on the top shelf of the entertainment center. A new wave of guilt washed over her. She slipped from the couch, pulled the picture down and returned to her seat. Running her fingers over Bobby’s image, she remembered that day with such clarity. With sable hair and chocolate eyes, he’d been so handsome in his black tuxedo, the definition of tall, dark and handsome.

“I’m so sorry,” she whispered, choking back the lump in her throat. Tears flooded her eyes and scurried down her face. “I know I promised I’d wait for you, but you made a promise too. You promised me you’d come home safe. I’ve kept my part of the deal for as long as I can.”

Tears dripped off her cheeks onto the glass, blurring his image. “I love you and I’ll always love you, but I can’t do this anymore.” She set the picture on the floor, snuggled against the throw pillow and pulled the quilt off the back of the couch. “I want more.”