Page 3 of The Marshal's Bride
The young mother paused for a moment, the voice cutting through her. Straightening her back, she rolled her shoulders and took the few steps to the stage. It didn’t surprise her that Marjorie had followed her. She probably took the next train out of Lincoln to follow her. After all, it wasn’t as if Justine had hidden where she was going.
She’d already heard all the reasons that Marjorie thought they should stay in Lincoln, but Justine couldn’t stay. She knew that living with a woman who would blame her for Jacob’s death or speak those things in front of Hope would only lead to more pain and estrangement. All Justine wanted to do was keep her head above water, when she felt like she was drowning.
She needed a safe place to grieve her husband and to heal.
“You cannot take my baby, you murderer!” Marjorie yelled once more.
Hearing the accusation, the attractive man halted, laying his hand on Justine’s shoulder, encouraging her to remain in place. He turned back to look at Marjorie, his hand still resting where he placed it.
Justine could feel the heat from his palm radiate through the layers of fabric and warm her skin underneath. She froze in place, unsure if it was Marjorie’s wild accusations or the stranger’s touch that glued her feet to the floor.
“What is going on?” His voice rumbled over them, and she felt the heat ignite into flames and race down to her toes.
Her tongue thickened, but she spat the words out. “That woman,” she said, pointing to Marjorie, “is my mother-in-law, who believes that she has a right to keep my child away from me.”
“I can’t allow you to board the stage until we resolve this.” His eyes pierced her very soul.
“You cannot prevent me, Sir. I have my ticket. My husband died three months ago, and we are headed to see my family. Marjorie’s wishes to stop me from traveling are just that—wishes. I am this little girl’s mother, and we are leaving.”
Justine yanked her shoulder away from him, and the fire coursing through her extinguished immediately. Embarrassment and anger replaced her feelings as the people on the platform had stopped to watch them.
Clutching Hope tightly to her chest, lest Marjorie try to rip her from Justine’s grip, she continued forward, taking the porter’s hand as she stepped up onto the coach.
Settling Hope on her lap, she glanced out the window, where she could clearly see the stranger still talking to Marjorie. Her mother-in-law was waving her arms wildly as she talked to the man, but Justine couldn’t make out the words.
Letting out a loud breath, she slid further back on the hard leather seat and sank into the uncomfortable damask cloth covering the back panel. She could still see over Hope’s head and through the window.
“Last call!” The driver called out, and she watched as the man tipped his hat to Marjorie before jogging toward the stage.
He slid in and settled on the bench across from Justine, giving her a knowing smile. What he knew, she couldn’t surmise. What she knew, however, was that she had this overwhelming urge to kick him. But she wouldn’t.
That wouldn’t be ladylike at all.
Sam Davis silently observed the lovely redhead with the toddler across from him. There was nothing in her countenance to lead him to believe she was anything but a tired mother. She certainly didn’t look like a murderer, but Sam knew looks could be deceiving.
Her skin was the color of porcelain, with flushed cheeks adding a touch of color. Sam wasn’t sure if that was from the sun, or anger at the current situation. Long dark lashes surrounded green eyes that were full of pain and sadness. She chewed nervously on her lower lip as she adjusted the toddler sitting on her lap.
Her shiny hair was plaited in a long braid that was draped over her shoulder, with a small black veil pinned at the crown of her head. A longer one would have been impractical for traveling. Her mourning clothes were store-bought, which meant the dye wouldn’t transfer to her skin.
Sam winced slightly. He shouldn’t be thinking about her skin, or how swollen her lip was as she released it from the confines of her teeth. As the stagecoach lurched forward, he watched her press her hand against the interior wall to hold herself in place.
Her eyes met his, and he smiled slightly. She jerked her head down before looking out the window as they left the Grand Platte depot behind them.
The older woman on the platform did finally accede that the woman was the child’s mother, but the accusation of murder echoed in his ears. Pressing back in his seat, he let his long legs stretch forward and crossed them at the ankle, sure that he was not tangling them in the widow’s skirt.
He didn’t need to be handling a murder case when he first arrived in the small town where he was taking over for the marshal who retired. From his understanding, it took nearly two years to find someone to fill the position because nothing exciting ever happened in the town.
He was looking forward to the quiet, as he had enough excitement to fill his cup while he was in Texas. As soon as he arrived in town, he would let his best friend and sheriff, Whitney Hartman, know of the accusations and let the lawman deal with it. It wasn’t anything that Sam needed to handle. He’d been traveling for nearly a week, so all he was interested in was a hot meal and a soft bed.
Glancing around the coach, he took in the other passengers. Two were working cowboys. Sam recognized the scent of manure that clung to their boots and clothes. They pulled down their hats, and soft snores permeated the cabin.
The blonde woman adjusted her skirt and waved her fingers at the little girl. Sam studied her for a minute. There was something she was hiding. Perhaps if he gave the impression of sleep, the women would talk amongst themselves. Leaning his head back, hat tipped over his eyes, Sam relaxed and just listened.
The women made small talk about the weather and the bumpy ride. He heard someone offer the child a cracker. Releasing a yawn, he shifted in his seat. He’d just been on the road too long if he was looking at everyone with suspicion.
“So, you’re meeting the matchmaker?” Sam recognized the voice as the young widow.
“Yes, Mrs. Chapman comes highly recommended. It’s well past the time for me to marry. I should meet my new husband today. I’m so nervous.”
