Julia: Bride of New York (Amercan Mail-Order Bride 11) (8 page)

Julia pulled on the drawstring of her reticule and stuck her hand in. “I have some money for you.”

Fletcher pinched the bridge of his nose with his thumb and finger. “What money?”

She held out a few bills. “The money you paid for my meals and the hotel. I know it’s not all there, but I will make payments until it’s all paid up.”

“Honey, I don’t want your money. What I want is for you to marry me.”

She waved her hand. “It appears you will never get it right, so the answer is still no. In any event, I owe for the cost of my keep.” She dropped the bills on his desk. “And don’t call me honey.”

Lord, he didn’t even know that had slipped out. When did he start thinking of her in such intimate terms? And what the hell wasn’t he getting right?

“I told you the town paid for your hotel, and your meals came out of the sheriff’s budget.”

“I always pay my debts, Sheriff.”

“They were not debts, Miss Benson.”

She opened her mouth to retort when the door flew open and Johnson’s employee, Malcolm Dryer, stumbled in. “Sheriff! You have to come quick. Old man Wimbly is fightin’ again with Maynard. Says he’s gonna shoot him this time.”

Fletcher checked his gun belt, then moved around his desk and headed for the door. He turned and pointed a finger at Julia. “Stay here.”

Julia winced as the door slammed, rattling the keys on the hook next to it. What the heck? She wasn’t going to stay here if something interesting was going on. Men always did that. Acted as if women were weak, sniveling creatures. She hurried after him, stepping out onto the boardwalk in time to see Fletcher striding up to two men rolling around in the street, dust billowing up around them.

A circle of people surrounded the men and moved back when Fletcher shouted at the men. “Get up off the ground, you old fools.”

The men ignored him and continued to throw punches at each other. Fletcher reached down and pulled one of the men up by his collar. The other man came up on unsteady feet with a gun pointed at the two men.

Fletcher groaned loud enough for Julia to hear as she hurried toward them “Ah, come on, Wimbly, put that gun down.”

“I’m gonna shoot him, Sheriff.” The old man narrowed his eyes. “This is the last time I’m gonna let him steal my wife’s apple pie right off the windowsill.”

Still holding onto the one man’s collar, Fletcher said, “Now, you know it’s not worth hanging for an apple pie.”

Although the man was waving the gun was a serious matter, Julia couldn’t help but giggle as she walked up to the group surrounding Fletcher and the two opponents. A few of the spectators backed away when Wimbly started gesturing with the gun. Julia moved around the outside of the crowd. If she could get behind the old man, she could bop him on the head with her reticule. She had enough coins in there, along with her key and a small penknife, that it would distract him so Fletcher could wrestle the gun from his hand.

“Wimbly, you know if you don’t give me that gun, I’m gonna have to lock you up for a few days. You won’t get Martha’s apple pie, or any of her cooking, then.” Fletcher released the man he’d been holding and walked slowly to the potential shooter, his hand out. “Just give me the gun, and we’ll all go on home and forget about this.”

Julia was right behind the man now. She looked at Fletcher, trying to give him a signal on what she planned to do, but the sheriff’s eyes were riveted on the gun in Wimbly’s hand. Which shook, making him all the more dangerous.

She swung her reticule up and hit the man on the head just as Fletcher reached him and knocked the gun from his hand. Startled by the smack on his head, Wimbly turned. “What the hell?” He pulled his arm back and punched Julia on the chin. Her arms flailed for a few seconds before she fell backward and landed in the horse trough behind her, water engulfing her and pushing her bonnet over her face.

Chapter Seven

Before Julia even hit the bottom of the horse trough, strong hands grabbed her arms and hauled her up. Her sodden bonnet covered her face, and she coughed out dirty water, her lungs feeling as though they would burst.

“Woman, didn’t I tell you to stay in my office?” Fletcher tugged the ruined bonnet off her head and glared at her. She bent over and continued to cough, spewing more water out.

“Dammit, I’m arresting all three of you.” He waved at the crowd. “Go on about your business.” He turned to the two men. “Walk yourselves over to the jailhouse. Now.”

Mumbling, the crowd dispersed, and both brawlers continued their argument as they headed to the jail, their arms waving around, and their voices raised.

Fletcher hung onto her arm, thumping her on the back as she continued to cough and tried desperately to get air into her lungs. He tugged her forward. “Let’s go, Miss Benson, you’re under arrest, too.”

She pulled her arm back and gasped. “I can’t walk.”

“Fine.” He bent and leaned into her middle, then wrapped his arm around her knees and hefted her over his shoulder. With a slight shifting of her body, he strode toward the jailhouse.

Dangling over his shoulder, her bottom up in the air, she still coughed and sputtered. Angry, but unable to shout, she used the heel of her hand to pound him on his back. It was like hitting a solid brick wall. Her position didn’t help her lungs at all, and her jaw ached from the wallop the old man had given her. Who would have guessed he had that much strength?

Once they reached the jailhouse, Fletcher dumped her on her feet, grabbing her arm again when she stumbled.

“You can’t arrest me.” Her effort at speech started up her coughing again.

“Yes, I can and I am.” He waved his finger under her nose, which she swatted away like an annoying insect.

“On what charges?”

He counted off on his fingers. “Obstruction of justice; interfering in an official matter; disobeying an officer of the law. I told you to stay here and what did you do? You not only disobeyed an order of a law enforcement official, you inserted yourself into a dangerous situation, and then assaulted Mr. Wimbly.”

Still gasping for air, she said, “Assaulted him? I was protecting
you
.”

“What!”

She pushed strings of wet hair from her cheek. “I thought—if I hit him over the head—you could grab the gun.”

Fletcher covered his face with his hands and shook his head. “Wimbly doesn’t know which part of a gun is the serious end. He was in more danger of shooting himself in the foot than hitting me. Besides that, I don’t want help when I’m dealing with a fight.” He looked at her, narrowed his eyes, and cupped her chin, moving her head back and forth. “What happened to your face?”

“He punched me on the chin,” she rasped. “That’s why I fell into the water.”

“Dear God in heaven, Julia.” He let out a deep breath. “Isn’t there any way to keep you out of trouble?”

She drew herself up. “I don’t have to be watched, Sheriff. I can take care of myself.” She bent over and coughed some more.

“Yeah, I can see that.” He sighed. “Come over here by the light so I can take a good look at your injury.”

Apparently just realizing that the two men were still arguing and coming once again close to blows, Fletcher grabbed the cell key from the wall and pointed to the back of the room. “Into the cell.”

Old man Wimbly pulled up the straps on his overalls. “What are we being arrested for?”

Fletcher nudged them into two separate cells. “Disturbing the peace for both of you, and assault for you, Wimbly.”

Wimbly pointed to the other man. “And what about him? He should be arrested for stealing. Every time my wife puts a pie on the windowsill, he takes it.”

“Maybe Martha ought to open a bakery,” Fletcher said, slamming the cell door. “Now both of you settle down. I’ll send word to your wives that you’re spending the night in jail. That ought to give you time to calm down.”

Wimbly fisted his hands on the bars. “And that woman out there assaulted me first. Are you gonna arrest her, too?”

Julia worked her jaw, wincing as the pain shot up her face. What a mess. How was she going to work with a bruised chin? Maybe one of the girls could lend her some face paint to cover the mark she was sure to have by nightfall.

She never used the stuff, even though the other girls had attempted to get her to try it. They assured her it got them better tips from the men. She’d sworn she would never wear the skimpy outfit of a saloon girl either, so maybe she would also have to apply the face paint she never intended to use to get through the night.

Fletcher left the cell area and stopped in front of her, resting his hands on his hips, staring at her. He appeared to be fighting a smile. “Sit over there.” He gestured with his chin to a chair close to the window.

“Sheriff, I’m a bit cold in these wet clothes. Can I please go home and change? I can take care of my bruise myself.”

“Did you forget you’re under arrest?”

Her eyes grew wide “You can’t mean that.”

His slight smile turned to a frown. “I’m not sure if I mean it or not right now. But, dammit it, woman, you are trouble looking for a place to land.”

Fletcher’s gut tightened at the sight before him. Julia’s hair hung in wet strands around her shoulders. She was soaked with filthy water, and the pretty dress she’d arrived in this morning was obviously ruined. Despite all that, he found it hard not to notice how the wet garment clung to her curves. Dirt streaked her cheeks, and she had the beginning of a bruise on her chin.

So why did he find her attractive? It drove him crazy that no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t get this bundle of problems out of his mind. She’d turned his world upside down since he first laid eyes on her.

“Come on. I’ll get my carriage from the livery and drive you home so you can take care of that bruise and get into something dry and warm.”

“Thank you.”

He walked to the cell where his prisoners were both slumped on their cots, facing each other, in deep conversation. “I’m taking Miss Benson home. I expect you both to behave yourselves while I’m gone.”

“Ain’t much we can do, since you have us locked up behind bars,” Maynard groused.

Wimbly ran his thumbs up and down his overall straps. “Hey, Sheriff, bring a checkers set back with you, would ya? Maynard and I could pass some time.”

Fletcher shook his head. They’d caused a commotion, beat each other up, waved a gun, punched a woman in the chin, and now they acted like the best of friends.

“Wait here, and I’ll get the buggy. It’s cold outside.” He took an extra jacket off the hook and tossed it to Julia. “Put this on; it will help a little bit. I’ll be right back.”

He took the ten-minute walk to the livery, ducked questions on the street fight, then arranged for the buggy and returned to the jail. When he walked inside, Julia wore the jacket he’d given her and was pacing, using her palms to rub her arms in an attempt to keep warm. The jacket engulfed her as if she were a mere child, and she shivered, her lips already turning blue.

“Come on, let’s go.” He wrapped his arm around her shoulders as they left the jailhouse. He pulled her to his body, hoping to warm her up.

“I’m a little c-c-cold.”

“I can see that.” He lifted her into the buggy and threw her a blanket he’d gotten from the livery. “Wrap yourself in that. I suggest when you get to Mrs. Beamer’s you climb into a hot bath.”

He groaned as he circled the buggy and climbed in. Now why did he mention a bath? All he could imagine was Julia peeling off that wet dress and undergarments, then climbing naked into the bathtub. He envisioned water dripping down her silky skin, little drops pooling in places where his lips could suck the liquid, then move further down… He swallowed another groan and began to recite multiplication tables, something he hadn’t done since he’d been a kid.

Sometime during the trip to the boarding house, Julia had buried herself up to her chin in the blanket he’d given her. Still she shivered. She looked over at him, her wet hair resting on her shoulders in strings, her lips blue, and a nasty-looking bruise on her chin.

“Maybe you should have the doctor look at your jaw.”

“No. I’ll be fine. I’ll put a cold cloth on it. Right now I just want to get warm.”

Fletcher helped her out of the buggy and escorted her to the front door. Since the door was unlocked in the daytime, she didn’t need to get her key out. She opened the door and turned to him. “Thank you.”

“We still have to discuss your behavior today. You put yourself into danger by—”

“Please? I’m cold.”

He sighed. “All right. But in my official role as the sheriff of Wickerton, I want you to report to the jailhouse tomorrow morning.”

“Are you still going to arrest me?”

“We’ll discuss that in the morning.” He reached for the doorknob and began to close the door. “Go take care of yourself, I’ll see you tomorrow.”

From force of habit, Fletcher made the Full Bucket his final stop for the evening. The saloon was busier than normal. Several tables held poker players, and every other table in the room held men doing some serious drinking. Fletcher wove his way through the tables and headed to the bar. He waved at Mackinaw. “Whiskey.”

The manager nodded and poured the liquid into a shot glass and placed it in front of him. “How ya doing tonight, Sheriff?”

“No complaints.” He looked out at the crowd. “Seems like you’re doing a good business tonight.”

“Yeah. Payday for a few farms and ranches in the area.”

“I guess it’s hard with Julia out of work tonight.”

Mackinaw furrowed his brows. “Julia? What do you mean?” He looked over the busy room. “She’s here somewhere.”

Fletcher choked on his drink. “She’s here? She was injured this morning.”

The manager shrugged his shoulders. “I don’t know. She looked okay to me.” He turned away to pour a beer for another man at the bar.

His blood pumping, Fletcher took a closer look at the crowd. Sure enough, a woman dressed in the red satin outfit of the Full Bucket turned, her eyes meeting his. Julia smiled, and he stormed toward her. Her eyes grew wide as he got closer.