A Texan’s Honor

by Gray, Shelley

  The oldest of the hostages, an elderly gentleman who looked to be almost seventy, blinked in wonder. "What are you talking about?"

  "There's something much more valuable on this train than you all. The first car is loaded with the rewards from the latest silver strike out of Cripple Creek. I mean to keep ahold of it. Unfortunately, the law won't see it that way. So I've sent out a telegram stating the rules to Mr. Sam Edison."

  He paused as the name registered with the hostages. Even Jamie knew Sam Edison was the man currently in charge of the U.S. Marshals. It seemed his name was always mentioned in the papers.

  With another smile, the leader continued. "I was fairly clear in my instructions. As long as no one tries to blow us up or interfere with our progress, you all get to live. But if the law tries to impede my goals, I'll shoot you myself and order your bodies to be tossed out as evidence of my displeasure." Lowering his voice, he added, "I promise, I will do this without the slightest hesitation."

  The elderly man's eyes narrowed. "Who are you?" he asked quietly.

  Jamie waited for him to get cuffed for his insolence. But instead, the question seemed to amuse the leader.

  "I am James Walton, of course."

  As the elderly man's eyes widened in recognition, Mr. Walton flashed a smile. "Please don't tell me you haven't heard of me . . . or my business partners."

  There was a new awareness in the elderly man's gaze. "I've heard of you. Of course I've heard of you."

  Jamie could only be grateful that she was sitting on the bench. The Walton Gang was notoriously dangerous and extremely successful. Yet, for all of their villainy, more than one news rag had painted them—especially their suave, cigarsmoking leader, Mr. James Walton—as heroes of a sort.

  In some corners of the area, they were. Everyone knew most lawmen only took the jobs in order to keep three meals in their bellies.

  In contrast, some said the Walton Gang took money from the most corrupt and spent their spoils on a whole plethora of things—from their infamous hideout to orphanages.

  Word was that no one quite understood them but that everyone knew one thing: they were dangerous and as cold blooded as they wanted to be. They were as unpredictable as a blue norther.

  They killed and plundered and they never, ever, looked back with regret.

  It was becoming evident that the passengers were all completely at the gang's mercy. And that Jamilyn Ellis was the only woman on the train.

  2

  Everything about this job was a mistake, Will McMillan thought as he hooked his hands under the dead man's arms and yanked him out of the train car.

  The poor idiot's hands were still tied in front of him, as were his feet. Getting him anywhere was like lugging around a sack of potatoes. Why in the blazes had he decided to talk so much, anyway?

  If he'd just kept his mouth shut, Will wouldn't be having to do this. And if Boss trusted Kent more, Kent would be the one disposing of his handiwork, instead of Will.

  As he continued to tug, blood seeped from the gaping hole in the man's chest and dripped to the floor, leaving a trail that he'd feel obligated to mop up as well, if only for the woman's sensibilities. It was obvious that she was barely holding on.

  War was painful and life was hard. He'd learned that at a young age. However, no lady should ever have to step over a trail of blood—not even if she was a hostage.

  The dead man's denims caught on the edge of a bench. With a grunt of distaste, Will lowered the poor soul's shoulders, walked down to the man's feet, and pulled the snagged cuff from the metal bar. All the while, he fought to keep his expression neutral, though he felt the harsh pull of disgust. He'd killed before, but never like this. When he'd squeezed his trigger, it had been in the throes of battle or in self-defense.

  Kent's vicious need for bloodshed and his complete disregard for human life were difficult things to get used to. All waste was.

  But perhaps that was a good thing. Will knew he would be a far different man if he were able to comprehend killing for pleasure.

  Russell, the newest member of their crew, scurried up beside him. "Want me to do this for ya, Will?" he asked in his usual youthful eagerness. "I don't mind."

  Though a part of him would have liked to push the duty off his shoulders, Will shook his head. Any weakness on his part would be seen as a liability, and he couldn't afford that.

  Besides, Walton had told him to take care of the body, and he'd question any deviation from his directives. "I've got it," he said, giving the dead man another tug. Ultimately, he wrapped his arms around the man's midsection and hoisted him out to the train car's opening. For his efforts, more blood seeped onto Will's midsection, defiling his broadcloth.

  And ruining the very last of his patience.

  Taking care to keep his expression impassive, he tugged again, continuing forward to the empty train car. There, he would store the body. Every man had the right to a decent burial. Eventually.

  With care, he laid the man down against the far wall, where he'd be out of the way. In the silence and privacy of the car, he closed his eyes and said a quick prayer over the body.

  Just as Will was pulling a fresh shirt from his bag, Russell rushed forward, all five feet four inches of him, full of questions. "You're changing? Again?"

  "Shirt's ruined," he said as he pulled the stained shirt down his arms. Unlike many of the men in his company, he wore no thermal wear under his shirt, preferring to keep his body free and loose.

  For a brief moment, Russell's eyes found the four-inch jagged scar that ran across the left side of Will's chest. They then darted to the circular mark marring his hip, and the many other scratches and scars decorating his torso.

  Will didn't shrink away from the boy's gaze. His body had been abused during the war and had been wounded too many times to count ever since. He was an ugly mess now—something no woman would ever find attractive.

  But he was better off than the man lying at his feet, so that was something, he supposed.

  When Will stared right back, Russell quickly turned to the slain hostage. "Will, how come you didn't toss him out? Boss was expectin' that."

  Unwilling to give his reasons, Will shrugged. "Boss asked me to remove the body. I did."

  "But—"

  "We can't just go around tossing dead people off of trains," he said sharply as he quickly buttoned his broadcloth and tucked it in. "It will just get the law riled up." It was also just plain wrong, Will knew, but he refrained from saying that because his faith was his business and no one else's.

  In addition, Russell was too young and naive to contemplate so many shades of gray. Shoot, even Will wasn't sure what was right or wrong sometimes.

  Anxious to move on, Will asked, "Now what's going on with the hostages?"

  "Oh, they're still just sittin' there on the floor." Russell chuckled. "After Kent killed this man and Boss told them who we were, they look a whole lot less ornery."

  Will hoped so. The longer they stayed seated and quiet, the better chance they had of living. "And the woman?"

  "She's sittin' on one of the seats. Scout's watching her."

  Will heaved a sigh of relief. He trusted Scout Proffitt. If he was watching the lady, she would have a chance to leave the train with her virtue intact. "Those men, they're going to need water soon."

  Russell screwed up his forehead. "Boss won't care about those men getting thirsty, Will."

  "It's good business. If they're watered, they'll be easier to manage. Go get them some. And see if you can find something decent for the lady to drink out of. She's gently bred."

  Russell's brows lowered, along with is voice. "I don't cotton with getting a woman involved. It don't seem right. She looks like she could be somebody's sister. Or sweetheart."

  Their hostage did look like all those things, and more. With her golden hair and light brown wide-set eyes, she looked like an angel.

  And her skin . . . Will's fingers had brushed against her throat when he'd unfastene
d the top button of her dress. It had felt soft and supple. Clean and smooth. Too fine for a man like him to touch.

  "She's dressed in all black, too," Russell added, just as if Will wouldn't have noticed her form-fitting black taffeta. "She must be grieving for somebody."

  Will was sure she was. Unbidden, a memory of his mother wearing black for his father surfaced. The harsh hue had drained the last of the color from her skin, making her seem even more delicate than usual. "Most people are mourning someone right now. Life hasn't been easy for some time," he said more sharply than he intended.

  Russell nodded automatically, then looked toward him and paused, chewing on his bottom lip. "That woman—she looks real scared, Will."

  For a moment, Will contemplated painting things just a little bit rosy. After all, Russell was young. Barely seventeen. Too young to be with the likes of them.

  Or perhaps not. Will knew Russell had killed a man for attacking his sister, and would kill again if asked to.

  "She'd be a fool not to be scared."

  Russell paused, then blurted, "I think Kent wants her. He keeps looking at her like she's a treat."

  Will started. The idea of Kent ever touching that girl's skin, ever hurting the woman, made his skin crawl. "He won't touch her. Not if he wants to live."

  Pure relief entered Russell's eyes. "You'll make sure of it? Hurting men is one thing, but a woman like that . . ." His voice drifted off, obviously fearing he'd said too much.

  Will was tempted to berate Russell. It was expected, after all. There was no room in the Walton Gang for soft hearts or tender emotions. But for the life of him, he couldn't do it.

  Russell's worries echoed his own, and his vulnerability made Will recall other days, days when things like futures were important.

  "I'll make sure Kent doesn't touch her. I agree with you. A woman like that shouldn't be defiled like this."

  Russell said nothing more, but visible relief flowed through the boy.

  Will turned away so he wouldn't have to give any more promises he didn't believe. Without another word, he returned to the hostages. As third in command, it was his job to make sure orders were obeyed and Walton's almighty directives were followed. He'd played the enforcer time and again with ease— never regretting the force he'd had to use. Over time, he'd even begun to expect to use his muscle to bend people to his bidding. He never looked back, either.

  He was still standing—unlike many of the poor souls who'd lost their lives during the war. Actually, he figured he'd lived too long to have regrets.

  But the sight that greeted him made his heart threaten to stop. Instead of sitting under Scout's watchful eye, Kent had his arms wrapped around the woman and her cheek was bruised and swollen. He was laughing as he was obviously trying to claim a kiss.

  The five remaining hostages looked on with various shades of pity and distaste. Manny, the only other Walton Gang member present, was leaning against the wall, watching with a glazed expression.

  When she pulled away from him again, Kent cursed and slapped her hard.

  Anger coursed through Will as he watched her head snap back. Striding close, he grabbed Kent by the shoulder and pulled him away. "Enough."

  Kent stilled under his grip, true wariness in his eyes. "Hell, no. She's mine, McMillan. This ain't no concern of yours."

  It took everything he had not to pull out his knife and slice Kent's throat. But it wasn't his place to discipline the man. Besides, no matter how much he disliked the things Kent did, the job he was hired to do was more important.

  Instead, he grabbed Kent's collar and shoved him hard. Finally free, the woman half fell, half scrambled back to the bench.

  Once he was assured she was settled, Will turned to the outlaw. "If you touch her again I will kill you," he promised. "Right here. Right now." To his shame, he almost hoped for the opportunity. Kent was pure evil, and it chafed Will to be in his company.

  "Now you've decided to stop playing?" Kent said, his voice full of bravado as he used the name they'd all given him on account of his quiet nature and quieter ways.

  Will had never liked the moniker. He thought it disrespectful to men of the cloth—because he was as far from a good man as he could likely get. "Don't call me that."

  When he fingered the Colt at his side, Kent's face paled.

  Behind them, the woman was crying. He heard her quiet attempts to stifle herself, and those attempts nearly broke his heart. And made his temper flare. His job was hard enough without having a woman involved—why the heck hadn't Walton let her leave?

  As the tension in the compartment thickened, Kent finally stepped back.

  "Will? Will, what do you want me to do?" Russell asked from the doorway. "Do you still want them watered?"

  Still keeping his eyes on Kent, Will nodded. "Yeah."

  "And the woman?"

  Will hesitated, then relaxed when he saw Scout join them. "I'll take her into the next car and get her something myself."

  Russell's eyebrows rose, but thankfully he didn't argue. From his position by the window Kent cussed under his breath, then stilled when Will eyed him.

  Scout, looking as unruffled as ever, crossed his arms over his chest. "Go on and take her out of here. I've got everything under control."

  Will nodded then approached the girl. To his dismay, she flinched when he was in striking distance. "Easy now," he murmured. "I won't hurt you."

  He waited a moment, then motioned her to her feet. "Let's go now."

  As silent tears continued to fall, the girl stared at him in dismay.

  Behind him, he heard Scout clear his throat. Will couldn't guess if it was from impatience or if he, too, had been struck by the sight of an innocent woman in need. But he did know that some things needed to be done. Needed to be done, no matter how hard they were or how badly they hurt.

  Waiting and worrying didn't make things easier.

  "Come on now," he coaxed, keeping his voice easy and gentle. "Get to your feet and step forward. That's all you can do."

  Little by little she scooted forward, then at last got to her feet. Gripping the woman's elbow, Will guided her away in a mockery of manners. He kept her close by his side as he guided her away from Kent, past Scout's watchful eyes, and beyond the line of men who were their hostages. Beside him, the woman stepped quietly but with clumsy, heavy steps. Obviously, she was in shock.

  When she stumbled, her breath catching as she continued to cry and struggled to breathe, once again fighting the constraints of her corset, Will gave in to his impulses and picked her up. Holding her with one arm under her knees and another around her shoulders, he pulled her close. After what seemed like forever, she relaxed. Suddenly, she was light and feminine in his arms, her skin and muscles soft and pliable against his own.

  She smelled like a lady. Smelled like fresh spring and hope and everything he used to dream of having, before the war had broken his character and the choices he had made removed any other options.

  Too afraid he was going to say something he'd regret, Will kept his mouth shut and strode forward. Before he went through the passageway, he paused, then took care to flatten her skirts before stepping through. She had to shift slightly as he did, pressing against him for the space of five seconds. Long enough for him to imagine that she was his, that he was holding a woman for another reason other than taking her hostage.

  Once they arrived in the next compartment, he loosened his hold, afraid to scare her any more than he already had. Tremors coursed through the girl's body but she stayed silent, too.

  For a brief moment, Will thought about saying something to reassure her—but all told, there was truly nothing to say. Nothing of worth. Nothing she'd believe, anyway.

  Only when he pulled the compartment latch closed behind him did he put her down, his knees bending slightly as he carefully set her feet on the floor.

  Yet still, she wobbled. Unable to help himself, he kept an arm around her slim shoulders to help her get her bearings.

/>   But instead of leaning toward his touch, she stiffened. Reminding Will that he was nothing to her except a source of terror.

  Berating himself, Will took two steps backward.

  There was a new sense of fear emanating from her, and Will cursed Kent for that. The Walton Gang was a group of murderers and thieves—but they didn't prey on women. Until her.

  She still looked so lost, so—a chill coursed through him. Had Kent done something more than grab her? Will tried to recall just exactly how long he'd been in the other train car with the hostage's body.

  "Miss?" he asked roughly. "Miss, are you all right?"

  Turning to him, she blinked. And he cursed his mouth. Of course, she wasn't all right. How could she be? When she swayed, he stepped forward, intending to catch her.

  Well, in truth, to try and comfort her, as crazy as that was.

  But as if the thought of his touch was too much to bear, she jerked.

  He stilled.

  Then watched as she trembled, then finally sank to her knees like a stack of cards.

  Shaking violently, she curled into a ball, finally giving in to violent tremors and deep, heartbreaking sobs.

  Will started to kneel at her side, tempted to reassure her. Tell her that he would protect her virtue. Promise her that he would never touch her. That she'd be almost safe.

  But since those assurances felt so wrong, he did the only thing he could. He reached into his back pocket, pulled out a worn bandanna, and tossed it on her lap. Finally, he turned away and let her cry in relative privacy. That, he supposed, was the least he could do.

  3

  After too long, the tears finally stopped coming. Jamie swiped her eyes with the side of her hand, wincing as she touched her swollen cheek. Finally, she sat up, staring across the compartment at her captor.

  The man stood with his back to her. As tall and stoic as a redwood. Just as unbending.

  Hesitantly, she picked up his discarded handkerchief. Too distraught to care if it was dirty or clean, she dabbed her face and got to her feet. All right then. She'd had her moment of hysterics. It was time to gather her courage and move forward. Whatever the man did to her, she would endure.