With an economy of motion, Will saddled the gelding, an easygoing quarter horse with a lightning stripe along its throat, lifted her into the saddle, then clicked her into motion.
Jamie held on to his waist, giving into temptation and resting her forehead against the hard planes of his back. She closed her eyes as they picked up speed and headed toward the eastern horizon.
Only hours later did she stop to realize that never once had Will asked for prayers for himself. When he turned slightly, clearly checking on her welfare, she asked him about that.
He blinked and replied without a flicker of embarrassment. "I don't deserve prayers."
"Of course . . . I mean, we all do."
"Not me. I haven't deserved them for some time."
When he faced forward, she knew better than to refute him.
Besides, she was having too hard of a time coming to terms with the fact that all of a sudden she didn't think he was all bad—even though he was an outlaw and killed and robbed for a living.
Obviously, she'd begun to change.
It fairly broke her heart.
19
Kitty was trying the very last of Scout's patience—and he hadn't been gifted with a lot of it to begin with.
Fact was, he didn't like being around the girl all that much. Not because she was difficult—shoot, she wasn't demanding at all. What he found disturbing was how she was too easy to be with. Actually, she kept to herself and was so quiet that sometimes he felt like blinking a few times just to make sure she was real and not something he'd dreamed up in the middle of a whiskey fog.
But she was definitely real. And unquestionably different. Indeed, she was like no woman he'd ever encountered before. And those differences were setting his teeth on edge. And for all the wrong reasons too. Kitty didn't chatter incessantly. She didn't ask questions.
She didn't flirt with him, need to constantly go to the bathroom, or complain about the lack of food in his trail bag.
In short, she didn't ask for much, and didn't expect much either. It seemed that if he wasn't molesting her, she reckoned her life was good.
He found her attitude to be fairly disturbing.
After all, from the time he'd set out on his own, just about everyone and their brother had wanted something from him. Most hadn't been afraid to use coercion, pain, or blackmail to make sure they got it, either. After a time, he'd learned not to take things personally. It was just how things were. People wanted what they wanted and were willing to do whatever it took to get it. He certainly had done that a time or two.
In contrast, Kitty's lack of motivation in that direction was slowly driving him crazy. At least, she had last night.
After riding all night, he'd picked an abandoned shack for them to sleep in. He'd stood at the entrance, waiting for her to complain. She didn't.
When they'd entered and the dank smell of mold and mildew and the previous occupants infused the air, he waited for her to wrinkle her nose. She said nothing.
Instead, after cautiously looking his way, she'd stood stockstill while he spread out the dirt and attempted to smooth it. When he lay on the ground, offering no excuses for the hard surface, she lay down beside him without even a moment's hesitation. In fact, the only clue that she was at all at odds with the situation was that her body was tense. At the ready.
And that's when he'd realized that she'd expected him to hurt her. Even though he definitely remembered telling her that he wouldn't.
She'd looked surprised as all get out when she'd woken up beside him, obviously having gotten more sleep than she was accustomed to.
Which made him mad. And because he wasn't all that good of a man, he'd snapped at her. "What has your life been like, girl?"
Instead of crying, she'd simply stared right back. "How do you think it's been, Mr. Proffitt? You know why I found you."
Her no-nonsense way of speaking embarrassed him mightily. "I'm talking 'bout other things."
Crossing her arms over her chest, she lifted her chin. "Such as?"
"What happened to your ma?"
"She took off during the war."
"How old?" She flinched, and he felt bad about that, but he had to know.
"Six."
Though he'd seen more bad than most, he still had been struck cold. "She left you with that poor example of a man?"
"You know the answer already, don't you think?"
Her voice was as empty of emotion as his was when he was about to make a kill. He'd been tempted to imagine she was devoid of emotion, until her eyes betrayed her. Or maybe it was like looking into his mirror image. Hopelessness emanated from her.
And it broke his heart just a little. Even he hadn't been so worn down at her age.
Finally, he answered. "I know the answer . . . but I still have to say that I think it's a crying shame."
She bit her bottom lip and looked away.
"Kitty, what made you come up to me? What finally happened that made you think you'd had enough?"
With a sigh, she replied, "It wasn't what had happened to me. The other night was no worse than any other."
"Then what?"
"It was your hands."
He spread out all ten fingers in front of himself and examined them. "What did you see?"
"Your hands are clean. Your nails are short. My stepfather's hands are never that way. When he touches me, he makes me feel dirty. Marked." Looking away again, she added, "Sometimes I was sure I'd never be clean again."
He swallowed as what she was saying hit him hard. She hadn't hoped for her life to be better with him. She'd simply hoped it wouldn't be so bad. "You thought my hands would be cleaner when they touched you."
"Yes." She looked at him steadily then got to her feet. Without a lick of modesty, she straightened her dress, attempting to shake out some of the wrinkles as she did so. Of course, it was a hopeless task. Only a Chinese launderer was going to be able to make that dress clean again, though it would be easier to throw it out and get something fresh.
"I'm not going to touch you," he said.
"Because you think I'm ugly?"
"You're pretty, Kitty," he replied, not because it was true, but because it was how she could be one day. "I'm not going to touch you because that's not who I am." As his words echoed in their ratty enclosure, he had the grace to be embarrassed. Sure, he'd killed and cajoled and maimed people. He'd even accept money for it. But raping and pillaging? He hadn't crossed that line—at least not yet.
"I'm bad, but that's not all I am," he said finally. "All I aim to do is get you somewhere better than you've been, that's all. Once I do, I'm going to leave you and let you live your life."
Kitty stepped forward and spoke in that frank, no-nonsense way he was beginning to associate with her. "Mr. Proffitt, we may be sleeping on a dirt floor and freezing our tails off, but I can assure you that this is already better. It's already much better." She turned away then and started brushing out her hair.
For a moment he was tempted to ask her what had been done to her. What, exactly, she'd endured. Then he would have a reason to backtrack and kill her stepfather. Maybe, just once, he'd be thankful for his ability to kill.
But he didn't ask a thing. Her problems weren't his business. Besides, no one liked to discuss their bad stuff. And everyone had it. Everyone.
Feeling too close to her, too tempted to bridge the gap between them—and they had no business bridging things— he stood and straightened. There was nowhere to go, but he thought he'd at least give her some space.
But just before he moved away, to give them both more space, more privacy, though there really wasn't any to be had, he heard the rest of what she had to say. "Sometimes, in the middle of the night, I get to thinking that I'm not all bad either. Do you think that's okay?"
After a moment's reflection, he replied, "I think that's the truth. God gives every one of us gifts. All a person has to do is use them."
"And you think I have some of those gifts?"
"I know you do."
She looked at him steadily, truly looking like she was weighing the pros and cons of his words, then shrugged. "I can't think of anything I have that's still decent. I'm afraid your God's going to take one look at me when I show up in heaven and point me someplace else."
His heart clenched. For a moment, he paused. It took everything he had not to walk those three paces, turn her in his arms, and hold her close. Just to give her comfort. As a brother would. As a father would hold a child.
But she didn't know what a comforting touch was like. So he strode away, choosing to concentrate on what an unexpected difficulty she was in his life. That was easier than recalling that it had been a very long time since he'd felt the quiet comfort of another person's arms.
"Mr. McMillan?" Jamilyn said into the middle of his back.
Her hands were resting lightly on his waist as the surprisingly steady gelding continued his journey underneath them.
But though her touch was familiar, her use of his name still grated like gravel on bare feet. "My name is Will. I told you, honey, my name is Will."
She didn't listen, or else she was just as stubborn as he'd been guessing she was.
"Mr. McMillan?" she said again, leaning closer to his back. So much so that if Will closed his eyes he was sure he could feel her warm breath coaxing its way through all the layers of his clothes.
"Hmm?"
"Well, I hate to ask you this, but why did you take me off the train?" Will felt himself stiffen, and he felt her body notice it. "Forgive me," she said quickly, her voice a little louder, a little farther away. "Forget I asked. It's none of my business."
Though he ached not to tell her anything that was in his mind, he knew that wasn't right. She deserved to know.
Of course, he'd thought his reasons would have been evident. So, because it was her business, and it was painfully obvious too, he said, "You were going to be killed. Or, uh, worse."
"Oh, I know that. I knew from the moment Kent grabbed my upper arm and placed that gun to my head that I was either going to be injured, violated, or flat-out killed. I didn't expect to survive. Not really."
"I wasn't going to let that happen."
"That's what I mean. What I'm asking is, why did you get involved? You're going to get in trouble for taking me, aren't you?"
He was going to get killed—after a long and personal relationship with Scout Proffitt's knife. Or, more likely, perhaps a bullet from Scout's infamous pearl-handled Colt.
"Mr. McMillan?"
Her questions—mixed with her formality—were trying his patience. "Jamie, why the heck won't you call me by my first name?"
"I can't. I know you want me to, but I can't do that. I'm sorry, but I just can't."
He closed his eyes briefly, remembering again that to her, he was an outlaw.
"So, will you get in trouble?"
"Yes." He looked out over the plains, toward the west, and gazeded at the majestic mountain chain sprouting up out of the snow in the far distance. The land looked so clean and pristine. With some surprise, he realized any number of men who he'd served with were probably only a day's ride from where they were.
For a moment he imagined taking Jamie to one of their homes. Instinctively, he knew most of them would welcome her with smiles and open arms. Even though he hadn't seen any of them in years—and certainly none of them since he'd taken up undercover work—that was the kind of bond they had. They'd fought side by side and had starved together. They'd buried good men in their company, and women and children who'd gotten lost in the war's path. They were full of an immense ability for forgiveness.
But after the first moments of reuniting, they would realize what he'd become, or at least what they'd thought he'd become. A man like Major Merritt probably wouldn't be feeling as welcoming then. No, he would lay those cool gray eyes of his over Will, over Jamie, and assume the worst.
And because he was unable to remove his alias, he would have to let Merritt believe that.
Jamie shifted behind him. Her hands at his waist relaxed a bit. Though he couldn't see her, he knew she was disappointed and frustrated by his lack of conversation. Feeling like the words were being pushed out of him by someone else, he spoke. "Jamie, you needed to be saved . . . and I was ready to leave. You were a good excuse."
"Ready to leave the Walton Gang?"
He couldn't help smiling as he heard the complete surprise in her tone. "Yep."
"Why?"
Why? Well, the right answer was to tell her that he'd never really been a robber or a true member of the gang. That he now had more than enough evidence to testify against James Walton and make sure he was hanged.
But their future was still too uncertain for complete honesty.
Or maybe honesty had been vacant from his life for so long that he hardly remembered what it felt like.
"I wasn't born robbing trains, you know. I served honorably in the war."
"And then we lost."
Her voice sounded bittersweet, as if it were filled with things that might have happened if fate had intended them to be different. "And then we did," he agreed. The simple explanation told nothing, yet summed up just about everything, too.
"What did you do in the war?"
For a moment he was tempted to dodge the question. Though he knew of some men who never failed to bring up stories about those hard, lean years, he'd never been one of them. But perhaps she'd seen enough bad in her life not to be surprised that his memories were full of bad things, too. "At first, I was what any man was—nothing. Just a greenhorn soldier. But later, I was an officer. I was good at leading people. I became a captain. In Texas."
"That was your rank. What did you do?"
"What do you think? I killed Yankees," he blurted. "Tried to, anyway." Before she could blast him again with her need for more information, he continued. "I rode with John Merritt. He was bear of a man. Ended up marrying a woman real near here. We were stationed in Texas. Fought a lot near Galveston and on the Louisiana border." Even as he named the places, he felt the blistering ache of remembrance. Their time in Galveston had been especially filled with pain.
"I guess you saw a lot of action?"
"Action? You mean fighting?" Was that what it was called nowadays? "We saw a lot of Yankees wanting to put us in our place. We did our best not to make things too easy on them."
"Did you have a horse?"
Will wondered if she really cared or just liked him to be talking so they wouldn't be alone with the silence. "I did. She was a beauty. Black. And as brave as any man I've known."
"Perhaps that gave you some comfort?"
Who asked such things? No one in his life cared about sweet things like comfort and feelings. But obviously Jamie had learned those things somewhere. He wasn't even sure how to respond to it. There had been too few females in his life. And most of the ones he'd encountered weren't fit for company. "I liked the horse," he said shortly.
Again, like she was tethered to him, he felt her disappointment.
And his respect for her continued to grow. Jamie was lovely, and she had a spirit and a fire that was admirable.
And he thought about who he was taking her to—to a man who'd dodged battles and who communicated through old women. "Why would a woman like you be willing to marry a man you haven't seen? Don't you reckon you deserve better?"
"Because this woman wants to make even a few dreams happen—even if what happens isn't quite as sweet as the dreams."
"And those dreams involve marriage?"
"Marriage and children. I want to raise a family." Her voice turning wistful, she continued, "One day, I want to do something of worth. More than simply surviving. Somehow that doesn't seem enough anymore."
Her words struck a chord with him. For the last ten years, surviving had been more than enough. It had been all he'd asked for. But now, he figured she had a point. Perhaps it would be better to have other goals than simply living. "Maybe one day I'll have another dream too."
/>
"You don't have one now?"
"Other than seeing you safely to Kansas City? No. But that's enough. The journey's going to be hard enough, I reckon."
She sighed against him. As she did so, he felt her soft curves against his spine. He imagined what it would be like to be the man who had the right to hold her for real.
Imagined what that fool in Kansas was going to do with a woman like Jamie. Did he even realize how lucky he was? To have a woman who wasn't afraid? Who was willing to ride across the plains with a known outlaw in order to get to him?
He doubted it. Few men were aware of the extent a woman would go to protect what was right.
As she leaned closer and her body loosened up even more, Will realized she was falling asleep. She was trusting him enough to rest.
That made him feel good. Which, of course, made him feel all twisted inside.
After all, she was promised to another, was afraid of him, and only looked at him as something to endure.
He was slowly falling in love. Which was a terrible thing, considering he'd most likely be dead very soon.
20
Rider coming," Will stated. Just as calmly as if he were commenting on the weather.
Jamie started, almost losing her balance. Immediately, his hand snaked out behind him, grasping her thigh hard. His touch made her jump.
"Easy now," he said, his voice deeper and slightly more raspy than usual. "Settle yourself. I can't help you if you go falling off the horse."
Even though she didn't think she had any more fortitude inside of her, she did her best to pull herself together. "I'm not going to fall off the horse. I'm made of sterner stuff than you give me credit for, Will."
"Listen to you."
"What?"
"Finally, you called me Will. I have to tell you I never thought I'd hear my first name on your lips."
His voice had a smile to it. "Well . . . never's a long time," she quipped.
"So they say."
She gazed out into the distance. At first, she didn't see anything, but then, flickering in and out of the shadows, filtering in, mixing with the dark shadows of the coming night, she saw a faint cloud of dust. Little by little, the information registered. "That's more than one horse."
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