A Texan’s Honor

by Gray, Shelley

  And with that, he turned away, leaving her staring and out of breath and without of a single word available in her mind.

  It seemed Will McMillan had affected her more than either had imagined.

  And neither of them had any idea of what to do about it.

  23

  It hadn't taken Scout long to figure out that he'd made a giant mistake when he'd elected to save Kitty from herself. That big revelation had happened sometime during the middle of their first night together. He'd heard a furtive shifting, had opened one eye and felt for his gun, and then realized the girl had gotten up on her feet and was staring out the window.

  She'd must have been as aware of him as he'd been of her, because she'd turned and looked directly at him. Obviously, she'd been ready for him to yell at her.

  Or maybe something worse.

  He'd ended up softening his voice and had attempted to calm her down.

  Neither were things he'd had much experience with.

  Now, here they were, heading toward nowhere because he was supposed to be looking for Will McMillan and a woman he hoped he would never see again.

  Time was running out. He needed to do something—and soon. One didn't just leave James Walton hanging.

  Especially not if you were Scout Proffitt.

  "Mr. Proffitt?" Kitty asked that evening as they were camped out in front of a pitiful excuse for a fire, trying to get warm and not having all that much success.

  "What?"

  "Do you ever recall making the wrong choice?" she asked, her voice high-pitched and eager.

  "I don't know what you're talkin' about."

  "Really?" She leveled her gaze on him. "You never had a choice between two evils and you chose the wrong one?"

  Instead of examining his past—which he had no intention of ever doing—he countered with a question of his own. "If there're two evils, it's not a matter of making the right choice. Right? They're both wrong."

  "No." She tilted her head to one side, looking impossibly young. "Once, I had a choice between lying or stealing. Both were wrong, but I had to choose one."

  "And why was that?" Against his will, he leaned forward a bit. Just in case he was really interested.

  "Well, my sister and me had no food and she was hungry. So I went to the mercantile and pretended I was shopping. Then, when no one was looking, I stole some eggs."

  Kitty might as well have been talking in Portuguese. "Eggs?"

  "Melissa liked eggs something awful."

  "Well, don't keep me in suspense, girl. What happened? You get caught?"

  "Nope."

  "So you cooked her up some eggs?"

  "No." She looked at her fingernails. "I was in such a hurry to get out of there and get on home that I broke two of them on the way back."

  Imagining how she must have felt, a wide variety of expletives came to mind. Mindful of her age, he tempered his reaction. "Shoot."

  She nodded. "Turned out, it didn't matter anyway."

  "And why was that?"

  "'Cause Melissa was dead."

  The stark news hit him like a wet slap. Unable to stop himself this time, he cursed. When Kitty flinched, he felt his cheeks heat and apologized. "Sorry."

  "Oh, it's fine." She chewed on her bottom lip for a second. "I mean, don't worry about it. Ain't nothing I haven't heard before."

  "Why did you tell me that story?" Personally, he'd found it more than a little disconcerting. After all, he hadn't given her any sign that he wanted to hear about her bad stuff.

  'Cause he sure wasn't going to start sharing his regrets.

  "I only meant to tell you in case, you know, you were regretting taking me on."

  "I don't follow."

  "I just mean . . ." she shrugged weakly. "I think I was one of your bad ideas. And if I was, well, I don't want ya to feel obligated to stay with me."

  "What? You think I'm just gonna up and leave you somewhere?" He looked around at their makeshift camp in the middle of nowhere. "Here?"

  "Maybe. I mean, you're Scout Proffitt. You've probably got a lot of other things to do than help me out."

  "What do you think I do all day? Just sit around and shoot people?"

  "The newspapers make it sound like that's all you do." She eyed him warily. "They make it sound like it keeps you real busy."

  "I do other things besides commit murder." Because she was looking at him with such interest, he tried to think of something to tell her that was even halfway true. He was so tired of lying. "I eat."

  The minutes passed between them, and Kitty stared at his face. He felt like a fool again. That's right. He killed and ate.

  What a prize he was.

  And then, to his surprise, she chuckled. "Oh, Mr. Proffitt. You make me laugh; you surely do."

  Before he knew it, Scout started to smile, not even sure why he was doing so. Inside of him, a certain warmth filtered, mending lesions he hadn't even known existed.

  Making him feel almost human. Almost decent.

  "We should finish setting up camp," he said.

  "You're going to keep me a little longer?"

  "Yep. Don't fret, Kitty. Maybe I even rest sometimes too."

  "Everyone needs to rest sometimes, don'tcha think?"

  He didn't know. All he did know was that he was more content than he could ever remember being in his whole life.

  And contentment was surely not something he'd ever had much experience with. Taking a chance, he tried it on for size.

  To his surprise, it almost felt good.

  After four days of traveling together, Jamie found she and Will had settled into a routine of sorts. First thing in the morning, Will would bank their fire and if possible scout the premises. Once, they'd camped right next to a creek, which had allowed Jamie to wash her hands and face.

  While Will did those things, it was Jamie's job to gather their things together and see to the horse. She would never come close to being as efficient as Will was, but she liked to think that her efforts weren't completely hindering him.

  And though he hadn't come close to complimenting her, she'd caught a flash of amusement in his eyes every now and then like she'd maybe been able to surprise him.

  Jamie certainly hoped she had, because she sure was finding herself shocked by Will. Ever since he'd told her the truth about his identity, she'd gone between feeling profound relief and feeling anger. None of it made sense.

  She was still struggling with the fact that she didn't feel all that much better in the company of Will McMillan, U.S. Marshal, than she did with Will McMillan, notorious outlaw.

  In fact, if she were being completely honest with herself, she would have to say that she was having a bit of trouble coming to terms with the idea that Will was an expert in subterfuge. She'd been somewhat relieved to think that he was no more or no less than what he was.

  Just as she.

  "Jamie, is the horse ready to go?" Will asked as he approached, rifle in his hand.

  "I believe so."

  His eyes smiled. "I walked over to the top of that crest and spied a town. Looks like we're near civilization after all."

  "What does that mean?" Oh, please don't let it mean that they were going to part ways already.

  "It means maybe we'll get lucky and find a room tonight."

  "But not a Marshal's office?"

  He took a long look at her before shaking his head. "I'm sorry, no. I've been so entrenched in the gang, the only man I report to is in St. Louis."

  "And that's a ways away."

  "It is. But don't fret. I won't harm you."

  He said that all the time. As if being harmed was the worst thing that could happen to her.

  No, the worst thing would be to be abandoned. Again.

  24

  Will knew the room he'd found for them was nothing special. Actually, it was barely a step above a boarding house. But he'd stayed there from time to time and knew the owner was a circumspect man. Calvin Hollis wasn't going to talk to anyone about
who was staying there. Ever.

  His business depended on it.

  With Jamie safely tucked in the room, Will paused outside the manager's office. Once again, he weighed his choices back and forth. It was obvious that he needed help, and it was obvious that he had few people to ask.

  He needed the strength and support of men he could trust. More important, Jamie did. No way was he going to save her from the Walton Gang just to have her get injured or ravished at the hands of some renegade.

  It was time to trust the man a little more, even though doing so was likely going to be the biggest mistake of his life.

  But it seemed he had no choice. He needed an ally, and that meant he needed to contact his boss. Making the decision, he rapped on the man's door.

  It flew open almost immediately. "Yeah?"

  Will noticed the man looked to be nursing a glass of bourbon, and had been for some time. "You sober?"

  "Sober enough." Staring at Will curiously, he said, "Need anything?" He asked surely out of habit and not because he actually intended to do anything for Will or make any changes.

  Will wouldn't have expected anything less. Calvin Hollis wasn't known for hospitality; he was known for discretion. It usually worked out well for most of the inn's guests. People stayed there not because they wanted service but because they wanted to be left alone.

  "Hollis, I need to send a telegram."

  "When?"

  "Soon. Now."

  Calvin's eyes narrowed. "You know I don't have no telegraph machine in here. But I can show you where the office is. If you need me to," he added grudgingly.

  Will almost smiled. He did so enjoy the innkeeper's lazy nature. "I can't be seen. I need you to go there for me."

  Calvin stared at him hard, then threw the last of the bourbon down his throat. "I don't believe in doing favors."

  "I know." Rolling off a few bills, he set them on the counter. "However, I also know that you like to eat." He paused. "And drink. I can make it worth your while."

  Calvin eyed the bills for a good long time before flickering his gaze back to Will. Out of habit, he picked up the glass, then stared at it in confusion when he saw it was empty.

  He stared at the bills again. "Just the telegram?"

  Will nodded.

  "All right. Tell me what you need."

  Looking around, Will grabbed a pen and an envelope and plainly printed his message. Then, he handed it over.

  Calvin gripped it hard and read it aloud. "Mission broken. Stop. Meeting requested. Stop. Dodge City. Stop." Raising his eyes to Will's, he said, "This it?"

  "Yes."

  "We're not going to be making a habit of this, are we?"

  "No."

  "If you don't hear from me, it went off without a hitch."

  "I'm paying you enough for there to be no problems," Will said.

  Calvin Hollis grabbed his hat, stuffed it on his head, and left without looking back.

  That was just fine with Will. He didn't need the man's companionship, just his word.

  Once he saw that Hollis was definitely walking toward the telegraph office, Will left and headed back to the room. Knocking softly twice—his code for Jamie—he rolled back on his heels and waited.

  But she didn't open the door.

  A slow band of worry started to line his stomach and he cursed himself. He rapped the door again. Twice.

  Listened for some kind of response. Listened for her footsteps. Nothing.

  After looking right and left, and seeing the coast was clear, he leaned closer to the old wooden door. "Jamie? Open up."

  Nothing.

  Worry and doubt hit him hard. Had she skipped off while he was downstairs? Or worse, had someone taken her?

  A thousand scenarios hit him hard. Perhaps Kent or Scout had been following them and he'd been too focused on Jamie's needs to notice.

  Maybe she was in the room, bleeding. Hurt. Dead.

  He knocked again a little louder, cursing himself. Why hadn't he brought the key with him?

  He tried the door handle, jiggling it a few times on the off chance that the lock was so pitiful he could force it open. Of course, he had no luck. If there was one thing Calvin Hollis did well besides keep a secret, it was invest in decent locks.

  "Jamie?" he called out again, hating the idea that anyone nearby could hear her name but feeling like he had no choice. "Jamilyn?"

  Breaking the door down wasn't an option. Going downstairs and grabbing the key from Hollis was the only choice. Of course, that meant that Hollis would be coming upstairs too. No way was that man going to trust any guest in the place with the master keys.

  After halfheartedly rapping on the door one last time, he was just about to pivot and turn when he heard a shuffling on the other side. Then heard the lock slide to the right and saw the door handle turn.

  He pulled out his Colt. Cocked it and waited.

  The door opened.

  There was Jamie, hair down, skin pale, and sporting a glassy sheen in her eyes. "Will?" she asked. "Sorry, I didn't hear you. I was asleep."

  He ushered her in, his irritation sliding back quickly. Well, she had to be exhausted. "It's okay. I was just worried." Talk about an understatement!

  "I don't know what happened." She shook her head and winced. "I had the most horrible headache. Then I got so sleepy . . ." her voice drifted off.

  "I know you're tired. Why don't you go lie down again?"

  She stepped forward, then stumbled. He reached for her, wrapping a hand around her shoulders to steady her. Along the way, his knuckles brushed her cheek.

  And then he stilled.

  Things had just gone from bad to much, much worse.

  25

  There were a lot of things Scout Proffitt didn't believe in. He didn't believe in privilege, entitlement, or inheritance. By his way of thinking, nothing that you didn't have to sweat, bleed, or fight over was worth a plumb nickel.

  He didn't believe in being tired, and he didn't believe in being lazy. Scout had never met a lazy man he respected, and it stood to reason his opinion wasn't going to change anytime soon. Actually, he took real care to distance himself from men who shied away from breaking a sweat.

  Luckily, that wasn't a difficult thing to do. There were a lot of people who didn't mind working really hard at killing and thieving.

  But most of all, Scout didn't believe in fate. Too many bad things had happened in his life for him to want to accept that even a tiny portion had been meant to be—no matter what. Surely it hadn't been some kind of twisted divine decision that his being born had killed his momma?

  It would be a real disappointment to realize that he'd come into the world with a mess of misfortunes awaiting him.

  Scout figured God had given him a fine brain and had intended for him to put it to good use. Therefore, it was likely that most of his troubles had come from his own sorry decisions. Fact was, he didn't cotton to the idea of somebody benefitting from his misfortune.

  Which was why, now that he was sitting in front of a fire next to a sleeping beat-up girl named Kitty, things seemed terribly dismal indeed.

  The truth of the matter was that she was in poor shape, and he was too.

  Attempting to save a woman wasn't like him. Pitying her was a foreign emotion too. In his business—such as it was— feeling sorry for folk kind of went against his job description. He killed people. He didn't wonder about their feelings.

  But ever since he'd picked up Kitty, he'd found himself thinking about her, wishing he could make things better. And because he did, because he'd all of a sudden decided to have a momentary surge of weakness, he cursed his very bad decision.

  Though he wished he could have blamed it all on whiskey, he'd been in a sober state when he'd decided to save her. It didn't make sense, and now, as he sat next to the flames, he didn't understand how a hardworking, self-made, sorry nogood man like himself had managed to get saddled with a gal like her—a gal who kept looking at him like he was something specia
l. He wasn't anything close to being a hero. And he was nothing close to being the kind of man who women turned to for help, especially eighteen-year-old little things like the slip of a girl by his side.

  She was unlike the women he usually kept company with. And she was nothing like the women he'd ever dreamed of spending time with when he settled down. Well, if he got the chance to settle before he filled a pine coffin.

  Kitty had the kind of skinny figure most women would curse, and the kind of scars marring her skin that most people would cry themselves to sleep over.

  Never mind her hopeless home situation.

  But instead of letting her misfortune get her down, she'd been willing to seek help, ride nonstop, and do whatever it took to survive.

  Usually, Scout appreciated that kind of attitude. She would have been a good addition to the Walton Gang if she had been able to shoot a Winchester, had another hundred pounds on her frame, and, well, if she hadn't been a woman.

  As if she knew he was looking her way, she opened one sleepy eye. "What?" She muttered the word slightly slurred, dizzy with sleep.

  Against his will, a twinge of softness overcame him. "Nothing. I was just watching you sleep."

  Time drifted as she carefully shifted. Eventually, she propped herself up on her elbows. "How come? Do I snore or drool or something?"

  "Not that I'm aware of." He cleared his throat. Moved a couple of inches away from her. "Sorry I woke you. Go back to sleep."

  As if he'd actually given good advice, she lay back down. Breathed deeply. Flopped to her side.

  He relaxed—thinking maybe they were done talking— when she spoke again. "Mister? Why did you save me?"

  "I don't know."

  "You sure? I thought it was because, you know . . ." her voice drifted off, almost like she was embarrassed. But surely she'd lived through too much to feel shame.

  "I told you I wouldn't."

  "People lie."

  "That is true. But I didn't." He felt his cheeks heating. When had been the last time he'd spoken like that to anyone? Usually he didn't mind calling a spade a spade. He certainly never spoke in flowery language. Especially never so vaguely. Never with a woman.