A Texan’s Honor

by Gray, Shelley

  "Do you want me now?"

  He flinched. Honestly, why couldn't she just have stayed asleep?

  "Mr. Proffitt?" Her voice became bolder and so clear that if it was more than just air, she'd be able to bring forth all the stars in the sky. "Uh, Mr. Proffitt, do you want to lie with me now?"

  Well, at least one of them wasn't afraid to speak plainly. "I do not. You're too young and you've been through too much," he added quickly, before she could start asking that confounded "why" word again.

  Through veiled eyes, Scout watched the girl process that. His heart broke for her lack of innocence. Not just for hers, but maybe for the many girls like her—girls who didn't expect much from the world and had given up on even the idea of people looking out for them.

  Little by little, her body relaxed again. When it did, his settled too. He truly was starting to like her a whole lot better asleep.

  "If you don't want me, I don't know who will."

  Now he was the one who was tongue-tied. "You're finding fault because I don't want to lie with you? That's foolish."

  "My stepfather said that was all I was good for."

  "He was wrong." Aching for some help, he leaned to his side, dug into the bottom of his saddlebag, and pulled out a cheroot. After lighting the end, he inhaled deeply.

  Then glanced her way. Oh, heck. She was looking at him with those hound-dog eyes, silently asking for an explanation. "You're worth more than that," he finally added.

  "How can you be sure?"

  He didn't know. How did people know that they were destined for something good sometime in their life? That they were worth more than they'd been to led to believe at a young age? Gradually, a small, quiet voice filled his brain and reminded him of his own demons. Though most folk were sure his only worth was his trigger-happy hand, every so often he kind of hoped they were wrong.

  "I can't be sure about what your future holds, but I'm telling you, I have a good feeling about it," he said finally.

  She scoffed. "Feelings don't count."

  "They sure as heck do." At one time, he'd even believed that too. Scrambling for her sanity, and maybe for himself, he blurted, "Girl, haven't you ever heard of faith?"

  "Faith in what?"

  "Faith that there's something better around the corner than we know about. There's got to be. And that God is watching over us. Otherwise life is just too hard."

  Kitty was looking at him like he'd sprouted antlers and was fixin' to hightail it out of the wilderness. "Trust me on this," he said, though anyone who'd ever known him would bet their last dollar that he couldn't be trusted to hold onto his skin.

  "Listen, what you need to do is stop thinking. Stop thinking and let me do it. I'm obviously much better at thinking than you'll ever be."

  "Hey, now . . ." she sputtered.

  But he just kept going like he was a one-man locomotive. "Here's what we're gonna do: real soon, I'm going to find you a safe place."

  Even in the dim glow of the firelight, he could tell her expression was skeptical. "What kind of place is that?"

  "Somewhere good."

  "There ain't no place like that for me."

  "There is. There is, and I tell you, I'm gonna find it," he promised, making up lies just as fast as a carpetbagger in Atlanta. "I'm gonna find you a place where you can be happy."

  "I don't think I remember how to be happy," she whispered, as if she were revealing yet another flaw.

  "Yeah?" he asked, before he remembered to tell her not to think.

  Lowering her voice, she murmured, "Mr. Proffitt, for girls like me, happiness don't count for much. All that really counts is getting a meal in your belly and maybe being warm for a little bit. And while all that feels good, it doesn't solve much or change a thing. All it really does is make you numb for a little while."

  She was right, though he wasn't in any hurry to tell her. It felt too cruel. No one had room in their life for fools. Most folks understood that walking around like an advertisement for hope only made people want to stay clear of them.

  A spark flew up from the fire. Leaning forward, he grabbed a stick and poked at the embers. When the flames finally expanded, emanating a fresh burst of heat, he leaned back again. "Warm enough?" he asked.

  When she nodded, he poked the fire again. For a moment, he was happy just to be watching the sparks fly into the night air, looking almost like stars in the sky. The fire sent off the sweet smell of wood burning, hiding behind it the scent of freshness and home.

  "Kitty . . . how about this÷" he drawled. "How about I just find you someplace where you can be dry. And maybe eat, too? Maybe that way you'll be numb for a good long while."

  When she didn't reply, he shrugged.

  He supposed she thought he was teasing her, but he wasn't being flippant. There'd been more than one day when he'd ached to be a little numb. That was what bourbon was for, right?

  As the dancing flames warmed his neck and sent off more sparks, and the wind changed direction and the scent of smoke blew toward them again, he waited for her answer. "Kitty? What do you think?"

  Still no answer.

  Suspicious, he glanced her way, wondering what in the world was causing the cat to grab her tongue now.

  When one moment stretched to two, then three, he craned his neck a bit. Ah. She was asleep again. Her eyes were closed tight, her lips were pursed. Body tense.

  She was lost in the uneasy rest of the exhausted, but never the innocent.

  Or perhaps she was just a touch innocent still?

  And though he supposed Kitty would never believe it, Scout reckoned that was what the girl beside him was—innocent. In the way soldiers were. Or gamblers. Slaves. Prisoners. Unspoiled by goodness and tender care.

  Innocent to easy words and kindness. To gifts and prayer and love.

  Funny how he knew goodness existed—in spite of everything that he was and everything he'd done.

  Right then and there, he decided to find her at least a little bit of happiness. Because he was that kind of man. He wasn't lazy; he believed in sweat and hard work and tough decisions.

  He didn't believe in fate.

  No, he was the type of man to take the future in his hands, pull at it really hard, and then run with it just as long and fast as he could.

  26

  Try to drink this broth. Just a few sips. Come on now."

  Vaguely, Jamie was aware of Will's hand on her back and his voice in her ear, coaxing and pleading. But his presence next to her felt elusive. As though he were just on the other side of a fog bank and no matter how hard she tried, she wasn't going to be able to reach him.

  Maybe because of that, eating anything felt like too much of an effort. Speaking felt too hard as well.

  So she gave in to her body's wishes and simply shook her head.

  "No, Jamilyn," Will's voice replied, hard and uncompromising. "That paltry head shake of yours isn't good enough. Now open your mouth."

  There went his hand again, pressing at the back of her head. "Do it," he ordered.

  Warily, she opened her eyes.

  Those too-beautiful eyes warmed. "Ah. You are awake. Now be a good girl and open your mouth. You need to sip some broth."

  "Not hungry."

  "That doesn't matter. Open up."

  The order was so harsh she opened her mouth. But before she could change her mind, he stuck a spoon in. Straight away, hot beef broth slid past her tongue and slipped down her throat.

  With a cough, she closed her mouth and glared.

  But Will just shook his head. "You're not getting out of this, Jamilyn. Getting this broth from the cafe down the street was more trouble than I care to repeat. You're going to drink every bit of it if I have to force your mouth open. Now open those lips. Immediately."

  Stunned by his horrible words, she opened.

  He smiled and stuck that spoon in her mouth again.

  She'd never tell him, but this spoonful of warm broth felt easier going down. She opened her lips ag
ain.

  "Good girl," he murmured, sounding so sweet and gentle. She swallowed and let him continue.

  And so it went on for what seemed like forever. Open. Swallow. Coax. Again.

  At last, Will set the cup and spoon down and nodded. "You did good, Jamilyn. Real good. Now sit up for a second so I can help you with your hair."

  She couldn't fathom why he wanted to fuss with her hair. The offer felt strange and out of character. "My hair?"

  "Yeah, your hair." He frowned. "It's all stuck to your brow and neck."

  Automatically she pulled her hands up, trying to smooth the strands. But just as she brushed her cheek, Will's hand stopped her. "Stop now. Let me do that for you. Besides, I need to wash your face, too."

  There he went again, making a command that made no sense. "Why?" she muttered, her voice sounding more raspy than she'd ever imagined it could.

  "You've been sick for days, honey," he said as he dipped the corner of a kerchief into the basin against the far wall. "You had a fever 'cause you got Mrs. Clark's influenza."

  She understood being sick. And she understood the fever. But she didn't understand his need to help her. "No, why?" she asked, the words becoming easier—no doubt thanks to that broth he'd had to beg and borrow for. "Why would you want to help?"

  He tilted his head to one side like he couldn't quite understand what she meant. "Honey, are you asking me why I'd want to help you specifically?"

  When she nodded, he came forward with a damp cloth and sat right beside her again. After a pause, he gently swabbed her left cheek, his fingers trailing a moist path along her skin, the water cooling it for a brief moment before evaporating.

  She closed her eyes in relief.

  Will paused, dampened the cloth again, then brushed along her brow. Finally, he leaned a little closer in order to reach her other cheek. Then ran the cold cotton over her heated skin.

  When she opened her eyes, she met his gaze. His expression was touching. Worried.

  Yet he remained silent all the while.

  She'd just given up any hope of him answering her—not that his answer mattered—when he set the cloth down and leaned back. "How could I not help you?" he finally asked. "You need help. You're very ill."

  But being helped hadn't been her experience. Before, her parents had looked to her to be the caretaker. To be strong. Weakness wasn't seen as anything other than a reason to be pushed away.

  However, she was too embarrassed to say such a thing. It wasn't easy to admit to her failings.

  He spoke again. "Anyway, Jamilyn, it's my fault you're here. And it's my fault you got sick. If we hadn't stayed with the Clarks . . ." His voice drifted off as he shook his head. He was obviously biting his tongue so he wouldn't say anything more.

  She was flabbergasted. For him to think he'd brought her to danger instead of saving her life? That he found fault with rescuing her instead of leaving her to be manhandled and eventually shot by James Walton's gang?

  As she studied his posture and noticed that he was visibly trying hard to not meet her gaze, she knew she had to make things right. "This . . . this is not your fault, Will."

  "It is. It sure as heck is."

  "You saved me." Her throat was parched. In pain. Each word felt like it was being forced out a sieve, little by little.

  "I . . . could have done better." He swallowed hard. "Hush now."

  Obediently, she closed her mouth. Closed her eyes as well.

  Minutes passed as he set the bowl of water and the towel farther away. He shifted then finally propped his back against the headboard.

  She hoped he'd stay. Why, she didn't want to contemplate. He was nothing to her. She should fear him.

  But against all odds, and against everything that made sense, she ached for him to stay by her side. Please, she prayed to the Lord. Please let him keep near me. Just for a little while. The worst thing in the world would be to feel even more alone.

  Then, hesitantly, he touched her hair.

  She stiffened. Then struggled not to show any emotion as he proceeded to finger comb her hair. Oh, it had been so long since anyone had touched her. Had cared for her.

  With the death of her brothers, her parents had become even less demonstrative than they'd been when they'd all lived together as a family. It had been her middle brother, George, who had given her love and affection. Travis, to some extent, had been there for her too, but rarely enfolded her in a bear hug.

  Then, of course, her brothers had died in battle and had become icons in her house. And she'd been forgotten.

  For far too long, she'd made do caring for herself. Learned to get along without anyone offering sweet words or reassuring hugs.

  She closed her eyes as she reluctantly gave in to the feeling of peace that floated over her as Will's fingers ran through her hair. Tried to ignore his scent, the faint scent of evergreen and leather that seemed to permeate his skin.

  She tried to ignore the vision she suddenly had of his arms enfolding, wrapping her around in her a slow, warm hug.

  It shamed her to realize how little she now asked for. Just warm words and comforting hugs. Shouldn't she want more by now?

  As competently as a lady's maid, he plaited her hair. Then he moved away just as if her proximity had been catching him off guard as well.

  "How did you learn to braid hair?"

  "My sister Bonnie, remember?"

  "I didn't know men could do such things."

  "Plaiting hair ain't against the law, Jamie," he commented, humor sliding along the edge of his voice. "Men do what's expected and needed, right? My mother only had two hands. After a bit, I got real good at fussing with Bonnie's hair." He tugged on the end of her braid for emphasis.

  Not for the first time, she wondered what kind of man Will McMillan was when he wasn't on a train or on the run.

  She'd never imagined another person—let alone a man, a soldier, a Marshal—would ever touch her hair. Or braid it.

  Of course, she would have never imagined that he would have been feeding her broth either.

  What constituted a person? She wondered. At the end of the day, what made up their character? Was it their occupation or their family?

  Was it their relationship with their friends?

  Or was it their walk with God?

  Suddenly, it all seemed too much to contemplate. She had no answers, only more questions. Her energy was failing when Will moved to face her again. "I'm tired," she mumbled. "I'm sorry," she added as she sank back to the pillows. Giving thanks that her eyelids felt like they had weights in them, she gave in to temptation and let herself venture back into oblivion.

  "It's all right. You just sleep," Will murmured, though he was pretty sure she didn't hear him.

  When she didn't move for another few minutes, he let himself look at her. She was such a pretty thing. So delicate.

  He clenched a fist, remembering how smooth her skin had felt against his rough palm. How silky her hair had felt.

  When he was around her, he wanted to be the type of man she needed. A man who was stable. Who wasn't likely to get shot sooner than later. But that said, what was he going to do when he'd found a safe place for her to stay?

  How was he going to let her go to some farmer sod-busting coward who had avoided the war for personal reasons and who had to find a woman through a letter-writing campaign?

  How was he going to allow her go to a man like that? Most likely, if he let her go, it would be condemning her to a life of drudgery. Before long, she'd no doubt be having too many children and working too hard to take care of them. Day after day would pass. And with each one, she'd probably begin to get worn and skinny and tired and bitter. Just the thought of her living like that made his skin burn.

  And then he remembered the obvious. Oh, yeah. He was going to let her go to a man like that because it wasn't his call. She wasn't his woman, and she never would be. She'd been his hostage.

  And though he didn't know a whole lot about romance and relati
onships, even he knew the cold hard truth.

  Hostages did not all of a sudden start liking their captors. Not when they almost died at their hands. Not when they lived too many days in fear.

  Those things could never be forgotten. And if they did fade a bit, they wouldn't fade enough to make a lick of difference. Not really.

  Certainly not enough to ever marry their captors.

  As Jamie slept on and the sun shifted the shadows rushing through the curtains, Will made himself face the facts.

  Women like her didn't ever end up with men like him. Not ever. That was as it should be.

  But it still was terribly hard to come to terms with at night, when the sun sank low and old fears resurfaced with wild abandon.

  27

  Two days after sipping that first spoonful of broth, Jamie was on her feet and putting herself to rights. She'd just rinsed out her chemise and one of her petticoats when a hard rap interrupted her thoughts.

  "Jamilyn? You decent?"

  Gazing down at herself, at how odd the dress looked without the usual layer of petticoats propping it out, she shrugged. No matter how bad she looked, or how inappropriate her outfit was in mixed company, there was little that could be done about things or changed at the moment.

  Besides, Will had seen her in less.

  "I'm decent." She was just about to go to the door when she heard Will jimmy the lock and turn the knob.

  He stopped in the doorway almost hesitantly. "I guess you're feeling better?"

  "Much. I'm well enough to get dressed and do a little bit of laundry."

  His gaze warmed. "So I see."

  Oh, those eyes. Even after everything they'd been through, there was something about a warm look from him that made her insides feel like melting.

  Though she would have given a whole lot for a clean calico instead of her torn traveling dress, she was determined not to fuss about it. After all, she was alive, thanks to him. He'd not only saved her life by getting her off the train, but he'd also nursed her through the influenza. Her debt to him was insurmountable.