Because the missing wasn't going to go away. And he had no other choice. He'd saved Jamie to give her the life she deserved—and it sure wasn't a life beside a man who made a living pretending to be someone he wasn't, doing things that no one should witness, let alone doing them over and over.
And he had done just that.
Through lowered eyelids, he watched a couple enter the hotel and approach the registration desk. Calvin handed them the guestbook to fill out.
Life went on. Even in times of pain and frustration, that was the underlying quality that lay behind it. People came and went about their business. Calvin there could probably tell him more about that than anyone.
Will needed to remember that and stand up and get on his way.
He was just contemplating how to do that when the door opened again and Scout Proffitt sauntered in. His movements were easy and steady. Confident. Just as if he circulated around Dodge all day. He was dressed in black, as usual. His Stetson looked new, his boots spit polished.
But beyond all that, there was something different about him. It seemed to cloud his movements. Make things about him harsher. A worry, maybe?
Or maybe—like himself—time and aggravation had gotten the best of him.
Scout recognized him and tensed. Will could see he thought about reaching for his ever-present Colt, then disregarded the impulse. Will was glad of that. No one could outdraw Scout Proffitt, and Will was in no hurry to try, especially seeing that they were in the middle of a lobby and Will was still sitting down.
But even more important than that, he had no desire to harm the outlaw. Under all the layers, Scout was a good man, a decent man, though most likely everyone who mattered would be shocked to hear that.
After a pause, Scout walked forward. "Where's the woman?"
Just to rile him up, Will tipped his hat. "Good to see you too, Proffitt."
Scout's dark eyes narrowed in confusion. "You know our paths didn't meet by chance. I'm only here for one reason. I need the woman back."
"And me?"
"I have orders."
"Are you going to follow them?"
"Until this minute, I had planned on it."
"But now?"
"Now, I just need you to answer the question." But still, a faint sheen of embarrassment burned his cheeks. "Where is she?"
"Once I give her to you, what are you going to do? Shoot me here?"
"Not here."
"Too crowded?"
He shrugged. "I need some answers first." After surveying the area, he turned with a jerky pause, walked a little closer, then joined Will on the couch. "So, where is she?"
"She's gone."
Scout looked poleaxed. "What happened to her? She dead?"
For a moment, Will thought about not answering, but there didn't seem to be much reason to ignore the question. Jamie was safe now and not likely to ever run into Scout or a member of the Walton Gang for the rest of her life. "U.S. Marshals took her from me. She's in their care now."
"When?"
"An hour or so ago." Had it only been that long? It already felt like a lifetime had passed.
Scout winced. Then sighed. "I can't believe I missed her."
"Believe it." He glanced at Scout, then saw to his surprise that the man didn't look all that perturbed by the announcement. No, if anything, he looked relieved. "You going to go after her?"
Scout pursed his lips. "No. I'm not going to take on the U.S. Marshals for a decent woman. I'm bad, but not that bad. Shoot, I never thought killing her was a good idea anyway."
"And me?"
"I don't know." He stretched his legs out in front of him, looking almost glum. "Things have changed for me since I got my orders."
"I heard you're traveling with a woman. Is that true?"
"True enough."
"You fall in love?"
"Me? No. Not at all. This gal, she's young." Frowning, his throat worked a bit before he spit out another word. "Damaged."
Weren't they all? "She here in town with you?"
"She is." Scout glanced at him for a good long time, then spoke again. "Here's the thing. For some reason I'm not even sure about anymore, I got saddled with her. Now she's my responsibility, and I've been dragging her around the prairie. It's been cold as all get-out."
Will stared at him in shock. "I'm trying to picture you as a caretaker."
"Well, don't think about it too hard, 'cause what I've been doing ain't been pretty. Never have I felt less like a guardian and more like a scoundrel. She needs a whole lot more than I can give her."
"You should lose her. And I mean this in the best sense."
"Doing that won't be easy. She's clinging to me like I'm worthy of her trust. She expects things from me I didn't know I could give."
"And have you given them?"
"Yes," he muttered. "I've been better to this poor little thing with no hope and no sense of worth than I've been to most of the rest of the world. It makes no sense." Tossing his hat onto his knees, he ran a hand through his hair harshly. "With her, I'm better." He cleared his throat. "And I'm not exaggerating, Will."
Knowing his future was out of his hands, Will kept asking questions. "Where's the gang now?"
"North to Nebraska, I believe." After a time, Scout lowered his voice. "What do you think happens to men like us? Do we ever change? Do things ever get better for us? Or are we as damaged as the little thing I've been traveling with?"
"I'd like to think we can change. I don't know though. Maybe it's just a pipe dream. Men do things that are difficult to make amends for."
Scout's expression turned bleak. "I have a feeling you're right." After a sigh, he got to his feet. "What would you say if I told you that I'm feeling like I want to forget I ever saw you?"
"I'd say I was obliged. But I wouldn't believe you."
"That's fair."
"You might feel like forgetting me if you knew the truth."
"And what is that?"
"I am really a Marshal. I was only with there to collect information." Will paused, whether to make a point or because he wasn't sure how the truth would be taken, he didn't know.
Scout looked taken aback. "Maybe now I should be the one askin' if you're intending to kill."
"If we didn't see each other, and you never returned to the gang, you'd be forgotten, don't you think?"
"If that's the case, then forgetting about each other might just have merit."
"It might. If forgetting is even possible," Will allowed.
"Could we do that?"
"Do you aim to rejoin them?"
"No. I'm going to take care of this girl, put her somewhere safe, and then start over." His voice turning wistful, he added, "Even if I don't get very far, I've got an inkling to give it a try. Even just for a little bit."
Getting to his feet, Will held out a hand. "I'm game if you are. Scout Proffitt, I hope I never see you again."
Scout nodded as he shook his hand. "You won't. You're a good man, Will McMillan. Better than most."
"I'll take the compliment, but I have to think that it only seems that way because you've known some of the worst men around."
With a wary smile, Scout tipped his hat, then turned and left. As soon as he left through the front door, Will turned to go back up the grand staircase.
"Hey Will," Calvin called out as he rushed forward. "Who was that man? Who were you talking to?"
"Can't see how it matters."
"It's just, well, that man looked just like Scout Proffitt."
"Who?"
"You know. The outlaw. He always wears black and he's supposed to be as dangerous as all get-out. The man looked like all the 'wanted' posters."
Will forced himself to laugh. "I'm sorry to disappoint you, but that wasn't Scout Proffitt. I don't associate with outlaws. He's just a man I used to fight with. Back in the war."
Calvin looked crushed. "That is too bad. Seeing him would have been something, you know? Knowing a man like that? I wouldn't hardl
y forget it easily."
"No, I imagine not," he said in parting. Walking up the stairs, Will thought about what a strange bedfellow fate was. Here he'd been on the run for days, fighting fevers and struggling with his emotions. And now, in the space of thirty minutes, the two people who had been at the forefront of his mind had made an appearance.
Scout was gone, and, well, Jamie was gone too. A better man would be relieved that he'd seen the last of them both.
Unfortunately, Will could only find it in his soul to be grateful for the loss of one of those people. The other one?
Leaving her had nearly broken his heart.
32
Kitty, I'm back," Scout said as he inserted the key into their room's lock. "You decent?" He paused for a moment. Not only did he not want to catch her bathing, but he also had to prepare himself to offer an apology. He'd left her frightened and in tears, and he'd felt bad about that.
'Course, most likely, she'd simply sass his apology, laugh off her worries. He was half counting on that. That girl had a mouth on her like no other, which both confounded and amused him to no end.
But when no sound passed through the door, he grew concerned. "Kitty?" he called out while he turned the doorknob and slipped the key into his duster's pocket.
The room was dim. Only the glow from the moon shimmered through the muslin curtains barely covering the pane of glass. Stepping in, he looked toward the bed, certain she was asleep.
And sure enough, there she was, lying on her stomach, dead to the world. And here it was only seven o'clock in the evening.
He paused, uncertain whether to leave and let her have her privacy or to stay in the room. But remembering her panic and cries when he'd left, he thought the better of it.
Kitty had been in such a state, it would be far better for her to wake up to find him sitting on the rickety lone chair in the room, watching her and waiting. Even though he'd sworn up and down that he wasn't going to share a room with her.
Decision made, he strode to the door, locked it firmly, took off his duster, then prepared to get good and uncomfortable in that chair. "Kitty, you're killing me," he muttered under his breath as he crossed the room.
Which was when he noticed she hadn't made even the slightest movement. It was unlike her. Kitty was a restless sleeper. She talked; she mumbled; she twitched and shifted. All of it had irritated him when they were sleeping outside on the hard ground and his body had been begging for more than a measly handful of hours of sleep.
"Kitty? You okay?"
When he leaned closer, his nose caught the unmistakable scent of blood. Metallic and pungent, it was one smell he knew he'd always recognize. After all, he'd made more men bleed than he could count. But never before had the sight of it thrown him into such a state of worry.
Instantly, his body went on alert. Before he even realized what he was doing, his Colt was in his right hand and he was looking in every corner of their small rented room.
No longer caring about Kitty's nap, he opened the dresser's doors and pulled back the drapes, half expecting at any moment to be attacked.
Then he saw the pool of blood covering the floor on the opposite side of the bed. Closer inspection showed that it was dripping from the girl.
He choked. Oh, dear Lord. What had happened?
Dropping the gun on the mattress, he rushed to Kitty's side. Hands trembling, he brushed back the hair from her cheek, his eyes examining every inch of her face.
Had she been shot? Attacked? Confusion warred with panic inside of him as he tried to figure out what could have happened. "Kitty," he said again, rubbing her back.
Her back was warm but rigid—telling him all he needed to know.
But he couldn't believe it. "Kitty? Kitty, wake up now. I need to see you. See what's wrong."
Staring at her face, he waited for her eyes to drift open, for her to sleepily smile and cuss at him. But of course, she didn't.
Tears stung his eyes as pain and worry and a curious premonition coursed through him. With a new resolve, he rolled her over. After pressing two fingers to her neck and feeling nothing, he began a frantic search. Eyes skimming over her plain, modest calico, he looked for bullet holes. Looked for the telltale stain of red.
All the while blaming himself and his past for what happened.
The truth was, he had more enemies than most people had freckles—not only people who he'd damaged, but also their relatives. And then, of course, there were all the people who were hoping of making a name for themselves by shooting him.
Or, perhaps, shooting someone they suspected he cared about.
Blinking hard, he roughly maneuvered her body, still searching for the injury. Only as a last resort did he let himself look at her wrist and come to terms with the awful truth.
Kitty's wrist was neatly sliced with a knife. She'd obviously sliced through the tender skin with care, intent on her goal: death.
As he held her arm, her precious blood stained his hands, soiled his fingers, ran down to his leg, and joined the puddle at the floor. As he stared at the blood on the floor, he caught sight of a silver blade half-under the bed. Scout's trembling grew worse as he knelt and picked it up.
Bright red blood soaked and slicked his hands as he stared at the knife, recognizing it as one of his own. Kitty must have pilfered it when he'd begun to let his guard down around her.
As he came to terms with the fact that it was his weapon that had done her damage, the rest of his body seemed to have no other choice but to freeze up. In protest, a burst of pain shot through his head, making him ache to close his eyes and shy away from the rest of the world.
Kitty had sliced her wrists with his knife.
Just after she'd begged him not to leave her alone in an empty bedroom because it reminded her too much of being afraid at home.
Scout squeezed his eyes hard and tried to stop the tears that were forming. But just like the rest of him, his eyes had given up on listening to his deceitful brain.
Fact was, he was a murderer and a criminal. And though he'd tried to help a girl, he hadn't been good at it. If anything, he'd managed to make her life worse.
Because while it was true she'd been misused and abused at home, at least then she'd had hope. Before he'd come into her life, she'd dreamed of someone good coming into her life to take her away.
But all she'd gotten was him. In his company—under his care—she'd lost the illusion that things could one day be better. Death had become more welcome than another day of living.
The tears that he hadn't asked for fell harder. Sliding down his cheeks, dripping onto the cotton of his shirt. Falling onto his denims. Mixing with her blood. Little by little, his body gave up its need to stay still. First his shoulders began to shake, then his chest. His eyes squeezed shut, desperate to block out the scene in front of him, the reality of his memories.
Finally, he gave in to the inevitable and pressed his palms to his face and let out a cry of despair. He cried hard. Cried like a baby. Sobbed and bawled like he hadn't since he'd been small.
He cried for the waste of a life, and cried for all the hurting in the world. Only a long time later, when he'd clumsily wiped his face with the sleeve of his shirt, did he wonder what to do with her body. And realized it was the first dead body in his life that he'd ever thought about burying. Usually, he simply shot then moved on. Quickly.
Which, of course, made him feel sick all over again.
"Mr. Lawrence?" A light, feminine voice called out from the other side of the door. "The hot water you requested is here."
The words confused him. His mouth opened, but he couldn't think of a thing to say.
"Mr. Lawrence? Are you in there?"
Old habits of self-preservation kicked in. Standing up, he forced himself to speak clearly. "Just set it outside the door," he ordered. "I'll get to it in a moment."
"You sure? 'Cause I'm supposed to bring it on in."
"Leave it," he barked back, hardly recognizing the husky, strai
ned chords in his voice.
A clamber and a smothered exclamation told him his orders were followed. As her footsteps fell away, Scout sighed in relief. He was in no condition to leave the room—but of course he had no choice. He was going to need to bury Kitty, not leave her.
But a suicide would bring questions and the possibility that many of the good folk of Dodge wouldn't take kindly to a sinner's body on their sacred ground.
His options were fading fast.
Then slowly the answer came to him. It was as unexpected and as difficult to accept as it was perfect. He was going to need to go back to the hotel and locate Will McMillan.
Now that he knew he was actually a lawman, Scout knew Will had the force of the U.S. Marshals behind him. His position trumped any doubts or questions a small-town sheriff might bring up.
It even trumped the usual fear that Scout Proffitt's name brought to most people. Taking one last lingering look at Kitty's body, he turned away, then caught sight of a slip of paper under one of the forgotten pillows.
It had been under her—obviously she'd placed it there for him to find. He didn't want to read it. He didn't want to know why she'd ended her life. Didn't want to feel even guiltier than he did.
But life had never been easy, and taking the easy road had never been his goal. With heavy steps, he crossed back to the bed and carefully unfolded the carefully arranged note.
There were only a few lines. Each word was neatly printed and phrased.
Scout, I'm sorry for doing this to you. I just couldn't see a way out. For a woman scarred and used like me, there aren't many choices. One of them can't be me being alone.
Being alone is worse than just about anything.
But please know I'm grateful for you, and grateful for the last few days. Though I'd never believed in God, you showed me that maybe, just maybe, He exists after all.
If he does . . . now wouldn't that be something?
Kitty
A Texan’s Honor Page 21