"No, sir, I won't," she murmured to his back. Because he'd already moved on, his posture straight and stalwart.
Feeling more overwhelmed than ever before, she picked up her knife and fork and finally began eating her steak. She didn't care that it was rather cold.
Twenty minutes later, as she carefully slid her fork through creamy icing, she had to agree that indeed, the hummingbird cake was very delicious.
It was a shame that she was unable to enjoy it.
34
The woman had been as bad off as Scout had insinuated. Though he'd never seen her before, Will felt a sharp lump lodge in his throat as he watched Scout stoically roll the girl in the bedspread and gently carry her out to the funeral director.
When he'd offered to help, Scout had simply glared.
Together, they walked side by side on the streets of Dodge, Will glaring at all who dared to stare, Scout carrying the body in an ivory blanket stained with blood. Neither spoke. No words were necessary—and none would do the situation justice.
When they entered the undertaker's shop, Will had been prepared to use the weight of the U.S. Marshals to induce the elderly man to bury the gal. However, it turned out that no threats were necessary.
All it had taken was a decent amount of money. Scout unrolled bills, one after the other, each one assuring that the undertaker would prepare her body for burial and ask no questions. A few more dollars spent enabled the girl to be buried in the church cemetery immediately, though it would have been far preferable to stow the girl until the spring thaw came.
However, that was the benefit of being Scout Proffitt, Will supposed. There were some people one never refused. A pastor was usually one of them. Notorious outlaws surely came as close seconds.
"Sir, perhaps you'd like to come back in a few hours?" the undertaker asked nervously. "By then I'll have prepared the . . . uh . . . box."
"No, I want to wait."
"Sir, it might take a bit." He ran a hand over his scalp, smoothing the few remaining hairs on it. "Are you sure?"
"Very sure," Scout said, sitting on the one lone chair.
Wringing his hands, the undertaker nodded, and finally approached the girl's body. As Scout watched with eagle eyes, the man lifted the girl off the table, struggled for a brief moment with her weight, then finally carried her out of the room.
When they were alone, Will cleared his throat. "Want me to wait with you?"
"I'd rather be alone, if you don't mind."
"I don't."
Shifting, Scout looked his way. "Are you still willing to go to the preacher?"
"That's where I'm headed now."
"Do whatever it takes, you hear me?"
"I always do," he said. Will waited a moment for Scout to acknowledge him, then turned away when he realized that Scout wasn't with him anymore.
Instead, he was staring off in the distance, looking somewhere else. Lost in thought.
The church was located just one block from the undertaker. Whitewashed and with its several windows, it looked like the beacon of hope and light that it was.
When Will opened the door, the fresh scent of incense and lemon oil infused his senses, bringing him back in time to Houston, Texas, and the church he'd attended with his parents.
That one had been far bigger but had smelled much the same.
Immediately, his heart felt heavy. It had been far too long since he'd been able to be in a place of worship.
On the back pew, he'd found a man in black. Looking younger though no less as haggard and worn-down as the undertaker, the holy man got to his feet when Will approached.
"May I help you, son?"
"I hope so, Pastor. My friend and I have a girl being readied for burial over at the undertaker's. We need you to say some words over her."
"Now? The ground's nearly frozen solid."
"I realize that, but my friend and I will take care of that. My friend doesn't want to leave town without us doing the proper thing for this girl. He wants her buried right."
The pastor smiled slightly. "For him to go to so much trouble, she must be a special woman. Was she your friend's sister or sweetheart?"
Will almost let that slide, then realized that wasn't fair to the girl, to Scout, or to the preacher. The gal was what she was, and from what little Scout had said, it wasn't all of her doing.
"I'm not going to lie to you. I can't lie to a man of the cloth."
"I appreciate that . . . what is the truth?"
"Fact was, this gal, she wasn't much. My friend was only helping her escape a painful situation. But I'm afraid he got there too late." Knowing how pitiful it sounded, and how terribly sorry he was for Kitty, Will breathed deep and spit out the rest. "Preacher, the fact is . . . she died by her own hand."
A line formed between the preacher's brows. "A suicide?"
"I'm afraid so."
"Some would say she doesn't deserve a Christian burial."
"Some would say what happened to her didn't leave her much choice. Others might say what happened to her wasn't too Christian either."
The preacher's gray eyes looked Will up and down. "What was she? A harlot?"
"She wasn't old enough to be anything. All she really was, was a girl on the losing end of a very bad streak of hard luck and pain. Today, it just got to be too much."
Swallowing, the preacher nodded. "She's in good company, then." Getting to his feet, he cleared his rheumy throat and then shuffled toward the door. "Don't just stand there, son."
Will was stunned. He'd been fully prepared to argue with the man, to cajole and beg and threaten.
And now, it was being done.
"How much is it going to cost to ensure she gets buried?"
The shuffling stopped. "I don't recall asking for a thing, son."
"I'll pay."
"Not necessary. It seems to me this young girl has already paid enough, don't you think?" The preacher didn't wait for an answer as he stopped at a coatrack near the door, slipped a heavy black coat over his shoulders, placed a hat on his head, and then led Will outside to the undertaker.
As they walked, Will watched the man limp slightly. "You okay?" he asked, gesturing toward the preacher's leg. "It's nothing. Just an old hurt I can't seem to get rid of." Will reckoned he had a few of those.
So that was how the four of them ended up digging a hole in the frozen ground together. Pickaxes were taken out when shovels didn't do the trick. Sweat poured off their skin. One by one, jackets were discarded. Vests followed. Faces became flushed. An hour passed. Then two.
Then, just as the sun started to set and the wind picked up, the men made a grave. The six-foot hole was anything but smooth and symmetrical.
But it would do.
Ropes were used to lower the pine casket that had been clumsily nailed together while an outlaw watched and waited and paced.
When the box was in the ground, the four of them stood at the edges of the grave in silence as their bodies cooled.
After a time, the undertaker spoke. "This is where you come in, Stewart."
The preacher cleared his throat. "The Lord is my shepherd," he said, his voice slowly becoming sharper and clearer with each verse.
As the psalm continued, Will glanced Scout's way. The younger man, now dressed only in a wrinkled and dirty black shirt and black trousers, stood motionless in the cold. His piercing gaze—the one that had inspired fear in the hearts of countless men over the years—never drifted from that pine box.
After a somewhat anemic "Amen," the preacher cleared his throat. "Mister, would you like to add anything?"
Scout lifted his head and looked at the holy man. A thousand questions lit his eyes, his expression fierce enough to make Will wonder if he was about to say too much.
But after a moment's pause, Scout shook his head. "Forgive me, but I can't think of another thing to say. Is that wrong?"
Instead of speaking, the preacher reached out and gently squeezed Scout's shoulder.
W
ill watched in amazement. Never before had he seen another man reach out to touch the notorious gunslinger. He'd certainly never expected that Scout would accept the touch so easily.
After clearing his throat, the preacher spoke again. "In times like these, I don't think we happen to need many words. The Lord already knows enough to get the deed done. She'll go to heaven. Don't you fret about that."
Slowly, Scout turned to the preacher. "You sound sure of yourself."
"It's my calling to be sure."
"And me?" A slight, derisive smile curved his lips, almost as if Scout was aching to be told he was worthless. "Do we all go to heaven?"
"Heaven is open to us all, I think. For those who believe . . . and for those who repent." And then, without bothering to explain, the preacher picked up his coat, slipped it on, then turned and started hobbling away. His limp was more pronounced, but otherwise his posture was straight and true.
When the preacher was almost inside the church, the rest of them picked up the shovels and tossed the rest of the dirt back in the hole.
While they worked, it was almost easy to pretend they didn't see Scout Proffitt's tears.
35
Somehow, Mr. Edison had located Jamie's two aunts and had encouraged them to come to the station to collect her. Jamie spied the two ladies when the train pulled into the station at Kansas City. Clad completely in black, they were standing close together and were looking at the train with pinched expressions.
They looked far different from her memories of them. Jamie vaguely recalled elegant women with refined voices and gentle natures. There was little that was gentle-looking about these ladies, however. Stark and plain, the pair looked like twin crows coming to nest.
"You close to your kin?" Mr. Edison asked from behind her shoulder.
Knowing he was seeing the same things she was, Jamie fought to keep her voice easy. "No, sir. I haven't seen them in over ten years."
As he motioned her forward in order to join the line of people exiting the locomotive, Mr. Edison cleared his throat. "People change. They might be real different from what you remember."
She was different too. "I'm sure we'll get along fine. It was kind of them to offer to take me in," she said when she stopped by his side.
"Indeed. Yes, family is a blessing, to be sure."
A tingling rippled up her spine. He sounded almost sarcastic, but surely not? "Yes, sir."
The line of people in front of them edged forward. Holding her old dress in her arms, she felt vaguely like she was jumping out of a burning building into a deep pool of water.
"Scared?" he asked.
"Not at all," she lied. After all, what good would happen if she were frightened? She had no other place to go and no other family to take her in.
"Oh. Well, that is good. I suppose little would cause you worry after the ordeal you've been through."
They'd almost reached the exit. Through the portal, Jamie noticed the two ladies edge closer together, becoming a wall of taffeta. Were they nervous to see her too?
"Ma'am, please allow me," Mr. Edison murmured as he somehow found a way to inch by her side and support her elbow as they stepped onto the platform. Ten more steps brought them to the side of her only living relatives.
Upon her approach, the two ladies looked her over in unison. Dark eyes examined her from head to toe. Not a line of emotion appeared on their faces, reminding Jamie of precious china dolls she'd spied at a general store outside of Denver.
Feeling terribly awkward, Jamie stepped forward and held out a hand. "Aunt Millicent? Aunt Francis? It's me, Jamie. I mean, Jamilyn."
"Ah," Aunt Millicent said as she inclined her head. "We wondered if that was you."
Jamie's hand fell back to her side. So, there was going to be no warm embrace or sweet reunion—nothing except continued disapproval and distrust.
Beside her Mr. Edison stood silent and still. A coolness emanated from him that she'd never felt before—not even when he'd been asking her all those questions about being at the mercy of the Walton Gang.
Face flaming, she turned to him and tried to ease the tension. "Mr. Edison, may I present Misses Millicent and Francis Lowe?"
He inclined his head, mimicking Aunt Millicent's cool gesture. "A pleasure."
His perfect manners, contrasting mightily with her kin's rudeness, spurred a fresh wave of embarrassment. Jamie bit her lip, unsure of how to make things better.
After a long moment, Aunt Francis stepped forward. Without a spare glance Jamie's way, she looked intently at Mr. Edison. "You said she's been held hostage by the Walton Gang? Then lived alone for a full week with one of your agents?"
There was a tremor in the lady's voice. Seeking to reassure her, Jamie said, "Aunt Francis, please don't worry. I'm fine. I'll tell you all about it after we let Mr. Edison get on his way."
However, all her words of reassurance fell on deaf ears. Neither aunt acknowledged her. Instead, their attention fixated on the man by her side, whose demeanor seemed to become chillier by the second. "Mr. Edison, is what we heard true?"
"It is."
Millicent and Francis exchanged glances. "We wanted to meet you at the train to hear the story from your lips. But if that is the truth, I'm afraid we won't be able to take her in."
"You are refusing to take in your niece?" Mr. Edison asked.
"She's ruined. And she'll surely ruin our reputation as well."
As Mr. Edison silently stared at the women, Jamie felt her throat closing. "None of what happened was my fault," she protested. "I almost died."
Aunt Francis finally deigned to meet her gaze. "Jamilyn, you must understand our point of view. After everything you've been through and most likely done, there's nothing we can say or do to change things. The fact of the matter is your parents would expect no less from us. We have our reputations to consider."
"But what about Randall?" Jamie sputtered. "We've been writing to each other. I thought he was anxious to meet me."
"Certainly not any longer."
"But—"
"After you've spent so much time in the company of such nefarious men? You're used goods." Aunt Francis turned chillier. "No man of worth would ever even want to be seen with you now."
Even when her dress had been ripped and torn, when her hair had been sweaty and dirt and dust had attempted to fill her every pore, Jamie had never felt so unclean. Tears pricked her eyes as panic rose sharply.
What was she going to do? If her aunts weren't willing to even acknowledge her, she now had nothing.
Her world began to spin. Her knees grew weak. She began to sink—until a strong hand grabbed her waist and held on tight. "Easy, Jamilyn," Mr. Edison murmured. "I've got you."
As she struggled to keep what was left of her composure intact, he turned to her aunts who were once again standing together like twin birds of prey.
"Good day, ladies, and good-bye. I must say that your words have been truly illuminating," Mr. Edison added before guiding Jamie away from her two aunts, who were staring with horrified expressions.
After motioning a rail worker to collect his luggage, the elegant man leaned close. "Chin up, dear. Don't you dare pass out on me. We are not going to give those biddies the satisfaction."
Jamie was beyond embarrassed. She'd become numb. Stumbling next to the famed Marshal, she kept her chin up until they exited the terminal. Then, as the cool air fanned her cheeks, the awful reality of her situation hit her hard. Once again, she was alone.
The feeling was as frightening as the gun had been next to her temple.
"Can't say I've ever met two more disappointing individuals, Miss Ellis," he said with a grimace. "I thought I'd seen it all, but those women proved that was certainly not the case."
"I don't know what to say, sir, except that I'm sorry."
"For what? Having the misfortune of being on a train with the Walton Gang?"
"For dragging you all this way," she countered. "I'm embarrassed to have caused you so much trouble
." Even as she said the words, she scanned the area, half hoping her luck wasn't completely used up. "If you could direct me to an employment office, I'll get out of your way."
"You truly imagine that I would simply drop you off here?"
She was too frazzled to take anything for granted anymore. "You should. I know you're a very busy man, and I'm not your responsibility."
"You are. Until I know you're safe and settled, you are." After pulling out his pocket watch, he said, "I seem to remember a rather decent inn not too far from here. Let's spend the evening there. We can do some thinking, then discuss your options."
Relief coursed through her, though she wasn't eager to let him know just how desperate she was. "Thank you," she finally said after mentally debating what to say. "I'd be most grateful for your assistance."
Her words seemed to spark a bit of amusement within him. His mustache twitched. "Miss Ellis, you do beat all," he murmured before stepping in front of her and hailing a hackney coach.
As she'd come to expect, Mr. Edison's will always won out. Within seconds of him raising his hand, a driver approached. Two minutes later, they were on their way.
As they traveled, Jamie used the time to look around Kansas City, and was instantly charmed. It was bustling and busy, and both the women and men looked rather dapper in their city clothes. Many of the buildings were made of brick instead of the pine they used out in Colorado. Buggies and horses traveled along the wide streets. Every so often they passed beautiful homes in fine condition. All in all, it was so different from what she'd known in Colorado, that it took her breath away. She felt even more insignificant than ever.
All too soon, their ride ended. After helping her alight, Mr. Edison led the way into a fashionable red brick building three stories tall. Inside the foyer, richly polished wood floors were covered with multi-colored Oriental rugs. Above them, a gas chandelier glowed, illuminating shining surfaces of fine cherry furniture and ornately fashioned lamps.
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