The Gunslinger's Vow

by Amy Sandas

  He pushed off from the doorframe to stand at full height.

  She took a step forward, obviously expecting him to move aside right away.

  He didn’t, and she brought herself to an abrupt halt, visibly stiffening at their unexpected proximity. Tipping her head back to look up at him, she gave him a fierce little scowl that was far more attractive than it should have been.

  Blood pulsed thick and hot through his veins, and his stomach tightened with a specific sort of craving. “I washed up,” he said in a low tone, unable to completely keep the sensual suggestion from his voice, though he did his best to hold tight on the reins of his rising desire. “Even used soap and put on some clean clothes. Do I smell better now?”

  She drew in a deep breath through her nose. It seemed to be an involuntary action, because as soon as she did it, a blush spread across the crests of her cheeks.

  “You smell fine,” she muttered quickly as she glanced to the side and lowered her chin.

  It was difficult to hold back the chuckle, but he managed. “Glad you approve.” Then he stepped to the side, and she rushed past him into the cabin.

  He considered following her inside, but as she started emptying the items from the sack onto the table, he realized she’d be kept busy for a while preparing the stew. It was a good opportunity for him to do a little scouting of his own.

  Besides, being in close quarters with her while his body was so primed with physical need was not a great idea. “I’m gonna take a walk around.”

  “Watch out for snares,” she said without looking up.

  He’d tried to get his gun belt strapped on earlier, but with his right arm practically useless, he’d given up. Feeling naked without his Colt, he’d tucked it into the waistband of his pants instead. He was a horrible shot with his left hand, but it was better than having no means of protection at all.

  At least his legs could get him around. He was still physically weakened from the fever. The soup had helped, but he figured his energy wouldn’t last much longer. He wanted to get a look around while he still felt able to do so.

  Malcolm made several widening circles around the cabin, checking for any sign of human activity beyond Alexandra’s movements. There was nothing to set off any alarms, but he knew he wouldn’t be able to relax until Alexandra was safely in Helena and he was on his own again.

  Once that happened, Dunstan’s men could come for him anytime. It’d save him the trouble of having to explain who he was when he showed up at the man’s door.

  The sun was heading toward the horizon as he made his way back to the cabin, following the bubbling flow of the creek. Stepping into the little clearing, he came to a stop. She must have washed the bed linens while he’d been gone. They’d been slung over low tree branches to dry in the breeze. Something about the sight of the gentle-sloped hill leading up to the tiny cabin set beneath the aspens, smoke rising from the stone chimney, gave him an unexpected twist of discomfort in his gut.

  The scene was too warm and welcoming. Too damned domesticated.

  Shoving down the unexpected longing that rose to mix with eight years of guilt, he headed up the hill in long, careful strides. The little bit of scouting around he’d done had worn him out. If he didn’t sit down soon, he was liable to fall on his ass.

  They’d have to move on soon. But knowing Dunstan had men looking for him, there was no way he was gonna take a chance out in the open again until he had full use of his right arm.

  He flexed and fisted his right hand as he tried to circle his shoulder. Pain shot down to his fingertips, and the fist he made was no stronger than a child’s. At least Yellow Tom’s cabin was tucked deep into the mountains, far from any town or common road. If Dunstan had more men out looking for him, they’d be unlikely to find them here.

  He still couldn’t believe the way Alex had pulled his gun and shot the man sneaking up behind him. There had been no mistaking the stricken panic on her face and the glassy, disconnected look in her eyes when she realized what she’d done. She’d been locked in pure terror.

  But there was also no denying her skill. Her movements had been sure and steady, her aim undeniably impressive. Something had happened to create that fear in her. It hadn’t always been there, or she never would have picked up a gun to learn how to shoot in the first place.

  Entering the cabin, he was greeted by a wealth of delicious odors, rich and wonderful.

  “Damn, that smells good,” he said as he closed the door behind him, then slid his Colt back into the gun belt, where it hung from a nail beside the door.

  “It won’t be long.” Her tone was light, suggesting she had gotten over her earlier irritation. He got the sense she wasn’t one to sit and stew for long.

  As his eyes adjusted to the dimmer lighting in the cabin, he saw her standing before the fire, stirring the contents of the kettle. The end of her thick braid swung against her hips as she straightened and looked back at him.

  The top buttons of the flannel shirt were open, revealing her slim neck and the shadows of her collarbone, and her sleeves had been rolled up to just below her elbows. The heat of the fire had caused the wispy strands of hair framing her face to curl, and the fire reflected bright and inviting in her eyes as she favored him with a smile.

  Malcolm felt like he had gotten kicked in the chest by a horse.

  Heat unfurled in his belly, making him stiffen in resistance. The intimacy of their current situation was making it nearly impossible to keep to his vow not to lust after her.

  Why exactly had he made that vow, again?

  “Why don’t you take a seat at the table?” she said with a tip of her head. “Since there was only the one chair, I pushed it over to the bed, so we can both sit while we eat.”

  Malcolm glanced at the table, which she had already set up with their dishes and utensils. “What can I do?” he asked, needing a distraction to pull his thoughts from the lustful turn they’d taken. “I’m feeling kinda useless.”

  She tossed another smile, this one containing a clear flash of mischief. “You’re an injured man. You are useless.”

  He narrowed his gaze. “You’re lucky you’re way over there when you say that.”

  “I’m not stupid.”

  “No, not stupid,” he agreed. “Maybe a might impulsive?”

  She tipped her head in brief consideration, then shrugged. “Sometimes.”

  “More than a little bossy.”

  She narrowed her gaze at that, but it looked like she was trying to suppress a smile in the way she pressed her lips together. “When the situation requires it,” she acknowledged.

  “With more courage and grit than I expected.”

  She didn’t reply to that, but he thought he saw a blush warm her cheeks before she crossed the room to the cupboards along the wall.

  “Considering your expectations were set pretty low to begin with,” she replied with an exasperated sigh, “I didn’t really have far to go to surpass them.”

  He almost chuckled at her sass, but held it in, enjoying the game too much to give it up just yet. “How was I to know you had all this hidden beneath that fancy getup you wore?”

  “Maybe you should not be so quick to judge someone by their appearance,” she answered smartly as she returned to the table with the half-empty bottle of whiskey in her hand. “Are you going to sit?”

  He looked at the two options then back to her. “Would you rather have the bed or the chair?”

  As soon as he asked the question, his body tightened with that deep and delicious kind of ache that came with harshly suppressed desire.

  Two images immediately flashed through his brain. One was of the two of them laid out on the bed with naked limbs tangled together and her hands running wild over his body. And the other was of them again, only this time he was seated in the chair and she sat facing him, straddling his thighs.


  Both were far too erotic for his vulnerable state. He hardened in a fierce rush. Luckily, she had already turned to take a seat on the bed, allowing him to quickly lower himself into the chair so she wouldn’t see his physical reaction.

  She uncapped the whiskey and poured some into his cup.

  “First you try to poison me, now you’re trying to get me drunk,” he commented. “You wanna get rid of me, lady?”

  Her gaze slid slowly up to meet his across the table. “You’re just so much easier to manage when you’re unconscious.”

  He couldn’t contain his chuckle at that. “I don’t doubt that’s the truth.”

  She poured a shot of whiskey for herself, then set the bottle down and lifted her cup to take a modest sip. She immediately sucked in a swift breath through slightly parted lips before giving a soft little cough as her eyes watered. “This is terrible.”

  She was right. Yellow Tom’s whiskey was nothing like the bottle they’d shared in Coulson. “It’s total rotgut,” he agreed, “but it helps to dull the pain.”

  Her expression immediately turned to one of concern. “You should let me check it, in case the wound opened from all you’ve been doing today.”

  “Later.”

  His shoulder had started throbbing something fierce a few hours before. He’d managed to ignore it for a while, but it was getting steadily worse.

  The look she gave him said she saw through his delay tactic, but she didn’t press.

  “Who’s waiting for you up in Montana?”

  The unexpected question had her tensing. Her gaze lowered to the table for a second before she brought it back up to meet his. “My father is there.”

  From what she’d said about her father being from Boston, he’d assumed that they had gone east together.

  “It’s been five years since I’ve seen him.” Her voice trailed off, as though she were thinking of the last time she’d been in her father’s company.

  Five years was a long time. “What’s bringing you home?”

  Giving him a narrow-eyed smile, she said, “You’re asking an awful lot of questions.”

  Malcolm shrugged. “I’ve got nothing else to keep me occupied.”

  “My story isn’t that interesting.”

  “I doubt that,” he replied and meant it. The more time he spent in the woman’s company, the more curious he became about her. “Is there something in particular you’re leaving behind in Boston?”

  She kept her mouth shut. Her reticence intrigued him.

  “You got secrets you don’t want to share, sweetheart?” he teased, the endearment slipping out before he could stop it.

  “Everyone has a few secrets,” she answered quietly. Those blue eyes of hers were steady and serious as she met his gaze. “Why are you heading north to kill someone?”

  Malcolm hesitated. It wasn’t that he had anything to hide. He wasn’t ashamed of his intention to kill Gavin’s murderer, but it was not an easy thing to discuss.

  Shifting in his chair, he lifted his whiskey and downed it all in a quick swallow. Maybe the hard liquor gave him the courage to go back and relive the tragedy that had motivated him these past eight years. Or maybe it was just her.

  He met her quiet gaze and saw something there he hadn’t seen in a long time, maybe ever. It was gentle curiosity, a total lack of judgment or expectation, and an openness he didn’t know quite what to do with. He’d never cared before if anyone understood what drove him, but he wanted her to understand.

  That should have scared him. In fact, it terrified him.

  He drew a long breath that burned in his tight throat, but the words flowed with surprising ease. “Eight years ago, only a week before his nineteenth birthday, my little brother was murdered for the winnings of a dirty poker game. He took four shots in the chest, and while he bled to death, four men rifled through his pockets then walked away, leaving him facedown in the dirt.” God, it hurt to say it, to see it all again in his mind’s eye. “When Gavin didn’t make it home that night, I went looking for him. He was already long dead, his blood soaked into the ground around his lifeless body.” He clenched his teeth hard to ease the thickening in his throat and the tightening in his chest. “I’ve been tracking down the men who murdered him ever since. There’s one left. The one who pulled the trigger and put those bullets in Gavin’s heart.

  “For years, he stayed a step ahead of me. No one knew his real name, just the stupid nickname he went by. At first, I’d hear stories of the bastard bragging about being sought by a bounty hunter. He seemed to enjoy the notoriety. But after a few close calls where I almost had him, he must’ve gotten scared, because about five years ago he went into hiding.” Malcolm fisted his hands and cringed at the pain shooting into his shoulder. “I finally have word on where he’s been holed up. I won’t stop until he’s dead.”

  His breath was shallow and raw as he looked at her across the small table, unsure how she’d respond to the violence that seethed inside him.

  Her eyes had darkened with sympathy, and anger perhaps, but she didn’t appear frightened by his admission. She sat with her elbows on the table, staring at him thoughtfully. “Those men who rode into our camp…he sent them?”

  “Yep.”

  “You would have gone with them if not for me, wouldn’t you?”

  He nodded, pouring another shot into his glass.

  “If not for me, you wouldn’t have resisted. You never would have gotten shot.”

  He looked at her sharply. “It’s because of you I’m still alive.”

  “Yet, it might all be for nothing,” she said with a frown. “This man…he is trying to find you first, so he can kill you before you kill him. Is that right?”

  Malcolm nodded again.

  “And after you leave me with my father, you’re going to ride right up to his front door?”

  There was no point in responding to that. He’d made it pretty clear that was what he intended to do.

  “What if he’s faster?” she asked. “Would your brother want you to sacrifice your life to avenge his?”

  Guilt and anger thundered through him. The thickness in his throat made his next words tight. “It doesn’t matter what he wants. He’s dead.”

  She met his gaze for a moment, her eyes dark and stormy. “It matters to me.”

  The soft words and her compassionate, earnest expression immediately diffused the tangle of rage and regret inside him. He was left feeling weak and tired. It was not a state he relished. This was the reason he didn’t get close to people. He needed the anger and the guilt. They fueled him and gave him direction. Without them, he’d be too tempted to start thinking of other things—like comfort and rest and a gentle companion who might have the power to loosen the cold fist of revenge around his heart.

  Glancing down at his whiskey, he lifted his glass and tossed back its contents as she rose to her feet and picked up both of their bowls. “The stew should be ready.”

  There was a stretch of silence as they started their meal. Malcolm shoved down further thoughts of Gavin and Walter Dunstan. He didn’t have the strength to stay long in the dark thoughts. Anger, pain, guilt, and vengeance were draining emotions, and he had little to give to them this night.

  Slowly, by a mutual, unspoken agreement, they eased into more casual conversation. The stew was hearty and flavorful, and talk turned to stories of Yellow Tom.

  Thomas Chilton had been a singular type of character. A gruff and cynical old man who had made his living trading furs, he had preferred to avoid contact with other human beings as much as possible and built this cabin toward that purpose.

  “But how did you meet him?” Alexandra asked.

  “I was passing through the area a few years back during a snowstorm so bad I could barely see my hand in front of my face. I’d been on the tail of a particularly violent criminal, want
ed for killing two families down in Kansas, and I had refused to give up the chase, when the blizzard hit.” He shook his head. “It was a stupid call.

  “With the heavy snowfall creating a whiteout, I had no sense of direction. I figured I was going to freeze to death right there in my saddle, when I happened across this cabin out of sheer luck. I swear I had to bang on that door for twenty minutes before Tom decided I wasn’t going away and finally let me in.”

  “He would have let you freeze?” she asked with wide eyes.

  “Damn straight, if I hadn’t been so persistent. In fact, after the storm had passed the next day and he kicked me out, I discovered something I hadn’t been able to see the night before.”

  “What?”

  “The murderer I was tracking…frozen stiff not far from the front door.”

  She gasped. “That’s horrible.”

  Malcolm met her shocked gaze. “Not when you consider what he did to his victims.”

  There was a pause before she rose to her feet and gathered their dirty dishes from the table.

  “So how did you end up considering Tom a friend?” she asked as she placed the dishes in the washtub and poured some water over them from the bucket by the fire.

  “Before I left, I did some hunting and left the kill as payment for his hospitality, realizing how differently things could have ended up. And when I collected on that reward for the outlaw who led me to the cabin, I came back to give Yellow Tom half of the earnings. In return, he gave me a hot meal before I went on my way again.”

  “He sounds like a very interesting character,” she said as she sat cross-legged beside the tub to wash their dishes.

  “I stopped in a couple of more times when I was in the area. He’d grumble about it, but he’d still open the door to me. Last year, I found him sitting outside his front door, pipe in hand and a bottle of whiskey next to him. By the look of him, he hadn’t been dead long.”

  “Oh no,” she exclaimed, genuine distress in her gaze.