The Gunslinger's Vow

by Amy Sandas

“As far as I know, he had no family. No one else he’d call friend. I buried him up on one of the mountain ridges where he liked to hunt, and took care to clean up his place. From the looks of things, no one has come by since.”

  “That’s terribly sad.”

  Malcolm’s mouth curved in a half smile. “He’d probably hate us staying here as long as we have. One night was all he’d tolerate.”

  She returned his smile. “It seems his little cabin has saved your life twice now,” she said as she rose to her feet and returned the cleaned dishes to the cupboard.

  Malcolm’s gaze tracked her movements as she performed the very domestic task. A twinge of discomfort passed through him. The scene looked too damn right. It was going to be hard to come back here without thinking of her crossing the room in the flickering firelight or walking in the door with two rabbits in hand.

  When she turned and saw him watching her, she stopped, her brows arching upward in question.

  Malcolm forced his thoughts off the path they were on, landing on the first thing he could come up with as a distraction. “With a beard down to his belt buckle, it’s too bad Yellow Tom isn’t likely to have kept a razor handy,” he said, rubbing his knuckles along the growth of beard that covered his jaw.

  “But he did have a razor,” she offered readily. “I found one in the bottom of the trunk where I got these clothes. It’s practically brand new. I can dig it out for you, if you’d like a shave.”

  He would, to tell the truth. He could only leave his beard to grow so long before it started to irritate him. Lifting his right hand, he flexed his fingers then curled them into a slow fist. The fist was weak, and the simple action sent fiery pain through his shoulder. “I don’t think I could keep my hand steady enough not to risk cutting my own throat.”

  “I’ll do it.” She crossed to the old trunk in the corner of the room.

  He narrowed his gaze. “I don’t think that’s a good idea,” he said skeptically.

  “Why not? I did it for my father plenty.”

  “We should wait until there’s more light.”

  Her expression held more than a hint of mischief as she approached the table with a folded leather pouch. “You really don’t trust me, do you?”

  Malcolm ran his hand over his jaw and then down his throat. “It’s not you I don’t trust. It’s your skill with a sharp blade.”

  Something rare and beautiful flickered in her bright gaze, and her lips curled deliciously into a smile that made Malcolm’s blood run hot in an instant. “Just relax,” she assured him gently. “It will be fine. I promise.”

  Twenty-Four

  Alexandra bit the inside of her cheek to hold back her amusement.

  Malcolm’s discomfort was practically palpable. Finally, she had him at a disadvantage and she decided she liked it.

  She’d shaved her father so many times growing up that even though it had been years since the last time, she was fully confident that she’d have no trouble. As she set a cloth that had been dunked in steaming water on his face to soften the skin and make the bristled hair more malleable, she met his cautious gaze.

  And smiled.

  There was a flash in the gray depths of his eyes. A promise of retribution if this didn’t go well? And something else?

  A tingling thrill danced through her center.

  She examined the straight razor with a flick of her thumb across the blade. It was exceptionally sharp. It needed to be, since there would be no benefit of cream to ease the passing of the blade.

  After removing the hot cloth, she brushed her fingers over his beard. It had gotten pretty thick over the last few days. Almost to the point that it was starting to soften, but not quite.

  “Are you sure—” he began, but Alexandra cut him off.

  “I’ll have no more doubts,” she said in a tone that was both soothing and stern. “I just need you to remain calm and relaxed. Close your eyes if you must. I will be finished in no time at all.”

  His expression was a study in wary resistance, but she waited, staring at him with a lifted brow until he did as she asked. When he finally closed his eyes, he opened his mouth to say something. Alexandra stopped him with a press of her fingers over his lips. “And no talking.”

  She had intended the words to be a strict command, but they came out more like a soft murmur. The feel of his lips beneath her fingers had distracted her. The firm arches and masculine lines always appeared to hold such tension. To the touch, however, his lips were soft and warm, and she couldn’t help but wonder how they’d feel pressed intimately against her own.

  He cleared his throat, pulling her attention swiftly up to his eyes. He was watching her stare at his mouth. She blinked and glanced aside, her stomach flipping wildly. “Let’s get started,” she said curtly to hide her embarrassment, hoping he couldn’t see the fierce blush rising in her cheeks.

  She was relieved when he closed his eyes again. His eyes, much like his lips, tended to cause distraction, and she had no intention of proving his fears correct by drawing even the smallest drop of blood.

  Picking up the razor, she began.

  Memories of doing the same thing for her father assisted her as she progressed. It was easy enough to recall just the right angle at which to hold the blade against the skin, where to start, and how to maneuver over and around the trickier areas.

  The only problem—and it proved to be a bigger one than she expected—was in the fact that this wasn’t her father’s familiar, smiling face under her hand. It was Malcolm’s. With all its hard lines and unforgiving angles. Its roughness and strength and masculine beauty.

  He remained still and silent as she moved around him, repositioning herself every so often to get a better angle, leaning in close. She was very careful to avoid hitting his injury, but more than once her legs bumped against his or her arm brushed his chest.

  It did not take long for her to realize how completely she had failed to understand that he would not be the only one at risk. Alexandra was in danger of something far more significant than a nick to the skin.

  By the time she reached his throat, she had developed a slight shakiness. Not in her hands, which were steady and sure, but inside. Deep inside. Her stomach was engaged in a strange little quivering dance, her legs felt like jelly, and her breath was tight, as though it came from too high in her lungs.

  She was careful to ensure Malcolm could detect none of that. He had been reluctant enough to let her shave him. She had no intention of giving him a reason to regret his decision.

  She focused on the movement of the blade, trying to zero in on her task and block out the distractions. But when it came to Malcolm Kincaid, she was discovering that the man was made up of a variety of subtle and not-so-subtle distractions. From his eyes and mouth to his large, capable hands splayed atop the surface of his thighs. And his thighs—firmly muscled and spread to allow her enough space to stand between them.

  “Tip your head back a bit, please.” Goodness, how uneven her voice sounded.

  He did as she asked, and after swishing the blade clean in the bowl of water she’d set on the table, she carefully applied it to his throat, using her other hand to draw the skin taut beneath her blade. It took only a few minutes, but she figured she must have held her breath the entire time, because when she was finished, she was quite light-headed.

  With a long intake of breath, she stepped back. Tipping her head, she took a critical look at her work.

  “Not a single nick to be seen,” she declared with a triumphant smile. Despite her inner discomfort, she had managed very well.

  He opened his eyes. “You’re not finished.”

  She frowned, then widened her eyes in realization. “Oh. My father always preferred to keep a mustache.”

  “I’d like it gone.”

  “Of course,” she murmured.

  He tipped
his head back but did not close his eyes. Though she held the sharpened blade, the look in his eyes made her feel as though she were the one in mortal danger.

  The quivering in her belly took flight in a dance of fluttering wings. It was a delicious sort of danger. And she found that she liked not knowing if she was safe from it.

  She lowered her attention to his mouth. Just a small swath of hair remained there above his lips, but it suddenly seemed like the true test of her skill.

  Steadying her breath, she lifted the blade once again, feeling his steely gaze while she worked.

  After the second short pass of the razor, she shifted her weight, and her knee bumped against his inner thigh. The inadvertent contact was devastating to her nerves, and she bit the inside of her cheek hard to hold in the gasp that rose from her tight chest.

  Another short stroke revealed the divot that bisected the space between his nose and his mouth.

  Her belly flipped, then flopped, and she turned to rinse the blade and give herself a moment to force a longer breath. Turning back, she bumped his thigh again. This time, he lifted his hand and set it on the curve of her hip.

  She knew it was intended to steady her. He couldn’t have known that his touch right then would send a flood of melting heat through her center.

  Her gaze flew up to his, and what she saw there made the heat inside her burst into a bright, burning flame.

  Maybe he knew exactly what he was making her feel. His eyes held a hint of that raw hunger, and she was fairly certain the same hunger burned in her own eyes.

  His fingers flexed over her hip, as though he would draw her in closer to him, but he didn’t.

  He didn’t remove his hand either.

  “Almost done,” he said in a rough voice.

  She suspected his words were meant to be encouraging, but really, they just managed to make her even more jittery inside. Intensely aware of their proximity, of the warm weight of his hand on her hip and the fact that he watched her face with those intense, predatory eyes, Alexandra brought the blade up for one final pass.

  But it was simply too much. The internal shakiness she had been battling from the start finally reached her hand. And as she brought the razor down over the outer edge of his mouth, the blade slipped—an infinitesimal amount, but it was enough to nick the skin above the corner of his lip.

  Alexandra made a small sound of dismay as a red drop of blood formed. She swept her thumb over the spot, wiping it away. “I’m sorry,” she said softly. “I almost managed it.”

  Without a word, he grasped her hand and brought it to his mouth. Pressing her thumb to his lips, he gave a flick of his tongue and reclaimed the drop of blood.

  Alexandra’s breath stopped the instant her thumb came in contact with his perfect lips, but the velvet texture of his tongue was nearly more than she could endure. Heat pooled between her thighs, and her knees locked to keep her from collapsing to the floor right there between his legs.

  * * *

  The second his lips closed over the pad of her thumb, Malcolm knew he’d made a huge mistake. But then he went one worse and had to taste her.

  He wanted to do more. The look in her eyes suggested she wanted him to do more.

  He released her instead. “Thank you,” he muttered.

  She didn’t respond. As he rose to his feet, she took a few quick steps back. Good thing she did, or he might have put his arms around her. He might have cupped his hand over the curve of her buttocks to hold her against him while he discovered what her mouth tasted like.

  “Sit back down,” she said quietly. “I want to check your shoulder before you retire for the night.”

  “It’s fine.”

  “I’ll judge that for myself.” She gave a tip of her head toward the chair. “Have a seat.”

  Though everything in him was tense and tight with the urge to get the hell out of there before he did something he shouldn’t, he could tell by her expression that she wouldn’t be put off. He lowered back into the chair while she moved around behind him, fetching the poultice and more bandages.

  “We’ll have to remove your shirt.” Her words, coming from so close behind him, caused ripples of awareness through his blood.

  In movements made rough and jerky by the desire he couldn’t completely tamp down, he released the buttons of his shirt and shrugged it off. Then her hands were on him, roaming over his back and shoulder as she unwound the bandages. His stomach muscles tensed in resistance.

  She got to him. Down deep in his core. Her scent, her soft hands, her bright, curious, devastating eyes. He’d managed to control his rising physical lust, but only just barely. He felt a yearning for something more. Something that went beyond hot, searching looks and brief brushes of her hands.

  The worst part was that he knew—he felt in his bones—that she wanted him just as badly.

  “Lean forward a bit, please,” she murmured.

  Once the bandages were removed, she smoothed her fingertips around the wound on the back of his shoulder, probing at the edges, then sliding away with a cooling touch. He sat stiff and silent as she worked, trying not to think about how it might feel to have her hands moving over his body for other reasons.

  He could not allow himself to indulge in such fantasies.

  When she came around to check where the bullet had entered his body, he tipped his head so he could consider her expression. The concentration and compassion evident in her gentle features nearly unmanned him.

  In that exact second, he understood that this woman was more dangerous than he’d previously realized. It wasn’t just physical lust that squeezed his chest tight. The dark, quiet longing inside him went beyond that.

  He couldn’t recall ever having anyone care for him with such intent focus. Such soft and tender regard didn’t fit in with his life. He could barely remember a time when death hadn’t claimed a permanent corner of his existence. Chasing Gavin’s killers, hunting bounties, fending off attacks of retribution and glory seekers. There was always some reason to draw his gun, and he never knew if that draw would be his last.

  He didn’t know any other way to live, but he sure as hell didn’t need to drag anyone else into such a life. Not when he couldn’t guarantee he’d be able to protect them. His failure with Gavin proved he was unworthy of that kind of responsibility.

  Hell, their current situation was proof of that. Dunstan’s men had nearly had him, and then where would Alex have been? She relied on him to protect her.

  He’d done a crap job of it so far.

  The train of his thoughts made his skin feel tight and itchy. His blood ran hot with the urge to move.

  Thank God she was efficient and finished applying the new bandage within a matter of minutes. As soon as the ends were tied off, he stood and slid his shirt back on. He was heading for the door before he even finished buttoning it up. “I’m going to check on the horses,” he declared before stepping into the dark of night.

  Twenty-Five

  Alexandra stood beside the table, staring at the cabin door long after Malcolm had passed through it. She released a long, shaky breath. Then inhaled slowly and released another one.

  The time she’d spent nursing Malcolm’s wounds and doing everything she knew to do to help him fight the fever had been draining and intense. But it was nothing compared to what it was like spending the day in and around the confining cabin now that he was fully awake and on his feet.

  When he’d been unconscious, it had never occurred to her to consider the half-nakedness of his body as anything but necessary for the care she needed to provide.

  But now…

  Touching the man, even with the purest of intentions and her focus firmly directed at his injuries, had taken on a new layer of intimacy. His smallest movements bunched the muscles of his back, chest, and abdomen. The strength in his body was impossible to ignore, despit
e the wounds he’d suffered and the fever he’d just endured.

  And his strength appealed to her.

  It really appealed to her.

  Alexandra finally turned away. She wasn’t sure exactly what she’d been waiting for anyway. Unfortunately, her gaze then fell on the bed, and she realized with a rush of panic that there was only one. Bed, that is.

  She may have shared the narrow mattress with Malcolm the last two nights, but that was because he’d needed her to soothe him when he grew restless and cool him when he became overly warm.

  She’d just have to sleep on the floor.

  Yes. That would be best. She gave a decisive nod. With his injury, he needed the bed far more than she did.

  The decision made, she went about setting up her bedroll beside the fire. There was only the one pillow on the bed, so she rolled up her split skirt to tuck under her head. Her large coat would serve as a blanket when the fire died down and the cabin grew cold through the night.

  It wasn’t likely to be very comfortable, but certainly no worse than lying on the ground beside a campfire.

  Of course, on the trail, there wasn’t a perfectly comfortable bed within sight.

  After adding another log to the fireplace, Alexandra lowered herself to the bedroll, kneeling in the center as she unplaited her hair. She was sitting there, running her hands through the tangles, when Malcolm returned.

  When their eyes met, they both froze.

  An odd, rushing force seemed to flow from his eyes straight into her body. For a bright moment, she felt as though she were sitting there waiting specifically for him. Not in any casual way, as in she knew he’d be returning soon, but in a deep-rooted, visceral, down-to-her-bones kind of way. As though his appearance somehow fulfilled every longing she’d ever had and so many more she didn’t know had existed. The feeling came on in one consuming, flashing instant before his gaze darkened with a heavy scowl.

  “What the hell are you doing?” he asked.

  Alexandra blinked a few times, trying to clear away the strange reaction. Though her mind became more focused, it did nothing to help the way her body seemed to hum in anticipation under his steady regard.