by Shelley Gray
Will could hardly hold back. Only with extreme effort did he keep his voice even. "Tell me what, Jenny?"
"That Miss Abigail thinks you're right handsome."
"What?"
Jamilyn laughed, the tinkling sound lighting up the room like a set of piano keys. "See, I told you he'd be surprised."
It was true. Will could hardly contain his surprise. Honestly, Jamie was speaking as if she were in the middle of a tea party, not side by side with an escaped outlaw and in danger of catching disease.
As he stared, his fingers itching to pull Jamie away and wash her hands in lye, their host's expression turned to sheer gratitude. "Oh, Miss. I mean Ma'am, it's sure a pleasure to have your company. My wife hasn't looked so happy in days. I'm Chester. Chester Clark."
When it looked as if the man wanted to touch Jamie too, a tinge of jealousy skipped forward. Striding to her side, Will rested a protective hand on her shoulder. "We thank you for your hospitality."
Jamie looked up at him in confusion for a moment before turning back to the struggling woman. "Abigail—Mrs. Clark—how may I help you? Would you like me to help you with your hair?"
"Yes," Mrs. Clark said weakly.
Will looked on and feared Jamie getting sicker by the second. "Jenny, darlin', perhaps—"
"Don't worry yourself, dear," she interrupted, her expression hard. "This doesn't concern you."
He was just about to remind her of their exact circumstances when Chester laughed uproariously. "We sure know how to pick 'em, don't we? Never could abide a timid woman. Let's go get some wood. It's going to be a cold one tonight."
Will hated even the idea of leaving Jamie's side. But it was obvious he had no choice—and that Mrs. Clark needed some privacy. "Lead the way, Chester. Lead and I'll follow."
An hour later, they were all settled for the night. Well, as settled and situated as Jamie could be in such unfamiliar surroundings and next to a man she didn't trust.
Except for the glow of the fireplace, the interior of the cabin was dark, almost black. The flames sent off a multitude of shadows, so she had to rely on her other senses to help her with her bearings.
Next to her, Will lay on his back. He was resting on top of their covers even though the cabin's interior was chilly.
They were so close that she felt his wide shoulders and smelled his scent. Over the top of them lay Will's duster and an ancient wedding-ring quilt that had seen better days.
But still she was terribly cold.
Mrs. Clark was near the fireplace on the far side of the room. In addition, Mr. Clark had positioned their spot behind the table and chairs, in an attempt to give Jamie and Will privacy.
But instead of feeling more private, Jamie felt more on display than ever before.
All night long, Will had watched her, fussed over her, been extremely solicitous. All under the guise of a caring husband. Unspoken was the warning about saying too much, or even attempting to escape.
Jamie knew Will wouldn't hesitate to resort to violence if need be. Reminding her of just how murky everything seemed to be. Yes, Will was a better man than Kent.
But really, how good was that?
As Chester's snores began to echo through the room, Will sighed next to her and shifted again. Jamie tried to reposition herself with each movement, but it was difficult. Will was a big man, and they were in a terribly small space.
Finally, he settled on his side and faced her. "You okay?" he whispered.
Was she? Well, she was alive, so that was something. She nodded.
He stared at her, his gaze skimming over every shadow on her face. "Are you cold?"
"Yes." There'd been no point in lying about that.
He stiffened. Looked her over some more. Then seemed to make a decision. "May I hold you?"
His voice was low, so low it was barely understandable. However, the look he shot her way was earnest, and as the meaning behind it settled in, Jamie realized he was truly concerned for her. She meant more to him than just a captive.
The idea made a little tingle whip through her body. It had been so terribly long since she'd felt any sort of connection of worth with anyone. The last six months had been taken up with her parents' sickness and death.
And living in that strange, hostile void of grief. She'd practically floated in a haze through each day—wondering what she was going to do. Wondering what she wanted to do.
She'd prayed and slept and tried to remember to eat. And then she'd prayed some more. Of course, never had she imagined that the Lord would send her into the arms of the Walton Gang, and now she was running for her life next to a toohandsome man who was undoubtedly her enemy.
"Jamie? Are you ever going to answer me?" Will drawled, soft and low. "May I hold you?"
May he? The words and the images they spurred brought forth that same old flicker of awareness she was starting to recognize.
Of course, it started to scare her as well. She ached for human contact. But she feared being hurt worse.
And though she was still technically his hostage, Jamie guessed she might still have choices. That just because he offered didn't mean she had to accept. "I'm fine."
"You sure? Sharing body warmth will help us both." He paused. "I know you're chilled."
She was terribly cold. But moving close to him had its own set of worries. She'd let her guard down so much on the train that she'd fallen asleep in his arms. Getting that close to him again felt foolhardy. "I'm fine," she said primly. "I'm fine right here."
Something flickered in his eyes, then he shifted to his back again and stared up at the ceiling. "Try to sleep then. Tomorrow will be a long day."
His words sounded empty and sad. Almost as if he wished things between them were really like their lies. Almost as if he wished things between them were different.
But of course they weren't. The very worst thing that could happen would be for her to start to pretend that she believed in wishes or miracles.
Or that she was ever going to get to Kansas City. Because at the moment, chances were very, very good she was not going to make it.
And her body would just end up alone on the plains like the rest of the hostages'.
Closing her eyes, she asked God to help her. And if He couldn't do that, she asked that He give her peace. Surely that wasn't too much to hope for?
15
After a cursory glance, Scout Proffitt refrained from looking left or right when he entered the saloon. To his way of thinking, surroundings didn't matter all that much anyway. He'd seen the inside of enough saloons to last a lifetime, and if he knew anything, he knew one thing for sure: they were all the same.
The only thing different about this one, located in the middle of some two-bit, nondescript town just west of Dodge City, was that it held information he wanted.
Someone had to have seen McMillan; Scout was banking on it. He was anxious to locate McMillan and the woman, do what he had to do, and then do his best to forget what kind of man he'd become.
As smoky air, heavy with the scent of unwashed bodies, surrounded him, he kept his pace slow and his eyes straight ahead. Back when he'd first started out, when he was greener than spring grass, he'd learned the hard way to never make eye contact with strangers.
A miserable ex-soldier with a bad case of regret had beaten him good when Scout had dared to look too closely at the man's empty shirtsleeve.
Well, he'd learned not to do that anymore.
Now Scout made sure that he was the one who people feared, the one who people barely dared to sneak a peek at. Few men shot the man who kept to himself. It wasn't a rule, but it always made sense. He wasn't the type to pick a fight with men who respected privacy. Life was too tiring and hard for that.
Now, as he walked through the dusty, noisy room, Scout felt his jaw clench. Lord, but he was worn out. Dirty, too. Only duty, not any great desire for vengeance, propelled him forward. Truth was, if he'd had his way, he'd never enter another saloon for the rest of his life.
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With every step he took, the scent of dirt and grime and something softer and more lewd seeped into his pores like familiar friends. One by one, the inhabitants looked him over. Considered.
He kept his shoulders back and his face blank. Old lessons piled up inside him and pulled his muscles into compliance. Walk with pride. Don't show emotions. Never show weakness. Don't court trouble.
Pride and instinct kicked in as he realized that yet again he was in control of the situation. He was the one who made things happen. That was how a man like him survived.
And, every once in a while, thrived.
After a pause, raucous laughter from a bar girl rang loud and clear, and the coarse grumbling and conversation from a table of poker players mixed in with it.The sounds blended together and reverberated in his ears, making him feel on fire and on edge. And as those familiar feelings came over him— just like they always did—Scout cursed his luck.
No matter how much things changed, they were always the same too.
When he'd jumped off the train, he'd half expected to be camped in the middle of nowhere, shivering under the moonlight in desperate silence. A part of him had yearned for that as well. He'd be alone with only coyotes to fear. In addition, finding some pain in his circumstances would mirror the pain he felt inside for being the person that he was.
A killer. A coldhearted killer who deserved nothing. Only he would be able to find a saloon so easily.
However, a brief four-mile walk had brought him to the town of Saddlecreek, and his feet into the only place where towns folk who were up to no good congregated.
Continuing to feel more than one person's eyes watching him, he found the most opportune spot to watch the crowd and gave thanks that it was empty.
He took a chair and sat with his back to the wall, his usual spot. Time and again had proved that only with his back against the wall could he be certain no one was behind.
Stifling a sigh, he leaned back and looked around. Waited.
Then, there it was—a prickling at the back of his neck. He almost welcomed the feeling. He breathed slowly as it amped up, signaling a warning that he couldn't ignore and knew better than to ever try.
He knew the feeling as well as he knew how long it would take him to draw with his right hand. Someone wanted his attention, and was determined to get it.
Unable to put it off any longer, Scout finally let himself scan the crowd. As he stared, one by one, men looked away.
He shifted. Waited some more. Then looked into a pair of eyes that were as dark and soulless as any he'd ever encountered. It was a crying shame they belonged to a woman who had to be no older than seventeen or eighteen.
Habit and experience told him to keep his mouth shut and wait. No reason to give himself or his feelings away. She could want any number of things. His body. His skill with a pistol. Or she could be observing him for another man, hoping to use his weakness for another's benefit.
All of those things had happened more than a time or two.
Forcing himself to breathe slowly, he kept his eyelids at half-mast and stayed patient.
Inch by inch, the woman stepped forward.
Her dark brown hair hung in a tangled mass around her shoulders and back. Although it looked in need of a comb and brush, the wildness of it complemented her dark eyes and thick eyelashes. And the bruise on her cheek. Her pale lips parted.
But instead of intriguing him, her expression only increased his uneasiness. Though she was a female, he found his right hand hovering over his Colt. After all, she wouldn't be the first woman to wish him dead.
Across the room, the poker game continued. To his left, the barkeep continued to talk horses with a pair of cowhands bellied up at the bar. Two harlots dressed in faded calicos smiled tiredly at a pair of cowboys still dusty from the range.
But here, right at that minute, time seemed to stand still.
Continuing, the woman crept forward with her bottom lip tucked between her teeth.
His eyes narrowed. "That's close enough, sugar."
As he'd expected, his command was obeyed. She stopped abruptly and seemed to gather her courage.
Scout waited.
Finally, she spoke. "You're new."
"I'm not staying long. Just passing through."
She inched closer. "Where are you from?"
There was a drop of blood now decorating that lip she bit. "Now why would you imagine I'd tell you?"
"No reason. I just thought I'd ask."
"It doesn't matter where I'm from."
He was just about to shoo her away, to tell her almost kindly to move on, but just as if she'd suddenly made a decision, she closed the distance between them. Next thing he knew, she'd pulled out the chair across from him and had sat down. Uninvited.
Which made him good and bothered. He didn't want a woman. He wanted information about McMillan, and he'd bet his last dollar that she couldn't give him that. But his muscles eased somewhat and he leaned back. Braced a hand on the table. "I don't know what you have, but I don't want it."
"I don't . . . I mean I know . . ." Her cheeks pinkened as she sputtered. "What I mean to say is . . . I need your help," she finally said, her voice quivery but solid. A true combination of twin emotions. Hesitation and steel. Promise and fear.
'Course, he wasn't in the mood to give help. He had two people to hunt down. "Sugar, I can't help you."
"But I haven't even asked what I—"
"It don't matter."
To his surprise, his rudeness seemed to give her courage. "I hope you'll reconsider. Or at least listen. If you could." She bit her lip again, encouraging another drop of blood to appear. "I'm desperate, you see."
All that desperation made him uncomfortable. The wild, wary look in her eyes made him remember his life long ago. Made him recall things better left forgotten.
Which, of course, made him angry.
So, he kept his voice hard. "I don't know who you think I am, but I'm not your savior. I can promise you that."
Pushing aside his words, she leaned forward. "There's no one else. You're it."
Further discussion was prevented by the barkeep. "You drinking?" he asked, wiping his hands on the white dishrag wrapped around his middle.
Scout lifted two fingers. "Whiskey for me." And then out of nowhere, he turned to the woman. "What do y'all want?" As pure apprehension licked her features, he clarified himself. "To drink, sugar. What do you want to drink?"
"To drink? Oh. Nothing."
The barkeep rolled his eyes like he knew better.
"Better get something. I'm buying," Scout ordered. After all, he hadn't even wanted to be in her company. He sure as heck didn't want to sit and watch her just stare at him while he drank. When she still hesitated, he offered more choices, just like he was a bartender or some such. "Beer? Water?"
"Could I maybe have tea? Hot tea?"
The barkeep sneered. "We ain't got tea here, Kitty. You know that."
Against his will, a tiny bit of irritation morphed into amusement. "Kitty?"
"Brother's nickname," she said. "Stuck."
"I guess so," he murmured as he looked at her. At her toodark eyes, so void of hope. At her too-much hair that should have been pinned up. At her too-skinny body that should have been hungry.
At her dress that was too faded. At the dress's collar, which had been hastily mended with the wrong color thread. Several times.
He thought about that. Thought about her seeking him out. And even though he wasn't the type to stick his neck out for anybody, something inside of him clicked. And that's when he knew right then and right there that things had changed.
"Barkeep, find the lady a pot of hot tea," he said softly. When he felt the man's hesitation, Scout raised his eyes and looked right above the man's right shoulder. "I know you've got a kettle in the back."
The barkeep's arms folded across his chest. "And how would you know that?"
"You always do," he said frankly, knowing he hadn't been
in a bar that didn't have some kind of stove in the back. "Now, do it." And because the girl looked peaked, he added wearily, "I promise, I'll make it worth your while."
"How so? You going to pay double?"
The man's belligerence grated on his nerves. "Perhaps. Or perhaps if you do what I say, I won't kill you." And with that, he finally looked up at the man. Stared coldly at him, making sure they both knew he wasn't a man to make false promises. Ever.
The barkeep started, then looked at him more closely. All color vanished in his face. "Lord have mercy! You're Scout Proffitt, ain't you?"
If it wouldn't have been so much trouble, Scout would have pulled out his Colt and fired. "Keep your voice down."
"Yessir." The man complied, but his eyes lit up like Christmas had come early. "But . . . you're him, ain't you?"
Scout's only reply involved an impatient, dark glare.
The man's right hand crushed the white cloth in a fist. "I'll get that tea."
"And my whiskey?" he prodded. "Two fingers worth?"
"And your whiskey. Sure." With another awkward look at Kitty, the man turned away.
Leaving Scout alone with the woman again.
If he'd been able to, he would've tilted his head back in frustration. All he'd been wanting was a few moments of peace and quiet before he had to start asking questions.
Now that fool bartender was announcing his presence like an auctioneer and some poor beat-up girl was keeping him company.
She was now staring at him like he was an apparition. "Are you really Scout Proffitt?"
There was no reason to lie. "I am."
She blinked, took a breath, then asked, "Are . . . are the things people say . . . the things people wrote about you . . ." She swallowed. "Are they true?"
He let her stew on that one because the bartender had hustled over with a tumbler half-filled with whiskey. "Tea's a'comin'," he muttered before turning away.
Slowly, he ran a finger around the glass's rim.
It was on the tip of his tongue to lie. Or to let her know that he was probably much worse than anyone could ever guess.