by Shelley Gray
When he was sixteen, he'd even begun to look around at the girls in his family's circle, mentally cataloging each female, weighing the pros and cons of each one, deciding who would one day suit him best as his wife.
As only an arrogant boy would do.
Then, of course, everything changed. The war came and their father had been gravely injured in his unit's first skirmish. After that, everything in his paper-perfect world came tumbling down. An influenza epidemic swept through their town, killing his brother and sister in one week.
His mother retreated into herself as grief became heavy.
And then the Union soldiers came and made his home— his birthright—theirs. Will and his mother had left in the middle of the night, afraid for their lives, and had ended up in a neighbor's small cabin. The day he turned seventeen, he'd found his mother dead by her own hand.
He'd cast away his immaturity, pushed aside all those grandiose ideas, and went to war. He'd put his brain and brawn and anger to use, eventually serving under Captain Clayton Proffitt and Major John Merritt.
When the war ended, he drifted for a bit. But when it became evident that his land was ruined and overtaken with squatters, he'd found another home—the U.S. Marshals.
It was a good fit. Eventually Sam Edison, its director, told him he had a unique talent for pretending to be someone he wasn't.
Since his reality wasn't much, he'd dived into the new job with an eagerness that would have been admirable if it wasn't so shameful.
Time and again, he'd posed as any number of losers and thieves. He'd begun to count on others' need to trust in order to gain inside information and ultimately crush the very people who'd reached out to him.
He was so good at it, he'd even been asked to infiltrate the Walton Gang in order to procure enough evidence to take James Walton to trial.
He never considered refusing the directive.
All those steps had been a matter of survival, and he didn't fault fate. He'd praised God for his opportunities. Gave thanks that he was still surviving, that he was still moving forward. In the back of his mind, he'd wondered why it had all happened. He didn't understand why he'd survived when others hadn't—what purpose his gifts were going to be used for— until he'd met Jamilyn.
From the moment he'd gazed into her velvety brown eyes, he'd known for certain that God had never left him. He'd taken so much, but had gifted him with a beautiful woman worth saving.
And now she was curled up next to him. His responsibility.
The knowledge screamed inside of him, spurring him further awake. He needed to get up and keep her moving. He needed to get her to safety before whoever James Walton had sent to find them got lucky. One thing was certain—Boss would send someone to gun them down. There was no doubt about that. James Walton didn't look lightly upon loose ends.
A quick glance toward the other side of the room confirmed that the elderly couple were still asleep. Good. With any luck, he and Jamilyn would be on their way before they were missed.
Reaching out, he dared to brush her shoulder with his fingertips. "Jamie? Jamie, honey, we need to go."
With a languid sigh, she shifted and rolled toward him, her leg going flush against his, her lips slightly parted. His heart beat rapidly while the rest of him ached to take what she was offering. Blinking, he forced his leg further from her and hardened his voice. "Jamilyn, wake up now."
Her eyelids fluttered open. For a split second, when they rested on him, her expression softened. Wonder lit her gaze, making him think of pretty postcards of places he was never going to see. A wistfulness flowed through him, igniting his imagination.
Then she blinked again, as if she'd suddenly noticed they were sharing a bed. And her wonder changed to fear.
"I won't hurt you," he whispered. "Do you remember where you are?" He swallowed. Then, because she looked so wary, he spoke again. "Do . . . do you recall who I am? And who we're pretending to be?"
Slowly, she nodded.
As a shiver ran through her, Will wished he could have changed so much. But there was nothing that could be said. "How soon can you be ready?"
She shook her head in an obvious attempt to clear her head. "As soon as you need me to be."
"Good girl." Getting to his feet, he leaned down and held out a hand. After a moment's hesitation, Jamie climbed to her feet. He stared at her for too long, took a chance and ran his thumb over her delicate skin, and then dropped her hand. "Let me look outside to make sure everything is clear, then I'll walk you to the outhouse."
Even as a pale flush flowed up her cheeks, she nodded.
Will was amazed by her bravery. Many a woman would have been overcome by now or would have collapsed under the weight of so much adversity. But not this lady. Instead of crumbling, she was standing straighter and growing in strength.
But how could he tell her any of that? She still believed he was an outlaw. And he needed to keep up her fear until the time was right. The only thing worse than her being afraid of him was for the Walton Gang to even have an inkling that he wasn't who they thought he was. If that were the case, Will knew for certain that they would stop at nothing in order to find him—and to get information out of him.
Even, he knew, using Jamie to bend him to their will.
After pulling on his boots, he slipped outside and scanned the area. When he saw no signs of anyone, he guided Jamie outside and walked her the few frozen yards to the outhouse.
Scant minutes later, she came back to him.
To his eyes, she looked pale. "Are you all right, sweetheart?"
Her eyes flickered briefly, as if she'd just noticed that he'd started talking in endearments. For a moment, he was tempted to apologize, though he wasn't sorry. It had been too long since he'd been around anyone who had inspired any sort of tender emotions. The novelty was too good.
Besides, he figured that apologizing would be out of character. At least for her perception of the man he was.
After gazing at him a moment longer, she looked away. "I'm fine."
She was anything but. He couldn't help teasing her. "I'm starting to get the feeling you'd tell me you were fine no matter what the situation."
"It doesn't matter anyway, does it? I mean, it's not like we have a choice about what we're doing. Or what we can do. I'm grateful for your assistance."
Oh, but she spoke so formally. As if they were in her parents' front parlor and he was paying a call on her. Not like the two of them were lost in the middle of a Colorado snowstorm with a half dozen Marshals out for his blood, an old woman dying of influenza, and a set of killers hunting them down like they were their latest prey.
This time he nodded. And brought forth a new severity between them. Calling up lessons learned at his father's knee, he said, "You're right, ma'am. We don't have any choice except to keep moving. That's all that's left to us. Let's go tell these folks good-bye and get on our way."
Her cheeks colored, though whether from their time in the cold or whether she was preparing herself for another hard moment, he didn't know. Instead of speaking, she turned and walked forward, leading him back to the cabin.
When they got inside, he almost smiled. The warmth of the cabin caressed his skin, bringing with it a blessed relief from the cold. Though the pungent odor stung his eyes, the smoky scent relaxed his muscles.
Then he realized they were no longer the only ones up. The man was across the room, kneeling in front of the fire. And looking at Will.
Will cleared his throat. "Sir, we'll be going now. Thank you kindly for your hospitality."
"Such that it was," Chester Clark said with a hint of sarcasm.
Will noticed that he was fussing with a coffee pot and a tin. After another moment or two of coaxing the flames, the man added, "You know, wherever you're going will still be there in twenty minutes. Can I convince you to stay for biscuits and coffee?"
Though his instincts commanded him to get on their way, stronger concerns for Jamie made him consider the invitat
ion. She already looked too pale; he couldn't refuse her a hot meal. "Can you spare it?"
"I can, if you can spare me a few moments and bring in some of that wood you chopped last night. I'm afraid your brawn is more than I've got at the moment."
"I'll stack as much as you want," he offered before he could remind himself to move on.
"Just enough to stack up right here." He pointed to a small two-foot square area, allowing for only a dozen stacked logs.
Will got to his feet. "Will you be all right if I leave you for a moment?" he asked Jamie.
"I'll be fine."
"Obliged," the man murmured. "I'll be grateful for your assistance, and for the company." With a cough, he pushed forward a needle and thread. "I couldn't help noticing that the collar of your dress was torn. If you want, you could put on one of my wife's old gowns for a bit and mend your dress."
Jamie looked at Will with such a look of longing that he couldn't refuse her.
"If you don't care to wear one of her dresses, just stay behind that curtained area for a few minutes," the man said agreeably.
"I'd like to mend my dress," she whispered.
Will nodded, then escorted her toward a dark blue piece of fabric hanging down. The area that it covered was so slim, he'd thought it was a curtain. After standing outside of it while Jamie took off her dress and slipped on the woman's worn calico, he left her to her mending. "I'll be back soon."
Even as he walked out the door, he realized he'd just put himself in an extremely precarious position—at this moment Jamie could be telling them everything. She had no reason to trust him, and every reason to be afraid.
18
Have you been with your man for long?" Chester Clark asked.
Looking up from her sewing, Jamie bit her lip. For a split second, she contemplated telling him the truth. Considered pulling him aside and asking him for help. Thought about telling him everything, confessing her sins.
But then reality set in. This man was no match for Will McMillan. Even if he was a good shot, there was no doubt in her mind that Will could shoot him dead without a second's hesitation.
"No," she said. Then looked at the door again. Half praying that Will would come in right away. Save her from the lies.
He chuckled, his expression easy. "I thought so. You two have that way about you."
"What way?" she was intrigued in spite of herself.
"That way that newly marrieds have." When she stared at him in confusion, he explained himself further. "You know what I mean. . . . It's like you two only see each other. You probably don't even realize it none, but your eyes follow him nonstop. Just like you're afraid he's going to surprise you with something good." Looking at his wife fondly, he murmured, "I've been there a time myself with Abigail."
Jamie couldn't help being amazed by the irony of the situation. Of course she couldn't stop watching. Will like a hawk. She didn't trust him or trust their situation. What's more, she was afraid of him.
Terribly.
Well, maybe that was putting it a little heavy. But she did fear what could happen.
"I guess that's true. I can't help watching him," she said, as she knotted the thread and surveyed the mended collar.
The fix wasn't perfect by any stretch of the imagination. However, it was a definite improvement from the way it had been.
After excusing herself, she changed dresses quickly behind the curtain and stepped out just as her "husband" came in, his arms laden with a stack of wood.
"Seeing a young pup like you loaded down heavy does my old heart good." The old man cackled.
A grin appeared out of nowhere as Will stood up. "I'll go get a few more sticks."
Jamie watched Will leave.
"Where are you off to now?" Chester asked when she sat near him again.
She tried to recall what Will had said. Could she tell the truth? Or not? "Wichita," she replied, though as soon as she said the words she remembered that Will had said Topeka. Panic rocked her as she glanced at the man. Waited for him to call her on the blunder.
But instead of pointing out the discrepancy, he merely nodded. "Nice place. I've been there once myself. Seein' family?"
"No." She didn't know what was there. All she did know was that it wasn't where she was now.
For a moment the man waited politely for her to expound. But when she didn't, he coughed and went back to watching the biscuits. "Coffee, ma'am?"
"Please." When he pointed to a set of metal mugs, she crossed the room to the miniscule kitchen and picked up two. One for herself and one for Will. Without a doubt he was going to need something hot to fight off the outside chill.
When had she begun to think of him as part of her whole?
With a tremor, the old man picked up the pot with a folded cloth and filled the cups. Just as she was taking her first sip, Will came in again.
"These should do it, sir. Don't think there's much more room."
"You've helped so much. Come take a seat. Your Missus got you some coffee."
"Obliged," he said to her, his light blue eyes making her think of bluebonnets once again.
He blew gently on the rich brew. Unable to help herself, she watched his lips purse and blow, slightly startled that he was capable of anything so delicate.
An eyebrow rose, indicating that he watched her, then he turned to the man once again. "Good coffee."
"Got some beans three months ago. My Abigail treated those beans like gold, I tell you."
"On some mornings, it's just as valuable, I think."
"Indeed." He cackled, then grinned with pleasure as he tottered around the kitchen again. "Looky here. Perfect biscuits."
As he grabbed ahold of the pan with the cloth, Jamie was tempted to warn him to be careful. But of course she kept her thoughts to herself.
"These look delicious," Will said, surprising her. Crossing to the man's side, he pulled two of the piping hot biscuits out of the pan and placed them on a tin plate. Then he carried it over to her and placed it in front of her. "Eat."
"What about you?"
"We'll share." And with that, he pulled off half the offering, tore a bite-size section off of that, and popped it into his mouth.
As she watched, a look of pleasure slid into his eyes, telling her that he appreciated the simple treat and that he hadn't had such things in a very long while.
"You ought to eat too, Jenny," he said softly. "There's no telling when we'll have anything so good again."
He was right. Well aware that the man was watching them curiously, she too pulled off a bite-size portion and popped it into her mouth. "This is delicious," she said, attempting to smile easily.
But the elderly man wasn't watching them any longer. Instead, he'd moved to his wife and was gently coaxing her to sit up. A spasm of coughs wracked her body as she scooted into position.
As Jamie noticed again that Mrs. Clark was really little more than skin and bones, she knew that the woman's days on this earth were few. A quick glance toward Will told her he was thinking the same thing.
"Mr. Clark, would you like me to help you? I could help you bathe her, if you'd like."
Beside her, Will stiffened. She ignored him.
A flickering of appreciation flashed before their host's gaze shuttered again. "Thank you for the offer, but you two need to get on your way. And I'm afraid my Abigail won't know the difference."
"All right then." As quickly as she could, she finished the remainder of her coffee and breakfast.
As soon as she finished, Will took her plate, pumped water into the sink, and deftly rinsed the plates and mugs. Then to her surprise, Will stood in front of the man.
"Do you pray?" he asked, his voice husky, seeming to be filled with gravel.
The man seemed flustered by the question, but answered after a moment. "Yes, I do. I mean, we both do."
"May I pray for you? For you and Mrs. Clark?"
"I'd be obliged."
Jamie couldn't hide the surprise she felt. Who
was this outlaw who fetched wood, washed dishes, and prayed over strangers?
"Jenny, would you join us?" he asked, holding out his hand.
Obediently, she walked to his side and slipped her hand into his. The moment her palm was surrounded by the rough, calloused skin, a warmth spread through her that was almost unfamiliar. For a moment, she tried to catalog it, attempted to find the source, tried to determine where she'd felt such a thing before.
If she'd ever felt it before.
Then, with some wonder, she gave the feeling a label.
It was safety. She felt safe next to this enigmatic man. Safer than she'd felt in some time.
Will squeezed her palm before closing his eyes. "Heavenly Father," he murmured. "Dear, gracious God. We give you thanks and praise."
The warm sensation that was easing through her expanded as Will continued to speak, praising the couple who'd sheltered them. Giving thanks for the food and water.
And wishing Mrs. Clark's journey into heaven would be a safe one, without pain.
With a start, she glanced at the woman's husband. Surely he would find offense at hearing such plain-spoken language. But instead of being offended, the man's shoulders eased. Obviously, he'd been hoping for some of those same things.
Finally, Will squeezed her hand again. "Dear God, I give you thanks for the woman by my side. Please watch over her as our journey continues. It is sure to be hard. Please give her strength to make it through." He paused. "In your name we pray. Amen."
"Thank you." Mr. Clark wiped a tear from his eye.
"We'd best go now," Will said, making her realize that there was so much she had never been around.
Then, he surprised her again when he unrolled a wad of cash. "I need one of your horses."
"Take the gelding," the man replied, accepting the money without hesitation. "He's strong and steady."
Will nodded again, then finally glanced her way. "Sweetheart? We need to go now."
She followed him to the door, pausing to glance backwards at the man who watched them, sitting stoically next to his ailing wife.
He raised a hand, letting her know without words that no words were necessary from her either. She was relieved, because really, there was nothing to say.