by Shelley Gray
Not that he wanted to be reminded of that. Attempting to smile, she said, "So, did you find out any news?"
"I did." Looking at the half-crumpled paper in his hand, he said, "We finally got word. My boss is going to meet us here within twelve hours."
The idea that the ordeal could be over in hours felt shocking. "Truly? And then we'll go to Kansas City?"
"Not exactly. Sam thinks that taking you much farther on my own would be a mistake."
"I'm afraid I don't understand. We're all going together?"
"I mean that when Mr. Edison arrives, I'll be telling you good-bye."
She was still having a hard time getting the words to make sense in her head. "Forever?"
"Of course."
She shook her head in protest. "Will, I don't want to go anywhere with a strange man, especially not on a train." Getting on a locomotive again was going to be hard enough. Being accompanied by a strange man would send every fear fostered at the hands of Kent to come tumbling back. "Can't we come up with another plan?"
"There is no other option."
"But can't we come up with something else?" She hated the whine and the high-pitched tremor, but she also couldn't help herself. "Maybe you can write him back—"
"That's not how this works, Jamie. You know that." His voice turned more fluid. "Now, I know Sam is unfamiliar to you, but I promise you that there's nothing to be worried about. He's a very upstanding man. A true gentleman. In his company, you won't feel afraid."
"But he won't be you."
"He's better; he's my boss." He looked at the sheet of paper again. "He's made his decision, Jamie. He thinks it best that he takes you the rest of the way to your aunts."
"Why?'
"He feels it would be safer for you." He cleared his throat. "He . . . Mr. Edison, he's a formidable man, Jamie. No harm will come to you in his company."
That might be true, but to her nothing sounded more frightening than being alone with another man. Struggling to control the tremor in her voice, she shook her head. "I'm afraid I can't do that. Please tell him no."
"That's not how this works. When I get orders, they are expected to be followed."
"Well, I'm not a Marshal," she countered, full of bravado. "Therefore, I don't think I should have to follow your directives."
Leaning back against her door, Jamie noticed that he had both palms pressed against the wood behind him like he was making sure his exit hadn't disappeared. "You're not going to get your way," he said, his voice hard. "I have to follow orders."
But weren't there some things more important than work orders? What about private promises? What about promises made in the dark of the night? Or when they were alone in a room and she was so sick she wished she could die?
"But you promised me that you'd see me through. I thought you were a man of honor. I thought you kept your promises."
"I promised I'd keep you safe," he corrected. "I did that. Handing you over to Mr. Edison's protection will keep you even safer. I have not gone back on my word."
She heard the hurt in his voice and immediately became embarrassed. It wasn't right to speak to him that way; it wasn't right for her to use guilt in order to get her way.
It was time she stopped fighting the one man who didn't deserve her arguments.
So she nodded, though it took everything she had not to shake her head or cry or complain. Turning her back to him, she yearned—not for the first time—that things could be different.
She wished she had some options, that something would finally be in her control, because it sure seemed as if just about everything in her life was conspiring against her.
Or was just expecting her to go along with things.
Thinking about that, a burst of anger tore through her. "I do wish someone would one day ask me what I thought."
Crossing the room, he touched her shoulder and turned her around. "Jamie, don't you understand? It doesn't matter what you want. It doesn't matter what I want. All that matters is surviving."
"When will our wishes matter?"
He blinked. "Maybe they will matter when you're safe and settled. It will matter when I know you're settled in Kansas City with your aunts." After a swallow, he added, "When you are seeing your letter-writing man."
She couldn't believe Will had dared to bring up Randall. "Really?" she retorted. "You're really going to bring up the man who for days you've been teasing me about writing to?"
"I meant no disrespect. I am sure the two of you will have a good future together."
"A good future? Do you think he'll even still want me?"
"If he doesn't, I'll set him straight."
"And how will you do that? You'll be long gone." Though her voice cracked, she continued. "But I guess that's just fine and dandy with you."
"I didn't say that."
"What you said was close enough."
They were facing each other. Standing chest-to-chest. Eyes glaring. Tempers and heat rising between them. She was angry, and felt torn enough to want to lash out at him.
Their breathing accelerated. The tension between them heightened.
Then it seemed as if they were definitely out of choices. Someone's anger was going to be stopped. Someone had to give in.
And because she felt she had no choice, it might as well be her. "Will, are you really going to hand me over to some stranger?"
"It's my boss. Sam Edison. He's a man of impeccable character. A man who commands respect. With Sam, you'll be in good hands."
She eyed his face. Ached for some kind of reaction from him, something to tell her his feelings. "But what if something happens? What if I won't be in good hands?" Unspoken were her greatest fears. What if the man wasn't honorable like Will said but more like the Marshals who'd surrounded the train?
His face went blank. "Jamie, you'll be in better hands with him than you would be with me. He will take care of you. He has a lot of influence. He'll get you on another train or a stage or something. He will find a way to get you out of this mess."
She noticed Will was only talking about what she was going to be doing. "What about you?" she asked.
"What?"
"What's going to happen to you? Where does your boss want you to go?"
He opened his mouth. Swallowed. "Sam intends for me to go back to the Walton Gang."
"But they'll kill you."
"Sam's heard Scout Proffitt has been on our trail. He's close by. Real close. All I have to do is let him find me."
"If he finds you, he'll kill you."
"Maybe not. I know for a fact that he didn't want to kill an innocent woman. I might be able to use that to my advantage." Crossing his arms over his broad chest, he said, "I can't continue running, Jamilyn. I can't run forever. Sooner or later I've got to stop."
Sooner or later they all had to stop. That was true.
A lifetime of experiences had taught her that it was foolhardy to run, foolhardy to try to forget her problems or to attempt to push them aside.
Feeling deflated, she nodded. After all, the decision had been made. There really was nothing left for her to do.
It would be easier on Will if she were to accept graciously.
And if not graciously, then to at least finally give in.
The previous night, after Kitty had gone to sleep in their miserable room in the miserable boardinghouse, Scout Proffitt had gone down to the bar.
There, in that dark, cramped saloon that looked and smelled like a hundred other drinking establishments, he'd finally found the inforrmation he was looking for.
Ironically, the discovery hadn't done anything except make him even more weary.
When he'd first arrived, he'd fallen into conversation with a puny-looking weasel of a man who had hopes of one day cheating large groups of men out of their life savings. Eager to gain approval from an infamous outlaw in black, he'd given just enough information for Scout to garner a place at the lead card table, such that it was.
Four consecutive gam
es of five-card draw led to him an offhand comment about the sighting of a stalwart six-foot-tall ex-soldier who still clung to a military bearing and who was in in the company of a woman with lovely blond hair and a somewhat worn-out black taffeta gown.
He'd leapt on that information like a tick on a dog. Further conversation—and the exchange of both threats and money—yielded their location: the Mainstreet Hotel, just a block away.
Tonight, he was armed and ready and more than a little tired of the whole experience. He was tired of hunting and murdering.
And more than a little put out that Will McMillan hadn't been a whole lot harder to track down.
But, such was life. Not everyone gave him what he needed. Not everyone gave him much at all. A real man learned to do his best and keep silent. Because, of course, nothing got done by complaining.
That said, he was in no hurry to complete the job.
"Scout, you going out again tonight?"
He turned to Kitty who was sprawled out on the bed in a fearsome combination of innocence and heat. For a split second Scout wondered if she was attempting in some clumsy way to entice him, but almost immediately he disregarded that thought.
She might not be truly innocent, but he aimed to help get her that way—or at least something close to it.
"Yep," he finally answered.
"Did you find who you were lookin' for?"
He weighed the pros and cons of telling her the truth, then threw caution to the wind and nodded. "I believe I did."
Sitting up, the gal stared at him with those eyes of hers that had seen too much.
Scout looked right back, half waiting for her to ask more questions. Shoot, maybe she even was going to try to give him a conscience.
"So your journey is over."
"Pretty much." He was tempted to add that he still had to figure out what to do with her, but he didn't dare. It wouldn't do for him to think about anything except his orders. Thinking about personal things on the job only created problems.
Her lips pursed as if she'd finally come to a decision. "All right, then."
He exhaled, realizing suddenly that he was disappointed by her reaction. He'd hoped for panic or arguments or even recriminations.
Yes, he surely would've appreciated a healthy dose of guilt. He'd wanted to imagine that she cared for human life more than he did. Surely someone on this earth still considered murder a sin.
Standing at the foot of the bed, he said, "I'll be back later."
"Think you'll be gone long?"
"Don't know. Few hours, most likely. Then we'll need to move on."
She turned away from him before he was tempted to give her more information, which would have been a foolhardy thing, of course.
He paused again and almost asked her if she needed something. But what was he going to do? Murder and then bring her back a meal?
Disgusted with himself, he turned and walked out the door.
Purposefully, he didn't warn her to lock the door. That would mean he cared. Or could do something about her circumstances.
Instead, he kept his head down as his boots pattered over the wooden steps. He passed a pair of soldiers standing by a settee and walked around a whore and her man in the shadows of the lobby.
He walked out the front door, turned left, and headed to the hotel that had once seen better days and now was only biding its time until it fell into complete disrepair.
He checked his Colt.
And prepared to kill a man who could have been his friend —and a woman who he could have loved.
If he'd been of the mind to be the kind of man who'd made friends or had been lovable.
28
With the greatest reluctance Will left Jamie in the room. Without his protection, she would be vulnerable to anyone who could come near. What's more, he reckoned there was a very good chance she would be lulled by her own ingenuousness, finding hope in the false security of a locked door.
Though he didn't fault her goodness, he wished she was a bit more experienced, a little bit more worldly.
Anyone who'd been double-crossed or reduced to real hardship would never feel secure in a room at a public inn. Experience would have proved that the pitiful lock of a pine door was little defense against anyone intent on doing harm.
He knew how flimsy those doors were. Because, of late, he'd been the one pushing his way into rooms.
Will regretted leaving Jamie's side, but he knew he had no choice. Sometimes keeping her as safe as possible at all costs meant doing things he wasn't comfortable doing. He couldn't hide out with her, no matter how much he yearned to keep the rest of the world at bay.
Yes, this was for her own good. After all, he feared her getting sicker. A relapse could bring on pneumonia or a fever or any other sort of illness or disease.
He'd kept her locked in the room for another reason too. Her questions about Calvin had planted a seed of doubt, and Will wanted to be sure that Calvin was still the man he'd believed him to be since the last time he'd seen him.
If he wasn't, then Will needed to know. One way or another he was going to have to find a solution.
As he took the stairs slowly—half expecting to hear Jamilyn's cough through the paper-thin walls—he figured his reasonings were justified. People changed. People turned and became hard or addled or ruined.
Life had surely taught him that. During the war, he'd seen strong law-abiding men become so weak it had shamed all of them. He'd seen brave men become so scared that they'd run from a battle or had turned their backs on women and children—even if it meant they would be leaving them to certain death.
Sometimes, he realized with a burst of consciousness, those men had been his own comrades. The sharp pain of fear often encouraged the most stalwart to save their own skins. Even if it was just for a little bit longer.
'Course, he'd also seen the meekest of men become sadistic killers—and master interrogators. Pain inflicted and suffered could do that to a person.
So had the constant wear and tear and worry that war had brought on. When so many died, many began to care little for the sanctity of human life. And even less for the people who still walked on the earth.
Of course, all hadn't been lost.
There were those blessed few who'd miraculously become stronger. In spite of the greatest of odds, they'd risen out of the ashes of destruction like phoenixes. And before everyone's eyes, they had become better men.
He was one of those men. Well, he'd liked to believe he was. Surely his year and a half in the company of the Walton Gang hadn't ruined him yet.
Certainly he still knew what was right and wrong. He wasn't just imagining he knew those things instead of merely looking at life in various shades of gray.
Though perhaps only at dawn did men truly feel the hands of angels on their shoulders. Guiding them toward divine justice.
The poetic turn of phrase caught him off guard. Those weren't his words.
It had been what Clayton had said. Clayton.
Lord, he hadn't thought of him in months.
With some surprise, memories of that steadfast man rushed back, as clear as if Will had just left his side and not Jamilyn's. In an instant, he could feel the man's presence. Strong and silent. Ever just.
Clayton Proffitt.
It was somewhat ironic that Clayton—the most upstanding man he'd ever met—shared the same last name as the notorious gunslinger. God surely had a sense of humor. Without a doubt, Clayton had been one of the few men who had been a role model for everyone else. Will hadn't been alone in this opinion. Though Clay had been younger than almost everyone else, he'd had a way about him that had inspired loyalty. He'd had dark eyes and a square jaw and an innate dignity about him that inspired others—even in the middle of the smell of death and sulfur—to believe in something better.
Will could hardly recall an infantryman or cavalry officer who hadn't decided Clayton Proffitt's word was as solid as the word of God.
He remembered a time
when they'd been in Georgia and had stopped at a pitiful farm. The owner had looked so frantic he had been likely to try to kill them with a pitchfork. Will felt the same pain that he had that afternoon.
The couple were starving. Their skin hung on their frames as if by sheer will, and the vacant expression in their eyes told too many stories. Obviously they'd seen too much.
Even to Will's eyes, it was evident that they had literally nothing to give a band of soldiers besides shelter from the storm that was raging outside. Though he believed in pity at the end of the war, he'd ached to turn around and leave. Surely there'd been no need to take even the couple's dignity?
Beside him, others of their ragtag band had felt the same way. They were grubby and dirty and injured and suffering. But the time had come to draw a line.
But Clayton Proffitt had been in charge. He'd gazed at the man, not a trace of pity or remorse in his eyes. Then he had stepped forward led them all inside that ramshackle home.
For a second Will had been tempted to protest, but one quiet look in Clayton's eyes had said it all. The truth was, that shelter had been enough. All of them had been so cold and wet for so long that they'd hardly remembered what it had felt like to not have wrinkly skin and sores on their feet from walking in wet boots.
The men had stumbled in. Smelly and embarrassed. Strangely subdued.
And that man—that down-at-the-heels farmer—he'd gazed at them all with such pain in his eyes that it had almost felt tangible.
"All we want is to be dry for twenty-four hours," Clayton had said. "That's all."
The man retreated until he was standing against the wall. "I don't got anything for you. I swear I don't."
"I don't want anything else," Clayton promised.
"And your men?"
"My men want what I tell them to want."
Will hadn't even flinched at the information. Because, well, it was true. They all did without hesitation whatever Clayton Proffitt wanted. Because he was their captain and because he was who he was.
However, the owner hadn't known that. "That's what the others said. But they lied."
Will and a couple of other men had been cold enough to want to yell at the man and ask him to just stand aside. But Clayton had merely stared at him, rain dripping from the brim of his hat. "I'm not like the others. Neither are my men."