A Texan's Honor

by Shelley Gray

  And though it was hard to accept, Will knew he had no choice. A man didn't refuse orders.

  After taking a few fortifying sips of extremely hot coffee, Sam leaned back and folded his hands on the table. "Funny thing happened when I delivered Miss Ellis to her aunts," he said.

  Will almost choked on his drink. "Sir?"

  "You remember Miss Ellis, surely? She's a fetching little thing. Blessed with golden hair and a pair of wide-set caramel-colored eyes that look as though they've seen too much of pretty much everything."

  Will knew that was no doubt the case. "I remember her, sir."

  His boss tilted his head. "I thought, when I saw the two of you together, that she meant something to you."

  "Of course she does. I mean, she did," he amended, feeling more and more uneasy with each passing second.

  "But you weren't interested enough to ask about her?"

  Ask about Jamie? Ask Sam Edison, one of the most feared men in law enforcement in the country, about a woman he had affection for? "Well . . ." he hedged.

  "Well?"

  Fighting the urge to loosen his collar, Will tried unsuccessfully to bide for more time. His boss's line of questioning was without preamble, and for the life of him, Will couldn't figure out if the man was genuinely interested in his feelings for the woman or if he was using the line of questioning as a trap. "I didn't ask about her because, well, I didn't see the point."

  "How come?"

  "If life has taught me anything, it's to not look back," he admitted.

  "How far back do you try not to look?"

  But for the life of him, Will didn't know what to say anymore. "As far back as I can," he finally admitted. "Life is hard."

  "That is true." His boss smiled as the server returned, carrying two plates filled with hot roast beef, mashed potatoes, and rolls. "Thank you."

  The food in front of Will smelled wonderful. His mouth watered, and if he'd been alone, he would have already dug in with his knife and fork.

  But of course he wasn't alone.

  "See, the thing is, I believe Miss Ellis's current situation is a difficult one."

  All thoughts of eating left him. "I thought she was going to live with her aunts."

  "Her aunts didn't want her." Sam smiled slightly before neatly slicing a corner of the beef and digging in.

  "How can that be? She's their family. Plus, she's all alone. She has no one else." Without quite realizing it, his voice rose. "She'd been kidnapped. She almost died back in Dodge."

  "I'm aware of that." After a sip of water, his boss switched topics. "I read your report. I've also spoken with the folks at the Kansas Pacific. Because of your testimony, we've found the link between the Walton Gang and the railroad company. At this moment, both James Walton and Mr. Arthur Jackson, former employee of the Kansas Pacific, are being transported to St. Louis. Many are indebted to you, McMillan." As the words sunk in, another neat bite of meat was sliced off and swallowed.

  Bitterness coursed through Will as he realized his boss wasn't going to spend another moment talking about Jamie. Perhaps to Sam, she was just one of the many characters in a case that was now closed.

  However, Will couldn't settle for that. "What happened to Jamie, Sam? Do you know?"

  Sam carefully set his fork down. "Did you really imagine I wouldn't know?"

  "I don't know what to think anymore, sir."

  His eyes narrowed. "You are trying my good nature, McMillan."

  "And you are trying my patience, sir."

  In another time and place, Will probably would've immediately apologized. Men who wanted to survive didn't speak that way to Sam Edison. Ever. "Where is she?"

  "She's working for a friend of mine. Rebecca Bergoran. She owns a pretty little inn on the outskirts of town."

  An inn on the outskirts of town? The worst sort of things flooded Will's mind before he sternly told himself that Sam was an upstanding man. If he called the place an inn, it was just that, not anything worse.

  But he still wanted more information. "What, exactly, is she doing there?"

  Sam's brows snapped together. "Exactly?"

  "I'm only curious."

  "Well," Sam drawled. "When I left her, she was dusting the dining room."

  Momentarily appeased, Will forced himself to nod. "And she was . . . well?"

  "She was surviving," he corrected sharply. "There's a difference, though I suppose you know that. Eat, McMillan. Food's getting cold."

  Will did as he was told, but though he was going through the motions, nothing in his actions felt right. He didn't understand why he'd been summoned to arrive in Kansas City right away just to be taken to a dining hall.

  He didn't understand why Sam had brought up Jamie but seemed to be bouncing around Will's interest in her and wouldn't give more information as to why he'd even mentioned her in the first place.

  It was the type of puzzle that drove a man to speak too sharply and to make mistakes. He dearly didn't want to do that.

  Minutes passed as the man across from him seemed to find a lot of pleasure in eating particularly slowly.

  Finally, patience shot, Will spoke. "Now that Walton and Jackson are in custody, what job do you have for me? Where do you want me assigned?"

  "I didn't bring you here to reassign you, Will," Sam said after yet another too-long pause.

  Why then? Was he about to be fired? "Then why did you?"

  "So you could finally realize what's important to you."

  "I'm not following you."

  His boss leaned back, and in a trademark move, crossed his arms over his chest and looked at him levelly. "I've given you your future, son, and her name is Jamie."

  Will blinked. Was Jamie his future? He'd been sure she'd been just a dream of his.

  With impatience, Sam continued. "You obviously care for her very much. Are you really going to let her dust and mop for the rest of her life in some inn in Kansas City?"

  "But what choice do I have?" He hated to sound so weak, but he really had no idea of what to do.

  "Quit the Marshals."

  Quit? Will had never heard of anyone being allowed to quit. Usually the only way out was death. Unless "quit" was code for something else. "Sir, am I getting fired?"

  "I am most definitely not firing you. I'm letting you off the hook, allowing you the chance to do something right for yourself for a change instead of for everybody else in the world. Go do it, son. Go out in the world and get a real job. Find something that lets you go home every night. After all, if you get your girl, she's sure to be a woman who's worth going home to."

  Shocked into silence, Will's head began to clear as the choices swam in front of him and spurred his tongue. "I never thought I could do anything except put my life on the line. I never thought I could do more than hold a rifle and shoot to kill."

  "It's not your fault you're good at that, McMillan. Your abilities were sorely needed during the war. And they've been put to good use during our war against the outlaws. But surely every man needs a chance to do something for himself."

  "Walking away . . ." He blinked hard, unable to fathom it all. "Do you actually think I could do anything else?"

  "Always. Will, I've had a good life. At one time I had four girls to go home to. I'd never trade those days for the world. At least I have memories. And, Will, that's a sorry way to live, you hear me? Memories don't warm a bed and they don't comfort a hurt. But the sad thing is you've got even less than that."

  It was true. He'd lived his whole life by himself. "Is it even possible?" he asked again. Shoot, he knew he was sounding weaker than a newborn foal, but here Sam was taking a lifetime of his certainties and tossing them on their side.

  "If it's not, then not a one of us is worth all that much, I don't think." Reaching out, he grasped Will's hand. "Will McMillan, I am hereby releasing you of your duties with the U.S. Marshals. Thank you for your honorable service."

  After shaking his hand, Will stood and gave one of the most upright men he
'd ever met a formal salute. "It was a privilege, sir."

  Sam saluted right back, then handed Will a packet. "You're going to be needing the contents of this, I think. There's a formal commendation for your honorable service as a U.S. Marshal, a letter of recommendation from me, and some compensation for your services. God be with you."

  "Thank you, sir," he said, before turning around and walking out, packet in hand.

  For the first time in his life, he was about to do something for himself. Not for his family. Not for his country. He blinked quickly so no one would see the tears welling in his eyes.

  38

  Shawnee , Oklahoma, wasn't much, but Scout didn't need it to be. All that mattered was that it had a decent saloon, with a couple of desperate men interested in playing highstakes poker, and that not a single person in the dark, ramshackle building dared look at him close enough to ask if he really was the infamous Scout Proffitt.

  "You playing or posin'?" the drunk across the table from him snarled.

  A couple of the men on either side of him flinched, but it had been a long time since he'd been cowed by a greasy old man who couldn't hold his whiskey. "I'm in," he said, tossing a few chips into the center of the poker table.

  The game progressed as the hours rolled onward. Two men left at midnight, their spaces taken by fresh blood, cowboys who looked eager to spend their hard-earned cash on highstakes chances. Whiskey flowed and the flashy women posing in his line of sight got little to no attention.

  All while the drunk across from him imbibed more rotgut, lost more money, got angrier, and turned more desperate.

  For his part, Scout was winning. He didn't care about the money, only about the time. The longer he was at the table, the less time he'd have to figure out how to sleep at night.

  As cards slapped the table, men around him groaned. He had won again.

  "You're cheatin'! I know it!" the drunk yelled.

  Scout stilled. "I don't cheat."

  "Of course you do. Look at you. Dressed in black from head to toe, silver pistols at your side. You look like a bandit."

  The men around him gasped.

  "Do I?" Scout was getting a little tired of being chewed on. Quietly, he said, "Is that what you really think? That I look like an outlaw? A no-good, lying, cheating outlaw?"

  Maybe it was his silent glare, or the way it was obvious he couldn't wait to beat someone to a pulp.

  Maybe it was his half-smile. But the man's eyes opened wide and his brow started to sweat.

  Around them, the room seemed to grow quiet as each person looked at Scout just a little more closely. Perhaps one or two of them even started to imagine that his black wardrobe and the scar on his cheek looked almost familiar.

  Or maybe they were waiting to see just how far a drunkard with half a brain could go.

  Seconds passed. Scout leaned back, his hands resting loosely at his side before he was even conscious of it.

  But then the drunk cleared his throat. "My mistake," he mumbled. "No offense."

  Looking at the others, Scout said, "Are we still playing?"

  "We're playing," one said. "Bill, you out?"

  It was evident the man had used his last nickel. "No." Grabbing the back of an advertisement tacked to the wall, he held out a hand. "Somebody get me somethin' to write with."

  "Bill—"

  "Do it."

  A pen was pushed into his hands. The man hastily scrawled a message on it. "Okay. I'm in now."

  "What is that?" Scout asked.

  "Deed to my farm."

  One of the men to Scout's right closed his eyes.

  But Scout finally felt a glimmer of hope burst up inside him. "Where's your farm?"

  "Not here. It's in Texas."

  That sounded even better. "Where?"

  "West of Texarkana. It ain't much, but it's worth a fair amount."

  One of the other men coughed loudly. "Don't you have a family, Bill? Ain't that your homestead?"

  "I'm dying. Cancer. They're moving on anyway." Belligerently, he stared at them all. "Y'all in or not?"

  Two men left, obviously too high and mighty to risk taking a man's land. Two others quickly took their places though. And then the bidding progressed.

  The stakes were high, the cards flying quickly.

  And for the first time in his life, Scout was sure that a higher power was on his side. Because one by one he acquired the cards he needed.

  Men folded. Another raised.

  The drunk, looking pastier by the second, raised the bet.

  And then it was time.

  Scout presented his set of four aces.

  The drunk lumbered to his feet, his eyes wide and his expression full of fire. After emitting a good long stream of profanity, he pointed one bony finger at Scout's chest. "You're a no-good cheater. You're going to pay—"

  Slowly, Scout got to his feet. "I didn't cheat. And I'm not going to pay you a dime." With deliberate moves, he gathered the chips and examined the paper. "You need to sign this."

  The man's skin turned a grayish-white. "I . . . I can't do that. I can't give you my land."

  "It's too late. You bet it, and I want it. You'd best sign it now or I'm going to finally put you out of your misery."

  The men around him nodded. Scout might have been scary, but he was right.

  Grudgingly the man signed his name as the rest of the men around Scout paid up and got to their feet. But just as the old man handed him the paper, he lifted his chin, showing his last bit of respect. "Who are you? Who have I just given my farm to?"

  "Do you really want to know?" Scout said. "Because if you know my name for certain, I will have to kill you."

  He turned away then. Not a shot rang out as he left the premises. Scout made sure he didn't turn around because then someone would see his smile.

  He was a landowner now. And for a man who'd ached all his life for a home, there was nothing sweeter.

  A woman ran after him, her bright red dress standing out like a cardinal in winter. "What's your hurry, honey? Don't you want some company for a while?"

  Scout paused. He almost considered it, but then shook his head. "Nope." He was done looking for easy company and temporary relief.

  And with that, he left Shawnee, Oklahoma, and the crowded company of worn-down men. Mounting his horse, he headed south to where both his past and his future lay.

  He was going home to Texas.

  39

  Jroning pillowcases was a thankless job in the afternoon's humidity. Jamie brushed away the few strands of hair that kept sticking to her cheeks and forehead and picked up another iron from the fire.

  After smoothing out the pillowcase, she deftly ran the hot iron across the cloth, finding comfort in how the soft cotton instantly smoothed.

  Oh, if only life was like that. If only she could grab a hot iron and quickly smooth the wrinkles away and make things even and perfect again.

  But, of course, such a thing was never going to be possible. She was now forever marked by her past. And if her daylight hours didn't confirm that, her nightmares surely did.

  With a flick of her wrist, she snapped the pillowcase taut, then easily folded it into thirds. For good measure, she ran the iron over the folds one last time.

  "It's funny. During all the times I've thought of you, I've never pictured you once doing something so domestic," a voice drawled behind her. "I wonder how come."

  Jamie almost burned herself as she set the iron on the plate. To gain herself some time, she picked up the completed pillowcase and added it to the stack. As she did so, Jamie noticed that her hands were shaking.

  Most likely, she was not hiding a single thing from the most observant man she'd ever met.

  Well, it was probably just as well that she was noticeably trembling—her insides were quavering something awful. "I don't know," she finally answered. "Perhaps you didn't really believe I was a domesticated woman, Mr. McMillan?"

  "Will. It's Will," he corrected. "Remember? You prom
ised to call me by my Christian name."

  "Will," she repeated, his name feeling like both an unexpected treat and a source of sorrow on her lips. If she turned around, what would she see in his eyes?

  Afraid to face him, she plucked up another pillowcase. But she didn't have the will to set it on the board. Instead, she only fingered it lightly. And tried to keep her composure.

  Her lack of welcome didn't seem to bother him. "As for your ironing, I suppose I should have guessed you could do the chore so well. After all, I knew you were a lady of worth . . . and so much more to me."

  There was a new yearning in his voice that was hard to ignore. Husky and deep, he sounded like he was measuring each word carefully before speaking. As though he had so many words floating around in his head that he was worried about the wrong ones spilling out.

  She knew what that was like. At the moment, it was her feelings that were leaning in that direction. Or was it her heart?

  Even though she'd faced bandits and hunger and shame, she was still afraid to turn around. The sight of him would be too much like her dreams, and she didn't know if she could handle that. "Why are you here?"

  "I couldn't stay away."

  Her heart clenched. "That's not how you acted when we said good-bye in Dodge City. When I got on the train, you seemed content." Her throat worked, making her continue even though she wasn't sure how to explain herself. "You made it seem like you doubted a future with me."

  "I didn't doubt you, ma'am. I doubted myself. I've been in a distant place from anything of worth for a very long time."

  "I'm afraid I'd have to disagree, Will. You, I'm sorry to say, are the most honorable man I know."

  "Jamie?" Impatience settled in. "Jamie, are you ever going to turn around?"

  Her mind worked over the words. Tried to convince her breathing to work with her lips. When it felt as if she finally had control of herself, she admitted her weakness. "I'm afraid to see you."

  "Why is that?"

  His voice was closer now. So close that she could sense his body behind her. Though she considered reaching a hand out to him, she still waited. Hope and need were sorry companions to disappointment. "Because I'm afraid you won't be who I remember you to be. And . . ." She sucked in a breath and tried to get her bearings right. "And, I'm afraid you'll be disappointed too. Now that we're out of danger, you'll see that all I am is myself. Nothing special, nothing out of the ordinary." Nothing like him.