The Cowboy's Honor

by Amy Sandas

  One of these men had to be the bounty hunter.

  The longer she stood there, the cruder the gazes became. The nerves running along her spine prickled, and her palms started to sweat in her fine gloves. Time to see her business done so she could get herself out of there.

  “Which of you is the man called Kincaid?” she asked in a tone that cut uncomfortably through the humming quiet that had taken over the place.

  She hadn’t intended to sound so imperious, but her courage was slowly ebbing away, and her voice tended to sharpen in compensation for a lack of confidence.

  More than a few men glanced away, refocusing their attention on their drink or their card game or whatever conversation they had been in before her interruption. Others eyed her with a new level of curiosity or an odd dose of wariness.

  No one answered.

  She opened her mouth to repeat her question when the bartender, an aging man with a bald head and rotund belly, caught her eye and gave a sharp jerk of his chin toward a man standing in the shadows at the far end of the bar.

  Bolstering her nerves, Alexandra started forward with long strides that caused her many-layered skirts to snap against her heeled boots. The stranger appeared as rough as the other men in the place, but there was something about him—something in the way he held himself—that struck her acutely even as common sense urged her to be extra wary.

  Though he hunched forward to rest his elbows on the bar, there was no mistaking his height, or that his shoulders were broad and strong beneath his dark duster coat. A good layer of dirt covered everything from his scuffed boots to the bandana around his neck and the wide-brimmed hat tipped low over his face, supporting the fact that he’d just ridden into town.

  It was more than his intimidating size and trail-worn appearance that set this man apart, however. Despite his relaxed posture, he seemed ready for action. And if that were not enough, he was the only person in the whole place who had not given her a second glance. He appeared intent on ignoring her and everyone else.

  And everyone else seemed equally determined to ignore him.

  If she were a sheep, and the saloon’s occupants were a pack of wolves, then this man was the alpha.

  Her steps faltered. What kind of stupid sheep walked right up to the alpha wolf?

  Apparently, this one did.

  The flash of caution had come far too late. Though she came to an abrupt stop, she was already too close to pretend that she had intended to speak with anyone else. Of course, there had also been the haughty way she’d loudly stated his name for all to hear.

  Blast.

  Maybe he wasn’t Kincaid after all. Maybe the bartender just had a cramp in his neck he was trying to stretch out.

  But she couldn’t turn back now. Taking another step closer, she said in what she hoped was a confident and civil tone, “Mr. Kincaid?”

  The man remained as he was, his gaze trained forward. His lack of response was unnerving.

  Alexandra kept her gaze fixed on his profile, though she had to tip her chin up to manage it. Unfortunately, the wide brim of his hat threw most of his face into shadow. All she could discern was a jawline covered with the scruff of a dark beard and the long line of his nose. His hair, a few shades lighter than his beard, was as dusty as the rest of him, falling over the collar of his coat to brush against his shoulders. The man was in desperate need of a bath.

  He didn’t turn his head to look at her or move his hand from where it curved around a small glass of whiskey, but Alexandra got the sense all the same that her approach bothered him.

  No, it irritated the hell out of him.

  She almost turned away, but her frustration and impatience had been building, along with her trepidation, and kept her feet rooted to the floor, even though it was increasingly clear that Kincaid was not the noble escort she had hoped to find.

  He was dangerous. A man not to be trifled with.

  Before she could turn away, someone shouted from behind her, “If you don’t want her, I’ll take her.”

  The slurred words inspired some muffled laughter throughout the saloon. Alexandra stiffened. Before she could find her voice to form any kind of response, Kincaid turned his head. Sharp gray eyes pierced from the shadows of his hat, directed past Alexandra to the man who had spoken.

  She had never seen such hardness in a man’s gaze, and it momentarily distracted her from her precarious situation. There was no emotion there. It was all steel and granite. Her lungs stopped drawing breath. Her stomach twisted.

  And he wasn’t even directing that steely gaze toward her.

  She didn’t need to turn around to know that he’d gotten the attention of everyone in the place. The outspoken drunkard mumbled some incoherent apology under his breath before Kincaid swept that harsh glare over the rest of the saloon, which had fallen silent for the second time since she had entered.

  Then, apparently satisfied, Kincaid shifted his attention back toward the mirror behind the bar as he lifted his glass for a drink.

  Alexandra didn’t move. Not even to breathe.

  Maybe he was the man she needed after all. If he could silence a saloon with nothing more than a hard stare, surely he could get her safely to her father’s place in Montana.

  Gathering her courage once again, she asked, “Are you Kincaid?”

  No response.

  She waited a full minute…and nothing.

  With a smothered sound of annoyance, she turned toward the bar. The moment her gaze found the mirror on the wall across from her, she was ensnared by the bounty hunter’s sharp gray focus.

  He was staring at her in the grimy reflection and had probably been doing so from the moment she’d approached.

  An intrinsic sort of physical awareness lifted the hair on the back of her neck. It was a sensation not quite like fear, though it was awfully close to it.

  For a few moments, she couldn’t manage anything more than to stare back at him. His features were a fascinating collection of harsh angles and rough-hewn lines. The thick beard did nothing to disguise his hard, masculine jaw, or detract from the impression of his straight nose and those frightening eyes.

  Still staring at her.

  A strange sort of weakness infused her insides, making her belly quiver and her knees turn to jelly. That sensation spurred her to speak again. She hated feeling weak nearly as much as she hated being afraid.

  “My name is Alexandra Brighton, and I find myself in need of an escort to Montana.”

  “No.”

  She’d barely finished before he gave his reply. One curt word uttered in a low tone that left no room for civility.

  Alexandra frowned. Her fingers curled into fists in her soft, pearl-gray gloves. “I know you are heading in that direction. The blacksmith said as much. It is imperative that I make my way north as soon as possible.”

  “Not my problem, lady.”

  His rudeness set her back, but not enough to give up. “That is correct; it’s not your problem,” Alexandra replied. She heard the annoyance in her voice and swiftly softened her tone. “You can be the solution, however.”

  “No.”

  Her temper flared. The man was infuriating. “Why not?” she pressed stubbornly.

  He lifted his glass to drain the last of the whiskey. His Adam’s apple rose and fell above the edge of his bandana. Setting the glass back on the bar, he muttered, “You got the wrong man.”

  “You are Kincaid.”

  He clenched his teeth, hardening the already harsh line of his jaw. “I’m no guide, and I’m damned sure no lady’s escort.”

  Oddly, the more discourteous and aggressive he became, the more he made her want to dig in her heels and force him to be reasonable. “You are a bounty hunter, correct?”

  No reply.

  “You hunt down outlaws for a reward. I imagine it has taken
you all over this country of ours. You are likely quite familiar with any number of roads and trails that stretch across the western territories.”

  No reply.

  Alexandra sighed. “Look, Mr. Kincaid,” she began, doing her best to formulate her thoughts into a convincing argument, “I understand I may not be offering you the type of work you typically accept, but you will be paid. Quite handsomely, actually.”

  She didn’t bother to add that she wouldn’t be able to give him his fee until they reached her father.

  “No.”

  “But—”

  “No.”

  He didn’t raise his voice or say anything more. Just the one syllable. Then he shifted his gaze toward the bartender with a dip of his chin to indicate he wanted another pour, dismissing her.

  He wasn’t going to help.

  An overwhelming dread and some other emotion filled her, tightening her chest and turning her legs to lead. What on earth would she do now?

  “Excuse me, miss?”

  Alexandra was so deep in her own head, she nearly jumped at the words, even though they were spoken in an even tone barely over a whisper. She hadn’t even noticed someone stepping up behind her.

  She turned in place to see a man aged somewhere in his forties, dressed in a pale-gray suit and neat bowler hat. He looked decidedly out of place in his Eastern clothing and impeccably clean appearance. Even she had a thin layer of dust coating her boots and the hem of her many skirts, but not this man, who stood at least two inches shorter than her.

  His smile was open and friendly, which was even more of a rarity here than his fine clothes.

  “Please forgive my intrusion into your conversation, but I could not help but overhear,” he continued. Deep creases formed at the outer corners of his warm brown eyes as his smile widened. “Am I correct in surmising that you are in need of an escort to Montana?”

  Though she couldn’t be sure Kincaid was watching the interaction, something in her sensed his continued focus despite what appeared to be a cold lack of interest.

  “That is true,” she replied.

  “I happen to be heading that way myself, up to Bozeman, along with my brother and his wife. If you wish, you would be welcome to travel with us.”

  Alexandra hesitated, though she wasn’t sure why, other than something seemed…off.

  The petite man displayed a demeanor more suited to the world she had left behind in Boston, which was both welcome and strikingly incongruent. Perhaps she was simply thrown off by the juxtaposition of this man’s manner after experiencing the rough intensity of Kincaid. He looked soft by comparison.

  Of course, anyone would look soft compared to the bounty hunter.

  It shouldn’t deter her. Just because this fellow did not have the same air of danger and steely competence as Kincaid did not mean he was not fully capable of getting her to Bozeman. She would be traveling in a group after all. There was some safety in numbers, and from all accounts, the West wasn’t quite as wild as it had been even five years ago. And Bozeman was very near Helena.

  “That’s a very nice offer, Mr.—I’m sorry, I did not catch your name.”

  The man blushed. “Oh, my apologies again, miss. I really haven’t been out of civilization so long to excuse such a lapse in manners.” He gave a deep bow of his head. “I am Cleveland Lassiter, named for the city where I was born and raised.”

  His self-deprecating tone managed to ease a bit of Alexandra’s wariness, and she smiled back. “A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Lassiter. My name is Alexandra Brighton, recently of Boston.”

  “What a wonderful city,” Mr. Lassiter exclaimed, his brown eyes widening. “I visited there once as a young man. So much culture and such fine society.”

  Alexandra continued to smile, but said nothing in response.

  For the oddest reason, it seemed the longer she stood speaking with the newcomer, the more tension she felt radiating from the large man beside her. Clearly, the bounty hunter preferred to occupy his shadows alone.

  Good. Let him be annoyed.

  Mr. Lassiter held his smile as he continued, “I would hate to see you stranded here in town when we have more than enough room in our modest conveyance. My brother drives the team, and I am certain my sister-in-law would welcome having some additional company to chat with beyond myself. She’s from the city as well, you see, and not at all accustomed to these wide-open spaces and sparsely populated areas. She tends to get bored easily.”

  Even her aunt might have approved of such an offer from such a man. Mr. Lassiter truly seemed to be the answer to her problem.

  So why did she still hesitate?

  Because she knew more than most Easterners, that along the trail, there were more dangers than a person could count. Despite his rude and rough manner, long-buried instincts told her that Kincaid was undeniably more equipped to get her north without incident than this fine gentleman. She had just received the perfect offer from Mr. Lassiter, yet she felt compelled to ask Kincaid one more time if he would take the job.

  Against her will, she glanced at the tall bounty hunter. At that moment, Kincaid chose to straighten from his hunched position. As he lifted his arm to bring the whiskey glass to his mouth, the edge of his coat swung away from his side. The movement revealed a long and generously muscled body in a faded denim shirt and well-worn dark trousers. It also revealed the Colt nestled in a holster strapped to his left hip, handle forward.

  The sight of the gun, close enough that she could have reached out and touched the cold metal, sent a spear of memory and irrational terror through her body. Starting in her toes, rushing up through her belly, across the surface of her heart to the base of her skull, the fear pressed in on her like the icy waters of a mountain lake.

  Of course, Alexandra knew that almost everyone in these parts carried some sort of weapon. She thought she was ready to face that, but she hadn’t anticipated such freezing terror. Hadn’t prepared herself for the rush of traumatic memories.

  “Miss Brighton. Excuse me, Miss Brighton?”

  Mr. Lassiter’s gentle voice drew her back to herself.

  She turned to look at him, doing everything in her power to conceal the fear in her eyes and the debilitating command that had taken over her body. Forcing a tight smile, she said, “I am sorry, Mr. Lassiter. What were you saying?”

  “Only that we are planning to leave town within the hour. If you’d like to join us, I am afraid you will need to hurry.”

  Still reeling from her reaction, Alexandra nodded, letting propriety trump instinct. Lassiter was the better choice. He was polite and would prove to be far better company. Not to mention, there wasn’t the slightest hint of anything dangerous about him. “I shall be ready and would be happy to accept your offer.”

  “Excellent,” Lassiter exclaimed, sounding quite sincere in his pleasure. Then he gave a rather pained glance around him before he added, “Shall we step out into the fresh air and discuss a meeting place?”

  Alexandra nodded and followed Lassiter from the saloon, noting that the eyes of several men followed her. Just before passing through the door, she sent a quick glance over her shoulder.

  Kincaid had returned his elbows to the bar. His focus remained on the mirror across from him. As she stepped onto the boardwalk, the bounty hunter faded swiftly into the shadows he obviously preferred and Alexandra experienced an odd tightening in her center.

  It felt a little like disappointment.

  * * *

  Malcolm Kincaid scanned the length of the mirror behind the bar. His position gave him a perfect view of the entire saloon. A few patrons had followed the Eastern lady’s exit with sharp gazes.

  There was one man in particular who triggered a spike of alertness.

  He was older, with a bushy, salt-and-pepper beard and the cracked, browned skin of a man who’d spent most of his life under
the sun. Though he sat at a poker game, he’d lifted his eyes toward Malcolm and the Eastern lady a few times too many during their brief conversation for mere curiosity.

  Malcolm had been waiting for the man to make a move, but nothing came of it. Still, he didn’t relax his vigilant observation until Miss Brighton and her companion had been gone at least twenty minutes. Only then was he assured she wouldn’t be followed.

  Fool woman.

  The second she’d entered the saloon, she’d become a beacon of temptation. A woman like that—all wrapped up in a fine blue dress that showed off the trim curves of her figure, with her fair skin untouched by the sun and her dark hair twisted up into that fancy configuration topped by a ridiculous hat—was not a common sight in these parts. Only an Easterner would be stupid enough to strut boldly into one of the roughest saloons in Wyoming and practically declare herself unprotected and in possession of money. Despite her haughty manner, not a man in the place wouldn’t have thought of how easy it would be to set upon the pretty young lady and take what she offered. And then some.

  Damned fool woman.

  She was not his problem. It was a good thing that fellow had come forward. Let the woman be his responsibility. Malcolm didn’t need that kind of hassle.

  Especially now that he was finally closing in on the Belt Buckle Kid.

  Eight years was a long time to hunt for revenge. With any luck, the Kid would soon join his fellows six feet underground, and Malcolm could finally hang up his guns, or die trying.

  Either way, there was only one thing waiting for him in Montana—and it wasn’t the likes of Miss Alexandra Brighton.

  Chapter Four

  Mr. Lassiter’s brother, introduced as George Polk, was actually a half brother and the exact opposite of the small Eastern gentleman in appearance. Mr. Polk was large, with a barrel chest and thick arms. He walked in a lumbering stride, and his clothing, though nice enough, wasn’t nearly as fine or well fitted as Lassiter’s. After giving Alexandra a short nod upon being advised she would be traveling with them, he took to sending her swift, darting glances from the corner of his dark eyes as he finished loading the covered wagon that would be taking them north.