A Texan’s Honor (18 page)

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.

With an economy of motion, Will saddled the gelding, an easygoing quarter horse with a lightning stripe along its throat, lifted her into the saddle, then clicked her into motion.

Jamie held on to his waist, giving into temptation and resting her forehead against the hard planes of his back. She closed her eyes as they picked up speed and headed toward the eastern horizon.

Only hours later did she stop to realize that never once had Will asked for prayers for himself. When he turned slightly, clearly checking on her welfare, she asked him about that.

He blinked and replied without a flicker of embarrassment. "I don't deserve prayers."

"Of course . . . I mean, we all do."

"Not me. I haven't deserved them for some time."

When he faced forward, she knew better than to refute him.

Besides, she was having too hard of a time coming to terms with the fact that all of a sudden she didn't think he was all bad—even though he was an outlaw and killed and robbed for a living.

Obviously, she'd begun to change.

It fairly broke her heart.

K
itty was trying the very last of Scout's patience—and he hadn't been gifted with a lot of it to begin with.

Fact was, he didn't like being around the girl all that much. Not because she was difficult—shoot, she wasn't demanding at all. What he found disturbing was how she was
too
easy to be with. Actually, she kept to herself and was so quiet that sometimes he felt like blinking a few times just to make sure she was real and not something he'd dreamed up in the middle of a whiskey fog.

But she was definitely real. And unquestionably different. Indeed, she was like no woman he'd ever encountered before. And those differences were setting his teeth on edge. And for all the wrong reasons too. Kitty didn't chatter incessantly. She didn't ask questions.

She didn't flirt with him, need to constantly go to the bathroom, or complain about the lack of food in his trail bag.

In short, she didn't ask for much, and didn't expect much either. It seemed that if he wasn't molesting her, she reckoned her life was good.

He found her attitude to be fairly disturbing.

After all, from the time he'd set out on his own, just about everyone and their brother had wanted something from him. Most hadn't been afraid to use coercion, pain, or blackmail to make sure they got it, either. After a time, he'd learned not to take things personally. It was just how things were. People wanted what they wanted and were willing to do whatever it took to get it. He certainly had done that a time or two.

In contrast, Kitty's lack of motivation in that direction was slowly driving him crazy. At least, she had last night.

After riding all night, he'd picked an abandoned shack for them to sleep in. He'd stood at the entrance, waiting for her to complain. She didn't.

When they'd entered and the dank smell of mold and mildew and the previous occupants infused the air, he waited for her to wrinkle her nose. She said nothing.

Instead, after cautiously looking his way, she'd stood stockstill while he spread out the dirt and attempted to smooth it. When he lay on the ground, offering no excuses for the hard surface, she lay down beside him without even a moment's hesitation. In fact, the only clue that she was at all at odds with the situation was that her body was tense. At the ready.

And that's when he'd realized that she'd expected him to hurt her. Even though he definitely remembered telling her that he wouldn't.

She'd looked surprised as all get out when she'd woken up beside him, obviously having gotten more sleep than she was accustomed to.

Which made him mad. And because he wasn't all that good of a man, he'd snapped at her. "What has your life been like, girl?"

Instead of crying, she'd simply stared right back. "How do you think it's been, Mr. Proffitt? You know why I found you."

Her no-nonsense way of speaking embarrassed him mightily. "I'm talking 'bout other things."

Crossing her arms over her chest, she lifted her chin. "Such as?"

"What happened to your ma?"

"She took off during the war."

"How old?" She flinched, and he felt bad about that, but he had to know.

"Six."

Though he'd seen more bad than most, he still had been struck cold. "She left you with that poor example of a man?"

"You know the answer already, don't you think?"

Her voice was as empty of emotion as his was when he was about to make a kill. He'd been tempted to imagine she was devoid of emotion, until her eyes betrayed her. Or maybe it was like looking into his mirror image. Hopelessness emanated from her.

And it broke his heart just a little. Even he hadn't been so worn down at her age.

Finally, he answered. "I know the answer . . . but I still have to say that I think it's a crying shame."

She bit her bottom lip and looked away.

"Kitty, what made you come up to me? What finally happened that made you think you'd had enough?"

With a sigh, she replied, "It wasn't what had happened to me. The other night was no worse than any other."

"Then what?"

"It was your hands."

He spread out all ten fingers in front of himself and examined them. "What did you see?"

"Your hands are clean. Your nails are short. My stepfather's hands are never that way. When he touches me, he makes me feel dirty. Marked." Looking away again, she added, "Sometimes I was sure I'd never be clean again."

He swallowed as what she was saying hit him hard. She hadn't hoped for her life to be better with him. She'd simply hoped it wouldn't be so bad. "You thought my hands would be cleaner when they touched you."

"Yes." She looked at him steadily then got to her feet. Without a lick of modesty, she straightened her dress, attempting to shake out some of the wrinkles as she did so. Of course, it was a hopeless task. Only a Chinese launderer was going to be able to make that dress clean again, though it would be easier to throw it out and get something fresh.

"I'm not going to touch you," he said.

"Because you think I'm ugly?"

"You're pretty, Kitty," he replied, not because it was true, but because it was how she could be one day. "I'm not going to touch you because that's not who I am." As his words echoed in their ratty enclosure, he had the grace to be embarrassed. Sure, he'd killed and cajoled and maimed people. He'd even accept money for it. But raping and pillaging? He hadn't crossed that line—at least not yet.

"I'm bad, but that's not all I am," he said finally. "All I aim to do is get you somewhere better than you've been, that's all. Once I do, I'm going to leave you and let you live your life."

Kitty stepped forward and spoke in that frank, no-nonsense way he was beginning to associate with her. "Mr. Proffitt, we may be sleeping on a dirt floor and freezing our tails off, but I can assure you that this is already better. It's already much better." She turned away then and started brushing out her hair.

For a moment he was tempted to ask her what had been done to her. What, exactly, she'd endured. Then he would have a reason to backtrack and kill her stepfather. Maybe, just once, he'd be thankful for his ability to kill.

But he didn't ask a thing. Her problems weren't his business. Besides, no one liked to discuss their bad stuff. And everyone had it. Everyone.

Feeling too close to her, too tempted to bridge the gap between them—and they had no business bridging things— he stood and straightened. There was nowhere to go, but he thought he'd at least give her some space.

But just before he moved away, to give them both more space, more privacy, though there really wasn't any to be had, he heard the rest of what she had to say. "Sometimes, in the middle of the night, I get to thinking that I'm not all bad either. Do you think that's okay?"