A Texan’s Honor (22 page)

A thousand scenarios hit him hard. Perhaps Kent or Scout had been following them and he'd been too focused on Jamie's needs to notice.

Maybe she was in the room, bleeding. Hurt. Dead.

He knocked again a little louder, cursing himself. Why hadn't he brought the key with him?

He tried the door handle, jiggling it a few times on the off chance that the lock was so pitiful he could force it open. Of course, he had no luck. If there was one thing Calvin Hollis did well besides keep a secret, it was invest in decent locks.

"Jamie?" he called out again, hating the idea that anyone nearby could hear her name but feeling like he had no choice. "Jamilyn?"

Breaking the door down wasn't an option. Going downstairs and grabbing the key from Hollis was the only choice. Of course, that meant that Hollis would be coming upstairs too. No way was that man going to trust any guest in the place with the master keys.

After halfheartedly rapping on the door one last time, he was just about to pivot and turn when he heard a shuffling on the other side. Then heard the lock slide to the right and saw the door handle turn.

He pulled out his Colt. Cocked it and waited.

The door opened.

There was Jamie, hair down, skin pale, and sporting a glassy sheen in her eyes. "Will?" she asked. "Sorry, I didn't hear you. I was asleep."

He ushered her in, his irritation sliding back quickly. Well, she had to be exhausted. "It's okay. I was just worried." Talk about an understatement!

"I don't know what happened." She shook her head and winced. "I had the most horrible headache. Then I got so sleepy . . ." her voice drifted off.

"I know you're tired. Why don't you go lie down again?"

She stepped forward, then stumbled. He reached for her, wrapping a hand around her shoulders to steady her. Along the way, his knuckles brushed her cheek.

And then he stilled.

Things had just gone from bad to much, much worse.

T
here were a lot of things Scout Proffitt didn't believe in. He didn't believe in privilege, entitlement, or inheritance. By his way of thinking, nothing that you didn't have to sweat, bleed, or fight over was worth a plumb nickel.

He didn't believe in being tired, and he didn't believe in being lazy. Scout had never met a lazy man he respected, and it stood to reason his opinion wasn't going to change anytime soon. Actually, he took real care to distance himself from men who shied away from breaking a sweat.

Luckily, that wasn't a difficult thing to do. There were a lot of people who didn't mind working really hard at killing and thieving.

But most of all, Scout didn't believe in fate. Too many bad things had happened in his life for him to want to accept that even a tiny portion had been meant to be—no matter what. Surely it hadn't been some kind of twisted divine decision that his being born had killed his momma?

It would be a real disappointment to realize that he'd come into the world with a mess of misfortunes awaiting him.

Scout figured God had given him a fine brain and had intended for him to put it to good use. Therefore, it was likely that most of his troubles had come from his own sorry decisions. Fact was, he didn't cotton to the idea of somebody benefitting from his misfortune.

Which was why, now that he was sitting in front of a fire next to a sleeping beat-up girl named Kitty, things seemed terribly dismal indeed.

The truth of the matter was that she was in poor shape, and he was too.

Attempting to save a woman wasn't like him. Pitying her was a foreign emotion too. In his business—such as it was— feeling sorry for folk kind of went against his job description. He killed people. He didn't wonder about their feelings.

But ever since he'd picked up Kitty, he'd found himself thinking about her, wishing he could make things better. And because he did, because he'd all of a sudden decided to have a momentary surge of weakness, he cursed his very bad decision.

Though he wished he could have blamed it all on whiskey, he'd been in a sober state when he'd decided to save her. It didn't make sense, and now, as he sat next to the flames, he didn't understand how a hardworking, self-made, sorry nogood man like himself had managed to get saddled with a gal like her—a gal who kept looking at him like he was something special. He wasn't anything close to being a hero. And he was nothing close to being the kind of man who women turned to for help, especially eighteen-year-old little things like the slip of a girl by his side.

She was unlike the women he usually kept company with. And she was nothing like the women he'd ever dreamed of spending time with when he settled down. Well, if he got the chance to settle before he filled a pine coffin.

Kitty had the kind of skinny figure most women would curse, and the kind of scars marring her skin that most people would cry themselves to sleep over.

Never mind her hopeless home situation.

But instead of letting her misfortune get her down, she'd been willing to seek help, ride nonstop, and do whatever it took to survive.

Usually, Scout appreciated that kind of attitude. She would have been a good addition to the Walton Gang if she had been able to shoot a Winchester, had another hundred pounds on her frame, and, well, if she hadn't been a woman.

As if she knew he was looking her way, she opened one sleepy eye. "What?" She muttered the word slightly slurred, dizzy with sleep.

Against his will, a twinge of softness overcame him. "Nothing. I was just watching you sleep."

Time drifted as she carefully shifted. Eventually, she propped herself up on her elbows. "How come? Do I snore or drool or something?"

"Not that I'm aware of." He cleared his throat. Moved a couple of inches away from her. "Sorry I woke you. Go back to sleep."

As if he'd actually given good advice, she lay back down. Breathed deeply. Flopped to her side.

He relaxed—thinking maybe they were done talking— when she spoke again. "Mister? Why did you save me?"

"I don't know."

"You sure? I thought it was because, you know . . ." her voice drifted off, almost like she was embarrassed. But surely she'd lived through too much to feel shame.

"I told you I wouldn't."

"People lie."

"That is true. But I didn't." He felt his cheeks heating. When had been the last time he'd spoken like that to anyone? Usually he didn't mind calling a spade a spade. He certainly never spoke in flowery language. Especially never so vaguely. Never with a woman.

"Do you want me now?"

He flinched. Honestly, why couldn't she just have stayed asleep?

"Mr. Proffitt?" Her voice became bolder and so clear that if it was more than just air, she'd be able to bring forth all the stars in the sky. "Uh, Mr. Proffitt, do you want to lie with me now?"

Well, at least one of them wasn't afraid to speak plainly. "I do not. You're too young and you've been through too much," he added quickly, before she could start asking that confounded "why" word again.

Through veiled eyes, Scout watched the girl process that. His heart broke for her lack of innocence. Not just for hers, but maybe for the many girls like her—girls who didn't expect much from the world and had given up on even the idea of people looking out for them.

Little by little, her body relaxed again. When it did, his settled too. He truly was starting to like her a whole lot better asleep.

"If you don't want me, I don't know who will."

Now he was the one who was tongue-tied. "You're finding fault because I don't want to lie with you? That's foolish."

"My stepfather said that was all I was good for."

"He was wrong." Aching for some help, he leaned to his side, dug into the bottom of his saddlebag, and pulled out a cheroot. After lighting the end, he inhaled deeply.

Then glanced her way. Oh, heck. She was looking at him with those hound-dog eyes, silently asking for an explanation. "You're worth more than that," he finally added.

"How can you be sure?"

He didn't know. How did people know that they were destined for something good sometime in their life? That they were worth more than they'd been to led to believe at a young age? Gradually, a small, quiet voice filled his brain and reminded him of his own demons. Though most folk were sure his only worth was his trigger-happy hand, every so often he kind of hoped they were wrong.

"I can't be sure about what your future holds, but I'm telling you, I have a good feeling about it," he said finally.

She scoffed. "Feelings don't count."

"They sure as heck do." At one time, he'd even believed that too. Scrambling for her sanity, and maybe for himself, he blurted, "Girl, haven't you ever heard of faith?"

"Faith in what?"

"Faith that there's something better around the corner than we know about. There's got to be. And that God is watching over us. Otherwise life is just too hard."

Kitty was looking at him like he'd sprouted antlers and was fixin' to hightail it out of the wilderness. "Trust me on this," he said, though anyone who'd ever known him would bet their last dollar that he couldn't be trusted to hold onto his skin.

"Listen, what you need to do is stop thinking. Stop thinking and let me do it. I'm obviously much better at thinking than you'll ever be."

"Hey, now . . ." she sputtered.

But he just kept going like he was a one-man locomotive. "Here's what we're gonna do: real soon, I'm going to find you a safe place."

Even in the dim glow of the firelight, he could tell her expression was skeptical. "What kind of place is that?"

"Somewhere good."

"There ain't no place like that for me."

"There is. There is, and I tell you, I'm gonna find it," he promised, making up lies just as fast as a carpetbagger in Atlanta. "I'm gonna find you a place where you can be happy."

"I don't think I remember how to be happy," she whispered, as if she were revealing yet another flaw.

"Yeah?" he asked, before he remembered to tell her not to think.

Lowering her voice, she murmured, "Mr. Proffitt, for girls like me, happiness don't count for much. All that really counts is getting a meal in your belly and maybe being warm for a little bit. And while all that feels good, it doesn't solve much or change a thing. All it really does is make you numb for a little while."

She was right, though he wasn't in any hurry to tell her. It felt too cruel. No one had room in their life for fools. Most folks understood that walking around like an advertisement for hope only made people want to stay clear of them.

A spark flew up from the fire. Leaning forward, he grabbed a stick and poked at the embers. When the flames finally expanded, emanating a fresh burst of heat, he leaned back again. "Warm enough?" he asked.

When she nodded, he poked the fire again. For a moment, he was happy just to be watching the sparks fly into the night air, looking almost like stars in the sky. The fire sent off the sweet smell of wood burning, hiding behind it the scent of freshness and home.

"Kitty . . . how about this÷" he drawled. "How about I just find you someplace where you can be dry. And maybe eat, too? Maybe that way you'll be numb for a good long while."

When she didn't reply, he shrugged.

He supposed she thought he was teasing her, but he wasn't being flippant. There'd been more than one day when he'd ached to be a little numb. That was what bourbon was for, right?

As the dancing flames warmed his neck and sent off more sparks, and the wind changed direction and the scent of smoke blew toward them again, he waited for her answer. "Kitty? What do you think?"

Still no answer.

Suspicious, he glanced her way, wondering what in the world was causing the cat to grab her tongue now.

When one moment stretched to two, then three, he craned his neck a bit. Ah. She was asleep again. Her eyes were closed tight, her lips were pursed. Body tense.

She was lost in the uneasy rest of the exhausted, but never the innocent.

Or perhaps she was just a touch innocent still?

And though he supposed Kitty would never believe it, Scout reckoned that was what the girl beside him was—innocent. In the way soldiers were. Or gamblers. Slaves. Prisoners. Unspoiled by goodness and tender care.

Innocent to easy words and kindness. To gifts and prayer and love.

Funny how he knew goodness existed—in spite of everything that he was and everything he'd done.

Right then and there, he decided to find her at least a little bit of happiness. Because he was that kind of man. He wasn't lazy; he believed in sweat and hard work and tough decisions.

He didn't believe in fate.

No, he was the type of man to take the future in his hands, pull at it really hard, and then run with it just as long and fast as he could.

T
ry to drink this broth. Just a few sips. Come on now."

Vaguely, Jamie was aware of Will's hand on her back and his voice in her ear, coaxing and pleading. But his presence next to her felt elusive. As though he were just on the other side of a fog bank and no matter how hard she tried, she wasn't going to be able to reach him.

Maybe because of that, eating anything felt like too much of an effort. Speaking felt too hard as well.

So she gave in to her body's wishes and simply shook her head.

"No, Jamilyn," Will's voice replied, hard and uncompromising. "That paltry head shake of yours isn't good enough. Now open your mouth."

There went his hand again, pressing at the back of her head. "Do it," he ordered.

Warily, she opened her eyes.

Those too-beautiful eyes warmed. "Ah. You are awake. Now be a good girl and open your mouth. You need to sip some broth."

"Not hungry."

"That doesn't matter. Open up."

The order was so harsh she opened her mouth. But before she could change her mind, he stuck a spoon in. Straight away, hot beef broth slid past her tongue and slipped down her throat.