A Texan’s Honor (26 page)

Scout had thanked her with a nod, then led the still-silent Kitty up the stairs. When she continued to poke along, he began to get aggravated. "Come on,
Louise.
I know you're tired, but if you go much slower you might as well be going backward."

When they stopped in front of her door, she finally spoke. "Scout, don't make me go in there."

Grabbing her shoulder, he fought to refresh her memory. "It's
Nate,
honey. Don't you forget that."

Her shoulder trembled under his touch. "Nate, please . . . don't make me go in there."

It was official. He was confused. "Go where?"

"In that room." She was pointing at the door like a rattler was curled around the handle.

"You're not making a lick of sense. This is the first almost decent place we've bedded down in days. Now, go on in and stop fussing. You're going to have your own room. Some privacy too."

When she still looked scared, he lowered his voice. "I'm trying to save your reputation here."

"That don't matter. I don't want a room of my own."

"I may be an outlaw, but even I know how a woman is supposed to be treated."

"But the woman below thinks I'm your sister."

"She might, but most people will realize right away that we don't look a thing alike." Tired of her foolishness, he stepped away. "Now listen. I need to go see if I can find someone. Go on in there and lock the door. I'll come back to get you at supper time."

"Scout, please . . . locks don't help," she whispered.

Her eyes were filled with so much pain that he didn't even chide her for using the wrong name. However, there was a reason he was still alive instead of strung up under the bough of some oak.

Duty and survival always came first.

"After you get in that room, lock it. Then push a chair in front of the door and forget about leaving."

"But—"

"If there's no chair in there, push the dresser."

"But—"

"You can't come with me. Not to where I'm going."

"I won't get in the way."

"I don't want you with me."

"Then tonight . . . tonight, can I sleep with you?"

Her begging was making even him forget their pretend names. "Kitty—"

"I won't sleep if I'm alone. I'll just stare at the door and remember."

"I'm not sticking you in a bed with me tonight. It ain't gonna happen."

When her eyes filled with tears, he hardened his heart. "Come on, girl. This is what you are going to have to get used to. Wherever I leave you—and I will, I promise you that— you're going to be on your own again."

Looking like he'd beaten her down instead of giving her some trust and freedom, she took the key he'd handed her, slipped through the doorway, and closed it directly behind herself.

Next, the steady screech of the dresser sliding across the floor echoed through the wall, followed by the unmistakable sound of despair as she began to cry.

And before he could slide even further into guilt and confusion, he ignored her cries and walked out of the boardinghouse. Lord have mercy, he needed to find Will McMillan and Jamie Ellis and shoot them dead.

The sooner he got his work completed, the sooner he'd be able to move on with his life.

Jamie had woken up in an empty room. At first she'd been fearful, not quite certain where she was. But then as her heart settled down and her brain cleared, she began to tally what she knew.

They were in Dodge City. In a small, rundown hotel that had curiously ornate woodwork framing each doorway. She'd been terribly ill. And Will—the man she used to fear but who now was pretty much the only person she completely trusted— had taken care of her.

Vaguely, snippets of the last five days rushed forward, each scene played out quickly with barely enough time to absorb all that had happened between the two of them. All she knew for sure was that when she'd been feverish, Will had bathed her brow with a cool cloth.

When she hadn't been able to walk, he'd carried her.

When she couldn't eat, he had fed her broth, cajoling and bullying her until she'd consumed enough sustenance to continue fighting the influenza. His gaze had been kind; his manner had been a true combination of patience and control.

Somehow, in the middle of the fever and the broth and his touch, the last of her fear of him subsided. Little by little, it had ebbed and transformed itself into something else entirely. Gratitude? Or was it perhaps friendship?

In the quiet peace of her rented room, she knew for certain it was most certainly not that. Because she was not his friend. They had no common ground. He was taller, stronger, and more forceful. Only he knew where they were going, and only he knew the people he needed to talk to.

From the moment their paths had crossed on that dangerous train, she'd been forced to rely on him and her faith, hoping against hope that she could learn to trust what he said and that one day he would actually do what he said he would do. He would return her to another Marshal who would in turn help her board a train to Kansas City. Afterward, she'd live with her aunts and get to know the elusive Randall—the man who would most likely be her future.

Even thinking about her future seemed hard. After everything that she and Will had been through, she was now dreading the moment when he would prove himself to be a man of honor.

And she would dread it, she knew. Because though he was so much more than she was, and though they had little in common except a shared desire to survive, she had fallen in love with the man.

Not that she was ever going to tell him that.

She was nothing to him except a burden that was costing him just about everything he was.

How could she ever meet his expectations? How could she ever be enough of a woman to be worthy of such a man?

The answer was simple: she couldn't.

Two knocks and Will's reassuring voice brought her to the door. She still double-checked, however. "Will?"

"It's me. Let me in, Jamilyn."

During her illness, when she'd been too sick to open her eyes, she'd become used to its gravelly tone. She now realized that low timbre was almost more familiar when it was hidden by the wood between them than when he was standing by her side.

Two clicks released the locks. When she opened the door and he crossed the threshold, she felt overwhelmed by the looks of him. To her surprise, he'd bathed and now sported new denims, broadcloth, and kerchief. The fine lines of his cheeks and jaw had been shaved close. He smelled vaguely of soap and the sharp, fresh scent of brand-new cotton and wool.

The clothes, his scent, his all-encompassing form made her catch her breath. "You changed."

"I did." Looking curiously self-conscious, he ran one hand down over the pure white fabric covering his chest. "I thought perhaps I should make myself presentable for my boss. Sam Edison doesn't appreciate mess or dirt."

"Would he be upset with you for something so small?" The idea that his boss would find flaw with Will dragging her across the state in dirty clothes felt harsh.

After bolting the door behind him, he faced her and shook his head wryly. "The fresh clothes are probably my doing more than his expectation. I . . . I like being clean. Being in the Walton Gang doesn't lend itself to a whole lot of opportunities for a man to get his laundry done." Crossing the room, he checked and double-checked his pistols. Even took the time to make sure his Winchester was at the ready.

The actions looked so deliberate, a bit of a knot tightened inside of her. "Are you expecting trouble?"

"Beyond the normal? No."

Like a sharp freeze, the reality of her situation bore down on her again. Her illness, combined with the room they were in, had given her a false sense of security. "Do you think Mr. Proffitt is still looking for us?"

He hesitated, then finally nodded. "Absolutely."

"Do you think he knows we're here?"

"Word is out that a man matching his description has been seen hereabouts. But I'm not completely certain it's him."

"Why is that?" Scout Proffitt's penchant for wearing entirely black, combined with his deadly black-as-night eyes, was a hard thing to miss.

A dry chuckle erupted from Will. "The people who claim they've seen him are saying he's with a girl."

"A woman?" She was innocent, but not ignorant. "Why does that seem so hard to believe?"

"Because people are going out of their way to say it's not a woman. It's a girl. A young one. And he's acting proprietarily toward her." He rolled his eyes. "Rumor has it he's acting like a guardian."

Jamie didn't understand the derision in Will's voice. "Why does that surprise you? Couldn't he have a sister or something?"

"No. Scout doesn't seem to have a family."

"Are you sure? Sometimes family is a person's only weakness."

"Point taken." Pain flickered in his eyes, reminding Jamie of the conversation they'd shared about his sister Bonnie.

He cleared his throat as he crossed the room and pushed back the thick curtains. "Anyway, Scout doesn't have a family. Not one I've ever heard about. That's why these rumors about him taking care of a girl have to be false. Scout Proffitt doesn't tarry with women. He doesn't accompany them places. He doesn't look out for them, and he definitely doesn't do good deeds."

"What does he do with them?" she blurted before she could think better of her words. Because, of course, there was only one thing a man like Scout would be doing with a young woman who was not a family member. Knowing her face was blusing red as a rose, she said, "Please forget I asked that."

From his position next to the window, Will smiled. "As it happens, I was thinking the same thing. But, at the risk of shocking you terribly, I have to say that squiring a lovebird ain't Scout Proffitt's way either. Scout spends small amounts of time with women. Then he moves on. He doesn't have attachments. And he sure wouldn't risk his life by looking out for anyone else."

"So it's not him." Her body trembled as she thought of the other men who also had been on the train. If one of the others were nearby, she knew she'd be in big trouble.

Since Will looked determined to stand next to the window and look out of it every few seconds, she sat down on the edge of the bed. "When will we see your boss?"

"He's making his way here as we speak."

"And then he'll take me away?"

"Yes. He'll make sure you're safe."

"And what will you do then?"

After scanning the street below them for a solid minute, he turned back to her. "Just what I told you I'd do. I'll continue to do what I get paid for." He paused, then added, "Maybe I'll go see if I can get back in James Walton's good graces."

She knew without even looking at him that his words of comfort really were nothing at all. He wasn't going to be allowed back in. Most likely they'd shoot him in the back.

And his real job didn't hold a whole lot of promise either. Jamie figured there was a real possibility that he might even be kicked out of the Marshals. She seemed to be his failure.

"I hope things get better for you," she said.

"You know, I almost think you mean it."

"I do. I feel terrible to be so grateful for something that hurt you so much. You've put your life on the line for my benefit. Saving me has cost you a great deal."

"Jamilyn, saving your life might have been the best thing I've ever done in my sorry life. Getting killed for that wouldn't be a bad thing."

"Don't say such things!"

"Why shouldn't I?" he drawled. "At the end of the day, your welfare is all that matters."

"That's not—"

He cut her off. "You matter more to me than you could ever imagine."

His sweet words, spoken so quietly and without inflection, took her breath away. Was it possible he'd been falling in love with her too?

She had to know if she was worth more to him than just a victim. Because of that, even though it was unseemly, she pushed him. She needed to use every moment of these last few precious moments together to get the truth.

"Why?" she asked. Quietly. Her voice coming out hardly anything more than a harsh whisper.

With a weary sigh, he pushed himself away from the wall. His blue eyes looked tired and his expression was drawn. "You know why."

She got to her feet as he walked toward her. She clenched her hands into fists as she watched a myriad of emotions cross his face—almost as though he'd had enough of fighting himself. Or maybe his internal struggles matched hers.

There was so much inside of herself that was warring between what she'd always known and what she'd imagined things could be, that it was almost an impossible struggle to give in to the inevitability of it.

Then he stepped forward. Closer. So close his shirt was almost brushing against the sleeves of her gown. Clean cotton rustled against frayed taffeta.

Her dirty black dress looked odd next to his clean clothes. The gown hung on her now, and its dusty black sheen paled next to the crisp white cotton.

Suddenly, she was aware of the weight she'd lost. And her sickness. And everything that life had thrown at her.