A Texan’s Honor (27 page)

And then he took her hand. Once, twice, he brushed the tip of one calloused finger against her knuckle.

She shivered.

Will noticed. "Am I scaring you, Jamie?"

Mouth dry, she shook her head. "No," she said aloud, just in case he didn't see.

His hands turned hers over. That same thumb brushed a path along the inside of her palm, then traced a path along her wrist, lightly caressing the blue lines of her veins.

She trembled again. But this time, Will didn't look distressed. Instead, his lips curved slightly.

Confusing her.

"What are you doing?" she asked.

"Nothing too terrible. Just feeling you."

"That's it?" She raised her eyes.

"Truth?"

"Yes."

"I'm trying to get up the nerve to kiss you." His fingers pressed on her skin, then stopped, as if he were half waiting for her to gasp or cry out. Perhaps he was even half hoping for it?

If so, he was out of luck.

Life was hard. More than that, life was precarious. There was still a very good chance they were going to get caught. A very good chance she was going to die sooner than later.

And so she looked at him directly and silently begged him to stop postponing the inevitable.

The tension between them dissipated as if he'd finally come to a dangerous decision.

Will McMillan leaned closer, brushed his lips against her cheek, seemed to breathe in her scent, and closed his eyes. And then, right there and then, he kissed her.

His lips were smooth and firm. Slightly parted. His touch was languid and slow, like they were under stars during a warm summer evening.

So much so that all her senses fixated only on him. He smelled good, his touch was everything, and suddenly nothing else seemed to matter in the world.

Part of her ached to open her eyes and meet his gaze. To reach out and grasp the arms that held her loosely and pull him closer.

To pester him with questions, just to figure out what he was feeling. And just as important, attempt to understand what she was feeling too.

J
ust when he'd been sure he couldn't be any more of a fool than he was, Will McMillan managed to surprise himself again. Since he'd already apologized, he gazed into Jamie's eyes and wondered if he was ever going to forget this moment. After all, he needed to.

But as her hopeful expression penetrated his defenses, and his body responded in kind, he realized something was very apparent: he was now an even bigger fool than he'd thought.

Had he really thought he was going to be able to forget this moment? Forget being so close to Jamie, tasting her? Feeling closer to her than just about anyone else in his life?

He cleared his throat, a hundred apologies and excuses running through his brain. But all of his words dissipated into nothing when he looked into her eyes.

Looking shell-shocked, Jamie stared at him, her mouth agape. As if seconds were minutes, her lips closed. "My," she whispered, just as if that word was the very last of her coherent vocabulary.

"Jamie," he murmured in return, to show her that he too could speak eons with just one word.

As the minutes marched on, their situation—and the mismatched pairing—brought them back to reality. They did not have a relationship. They were two people who were very close for terrible reasons for a short period of time.

Someone pounded on the door.

Jamie gasped.

"Don't move," Will ordered as he clasped a Colt in his left hand and stepped closer. "Who's there?"

"Calvin, Marshal."

Grudgingly, he opened the door. "What do you need?"

Calvin rolled his eyes, his scraggly, thinning hair making an exclamation point to his expression. "I'm here to summon you."

"Because?"

"Because a Mr. Edison is here. That mean anything to you?"

"It does. Thank you."

He stepped back, intent on closing the door right away and focusing back on Jamie. But the inkeeper's hand grasped the door in a firm grip. "He's downstairs. Waiting."

"Please tell him I'll be there shortly." What he didn't say but which lingered between them was that he wasn't the type of man to be given orders. Or told to rush.

"Will, what's the problem?" He attempted to crane his head around Will's form. Attempted to look at Jamie.

Will easily sidestepped so Calvin didn't have that ability. "There's no problem."

When the door closed, he locked it.

And then turned right around and leaned back against it again. "Ready? It's time to go down."

She bit her lip—that beautiful ripe-raspberry-colored lip that he had finally tasted. "Already?"

"Only you would say that, sugar. This has been a long time coming."

"When I see Mr. Edison, what will happen then?"

Will knew his heart would break. That's what would happen. "What's going to happen is you're going to be just fine, Jamilyn. When you're in Mr. Edison's company, you'll finally be safe."

"And he'll send me home?'

His heart broke, because now he knew she was like him. She didn't have a home. All she had was the vision of what one was supposed to be like. But painful memories weren't for sissies, and especially not for the likes of them.

Playing along, he nodded. "Yes."

When Jamie nodded, then stood up, her whole demeanor looked as if she was off to the gallows.

Funny. That was how he felt too.

Sam Edison was short. In his boots, he was still barely taller than Jamie. But that was the only area in which one might find him lacking. Everything about him—from his light gray eyes to his thick mustache to his long, elegant fingers to the way he stood so calm and still—radiated power and authority.

It was no small wonder Mr. Hollis had wanted Will to bring her to Mr. Edison right away. Jamie doubted anyone disobeyed the formidable man's directives more than once.

He stood straight and proud as Will walked her down the stairs and moved toward him. As they approached, Mr. Edison's face seemed made of steel. It didn't look like he moved a single muscle until Will stopped in front of them.

"Sam, thank you for coming," Will said. "I'm obliged."

"The bureaucracy in St. Louis was nearly driving me plumb crazy, McMillan. I was glad for an excuse to leave it for a bit." Turning to Jamie, his eyes softened. "Miss Ellis, I'm truly sorry for your recent unpleasantness. I hope this event won't harm you too much?"

His voice was so gracious, so formal yet very kind, that tears pricked her eyes. He was the first man who she felt like she could be weak with—almost like he counted on the opportunity to coddle the opposite sex.

With Will, she had done her best to be strong because she hadn't wanted to make things harder on him than they already had been. "I . . . I am sure I will prevail, sir."

"I will hope and pray that is the case." As her tears welled again, Mr. Edison pulled out a neatly starched, white handkerchief from a hidden pocket in his well-tailored black suit. "Here you go, dear."

She held it up to her face and smelled the faint tart scent of lemons. "Thank you, sir." She dabbed her eyes and looked warily at Will. Was he embarrassed by her burst of weakness?

Will met her gaze, his look softening with something that looked like a true mixture of longing and regret.

A lump filled her throat.

Then, he held out an arm. "Jamilyn, perhaps you'd like to sit down while I speak to Sam for a moment?"

It wasn't really a question, more like a sweetly worded request. But she took his arm just same and let him escort her across the small lobby and seat her on a lumpy scarlet-colored couch.

But instead of leaving her immediately, he crouched on his heels in front of her. "You okay?" When she nodded, he almost smiled. "Good girl."

He turned away then, walking with a purposeful stride toward his boss.

Jamie couldn't have stopped watching him if she'd even wanted to. At first, she tried to concentrate on only breathing slowly and easily. To give praise to the Lord that she'd made it through the ordeal.

But her eyes kept fighting her. Across the way, she watched Will swab at his cheek with his hand. Just like he'd done time and again when he had been trying his hardest to see the best in an awful situation. Moments later, he nodded and the faintest of smiles appeared before it was carefully hidden.

Just like he'd done countless times with her.

Shame curled in her stomach. What in the world was she doing? She should be so happy to be leaving this man's side. But instead, all she was doing was wishing they'd had more time together.

Surely even one more day would have helped.

She scrambled to her feet when the men approached. "Miss Ellis, they're holding the train for us. We should probably not inconvenience the rails too much longer. Are you ready, ma'am?"

"Yes, sir." Steeling her spine, she held out her hand to Will. "Mr. McMillan . . . thank you. Thank you for everything."

Just as formally, he gently enfolded her hand in his, then bowed slightly at his waist. "It was my pleasure."

"Will I ever see you again?"

He stilled. Will glanced at Mr. Edison, then, like each word was being torn from his insides, said, "If you need me, contact the U.S. Marshals' office. It might take time, but they'll find me."

"Promise?"

"On my honor."

She relaxed. His honor was everything. Meant everything to her. And it couldn't be faulted.

He wiped his hands on his jeans before holding one palm toward her. "All right then. I guess this is goodbye."

The moment she placed her palm in his, she felt the same electricity that always flowed through her whenever they touched. But it wasn't enough. Releasing his hand, she flung herself toward him, aching to feel one last embrace.

He caught her to him easily, wrapping his arms around her and holding her even closer. Spurred by his actions, she pressed her face toward his chest and breathed deep. Closed her eyes and hoped she'd never forget his scent.

Knew she'd never forget the feeling of comfort and security she only seemed to find in his arms.

And then, just as quickly, he stepped away. His posture became stiff and solid. "Good-bye, Miss Ellis."

It felt too hard to tell him good-bye; her feelings were too mixed up and felt too fragile. Instead, she turned to Mr. Edison. "I'm ready now."

"Let's be on our way then." And with that, Mr. Edison turned away and walked toward the front door of the hotel, not really looking behind him, just assuming, Jamie supposed, that she would follow.

And so she did. She followed the gentleman out into the bright sunlight and away from the dim lobby lights. Out toward her future and away from the too many questions that surrounded both her feelings for Will and her past.

"It's just up the road, ma'am," Mr. Edison said. "Will you be able to walk the distance?"

"Yes, sir. I have a feeling I can handle that just fine."

And that was the last either of them said until they were on the train, in their own private compartment, sipping tea when the train pulled out of Dodge and taking them far away.

G
oing back to the room was out of the question. So was standing in the street, looking like the worst sort of pitiful fool. Will decided to compromise by going into the lobby and sitting on one of the chairs near the fireplace.

Calvin Hollis, seeing he had returned, took a few steps toward him, but he must have been frightened by Will's scowl because he immediately backed off. That was the good news.

The bad news was that there was nothing to distract Will from the train's whistle as it left the station. He sat as still as possible and tried to pretend he wasn't listening for its echo long past when it couldn't be heard.

When it couldn't be heard, except in his memories.

Though he'd given up liquor after the war, not liking how it didn't help his stress but only clouded his ability to deal with it, he felt that he would give good money for a shot of bourbon at the moment.

'Course, chances were good that not even whiskey was going to make a dent in the pain. The sharp sting of whiskey was not going to relieve the ache that had settled in his throat.

He was going to miss Jamilyn Ellis terribly.

No, that wasn't true. He already did miss her. What was going to happen was the hole in his heart was going to expand and become festered. It was going to hurt and ache and burn until he got used to it.

Because the missing wasn't going to go away. And he had no other choice. He'd saved Jamie to give her the life she deserved—and it sure wasn't a life beside a man who made a living pretending to be someone he wasn't, doing things that no one should witness, let alone doing them over and over.

And he had done just that.

Through lowered eyelids, he watched a couple enter the hotel and approach the registration desk. Calvin handed them the guestbook to fill out.

Life went on. Even in times of pain and frustration, that was the underlying quality that lay behind it. People came and went about their business. Calvin there could probably tell him more about that than anyone.