A Texan’s Honor (29 page)

Finally, he gave in to the inevitable and pressed his palms to his face and let out a cry of despair. He cried hard. Cried like a baby. Sobbed and bawled like he hadn't since he'd been small.

He cried for the waste of a life, and cried for all the hurting in the world. Only a long time later, when he'd clumsily wiped his face with the sleeve of his shirt, did he wonder what to do with her body. And realized it was the first dead body in his life that he'd ever thought about burying. Usually, he simply shot then moved on. Quickly.

Which, of course, made him feel sick all over again.

"Mr. Lawrence?" A light, feminine voice called out from the other side of the door. "The hot water you requested is here."

The words confused him. His mouth opened, but he couldn't think of a thing to say.

"Mr. Lawrence? Are you in there?"

Old habits of self-preservation kicked in. Standing up, he forced himself to speak clearly. "Just set it outside the door," he ordered. "I'll get to it in a moment."

"You sure? 'Cause I'm supposed to bring it on in."

"Leave it," he barked back, hardly recognizing the husky, strained chords in his voice.

A clamber and a smothered exclamation told him his orders were followed. As her footsteps fell away, Scout sighed in relief. He was in no condition to leave the room—but of course he had no choice. He was going to need to bury Kitty, not leave her.

But a suicide would bring questions and the possibility that many of the good folk of Dodge wouldn't take kindly to a sinner's body on their sacred ground.

His options were fading fast.

Then slowly the answer came to him. It was as unexpected and as difficult to accept as it was perfect. He was going to need to go back to the hotel and locate Will McMillan.

Now that he knew he was actually a lawman, Scout knew Will had the force of the U.S. Marshals behind him. His position trumped any doubts or questions a small-town sheriff might bring up.

It even trumped the usual fear that Scout Proffitt's name brought to most people. Taking one last lingering look at Kitty's body, he turned away, then caught sight of a slip of paper under one of the forgotten pillows.

It had been under her—obviously she'd placed it there for him to find. He didn't want to read it. He didn't want to know why she'd ended her life. Didn't want to feel even guiltier than he did.

But life had never been easy, and taking the easy road had never been his goal. With heavy steps, he crossed back to the bed and carefully unfolded the carefully arranged note.

There were only a few lines. Each word was neatly printed and phrased.

Scout, I'm sorry for doing this to you. I just couldn't see a way out. For a woman scarred and used like me, there aren't many choices. One of them can't be me being alone.

Being alone is worse than just about anything.

But please know I'm grateful for you, and grateful for the last few days. Though I'd never believed in God, you showed me that maybe, just maybe, He exists after all.

If he does . . . now wouldn't that be something?

Kitty

The words rang in Scout's ears through the night as he stared at the note and prayed to a Lord who had surely given up on him long ago.

When morning came, he grabbed the pitcher of water from outside his door and hastily cleaned up. Then, before he found a way to delay further, he picked up his Colt and holstered it, shrugged back into his duster, and left the room again after taking care to lock up the room securely behind him.

He kept his head down as he walked out the back stairs and into the early light. With some surprise, he realized that more than two hours had passed since he'd entered the room.

Worried now that he'd waited too long to seek assistance, he picked up his pace, making it to the hotel in half the time it had taken him before.

When the man at the front saw him, his eyes grew wide. "Yes?"

"I need to see Will McMillan. He still here?"

It was obvious the man didn't want to tell him anything, but Scout stood tall and straight, almost forcing the man to tell him something he didn't want to hear.

"I'll go see," he said finally. When he left, Scout walked to the corner of the room. There he could keep an eye on things while being unobserved by most.

But then he noticed that his sleeve was soaked with blood. Torn between the new flood of despair that besieged him and the old habit of needing to stay unobtrusive and hidden at all times, he stared at the sleeve until he sensed Will coming his way.

In his own way, the lawman's face looked as haggard and ruined as Scout felt inside.

"You looking for me?" he asked without preamble.

Though it killed him, he nodded. "I need your help."

"You sure about that?"

"It's a personal matter." Feeling that the skinny guy behind the counter was aching to listen, he motioned toward the door. "Can we go talk outside?"

Will glanced at the door warily. His eyes were hard when he turned to Scout again. "You fixin' to kill me?"

"No." Hurt washed through him as he realized that if he'd nodded, Will wouldn't have been surprised.

That was what everyone knew him to be: a killer. A bad man. The kind who would call on a man for help and then turn on him like a snake. That reputation fit him like a kid glove that was too tight.

Though almost all the bitterness in his life choked his words, he responded. "Like I said, this is personal."

After another measured glance, Will turned and started walking. Scout eased from his position at the door and followed. Once they were away from a family standing idle near the front entrance, Will turned to him and waited. "Well?"

There was no way to make his words easier to say. "The girl I was with killed herself while I was seeing you. I've gotta bury her decent."

Will's stoic response was impressive. The only sign that he was taken aback was a muscle jumping in his jaw. "You sure?"

"Am I sure what? Sure that she's dead, or sure that I want to bury her decent?"

Will raised a hand to wave off Scout's wrath. "Don't get riled up. I'm not your enemy here."

Scout was stunned speechless. His world wasn't filled with shades of gray, not really anyway. Men were either good or bad, and for as long as he could remember, he'd been firmly in the bad category. Now that he knew Will was a U.S. Marshal, Scout never expected Will to think of him as anything less than his enemy.

"I want to bury her decent. She deserves at least that, though I have a feeling Kitty wouldn't think she'd be worthy of even that much."

"All right then. Let's go deal with it."

"That's it? No questions?"

Will's gaze slid over him. "Even pushing aside the fact that if you'd killed her you wouldn't be standing here . . . I believe you. And I agree with you too. I've left my share of bodies littering the ground—and it's a tough thing to come to terms with. I've come to believe that everyone deserves a decent burial, especially a woman, don't you think?"

Scout's teeth clenched as he absorbed the other man's words. He wasn't so sure about everyone deserving something decent. He sure didn't.

But that was okay. "Obliged," he said tightly as he started walking toward the run-down boarding house, dreading the sight of Kitty's lifeless body as much as he was dreading Will McMillan's reaction to it.

But it had to be done.

Life wasn't for cowards or sissies. He'd never been either. But today was proving to him that maybe he needed to become something more than he was.

Even if he wasn't sure it was possible.

T
heir journey to Kansas City hadn't been grueling, but it had been fraught with a sadness in Jamie Ellis's heart. A sadness that wasn't easily pushed to one side.

After they'd boarded the train, the elegant Mr. Edison had given her his orders. "I procured a private compartment for you, Miss. But I'd appreciate your company for the meal this evening. I have some questions about your time with the Walton Gang that I'd like to have answered before our arrival in Kansas City. If it won't be too much of an inconvenience."

Though the request had been delivered in dulcet tones and with the utmost respect, there was no doubt about the order. Mr. Edison was ordering her to dine with him and was giving her fair warning that he expected information in exchange for his retrieving her.

Perhaps that shouldn't have been a surprise.

"I'd be honored to dine with you, Mr. Edison," she said just as formally.

He bowed slightly. "I'll be at your door to escort you to supper."

"Thank you."

He'd left her side then, and she'd entered her compartment alone. Oh, it had been so very civil.

And her compartment was as pretty as anything she'd ever seen. Fine linens covered the slim mattress. Mahogany wood framed the small writing table.

The chair was upholstered in a plush burgundy velvet and situated by the lone, wide window, giving Jamie an excellent view of the snowy landscape outside. In short, it was everything a first-class compartment was reputed to be and twice as lovely as she imagined.

Gingerly, she sat down and looked out the window, watching the endless trail of white horizon. And only to herself she admitted the cold hard truth: she would've given almost anything to feel the icy snow against her skin, to feel the wind brush against her cheeks. To breathe in the frigid frost, so cold and harsh that with each breath her lungs would feel as if they were about to explode.

She ached to be on horseback, an animal's muscles mixing with her own. Smelling the leather and the dust. Feeling the warmth of the horse's pelt under her fingers.

But most of all, Jamie ached for Will McMillan with such a fierce longing it almost took her breath away.

Will was the first man in her life she had trusted. The first man who'd put her needs before his. The first man of honor.

But she didn't idolize him. No, instead of only feeling grateful to him, she ached for him as a companion. He was serious but not without humor. Easygoing but never one to be lazy or taken advantage of.

But most of all, Will had a way about him that had inspired her to reach a little bit deeper into her soul and imagine a better life than she'd ever hoped for. He'd made her think of people differently. For that matter, he'd made her think of herself differently . . . for a little while, she'd begun to believe that she was worth more than she'd ever imagined. For that, she'd always be grateful.

Yes, he'd become dear to her. And, she realized, he felt the same way toward her, at least to some extent.

As she watched the barren landscape slide by, Jamie knew she'd be lying to herself if she neglected to think about their romantic connection. There was something sweet and true between them—a beautiful romance, laced with a tingly, warm desire that was intoxicating.

Feeling the longing toward him was a revelation. She was also woman enough to know that it hadn't been one-sided. Yes, they'd had a connection of sorts—the two them. Their whole relationship hadn't been only of captor and hostage or guardian and victim.

No, somehow in the middle of things, they'd become more than mere labels to each other. They'd become man and woman. They'd become Jamilyn and Will. A couple of a sort.

But, of course, their relationship had never been meant to be. And it certainly hadn't ever been meant to last.

Minutes passed, floating into hours. A steward came by offering warm towels and hot water and a neatly wrapped box.

"What's this?" she asked in confusion.

"The gentleman you are traveling with asked me to give it to, Miss. He thought a change of clothing might be appreciated."

"Oh. Yes. Yes, thank you." She felt awkward, having Mr. Edison buy her clothing, but she was enough of a realist to realize that she was going to need more than one dress in her future.

Inside the box, the dress that greeted her was lovely. The fabric was taffeta; the color an interesting shade between brown and gold. It shimmered in the light. It was cut rather plainly, with a minimum of pleats and buttons and lace. Underneath it lay fresh pantaloons, a snowy white chemise, and a thin pair of petticoats.

It all was beautiful, too lovely for her to be embarrassed that he'd felt the need to buy her a new dress and underthings. She was simply very grateful for it all.

Anxious to change, she shook out the dress and stepped out of the dress she was wearing. Then she did her best to transform the rest of herself.

With the aid of the small mirror in her compartment, she took down her hair, combed it with her fingers as well as she could, then spent double the time neatly pinning it up.

After, she luxuriated in the feel of warm water against her neck and face. Using both the towels and the basin, she did her best to set herself to rights. She probably hadn't spent so long on her toilet in years, but she didn't mind it. Fussing with her skin and hair kept her hands busy and made the time go by.