The Devil's Own Desperado (4 page)

Four days? She’d been taking care of him for four days? His often dormant conscience railed at him for his behavior. Colt made a mental note to apologize to her, but other concerns soon crowded out his guilt.

How far was he from Red Deer? Had he put enough distance between himself and the Matthews brothers, or at least enough to give him a few days to regain his strength? He recalled at least three, maybe four sunrises on the painful, hard ride from Red Deer. He hoped a four days’ ride was enough, because at the moment, he doubted he could stand, much less ride. But once he could ride, he would really put space between himself and the Matthews.

Colt shut his eyes for a moment, cursing whatever Fates were toying with his life. He was so damn tired of never staying long in one place, of forever looking over his shoulder, waiting for the inevitable to happen—a bullet in the back, or being a fraction of a second too slow. Like he’d been in Red Deer. That fraction of a second had almost cost him his life.

His eyes flew open. Where had she hidden his gun? If the Matthews clan showed up while he was flat on his back in a bed and without his gun it would be bad. The Matthews weren’t known for their genteel treatment of woman. He sure as hell didn’t want to see the woman or anyone else caught in the cross fire between himself and the Matthews. He could handle himself in a straight-out gunfight, but if there were people who would be caught in the middle—he shivered.

Even if the damned woman was stubborn and refused to listen to him when he said he wanted food, not broth, he didn’t want to see her get hurt. She’d spent four days taking care of him, keeping him alive, nursing him. He hadn’t known there were people like her left in the world, people who cared about other folk, and even took in total strangers because it was the decent thing to do. Heaven knew he’d met very few people like her in his life.

Colt sat up. He ignored the way the room spun around him and grabbed the rounded newel of the headboard, willing his stomach to stop roiling. He had to find his clothes, his boots, and his gun—not necessarily in that order.

A breeze stirred the gingham curtains, and he caught a glimpse of a small barn and a narrow set of wagon tracks leading away from the house. At least he could keep an eye on the road. No one could ride up unannounced to the place. It had that much going for it, if nothing else.

Sparrows chattered in a small bush outside the window. Chickens clucked and squawked and a rooster crowed loudly. Horses whickered from the barn and a cow lowed somewhere. The woman’s family was probably small-time farmers. Squatters, a lot of the larger ranchers called them. And that was one of the kinder things ranch owners had to say about small-time farmers. He’d been approached by more than one cattle baron who’d wanted to hire his gun to rid the land of squatters. At least he still had some semblance of decency. He’d never hired out his gun for that, or for any other reason. He was able to sleep with his conscience on most nights.

His stomach rumbled at the mouth-watering aroma of baking bread. He added another item he needed. Food—and not her damned chicken broth.

The door crept open and Colt fell back into the pillows. Maybe if he pretended to be asleep, that blasted woman would stop trying to feed him broth. She didn’t seem to understand a body needed real food, not something a toothless old man would slurp down.

“Mr. Evans? You asleep?”

Colt pried one eye open. A tow-headed kid with a remarkable resemblance to the woman stood in the doorway. This had to be her brother. “Not asleep anymore,” Colt said.

The kid was between hay and grass, perched on the threshold of awkward, not yet all knees and elbows, but darn close to it. His trousers were a good inch too short for his legs, his wrists peeked out at the ends of his shirt sleeves, and his hair stood out at all angles to his head, as if he hadn’t dragged a comb through it in days.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to wake you up.” The boy slipped into the room, and quietly closed the door. “Amy said I wasn’t to disturb you if you was sleeping.”

“Well, I’m not sleeping, now.” Colt managed to push himself to a semi-sitting position before the room began to spin in lazy loops again and his stomach threatened dry heaves.

He pulled in several long, slow deep breaths and the nausea faded. He shot another appraising glance at the boy. Actually, being confined in the room with only his thoughts had been a lonely proposition. Maybe the kid could help him pass the time of day. And maybe the kid also knew where the woman had hidden his gun. He just had to remember what she’d said the boy’s name was. Forgoing the effort, he demanded, “What’s your name, kid?”

“I’m Saul McCollister.” The boy’s eyes were wide as pie pans as he approached the bed. “Are you really Colt Evans, the gunfighter?”

“Yeah, my name is Colt Evans.” Colt surveyed the room again. The gingham curtains billowed into the room like brightly colored sails with the warm breeze, and sunlight dappled the wood-planked floor. “Speaking of guns, where did she hide mine?”

Saul shook his head and shrugged. “I don’t know. Amy won’t tell me. She’s afraid I’ll try to shoot it. I’m almost thirteen. I can handle a gun. I’ve shot a gun too, and Amy ain’t caught me,” he said with a note of defiance. He took another step closer to the bed. “I’ll bet you’ve killed a lot of men with that gun, haven’t you?”

A chill rippled up Colt’s spine. Dear God, the kid thought he was some kind of a hero. He sure as hell had never felt like a hero, and especially not lately. No matter what he said now, it wasn’t going to be right. He could put wrong ideas into the boy’s head. Picking up a gun was not a way of life, and certainly not anything a boy should want to do as a lifetime pursuit.

Bear’s voice echoed in his memory.
Dying ain’t much of a living
.

When Colt didn’t answer, Saul went on, “Amy hates guns, but I want to be a gunfighter, just like you and Doc Holliday and Wyatt Earp and Bat Masterson.”

“Hold on, there, kid. You rattled off a hell of a list. Those men walk a knife-blade between enforcing the law and stepping over that line.” Colt’s chest tightened. Holliday was notorious for his short temper and quick trigger. Earp had probably crossed that line more times than anyone knew, and Masterson wasn’t any better. “Most shootists have really short careers. Holliday, Earp, and Masterson were just damn lucky, and they had someone to cover their backs most of the time.”

“You’re lucky too.” Saul’s head bobbed as he spoke. “I read one of those dime novels about you, and it said—”

“Stop right there. I don’t care what those damned books said.” Colt shook his head, wincing when his shoulder jarred with the movement. What the hell was his sister letting him read? “I ain’t
that
Colt Evans.”

The glow in Saul’s eyes faded and his grin slipped away. Colt’s stomach twisted again. Where did this boy get the idea being a shootist was a life of adventure and excitement? If he’d had a choice, he wouldn’t have been a fast gun. It hadn’t been how he had seen himself living when he’d been younger and a lot more naive. Ranching had been his dream, not living his life constantly on guard for the next young gun wanting to make a name at his expense.

“Kid, most gunfighters die real young.” Colt’s memory flashed with the look of stunned shock and fleeting horror on Mitch Matthews’s face as the boy realized he had been fatally shot, the denial on his face even as he crumbled to the floor, dead before he hit the planking. “They die real young, and those that don’t, spend the rest of their lives looking over their shoulder, wondering what hothead is going to try to make his own name by shooting them.”

Saul stepped back from the bed. “You’re not Colt Evans?”

“Not
that
Colt Evans.”

Saul frowned and pinned his gaze on the heavy white bandaging covering Colt’s left shoulder and encircling his chest. “That how you got shot?” He lifted his gaze to Colt’s face. Replacing the crushing disappointment was something Colt could only define as concern. “Someone thought you were the other Colt Evans?”

“Yep.” Even though the lie stuck in his craw, Colt suddenly saw a way out of being Colt Evans, fast gun and target for every Johnny Quick Draw out there. He was getting too old to continue living on his reputation with a gun.
Twenty-eight, and I’m too old
.

The bedroom door banged open and Amelia strode into the bedroom. Saul whirled around, and then cast a pleading look at Colt.

“Saul David McCollister, I thought I told you not to disturb Mr. Evans.”

Colt grinned at the boy. “If she’s like most women, you’re in big trouble now. She used your full name.”

She was like some kind of avenging angel garbed in calico and a pristine white apron. Her eyes blazed and her mouth settled into a grim line as she swept into the room. “Out now, Saul.”

“You said I wasn’t to disturb him if he was sleeping,” Saul said. “Mr. Evans wasn’t asleep when I came in here.”

“Out.” She pointed at the door. “Now.”

Saul sighed. His shoulders slumped and he slunk to the door.

“Do not slam that door on your way out either, young man. And tuck your shirttail in. You have not been raised to be a hooligan.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Saul mumbled, shoving the tail of his shirt into his trousers. He stomped through the doorway and shut the door more firmly than Colt guessed she liked if the further tightening of her mouth and the stiffening of her spine was any indication. She appeared to have a ramrod sewn into the back of her dress.

“I’m sorry, lady, for my temper tantrum a little while ago.”

His apology momentarily took her aback. Amelia turned on Colt. “I certainly hope you weren’t filling his head with silly, foolish notions of being a gunfighter.”

His gray eyes darkened to nearly black, like a threatening thunderstorm. The grin on his lean features vanished, replaced with a mocking upturn of one corner of his mouth. “How can I do that, lady, if I’m not a shootist—or gunfighter, as you put it—myself?”

“Mr. Evans, he’s an impressionable young boy. I don’t know what lies you told him, but I know better. When I took that holster off you, it was tied down low over your thigh, and the sight on your revolver was filed away. Saul might believe you if you told him you aren’t
the
Colt Evans, but I am not that naive.” She wasn’t about to tell him she’d harbored suspicions when she first removed his weapon, but it had been Dr. Archer who had confirmed her fears that the modification made it likely Colt was a gunfighter.

His jaw clenched for a moment and a muscle ticked along the stubble-covered plane of his cheek. Amelia was afraid she might have pushed him too far.

“Lady, I never did take kindly to being called a liar. I’m a lot of things, but a liar usually isn’t one of them. And if I am that Colt Evans, you’ve got a hell of a lot of trouble laying here in your bed. Wouldn’t it be better for everyone involved if I’m not that man?”

Amelia ground her teeth, her hands on her hips. He had a valid point, but it didn’t mean she liked being spoken to in such a manner. “My name is Amelia. I am not a…” She trailed off, realizing what she’d almost said.

He arched a jet brow upward. “Not a lady? Lady,
I’m
not that naive. If you ain’t a lady, I’m President of these here United States.”

Amelia flushed. Attempting to hide her discomfort, she asked, “Would you like some broth, now? And your apology for your ill manners a little while ago is accepted.”

“No, I don’t, thank you. I want my clothes and I want my gun.”

“What could you possibly need your gun for if you’re not
that
Colt Evans?” Amelia smiled in her sweetest manner.

That muscle ticked faster in his cheek and his eyes darkened. “Either you bring me my clothes or I’ll go find them myself.” He clutched the blankets, bunching them up, and levered himself off the pillows.

Amelia couldn’t suppress a gasp. “Mr. Evans, Dr. Archer said—”

“I don’t give a damn what that sawbones said. I want my clothes, I want my gun, and I want something to eat.” He flung the blankets off and stood.

“Mr. Evans!”

A moment later, he toppled to the floor. Amelia rushed to his side and slipped an arm around his bare back. Grunting, she managed to get him to his feet. She scrunched her eyes shut and assisted him into the bed. Heat seared her face. With her eyes still shut, she rummaged for the blankets and pulled them over him, covering his nude body.

His low groan forced her eyes open.

“Are you all right?”

“No, damn it, I’m not.” Pain thickened his voice. “I landed on my shoulder and it hurts like hell.” Sweat dotted him and all the color had fled his complexion.

“Well, you shouldn’t have tried to get out of bed. I tried to tell you Dr. Archer said you shouldn’t be out of bed until you’ve eaten solid food for a day or so.” She lifted a washrag from the basin at his bedside and wrung it out. Wiping away the sweat from his face, neck and chest, she added, “You’ve been without solid food for who knows how long. You also lost a lot of blood. Of course you’re going to be too weak to stand, much less go looking for your clothes, your gun, and food.”

He caught her wrist in a gentle grasp. “How in the hell did you take care of me for the last couple of days if the sight of a naked man makes you so embarrassed you turn as red as a hot branding iron?”

Amelia’s heart raced. Her throat seemed swollen shut, making breathing nearly impossible. She swallowed. “Actually, it wasn’t all that difficult when you were unconscious. It was rather like looking after a very large baby.”

He released her wrist and chuckled low. “Well, that puts a man in his place.” Colt slipped his hand behind his head and grinned at her. “How about we make a deal, lad—Amelia? I’ll promise to drink every drop of broth you bring me, provided you bring me some solid food with it.”

Why did her heart thump even harder with his smile and her skin tingle where his fingers had held her wrist? She dropped the washrag into the basin, her gaze on the fabric sinking into the porcelain bowl. “I don’t know. Dr. Archer said—”