The Gunslinger

by Lorraine Heath

“Gawd Almighty!” Toby cried, scrambling down from the wagon and skidding to his knees beside Wilder, whose duster had parted to reveal a white shirt soaked in bright crimson blood. Lillian thought she might be ill.

  Toby snapped his head around, fear reflected in his blue eyes. “He got shot. Why didn’t he say something when we was at the doctor’s?”

  Shaking her head, she knelt beside Wilder and gingerly unbuttoned his shirt. Carefully lifting the material and peering beneath it, she saw the ragged, gaping hole still oozing blood from his shoulder.

  “He’s bleedin’ something awful,” Toby said. “You gotta help him, Lil.”

  Lillian hesitated. If she helped a man who made a living killing others, would she, in effect, become an accomplice to future killings? If she left him as he was, perhaps he would not survive, and no one else would die. But could her conscience live with that? Let one man die to save others, allow others to be killed to save one man? What was her debt to him?

  He had come to Lonesome for a reason—to kill someone. As much as she hoped Wade had been his intended prey, she thought it highly unlikely. So someone else’s name was etched on one of his bullets.

  Toby slipped his small hands beneath the man’s shoulders and struggled to lift him. “Come on, Lil. We gotta get him into the house.” He raised his troubled gaze to hers. “He saved you!”

  She considered what Wade might have done to her if this gunslinger hadn’t shown up. No one would have stopped him. Everyone in town believed she deserved that sort of treatment.

  Toby strained to heft the man. Wilder’s hat tumbled off his head to reveal a riot of ash blond curls. His hair looked incredibly soft, like Toby’s had as a baby. She hadn’t expected that of a man who killed others to make money. Unconscious, his face completely relaxed, he looked young, much younger than she’d originally thought he was.

  “Help me, Lil,” Toby pleaded with labored breaths.

  How could she explain her dilemma to her innocent brother? What sort of example would she be setting if she left him to die? She couldn’t control this man’s actions. She could only control her own. Giving Toby a sharp nod, she bent to help her brother carry the hired gun into the house.

  THE RAGING FIRE burned through his shoulder. Chance wanted to stay huddled behind the wall of agony, but the softness beckoned him, touched him, spoke to him.

  He struggled to open his eyes. He was in a room he didn’t recognize, beneath a quilt that didn’t belong to him. His right shoulder was swathed in bandages. The woman sat on the edge of the bed, patting a warm damp cloth over his bare chest, humming a tune—“Red River Valley.” Ruby shadows shimmered over her hair. He decided the muted shades were caused by the flame from the lamp sitting on the bedside table. She appeared young and innocent, too innocent to be an old man’s whore. He knew all about Jack Ward because the man’s family had paid him to come to Lonesome.

  “What’s Lil short for?” he croaked.

  Her hand stilled, right above his pounding heart. “Lillian. Lillian Madison.”

  “Pretty name.” A tinge of scarlet crept into her cheeks, and he knew he could easily drown within the fiery blue depths of her eyes if he wasn’t careful. Fortunately, experience had tempered him into cautiousness.

  “You should have told someone you’d been shot,” she scolded, as though he were a child to be looked after.

  “Would have brought out the vultures,” he said wearily.

  Her delicate brows knit together. “The vultures?”

  “Men looking to gain a quick reputation. It wouldn’t have mattered that I was bleeding like a stuck pig. Killing me is killing me.”

  She drew back her shoulders. “Yes, I suppose it would be quite an accomplishment to shoot the fastest gun west of the Mississippi.”

  With difficulty, he rolled his head from side to side. He didn’t know why he wanted her to understand, but it seemed important that she know the truth—or at least part of it. “I’m not fast at all.”

  “Then how in heaven’s name did you gain your reputation?”

  “I’m deadly accurate.”

  She bolted from the bed, the movement jarring his shoulder, sending shards of agony ricocheting through it. Groaning low, he slammed his eyes closed and gritted his teeth, waiting for the wave of pain to ease. He concentrated on the steady staccato beat of her heels as she paced the floor. In each step, he heard the anger, frustration, and disappointment. Then the pacing came to an abrupt stop. He opened his eyes, knowing what she would say before she spoke the words.

  “As soon as you’re strong enough, I want you off my property.”

  She strode from the room in a flurry of whispering skirts. He sank further into the softness of the bed. The pain had shifted from his shoulder to his heart, the incredible ache almost unbearable.

  But he would bear it as he had since he was fourteen. He’d live with the agony, the guilt, and the loneliness … until the day that he came upon a man who was more accurate than he was.

  Closing his eyes, he drifted into the welcome oblivion where the past was merely a shrouded mist.

  “IS HE GONNA die, Lil?” Toby asked.

  Lillian studied the man lying in her bed. When he awoke earlier, she’d thought he was well on his way to recovery. Now she wasn’t so sure. Although his fever was raging, he was shivering as though he’d just emerged from a river in winter. “I don’t know,” she whispered as she dipped a cloth into a bowl of warm water. She wrung it out and began to wipe the sweat from his throat. She felt his body stiffen beneath her fingers.

  “Don’t go for the gun,” he rasped. “Goddamn it! Don’t go for the gun!”

  He jerked, kicking at the blankets. She pressed her hands to his shoulders. “Mr. Wilder?” His breath came in short little gasps. “Mr. Wilder?”

  “He’s gonna draw, dammit!” Groaning low, he convulsed, waving his hand frantically. She wrapped her hand tightly around his, and he settled into stillness. His breathing slowly evened out and he opened his eyes. She saw pain reflected in his silver depths, pain that traveled clear to his soul. “He’s dead,” he whispered.

  It wasn’t a question, but she nodded anyway.

  “I didn’t want to kill him,” he said, his voice low.

  Then why did you? hung on the tip of her tongue, but she couldn’t bring herself to voice her true thoughts when he seemed so weak, struggling with his inner turmoil.

  “I know,” she said softly, not fully understanding why she needed to comfort this man who was clinging to her hand as though it was the only thing keeping him anchored in this world. She felt him relax as though her words gave him absolution. She leaned forward. “Mr. Wilder, do you have family? Is there someone I should notify if you should … should die?”

  He rolled his head from side to side. “No family. No one who cares.” He smiled, reminding her of a small boy about to play a prank. “I won’t die in your bed, lady.”

  Her stomach lurched. Her troubles began the night Jack Ward had died in her bed. “See that you don’t.”

  His eyes drifted closed, but his hand remained firmly wrapped around hers. He had stopped shivering, and his cheeks felt a little cooler to her touch. She sat on the bed and stared at their clasped hands. He was a killer, but for a few moments he had simply been a man haunted by demons. She wished she hadn’t witnessed his vulnerability—wished she hadn’t wanted to hold him close and make the pain go away.

  CHANCE AWOKE EXHAUSTED, his shoulder aching. Shafts of sunlight pierced the room. A woman’s room. It carried the fading fragrance of roses in bloom. Turning his head slightly, he saw the boy standing beside the bed, reverently touching the harmonica that rested on the bedside table.

  “Do you—” He’d planned to ask the boy if he knew how to play, but he couldn’t push the words past his parched throat.

  The boy jerked his head around. “Bet you’re needing some water,” he announced with authority.

  Chance struggled to sit up as the boy poured water from an earthen p
itcher into a glass. He felt weaker than a newborn babe. He took the offered glass, hating the way his hand shook as he gingerly sipped on the cool liquid that eased the ache in his throat. Over the rim of the glass, he studied the one responsible for his current predicament. The boy no longer had cotton stuffed up his nose, but an ugly black bruise framed one eye. “Your nose hurting?”

  The boy shook his head vigorously. “Lil said it’ll probably be somewhat crooked, but that it’ll give me character.”

  Chance couldn’t prevent a corner of his mouth from lifting. “Character, huh?”

  The boy nodded. “I reckon that’s a good thing to have—whatever it is.”

  Chance’s smile grew. “Not too many people have character these days.”

  “Do you?”

  His smile withered away. “None at all.”

  “I’m supposed to get Lil if you woke up,” he said, and hightailed it out of the room.

  Breathing heavily, Chance sank against the pillow and rested the glass on his bare chest.

  Wiping her hands on a crisp white apron, the woman strolled boldly into the room, seemingly not at all fearful of his reputation. Her fiery hair was caught up in a braid that draped over one shoulder. “You’re awake.”

  “You say that like you had doubts.”

  “You ran a fever for two days.”

  Shock rippled through him. “Two days? What day is it?”

  “Thursday.”

  “I need my clothes,” he barked.

  “You need to rest,” she insisted.

  Fighting not to appear as weak as he felt, he started to sit up. “I need to get some fresh air, start gathering my strength—”

  She pushed him down with one hand pressed against his uninjured shoulder. “Let me feed you some broth first.”

  “Where’s my gun?”

  “I put it away.”

  “Get it.”

  “You’re not in any danger.”

  “Lady, the only time I don’t wear a gun is when I’m making love to a woman, so unless you’re aiming to climb into this bed with me, bring me the damn gun.”

  Fire flashed within the blue depths of her eyes. She stomped to the bureau, jerked open the top drawer, and snatched out his gun belt. She stalked to the bed and flung it at him. Groaning when it thudded against his chest, he grabbed the holster and closed his hand around the smooth handle of the Colt, welcoming the uncomfortable peace it always brought him. He captured her gaze, certain she wanted to tell him exactly what he could do with his gun: use it on himself. Not that he hadn’t once contemplated it. “Does anyone know I’m hurt?”

  “No. I considered going for a doctor yesterday evening when you were delirious, but you threatened to put a bullet between my eyes if I did.”

  He nodded. “The boy?”

  “Hasn’t left your side.”

  In her voice, he heard the anger seething beneath the surface. He couldn’t fault her. “I’ll eat now,” he said quietly.

  Her fists swinging at her sides she stormed from the room. Lord, she was mostly spit, but she intrigued him. He couldn’t recall the last time a woman had caught his fancy.

  He slid his gaze over to the boy, who furrowed his brow. “You wouldn’t really have killed her, would you?”

  Chance slowly shook his head. “Nope. But in my line of work, you live longer if people believe the lies.”

  Chapter 3

  AS THE LOW haunting melody of a harmonica filled the late afternoon air, Lillian stepped out of the barn where she’d been tending to the cows. Chance Wilder sat on the porch, his back against the wall, the front legs of the wooden straight-backed chair in the air, the harmonica pressed to his lips.

  Toby sat beside him, his chair in the same reclining position, his eyes fastened on Wilder with something akin to adoration.

  Reluctantly she had to admit she’d been impressed by Wilder’s determination to summon up the strength to make his way to the front porch. His jaw had been clenched against the pain, his movements slow and measured as he shuffled through the house. He didn’t comment on the sparse, simple furnishings, although she suspected he was more focused on moving one foot in front of the other instead of his surroundings. Once he reached his destination, he sat there all afternoon, Toby pestering him with one question after another, which he patiently answered, although he never volunteered more information than was needed to appease her brother’s curiosity. She realized now that his impatience the first day had been the result of his directing all his efforts toward staying on his horse.

  She didn’t like witnessing his tolerance. It was much easier to dislike him when he was short-tempered with Toby. Much easier to dislike him before she’d seen his vulnerability and held his hand through the night.

  She strolled to the house and rested her arms on the porch railing. The slight breeze toyed with the curls circling Wilder’s head. His mouth moved slowly over the instrument, and she imagined his lips trailing a path along her throat. Heat that had little to do with late summer surged through her.

  As though reading her thoughts, Wilder paused in playing and lifted a corner of his mouth. “Evenin’.”

  Her heart thundered as though she’d never had a man speak to her with a sparkle in his eyes. “Toby, you need to finish up your chores before supper,” she announced, fighting to ignore the blatant attraction she felt for this man, this hired killer. She couldn’t explain it, much less understand it. He represented violence when all she desperately longed for was peace.

  “Ah, Lil—”

  “Do what your sister says,” Wilder ordered.

  With a scowl, Toby dropped the chair onto all fours and tromped toward the barn.

  “Don’t take offense, Mr. Wilder, but I’d rather you didn’t encourage him—”

  “Encourage him to do what? His chores?” he asked.

  “Encourage him to spend time in your company. He’s at an age where he’s easily swayed. I’d rather he not be influenced by a man who kills.”

  “You’d rather he be influenced by an old man’s whore?”

  Lillian staggered back as though he’d slapped her. Humiliation swamped her, angered her—that this sinner should sit in judgment of her. “What Jack Ward was to me is none of your damn business!”

  Chance watched her storm past him and disappear into the house. He cursed long and hard under his breath. He had no right to say what he had, but every time he thought of an old man’s gnarled hands touching her, touching her the way he wanted to, the way she’d never let him …

  The boy loped to the house, his smile bright. Chance was surprised the kid’s jaw didn’t ache as a result of his constant grins. He leapt onto the porch. “You comin’ in for supper?”

  “Think I’ll stay outside a little longer. Smells like your sister cooked up some stew. Why don’t you bring me a bowl?”

  “I’ll sit out here with you,” he offered.

  Chance shook his head. “Your sister needs the company.”

  The boy nodded reluctantly before going inside. Chance slipped the harmonica into his pocket and gazed toward the horizon. Evening would arrive soon. In the passing years, he had most missed sitting on a porch in the quiet after a day filled with exhausting work. Now when his body ached, it was more often from a bullet wound than from laboring in the fields. In the evening, his back was usually against a wall in a saloon, while he drank whiskey, hoping to dull the memories and the yearning for a life far different than the one he led.

  Hearing the footsteps, he glanced back over his shoulder. The woman stood in the doorway, a wooden bowl in her hands. “Toby said you wanted to eat out here.”

  “Thought it best.”

  She gave him a brusque nod, handed him the bowl, and turned to go back inside.

  “Miss Madison?”

  She stopped, but didn’t look at him.

  “I owe you an apology. I had no right to say what I did.”

  She met and held his gaze, a corner of her mouth lifting slightly. “Well, we
finally agree on something.”

  “We agree on something else. I won’t be influencing the boy. I’ll leave come morning.”

  Her smile fell and she furrowed her brow. “You can’t be fully recovered.”

  “Thanks to your tender ministrations, I’m strong enough. I’ll bed down in the barn tonight and be gone by first light.”

  “When you’re finished eating, come inside and I’ll change your bandage.”

  He waited until she went into the house. Then he lifted the bowl of stew, inhaled the spicy aromas, and knew a longing so intense that he nearly doubled over with it.

  He missed all the things he’d never have: meals prepared by a woman with loving care, a home where he could sit in the middle of the room, children who looked up to him … and a woman who loved him.

  LILLIAN CURSED HER shaking hands as she unwound the bandages from around Chance Wilder’s shoulder as he sat on the bed in her room. Her gaze slipped lower. A fine sprinkling of hair covered his chest. Tenderly, she touched her fingers to the wound and felt him stiffen. “I’m sorry. I just want to make certain no infection is brewing. You’re really fortunate that the bullet went clean through.”

  “Yep.”

  She’d had to dig out some bits of cloth, but thankfully no lead. Her fingers strayed to a scar on his shoulder, the remnants of another wound. Other scars marked his arm. “Do you always get shot in a gunfight?”

  “I usually come away with a nick or two. Like I said, I’m not fast.”

  “Then why do you do it?”

  “Why do you stay here when you’re not wanted?”

  Her fingers stilled as she studied his eyes. Silver like the gun he wore. She reached for clean bandages and began to redress the wound. “I have my reasons,” she stated softly.

  “And I have mine.”

  He bit back a groan when she jerked the bandage into a knot. “But you kill!” she spat, loathing laced through her voice.

  “You wanted him to rape you?”

  Horrified at the callousness of his words, the ease with which he spoke of such brutality, she stepped back. “No, but you could have wounded him.”

  He gave a long thoughtful nod. “Could have.”