The Gunslinger

by Lorraine Heath

  “That’s what they say.”

  She stared at him, comprehension slowly dawning. “They say you’ve killed twenty-six men. They say you’re fast. They say you always work for the best offer. But you don’t say.” She angled her head thoughtfully. “How many have you killed?”

  “Before I came to Lonesome?”

  She nodded, wondering whether to welcome or dread the truth, if it was what she suspected or far worse than anything she could imagine.

  “Eight.”

  Relief swamped her, washing away the tension that had mounted while she’d waited for his answer. He had killed, but not to the degree she’d believed. “Tell me about the woman in Dripping Springs. The one who paid you a pig.”

  “Two pigs. She paid me two pigs to make her neighbor think twice before trampling his herd through her garden.”

  “How did you stop him?”

  “Paid him a visit, told him she was under my protection and that I’d take it kindly if he’d keep his cattle on his land. He obliged by putting up a fence.”

  She laughed lightly. “You’re not as tough as you pretend to be.”

  He narrowed his eyes into silver slits. “I’m tough, lady. Never make the mistake of thinking I’m not. I’ve been on my own since I was fourteen.”

  “What happened when you were fourteen?”

  He hesitated.

  “Are you afraid to tell me?” she goaded. “Afraid I might realize you aren’t so tough?”

  She saw a muscle in his jaw clench.

  “I went hunting … with my brother. James was four years older than I was. It’s been ten years, but I can see him clearly—like he was standing in front of me. We lived in Palo Pinto. Lot of renegades and outlaws causing trouble back then.” A far-off look came over his expression, as though his mind were traveling back to an earlier time, a different yet familiar place. “We separated, thinking we’d have better luck finding game. Then I heard him scream.” Anguish reshaped the lines of his face. “By my count close to two dozen renegades had taken him by surprise. They were torturing him, and his screams for mercy were echoing around me. I couldn’t save him.”

  Compassion swelled in her for the child who had witnessed his brother’s anguish. It had nearly torn her heart in two to see Toby hurt when they’d been attacked in town. She couldn’t fathom how Chance must have suffered hearing his brother’s screams. “What did you do?”

  As though catapulted from the past, he snapped his icy gaze to her. “I killed him. One bullet between the eyes. I’ve always been a damn good shot.”

  His words hit like a physical blow. The horror of what he’d done—not that he’d done it, but that he’d been left with no choice except to take his brother’s life in order to spare him the torment. How much courage it must have taken. How much love. How much regret. Tears welling in her eyes, she touched his arm, knowing it was far too late for comfort but needing to offer it anyway. “I can’t imagine how awful it must have been for you, but it was an act of mercy. I have no doubt that your brother was grateful to be spared further agony.”

  He laughed mirthlessly. “My parents didn’t see it that way. They kicked me out with nothing but the clothes on my back. According to them, I should have at least tried to save him instead of taking the coward’s way out.”

  They thought him a coward? Dear God, she thought he’d been more courageous than anyone had a right to be. He had to have known the demons that would haunt him after he pulled the trigger, yet he’d done it anyway. He had to have known the doubts and regrets that would dog him.

  “What you did was an incredibly selfless act of love. Had you attempted to rescue him, you would have suffered his fate, and in the end you would have both died.”

  He shrugged as though striving to shake off a fly. “Maybe. We’ll never know. I only know that he’s dead, and for a long time I wished I was, too.” His voice had gone deeper, rougher, and while she knew he was striving to appear unaffected, he wasn’t. “I went wild, got into fights, goaded men of disreputable character until they drew on me. But at the very last second, in spite of my best efforts not to give in, the desire to live always won out over the need to die.”

  Spinning on his heel, he strolled back to the house, a lone figure silhouetted by the retreating sun. Overcome with the sorrow of his tale, Lillian knelt in the dirt and wept for the boy he’d been, the boy who had been faced with a horrendous choice. And she wept for the man who still paid the price for the decision he’d made.

  Chapter 7

  LILLIAN LAY IN bed, unable to sleep. Shafts of moonlight pierced the room. When she closed her eyes, she saw Chance standing in the fields, reciting his tale in an emotionless voice. But his eyes, his silver eyes, had revealed his anguish.

  She slipped out of bed. He wouldn’t stay, and when he left, she feared he’d take a portion of her heart with him. She padded down the hallway and peeked into Toby’s room. His face relaxed in innocent slumber, he was sprawled across his bed. His fingers were curled around the bent coin Chance had returned to him earlier in exchange for tending his horse. She closed his door quietly before walking out of the house.

  The night was warm, the sky a blanket of stars. The full moon guided her journey to the barn. She climbed the ladder and peered into the loft. Chance stood beside the opening, gazing out, limned by moonlight. As she climbed higher, the ladder creaked.

  “Go back to bed, lady,” he said harshly, dismissing her without even bothering to look at her.

  Taking an unsteady breath, she crawled forward, ignoring the straw pricking her through her nightgown, then stood and walked toward him. “Your parents were wrong to send you away.”

  “I’m a killer—”

  “No, I don’t think you are.” She touched his arm, the place where she’d bandaged his wound earlier.

  “I shouldn’t have told you that story.”

  “Why? Because I might come to understand you, to care about you?”

  “I hurt people, lady. That’s what I do. And I hurt the worst those I care about the most.”

  Her heart soared with the unguarded admission that he felt something for her. “Hold me.”

  “Lady, I’m hanging on by a thin rope.” Despair and something akin to fear delved into the depths of his silvery eyes. “If you don’t get out of here, my gun’s coming off and so are your clothes.”

  “I’m staying.”

  He slammed his eyes closed. “Please don’t stay, Lillian,” he pleaded, the words designed to make her leave, but his voice—rough and raw—communicated the opposite, a yearning so deep for her to remain that she couldn’t have ignored it if she’d wanted.

  “I’m not going anywhere,” she said softly, “and there’s nothing you can say that will change my mind on this matter.”

  Opening his eyes, he cradled her cheek. “In a few days I’m leaving.”

  She nodded, her breath catching in her throat. “I know.”

  “No matter what happens tonight, I’ll ride out of here and never look back.”

  Every doubt she had melted away with his words, with his continuing attempts to send her away, even though his desire for her was shimmering between them. Whatever else Chance Wilder might be, he was a man of honor. “I want to be here, tonight, with you.”

  She heard his breath hitch, and in the moonlight, she watched his Adam’s apple slide up and down as he swallowed. So slowly, as though to give her time to change her mind, he reached down and untied the strip of leather that kept his gun anchored to his thigh. Even more slowly, he unbuckled his gun belt and set the gun and holster in the corner behind him. When once again he stood before her, she thought she saw a flicker of doubt flash within his eyes.

  “What’s gonna pass between us will make it harder for me to leave, but I will leave, Lillian,” he whispered, cupping her face between his hands.

  She smiled softly. “I like it when you say my name. You’ll have a harder time forgetting me.”

  “I’ll never forget you,�
�� he rasped. “Whenever I see a stormy sky, I’ll remember the deep blue of your eyes.” He pressed a kiss to each of her closed eyelids. “When the leaves turn in autumn, I’ll remember the way your hair looked when the sun glistened over it.” He rained kisses over her face and throat. “And when the night comes, I’ll remember what it was like to hold you in my arms.”

  His words brought tears to her eyes. She knew she would forever remember him. His arms closed around her, pressing the soft curves of her body against the hardened planes of his. She had tended his wounds, but she longed to tend his heart. When his mouth covered hers, she denied him nothing. He groaned and she felt him shudder.

  With nimble fingers, he unbuttoned her gown and slid it past her shoulders. The soft cotton traveled the length of her body and pooled quietly at her feet. She fought the urge to hide from his appreciative gaze. He never took his eyes from her as he stripped out of his own clothes. She stepped into his embrace, and he carried her down to the quilts spread out over the straw. Warm and protective, his body blanketed hers. She pressed a kiss to a scar on his chest. How she longed to ask him to seek another means of living, a means that would keep him out of harm’s way. How would she bear it when the news came that the notorious gunslinger had been slain?

  She fought back the depressing thoughts and wrapped her arms more tightly around him, as though by doing so, she could keep him with her forever. She slipped her hand behind his head, threading her fingers through his curling locks, and brought his mouth down to hers. Eagerly, she kissed him, desperate to send the reminders of death into the shadowed corners. “Say my name,” she rasped.

  “Lillian.” Chance lifted his mouth from hers and held her gaze in the moonlight. If death weren’t nipping at his heels, he’d offer her more than a roll in the hay. He’d give her all he had, little as it was.

  But he’d been reminded today how easily something that touched him could touch her. He couldn’t visit a town without keeping his gun holstered throughout his stay. Always someone would challenge him, always death followed in his footsteps.

  He gave his hands the freedom to roam over every inch of her, memorizing the texture, the curves, the hollows. And where his hands traveled, his mouth followed, bringing her pleasure. Her soft moans were the sweetest sounds he’d ever heard. Her gentle touch ignited a fire that he feared might never burn out.

  “Chance,” she whispered with a ragged breath. He wanted to die hearing his name on her lips, feeling her hands on his flesh.

  Rising above her, he joined his body to hers, felt her tightness close around him. He rocked against her, hearing her tiny cries grow with intensity as she met his thrusts. She held his gaze, and when her body arched beneath his, he thought he’d never seen anything more beautiful—and that beauty carried him to new heights.

  Breathing heavily, he collapsed against her. He pressed a kiss to the hollow at the base of her throat where the moisture gathered like the dew on a petal. Then he rolled to his side, tucked her within the curve of his body, and drifted off to sleep.

  LETHARGICALLY, LILLIAN AWAKENED. The warmth was gone, and in its place she felt an unaccountable cold. She glanced toward the loft opening. Chance stood there, the moonlight playing a shadow dance over his nudity. She thought he looked magnificent.

  As though sensing her appreciative gaze, he turned. She was unprepared for the anger flashing in his silvery eyes.

  “They say you were Jack Ward’s whore,” he said through gritted teeth.

  She eased up onto her elbows. “That’s what they say.”

  “They say he died in your bed.”

  She nodded. “He did.”

  “But you weren’t his whore.” He glanced down at his thigh, and she saw the thin shadowy trail that spotted his flesh, knew it was her blood. “Until tonight no man had ever bedded you.” He faced her squarely. “I want to know exactly what Jack Ward was to you.”

  She swallowed hard. “He was my father.”

  CHANCE STARED AT Lillian as though she’d spoken words he’d never before heard. “Your father?”

  She nodded jerkily, the moonlight shimmering off the tears welling within her huge eyes. He dropped to the quilt beside her and cradled her soft cheek within his roughened palm. Guilt gnawed at him. If he’d known she was untouched, he never would have laid a hand on her. “Why didn’t you tell me?” he asked, his voice hoarse, his throat knotted with emotions that threatened to be his undoing. He didn’t deserve someone as innocent as she was.

  She lifted her bare shoulder slightly and snuggled her cheek more closely against his cupped palm. “Two reasons. I was afraid if I told you, that you wouldn’t believe me, and I wasn’t certain I could stand the pain of not being trusted to speak the truth.” She turned her face and pressed a kiss against his hardened flesh. “But more, I was afraid if I told you the truth—if you knew I’d never lain with a man—you wouldn’t touch me, and I wanted you to very badly.”

  He brushed a kiss across her temple, inhaling her sweet fragrance, mingling with the scent of the straw and their earlier lovemaking. “Ah, lady, you shouldn’t have come to me. You deserve so much better.”

  “You would have sent me away if you’d known, wouldn’t you?” she asked.

  “Yes. Hell, I should have sent you away anyway.” He leaned back and studied her. He wanted to tell her that she filled a hole inside of him that he hadn’t even known existed. But telling her anything about his feelings might prompt her to reciprocate—and forgetting her was going to be damn near impossible as it was without any declaration of love. “Does John Ward know?”

  She shook her head. “No. He was out of town when Toby and I arrived. I don’t know why Jack didn’t tell his family before he moved us here. He had plans to tell them about me as soon as John returned, but he never got the chance.”

  Chance leaned back on an elbow and trailed his fingers along the inside of her thigh. “Tell me everything.”

  She sighed heavily. “My mother met Jack Ward during the war. He served in Galveston. She fell in love with him, and I think …” Within her eyes, he saw the stark truth warring with what she wanted to accept as the truth. “I think he loved her. When she died, I went through her things and discovered a letter he’d written her shortly after the war ended. He was returning to his family, and he said he’d never forget her. I also found newspaper clippings she’d collected, all heralding his success as a rancher near Austin. The night he died, he brought me a letter she’d written to him after he left her in Galveston. She wished him a lifetime of happiness.” Lillian clutched his arm. “But she didn’t tell him about me.”

  “Then how did he find out?”

  “I wrote him after Mother died. I thought he might want to know that she was gone.”

  “What about Toby’s father?”

  She smiled softly. “Shortly after I was born, Mother moved to Houston. She worked in a saloon. I think the bartender, Ben, must have loved Mother for years, but he felt he had nothing to offer her.” She shrugged. “I’m not sure of the details, but I remember that she stopped looking tired all the time. He doted on her. They’d planned to marry, but he was killed in a barroom brawl. Afterward, Mother realized she was carrying Ben’s child. We lived in a room over the saloon then. Wasn’t fancy, but we had love. She died of influenza last year.”

  Chance was silent for several seconds, considering what Lillian had told him. Then he asked, “So how did you come to be here?”

  “After I wrote my letter to Jack Ward, to tell him Mother had died,” she said, “he came to Houston and told me he intended to make things up to me. He had a little house and some land he deeded over to me. Toby and I always wanted a house. And I’d always longed for my own father’s love, so we moved here. A few nights after we were settled in, Jack Ward brought me my mother’s letter. He was reminiscing about her when suddenly he clutched his chest and collapsed. I got him to the bed, and he died in my arms. Everyone assumed I was his whore.”

  “And you didn’t
correct them?”

  “Everyone was in a panic. Mrs. Ward was hysterical. John arrived the next day and wanted to protect her. I didn’t think she’d appreciate knowing her husband had another child. I’ve thought of leaving, but this property is the only thing Jack Ward ever gave me, other than my life. I can’t give it up.”

  “Then I’ll do all in my power to see that you keep it.” He shifted his body and laid her back down on the quilt. Covering her body with his, he kissed her tenderly. He understood her desire to hold onto the land, because in the short time he’d known her, she’d become important to him, made him wish that he was worth holding onto as well.

  Chapter 8

  THE LATE AFTERNOON air hung heavy around Chance as he walked among the trees lining the banks of the river, Lillian’s small hand nestled within his larger one as though it belonged there. They’d brought the boy swimming, and Chance could hear the muted gurgling of the nearby flowing stream. They’d left the boy to give him some privacy as he put back on his clothes. Chance welcomed the excuse to be alone with Lillian. He was dying for an opportunity to kiss her.

  He stopped walking and faced her. The sun had whispered across her face, leaving her cheeks glowing a rosy red. If he lived to be a hundred, he’d never forget the shape of her face. “I want to have a meeting with John Ward. I’m thinking the troubles would go away if he knew the truth.”

  She hesitated a moment before she nodded thoughtfully. “And when the troubles go away, you’ll go away.”

  He saw the sorrow sweep into her eyes. He was both humbled and terrified with the knowledge that she cared for him. He lowered his head, touched his mouth to hers and kissed her, gathering the memories close so he could unfurl them at night beside the campfire. She welcomed him as no one else ever had. She made him want to stay—when he knew he had to go.