by Shelley Gray
She had to. Surely she hadn't survived the war for nothing? When she glanced at the man again, Jamie noticed he'd turned around and was staring straight at her.
"What's your name?" he asked. His voice was steady and smooth. So different from the frightening coarseness of Kent's.
For a moment, she considered lying, then wondered what good a lie would do. She was trapped, and would most likely be killed or violated or beaten. She might as well be herself when that happened. "Jamie. My name is Jamie Ellis."
A black eyebrow arched. "Jamie? That's a boy's name."
"It's short for Jamilyn," she explained, wondering why she was bothering to explain. "It was my great-aunt's name."
After a moment, he spoke. "It's . . . it's a pretty name, Miss Ellis." His words were stilted. Almost like he was unsure how to compliment a woman. As if he wasn't sure what to say.
For a split second she was about to thank him. Then she remembered where she was, and who he was: her enemy. Clumsily, she got to her feet.
When he didn't approach, didn't try to grab her, she pressed her luck and took three steps backward.
The man, standing as still as a deer in the glade, merely watched her. His perceptive gaze seemed to catch every tremor of her body. See every flaw.
No, it was a closer connection than that. It felt as if he could practically read her mind. Read too much of it, anyway.
Yes, he was that intent on her. And for some reason, that made everything seem even worse. All her life, she'd wanted to count for something. Instead, she'd been the daughter her father hadn't wanted. The child who'd survived when her two older brothers had died while fighting in the war. The reminder to her mother of all she'd lost.
Ever since her brothers had passed away, she'd practically raised herself. As the years went by, her parents had retreated further into themselves, moving often. She'd become shy and almost timid, wishing for a man's regard but too reserved by nature to accept any man's attentions. How ironic—now that she finally was the center of a man's attention, it was because she was his victim.
"Are you going to kill me?" she asked.
Surprise flared in his eyes before he visibly tamped it down. "No."
That answer worried her. Death, she wasn't afraid of. Everything else? She was terrified.
Her knees started to knock. Fearing the worst, she forced herself to face head-on whatever was in store. "What are you going to do to me, then?"
Looking her over, he tilted his head to one side. "Well . . . first off, I thought I'd tend to your face."
Though her cheek burned and her right eye was surely swelling, she dipped her chin. "There's no need."
"I think otherwise." Pointing to a spot on his cheek, he said, "You've got some blood on your face. The pistol barrel must have scratched you somehow. . . ." Before she could respond to that, his voice turned weary. "Ma'am, I know you don't trust me. Furthermore, I know you don't want to trust me. However, I promise that I only brought you in this compartment to keep you safe."
"Safe from the other men?"
He nodded. "From the other men. Safe from Kent."
She knew who Kent was. The thin man who felt like he was all sinew and muscle. Who'd grinned as he'd run his hand down the stays in her corset, then along the curve of her hip. Who had slapped her twice and had looked like he wanted to do far worse things.
"I don't think I'll ever be safe again," she murmured.
"You will. Don't fret, Miss Ellis."
Don't fret? Not worrying wasn't even a possibility. But as she glanced at him again under her lashes, something clicked inside of her. She knew liars, and he wasn't one. Not yet, anyhow.
For a moment, Jamie was tempted to trust this man. She wanted to believe that there was someone on this train who was decent. But just as quickly, those daydreams fell to pieces. After all, why would a man be with the Walton Gang unless he was pure evil?
He was still looking at her without much expression. Standing in that relaxed way of his—with his feet spread shoulder-width apart, his bearing relaxed—that seemed to show he was ready to move in a second's urging.
Or not.
Actually, he acted as if he could stand in the same position all day.
She wasn't nearly that lucky. The train's motion kept her unsteady. Fear made her legs shake and her blood run icy cold. Frantically, she looked around, hoping to grasp hold of something, but nothing was in easy reach. And she was afraid to move.
He noticed. "Perhaps you should sit down," he urged. "If you take a seat, I'll help you wipe your face." His eyes stayed on hers, looking far too compassionate, given his line of work. "You have to admit, wiping the blood off . . . it can't hurt."
Gingerly, she did as he bid, then held herself as still as a statue as he quietly dabbed at her cheek.
Neither of them spoke a word. There was no need, not really. She didn't seem to have any words left in her head.
And Mr. McMillan? Well, he seemed too intent on her cut to speak.
The brief moment of contact ended with both of them releasing sighs.
Then he straightened. "I'll go get someone to fetch you some water."
"You can't get it yourself?" She ached to be alone, if only for a few minutes. Then she could relax her guard; she could give in to her urge to lower her head and close her eyes. Just rest her eyes for a time.
"Eager to be alone, Jamie Ellis?"
Hearing her name on his lips was startling. Knowing he'd read her thoughts frightened her. "I won't escape."
"You haven't even contemplated escaping?" A thin strand of humor entered his voice when it was obvious he spied the telltale flash of embarrassment on her cheeks. "Ah. I was right."
"I won't escape," she said again.
"Miss Ellis," he drawled, sounding almost bored, "I suppose I should tell you that there's nowhere to go. Your only other option is to leave this earth, and you're too pretty for that, don'tcha think?"
His words held such finality, his presence was so big, she feared him. Reaching out, she grabbed the top of a wooden bench as he approached.
Something flickered in his eyes. Impatience? "I am not going to hurt you, understand? Jamie, I want you to try to trust me, even if it's just a little."
"I can't."
"You should. I'm the best thing you've got going."
"I can't trust you. You . . . you're part of the Walton Gang."
"That is a fact. However, I have no interest in hurting you. I don't prey on women."
Which meant he thought someone else was going to. "Like that promise means anything?"
"I keep my promises." His blue gaze flashed before hardening, as did his voice. "Now sit back down before you fall down."
She sat.
When he seemed satisfied with that, he walked to the doorway and called for someone to bring a glass of water. Then he strode to the bench across from her and sat down too. After a time, he spread his long legs out a bit in front of him, his denims dark against the burgundy leather.
Moments later, the young man, whose cheeks looked like they were still covered with peach fuzz, entered with a glass of water. "Here you go, Will."
Her captor took it. "Thanks." Still staring at her, he said, "Russell, what's everyone else doing?"
"Mr. Walton is resting. Kent and Scout are with the hostages."
"Good enough. Tell Scout I'll continue to stay in here."
Jamie felt Russell's speculative gaze flutter over her before he nodded and left.
Only when the door latched behind them did the man hand her the water. "Drink."
Half afraid her shaking hands would betray just how afraid she was, Jamie held the glass with both of her gloved hands and sipped. The water felt like heaven on her tongue. It soothed her parched throat, bringing a blessed relief. Anxious for more, she drank again, gulping the water so fast she coughed.
All the while, he watched her. "Careful. Don't drink too fast," he warned. "You'll choke."
Jamie looked at him curiously
. What kind of a bandit was he? What kind of a man? "Your name is Will?" she asked, hating that her voice still sounded so tentative.
"It is. Will McMillan."
"Mr. McMillan, you need to free me."
"I'm afraid I can't do that."
"You could. I won't say a word. I won't even tell anyone where I was."
"Jamie, just because I'm here with you, making sure you aren't beaten or violated, doesn't mean that I'm softer than any of the others." His eyes narrowed. "You'd be a fool to think that."
"I didn't think you were soft."
"Drink."
"I don't want any more."
He sighed, looking completely aggravated. "Why is it that women, no matter who they are or where they are, never fail to be contrary?" Before she could refute his words, he looked her over. "Why are you on this train anyway? Where were you headed?"
His use of the past tense scared her. It was becoming increasingly obvious that the odds of her getting off the train were slim to none.
But she tried to play along. "I'm going to Kansas City to live with my aunts." And because she was old enough to have a trio of babies attached to her skirts, she added her secret. "My aunts have a neighbor whom I've been writing to."
His lips twitched. "You've got yourself a correspondent, do you?"
"It's more special than that."
"Let me guess. . . . He's a man who's just perfect for you."
"Yes. His name is Randall. We've been writing."
To her dismay, his lips twitched. "A Missouri man, hmm? Taken to letter writing?" His voice held more than a note of derision. "What's he like? Handsome and gentlemanly?"
"I've never met him," she admitted, suddenly feeling childish. "But I have received four letters. He's—um—anxious to meet me."
"I imagine he is."
Again, his amusement grated on her pride. "Why are you smirking?"
"No reason." He shrugged. "I'm sure he's everything you imagine he is. After all, he survived the war."
"He didn't fight," she blurted before she thought the better of it. It wasn't any of this man's business.
And for that matter, what did it matter if a man had fought or not?
Of course, she knew the answer. It mattered. Of course, it counted for a lot.
Pure confusion crossed his face before he visibly pushed it down. "Why not?"
"I don't know." But that wasn't true. Aunt Millicent had written that Randall had been too sickly too fight. But the thought of telling this man—who was all muscle, hard planes, and emanated power and competence—felt like a betrayal.
"Well, I hope to heck you find out."
"Mr. McMillan. Watch your mouth."
Up went that eyebrow again. "You're held hostage on a train car, on the way to meet some kind of yellow, sorry man in Missouri, and you're worried about my mouth offending your tender sensibilities?"
Crossing her arms over her chest, she turned away. He was right; she was a captive. She needed to worry about survival, not rules and manners. Though she hadn't forgotten her worries, for a moment she'd pushed them to one side.
With a sigh, she heard him stand up and walk to the other side of the car.
In the faint reflection of the glass, she saw him sit down near the doorway. Perhaps he was going to leave her alone now?
She leaned her head against the back of the bench and closed her eyes. She prayed for comfort and for the angels to protect her.
Selfishly, she prayed for her soul and that her death would be relatively painless. She did so fear pain.
Minutes passed. Little by little, she fell into a dazed sleep.
Then the door opened.
"McMillan, what are you doing?" a deep, husky voice asked. "Russell says you're intending to keep the woman in here for a while."
"I answer to James Walton, not Scout Proffitt."
That man—that "Scout" she'd seen earlier—was Scout Proffitt? Startled, Jamie turned to see Will get to his feet just as the newcomer turned her way and stared.
And Jamie realized she was looking at yet another famous outlaw, fresh from the dime novels and penny papers. Scout Proffitt was standing not three feet from her. Dressed completely in black from head to toe. Just like all the papers said.
And with eyes as empty as a barren creekbed.
When he turned to her and stared, Jamie's heart sunk and the tremors started again.
The dime novels and reports might have been 99 percent exaggeration. They might have made up stories about his looks or his way with a gun.
But it was now obvious that at least 1 percent of their stories was all fact—Scout Proffitt was a killer.
And as he glared at her without a breath of compassion in his very dark, very scary gaze, Jamie knew she was about to die.
4
Scout Proffitt was tired. Bone tired.
He was tired of being on a train, tired of dealing with fools like Addison Kent, and tired of doing his best to bridge the gap between James Walton and the rest of the Walton Gang.
Being second in command was a thankless existence. Truth be told, even being a part of this motley crew was a difficult thing. The other men weren't like him. They were either too young, too green, or too dumb.
Actually, there was only one man Scout was reasonably comfortable with, and that was Will McMillan. He was quiet and had a semblance of a conscience—something Scout hadn't thought he would find to be an admirable characteristic in a person, but he did.
Unfortunately, now even Will was doing his best to be contrary. Instead of doing what he was supposed to do, the man was hell-bent on taking their lone female hostage and sequestering her away in a compartment by himself.
And, by the looks of things, Will was content to play babysitter—leaving Scout to deal with five shaking, whining hostages; a too-young boy named Russell; Kent; and the elegant heartlessness of their boss.
Tired of their foolishness, he strode into Will's train car. "You need to bring her on back, McMillan. I want her with the rest of the hostages."
But instead of complying or looking cowed, Will stood up and raised an eyebrow. "That's not going to happen."
"I'm giving you an order."
"Are you?" There went that eyebrow again. "Because we both know Jamie is better off in here with me rather than getting mixed up with the others," Will said slowly.
Jamie? Will was now calling this woman by her first name? Scout's temper snapped. "That's not for you to decide"
Will stepped in front of the woman, as if he were protecting her from Scout. "Are you really going to start telling me what to do? What to think?"
The other man's quarrelsome tone took Scout by surprise. Usually his manner was as calm and still as the air after a snowstorm, and just as frosty. By Scout's recollection, nothing disturbed Will—not Indian raids, not a hanging posse, not the threat of starvation. Usually, the man took it all in stride.
But just now . . . he was different somehow. Bordering on belligerent. Acting like he was spoiling for a fight.
Maybe he was, too. "It's my job to tell you what to do," he bit out. "It's my duty to make sure you follow orders."
After staring at him for a good long minute, Will lowered his voice. "Look at her, Scout," he practically whispered. "You know I need to keep her apart from the rest of the men. You and I both know what's going to happen if I don't."
Reluctantly, Scout glanced at the woman again. She was sitting on a bench, staring at her hands clenched in her lap.
Obviously trying not to meet his gaze.
There was no denying it; she was a pretty thing. Dressed in an old, out-of-fashion, black taffeta gown, she should have looked like a crow. Instead, the stark color only accentuated her pale pink skin. And her obvious mourning made him feel a sort of tenderness he'd been sure he'd given up years ago.
But her hair, now that it was falling out of its combs and pins, was long and as curly as he'd ever seen. It was a shade of gold he'd only seen in Kansas during summer, when field
s of wheat covered the countryside and blew in the breeze. It was beautiful—there was no other word for it.
It was eclipsed only by her brown eyes, wide and tinted with flecks of gold. And as innocent as he remembered his sister being. Well, the way they'd once been before Yankees had come to their farm and taken everything they'd ever wanted.
As if she could no longer ignore him, the woman raised her chin and stared. Seconds passed. Pure fear entered her eyes, giving him no doubt that she recognized his name, or at least sensed his reputation.
The look she threw his way told a million stories, the least of which was that she'd read about him and half expected him to pull out his Colt and shoot her dead without taking the time to blink. In short, fear emanated from her.
Her breath hitched.
McMillan noticed and narrowed his eyes. "She's mine," Will said quietly. Too softly for the woman to hear.
The way Will spoke was unnerving. It implied ownership; almost a relationship. It was a purely male territorial thing and as foreign to Scout as weakness.
Quickly he darted his gaze back to Will's. "I don't want her."
"I mean it. I won't have her harmed."
Scout was stung. He might be good with a gun, but he'd never been an animal. "I don't want her hurt either."
"Good."
"Honestly, McMillan, settle down." As the woman leaned closer to Will, evidently seeking his protection, Scout raised his voice. His intention was to raise her guard again. Because one thing was for sure—the little fool was in trouble if she relaxed even for a second.
As he'd half hoped, fresh tears formed in her eyes and any last bit of color that lit her cheeks faded in a flash.
Next to him, Will cursed.
Tired of looking at the woman, tired of thinking about his past and all the things he should've done but never had, Scout turned his back to the girl and focused on business, such that it was. "We're about a hundred miles from Dodge City, but Boss thinks we might get stopped before then. When the train stops, we need to be prepared. There's a good chance U.S. Marshals are going to be there waiting. And Boss is going to be itchy. He doesn't want anything to happen with that silver."
