A Texan's Honor

by Shelley Gray

  "I know."

  McMillan's voice was clipped and tight. Irritated. Which made Scout wonder if his mind was on their job or on the woman.

  So, although it felt a bit unnecessary, he explained things a little more clearly. "When we stop, things are sure to get dicey. We're going to need to be ready for anything. You can't be watching the woman, understand? You're going to have to tie her up."

  "I will not."

  "Fine. I'll do it."

  "No one will be tying her up."

  Though the woman had now turned so pale she looked like she was going to pass out any minute, Scout pushed forward. "We can't risk her getting in the way," he countered. "And we sure as heck can't risk her running. If she escapes, we'd lose our last bit of leverage."

  Pain and a flicker of animosity flared in Will's gaze. "If we let her go, it might not be a bad thing," he said slowly, like he was measuring every word before he spit it out. "Maybe we should offer to deliver her to the Marshals in good condition. It might give us some control."

  "It won't. All that would do would allow the Marshals to feel like they can use all the dynamite they want on us. Next thing you'd know, we'd be blown to kingdom come."

  "Not necessarily. We'd still have hostages."

  "A bunch of sniveling men, one so old he might as well be dead." Scout paused for a moment, reflecting on just how much trouble those men had been. They seemed to constantly need to be watered. And then make stops to the lavatories. If he'd been in charge, they'd have been put out of their misery hours ago. "Besides, men don't count. We both know that."

  Looking Will over, Scout scoffed. "What's going on with you? You going soft on me?"

  "I'm not soft. I just don't like using women. Especially women like her. She's an innocent, Scout."

  Remembering his sister, remembering the Yankees and their filth, he shook his head. "Not anymore."

  "I haven't touched her."

  "It don't matter if you've touched her or not. Everyone's going to think you have. And even if none of us lays a finger on her, that girl is going to be marked for the rest of her days by this."

  The skin around McMillan's mouth whitened. It was so obvious he was holding back his words.

  Scout respected that, but he respected his past even more. "Will, you listen to me and know I'm speaking the truth. She's not innocent anymore. You've already ruined her. We've already ruined her. Get that through your head."

  "She's not ruined. It's not too late. We can still let her go."

  "You know it doesn't matter what you want or think. Boss says we're keeping her." Scout let that sink in, hoping that was the end of things. Suddenly, he was anxious to go and get out of Will's head. The things he was talking about disturbed him. The things he was thinking about made him wish for other days. Better memories. A different future.

  Standing there in that train compartment, he was starting to wish he wasn't quite so ruined and worthless.

  After a good long minute, Will crossed his arms over his chest. "If she's staying, she stays with me then."

  Scout was tempted to argue, just so McMillan wouldn't ever think that it was okay to ignore direct orders. But he bit off his temper. No matter what, he sure didn't want to be responsible for the girl. The boss would just forget about her, and the others were no match for Kent if he wanted her bad enough.

  And Scout knew he did.

  "Fine. Keep her here with you, at least until we get to Dodge." Looking at the girl again, he shook his head in disgust. Women were nothing but trouble, and he wished Walton had let her go hours ago. But because Walton was banking on some poor U.S. Marshal or sheriff in Dodge or Salina or Wichita having a tender heart where a woman was concerned—and therefore not blowing them up—they had to keep her.

  Now, blast it, he was going to have to deal with the woman screaming or carrying on and Kent getting too anxious where she was concerned.

  "But listen to me close. When we stop, you better be ready to follow Boss's orders. Because if you don't, I'm going to be forced to see that you do."

  Will McMillan's gaze hardened, but he nodded. "Understood," he said.

  The affirmative made Scout breathe a little easier. Will didn't go back on his word. "All right then. . . ."

  He hesitated, and glanced toward the woman again.

  She was now making no secret that she was listening to every word they said—well, at least every word she could hear.

  She was also making no secret of the fact that she didn't trust him, and was half scared of him too. Her expression was carefully blank. She was sitting stock-still, her back straight enough to have a ruler attached to her spine. Actually, the only movement he saw in her at all was the lone tear trickling down her cheek.

  As he watched it paint her pale skin, for one small second his heart softened. A woman like that was special. Fine. But that wouldn't do. He had no time for tender emotions. Shaking off his pity, he strode out of the train car again, breathing easier the minute he was free of her. With any luck, it would be hours before he had to look at the woman again.

  5

  Will couldn't deny it. He breathed easier the moment Scout Proffitt exited their compartment. The man was decent enough—well, decent enough considering he was a hired killer—but the fact of the matter was Scout was a dangerous man.

  A very dangerous one. The tales of him shooting just about anyone for enough money weren't all fabricated. Will had witnessed him do it many a time.

  It was also known that he had no patience for women. No one knew why that was, but time and again men had described how they'd watched the gunslinger's usual easygoing nature turn frosty the moment a woman batted her eyelashes his way.

  And though Jamie hadn't been anything but scared and tentative, Will had worried for a moment that Scout would aim his revolver at her heart just so he wouldn't have to look at her a minute longer.

  Scout had that kind of reputation.

  As the air cleared in their compartment and a small, peculiar semblance of normality returned, Jamie exhaled. "I thought he was going to kill me," she said.

  He couldn't help but look her way. That pretty voice of hers drifted toward him like a shining light in the darkness. And just like a beam of light, it drew his attention to her like none other.

  "He didn't," Will finally replied, hating his cool tone but unable to squelch it. He needed to keep himself firmly under control. Otherwise she was going to get under his skin.

  "Do you think he will soon?" She clutched her hands together so tightly they looked fused.

  Unbidden, thoughtful, sweet reassurances threatened to erupt from him. Just as if he didn't know any better. Just as if he didn't know any better than to trust a "good" woman. It would be kind to lie to her. To let her think that there was still hope somewhere in the world. Or at least on this train.

  But he hadn't been kind for a very long time. "No," he said harshly, finally turning to look at her.

  She flinched, and a new wariness filled her eyes. The fear that had left her reappeared. Will felt a momentary regret, and even almost considered softening his reply.

  Then, like he'd learned to do, he tamped the urge down. Platitudes didn't come easy in his line of work—or in life. Believing in false hope didn't make things better; it only made accepting the truth harder to do.

  Because of that, he dealt with facts. And with what people told him to do. That was what he knew.

  But it obviously wasn't what she was used to. Her mouth pursed and the telltale tears that she had been trying to hold at bay threatened to fall.

  Had a man ever been so surrounded by tears? Frustrated by the emotions he was feeling, he said, "No one's going to kill you anytime soon."

  Well, not if he could help it, anyway.

  Her eyes widened as she caught hold of the word "soon" and gripped it hard. "That 'anytime soon part' doesn't make me feel any better."

  "It wasn't supposed to. You should be nervous. And you shouldn't believe a thing any of us tell you.
"

  "Then why are you even bothering to talk to me at all?"

  Oh, but she was cheeky! "The fact is, Jamilyn, you're our hostage and your very life is in the hands of a few desperate men. We can't sugarcoat the reality, and I'm not even of a mind to try."

  "Obviously not."

  He heard the note of disappointment in her voice and he felt bad. But there wasn't a thing he could do, because she needed to be afraid.

  It was safer for her that way. What he didn't feel like sharing was that some of the men on the train had been a very long time without a woman. And that there weren't any dividing lines in their minds about "good" women and sporting ones.

  For men like Kent, she was breathing and therefore available for the taking, and that was all that mattered.

  But perhaps Jamie didn't need the harsh truth spelled out for her. Little by little, her bravado evaporated, leaving her looking smaller and even more innocent.

  And leaving a trail of guilt piercing his heart.

  "I can't believe this is happening," she rasped, visibly holding back tears. "I can't believe I boarded this train in Denver thinking that the worst part of the trip would be going hungry. Now here I am, afraid I'm not even going to be alive this time tomorrow. This . . . this all feels like a dream."

  Will said nothing. After all, there was nothing to say. She wasn't in a dream, and no matter how much she cried, there wasn't a thing anyone—even he—could do about it.

  "If Scout Proffitt intends to kill me, I hope he does it soon," she said as her tears dried up.

  "Scout won't kill you today." Not until he was told to, anyway.

  Time passed. Maybe it was five minutes. Maybe it was twenty. Leaning with his shoulders braced against the metal doors, his body rolled with the train's motion. The frosty air outside seeped through the steel structure, threaded through his coat, and chilled his skin.

  She shivered, though whether it was from the dropping temperatures or the situation, he didn't know. "That gunslinger, he was sure a whole lot different than I thought he'd be," she said after a moment. "The papers made him sound ugly and coarse. And loud too. He didn't seem like any of those things."

  Thinking of the outrageous stories spun up around the killer, he shrugged. "You're not the first to say that. Proffitt seems to catch a lot of people off guard. He was different from what I'd expected. He's calmer, more thoughtful too." He stared at her hard. "He's not all bad, but that doesn't mean much, not really. Fact is, he's still as dangerous as a pickax in a gold strike."

  "You're not making me feel better," she said with a bit of sarcasm.

  And that little bit of spunk was more impressive than most things he'd seen in months. Against his will, he crossed the aisle and sat across from her again. It was too cold to lean against the metal any longer, and he was sick and tired of standing anyway.

  And, to his irritation, he was tired of the tense silence that filled the air between them. It had been so long since he'd been in the company of a good woman. So long since he'd been around any female who made him think of his precious, silly sister Bonnie.

  Maybe because of that, he spoke. "When I first met Scout it was in a gambling house in Lubbock, Texas. I was sitting with Mr. Walton and Russell, just taking a break."

  Remembering why they'd been so tired, Will added softly, "We'd been riding hard for three days straight and I'd thought my a—I mean, my backside—was never going to feel the same."

  When Jamie giggled softly, Will let his cheeks relax enough to almost smile. "Anyway, we were sitting there, quenching our thirst and what have you, when in came Scout Proffitt. He strode through the entrance like he owned the place. And he was dressed from head to toe in black, just like always."

  As if it had been only yesterday, Will shook his head slightly. "Looked like a pallbearer, really. The whole room went silent once word got around of who he was."

  She leaned forward. "Then what happened?"

  "He walked, ever so slowly, to a table nestled in a corner. Without a word, he just stood and stared at the two men sitting there like they were in his way or something. After three seconds, one of the men apologized for existing on this earth. Then, before you could blink, the pair of them scampered off."

  "And then?"

  "And then Scout took the chair, sat with his back to the wall, and asked for a whiskey. Even said please and thank you to the bar girl." Will shook his head at the memory. "It was plumb amazing. I thought I'd seen most everything during the war, but never in my life had I seen a person act like he deserved the world."

  Jamie looked almost thunderstruck. "Is that when you met him?"

  "Uh-huh. Before I knew it, Mr. Walton was smiling at him and pressing his palm. Doing his best to convince Scout to join our outfit. Never thought he would."

  "Why was that?"

  "He doesn't need the protection of a gang. At least, I didn't think he did." Will shrugged. "But I guess he'd been having trouble sleeping." Noticing her confusion, he clarified. "A man like him can never rest if he's alone—someone is always eager to take him out. He wanted us around to watch his back." He shrugged. "That was a year ago. He's far more serious than I thought he'd be. The dime novels made him seem like he was always happy," he mused, half to himself.

  Jamie's eyes were now as big as saucers. "The papers say he's a horrible man. He's done horrible things."

  "Oh, he has, and don't you forget it. Of course, we all have," he blurted before he could stop himself. For a while, he'd tried to excuse his escapades by blaming the heat of the battle. Or extreme fatigue. Or hunger.

  Or the fact that a man could only take so much cruelty and bloodshed before he did things too.

  As flashes of a family in Alabama threatened to surface, Will tamped them down. It was far easier to concentrate on someone else. "Scout is fairly quiet. Keeps to himself," he said. "And for all his reputation and the fact that he can draw a pistol faster than just about any other man alive, I've never seen him be openly cruel."

  So far, Will hadn't heard of a single person who doubted Scout's ability to draw quickly and lethally. No one who'd ever seen him draw would forget his lightning speed.

  But there was also a lingering sadness about the man that had come as something of a surprise. Will hadn't expected the gunman to have even the slightest lick of a conscience. Of course, with that softness came a bit of an edge to the outlaw's personality. He had just enough of a devil-may-care attitude that not even their boss had been able to break.

  Actually, instead of attempting to break Scout Proffitt's hard exterior, their leader seemed to give him wide berth. Will found it easy to do the same. He would speak with Scout but not completely trust him.

  He would never do that.

  It wasn't hard. After all, Will had learned early in life never to depend on the people closest to him. Trusting people who said they loved or cared for him had led to a whole lot of heartache.

  More than one scar on his body proved that trust only led to pain and ruined expectations.

  Frustrated by the latest direction of his thoughts, Will looked back to the girl. She was sitting as still as a corpse, and had her arms wrapped tightly around herself. Her posture and bearing reminded Will that she had been gently brought up. Her shivering reminded him that she was clad in only a pitifully thin black gown. Not even a wool shawl covered her shoulders. As he stared at her, he spied the faintest of tremors, reminding him that it was cold on the car. Terribly cold, and there wasn't much they could do about it either.

  So, though he was rusty at conversation, he attempted to divert her attention. "So what do you do, Jamilyn Ellis? When you're not traveling to Kansas City to meet your Randall?"

  Her eyes flashed. "He's not 'my' anything. And why do you keep calling me Jamilyn?"

  He thought it was pretty. He liked how it was feminine and light. How the syllables felt on his tongue. "It suits you. Better than a boy's name does, I'll tell you that."

  One golden eyebrow arched. "You think?" />
  "I know." Pushing a bit, he asked, "That man of your aunts', what does he call you?"

  "We've never spoken face-to-face."

  "I know, but what does he call you when he writes?" he amended. "Jamilyn, what does this Randall call you when he writes you his letters?"

  "He calls me Jamilyn."

  Even the cool air couldn't fan the flames rising in her cheeks. "You see? It's a good name."

  "It's what my aunts call me in their letters. They don't care for Jamie either."

  "And what do your parents call you?"

  She paused, then shook her head. "Nothing. Ever since my brothers died, they don't call me anything."

  Will was struck dumb. She looked so prim and proper—she was so very innocent—he'd assumed she was the type of girl who'd had a slew of people who'd fussed and pampered her. He'd even imagined she had a loyal pet, maybe even one of those silly, useless dogs.

  But the distant expression on her face told him a whole different story.

  He thought about pressing her for more information, before pushing aside the idea. After all, her past didn't really matter. It wasn't like he'd ever need to know much about her. Even if Scout didn't shoot her dead, even if Boss decided to let her go free, it wasn't like she'd ever cross his mind again.

  So he stayed silent. At first her muscles were bunched. Obviously, she was waiting for him to ask her more. But when he didn't, a curious look of confusion crossed her face. Almost like she was disappointed he hadn't pushed her.

  She nibbled her bottom lip for a spell like she wasn't sure how much information to give him. Her resistance amused him. And made his heart go soft.

  She reminded him of his cousins, the silly girls who used to worry so much about their manners and their words. But there was something more about her that he couldn't resist, too. Maybe it was her bone structure. She was finely made and a good eight inches shorter than himself. And pretty too. Truly delicate and lovely. There was an aura of innocence surrounding her, foisting brief images of his past to rush forward. Faint memories slowly filtered in. Hazy recollections of life before the war. For a brief moment, he felt warm again. Almost whole.