by Shelley Gray
Then, with a blink, he remembered everything that had come between then and now, and pain rushed forth. He was tempted to share some of that. To tell Jamie about his life. How he was once so different.
But, of course, he couldn't say such things; it wouldn't be right or proper, or whatever was appropriate at the moment. So he held off his thoughts and focused on her.
"Why do you look at me like that?"
"Because you're pretty."
"What?"
"Come now. Your parents might have ignored you, but surely the your mirror hasn't."
To his surprise, she still looked confused. So he pressed, though it wasn't his business how she thought about herself. "In any case, I'm sure the men in your area have told you how they felt."
"No one came near me. They were afraid. . . ."
"What are you saying? Has no man told you sweet things before?"
By her pause, he knew she was weighing the pros and cons of answering him. "No," she finally said. "No one ever has."
He was surprised. In other circumstances, he'd have tried to court her. Or at least done everything he could to be in the same room with her.
"Why not?"
"Before my brothers went off to war, they were protective. Then, all the men were gone." For a split second, a worry line formed in between her brows. When she shook her head, it vanished. "Mr. McMillan, did you fight in the war?"
"I did."
"For a long time?"
"For as long as I could. I joined up when my father got killed."
"Is that why you turned to this? Because of the war?"
The war had changed him. It had made him do a lot of things he never would've dreamed of. But more than that, the war made him dream of things that he couldn't escape from during those long hours in the middle of the night.
But the war wasn't why he was on the train.
"No," he said at last.
When Jamie leaned forward slightly, obviously anxious for him to give her more of an explanation, he turned away.
His reasons for being here were secret. If Jamie knew, it would only do her harm and make her more scared.
And for some reason, he was in no hurry to make things any worse for her. All he wanted to do was keep her safe.
If he could. I have become like broken pottery, he thought, remembering a favorite verse from the Psalms. Where he was once whole, he was broken.
But not completely ruined.
6
For a time, back when she was small, Jamie had carried a doll. Her mother had made it out of a flour sack and had sewn on two black buttons for eyes. The doll had had a red gingham dress like Jamie's but no hair.
At first, Jamie had only found fault with the doll. She didn't like it being bald. She wanted there to be a pretty smile. And, of course, it was a sad comparison to the dolls in the catalogs at the mercantile. The more she compared, the more she was aware that the doll was nothing like a "real" doll, and had told her mother so.
Mama had been disappointed by her criticism, and had told her that. It had been a terribly selfish way to behave, considering her brothers were out fighting the Yankees.
Jamie had known that. But it hadn't stopped her from offering her disappointment frequently and with more than a touch of a whine.
Then, the strangest thing happened—she grew to love that misshapen, too-soft little doll. One afternoon, she named it Jo, just because she'd gotten tired of carrying around a noname toy. And wouldn't you know it? Soon Jo was the best thing she'd ever had. She was comfortable and soft and her lack of expression meant that anything was possible.
Jamie hadn't meant to cling to that doll. But cling she did. And though her mother never said a word about it, Jamie figured she had been really pleased about her change of heart.
Looking at the man sitting across from her, Jamie wondered about her change of heart too. Suddenly, Will McMillan didn't seem as dangerous or as evil as he once had. Suddenly, she didn't look at his hands with fear, worried that he was going to grab at her clothes or slap her silly.
A few hours ago, she'd stopped bracing herself for his advance. Stopped tensing up beside him, preparing herself for pain. Over the day, she'd begun to notice things about Will. Like how he never raised his voice to her. How he was quiet but solid. She'd liked how he was around Scout Proffitt, too. He'd been calm but had held his ground. Never cowed.
She couldn't imagine too many men acting like that in the famous killer's presence.
So little by little, Jamie found her muscles easing when she was near to him, just anticipating that he would protect her from everyone else. Once she'd almost smiled at something he'd said.
All of this worried her. She should know better. Surely, she should behave better. Perhaps she couldn't trust her judgment any more now than she could when she was small. He was her enemy and she needed to remember that. After all, her brothers—God rest their souls—had been good men. Brave men. They'd died trying to preserve everything their family had believed in.
What would they say if they could see her being almost agreeable to a member of the notorious Walton Gang?
It truly didn't bear thinking about.
But that said, she kept finding herself wondering about Will, and found herself wanting to know him better. More than a time or two, she'd caught herself thinking that he was handsome.
How could that be?
Maybe her mind was filled with all things Will because he wasn't currently by her side. A little less than an hour ago, the train had come to an abrupt stop. The moment it had, he'd left her. He'd threatened to tie her up, but when she'd told him that she knew there was nowhere as safe for her as the place she was currently sitting, he'd left her in peace.
Warily, she sat on the bench, her eyes on the connecting doorway, waiting for the sound of his footsteps. And—Lord have mercy—bracing herself for the inevitable. Surely the rest of the band wouldn't let her stay out of the way for so long.
With a creak and a whoosh, the door opened. She sat upright, eager for news. But instead of the one man she was slowly starting to trust, it was Scout Proffitt.
Her blood chilled, and though she hadn't imagined it possible, she got even colder. Her tremors started up again, coursing through her without stopping, each one tougher to hide than the last. Locking her knees together, she glanced his way.
Obsidian eyes met hers. "Ma'am."
His voice was as scratchy and husky as ever. The look he gave her demanded an answer, or at the very least, a response. But no matter how hard she tried, Jamie couldn't think of a single thing to say. It was like a ghost had traipsed into her head, erasing everything there. Leaving her feeling as blank inside as the walls around her.
But instead of finding fault with the way the cat had gotten her tongue, the outlaw's gaze turned amused. "I guess you realized I'm here to take a turn with you."
To take a turn? She flinched in fear.
"Don't get all excited," he drawled. "I still don't aim to hurt you." He waited for a reply. But when she only stared at him, her mouth frozen, he chuckled. "You really should settle down if you can." He pushed the brim of his black Stetson the slightest bit upward, though whether his intention had been to see her better or for her to see him she didn't know.
To her surprise, he took a seat right across the aisle from her and propped one black boot over an opposite knee. "So, how are you doing? Is there anything you need?"
"You can let me go."
He laughed. "Never pegged you as a woman with spunk. You must be feeling better. Finally."
Though his words weren't scary, his dark gaze was. "I'm sorry," she sputtered. "I didn't mean to make you angry. . . ."
"Oh, I'm not angry. Say whatever you want; it won't matter. The fact is, no matter what you want, there's no way I can let you get off this train." He grimaced. "It's probably a good thing anyway. It's cold out. You'd freeze to death."
"Freezing would be better than being here."
"You only say that
because you've never witnessed a man freeze to death." His gaze shuttered. "It ain't pretty."
Just then, she noticed he was holding a man's overcoat in one of his hands.
When he saw what she was looking at, he held it up. "I thought you might want this. It's wool. It should warm you up a bit."
Just as she reached for it Jamie noticed a dark stain across the sleeve. Her hand dropped. "Whose coat was that?"
He shrugged. "I didn't ask the man's name. Don't usually ever ask anyone's name." He flashed a smile. "Other than yours, of course."
"Is it from a man who . . . who died?"
"Is that a problem?"
"Of course." Jamie wasn't sure where the words were coming from, but she now couldn't have stopped herself from talking to him if she'd wanted to. "I can't wear a dead man's coat."
"Why not? He can't use it."
"But it's not seemly. It's not Christian."
"Being Christian don't have anything to do with keeping warm, ma'am." His voice turned oily and derisive. "Let me give you an education. Everyone dies sooner or later. People who survive learn to make do with what's left. Even if you burn this it ain't going to make the dead come alive. Believe me, I know."
"But still—"
"Jamie, he's gone. Now do you want it or not? It's not going to get any warmer. And I'll tell you right now, this is as good an offer as you're going to get." After a moment's pause, his voice lowered. "And it's a far sight better than the things some of the other men have in mind for you to keep warm."
Pure fear coursed through her. Her mouth had gone dry and her mind went blank. Suddenly, there wasn't a thing in her brain.
He chuckled. "Cat got your tongue?"
With effort, she shook her head and held out her hand. "Thank you, Mr. Proffitt."
As if he'd just won an inner battle, his face softened into a semblance of a smile. He nodded. "You are very welcome, Miss Ellis. I'm happy to oblige." And with that, he set the wool into her hands.
A man's unfamiliar scent tickled her nose. Knowing the man was dead, she paused.
"The wool still works. Use it."
His honey-infused voice held a strong thread of steel, reminding her that Scout Proffitt was certainly not weak and probably never had been. And he most certainly wasn't used to giving suggestions.
No, he'd told her to do something. As kind as it was, it had been a command. Only when he watched her wrap the coat around herself did he blink.
She stood up and slipped her arms through the scratchy fabric. And though the fabric smelled of a stranger and was far too big, it also was blessedly thick. Almost immediately, the extra layer of fabric insulated her skin. Little by little, the chill that had overtaken her dissipated.
A flash of a match was followed by the sweet scent of fine tobacco that permeated the air as Scout lit a cheroot and inhaled. Inexplicably, the scent of the cigar calmed her nerves. For a moment, she simply sat and watched Scout finger the thin cigar, take a puff, then slowly exhale.
He glanced her way. "I swore to myself that as soon as I could afford it, I was going to never be without these. It was a good day when I bought my first box."
Jamie wondered why. It seemed to her a strange thing to look forward to having. However, she kept her thoughts private. Scout Proffitt's wants and needs were certainly none of her concern.
When the cheroot was just about halfway gone, he stood up with a sigh. "I suppose it's time we moved on. You and me are going to take a walk now."
"What? Why?" She liked being apart from everyone else. Plus Will had promised her he'd keep her safe.
"Ah, so you can talk." Humor lit his eyes as he stood up. "Here's the deal, sugar. We're going to go see the others. Mr. Walton is curious about you."
"And Mr. McMillan?"
One eyebrow rose. "I imagine Mr. Will McMillan is waiting for you with bated breath. Come on, now." He reached for her hand to help her from her seat.
But she ignored the proffered hand and got to her feet unassisted.
"I'm not good enough for you to take my hand, huh? Guess I should've expected that." Just like that, his expression went flat. He gripped her elbow and pulled her forward.
There wasn't a single reason for the next words she said. "It's not that," she blurted. "It wasn't that I didn't think you were good enough."
"Then what is it?"
"I . . . I'm not used to being around men. I'm not used to being helped. I don't know how to accept that help."
He blinked. "You don't? A pretty thing like you?"
"When my brothers died, my parents became reclusive," she explained, though it was hard to admit and certainly none of his business.
"Some would say that's a good thing," he said after a moment's pause. "Some would say that you being sheltered like you were was fine news, indeed."
While she pondered his statement, Jamie tried not to flinch when he curved his hand around her arm. His fingers cut through the thin fabric of her coat and dress and dug into the soft skin of her upper arm. She bit her lip so he wouldn't know. As he pulled her across the car, through the rickety connection to the next, Jamie did her best to keep up with him, hoping that if she stayed close enough, he would drop his hand.
But he didn't. He simply tugged, the remains of his cigar still in his mouth. The heady scent of tobacco surrounded them, and Jamie knew she would now only associate that particular smell with the train and bone-crunching fear.
Scout Proffit never looked her way as they crossed into the next car. But he did pause. "Word of warning to you—I'd keep that pretty mouth of yours closed and your eyes forward. Except when Mr. Walton speaks to you."
"I don't understand why he would even want to talk to me."
"It don't matter, Jamie."
"But—"
With a hint of aggravation, he shook his head. "Miss Ellis, don't you understand? It never matters what you think in Mr. Walton's company. All that matters is what he wants."
As that last phrase spun in her head, he turned around again and started walking.
Still within his grip, Jamie followed him—more confused than ever. By turns, Scout had been almost gentlemanly and almost violent. She shivered as she followed him into the last car, then stood and tried to get her bearings as she was greeted by a far thicker cloud of cigar smoke and the musky smell of men and fear. Right away Kent whistled low.
Though she kept her eyes averted, she couldn't prevent her body from trembling.
To her surprise, instead of pushing her forward, Scout pulled her closer to him, his grip tight—serving as a reminder of his words of caution. "Don't you forget what I said," he murmured. "Listen, nod, and agree. Things will go easier that way."
She had intended to look only straight ahead, but unable to stop herself, she glanced toward the wall.
Now, only three men gazed back at her. Their mouths were gagged and their wrists were bound in front of them. The space where the old-timer had been was empty, save for a stain of red. When one of the men's eyes widened, then looked at her with contempt, Jamie knew he'd spied her coat.
But even if she could, she wasn't sure if she would give it up now. The extra layer not only provided warmth but an added layer of protection from the men's prying eyes. She felt safer with it on.
That knowledge made her skin crawl. What kind of person was she becoming?
"Ah, Miss Ellis. How kind of you to join us," Mr. Walton said from the corner of the train.
Warily, she looked to the man in charge. He was smoking a cigar, lounging back on one elbow. One foot was propped on the seat in front of him. He looked to be in complete repose, sitting as if he was in a comfortable drawing room—or maybe even in a men's club or a fancy hotel lobby.
Then she noticed his expression. His lips were flat and his beautiful green eyes were alert. Cold. She felt his gaze slowly run the length of her body.
In response, she ached to turn away, but Scout held her elbow firmly. "Don't move," he said under his breath, so low she couldn't
even be sure that he'd said anything at all.
In case he had, she willed herself to stand still.
"You may release her arm now, Mr. Proffitt. She's not going anywhere." He chuckled. "I can promise you that."
Immediately, Scout's fingers loosened and his hand drifted away. Though it made no sense, she suddenly missed his touch. His hand had been warm and his grip solid. Perhaps it was because by now she knew what to expect from him. She didn't know what to expect from Mr. Walton.
"Now, Miss Ellis, I trust you have been comfortable in our company?"
She nodded, the movement making her head feel like it was made of wood.
Scout, though he was no longer touching her, was standing close enough to let his displeasure be known. Obviously, he was not pleased that she hadn't followed his advice to a T.
However, it seemed to be enough for Mr. Walton. After puffing on his cigar once more, he said, "I'm so glad. Will here was telling me that you hail from Colorado Territory. Is that right?"
She nodded again, wishing she could locate Will but couldn't see him. She ached to stand up and look around the compartment, but she didn't dare disobey Scout's orders. As the seconds passed, she realized the man really had been looking out for her best interests. "Yes, sir. I lived in Denver. My parents moved there from Texas after the war."
"And now you're headed to Kansas City?" His question was phrased flat, like a statement, making her wonder if he knew far more about her than she could ever guess.
But there was no reason not to tell him the truth. "Yes, sir."
Mr. Walton brought his cigar to his lips, inhaled, then blew out a billowy cloud of smoke. Jamie found herself shaking as she watched the smoke dissipate into the air, quietly evaporating into nothing.
Behind her, she heard the hostages shifting. Beyond them all, wind whistled along the steel walls of the train.
After another moment, he said, "I'm sorry to say this journey hasn't been quite as comfortable as I would have hoped. The weather is difficult at best. Then, of course, we had a terrible miscommunication with the engineer of this train. It seems he needed some convincing about how serious I was in my intentions to keep the silver." He shook his head in sorrow.
