by Shelley Gray
"Now I know why you don't mean to give her up," one of the lawmen said, his voice thick with sarcasm.
Jamie flinched. She heard everything unspoken in the man's tone. Obviously, he thought she'd been used. For a brief moment, it was on the tip of her tongue to protest against their darker thoughts. She didn't want anyone to think that she'd been violated—or worse, had let herself be used without a fight.
But of course she didn't say a word. Even without Scout's warnings, she now knew better than to trust any of them. Maybe not even herself.
So all she did was shiver and try to keep her balance and keep her eyes almost unfocused so she wouldn't see too clearly how the men were looking at her.
The inspection seemed to draw out for the longest few minutes of her life.
"How many hostages are there?" one of the younger members on horseback called out. "Have they killed any of them?"
"Hold on—" Will called out. "You know I'm not going to tell you that."
"Not you, McMillan. I want her to speak."
Jamie felt herself crumbling. This was becoming too much. She didn't know what to say, what not to say.
Luckily, Will's voice saved her again. "You know she can't tell you that, either!"
"I know we want more information! Girl, how big is the Walton Gang now? When did you board? Where is the silver? Which car? How have you stayed alive?"
Each question, punctuated with derision, felt like a slap.
By now her skin was damp and red and numb. Her balance was precarious at best and her vision was becoming blurred by tears she couldn't seem to stop.
She opened her mouth, but no sound came out. Sure enough, she was frozen. Oh, Lord in heaven, what was she going to do now?
To her amazement, it was Scout Proffitt who came to her rescue. "I'll deal with them for a bit, ma'am," he said, surprisingly kindly. "You've done your part." Looking to Will, he said quietly, "Take her inside, but don't go far. I've a feeling we're going to have to bring her out again."
Jamie needed no further invitation. She tried to turn but her feet gave out. Before she knew what was happening, Will had scooped her up into his arms.
She was so grateful for his presence, his body heat. So grateful to be out of the elements and out of the men's prying gazes that she let herself relax against him.
Just for a moment.
Quickly, she pulled away from Will and stepped through the partially opened door.
Seconds later, Scout followed her inside. Though his expression was as impassive as ever, he didn't look as angry. Without a word, he handed the coat to her. Then to her surprise, he looked beyond her to Will, who was still standing outside.
Almost shamefully, she slipped her arms into the sleeves and securely wrapped the edges around herself.
"Funny how you get used to things, huh?" Scout said. "Less than hour ago you would hardly touch the coat. Now you can't pull it on fast enough."
As that sunk in, he crossed to the latch and opened the door wider. "Come in, McMillan. We've done what was asked."
Jamie watched Will turn and close the door behind him. And stare at Scout. "What's wrong? You didn't trust me out there?"
"Let's just say I don't trust anyone," Scout said before walking back to the rest of the group. "I'll tell Boss that you both did what you said you'd do."
And with that, he left.
Still shivering, Jamie stared at Will. "What just happened?"
"You showed yourself to a pack of U.S. Marshals, that's what."
"What good did that do?"
Will shrugged. "Probably not much. Mr. Walton wants some leverage. He thinks a helpless woman might assure we don't immediately get blown up."
"The man in front didn't seem to think I was too helpless." Remembering the leering way he'd looked at her, she shivered. "Actually, he seemed as bad as some of the men here on the train."
Will leaned back against a post. "Some?"
Jamie couldn't deny who she was thinking of. "Kent."
For a split second Will's eyes softened with compassion before turning flinty again. "Jamilyn, we're all bad."
"Even you?"
"Especially me. A man doesn't get to be my age without having regrets, and I have more than most." Looking at his right hand like it belonged to someone else, he shook his head. "I've done things that would shock you."
Right away, her mind drifted to imagining the very worst of things. What had he done? Murder? Thieving?
Did she even want to know?
"What's going to happen to me, Mr. McMillan? Am I about to be used?" Her cheeks heated at her words. Goodness, couldn't she ever learn to speak plainly? Though her mouth had gone dry, she forced herself to say the words. "Am I about to be raped? Killed?"
"I hope not," he said after two beats.
"Hope?"
"I've long since given up trying to predict the future." His gaze flickered over her, as if he was pushing all the bad thoughts away but not really succeeding. After swallowing, he murmured, "Now, let's try to find you some place warm."
Getting to her feet, Jamie followed him, though deep down she knew the search would be futile. There was no way she was going to be warm again.
Not while she was on the train.
Not when she was in these men's company.
Not when it was very likely she wasn't going to live to see the light of another day.
8
Well , that whole look-see hadn't done a lot of good, Scout decided.
Instead of being ready to let them move on, the lawmen just kept making more demands. As he stood next to the window, the leader of the Marshals kept talking like they were at a social gathering.
"Give her to us, Walton!" the U.S. Marshal called out, loud enough to wake the dead. "A woman on board is of no use to you."
As the hostages on the floor squirmed, Scout watched his boss slowly shuffle with nimble fingers a deck of cards before carefully setting an ace of hearts on the table.
For the last fifteen minutes, the routine had been the same. The lawman would yell for the woman's release, the hostages would turn hopeful, and James Walton would deal another card. It wasn't a good combination. The Walton Gang had never been known for patience, and their boss, though well groomed, was no better than the rest of them.
Sooner than later, blood was going to be shed. The only thing that wasn't certain was whose it was going to be.
From outside the car, the Marshal barked yet another command. "Walton? It's time you showed yourself. You're running out of time."
"Doubt that." Boss chuckled as he drew a two then a four of hearts. "We're at the advantage. We're inside while they're braving the elements on horseback."
"It's cold out there," Scout agreed. Hours ago, the light snow flurries that had been teasing them had finally turned to a decent snowfall. Now inches of fluffy powder blanketed most everything that couldn't take cover. Though the temperature wasn't terrible—most likely it wasn't even twenty degrees—it still made for a difficult wait on the back of a horse.
Actually, it made things downright miserable. He knew— he'd done it more times than he could count.
"Give us the woman!" the voice blared. "You don't want to add her death to your conscience."
Boss's fingers paused. "I hadn't planned on killing her yet. Had you, Scout?"
"No sir, I hadn't."
As a king was drawn and joined the other cards, Russell shifted nervously in front of the line of hostages. "Mr. Walton? I think the Marshals have gone and surrounded us."
"That so?" Boss picked up the cards again and shuffled. "Hmm. Maybe they've got more men out there than I'd previously thought." Abruptly, he raised his head and stared at Scout. "Where is she?"
"McMillan still has her in the caboose."
"Do you think we ought to give her up?"
Scout knew his answer didn't matter much. Their gang was nothing close to a democracy. James Walton would do whatever he wanted, whenever he wanted.
But stil
l, he spoke his mind. "I don't know."
"Why not?"
"I've never liked the idea of using a woman for my interests." Scout didn't particularly trust the Marshals outside, anyway. The Marshal in charge didn't look any different from the outlaws he was supposed to chase.
It convinced Scout that their lone woman hostage might not be any safer in the law's hands.
"Is that right?" A flash of humor entered their leader's green eyes. "Even you have limits as to how far you'll go?"
"Even me. Besides, the woman seems to be a fragile sort."
"Kent would say she's ripe for the taking." His lip curled in disgust. "Is that what McMillan is doing? Taking her?"
"I don't believe so." Privately, Scout knew Will McMillan was doing his best to protect her from the rest of them. Not only from their baser instincts, but from the danger and ugliness that surrounded their actions.
Their life wasn't pretty, and it was downright ugly if one took the time to examine it closely. Their rough way of life, combined with the pain it brought, made even the most decorous of men turn into people their mothers would be ashamed of.
"I think you're right." Boss's hands stilled as his lips thinned. "McMillan's never been one to abuse women, which is fine with me. We do still have some standards, you know."
"Yes, sir."
"I don't want her blood on my hands."
"No, sir."
Mr. Walton glanced up at him sharply, obviously thinking that Scout was being sarcastic. He wasn't. He agreed with everything his boss was saying.
But more important, he knew better than to argue. There were ways of staying in line, and then there were ways of staying alive.
Pushing the cards to one side, Boss lit a cheroot and breathed deeply. "None of this is going like we'd planned. We were supposed to get the bankroll and move on, not get stuck in this godforsaken snowstorm with a woman on board. And now we're surrounded by the U.S. Marshals, and the fool engineer decided to be a hero. . . ." He exhaled harshly, sending a stream of smoke across the table. "I didn't plan on this, Scout. How did this happen?"
"I'm not sure." That was the truth. So far, this job had been nothing but terrible and littered with problems—the girl being the worst problem of all.
Jamie Ellis was too pretty and too innocent to be stuck with the likes of them. And though a small part of him felt sorry for the woman, his conscience wasn't virtuous enough to actually insist she be let go. The only way he'd been able to stay alive was to put his needs and wants first. Always.
"If we give the woman up, the Marshals will still come after us," Scout said pragmatically. "They want that silver, but I have a feeling they'd blow us up within minutes of claiming that woman."
Mr. Walton tapped ashes on the floor. "Reckon so? Even with the bankroll on board?"
Scout nodded. "They'd have nothing to lose. Fact is, there's a big enough bounty on our heads to make the bankroll seem small. Shoot, they'd make almost that much with our dead bodies and have the notoriety that comes with it."
Cool eyes studied him before picking up the cards again. "I'm thinking that as well. We can't give her up. And if McMillan keeps her away from Kent and the others, she'll be relatively safe." Raising his voice, he said, "That's what we'll do. We'll just sit tight and wait them out. We have bourbon. That's really all we need, right?"
Scout needed a clear head more than the numbing effects of whiskey. However, he kept that thought to himself as he got to his feet. "Do you want me to say anything to the Marshals?"
"No. If you show yourself without the woman, they'll kill you dead. They have not one lick of compassion. Go tell the men to cool their heels. If things get worse, we'll toss out another hostage."
"Yes, sir."
Scout turned away. Weighing on his shoulders was the reality that his days in the Walton Gang were numbered. He was bored, and he chafed at answering to another man. When they got off this train—if they ever got off this train—he was going to disappear. James Walton might be disappointed, but not much else. Scout had joined him on his own, and they'd both known that it would be only a matter of time before he would leave them.
That was the benefit of living with a band of outlaws. At the end of the day, all anyone really cared about was his own skin. And that, of course, was enough.
He went to inform McMillan that until further notice, the woman was all his.
"Walton, give her to us. Now," the lawman on the palomino ordered, his horse prancing underneath him.
The man and his three comrades surrounded them. As Jamie watched from her spot next to the window, she wondered why she didn't feel more hopeful.
Instead of looking forward to being rescued, her body quaked at the idea of a different group of men watching over her.
The one man she could see clearly had a thick mustache, a gray Stetson, and a deep, scratchy voice. His movements were precise, like he was used to being in complete control of his body. And everything around him.
She had the terrible impression that he would impart that same hard control over her. For better or worse.
And because he was the law and not a criminal, everyone would expect her to be grateful and to obey. Because he'd saved her.
But that didn't stop the terrible premonition that being looked after by him would be uglier than where she was now.
The lawman spoke again, this time louder. "Walton, hand her over or I promise you, we will not be responsible for our actions. We'll blow up this train."
Beside her she felt McMillan shift and tense. Beyond him, Scout looked bored, but still pulled out his pistol. Neither man looked her way, and for that she was glad. Jamie didn't trust her emotions, or trust how she would react if she was forced to leave the train car and join the Marshals.
So instead of guessing the future, she looked out the window and watched the delicate snowflakes swirl in the air as the men surrounding the train repositioned themselves.
"Getting colder out," Scout said. Just like there was nothing more important to him than the current weather conditions. "Their hands have got to be hurtin' by now."
Jamie wondered if that was true. From the moment their train had stopped in the middle of the Kansas Plains, they'd been surrounded.
She'd heard James Walton didn't trust the Marshals at all, and so though the lawmen had made all kinds of warnings, he'd basically ignored them.
Things had gone downhill fast after that. First, the lawmen had crept closer and had called out enough threats and assurances to make even the most stoic of men quake. Jamie was certainly not stoic. As she listened, she shivered. Eight or ten hours had now passed since the train had been held up. Cold had settled into her bones while stark terror had settled deep into her heart.
With a new sense of certainty, she realized she wasn't going to survive. Either the men were going to shoot her or she would perish when the Marshals stormed the train.
Or, heaven forbid, worse things were in store for her. And she knew she wouldn't want to survive that.
Beside her, Will turned even quieter. He'd long since stopped talking to her. Instead, he'd settled himself across from her, choosing to lean back and peek out the window every few minutes.
Time continued to drag. Her eyes felt like a pound of salt and sand had settled in them. They stung from lack of sleep. But every time her body tried to force her to sleep, her mind jerked herself awake. She needed to stay alert in order to save herself.
If that was possible.
"Walton? Time's running out!"
Jamie's heart clenched. "What are they going to do?"
To her dismay, Will simply shrugged. "Don't know. I've long since stopped guessing what men will do when they're cold and hungry." With a long look at her, he frowned. "Or desperate."
Though it made no sense, for a split second Jamie was tempted to apologize. She had a terrible feeling that Will somehow was starting to resent her being there. And with that resentment came a fear that he was just about ready to do almost anything
to get rid of her. Even if it meant using her as bait.
Even if it meant handing her over to the set of six men on horseback around them. In the dark, their bodies looked larger than life and twice as dangerous. As the minutes passed, she had begun to fear them more than the man by her side. Time had taught her that even the most decent of men could do bad things if given the opportunity.
Or if he had the inclination.
"Mr. McMillan?"
"Will. I told you, call me Will."
His voice had just enough impatience in it to make her give in. "All right. Uh, Will. Do . . . do you think Mr. Walton is going to hand me over? Hand me over to the Marshals?"
As the lawmen called out again, their threats even more dire and disturbing, Will stared hard at her. "Truth?"
"Of course."
"No."
She was glad the dim light hid her sigh of relief. "I see."
"I doubt you do. Jamilyn, fact is, you're the only thing that's stopping those men out there from tossing a couple of sticks of dynamite at us and blowing us to kingdom come." After glancing at Scout, who still stood in the background as quiet as death, Will continued. "I promise you this—we're not keeping you to keep you safe. We're keeping you to keep us safe. That's it. Don't forget it. You're our ace."
"But the other hostages . . ."
"They're men—men old enough to have seen death a hundred times over. They know what's happening. What's more, they know their fate."
But that didn't change things, she figured. Death and dying surely felt the same at any age. Just thinking about what the future held—or didn't hold—gripped her tight and made her yearn for vanished dreams. She shivered and coughed.
"Look, the only reason we're still stopped is because that blasted engineer's brakeman is next to worthless and the tender is injured. But Russell is shoveling coal and word is that the train will be running again shortly. You should get some sleep."
Jamie noticed that his voice was softer, kinder. That small amount of comfort held her close and lifted her guard. And with that easing, came the fear again. She trembled. "I can't sleep."
"Sure you can." Impatience tinged his voice. "Just close your eyes."
