A Texan's Honor

by Shelley Gray

  And Will, right there with the other men, had slowly grown taller. Just as if they'd been worth something.

  Stepping a little closer, Clayton raised his voice so every one of them wouldn't be mistaken about what he said. So no one else in the house would misunderstand. "I know you don't believe me, but that's the truth."

  The man started to shake. "I don't have nothing—"

  "You have your pride and your woman. I understand that," Clayton said quietly. "That's enough. I have a bleeding man and a band of soaking wet soldiers who are exhausted. You need to let us sleep here before my man dies."

  Will had felt more than saw the nervous man glance over at Robert Shaw.

  "He's a good man, mister," Clayton had whispered. "Too good to die on your front porch. Too good to have on your conscience."

  Miraculously, the man had moved to the side. "Come in," he'd said, defeat in his voice.

  They'd set up camp in what had once been a library but now had only a few dozen books. Not even looking over his shoulder, Clayton had tossed four of them in the fireplace and set them on fire. As sparks ignited the worn books' pages, an aura of heat enveloped them all.

  Heat had never felt so good. Not even on an August day.

  The house's owner had protested. "I was saving those! You have no right."

  "I'm afraid I do. Sir, I'm obliged to you. If these books weren't here, we'd be in a sorry state for sure."

  He'd sputtered some more. "But—"

  "He's going to die if I don't treat his wound." Clayton's voice had brooked no argument. "And listen to me good," he added, glaring at him with piercing slate-gray eyes. "I do not intend to bury him."

  Others had gotten water and found a pot of some sort and put it on the flames.

  And then they'd pulled off poor Robert's shirt. Ribs showed where healthy muscles and sinew used to be. Among an array of scratches and sores and chill bumps lay an almost five-inch wound on the man's side. It was festered and angry.

  When the owner saw it, his eyes practically bugged out of his head. "That from a bayonet?" he whispered.

  Clayton never looked away from Robert. He'd just sat there on his haunches, as steady as ever. "Imagine so. Hard to tell after all this time."

  As the water heated, the wound was inspected again. Swollen and red and putrid, the infection was visibly spreading. Robert had hissed in sharp pain when Clayton gently pressed two fingers against it.

  "Get over here, Will," Clayton had said. "Hold on to him while I wash him up."

  "I can do it, Captain." It hadn't felt right for their great hero to lower himself like that.

  "I'm proud to tend to him," Clayton had murmured, then had bent down and had begun to gently wash Robert's pale skin. Over and over, Clayton had put the cloth in the scorching hot water, wrung it out, and carefully bathed him.

  Behind them, he'd felt rather than heard the man's wife appear. "Henry?" she said timidly.

  "Go back to your room, Katherine," Henry had commanded, his eyes still where the rest of theirs were—resting on the captain's hands gently bathing the soldier who was so close to dying he probably already had one foot in heaven.

  Clayton never looked up.

  As his wife shrunk against the wall, her husband swallowed hard. "Dear Lord in heaven."

  "Hallowed be thy name," Clayton said with a half-smile. Looking Will's way, Clayton pulled out a knife and plunged the tip in the nearly boiling water. "Will, are you ready?"

  "Yes sir," he'd said. Not because he was ready, but because no other response would do.

  "Good enough. Here we go."

  "Clay?" Robert had asked, his voice raspy, his eyes blurry. "Clay, what are you—"

  Without saying another word, Clayton took that heated knife and lanced the wound. Robert screamed, his cries mixing in with the woman's cries. The other men in the room looked away with discomfort.

  But Will held himself firm. Just as his captain had asked.

  As expected, the wound's sordid contents seeped out in a sluggish rush. Clayton brought the knife to the cut, slicing a little deeper, bringing forth more sickness and a smattering of red blood.

  Robert cried out again, the cries so harsh and so full of agony that everyone in that room knew they'd be as marked by the occasion as much as Robert would ever be.

  "Easy now," Clayton murmured, right before he motioned for someone to bring over the water, liberally soaked a square of cloth pilfered from the house's bed sheets, and then cleaned the wound.

  Robert screamed again, flinching and jerking. They all knew he was in terrible agony. Five minutes later, he gave in and shamed himself by crying. His shoulders shook as the tremors came.

  Then the most miraculous thing had happened. The farmer's wife had come forward. Her husband had stood still as she'd slid through their ranks.

  And as they'd all looked on, she'd gone down on her knees and had sat next to Robert. "It's okay, honey," she murmured. Looking up to Will, she whispered, "What is his name?"

  "Robert."

  With a nod, she leaned a little closer. Still murmuring sweet things, she ignored her husband's blustering and their shock and had taken Robert Shaw's dirty hand and held it tenderly between her own. "Oh, Robert. I know. I know you hurt. I know," she murmured.

  Her husband looked like he was about to have a conniption. "Katherine!"

  However, she ignored him completely. Instead, she leaned a little closer and spoke to their comrade softly. "Robert dear, you're going to be fine," she said over and over again, soothing the man in her arms.

  Soothing the rest of them.

  When his crying settled, she said, "Do you have a sweetheart?"

  "Ann Marie," he rasped after what felt like forever.

  "That's a lovely name," she said. Just as if they'd been at a church social. "Rest now, Robert. Rest and close your eyes and think of Anne Marie, waiting for you at home."

  "But—"

  "Don't tell me you're not going to survive this, soldier," Clayton had interrupted, his voice as harsh as if they'd been in the middle of a battlefield. "You will get better. If not for Ann Marie, then for me."

  The woman holding Robert's hand had stared at him in shock. "You think you matter to him more than his sweetheart?"

  "I know I do today. She might hold his heart, but I'm the one who's going to keep him alive." And then, right then and there, Clayton Proffitt had smiled.

  And what was amazing was that right then, right there, they had all believed it. Without a doubt in their minds. Forevermore.

  Back in the frozen streets of Dodge, Will blinked. As the memories grew faint, he forced himself to remember the last of it. The woman had turned his way. "And what is your name, soldier?" she'd asked, even though it wasn't any of her business, and he wasn't used to talking to women.

  "Will McMillan," he'd said. "My name is Will."

  "And do you trust your captain with your life too?"

  "Always." With a strong of satisfaction, he'd know that he'd just been able to give her the easiest answer he'd ever given in his entire life.

  Coming back to the present, Will shook his head as his eyes adjusted to the light around him.

  Will couldn't believe he still remembered every single detail of that moment. More important, he couldn't believe that he didn't feel the immense sense of sorrow that always stayed with him when he thought of Robert.

  Because indeed Robert Shaw had survived.

  And they'd all left that broken-down farmhouse two days later when the rain had abated and they had orders. Not one week later, they'd been ambushed by a band of Yankee scouts.

  Before it was all over, Robert had taken a bullet in his side—in almost the very same spot where the saber had cut him. And where Clayton had almost healed him.

  In front of them all, Robert fell to his feet and died.

  And it had felt inconceivably cruel to Will.

  He'd dragged Robert's body off to their camp and had buried him. And then had stood over his grave and
had cried.

  He hated that he'd cried in front of their captain. He hated that he'd cried like a baby, tearing up for the waste of yet another good man. Crying because life was hard and it wasn't getting any easier.

  And because for a brief, minute amount of time, Clayton Proffitt had encouraged them all to believe in miracles. Then God had shown them all that such things, if they existed, didn't last for long.

  "Will?" Calvin called out from the doorway of the inn. "Will, you're just standing there like a durn bump on a log. You need something?"

  As he looked at Calvin, Will was tempted to ignore him. Though the memories from his past were sharp and hurtful, they at least had a definite ending.

  This journey he was currently on did not.

  "I don't need a thing," he said. "Just taking a breather." Then he walked on down the street. It was time to move forward. To get some fresh clothes. To get ready to say good-bye to Jamie.

  To get ready to begin again.

  Yet again.

  29

  Scout wasn't having much success deciphering the mind of the woman in his company. Ever since they'd had their big talk, Kitty had been a bit more reserved. Almost uneasy. Almost stiff.

  Which, of course, meant nothing and made no sense.

  As the days passed and they had gotten closer to Dodge, Scout cursed his luck and cursed her skittishness. It was getting on his nerves, and he never had been one for putting up with nonsense.

  Along the way, he'd decided he was surely the best thing she was ever going to find. He'd taken to putting her needs before his. He'd kept her warm in front of the fire and had taken her to the shelter of an old barn during a snowstorm.

  And he'd found some old corn and had made corncakes just two nights ago. He'd bought an ugly blanket off a toothless old Indian so she'd have something better than cold hard dirt to lie on top of at night.

  And above all that, he hadn't touched her in a single inappropriate way. Not even once.

  Hadn't even come close. Actually, he'd almost been acting like a gentleman, which, come to think of it, was a pretty amazing achievement.

  To his way of thinking, Kitty should be smiling at him like the sun. She should be driving him crazy with inane chatter and useless information.

  Instead, as the miles accumulated behind them, she just got quieter.

  And then they pulled into Dodge City.

  After arranging for the horse to be sheltered at the livery, he'd taken her to a not quite respectable-looking boardinghouse and secured two rooms. The owner was a deaf old woman nearing eighty. Her eyes were cloudy with cataracts as she'd signed in Nate Lawrence and his sister Louise, handed them two keys, and pointed with one knobby hand swollen with arthritis to a scuffed-up stairwell.

  Scout had thanked her with a nod, then led the still-silent Kitty up the stairs. When she continued to poke along, he began to get aggravated. "Come on, Louise. I know you're tired, but if you go much slower you might as well be going backward."

  When they stopped in front of her door, she finally spoke. "Scout, don't make me go in there."

  Grabbing her shoulder, he fought to refresh her memory. "It's Nate, honey. Don't you forget that."

  Her shoulder trembled under his touch. "Nate, please . . . don't make me go in there."

  It was official. He was confused. "Go where?"

  "In that room." She was pointing at the door like a rattler was curled around the handle.

  "You're not making a lick of sense. This is the first almost decent place we've bedded down in days. Now, go on in and stop fussing. You're going to have your own room. Some privacy too."

  When she still looked scared, he lowered his voice. "I'm trying to save your reputation here."

  "That don't matter. I don't want a room of my own."

  "I may be an outlaw, but even I know how a woman is supposed to be treated."

  "But the woman below thinks I'm your sister."

  "She might, but most people will realize right away that we don't look a thing alike." Tired of her foolishness, he stepped away. "Now listen. I need to go see if I can find someone. Go on in there and lock the door. I'll come back to get you at supper time."

  "Scout, please . . . locks don't help," she whispered.

  Her eyes were filled with so much pain that he didn't even chide her for using the wrong name. However, there was a reason he was still alive instead of strung up under the bough of some oak.

  Duty and survival always came first.

  "After you get in that room, lock it. Then push a chair in front of the door and forget about leaving."

  "But—"

  "If there's no chair in there, push the dresser."

  "But—"

  "You can't come with me. Not to where I'm going."

  "I won't get in the way."

  "I don't want you with me."

  "Then tonight . . . tonight, can I sleep with you?"

  Her begging was making even him forget their pretend names. "Kitty—"

  "I won't sleep if I'm alone. I'll just stare at the door and remember."

  "I'm not sticking you in a bed with me tonight. It ain't gonna happen."

  When her eyes filled with tears, he hardened his heart. "Come on, girl. This is what you are going to have to get used to. Wherever I leave you—and I will, I promise you that— you're going to be on your own again."

  Looking like he'd beaten her down instead of giving her some trust and freedom, she took the key he'd handed her, slipped through the doorway, and closed it directly behind herself.

  Next, the steady screech of the dresser sliding across the floor echoed through the wall, followed by the unmistakable sound of despair as she began to cry.

  And before he could slide even further into guilt and confusion, he ignored her cries and walked out of the boardinghouse. Lord have mercy, he needed to find Will McMillan and Jamie Ellis and shoot them dead.

  The sooner he got his work completed, the sooner he'd be able to move on with his life.

  Jamie had woken up in an empty room. At first she'd been fearful, not quite certain where she was. But then as her heart settled down and her brain cleared, she began to tally what she knew.

  They were in Dodge City. In a small, rundown hotel that had curiously ornate woodwork framing each doorway. She'd been terribly ill. And Will—the man she used to fear but who now was pretty much the only person she completely trusted— had taken care of her.

  Vaguely, snippets of the last five days rushed forward, each scene played out quickly with barely enough time to absorb all that had happened between the two of them. All she knew for sure was that when she'd been feverish, Will had bathed her brow with a cool cloth.

  When she hadn't been able to walk, he'd carried her.

  When she couldn't eat, he had fed her broth, cajoling and bullying her until she'd consumed enough sustenance to continue fighting the influenza. His gaze had been kind; his manner had been a true combination of patience and control.

  Somehow, in the middle of the fever and the broth and his touch, the last of her fear of him subsided. Little by little, it had ebbed and transformed itself into something else entirely. Gratitude? Or was it perhaps friendship?

  In the quiet peace of her rented room, she knew for certain it was most certainly not that. Because she was not his friend. They had no common ground. He was taller, stronger, and more forceful. Only he knew where they were going, and only he knew the people he needed to talk to.

  From the moment their paths had crossed on that dangerous train, she'd been forced to rely on him and her faith, hoping against hope that she could learn to trust what he said and that one day he would actually do what he said he would do. He would return her to another Marshal who would in turn help her board a train to Kansas City. Afterward, she'd live with her aunts and get to know the elusive Randall—the man who would most likely be her future.

  Even thinking about her future seemed hard. After everything that she and Will had been through, she was no
w dreading the moment when he would prove himself to be a man of honor.

  And she would dread it, she knew. Because though he was so much more than she was, and though they had little in common except a shared desire to survive, she had fallen in love with the man.

  Not that she was ever going to tell him that.

  She was nothing to him except a burden that was costing him just about everything he was.

  How could she ever meet his expectations? How could she ever be enough of a woman to be worthy of such a man?

  The answer was simple: she couldn't.

  Two knocks and Will's reassuring voice brought her to the door. She still double-checked, however. "Will?"

  "It's me. Let me in, Jamilyn."

  During her illness, when she'd been too sick to open her eyes, she'd become used to its gravelly tone. She now realized that low timbre was almost more familiar when it was hidden by the wood between them than when he was standing by her side.

  Two clicks released the locks. When she opened the door and he crossed the threshold, she felt overwhelmed by the looks of him. To her surprise, he'd bathed and now sported new denims, broadcloth, and kerchief. The fine lines of his cheeks and jaw had been shaved close. He smelled vaguely of soap and the sharp, fresh scent of brand-new cotton and wool.

  The clothes, his scent, his all-encompassing form made her catch her breath. "You changed."

  "I did." Looking curiously self-conscious, he ran one hand down over the pure white fabric covering his chest. "I thought perhaps I should make myself presentable for my boss. Sam Edison doesn't appreciate mess or dirt."

  "Would he be upset with you for something so small?" The idea that his boss would find flaw with Will dragging her across the state in dirty clothes felt harsh.

  After bolting the door behind him, he faced her and shook his head wryly. "The fresh clothes are probably my doing more than his expectation. I . . . I like being clean. Being in the Walton Gang doesn't lend itself to a whole lot of opportunities for a man to get his laundry done." Crossing the room, he checked and double-checked his pistols. Even took the time to make sure his Winchester was at the ready.