Once A Gunslinger

by Diana Bold

  Where the hell was he? Moonlight spilled through an open window, and filmy white curtains fluttered in the pine‐scented breeze. The bed he lay upon was more comfortable than anything he’d slept on in years. The sheets that touched his skin were soft and clean.

  “It’s all right, Tristan.” The side of the bed dipped as a woman sat down beside him. “It was only a bad dream.”

  She stroked the damp hair from his forehead with cool, rose‐scented hands. He found himself leaning into the softness of her touch, needing it as he needed air to breathe. It was too dark to see her features clearly, but he knew that voice, just as he knew the perfection of her lovely face and the silky texture of her auburn hair.

  “Savannah?” His voice was rough and hesitant. He was afraid she wasn’t real, just a fever‐induced dream come to torment him.

  “Yes, it’s me,” she whispered, drawing back. “Are you all right? You cried out for Michael in your sleep.”

  Humiliation washed over him, and he turned his face toward the wall. He’d managed to hide his scarred back and nightmarish ramblings from the entire world for years only to have Savannah McKenzie, the one person who mattered to him, discover all his weaknesses in the space of one evening.

  He felt undone, laid completely bare. Quick on the heels of that thought came the realization that he was bare. Beneath the thin sheets, he was naked. Heat rose in his cheeks, and he tried once again to sit. “Where are my clothes? I have to get out of here.”

  “Stop it. You’re not going anywhere.” She placed her hand on his bare chest, holding him down without the slightest effort. “You’ve lost a lot of blood, and it will be a few days before you regain your strength.”

  He subsided. She was right, of course. The last thing he wanted to do was fight with her. “You don’t have to stay with me,” he muttered, embarrassed to have her see him this way. “I’m fine.”

  “I want to stay.” She retrieved a washcloth from the basin on the nightstand and wrung out the excess water. “Please. Let me do this for you.”

  Before he could even think to deny her, she pressed the wet cloth to his face, bathing away the sweat and heat, cooling the first signs of fever. Her touch was tender, as though they’d never parted with tears and anger, as though she still cared for him.

  She trailed the cloth along his shoulders and the expanse of his chest. He held his breath, stunned by the raw intensity of his emotions. Then her hand dipped lower, across the flat plane of his stomach, and every muscle in his body contracted in a fierce wave of desire.

  He let himself become lost in the familiar fantasy. He imagined a long, hot night, with auburn hair spilling across silken white sheets. His body reacted violently, swelling with need, aching for the relief he’d found in her arms once before.

  Her hand stilled low on his belly. The sudden catch in her breath assured him she’d noticed. She didn’t jump away in horror, and he knew a moment of fierce, desperate hope.

  “Savannah.” Ten years of longing and despair welled up in the sound of her name on his lips. God, he’d missed her.

  Silence hung between them until he thought he’d snap from the strain. He lifted his hand, needing to touch her beautiful face, needing to draw her into his arms and drown in her sweetness.

  She scrambled to her feet, tossing the cloth back into the basin and moving away from him. “You’re getting feverish. I’ll go find Joel.” She slipped out of the room before he could say anything else, closing the door behind her with a decisive click.

  Tristan groaned in frustration, covered his head with a pillow, and willed his overheated body back into submission.

  His first impression had been right. He was in hell, because he still burned for a woman he’d given up all right to have.

  Chapter Three

  Savannah shut the door to her father’s old room and leaned against it, struggling to regain control. There was no mistaking the fact that Tristan still desired her. But how could he when she’d wronged him so badly?

  She’d married his brother, kept him from his son.

  Her fingertips still tingled from the warmth of his skin, and her lips and breasts had grown unbearably sensitive. The yearning in his voice when he’d said her name had kindled the banked fires of her own passion to a fever pitch.

  It had taken every ounce of strength she possessed to walk away when all she wanted was to stay. She didn’t even know why it had seemed so necessary to escape, other than the fact that something didn’t make sense, and she’d always needed things to make sense.

  So far his reactions toward her had been totally unexpected. As much as she loved him, she knew he was not a forgiving man. He seemed embarrassed that she’d seen him weak and vulnerable, but hadn’t given any indication of the anger he must feel at her betrayal.

  Had time softened him? Was it possible he’d made enough mistakes of his own not to hold hers against her? She wanted to believe it, but she’d learned long ago what a dangerous thing hope could be.

  No, far better not to hope. She needed to face the truth of the matter.

  Tristan had been shot. He had a fever and probably didn’t have the slightest idea what he was saying or doing. Once he recovered, he would turn away from her in disgust.

  She was destined to remain alone, and she had no one to blame for that but herself.

  The heavy tread of footsteps on the stairs drew her attention. She took a deep breath, hoping she didn’t look as distraught as she felt. Joel appeared at the top of the candlelit landing, and his gaze locked with hers.

  “Is everything all right?” Vaulting the last few steps, Joel rushed to her side. “What happened?”

  “Tristan is getting feverish. He had a nightmare about Michael.” She shook her head and hugged her arms to her chest. “I couldn’t stay with him any longer. I’m sorry.”

  Joel frowned and patted her shoulder. “I shouldn’t have left you alone with him for so long. I wasn’t thinking.”

  Savannah shrugged, uncomfortable with the direction of the conversation. “It’s all right. Really. I just overreacted when I heard him speak of Michael.”

  It wasn’t exactly the truth, but it was the only thing she could think of that would explain her need to get away.

  “Oh, Savannah. I should have known. When you look at him, it’s Michael’s face you see, isn’t it?” Joel’s anguished words made her immediately regret what she’d said.

  Michael should be in her thoughts tonight. She turned her face away from the compassion in her brother’s eyes. She didn’t deserve his sympathy. She never had.

  Self‐consciously, she rubbed her bare ring finger. How long had it been since she’d worn Michael’s ring? When they’d first moved to Colorado she’d put it away, rationalizing her decision by saying she didn’t want to ruin it with all the work she had to do. But that had been ages ago, and now she wasn’t even sure where it was.

  “How long will Tristan stay?” She couldn’t imagine the pain his leaving a second time would cause, but she wanted to be prepared for it.

  “I know you don’t want him here.” Joel’s voice was low and ragged, but firm. “I’m sorry, but it can’t be helped. I owe him. Can you understand that?”

  Not want him here? She stared at her brother, wondering how he could be so mistaken.

  “Do whatever you need to do,” she whispered, her voice breaking. “But I don’t think I’m strong enough to help you.”

  She couldn’t sit beside Tristan and watch him battle for his life. She couldn’t touch his face and hold his hand, knowing he’d only shun her once he came to his senses.

  Joel nodded. “All right, sis. Don’t worry about it. I’ll be fine tonight. Just get some sleep. I’ll see you in the morning.”

  * * * * *

  Joel remained by Tristan’s side during the next two days. Despite his best efforts to keep the wound clean, an infection had taken hold, and Tristan’s fever raged dangerously high.

  Savannah had offered to sit with his pati
ent despite her initial protests, but he’d assured her he didn’t need her help. The haunted look she’d worn that first night had disappeared, but he didn’t want to subject her to Tristan’s company any more than necessary. She’d had enough heartbreak in her life. He didn’t want to be the cause of any more.

  He, too, had lost loved ones during the war. His sweet young wife had died during childbirth in the fall of ‘62. He hadn’t even known she and the baby were gone until they’d been buried for three months. How he’d wished for someone other than himself to blame.

  Unable to find anyone, he’d started drinking to forget.

  Taking care of Tristan reminded him of those dark times. Lack of sleep left him crippled with worry and despair. Memories of the war overwhelmed him. His exhaustion brought to mind too many other times when he’d worked for days without rest, his senses and reflexes dulled by alcohol.

  How many men had died under his knife? How many times had he done more harm than good?

  This time, he couldn’t fail. He had to save Tristan because he’d let Michael and so many others slip through his grasp. Then, when Tristan was better, he had to confess his sins and give him the unopened, bloodstained letter that had lain in his dresser drawer all these years. Michael had written to Tristan with the last of his strength, and Tristan deserved to read his words.

  No matter what truths the letter revealed.

  All these thoughts and more were whirling through his brain when Tristan’s fever finally broke. He was afraid to believe the danger had passed, but when he removed the bandage, he found his patient’s stitches healing nicely, all signs of infection gone.

  Relief washed over him, and he sank to his knees beside Tristan’s bed, giving thanks for the first time in years.

  “Praying for me?” Tristan’s voice was wry, raspy with disuse, but his words held no mockery.

  Joel shot to his feet, startled and self‐conscious. “Yeah,” he admitted with a casual shrug. “I figured you could use it.”

  Tristan sighed and nodded. “I guess you’ll need all the help you can get if you’re planning to save me.”

  * * * * *

  The walls were pressing in on him.

  Tristan stared at the ceiling in frustration. Joel had insisted he stay in bed for a week, but his fever had broken two days ago, and already the inactivity was driving him crazy.

  It was just a little gunshot wound, for God’s sake. He’d suffered far worse in prison.

  Joel couldn’t make him stay. All he had to do was get up, find some clothes, and head south. He could recuperate in the arms of some pretty senorita and drown all thoughts of the McKenzies in the bottom of a bottle of tequila.

  Lying here in this sinfully soft bed, with lace curtains on the windows and fresh flowers on the dresser, all he could think about was the way Savannah had touched him. He wanted to stay here, wanted to see her again with a need that bordered on desperation.

  All the more reason to leave before he did something foolish. There was no room in his life for lace and flowers. Those things were as foreign to him now as mercy and compassion.

  Feeling better for having come to this realization, he rolled to his good side, swung his legs over the edge of the bed, and pushed himself to a sitting position. He sat there for a moment, ignoring the stabbing pain. It wasn’t that bad. He could do this.

  He stood, and the room spun. Unsteady, he reached for the cane rocking chair that stood only a few feet away, but his knees buckled before he could take a single step. He pitched toward the floor, cursing.

  Instinctively, he tried to break his fall with his hands, only to double over in agony as his injured shoulder took the weight of his body.

  Only a few seconds passed before his bedroom door crashed open and Savannah flew toward him, her small, booted feet winging across the wooden floor. He groaned aloud, trying to hide his nudity with his left hand.

  “Tristan! Are you all right?” She sank to her knees beside him in a puddle of rose‐colored skirts, her hands fluttering over his body. She was searching for injuries, he supposed, but her touch only heightened the embarrassed heat racing through his veins.

  “I’m fine.” He pressed his cheek against the floor, willing himself to disappear through the cracks. He hated this, hated looking like a fool in front of her once again.

  “What in the world did you think you were doing?” She quit touching him and grabbed a sheet off the bed, covering him from chin to toes.

  “I was getting up,” he answered. “I’m going to leave just as soon as you tell me what you did with my clothes.” It sounded ridiculous, even to him. He didn’t have the strength to stand, let alone mount his horse and ride to Mexico.

  “Your clothes were a bloody mess. I threw them away. And you didn’t have any others in your saddlebags. I had Ian look.”

  He frowned, irritated at the thought of her brother pawing through his meager belongings. He met her flashing blue gaze, trying to determine if Ian had told her about the miniature he kept of her. If so, what had she thought of that very telling piece of information? Did she pity him for carrying a torch for her all these years?

  “My extra clothes must still be at the hotel,” he conceded.

  “Fine. I’ll send someone for them, but I’m sure Joel doesn’t want you to leave just yet. Quit being so foolish and let me help you back into bed.”

  She leaned forward and put one arm around his waist and one under his neck, as if she could lift him through sheer force of will. Hell, maybe she could. She’d always been stubborn and pigheaded. Apparently she’d only gotten worse with age.

  “What are you going to do with me once you get me there?” He lowered his voice to a soft, seductive purr, hoping to throw her off guard. He wanted to know if he could still make her nervous.

  He needed to know if she still felt anything for him at all.

  She glanced down at him, dismay in her lovely blue eyes. “Tristan, don’t do this.” But her gaze strayed to his mouth, and she bit her lush bottom lip in an invitation he found impossible to resist.

  Threading his fingers through her thick, auburn hair, he pulled her closer, capturing her lips with a hunger born of months of celibacy and a decade of emptiness. He tumbled her against him, ignoring the pain, sighing in delight at the feel of her soft curves.

  The kiss was deep and urgent, even better than he’d remembered.

  Savannah opened to him with the slightest urging, her tongue dancing intimately with his. She tasted of tea and something sweet. He wanted to possess it. He wanted to drown in the taste and scent and feel of her.

  “What the hell is going on in here?” Joel’s furious voice brought Tristan back to his senses with an abruptness that left his head spinning. Savannah wrenched out of his arms and sat blinking down at him, her long, lush lashes tangling at the edges, her blue eyes cloudy and confused.

  Tristan gave an inward groan. This probably looked bad. Really bad. Joel’s intent gaze took in Savannah’s flushed face, Tristan’s barely concealed nudity, and their compromising position.

  “You son of a bitch.” When Joel spoke, his words were like stones dropped in the silence, the fury behind them rippling outward in widening circles.

  Savannah got to her feet and took a hesitant step toward her brother, but for once, her indomitable courage deserted her. She crossed her arms over her chest, her eyes downcast. “He fell. I was just trying to help him up.”

  “Oh, is that what you call it?” Joel’s voice dripped with sarcasm, and his accusing glare shifted to Tristan. “Get out of here, Savannah. Tristan and I need to talk.”

  Savannah gave Tristan a long, searching look, and then hurried from the room.

  Tristan turned his frustration on Joel. “How dare you talk to her like that? She didn’t do anything wrong. She leaned down to help me, like she said, and I kissed her. Hell, you know I’ve always cared for her. The fault was entirely mine.”

  “I never thought she was to blame,” Joel shot back. “I�
�m trying to protect her, you idiot. The last thing in the world she needs right now is you. If you can’t keep your hands off her, you can get the hell out of my house.”

  “I never asked you to bring me here,” Tristan snarled, trying to pull himself to a sitting position. “I don’t need your charity.”

  Joel clenched his hands into fists and a vein leapt in his jaw. “You’re right. I should have left you to drown in your own blood. I’m sure the next person you taunt into shooting you will have better aim.”

  “Well, I can only hope.” Tristan felt ashamed and foolish. Joel was the only friend he had left in the world. It was ridiculous to fight with him.

  Joel stared at him for a long moment, then made a sound of frustration and crossed the room to Tristan’s side. “Damn it. You’ve reopened your wound.”

  Tristan turned his head, trying to assess the damage. Blood seeped through the bandage. The surge of adrenaline that had given him the energy to kiss Savannah was fading, replaced by a dull, throbbing ache. “The stitches must have ripped when I fell.”

  Joel sighed and helped him move back to the edge of the bed. “You’re far more trouble than you’re worth,” he complained, but there was no longer any anger behind his words, and his hands were gentle as he removed the bandage.

  Tristan was grateful for the pain as Joel re‐stitched his wound.

  Anything was welcome, as long as it kept his mind off Savannah. He didn’t want to remember the silky smooth feel of her hair between his fingertips, or the way her passion had flared to life as violently as his own.

  Joel had already brought him crashing back down to reality. He was no longer Tristan Kane, spoiled heir to River’s End, the finest horse‐breeding farm in Maryland. The McKenzies had once opened their home to him as though he were family, but Joel’s reaction when he’d caught him kissing Savannah made him realize exactly how far he’d fallen.