Once A Gunslinger

by Diana Bold

  “You want me to give Harrison Kane’s son a job mucking manure in my stables?” Ian laughed. “He has far too much pride. He’d never agree.”

  Savannah refused to be dissuaded. “Just ask him. He might say no, but at least we’ll have tried. What would it hurt?”

  “It might hurt you.” Ian scrubbed his hand over his face. “I’ll talk to him a bit. See what kind of man he’s become. If I think he’s looking for a way out, I’ll offer him a job. If he accepts, you should tell him and Billy the truth. But if he leaves, they’re probably both better off not knowing.”

  The sun had risen, and Savannah admired the view one more time before sliding across the floor to the ladder. “Maybe you’re right,” she agreed, fearing Tristan would never stay. “I’d better get back. Everyone will be wondering where breakfast is.”

  Ian brushed her cheek with the back of his hand. “I wish things were different. I wish Tristan was still the kind of man who could love you the way you deserve. You shouldn’t be alone.”

  She tried to ignore the truth in his words, tried to pretend her life wasn’t an empty, aching desert. “I’m not alone. I have Billy. I have you and Joel.”

  “Yes, and you’ve made a fine home for us even though you weren’t raised to work so hard. Don’t ever think I don’t appreciate all you do.”

  She gave a shaky laugh, touched by her brother’s words. Sometimes she did feel unappreciated. Being the only woman on a ranch this size was backbreaking at best.

  “Thank you, Ian. Thank you for everything.”

  * * * * *

  A knock sounded at Tristan’s door, rousing him from fitful dreams of death and betrayal. He rubbed a trembling hand over his sweaty face and took a deep breath, wondering how he’d face Savannah yet again.

  Yesterday had nearly killed him.

  “Come in,” he called. Maybe it was Joel, which would be somewhat easier, although they hadn’t parted on the best of terms either.

  But when the door opened, it was a young boy, nine or ten at the most, who grinned and entered the room. The lad was tall and thin, his hair golden blond, his smiling face dotted with freckles.

  “Hi. I’m Billy. Mama sent me up with your breakfast.” In his right hand, he bore a steaming tray of food, in his left a small coffeepot.

  Michael’s son.

  Tristan felt sucker‐punched, the wind knocked out of him as he surveyed this boy who was all that remained of the brother he’d loved so much. He could see both Michael and Savannah in the boy’s face and manner.

  Hell, he could see himself. Billy could so easily have been his own son. He would have been, if Tristan had only followed his heart instead of his head.

  “Thank you,” Tristan murmured. The mingled scents of ham, eggs and freshly baked biscuits made his stomach growl. He’d been too weak to manage anything but soup before.

  Billy put the tray on the table next to Tristan’s bed and filled a mug with steaming, black coffee. “How are you feeling, sir?”

  “Sir?” Tristan grimaced. “You don’t have to call me sir. Tristan will do.” He wanted the kid to call him Uncle Tristan. In fact, he wanted to hug Billy so tight the boy turned red with embarrassment. Had Savannah told the boy who he was?

  The answer wasn’t long in coming. A grin split the boy’s youthful face. “Is it true that you’re my uncle? Ian says you and my father were brothers. He says you look just like him ’cuz you were twins.”

  Tristan nodded, praying Ian hadn’t also mentioned how Billy’s father had died. “He’s right. I am your uncle. I would have come to see you before this, but your father and I lost track of each other during the war. I never even knew about you until a few days ago.”

  Billy gave a bright smile. “Ah, that’s all right. I still can’t believe you’re really here and that you’re my uncle.” He stared at Tristan, obviously committing every feature to memory.

  Tristan shifted, uncomfortable with the hero worship shining in Billy’s big, blue eyes. God, he felt like such a fraud. It was his fault the boy had never gotten to know Michael. “I’m nobody special, kid.”

  Billy flushed a bit. “You’re a legend, Uncle Tristan.” From his back pocket, he pulled out a tattered dime novel. “I read all about how you broke up that range war out in Kansas. They say you killed a dozen men that day before the dust cleared.”

  “Let me see that.” Tristan snatched the offending book out of Billy’s hands, skimming it with growing dismay. It was a highly exaggerated tale of an incident that had been bad enough to begin with. Disgusted, Tristan tossed the book to the end of the bed. “That’s a bunch of bullshit. I’m no hero.”

  Billy’s face fell a bit. “How many men did you kill that day? Ten?”

  “Hell, I don’t know. I wasn’t keeping track.” It was a bald‐faced lie. He knew exactly how many men had died at his hands. Their faces were impossible to forget. God knew he’d tried. “There’s no glory in killing. I was hired to guard a piece of property, and that’s what I did. If there’d been a way to do it without bloodshed, believe me, I’d have taken it.”

  The warning in his voice did nothing to curb Billy’s enthusiasm. “When you’re up to it, do you think you could give me a few shooting lessons? I know I’ll never be as fast as you, but maybe there’s a trick or two you could show me?”

  “No, Billy. I won’t teach you how to shoot.” He took a swallow of coffee, grateful for the potent, bitter heat. “Once you’ve killed a man, you can’t ever go back. If you have any sense at all, you won’t go down that road. I wouldn’t, if I had it to do over again.”

  Billy looked away, his freckled face crestfallen, a stubborn jut to his chin. “Do you need anything else... sir?”

  “No.” Tristan kept the coffee, but shoved the tray of food away, his earlier appetite gone. “You can take it. I’m not hungry.”

  Billy picked up the tray without further comment. The angry set of his slim shoulders as he left the room spoke of his disillusionment louder than words ever could.

  Tristan threw his pillow against the door in a burst of temper, and then sagged back against the headboard, feeling far older than his thirty‐one years.

  Billy thought he was a hero. What a joke. He was the worst kind of coward.

  He didn’t even have the courage to live.

  Chapter Five

  Tristan fumbled with the buttons of his black cotton shirt, cursing in frustration as they continued to elude his one‐handed grasp. After a moment he gave up, leaving the material gaping open across his chest.

  Who’d have thought getting dressed could be such an ordeal?

  At least he’d managed to fasten his trousers. He shook his head at his mirrored reflection. Nearly a week’s worth of scraggly beard shadowed his jaw and upper lip, and his hair stuck up in wild disarray.

  He looked disreputable and felt like hell, but he was out of bed and fully clothed for the first time since he’d been shot. He was still weak and none too steady on his feet, but he was determined to get out of this room. The flowers and lace curtains were driving him crazy, and he was tired of staring at the ceiling, feeling sorry for himself.

  Billy’s visit had only aggravated his need to get away from the McKenzies and all the things they made him feel. He’d hidden his emotions for so many years, blocking out the memories, the guilt, and the shame. Taking those feelings out and examining them was more painful than any gunshot wound could ever be.

  He didn’t know how to deal with the thought of Michael and Savannah making love and having a baby together. He didn’t know which was stronger—his anger, his jealousy, or his guilt.

  How could he be angry with Michael? He’d taken far more than a woman from his brother. And how could he be angry at Savannah, when he’d walked away from her of his own free will?

  But he was angry. Furious, in fact.

  He sighed and left the room, determined not to think about it anymore. Better to put all his energy into regaining his strength.

  The upstai
rs hallway led to a wide set of stairs. He descended slowly, feeling a hundred years old. The stairwell was lined with portraits of the McKenzies at various ages. He concentrated on a couple of young Billy, avoiding even a glance at the ones of Savannah.

  He shouldn’t have bothered, because when he reached the living area of the house, her touch was everywhere. Bright splashes of color, fresh flowers, comfortable furniture; he knew the homey feel of the sprawling house was entirely Savannah’s doing. Where had she learned to make a house a home? She’d been raised to be a rich man’s wife, not a homemaker on a frontier ranch.

  The parlor windows framed an expansive view of the mountains, towering to the west in blue and green splendor. The sight never failed to stir him, and he leaned against the wall, staring outside for several long moments. The land around the house was rich, dotted with fat cattle and sleek horses. The McKenzies were thriving in Colorado. He admired them for having taken such a huge step.

  The soothing sound of a woman humming drifted from a room that could only be the kitchen. He froze, listening, then moved forward, knowing he should be running in the opposite direction instead.

  As he’d feared, it was Savannah. She kneaded bread dough at a large pine table. Flour dusted her cheeks and caught in strands of her glorious auburn hair.

  His remaining strength deserted him in a rush. He sank against the doorframe, cursing himself for having sought her out. What the hell had he been thinking? This lovely domestic picture was the epitome of everything he’d ever wanted out of life.

  It was like getting one last glimpse of heaven before the devil slammed the doors of hell shut for all eternity.

  He tried to remind himself that her love was inconstant, as fickle as a summer breeze. But all he could think about was her fey beauty, the way she’d melted into his arms the other day when he’d kissed her.

  As he watched, she muttered beneath her breath and rushed to the stove to stir something that bubbled in a large pot.

  Only then did she see him.

  She froze. The wooden spoon slipped from her fingers, clattering against the iron surface in the sudden silence. “Tristan. What are you doing down here?”

  A wry smile curved his lips. “Am I being held prisoner?”

  “No, of course not.” She shook her head and met his gaze, her blue eyes filled with regret. “Do you feel like a prisoner?”

  He shrugged. “I was going crazy in that room. I’ve never been bedridden before.”

  “You look pale. Come sit down.” She gestured to a sturdy kitchen chair, and hurried to move her lump of dough out of the way, placing it in a pan and covering it with a cloth to rise.

  He pushed away from the wall and moved to the chair, stunned by his weakness. Ashamed of it. He should just go back to his room and resign himself to another few days in bed, but something perverse made him want to remain in her presence.

  “Are you sure you’re up to this?” Her voice held sweet concern, and for some reason that made him angry. He didn’t want her sympathy.

  He braced his hands on the flour‐covered table in an effort to keep the world from spinning. “I’m fine. Just give me a minute.”

  She leaned against the edge of the table, a worried expression on her lovely face. When he’d regained his equilibrium, she leaned forward and buttoned the top button of his shirt. “You’re all undone.”

  Undone. That was a good word for it. The heady fragrance of vanilla and cinnamon filled his senses. The scent was more potent than the most expensive perfume. It made him think of a home and a family. Her fingertips skimmed his chest as she buttoned her way down. He shuddered, closing his eyes and willing his overheated body to behave.

  She wasn’t his. Maybe she’d never been his.

  After she finished, she brushed a lock of hair behind his ear, frowning. “You need a haircut and a shave.”

  He nodded, not trusting himself to speak. Why was she doing this to him? He’d rather be ignored than fussed over like an invalid child. Still, he couldn’t bring himself to leave her.

  “Let me finish up a few things, and then I’ll see what I can do.” She smiled. “Would you like something to eat while you wait? I was just about to call Billy in to bring up your lunch.”

  “Yeah, sure.” He sank into the chair, knowing his legs couldn’t support him much longer. He’d eat his lunch down here, and then he’d go.

  After his haircut. After he’d tortured himself beyond all reason.

  She set a tray loaded with a ham sandwich, steaming chicken noodle soup and a large slice of chocolate cake on the table in front of him. He was reminded again of how long it had been since he’d eaten anything filling.

  “Thanks,” he muttered, taking a bite of soup and savoring it for a minute. “I think I’ll be coming down for my meals until I leave. Billy is furious with me.”

  “You must be mistaken.” She poured him another mug of that heavenly coffee, confusion puckering her brow. “Billy adores you.”

  “Not anymore.” Tristan shrugged, regretting the action when a bolt of pain stabbed through his shoulder. When it subsided, he met Savannah’s concerned gaze. “He asked me if I’d give him some shooting lessons, and I declined.”

  Savannah sighed. “He’s a good boy, but lately he’s been such a trial.”

  He stared at her, thinking what a wonderful mother she’d turned out to be, and how hard it must be for her to raise young Billy all by herself. Ian and Joel helped her, of course, but they couldn’t make up for the husband she’d lost.

  He stared down at his meal, knowing he’d taken that security away from her. He’d killed Billy’s father, yet here he was, trying to think of a way to find a place in the kid’s heart.

  “The life I lead isn’t nearly as exciting as Billy thinks it is. I’d hate to see him end up like that fool, Johnny Muldoon.”

  “I’m glad you didn’t encourage him. But don’t worry. He never holds a grudge for long.” Her soft words were far from comforting. They just reminded him he wouldn’t be here long enough for Billy to forgive him.

  “That’s good. I have enough enemies.” He tried to smile, but it fell far short of the mark. If he had any sense, he’d be glad to leave. He should want to escape all these reminders of the past and the painful knowledge that she’d never loved him.

  Instead, the thought of returning to his empty, rootless existence was something he wasn’t ready to contemplate. Just these few short days in a real home had made him long for one of his own. He was so tired of being alone.

  Savannah finished her dinner preparations and left the room, returning in just a few minutes with an armful of supplies to make him presentable. He gave her a wary glance, pushing away his empty dinner tray.

  She filled a basin with warm water from the top of the stove, and then wrapped an old towel around his shoulders. “Don’t worry.” She ran a comb through his hair to work out the tangles. “I do this for my brothers all the time.”

  “I trust you.” He realized that despite everything, he still did. She’d never intentionally do anything to hurt him. Her marriage to Michael had undoubtedly been a product of loneliness, not malice.

  Her hands faltered a bit, and she lifted her gaze to his. “I don’t blame you for being angry with me. I wronged you terribly.”

  He made an impatient gesture with his hand. “I don’t want to talk about it. What’s done is done.”

  The shock of her betrayal was still too new. The hurt was there, but he was trying to bury it as he’d buried everything else. If he let himself feel the pain now, he’d shatter into a million tiny pieces.

  She nodded and bit her bottom lip, her blue eyes shiny as she bent to her task. He let his own eyes drift shut, determined to relax and enjoy the fleeting pleasure of her hands in his hair. The tug of the comb was soothing and slightly erotic, her touch sure and gentle.

  There was silence except for the click of the scissors, and for that he was grateful. He concentrated on keeping his breathing deep and even, t
rying to mask the quickening in his blood, the ache in his heart.

  “I think I’ll leave your hair a little long in the back. It suits you this way.” Her breath was warm in his ear, inflaming him even more.

  “Do whatever you like.” He stared at the clumps of hair falling to the floor at his feet as he fought for control. “I just hope it comes out better than the last time you cut my hair.”

  She drew in a quick breath. “Oh, Tristan. I’d forgotten all about that.”

  His mood lightened a bit in remembrance. “I was fourteen, and you must have been, what, nine or ten? I’d taken you fishing down by the river and, to show your appreciation, you nearly shaved me bald when I fell asleep.”

  “You were so mad!” Laughter tinkled in her voice, and she squeezed his good shoulder. “You had to wear a hat for weeks.”

  He laughed a little himself, though he knew how dangerous it was to dredge up old times. She’d been his friend even before he’d fallen in love with her. Perhaps her friendship was what he missed most of all, the easiness between them that had allowed him to tell her all his dreams, things he’d hardly even admitted to himself.

  She set the scissors aside. “There. You’re finished.”

  He lifted his left hand and ran his fingertips through his hair. “It feels right. At least it’s out of my eyes.”

  Moving around the front of his chair, she gazed at him, brushing away a few pieces of hair that clung to his cheek. “Shall I shave you?”

  He nodded, knowing he was a fool to invite such intimacy, yet too weak, both in body and in spirit, to get up and walk away. He hadn’t been touched with tenderness in so long, and he craved it.

  She rubbed lather over the planes and angles of his face, humming softly. Her cinnamon‐scented breath stirred the hair at his temple, and it was all he could do to keep his hands at his sides instead of crushing her against him.