A Cowboy's Home (7 page)

He snapped awake.

Noise.

The sound of a bike.

Justin grabbed his gun, lying just beyond his
hand, and let out a muffled yelp of pain. Every single muscle
ached. He released the safety, only three bullets, and waited.

If this was him being found, then he wasn’t
going down without taking at least three fuckers with him,
headshots the lot of them.

Shakily he curled up to a sitting position,
rested his hands on his right knee to steady the gun, and
concentrated on thinking about how he was going to stand up.

No one could have any idea he was there; no
one would even think to step inside what was left of an old
drover’s place. The cabin had long since disappeared into the
undergrowth, covered up and swallowed until it was nothing more
than a gap in the trees with a damaged roof.

The engine died outside.

Absolute silence.

And then he heard it, or at least imagined it
enough to tense. Someone outside the place, the noise of shoes
scraping on the stony ground, and Justin finally moved. He clung to
the wall as support, moving around as quietly as he could until he
was right behind the door.

Light flooded in as what was left of the door
was opened, pushed in.

A person entered, and Justin put the barrel
of the gun to the back of the man’s head. Pressing hard and not
caring when the other man nearly fell at the shove. The guy was
carrying a duffel and another bag over one shoulder. He wore a
leather jacket—but that was all Justin made out before his
vision
blurred.

“Drop your weapon,” he spat, “or I’ll shoot.”
He used all his remaining energy just to hold the gun and get out
words that made any sense.

“Fuck,” a distinctly male voice said. “I’m
unarmed.”

“Drop the bags.”

The man stepped away from him, holding his
hands up and turning to face Justin. Very carefully he dropped a
hand and eased the duffel and the bag off his shoulder, placing
them deliberately on the floor.

It was the guy from the restaurant, the one
who’d locked the goddam window on him.

That was way too close to home.

“Step back.” Justin gestured with the gun and
moved away from the door.

“My name is Sam Walter,” the man said.

He still had his hands up and Justin quickly
appraised the situation. Sunlight spilled in through the hole in
the roof, making a weird halo around Sam’s head. He was shorter
than Justin, by maybe four inches, and slight, with stubble, short
brown hair, and really blue eyes.

“I’m the chef at Crooked Tree,” Sam said in a
soft, almost reassuring tone.

Justin faltered, the name “Crooked Tree”
sending a chill skittering down his spine. “What are you doing over
here?” he asked. Although he had other questions in his head—how
did he find Justin, what did he want, that kind of thing. They were
a mess he couldn’t get out.

“I came to find you.”

Fear sliced into Justin. Someone from Crooked
Tree had come; did that mean everyone else was looking for him?
He’d told Adam to forget him.

And then you got shot, and what did you do?
Told yourself you were going to die on Montana land. You went to
the one place you felt safe—the only place you actually aren’t safe
at all.

“Why would you… do that?” Justin’s tongue
felt too big for his mouth and pain kept arcing up his thigh. His
vision blurred further, but he didn’t falter. If anything, his grip
on the gun was harder than ever.

Something passed over Sam’s face.
Uncertainty? Sadness? Justin couldn’t tell, but whatever made Sam
find him had been something more than idle curiosity.

“Found your blood in my larder, the open
window, thought you might need help.” Sam tilted his head. “Can I
put my hands down?”

“Who else knows you’re here?” Justin waggled
the gun again and fear passed over Sam’s face.

Too late Justin realized that question would
make Sam think too long about what he should reveal. Sam could have
the whole ranch coming up after him, in which case he would
probably say he was alone.

Or he could be alone, but pretend others
knew.

My head is fucked.

“Everyone knows,” Sam said.

But he didn’t sound convincing, and Justin
had been in way too many situations and he could tell that Sam was
lying. “And have you called the cops?”

“Yes.” Sam met Justin’s gaze steadily, daring
him to call him on the lie.

At least that was how it looked to Justin.
“You’re lying.”

“I’m not.”

Justin gestured with the gun. “No sense in me
staying here alive, then.”

“What?”

“I have three bullets; I can take you down
with one, kill the next person through the door, and use one on
myself. I’ll be okay.”

Then he very deliberately aimed at Sam’s
head. “You first.”

Sam’s mouth fell open. “Fuck, okay, I didn’t
tell anyone.” Justin just stared, and terror skittered across Sam’s
face. “No one else knows I’m here, okay?” Sam admitted after a
moment’s hesitation. “I promise you, no one other than me knows
you’re here.”

Then he bit his lip and rolled his eyes at
the same time. “Shit, did you just reverse psychology me?”

Justin searched his expression for signs of
lying or betrayal, but Sam met Justin’s gaze steadily and didn’t
put his arms down, even though he’d pretty much told Justin no one
would know where to find the body if he disappeared.

Is he some kind of idiot?

But still Justin didn’t drop the gun or lower
his guard. “Why did you come up here?”

“To find you. I already said that.” He
wiggled the fingers on his left hand. “I brought some stuff.” His
gaze raked Justin, focusing for a moment on the wound in his thigh
and the blood soaked into his jeans.

“Stuff?”

“Some food and medical things, all I could
find, anyway. I saw the blood trail you left.” He gestured to
Justin’s thigh.

Justin’s free hand went to his waist but
didn’t go lower to touch the wound. The shot had gone deep. At
first he thought he’d gotten it all out, but it hurt like a bastard
and there probably were fragments in the wound. He needed a sharper
knife to dig out what was in there, but he had nothing there. He’d
worked with broken limbs before. Taking down the first man on his
revenge list, way back—he’d done that with the burned flesh still
twisted on his back. But now, with the raging temperature in his
body he was like a freaking baby.

So what now? What should he do with Sam? He
couldn’t stay here, had to move on. Fucking stupid to even think of
coming here. Just by talking to him, Sam was now compromised. Maybe
there was something in one of the bags that he could use to cut
open his wound, see if there was anything else in there, maybe even
some antibiotics to counter the fever that burned through him. And
then he could leave, find somewhere more remote on the ranch to
sleep.

“Show me,” he ordered, gesturing to the
bags.

“May I use my hands?” Sam wiggled his fingers
again.

“Just get everything out slowly.”

Sam glanced up at him as he crouched next to
the first bag. “I promise I’m not here to hurt you. So please, can
you put the gun down?”

So much sincerity in the man, like an almost
desperate need to connect to Justin. He’d seen that before, in
people he saved, or people just before he killed them, that need to
find some part of Justin that cared. The tiny part of him that they
could possibly trust.

But that part of Justin was cold and dead,
had been for twelve years; it wasn’t coming back. Not even seeing
Adam alive was enough to rock his world back onto the axis of
normal.

Sam looked away from him and carefully pulled
out containers and then some fresh fruit, a few crumpled-up
T-shirts, a sweatshirt that looked like it had seen better days,
and some wipes.

Then he held up a small box. “All the
medication, bandages, and creams I could find. Some of it is out of
date. I had bronchitis last winter, but I didn’t take the stuff
they gave me, and I just thought it could help you.” He nodded at
Justin’s jeans, at the dark patch. “Are you still bleeding? Can I
help with that?”

Justin stared at him, steadying his aim.
“Doesn’t matter how you help me, you know I can’t ever let you
leave.”

Sam nodded. Again, a wave of fear passed over
his face, and he swallowed hard, but when he spoke, his tone was
even. “Can I just look at your injuries?”

What’s wrong with the man, is he deaf?

“I just said I couldn’t let you leave,”
Justin said. Or slurred—was his voice right? It didn’t sound
right.

“Then I’ll stay, and you’ll have someone here
to help you.”

Sam looked up at him with guileless eyes.
Seriously, what the hell was his agenda? “Do you know what you’re
doing?”

Sam didn’t look him in the eye. “We did first
aid when I was in catering college. I can handle burns, cuts, the
usual.”

“What about bullets?”

Sam paled a little. “You have a bullet wound?
In you? Is that where the blood is from? Shit, I can’t do
that.”

Justin shook his head and dizziness assailed
him. He was tired, pissed and thirsty, and every single part of him
hurt. Sweat trickled into his eyes. He wiped it away with his free
hand. His forehead was hot; he felt sick.

Justin didn’t do being ill. He’d been shot
before, beaten up before, and his body held the kind of scars no
man would wish on even his worst enemy, but here he was, swaying as
he stood in front of this man, someone who could hurt him.

One-handed, he fumbled with the belt of his
pants, and Sam reached for him. Justin shuffled back in alarm, but
Sam kept reaching and gently unbuckled the belt and pushed the
button through the material.

“Can we push these down?” Sam asked, as the
material of Justin’s jeans caught where blood had dried. “The denim
is stuck.”

Sam unbuttoned the rest of the fly, but the
material wasn’t moving. He began to move the jeans down off
Justin’s hips, but it was torturously slow. With a muttered curse,
Justin shoved his pants down past where the wound was, exhaling on
the pain and seeing spots in front of his eyes. He released the
grip on the gun, enough so it wavered, and it was gone from his
hand.

Into Sam’s.

At that moment, fate finally caught up with
him. He couldn’t move fast enough as Sam stepped away, the weapon
in his grip, his eyes focused on Justin.

All Justin could think was that now he was a
dead man.

And then Sam placed the gun very carefully on
the floor beside himself and turned back to examine Justin’s
thigh.

“The infection doesn’t look too bad, but your
skin is on fire.” He tutted and pressed the red skin on either side
of the wound.

Justin winced but managed to say, “I think
there’s infection. Metal inside.”

“When did this happen?”

“S-S-Sun-day.” His words were an
uncontrollable stutter, and the pain grew exponentially with each
passing minute.

“Was this a hunting accident?”

Justin jumped on that idea. “Yes.”

“Then we can get you to a hospital.”

Justin reached for Sam’s arm and gripped as
hard as he could. “No.”

“Jesus.” Sam sat back on his haunches. “I
don’t know how….” He stopped and focused on the contents of his
bags. “What do I…?” He passed over a bottle of water to Justin and
then fumbled with a blister pack of white pills. “Painkillers,” he
said gruffly.

Sam held the meds out, but Justin couldn’t
reach for them; he held the water in one hand, but his other hand
shook.

Sam stood up, unscrewed the water, and held
the bottle as Justin took the pills with his steady hand and then
washed them down, passing it back to Sam.

There were more pills then, painkillers, but
Justin had stronger ones from his foray into the Strachan house, to
what he assumed was Adam’s supply, and he took two more of those.
He tried to shake off just how damn unstable he was on his feet,
and attempted to move toward the gun, hand outstretched.

Sam beat him to it. “You don’t need a gun,
and you don’t need to threaten me.”

“I need….”

Sam stared at the gun and then at Justin,
sighing. Very deliberately, he held out the gun to him.

“What shit is this?” Justin mumbled.

“Take it. I don’t want it.”

“F-f-fuck…. Stupid….” Justin coughed as
spoke.

“You won’t hurt me.” Sam sounded absolutely
convinced of that and remained still.

Justin took the weapon and made sure to put
the safety back on before laying it close enough beside him that he
would reach it first. Somehow
there’d
been a truce of sorts, but fuck if Justin was
letting his guard down.

Sam cautiously knelt in front of him, taking
a wipe from the packet and holding it out. Justin tried to take it,
but his limbs felt so heavy that he couldn’t move.

“Can I?” Sam asked.

“Uh-huh.”

Sam leaned over him, letting a stream of warm
water from the plastic bottle trickle over the wound. The water was
both torture and relief, and when Sam wiped gently at the dried
blood, Justin gritted his teeth to stop himself
yelping
.

“You need a shower,” Sam said, as if
conversation was the best thing right then.

“N-not
a
p
-p-priority.”

“No,” Sam began as he pushed up the soft
jersey of Justin’s boxers, a little too close to the wound again,
and sent a spike of pain into Justin’s groin. “Your clear priority
here was dying.”

Justin said nothing. He couldn’t. His head
was a mess, heat racked his body, and anyway, what would he
say?

That Sam was right? That guilt and shame
pulled him apart and he’d come here to the cabin to die because he
wanted to be on Montana soil?