A Texan’s Honor (17 page)

Somehow—like the hopes and dreams he'd clung to as a small boy—his mission had slipped his mind.

W
ill woke up with a woman curved next to his side. As he gradually became aware of his surroundings, he realized a soft arm was nestled against his and a faint floral scent emanated from her, mixing with innocence and trust.

He scooted back a bit, needing to put some space between the two of them. The distance didn't help. Though the cabin was bitter cold and smelled like death, somehow the woman next to him seemed content. Deep in her dreams, she stretched a leg and then scooted a tiny bit closer. When her toe met his calf, she sighed—just like he'd seen children trust their parents to look out for them.

Mesmerized, Will took advantage of the dim light and stared a little longer. In repose, her breathing was slow and steady. Even. Her lips—so delicately pink and perfectly formed—were slightly parted. Her caramel-colored hair had become loose, liberating itself from its braid. Beautiful strands of copper and gold cascaded over her shoulders along the lines of her pillow and the threadbare quilt.

Just looking at her brought forth a terrible ache for things that could never be. Made him yearn for featherbeds and fresh, hot coffee. Warm fires. For girlish laughter and suppers that lasted too long and had too much food.

For sweetness, even though such things had never been part of his life.

He'd grown up outside of Houston, the adored son of a wealthy family. His father had taught him to ride before he could barely walk, and had taught him responsibility right after that.

Will had grown up knowing he would one day be responsible for their land, their home, and for his sister Bonnie. For Aaron, his baby brother.

Under his father's tutelage, Will had accepted those things as his due. He'd never minded the extra work, knowing that such things came with the gifts he'd been given. He'd been blessed with a good brain, good looks, and wealth. His body was strong and his family was solid.

When he was sixteen, he'd even begun to look around at the girls in his family's circle, mentally cataloging each female, weighing the pros and cons of each one, deciding who would one day suit him best as his wife.

As only an arrogant boy would do.

Then, of course, everything changed. The war came and their father had been gravely injured in his unit's first skirmish. After that, everything in his paper-perfect world came tumbling down. An influenza epidemic swept through their town, killing his brother and sister in one week.

His mother retreated into herself as grief became heavy.

And then the Union soldiers came and made his home— his birthright—theirs. Will and his mother had left in the middle of the night, afraid for their lives, and had ended up in a neighbor's small cabin. The day he turned seventeen, he'd found his mother dead by her own hand.

He'd cast away his immaturity, pushed aside all those grandiose ideas, and went to war. He'd put his brain and brawn and anger to use, eventually serving under Captain Clayton Proffitt and Major John Merritt.

When the war ended, he drifted for a bit. But when it became evident that his land was ruined and overtaken with squatters, he'd found another home—the U.S. Marshals.

It was a good fit. Eventually Sam Edison, its director, told him he had a unique talent for pretending to be someone he wasn't.

Since his reality wasn't much, he'd dived into the new job with an eagerness that would have been admirable if it wasn't so shameful.

Time and again, he'd posed as any number of losers and thieves. He'd begun to count on others' need to trust in order to gain inside information and ultimately crush the very people who'd reached out to him.

He was so good at it, he'd even been asked to infiltrate the Walton Gang in order to procure enough evidence to take James Walton to trial.

He never considered refusing the directive.

All those steps had been a matter of survival, and he didn't fault fate. He'd praised God for his opportunities. Gave thanks that he was still surviving, that he was still moving forward. In the back of his mind, he'd wondered why it had all happened. He didn't understand why he'd survived when others hadn't—what purpose his gifts were going to be used for— until he'd met Jamilyn.

From the moment he'd gazed into her velvety brown eyes, he'd known for certain that God had never left him. He'd taken so much, but had gifted him with a beautiful woman worth saving.

And now she was curled up next to him. His responsibility.

The knowledge screamed inside of him, spurring him further awake. He needed to get up and keep her moving. He needed to get her to safety before whoever James Walton had sent to find them got lucky. One thing was certain—Boss would send someone to gun them down. There was no doubt about that. James Walton didn't look lightly upon loose ends.

A quick glance toward the other side of the room confirmed that the elderly couple were still asleep. Good. With any luck, he and Jamilyn would be on their way before they were missed.

Reaching out, he dared to brush her shoulder with his fingertips. "Jamie? Jamie, honey, we need to go."

With a languid sigh, she shifted and rolled toward him, her leg going flush against his, her lips slightly parted. His heart beat rapidly while the rest of him ached to take what she was offering. Blinking, he forced his leg further from her and hardened his voice. "Jamilyn, wake up now."

Her eyelids fluttered open. For a split second, when they rested on him, her expression softened. Wonder lit her gaze, making him think of pretty postcards of places he was never going to see. A wistfulness flowed through him, igniting his imagination.

Then she blinked again, as if she'd suddenly noticed they were sharing a bed. And her wonder changed to fear.

"I won't hurt you," he whispered. "Do you remember where you are?" He swallowed. Then, because she looked so wary, he spoke again. "Do . . . do you recall who I am? And who we're pretending to be?"

Slowly, she nodded.

As a shiver ran through her, Will wished he could have changed so much. But there was nothing that could be said. "How soon can you be ready?"

She shook her head in an obvious attempt to clear her head. "As soon as you need me to be."

"Good girl." Getting to his feet, he leaned down and held out a hand. After a moment's hesitation, Jamie climbed to her feet. He stared at her for too long, took a chance and ran his thumb over her delicate skin, and then dropped her hand. "Let me look outside to make sure everything is clear, then I'll walk you to the outhouse."

Even as a pale flush flowed up her cheeks, she nodded.

Will was amazed by her bravery. Many a woman would have been overcome by now or would have collapsed under the weight of so much adversity. But not this lady. Instead of crumbling, she was standing straighter and growing in strength.

But how could he tell her any of that? She still believed he was an outlaw. And he needed to keep up her fear until the time was right. The only thing worse than her being afraid of him was for the Walton Gang to even have an inkling that he wasn't who they thought he was. If that were the case, Will knew for certain that they would stop at nothing in order to find him—and to get information out of him.

Even, he knew, using Jamie to bend him to their will.

After pulling on his boots, he slipped outside and scanned the area. When he saw no signs of anyone, he guided Jamie outside and walked her the few frozen yards to the outhouse.

Scant minutes later, she came back to him.

To his eyes, she looked pale. "Are you all right, sweetheart?"

Her eyes flickered briefly, as if she'd just noticed that he'd started talking in endearments. For a moment, he was tempted to apologize, though he wasn't sorry. It had been too long since he'd been around anyone who had inspired any sort of tender emotions. The novelty was too good.

Besides, he figured that apologizing would be out of character. At least for her perception of the man he was.

After gazing at him a moment longer, she looked away. "I'm fine."

She was anything but. He couldn't help teasing her. "I'm starting to get the feeling you'd tell me you were fine no matter what the situation."

"It doesn't matter anyway, does it? I mean, it's not like we have a choice about what we're doing. Or what we can do. I'm grateful for your assistance."

Oh, but she spoke so formally. As if they were in her parents' front parlor and he was paying a call on her. Not like the two of them were lost in the middle of a Colorado snowstorm with a half dozen Marshals out for his blood, an old woman dying of influenza, and a set of killers hunting them down like they were their latest prey.

This time he nodded. And brought forth a new severity between them. Calling up lessons learned at his father's knee, he said, "You're right, ma'am. We don't have any choice except to keep moving. That's all that's left to us. Let's go tell these folks good-bye and get on our way."

Her cheeks colored, though whether from their time in the cold or whether she was preparing herself for another hard moment, he didn't know. Instead of speaking, she turned and walked forward, leading him back to the cabin.

When they got inside, he almost smiled. The warmth of the cabin caressed his skin, bringing with it a blessed relief from the cold. Though the pungent odor stung his eyes, the smoky scent relaxed his muscles.

Then he realized they were no longer the only ones up. The man was across the room, kneeling in front of the fire. And looking at Will.

Will cleared his throat. "Sir, we'll be going now. Thank you kindly for your hospitality."

"Such that it was," Chester Clark said with a hint of sarcasm.

Will noticed that he was fussing with a coffee pot and a tin. After another moment or two of coaxing the flames, the man added, "You know, wherever you're going will still be there in twenty minutes. Can I convince you to stay for biscuits and coffee?"

Though his instincts commanded him to get on their way, stronger concerns for Jamie made him consider the invitation. She already looked too pale; he couldn't refuse her a hot meal. "Can you spare it?"

"I can, if you can spare me a few moments and bring in some of that wood you chopped last night. I'm afraid your brawn is more than I've got at the moment."

"I'll stack as much as you want," he offered before he could remind himself to move on.

"Just enough to stack up right here." He pointed to a small two-foot square area, allowing for only a dozen stacked logs.

Will got to his feet. "Will you be all right if I leave you for a moment?" he asked Jamie.

"I'll be fine."

"Obliged," the man murmured. "I'll be grateful for your assistance, and for the company." With a cough, he pushed forward a needle and thread. "I couldn't help noticing that the collar of your dress was torn. If you want, you could put on one of my wife's old gowns for a bit and mend your dress."

Jamie looked at Will with such a look of longing that he couldn't refuse her.

"If you don't care to wear one of her dresses, just stay behind that curtained area for a few minutes," the man said agreeably.

"I'd like to mend my dress," she whispered.

Will nodded, then escorted her toward a dark blue piece of fabric hanging down. The area that it covered was so slim, he'd thought it was a curtain. After standing outside of it while Jamie took off her dress and slipped on the woman's worn calico, he left her to her mending. "I'll be back soon."

Even as he walked out the door, he realized he'd just put himself in an extremely precarious position—at this moment Jamie could be telling them everything. She had no reason to trust him, and every reason to be afraid.

H
ave you been with your man for long?" Chester Clark asked.

Looking up from her sewing, Jamie bit her lip. For a split second, she contemplated telling him the truth. Considered pulling him aside and asking him for help. Thought about telling him everything, confessing her sins.

But then reality set in. This man was no match for Will McMillan. Even if he was a good shot, there was no doubt in her mind that Will could shoot him dead without a second's hesitation.

"No," she said. Then looked at the door again. Half praying that Will would come in right away. Save her from the lies.

He chuckled, his expression easy. "I thought so. You two have that way about you."

"What way?" she was intrigued in spite of herself.

"That way that newly marrieds have." When she stared at him in confusion, he explained himself further. "You know what I mean. . . . It's like you two only see each other. You probably don't even realize it none, but your eyes follow him nonstop. Just like you're afraid he's going to surprise you with something good." Looking at his wife fondly, he murmured, "I've been there a time myself with Abigail."

Jamie couldn't help being amazed by the irony of the situation. Of course she couldn't stop watching. Will like a hawk. She didn't trust him or trust their situation. What's more, she was afraid of him.

Terribly.

Well, maybe that was putting it a little heavy. But she did fear what could happen.

"I guess that's true. I can't help watching him," she said, as she knotted the thread and surveyed the mended collar.

The fix wasn't perfect by any stretch of the imagination. However, it was a definite improvement from the way it had been.

After excusing herself, she changed dresses quickly behind the curtain and stepped out just as her "husband" came in, his arms laden with a stack of wood.

"Seeing a young pup like you loaded down heavy does my old heart good." The old man cackled.

A grin appeared out of nowhere as Will stood up. "I'll go get a few more sticks."

Jamie watched Will leave.

"Where are you off to now?" Chester asked when she sat near him again.

She tried to recall what Will had said. Could she tell the truth? Or not? "Wichita," she replied, though as soon as she said the words she remembered that Will had said Topeka. Panic rocked her as she glanced at the man. Waited for him to call her on the blunder.