A Texan’s Honor (2 page)

Suddenly, two strong arms and the scent of bay rum and mint surrounded her, the muscles like iron. The touch reassuring and surprisingly gentle. "Easy now. I've got you," the man—McMillan—murmured, so quietly she was sure she'd only imagined such kindness.

Turning her head, she met his gaze, then froze at his impassive expression. His touch might have been light and easy, but there was certainly no sympathy in his expression.

"Sit down," McMillan ordered, this time speaking more loudly.

Awkwardly, she let him guide her to the nearby bench. Didn't struggle as he helped her sit down. She clumsily adjusted her skirts as she'd been taught years ago, the action so familiar and automatic she hardly realized she was doing it.

For a split second, he glanced at her hand on the taffeta, then slowly lifted his gaze, stopping when their eyes met. His ice-blue eyes, lined with gray, were as chilly and disturbing as the deep waters of Cascade Lake.

Shivers claimed her as the last of her hope dissipated into the cold confines of the icy train car.

"Everything all right, McMillan?" the leader asked.

"Everything's fine." McMillan shifted his stance, edging closer, as if he was shielding her with his body.

But surely that couldn't be.

Nerves kicked in again as her pulse raced. Shaking, Jamie attempted to inhale properly, but her body fought the action. She couldn't catch her breath, couldn't grasp any air. Panic overtook her as she tried to sit still, tried to breathe.

Immediately, the gunman turned and took hold of her arm. "Breathe," he commanded. "Settle down and breathe slowly."

But no firm directive was going to be of much assistance. Her lungs felt frozen. Almost immobile. Still panicked, she gripped his arm, attempting to get control.

But instead of a gentle touch, he closed his fingers around her wrist. "Calm yourself or I'm going to strip you here and slice the ribbons of your corset."

His voice was little more than a thin whisper, but Jamie had no doubt that he meant every single word. Closing her eyes, she concentrated on breathing.

When she followed his directives, his lips curved slightly. "Good girl," he whispered.

But surely she'd imagined that softening.

The door opened. Another bandit entered the car, this one dressed completely in black, from his felt Stetson to his denims, to his boots and duster. Even his eyes and hair were dark.

"Everything's under control," he said, his voice gravelly and deep. "The brakeman isn't going to stop until I tell him to."

"That is reassuring," the leader murmured, as formal as if he were dining at the Brown Palace. After checking his gold timepiece, he slipped it back into his vest.

The man in black motioned toward the men tied up. "You want me to deal with them?"

"No. We're going to keep this group here for the time being."

After surveying the lot of them, the man in black nodded and stepped to the side, leaving the rest of them to decipher the boss's meaning.

The man standing next to her tensed. "Even the woman?"

Jamie felt the leader's cold gaze settle on her. Forcing herself to keep her gaze fixed firmly on the clasped hands in her lap, she began to pray.
Oh, Lord. Please don't let this be my time. Not yet.

"Especially the woman," the leader finally replied. "She might prove useful in the future."

As Jamie processed those words, struggled with the awful images of what the bandit meant by that cryptic remark, one of the men tied on the ground spoke. "Why are you keeping us? Why me? I haven't done a thing to you, and I sure don't have any money."

Kent laughed. Unable to help herself, Jamie glanced his way again. Though he wasn't nearly as muscular as the man standing guard over her, he seemed the most dangerous. There was something in his constantly moving eyes that seemed shifty.

The curly-haired hostage on the ground didn't seem to have any qualms about egging Kent on, however. "Whatever grievance you have can surely be diverted. Violence isn't the answer."

"Might be."

But instead of being cowed, the hostage gained confidence. "Sir, I demand to know what you intend to do with me."

"
Demand?
You demand?" Kent smiled. Slowly pulling his Colt .45 out from a worn holster on his hip, he ran his thumb lovingly along the silver handle. "You demand to know? Is that a fact?"

Jamie's breath hitched as the hostage sputtered. "I'm only asking . . ." Pure fear tainted his voice now.

"Here's a hint," Kent quipped as he raised his gun and pulled the trigger.

The sound reverberated through the train car as a circle of blood formed on the man's chest.

Jamie's eyes filled with tears as she tried not to look at the man's wide, vacant expression frozen in surprise.

Beside her, McMillan cursed under his breath.

Hardly a second passed before the boss stepped forward and slugged Kent—hard. "That was unnecessary," he bit out, as Kent's gun slipped from his hand with a clatter.

Kent tripped backward, finally ending against the wall. As he obviously did his best to remain on two feet, a dazed expression colored his face, mixing with the bead of blood forming on his lip.

Then the man in charge glared their way. "Deal with that."

Without a word, McMillan, the man who'd come to her aid, walked over and picked up the pistol from the floor. Offering the weapon to the boss, handle first, his voice was rough. "Sir?"

He waved a hand at the weapon. "Keep the gun. But dispose of the body."

McMillan pocketed the weapon, and the leader cleared his throat as he faced the remaining five men tied on the ground. "Gentlemen, since you're so curious about your future, perhaps I had better explain your situation. You are now my hostages."

The leader's mouth twitched as similar looks of shock and fear flashed across the restrained men's faces. "I need this train. And I need collateral." He looked around the compartment, taking in each person's features with such cold calculation that Jamie knew he probably never forgot a face.

The oldest of the hostages, an elderly gentleman who looked to be almost seventy, blinked in wonder. "What are you talking about?"

"There's something much more valuable on this train than you all. The first car is loaded with the rewards from the latest silver strike out of Cripple Creek. I mean to keep ahold of it. Unfortunately, the law won't see it that way. So I've sent out a telegram stating the rules to Mr. Sam Edison."

He paused as the name registered with the hostages. Even Jamie knew Sam Edison was the man currently in charge of the U.S. Marshals. It seemed his name was always mentioned in the papers.

With another smile, the leader continued. "I was fairly clear in my instructions. As long as no one tries to blow us up or interfere with our progress, you all get to live. But if the law tries to impede my goals, I'll shoot you myself and order your bodies to be tossed out as evidence of my displeasure." Lowering his voice, he added, "I promise, I will do this without the slightest hesitation."

The elderly man's eyes narrowed. "Who are you?" he asked quietly.

Jamie waited for him to get cuffed for his insolence. But instead, the question seemed to amuse the leader.

"I am James Walton, of course."

As the elderly man's eyes widened in recognition, Mr. Walton flashed a smile. "Please don't tell me you haven't heard of me . . . or my business partners."

There was a new awareness in the elderly man's gaze. "I've heard of you. Of course I've heard of you."

Jamie could only be grateful that she was sitting on the bench. The Walton Gang was notoriously dangerous and extremely successful. Yet, for all of their villainy, more than one news rag had painted them—especially their suave, cigarsmoking leader, Mr. James Walton—as heroes of a sort.

In some corners of the area, they were. Everyone knew most lawmen only took the jobs in order to keep three meals in their bellies.

In contrast, some said the Walton Gang took money from the most corrupt and spent their spoils on a whole plethora of things—from their infamous hideout to orphanages.

Word was that no one quite understood them but that everyone knew one thing: they were dangerous and as cold blooded as they wanted to be. They were as unpredictable as a blue norther.

They killed and plundered and they never, ever, looked back with regret.

It was becoming evident that the passengers were all completely at the gang's mercy. And that Jamilyn Ellis was the only woman on the train.

E
verything about this job was a mistake, Will McMillan thought as he hooked his hands under the dead man's arms and yanked him out of the train car.

The poor idiot's hands were still tied in front of him, as were his feet. Getting him anywhere was like lugging around a sack of potatoes. Why in the blazes had he decided to talk so much, anyway?

If he'd just kept his mouth shut, Will wouldn't be having to do this. And if Boss trusted Kent more, Kent would be the one disposing of his handiwork, instead of Will.

As he continued to tug, blood seeped from the gaping hole in the man's chest and dripped to the floor, leaving a trail that he'd feel obligated to mop up as well, if only for the woman's sensibilities. It was obvious that she was barely holding on.

War was painful and life was hard. He'd learned that at a young age. However, no lady should ever have to step over a trail of blood—not even if she was a hostage.

The dead man's denims caught on the edge of a bench. With a grunt of distaste, Will lowered the poor soul's shoulders, walked down to the man's feet, and pulled the snagged cuff from the metal bar. All the while, he fought to keep his expression neutral, though he felt the harsh pull of disgust. He'd killed before, but never like this. When he'd squeezed his trigger, it had been in the throes of battle or in self-defense.

Kent's vicious need for bloodshed and his complete disregard for human life were difficult things to get used to. All waste was.

But perhaps that was a good thing. Will knew he would be a far different man if he were able to comprehend killing for pleasure.

Russell, the newest member of their crew, scurried up beside him. "Want me to do this for ya, Will?" he asked in his usual youthful eagerness. "I don't mind."

Though a part of him would have liked to push the duty off his shoulders, Will shook his head. Any weakness on his part would be seen as a liability, and he couldn't afford that.

Besides, Walton had told him to take care of the body, and he'd question any deviation from his directives. "I've got it," he said, giving the dead man another tug. Ultimately, he wrapped his arms around the man's midsection and hoisted him out to the train car's opening. For his efforts, more blood seeped onto Will's midsection, defiling his broadcloth.

And ruining the very last of his patience.

Taking care to keep his expression impassive, he tugged again, continuing forward to the empty train car. There, he would store the body. Every man had the right to a decent burial. Eventually.

With care, he laid the man down against the far wall, where he'd be out of the way. In the silence and privacy of the car, he closed his eyes and said a quick prayer over the body.

Just as Will was pulling a fresh shirt from his bag, Russell rushed forward, all five feet four inches of him, full of questions. "You're changing? Again?"

"Shirt's ruined," he said as he pulled the stained shirt down his arms. Unlike many of the men in his company, he wore no thermal wear under his shirt, preferring to keep his body free and loose.

For a brief moment, Russell's eyes found the four-inch jagged scar that ran across the left side of Will's chest. They then darted to the circular mark marring his hip, and the many other scratches and scars decorating his torso.

Will didn't shrink away from the boy's gaze. His body had been abused during the war and had been wounded too many times to count ever since. He was an ugly mess now—something no woman would ever find attractive.

But he was better off than the man lying at his feet, so that was something, he supposed.

When Will stared right back, Russell quickly turned to the slain hostage. "Will, how come you didn't toss him out? Boss was expectin' that."

Unwilling to give his reasons, Will shrugged. "Boss asked me to remove the body. I did."

"But—"

"We can't just go around tossing dead people off of trains," he said sharply as he quickly buttoned his broadcloth and tucked it in. "It will just get the law riled up." It was also just plain wrong, Will knew, but he refrained from saying that because his faith was his business and no one else's.

In addition, Russell was too young and naive to contemplate so many shades of gray. Shoot, even Will wasn't sure what was right or wrong sometimes.

Anxious to move on, Will asked, "Now what's going on with the hostages?"

"Oh, they're still just sittin' there on the floor." Russell chuckled. "After Kent killed this man and Boss told them who we were, they look a whole lot less ornery."

Will hoped so. The longer they stayed seated and quiet, the better chance they had of living. "And the woman?"

"She's sittin' on one of the seats. Scout's watching her."

Will heaved a sigh of relief. He trusted Scout Proffitt. If he was watching the lady, she would have a chance to leave the train with her virtue intact. "Those men, they're going to need water soon."

Russell screwed up his forehead. "Boss won't care about those men getting thirsty, Will."

"It's good business. If they're watered, they'll be easier to manage. Go get them some. And see if you can find something decent for the lady to drink out of. She's gently bred."

Russell's brows lowered, along with is voice. "I don't cotton with getting a woman involved. It don't seem right. She looks like she could be somebody's sister. Or sweetheart."

Their hostage did look like all those things, and more. With her golden hair and light brown wide-set eyes, she looked like an angel.