A Texan’s Honor (23 page)

With a cough, she closed her mouth and glared.

But Will just shook his head. "You're not getting out of this, Jamilyn. Getting this broth from the cafe down the street was more trouble than I care to repeat. You're going to drink every bit of it if I have to force your mouth open. Now open those lips. Immediately."

Stunned by his horrible words, she opened.

He smiled and stuck that spoon in her mouth again.

She'd never tell him, but this spoonful of warm broth felt easier going down. She opened her lips again.

"Good girl," he murmured, sounding so sweet and gentle. She swallowed and let him continue.

And so it went on for what seemed like forever. Open. Swallow. Coax. Again.

At last, Will set the cup and spoon down and nodded. "You did good, Jamilyn. Real good. Now sit up for a second so I can help you with your hair."

She couldn't fathom why he wanted to fuss with her hair. The offer felt strange and out of character. "My hair?"

"Yeah, your hair." He frowned. "It's all stuck to your brow and neck."

Automatically she pulled her hands up, trying to smooth the strands. But just as she brushed her cheek, Will's hand stopped her. "Stop now. Let me do that for you. Besides, I need to wash your face, too."

There he went again, making a command that made no sense. "Why?" she muttered, her voice sounding more raspy than she'd ever imagined it could.

"You've been sick for days, honey," he said as he dipped the corner of a kerchief into the basin against the far wall. "You had a fever 'cause you got Mrs. Clark's influenza."

She understood being sick. And she understood the fever. But she didn't understand his need to help her. "No, why?" she asked, the words becoming easier—no doubt thanks to that broth he'd had to beg and borrow for. "Why would you want to help?"

He tilted his head to one side like he couldn't quite understand what she meant. "Honey, are you asking me why I'd want to help you specifically?"

When she nodded, he came forward with a damp cloth and sat right beside her again. After a pause, he gently swabbed her left cheek, his fingers trailing a moist path along her skin, the water cooling it for a brief moment before evaporating.

She closed her eyes in relief.

Will paused, dampened the cloth again, then brushed along her brow. Finally, he leaned a little closer in order to reach her other cheek. Then ran the cold cotton over her heated skin.

When she opened her eyes, she met his gaze. His expression was touching. Worried.

Yet he remained silent all the while.

She'd just given up any hope of him answering her—not that his answer mattered—when he set the cloth down and leaned back. "How could I not help you?" he finally asked. "You need help. You're very ill."

But being helped hadn't been her experience. Before, her parents had looked to her to be the caretaker. To be strong. Weakness wasn't seen as anything other than a reason to be pushed away.

However, she was too embarrassed to say such a thing. It wasn't easy to admit to her failings.

He spoke again. "Anyway, Jamilyn, it's my fault you're here. And it's my fault you got sick. If we hadn't stayed with the Clarks . . ." His voice drifted off as he shook his head. He was obviously biting his tongue so he wouldn't say anything more.

She was flabbergasted. For him to think he'd brought her to danger instead of saving her life? That he found fault with rescuing her instead of leaving her to be manhandled and eventually shot by James Walton's gang?

As she studied his posture and noticed that he was visibly trying hard to not meet her gaze, she knew she had to make things right. "This . . . this is not your fault, Will."

"It is. It sure as heck is."

"You saved me." Her throat was parched. In pain. Each word felt like it was being forced out a sieve, little by little.

"I . . . could have done better." He swallowed hard. "Hush now."

Obediently, she closed her mouth. Closed her eyes as well.

Minutes passed as he set the bowl of water and the towel farther away. He shifted then finally propped his back against the headboard.

She hoped he'd stay. Why, she didn't want to contemplate. He was nothing to her. She should fear him.

But against all odds, and against everything that made sense, she ached for him to stay by her side. Please, she prayed to the Lord. Please let him keep near me. Just for a little while. The worst thing in the world would be to feel even more alone.

Then, hesitantly, he touched her hair.

She stiffened. Then struggled not to show any emotion as he proceeded to finger comb her hair. Oh, it had been so long since anyone had touched her. Had cared for her.

With the death of her brothers, her parents had become even less demonstrative than they'd been when they'd all lived together as a family. It had been her middle brother, George, who had given her love and affection. Travis, to some extent, had been there for her too, but rarely enfolded her in a bear hug.

Then, of course, her brothers had died in battle and had become icons in her house. And she'd been forgotten.

For far too long, she'd made do caring for herself. Learned to get along without anyone offering sweet words or reassuring hugs.

She closed her eyes as she reluctantly gave in to the feeling of peace that floated over her as Will's fingers ran through her hair. Tried to ignore his scent, the faint scent of evergreen and leather that seemed to permeate his skin.

She tried to ignore the vision she suddenly had of his arms enfolding, wrapping her around in her a slow, warm hug.

It shamed her to realize how little she now asked for. Just warm words and comforting hugs. Shouldn't she want more by now?

As competently as a lady's maid, he plaited her hair. Then he moved away just as if her proximity had been catching him off guard as well.

"How did you learn to braid hair?"

"My sister Bonnie, remember?"

"I didn't know men could do such things."

"Plaiting hair ain't against the law, Jamie," he commented, humor sliding along the edge of his voice. "Men do what's expected and needed, right? My mother only had two hands. After a bit, I got real good at fussing with Bonnie's hair." He tugged on the end of her braid for emphasis.

Not for the first time, she wondered what kind of man Will McMillan was when he wasn't on a train or on the run.

She'd never imagined another person—let alone a man, a soldier, a Marshal—would ever touch her hair. Or braid it.

Of course, she would have never imagined that he would have been feeding her broth either.

What constituted a person? She wondered. At the end of the day, what made up their character? Was it their occupation or their family?

Was it their relationship with their friends?

Or was it their walk with God?

Suddenly, it all seemed too much to contemplate. She had no answers, only more questions. Her energy was failing when Will moved to face her again. "I'm tired," she mumbled. "I'm sorry," she added as she sank back to the pillows. Giving thanks that her eyelids felt like they had weights in them, she gave in to temptation and let herself venture back into oblivion.

"It's all right. You just sleep," Will murmured, though he was pretty sure she didn't hear him.

When she didn't move for another few minutes, he let himself look at her. She was such a pretty thing. So delicate.

He clenched a fist, remembering how smooth her skin had felt against his rough palm. How silky her hair had felt.

When he was around her, he wanted to be the type of man she needed. A man who was stable. Who wasn't likely to get shot sooner than later. But that said, what was he going to do when he'd found a safe place for her to stay?

How was he going to let her go to some farmer sod-busting coward who had avoided the war for personal reasons and who had to find a woman through a letter-writing campaign?

How was he going to allow her go to a man like that? Most likely, if he let her go, it would be condemning her to a life of drudgery. Before long, she'd no doubt be having too many children and working too hard to take care of them. Day after day would pass. And with each one, she'd probably begin to get worn and skinny and tired and bitter. Just the thought of her living like that made his skin burn.

And then he remembered the obvious. Oh, yeah. He was going to let her go to a man like that because it wasn't his call. She wasn't his woman, and she never would be. She'd been his hostage.

And though he didn't know a whole lot about romance and relationships, even he knew the cold hard truth.

Hostages did not all of a sudden start liking their captors. Not when they almost died at their hands. Not when they lived too many days in fear.

Those things could never be forgotten. And if they did fade a bit, they wouldn't fade enough to make a lick of difference. Not really.

Certainly not enough to ever marry their captors.

As Jamie slept on and the sun shifted the shadows rushing through the curtains, Will made himself face the facts.

Women like her didn't ever end up with men like him. Not ever. That was as it should be.

But it still was terribly hard to come to terms with at night, when the sun sank low and old fears resurfaced with wild abandon.

T
wo days after sipping that first spoonful of broth, Jamie was on her feet and putting herself to rights. She'd just rinsed out her chemise and one of her petticoats when a hard rap interrupted her thoughts.

"Jamilyn? You decent?"

Gazing down at herself, at how odd the dress looked without the usual layer of petticoats propping it out, she shrugged. No matter how bad she looked, or how inappropriate her outfit was in mixed company, there was little that could be done about things or changed at the moment.

Besides, Will had seen her in less.

"I'm decent." She was just about to go to the door when she heard Will jimmy the lock and turn the knob.

He stopped in the doorway almost hesitantly. "I guess you're feeling better?"

"Much. I'm well enough to get dressed and do a little bit of laundry."

His gaze warmed. "So I see."

Oh, those eyes. Even after everything they'd been through, there was something about a warm look from him that made her insides feel like melting.

Though she would have given a whole lot for a clean calico instead of her torn traveling dress, she was determined not to fuss about it. After all, she was alive, thanks to him. He'd not only saved her life by getting her off the train, but he'd also nursed her through the influenza. Her debt to him was insurmountable.

Not that he wanted to be reminded of that. Attempting to smile, she said, "So, did you find out any news?"

"I did." Looking at the half-crumpled paper in his hand, he said, "We finally got word. My boss is going to meet us here within twelve hours."

The idea that the ordeal could be over in hours felt shocking. "Truly? And then we'll go to Kansas City?"

"Not exactly. Sam thinks that taking you much farther on my own would be a mistake."

"I'm afraid I don't understand. We're all going together?"

"I mean that when Mr. Edison arrives, I'll be telling you good-bye."

She was still having a hard time getting the words to make sense in her head. "Forever?"

"Of course."

She shook her head in protest. "Will, I don't want to go anywhere with a strange man, especially not on a train." Getting on a locomotive again was going to be hard enough. Being accompanied by a strange man would send every fear fostered at the hands of Kent to come tumbling back. "Can't we come up with another plan?"

"There is no other option."

"But can't we come up with something else?" She hated the whine and the high-pitched tremor, but she also couldn't help herself. "Maybe you can write him back—"

"That's not how this works, Jamie. You know that." His voice turned more fluid. "Now, I know Sam is unfamiliar to you, but I promise you that there's nothing to be worried about. He's a very upstanding man. A true gentleman. In his company, you won't feel afraid."

"But he won't be you."

"He's better; he's my boss." He looked at the sheet of paper again. "He's made his decision, Jamie. He thinks it best that he takes you the rest of the way to your aunts."

"Why?'

"He feels it would be safer for you." He cleared his throat. "He . . . Mr. Edison, he's a formidable man, Jamie. No harm will come to you in his company."

That might be true, but to her nothing sounded more frightening than being alone with another man. Struggling to control the tremor in her voice, she shook her head. "I'm afraid I can't do that. Please tell him no."

"That's not how this works. When I get orders, they are expected to be followed."

"Well, I'm not a Marshal," she countered, full of bravado. "Therefore, I don't think I should have to follow your directives."

Leaning back against her door, Jamie noticed that he had both palms pressed against the wood behind him like he was making sure his exit hadn't disappeared. "You're not going to get your way," he said, his voice hard. "I have to follow orders."