A Texan’s Honor (25 page)

Will could hardly recall an infantryman or cavalry officer who hadn't decided Clayton Proffitt's word was as solid as the word of God.

He remembered a time when they'd been in Georgia and had stopped at a pitiful farm. The owner had looked so frantic he had been likely to try to kill them with a pitchfork. Will felt the same pain that he had that afternoon.

The couple were starving. Their skin hung on their frames as if by sheer will, and the vacant expression in their eyes told too many stories. Obviously they'd seen too much.

Even to Will's eyes, it was evident that they had literally nothing to give a band of soldiers besides shelter from the storm that was raging outside. Though he believed in pity at the end of the war, he'd ached to turn around and leave. Surely there'd been no need to take even the couple's dignity?

Beside him, others of their ragtag band had felt the same way. They were grubby and dirty and injured and suffering. But the time had come to draw a line.

But Clayton Proffitt had been in charge. He'd gazed at the man, not a trace of pity or remorse in his eyes. Then he had stepped forward led them all inside that ramshackle home.

For a second Will had been tempted to protest, but one quiet look in Clayton's eyes had said it all. The truth was, that shelter had been enough. All of them had been so cold and wet for so long that they'd hardly remembered what it had felt like to not have wrinkly skin and sores on their feet from walking in wet boots.

The men had stumbled in. Smelly and embarrassed. Strangely subdued.

And that man—that down-at-the-heels farmer—he'd gazed at them all with such pain in his eyes that it had almost felt tangible.

"All we want is to be dry for twenty-four hours," Clayton had said. "That's all."

The man retreated until he was standing against the wall. "I don't got anything for you. I swear I don't."

"I don't want anything else," Clayton promised.

"And your men?"

"My men want what I tell them to want."

Will hadn't even flinched at the information. Because, well, it was true. They all did without hesitation whatever Clayton Proffitt wanted. Because he was their captain and because he was who he was.

However, the owner hadn't known that. "That's what the others said. But they lied."

Will and a couple of other men had been cold enough to want to yell at the man and ask him to just stand aside. But Clayton had merely stared at him, rain dripping from the brim of his hat. "I'm not like the others. Neither are my men."

And Will, right there with the other men, had slowly grown taller. Just as if they'd been worth something.

Stepping a little closer, Clayton raised his voice so every one of them wouldn't be mistaken about what he said. So no one else in the house would misunderstand. "I know you don't believe me, but that's the truth."

The man started to shake. "I don't have nothing—"

"You have your pride and your woman. I understand that," Clayton said quietly. "That's enough. I have a bleeding man and a band of soaking wet soldiers who are exhausted. You need to let us sleep here before my man dies."

Will had felt more than saw the nervous man glance over at Robert Shaw.

"He's a good man, mister," Clayton had whispered. "Too good to die on your front porch. Too good to have on your conscience."

Miraculously, the man had moved to the side. "Come in," he'd said, defeat in his voice.

They'd set up camp in what had once been a library but now had only a few dozen books. Not even looking over his shoulder, Clayton had tossed four of them in the fireplace and set them on fire. As sparks ignited the worn books' pages, an aura of heat enveloped them all.

Heat had never felt so good. Not even on an August day.

The house's owner had protested. "I was saving those! You have no right."

"I'm afraid I do. Sir, I'm obliged to you. If these books weren't here, we'd be in a sorry state for sure."

He'd sputtered some more. "But—"

"He's going to die if I don't treat his wound." Clayton's voice had brooked no argument. "And listen to me good," he added, glaring at him with piercing slate-gray eyes. "I do not intend to bury him."

Others had gotten water and found a pot of some sort and put it on the flames.

And then they'd pulled off poor Robert's shirt. Ribs showed where healthy muscles and sinew used to be. Among an array of scratches and sores and chill bumps lay an almost five-inch wound on the man's side. It was festered and angry.

When the owner saw it, his eyes practically bugged out of his head. "That from a bayonet?" he whispered.

Clayton never looked away from Robert. He'd just sat there on his haunches, as steady as ever. "Imagine so. Hard to tell after all this time."

As the water heated, the wound was inspected again. Swollen and red and putrid, the infection was visibly spreading. Robert had hissed in sharp pain when Clayton gently pressed two fingers against it.

"Get over here, Will," Clayton had said. "Hold on to him while I wash him up."

"I can do it, Captain." It hadn't felt right for their great hero to lower himself like that.

"I'm proud to tend to him," Clayton had murmured, then had bent down and had begun to gently wash Robert's pale skin. Over and over, Clayton had put the cloth in the scorching hot water, wrung it out, and carefully bathed him.

Behind them, he'd felt rather than heard the man's wife appear. "Henry?" she said timidly.

"Go back to your room, Katherine," Henry had commanded, his eyes still where the rest of theirs were—resting on the captain's hands gently bathing the soldier who was so close to dying he probably already had one foot in heaven.

Clayton never looked up.

As his wife shrunk against the wall, her husband swallowed hard. "Dear Lord in heaven."

"Hallowed be thy name," Clayton said with a half-smile. Looking Will's way, Clayton pulled out a knife and plunged the tip in the nearly boiling water. "Will, are you ready?"

"Yes sir," he'd said. Not because he was ready, but because no other response would do.

"Good enough. Here we go."

"Clay?" Robert had asked, his voice raspy, his eyes blurry. "Clay, what are you—"

Without saying another word, Clayton took that heated knife and lanced the wound. Robert screamed, his cries mixing in with the woman's cries. The other men in the room looked away with discomfort.

But Will held himself firm. Just as his captain had asked.

As expected, the wound's sordid contents seeped out in a sluggish rush. Clayton brought the knife to the cut, slicing a little deeper, bringing forth more sickness and a smattering of red blood.

Robert cried out again, the cries so harsh and so full of agony that everyone in that room knew they'd be as marked by the occasion as much as Robert would ever be.

"Easy now," Clayton murmured, right before he motioned for someone to bring over the water, liberally soaked a square of cloth pilfered from the house's bed sheets, and then cleaned the wound.

Robert screamed again, flinching and jerking. They all knew he was in terrible agony. Five minutes later, he gave in and shamed himself by crying. His shoulders shook as the tremors came.

Then the most miraculous thing had happened. The farmer's wife had come forward. Her husband had stood still as she'd slid through their ranks.

And as they'd all looked on, she'd gone down on her knees and had sat next to Robert. "It's okay, honey," she murmured. Looking up to Will, she whispered, "What is his name?"

"Robert."

With a nod, she leaned a little closer. Still murmuring sweet things, she ignored her husband's blustering and their shock and had taken Robert Shaw's dirty hand and held it tenderly between her own. "Oh, Robert. I know. I know you hurt. I know," she murmured.

Her husband looked like he was about to have a conniption. "Katherine!"

However, she ignored him completely. Instead, she leaned a little closer and spoke to their comrade softly. "Robert dear, you're going to be fine," she said over and over again, soothing the man in her arms.

Soothing the rest of them.

When his crying settled, she said, "Do you have a sweetheart?"

"Ann Marie," he rasped after what felt like forever.

"That's a lovely name," she said. Just as if they'd been at a church social. "Rest now, Robert. Rest and close your eyes and think of Anne Marie, waiting for you at home."

"But—"

"Don't tell me you're not going to survive this, soldier," Clayton had interrupted, his voice as harsh as if they'd been in the middle of a battlefield. "You will get better. If not for Ann Marie, then for me."

The woman holding Robert's hand had stared at him in shock. "You think you matter to him more than his sweetheart?"

"I know I do today. She might hold his heart, but I'm the one who's going to keep him alive." And then, right then and there, Clayton Proffitt had smiled.

And what was amazing was that right then, right there, they had all believed it. Without a doubt in their minds. Forevermore.

Back in the frozen streets of Dodge, Will blinked. As the memories grew faint, he forced himself to remember the last of it. The woman had turned his way. "And what is your name, soldier?" she'd asked, even though it wasn't any of her business, and he wasn't used to talking to women.

"Will McMillan," he'd said. "My name is Will."

"And do you trust your captain with your life too?"

"Always." With a strong of satisfaction, he'd know that he'd just been able to give her the easiest answer he'd ever given in his entire life.

Coming back to the present, Will shook his head as his eyes adjusted to the light around him.

Will couldn't believe he still remembered every single detail of that moment. More important, he couldn't believe that he didn't feel the immense sense of sorrow that always stayed with him when he thought of Robert.

Because indeed Robert Shaw had survived.

And they'd all left that broken-down farmhouse two days later when the rain had abated and they had orders. Not one week later, they'd been ambushed by a band of Yankee scouts.

Before it was all over, Robert had taken a bullet in his side—in almost the very same spot where the saber had cut him. And where Clayton had almost healed him.

In front of them all, Robert fell to his feet and died.

And it had felt inconceivably cruel to Will.

He'd dragged Robert's body off to their camp and had buried him. And then had stood over his grave and had cried.

He hated that he'd cried in front of their captain. He hated that he'd cried like a baby, tearing up for the waste of yet another good man. Crying because life was hard and it wasn't getting any easier.

And because for a brief, minute amount of time, Clayton Proffitt had encouraged them all to believe in miracles. Then God had shown them all that such things, if they existed, didn't last for long.

"Will?" Calvin called out from the doorway of the inn. "Will, you're just standing there like a durn bump on a log. You need something?"

As he looked at Calvin, Will was tempted to ignore him. Though the memories from his past were sharp and hurtful, they at least had a definite ending.

This journey he was currently on did not.

"I don't need a thing," he said. "Just taking a breather." Then he walked on down the street. It was time to move forward. To get some fresh clothes. To get ready to say good-bye to Jamie.

To get ready to begin again.

Yet again.

S
cout wasn't having much success deciphering the mind of the woman in his company. Ever since they'd had their big talk, Kitty had been a bit more reserved. Almost uneasy. Almost stiff.

Which, of course, meant nothing and made no sense.

As the days passed and they had gotten closer to Dodge, Scout cursed his luck and cursed her skittishness. It was getting on his nerves, and he never had been one for putting up with nonsense.

Along the way, he'd decided he was surely the best thing she was ever going to find. He'd taken to putting her needs before his. He'd kept her warm in front of the fire and had taken her to the shelter of an old barn during a snowstorm.

And he'd found some old corn and had made corncakes just two nights ago. He'd bought an ugly blanket off a toothless old Indian so she'd have something better than cold hard dirt to lie on top of at night.

And above all that, he hadn't touched her in a single inappropriate way. Not even once.

Hadn't even come close. Actually, he'd almost been acting like a gentleman, which, come to think of it, was a pretty amazing achievement.

To his way of thinking, Kitty should be smiling at him like the sun. She should be driving him crazy with inane chatter and useless information.

Instead, as the miles accumulated behind them, she just got quieter.

And then they pulled into Dodge City.

After arranging for the horse to be sheltered at the livery, he'd taken her to a not quite respectable-looking boardinghouse and secured two rooms. The owner was a deaf old woman nearing eighty. Her eyes were cloudy with cataracts as she'd signed in Nate Lawrence and his sister Louise, handed them two keys, and pointed with one knobby hand swollen with arthritis to a scuffed-up stairwell.