A Texan’s Honor (3 page)

And her skin . . . Will's fingers had brushed against her throat when he'd unfastened the top button of her dress. It had felt soft and supple. Clean and smooth. Too fine for a man like him to touch.

"She's dressed in all black, too," Russell added, just as if Will wouldn't have noticed her form-fitting black taffeta. "She must be grieving for somebody."

Will was sure she was. Unbidden, a memory of his mother wearing black for his father surfaced. The harsh hue had drained the last of the color from her skin, making her seem even more delicate than usual. "Most people are mourning someone right now. Life hasn't been easy for some time," he said more sharply than he intended.

Russell nodded automatically, then looked toward him and paused, chewing on his bottom lip. "That woman—she looks real scared, Will."

For a moment, Will contemplated painting things just a little bit rosy. After all, Russell was young. Barely seventeen. Too young to be with the likes of them.

Or perhaps not. Will knew Russell had killed a man for attacking his sister, and would kill again if asked to.

"She'd be a fool not to be scared."

Russell paused, then blurted, "I think Kent wants her. He keeps looking at her like she's a treat."

Will started. The idea of Kent ever touching that girl's skin, ever hurting the woman, made his skin crawl. "He won't touch her. Not if he wants to live."

Pure relief entered Russell's eyes. "You'll make sure of it? Hurting men is one thing, but a woman like that . . ." His voice drifted off, obviously fearing he'd said too much.

Will was tempted to berate Russell. It was expected, after all. There was no room in the Walton Gang for soft hearts or tender emotions. But for the life of him, he couldn't do it.

Russell's worries echoed his own, and his vulnerability made Will recall other days, days when things like futures were important.

"I'll make sure Kent doesn't touch her. I agree with you. A woman like that shouldn't be defiled like this."

Russell said nothing more, but visible relief flowed through the boy.

Will turned away so he wouldn't have to give any more promises he didn't believe. Without another word, he returned to the hostages. As third in command, it was his job to make sure orders were obeyed and Walton's almighty directives were followed. He'd played the enforcer time and again with ease— never regretting the force he'd had to use. Over time, he'd even begun to expect to use his muscle to bend people to his bidding. He never looked back, either.

He was still standing—unlike many of the poor souls who'd lost their lives during the war. Actually, he figured he'd lived too long to have regrets.

But the sight that greeted him made his heart threaten to stop. Instead of sitting under Scout's watchful eye, Kent had his arms wrapped around the woman and her cheek was bruised and swollen. He was laughing as he was obviously trying to claim a kiss.

The five remaining hostages looked on with various shades of pity and distaste. Manny, the only other Walton Gang member present, was leaning against the wall, watching with a glazed expression.

When she pulled away from him again, Kent cursed and slapped her hard.

Anger coursed through Will as he watched her head snap back. Striding close, he grabbed Kent by the shoulder and pulled him away. "Enough."

Kent stilled under his grip, true wariness in his eyes. "Hell, no. She's mine, McMillan. This ain't no concern of yours."

It took everything he had not to pull out his knife and slice Kent's throat. But it wasn't his place to discipline the man. Besides, no matter how much he disliked the things Kent did, the job he was hired to do was more important.

Instead, he grabbed Kent's collar and shoved him hard. Finally free, the woman half fell, half scrambled back to the bench.

Once he was assured she was settled, Will turned to the outlaw. "If you touch her again I will kill you," he promised. "Right here. Right now." To his shame, he almost hoped for the opportunity. Kent was pure evil, and it chafed Will to be in his company.

"Now you've decided to stop playing?" Kent said, his voice full of bravado as he used the name they'd all given him on account of his quiet nature and quieter ways.

Will had never liked the moniker. He thought it disrespectful to men of the cloth—because he was as far from a good man as he could likely get. "Don't call me that."

When he fingered the Colt at his side, Kent's face paled.

Behind them, the woman was crying. He heard her quiet attempts to stifle herself, and those attempts nearly broke his heart. And made his temper flare. His job was hard enough without having a woman involved—why the heck hadn't Walton let her leave?

As the tension in the compartment thickened, Kent finally stepped back.

"Will? Will, what do you want me to do?" Russell asked from the doorway. "Do you still want them watered?"

Still keeping his eyes on Kent, Will nodded. "Yeah."

"And the woman?"

Will hesitated, then relaxed when he saw Scout join them. "I'll take her into the next car and get her something myself."

Russell's eyebrows rose, but thankfully he didn't argue. From his position by the window Kent cussed under his breath, then stilled when Will eyed him.

Scout, looking as unruffled as ever, crossed his arms over his chest. "Go on and take her out of here. I've got everything under control."

Will nodded then approached the girl. To his dismay, she flinched when he was in striking distance. "Easy now," he murmured. "I won't hurt you."

He waited a moment, then motioned her to her feet. "Let's go now."

As silent tears continued to fall, the girl stared at him in dismay.

Behind him, he heard Scout clear his throat. Will couldn't guess if it was from impatience or if he, too, had been struck by the sight of an innocent woman in need. But he did know that some things needed to be done. Needed to be done, no matter how hard they were or how badly they hurt.

Waiting and worrying didn't make things easier.

"Come on now," he coaxed, keeping his voice easy and gentle. "Get to your feet and step forward. That's all you can do."

Little by little she scooted forward, then at last got to her feet. Gripping the woman's elbow, Will guided her away in a mockery of manners. He kept her close by his side as he guided her away from Kent, past Scout's watchful eyes, and beyond the line of men who were their hostages. Beside him, the woman stepped quietly but with clumsy, heavy steps. Obviously, she was in shock.

When she stumbled, her breath catching as she continued to cry and struggled to breathe, once again fighting the constraints of her corset, Will gave in to his impulses and picked her up. Holding her with one arm under her knees and another around her shoulders, he pulled her close. After what seemed like forever, she relaxed. Suddenly, she was light and feminine in his arms, her skin and muscles soft and pliable against his own.

She smelled like a lady. Smelled like fresh spring and hope and everything he used to dream of having, before the war had broken his character and the choices he had made removed any other options.

Too afraid he was going to say something he'd regret, Will kept his mouth shut and strode forward. Before he went through the passageway, he paused, then took care to flatten her skirts before stepping through. She had to shift slightly as he did, pressing against him for the space of five seconds. Long enough for him to imagine that she was his, that he was holding a woman for another reason other than taking her hostage.

Once they arrived in the next compartment, he loosened his hold, afraid to scare her any more than he already had. Tremors coursed through the girl's body but she stayed silent, too.

For a brief moment, Will thought about saying something to reassure her—but all told, there was truly nothing to say. Nothing of worth. Nothing she'd believe, anyway.

Only when he pulled the compartment latch closed behind him did he put her down, his knees bending slightly as he carefully set her feet on the floor.

Yet still, she wobbled. Unable to help himself, he kept an arm around her slim shoulders to help her get her bearings.

But instead of leaning toward his touch, she stiffened. Reminding Will that he was nothing to her except a source of terror.

Berating himself, Will took two steps backward.

There was a new sense of fear emanating from her, and Will cursed Kent for that. The Walton Gang was a group of murderers and thieves—but they didn't prey on women. Until her.

She still looked so lost, so—a chill coursed through him. Had Kent done something more than grab her? Will tried to recall just exactly how long he'd been in the other train car with the hostage's body.

"Miss?" he asked roughly. "Miss, are you all right?"

Turning to him, she blinked. And he cursed his mouth. Of course, she wasn't all right. How could she be? When she swayed, he stepped forward, intending to catch her.

Well, in truth, to try and comfort her, as crazy as that was.

But as if the thought of his touch was too much to bear, she jerked.

He stilled.

Then watched as she trembled, then finally sank to her knees like a stack of cards.

Shaking violently, she curled into a ball, finally giving in to violent tremors and deep, heartbreaking sobs.

Will started to kneel at her side, tempted to reassure her. Tell her that he would protect her virtue. Promise her that he would never touch her. That she'd be almost safe.

But since those assurances felt so wrong, he did the only thing he could. He reached into his back pocket, pulled out a worn bandanna, and tossed it on her lap. Finally, he turned away and let her cry in relative privacy. That, he supposed, was the least he could do.

A
fter too long, the tears finally stopped coming. Jamie swiped her eyes with the side of her hand, wincing as she touched her swollen cheek. Finally, she sat up, staring across the compartment at her captor.

The man stood with his back to her. As tall and stoic as a redwood. Just as unbending.

Hesitantly, she picked up his discarded handkerchief. Too distraught to care if it was dirty or clean, she dabbed her face and got to her feet. All right then. She'd had her moment of hysterics. It was time to gather her courage and move forward. Whatever the man did to her, she would endure.

She had to. Surely she hadn't survived the war for nothing? When she glanced at the man again, Jamie noticed he'd turned around and was staring straight at her.

"What's your name?" he asked. His voice was steady and smooth. So different from the frightening coarseness of Kent's.

For a moment, she considered lying, then wondered what good a lie would do. She was trapped, and would most likely be killed or violated or beaten. She might as well be herself when that happened. "Jamie. My name is Jamie Ellis."

A black eyebrow arched. "Jamie? That's a boy's name."

"It's short for Jamilyn," she explained, wondering why she was bothering to explain. "It was my great-aunt's name."

After a moment, he spoke. "It's . . . it's a pretty name, Miss Ellis." His words were stilted. Almost like he was unsure how to compliment a woman. As if he wasn't sure what to say.

For a split second she was about to thank him. Then she remembered where she was, and who he was: her enemy. Clumsily, she got to her feet.

When he didn't approach, didn't try to grab her, she pressed her luck and took three steps backward.

The man, standing as still as a deer in the glade, merely watched her. His perceptive gaze seemed to catch every tremor of her body. See every flaw.

No, it was a closer connection than that. It felt as if he could practically read her mind. Read too much of it, anyway.

Yes, he was that intent on her. And for some reason, that made everything seem even worse. All her life, she'd wanted to count for something. Instead, she'd been the daughter her father hadn't wanted. The child who'd survived when her two older brothers had died while fighting in the war. The reminder to her mother of all she'd lost.

Ever since her brothers had passed away, she'd practically raised herself. As the years went by, her parents had retreated further into themselves, moving often. She'd become shy and almost timid, wishing for a man's regard but too reserved by nature to accept any man's attentions. How ironic—now that she finally was the center of a man's attention, it was because she was his victim.

"Are you going to kill me?" she asked.

Surprise flared in his eyes before he visibly tamped it down. "No."

That answer worried her. Death, she wasn't afraid of. Everything else? She was terrified.

Her knees started to knock. Fearing the worst, she forced herself to face head-on whatever was in store. "What are you going to do to me, then?"

Looking her over, he tilted his head to one side. "Well . . . first off, I thought I'd tend to your face."

Though her cheek burned and her right eye was surely swelling, she dipped her chin. "There's no need."

"I think otherwise." Pointing to a spot on his cheek, he said, "You've got some blood on your face. The pistol barrel must have scratched you somehow. . . ." Before she could respond to that, his voice turned weary. "Ma'am, I know you don't trust me. Furthermore, I know you don't want to trust me. However, I promise that I only brought you in this compartment to keep you safe."

"Safe from the other men?"

He nodded. "From the other men. Safe from Kent."

She knew who Kent was. The thin man who felt like he was all sinew and muscle. Who'd grinned as he'd run his hand down the stays in her corset, then along the curve of her hip. Who had slapped her twice and had looked like he wanted to do far worse things.

"I don't think I'll ever be safe again," she murmured.

"You will. Don't fret, Miss Ellis."

Don't fret? Not worrying wasn't even a possibility. But as she glanced at him again under her lashes, something clicked inside of her. She knew liars, and he wasn't one. Not yet, anyhow.