A Texan’s Honor (33 page)

Crossing the room, she held out her hand. "That was kind of you. Thank you for everything, Mr. Edison."

He squeezed her hand for a fraction of a second before dropping it. "Do you think you'll be all right here?" He looked skeptical as he glanced around the room.

"I hope I will. I mean, I'm sure I will be just fine."

Looking ill at ease, he clasped his hands behind his back. "Jamilyn, I hope you won't take the wrong way what I'm about to say. But I think I'd be remiss if I didn't speak my mind."

"Yes?"

He cleared his throat before he began to talk, his voice uncharacteristically husky. "I've found, during my life, that unforeseen events can have a profound effect on a person's mental health." He glanced at her before continuing. "This kidnapping and abduction, if you remember nothing else, please know that it was not your fault."

Her heart started beating faster. "Sir?"

"Those men were killers, Jamilyn," he said slowly, with a somber, knowing look. "They would have killed you if you'd stayed. They had planned on it, you mark my words. Will McMillan's quick thinking saved you—as did your bravery."

His praise embarrassed her. "Yes, sir."

"What I'm trying to say is you've done nothing to be ashamed of. You survived, and any man will tell you that that's quite enough sometimes."

Oh, the conversation was getting awkward. It was achingly apparent that Mr. Edison wasn't happy with the way his words were sounding. It was also terribly apparent there was little else he could say. He might have been the head of the Marshals, but he wasn't an orator by any stretch of the imagination.

"Thank you, Mr. Edison. I'll remember your words."

He brightened. "I'm glad." Then, fishing in a pocket, he pulled out a small piece of paper. "This is how to get a hold of me. If you contact me, I will do everything in my power to help you out."

"That's very kind of you."

"It would be an honor." His eyes watered slightly. "Goodbye, Miss Ellis. Jamie."

Before she could say good-bye, he turned and left.

After carefully placing the paper he left into a pocket, she walked slowly back to the china cabinet and took out another stack of dishes, afraid once again to dwell on the past.

T
he missive was short and to the point: MEET ME IN KANSAS CITY (STOP). TWO DAYS TIME (STOP). REGARDS, S.E. (STOP).

Will folded it neatly and pocketed it while he walked to the station to see when the next train was leaving.

Yes, that's what he needed to think about—the train schedule. He definitely shouldn't be thinking about hidden meanings behind the telegram.

Mr. Edison had his next orders and there was little he could do about them. A man didn't question Sam Edison. Ever.

But boy, if he'd ever had an urge to do so, now was the time. He didn't want to receive his next orders. He was bone tired. Tired of being on guard, tired of looking over his shoulder.

Tired of most everything in his life.

Not that it mattered.

All that really mattered was that he did what was asked of him. And that, today, was to get on a train to Kansas City.

Feeling wearier than ever, Will approached the ticket counter. "I need to get to Kansas City," he said simply.

After peering at him through a dirty pane of glass, the ticket agent looked back down at a sheaf of papers in front of him. "You're in luck," he said with a toothy smile. "Next train is in two hours."

"One ticket, then."

After paying the money and accepting his stub, Will walked back to the hotel. It was time to move forward, even if he didn't want to. Mr. Edison was counting on him, and that was enough.

After sending a telegram back to Edison, he bathed and ate. And then prepared to do his duty. Which, by his way of thinking, was about the only thing of value he had left in his life.

He hoped it was enough to see him through the day.

To his surprise, his boss was waiting for him when he finally reached Kansas City.

"Sir," Will said, by way of greeting. "I didn't expect to see you here."

"I don't imagine you did. Greeting trains isn't something I have much practice with, to tell you the truth."

Will's heart sank. Whatever Sam had in mind for him must be terribly urgent. With a true sense of inevitability, he hoped it was a case far away from Missouri or Colorado. At least then the terrible memories that plagued him might have a chance of subsiding.

Of course, the U.S. Marshals didn't take job requests. It wasn't their job to coddle the men who worked for them, and each one knew it.

Will also knew that Sam had never been the type of man to put up with men pestering him with questions. So he held his tongue and followed the older man to a clean-looking supper house four blocks from the terminal.

After they were seated, Sam leaned back against the cushion of his chair and gazed at Will directly. "I appreciate you coming out here so quickly."

"I'm glad the train's schedule fit your timeline."

"Coffee?" a waitress in a worn-looking calico dress asked.

"Two," Sam said without looking at Will.

After coffee was delivered, Will sat still and stoic, waiting for news. Any moment now, he would be getting his new directives. After that, it would be his job to accept the work with the danger and to plan accordingly. Within hours, he would be adopting a new identity and traveling again.

And though it was hard to accept, Will knew he had no choice. A man didn't refuse orders.

After taking a few fortifying sips of extremely hot coffee, Sam leaned back and folded his hands on the table. "Funny thing happened when I delivered Miss Ellis to her aunts," he said.

Will almost choked on his drink. "Sir?"

"You remember Miss Ellis, surely? She's a fetching little thing. Blessed with golden hair and a pair of wide-set caramel-colored eyes that look as though they've seen too much of pretty much everything."

Will knew that was no doubt the case. "I remember her, sir."

His boss tilted his head. "I thought, when I saw the two of you together, that she meant something to you."

"Of course she does. I mean, she did," he amended, feeling more and more uneasy with each passing second.

"But you weren't interested enough to ask about her?"

Ask about Jamie? Ask Sam Edison, one of the most feared men in law enforcement in the country, about a woman he had affection for? "Well . . ." he hedged.

"Well?"

Fighting the urge to loosen his collar, Will tried unsuccessfully to bide for more time. His boss's line of questioning was without preamble, and for the life of him, Will couldn't figure out if the man was genuinely interested in his feelings for the woman or if he was using the line of questioning as a trap. "I didn't ask about her because, well, I didn't see the point."

"How come?"

"If life has taught me anything, it's to not look back," he admitted.

"How far back do you try not to look?"

But for the life of him, Will didn't know what to say anymore. "As far back as I can," he finally admitted. "Life is hard."

"That is true." His boss smiled as the server returned, carrying two plates filled with hot roast beef, mashed potatoes, and rolls. "Thank you."

The food in front of Will smelled wonderful. His mouth watered, and if he'd been alone, he would have already dug in with his knife and fork.

But of course he wasn't alone.

"See, the thing is, I believe Miss Ellis's current situation is a difficult one."

All thoughts of eating left him. "I thought she was going to live with her aunts."

"Her aunts didn't want her." Sam smiled slightly before neatly slicing a corner of the beef and digging in.

"How can that be? She's their family. Plus, she's all alone. She has no one else." Without quite realizing it, his voice rose. "She'd been kidnapped. She almost died back in Dodge."

"I'm aware of that." After a sip of water, his boss switched topics. "I read your report. I've also spoken with the folks at the Kansas Pacific. Because of your testimony, we've found the link between the Walton Gang and the railroad company. At this moment, both James Walton and Mr. Arthur Jackson, former employee of the Kansas Pacific, are being transported to St. Louis. Many are indebted to you, McMillan." As the words sunk in, another neat bite of meat was sliced off and swallowed.

Bitterness coursed through Will as he realized his boss wasn't going to spend another moment talking about Jamie. Perhaps to Sam, she was just one of the many characters in a case that was now closed.

However, Will couldn't settle for that. "What happened to Jamie, Sam? Do you know?"

Sam carefully set his fork down. "Did you really imagine I wouldn't know?"

"I don't know what to think anymore, sir."

His eyes narrowed. "You are trying my good nature, McMillan."

"And you are trying my patience, sir."

In another time and place, Will probably would've immediately apologized. Men who wanted to survive didn't speak that way to Sam Edison. Ever. "Where is she?"

"She's working for a friend of mine. Rebecca Bergoran. She owns a pretty little inn on the outskirts of town."

An inn on the outskirts of town? The worst sort of things flooded Will's mind before he sternly told himself that Sam was an upstanding man. If he called the place an inn, it was just that, not anything worse.

But he still wanted more information. "What, exactly, is she doing there?"

Sam's brows snapped together. "Exactly?"

"I'm only curious."

"Well," Sam drawled. "When I left her, she was dusting the dining room."

Momentarily appeased, Will forced himself to nod. "And she was . . . well?"

"She was surviving," he corrected sharply. "There's a difference, though I suppose you know that. Eat, McMillan. Food's getting cold."

Will did as he was told, but though he was going through the motions, nothing in his actions felt right. He didn't understand why he'd been summoned to arrive in Kansas City right away just to be taken to a dining hall.

He didn't understand why Sam had brought up Jamie but seemed to be bouncing around Will's interest in her and wouldn't give more information as to why he'd even mentioned her in the first place.

It was the type of puzzle that drove a man to speak too sharply and to make mistakes. He dearly didn't want to do that.

Minutes passed as the man across from him seemed to find a lot of pleasure in eating particularly slowly.

Finally, patience shot, Will spoke. "Now that Walton and Jackson are in custody, what job do you have for me? Where do you want me assigned?"

"I didn't bring you here to reassign you, Will," Sam said after yet another too-long pause.

Why then? Was he about to be fired? "Then why did you?"

"So you could finally realize what's important to you."

"I'm not following you."

His boss leaned back, and in a trademark move, crossed his arms over his chest and looked at him levelly. "I've given you your future, son, and her name is Jamie."

Will blinked. Was Jamie his future? He'd been sure she'd been just a dream of his.

With impatience, Sam continued. "You obviously care for her very much. Are you really going to let her dust and mop for the rest of her life in some inn in Kansas City?"

"But what choice do I have?" He hated to sound so weak, but he really had no idea of what to do.

"Quit the Marshals."

Quit?
Will had never heard of anyone being allowed to quit. Usually the only way out was death. Unless "quit" was code for something else. "Sir, am I getting fired?"

"I am most definitely not firing you. I'm letting you off the hook, allowing you the chance to do something right for yourself for a change instead of for everybody else in the world. Go do it, son. Go out in the world and get a real job. Find something that lets you go home every night. After all, if you get your girl, she's sure to be a woman who's worth going home to."

Shocked into silence, Will's head began to clear as the choices swam in front of him and spurred his tongue. "I never thought I could do anything except put my life on the line. I never thought I could do more than hold a rifle and shoot to kill."

"It's not your fault you're good at that, McMillan. Your abilities were sorely needed during the war. And they've been put to good use during our war against the outlaws. But surely every man needs a chance to do something for himself."

"Walking away . . ." He blinked hard, unable to fathom it all. "Do you actually think I could do anything else?"

"Always. Will, I've had a good life. At one time I had four girls to go home to. I'd never trade those days for the world. At least I have memories. And, Will, that's a sorry way to live, you hear me? Memories don't warm a bed and they don't comfort a hurt. But the sad thing is you've got even less than that."

It was true. He'd lived his whole life by himself. "Is it even possible?" he asked again. Shoot, he knew he was sounding weaker than a newborn foal, but here Sam was taking a lifetime of his certainties and tossing them on their side.