A Texan’s Honor (6 page)

"Oh, he has, and don't you forget it. Of course, we all have," he blurted before he could stop himself. For a while, he'd tried to excuse his escapades by blaming the heat of the battle. Or extreme fatigue. Or hunger.

Or the fact that a man could only take so much cruelty and bloodshed before he did things too.

As flashes of a family in Alabama threatened to surface, Will tamped them down. It was far easier to concentrate on someone else. "Scout is fairly quiet. Keeps to himself," he said. "And for all his reputation and the fact that he can draw a pistol faster than just about any other man alive, I've never seen him be openly cruel."

So far, Will hadn't heard of a single person who doubted Scout's ability to draw quickly and lethally. No one who'd ever seen him draw would forget his lightning speed.

But there was also a lingering sadness about the man that had come as something of a surprise. Will hadn't expected the gunman to have even the slightest lick of a conscience. Of course, with that softness came a bit of an edge to the outlaw's personality. He had just enough of a devil-may-care attitude that not even their boss had been able to break.

Actually, instead of attempting to break Scout Proffitt's hard exterior, their leader seemed to give him wide berth. Will found it easy to do the same. He would speak with Scout but not completely trust him.

He would never do that.

It wasn't hard. After all, Will had learned early in life never to depend on the people closest to him. Trusting people who said they loved or cared for him had led to a whole lot of heartache.

More than one scar on his body proved that trust only led to pain and ruined expectations.

Frustrated by the latest direction of his thoughts, Will looked back to the girl. She was sitting as still as a corpse, and had her arms wrapped tightly around herself. Her posture and bearing reminded Will that she had been gently brought up. Her shivering reminded him that she was clad in only a pitifully thin black gown. Not even a wool shawl covered her shoulders. As he stared at her, he spied the faintest of tremors, reminding him that it was cold on the car. Terribly cold, and there wasn't much they could do about it either.

So, though he was rusty at conversation, he attempted to divert her attention. "So what do you do, Jamilyn Ellis? When you're not traveling to Kansas City to meet your Randall?"

Her eyes flashed. "He's not 'my' anything. And why do you keep calling me Jamilyn?"

He thought it was pretty. He liked how it was feminine and light. How the syllables felt on his tongue. "It suits you. Better than a boy's name does, I'll tell you that."

One golden eyebrow arched. "You think?"

"I know." Pushing a bit, he asked, "That man of your aunts', what does he call you?"

"We've never spoken face-to-face."

"I know, but what does he call you when he writes?" he amended. "Jamilyn, what does this Randall call you when he writes you his letters?"

"He calls me Jamilyn."

Even the cool air couldn't fan the flames rising in her cheeks. "You see? It's a good name."

"It's what my aunts call me in their letters. They don't care for Jamie either."

"And what do your parents call you?"

She paused, then shook her head. "Nothing. Ever since my brothers died, they don't call me anything."

Will was struck dumb. She looked so prim and proper—she was so very innocent—he'd assumed she was the type of girl who'd had a slew of people who'd fussed and pampered her. He'd even imagined she had a loyal pet, maybe even one of those silly, useless dogs.

But the distant expression on her face told him a whole different story.

He thought about pressing her for more information, before pushing aside the idea. After all, her past didn't really matter. It wasn't like he'd ever need to know much about her. Even if Scout didn't shoot her dead, even if Boss decided to let her go free, it wasn't like she'd ever cross his mind again.

So he stayed silent. At first her muscles were bunched. Obviously, she was waiting for him to ask her more. But when he didn't, a curious look of confusion crossed her face. Almost like she was disappointed he hadn't pushed her.

She nibbled her bottom lip for a spell like she wasn't sure how much information to give him. Her resistance amused him. And made his heart go soft.

She reminded him of his cousins, the silly girls who used to worry so much about their manners and their words. But there was something more about her that he couldn't resist, too. Maybe it was her bone structure. She was finely made and a good eight inches shorter than himself. And pretty too. Truly delicate and lovely. There was an aura of innocence surrounding her, foisting brief images of his past to rush forward. Faint memories slowly filtered in. Hazy recollections of life before the war. For a brief moment, he felt warm again. Almost whole.

Then, with a blink, he remembered everything that had come between then and now, and pain rushed forth. He was tempted to share some of that. To tell Jamie about his life. How he was once so different.

But, of course, he couldn't say such things; it wouldn't be right or proper, or whatever was appropriate at the moment. So he held off his thoughts and focused on her.

"Why do you look at me like that?"

"Because you're pretty."

"What?"

"Come now. Your parents might have ignored you, but surely the your mirror hasn't."

To his surprise, she still looked confused. So he pressed, though it wasn't his business how she thought about herself. "In any case, I'm sure the men in your area have told you how they felt."

"No one came near me. They were afraid. . . ."

"What are you saying? Has no man told you sweet things before?"

By her pause, he knew she was weighing the pros and cons of answering him. "No," she finally said. "No one ever has."

He was surprised. In other circumstances, he'd have tried to court her. Or at least done everything he could to be in the same room with her.

"Why not?"

"Before my brothers went off to war, they were protective. Then, all the men were gone." For a split second, a worry line formed in between her brows. When she shook her head, it vanished. "Mr. McMillan, did you fight in the war?"

"I did."

"For a long time?"

"For as long as I could. I joined up when my father got killed."

"Is that why you turned to this? Because of the war?"

The war had changed him. It had made him do a lot of things he never would've dreamed of. But more than that, the war made him dream of things that he couldn't escape from during those long hours in the middle of the night.

But the war wasn't why he was on the train.

"No," he said at last.

When Jamie leaned forward slightly, obviously anxious for him to give her more of an explanation, he turned away.

His reasons for being here were secret. If Jamie knew, it would only do her harm and make her more scared.

And for some reason, he was in no hurry to make things any worse for her. All he wanted to do was keep her safe.

If he could.
I have become like broken pottery,
he thought, remembering a favorite verse from the Psalms. Where he was once whole, he was broken.

But not completely ruined.

F
or a time, back when she was small, Jamie had carried a doll. Her mother had made it out of a flour sack and had sewn on two black buttons for eyes. The doll had had a red gingham dress like Jamie's but no hair.

At first, Jamie had only found fault with the doll. She didn't like it being bald. She wanted there to be a pretty smile. And, of course, it was a sad comparison to the dolls in the catalogs at the mercantile. The more she compared, the more she was aware that the doll was nothing like a "real" doll, and had told her mother so.

Mama had been disappointed by her criticism, and had told her that. It had been a terribly selfish way to behave, considering her brothers were out fighting the Yankees.

Jamie had known that. But it hadn't stopped her from offering her disappointment frequently and with more than a touch of a whine.

Then, the strangest thing happened—she grew to love that misshapen, too-soft little doll. One afternoon, she named it Jo, just because she'd gotten tired of carrying around a noname toy. And wouldn't you know it? Soon Jo was the best thing she'd ever had. She was comfortable and soft and her lack of expression meant that anything was possible.

Jamie hadn't meant to cling to that doll. But cling she did. And though her mother never said a word about it, Jamie figured she had been really pleased about her change of heart.

Looking at the man sitting across from her, Jamie wondered about her change of heart too. Suddenly, Will McMillan didn't seem as dangerous or as evil as he once had. Suddenly, she didn't look at his hands with fear, worried that he was going to grab at her clothes or slap her silly.

A few hours ago, she'd stopped bracing herself for his advance. Stopped tensing up beside him, preparing herself for pain. Over the day, she'd begun to notice things about Will. Like how he never raised his voice to her. How he was quiet but solid. She'd liked how he was around Scout Proffitt, too. He'd been calm but had held his ground. Never cowed.

She couldn't imagine too many men acting like that in the famous killer's presence.

So little by little, Jamie found her muscles easing when she was near to him, just anticipating that he would protect her from everyone else. Once she'd almost smiled at something he'd said.

All of this worried her. She should know better. Surely, she should behave better. Perhaps she couldn't trust her judgment any more now than she could when she was small. He was her enemy and she needed to remember that. After all, her brothers—God rest their souls—had been good men. Brave men. They'd died trying to preserve everything their family had believed in.

What would they say if they could see her being almost agreeable to a member of the notorious Walton Gang?

It truly didn't bear thinking about.

But that said, she kept finding herself wondering about Will, and found herself wanting to know him better. More than a time or two, she'd caught herself thinking that he was handsome.

How could that be?

Maybe her mind was filled with all things Will because he wasn't currently by her side. A little less than an hour ago, the train had come to an abrupt stop. The moment it had, he'd left her. He'd threatened to tie her up, but when she'd told him that she knew there was nowhere as safe for her as the place she was currently sitting, he'd left her in peace.

Warily, she sat on the bench, her eyes on the connecting doorway, waiting for the sound of his footsteps. And—Lord have mercy—bracing herself for the inevitable. Surely the rest of the band wouldn't let her stay out of the way for so long.

With a creak and a whoosh, the door opened. She sat upright, eager for news. But instead of the one man she was slowly starting to trust, it was Scout Proffitt.

Her blood chilled, and though she hadn't imagined it possible, she got even colder. Her tremors started up again, coursing through her without stopping, each one tougher to hide than the last. Locking her knees together, she glanced his way.

Obsidian eyes met hers. "Ma'am."

His voice was as scratchy and husky as ever. The look he gave her demanded an answer, or at the very least, a response. But no matter how hard she tried, Jamie couldn't think of a single thing to say. It was like a ghost had traipsed into her head, erasing everything there. Leaving her feeling as blank inside as the walls around her.

But instead of finding fault with the way the cat had gotten her tongue, the outlaw's gaze turned amused. "I guess you realized I'm here to take a turn with you."

To take a turn?
She flinched in fear.

"Don't get all excited," he drawled. "I still don't aim to hurt you." He waited for a reply. But when she only stared at him, her mouth frozen, he chuckled. "You really should settle down if you can." He pushed the brim of his black Stetson the slightest bit upward, though whether his intention had been to see her better or for her to see him she didn't know.

To her surprise, he took a seat right across the aisle from her and propped one black boot over an opposite knee. "So, how are you doing? Is there anything you need?"

"You can let me go."

He laughed. "Never pegged you as a woman with spunk. You must be feeling better. Finally."

Though his words weren't scary, his dark gaze was. "I'm sorry," she sputtered. "I didn't mean to make you angry. . . ."

"Oh, I'm not angry. Say whatever you want; it won't matter. The fact is, no matter what you want, there's no way I can let you get off this train." He grimaced. "It's probably a good thing anyway. It's cold out. You'd freeze to death."

"Freezing would be better than being here."

"You only say that because you've never witnessed a man freeze to death." His gaze shuttered. "It ain't pretty."

Just then, she noticed he was holding a man's overcoat in one of his hands.

When he saw what she was looking at, he held it up. "I thought you might want this. It's wool. It should warm you up a bit."

Just as she reached for it Jamie noticed a dark stain across the sleeve. Her hand dropped. "Whose coat was that?"

He shrugged. "I didn't ask the man's name. Don't usually ever ask anyone's name." He flashed a smile. "Other than yours, of course."

"Is it from a man who . . . who died?"

"Is that a problem?"

"Of course." Jamie wasn't sure where the words were coming from, but she now couldn't have stopped herself from talking to him if she'd wanted to. "I can't wear a dead man's coat."

"Why not? He can't use it."

"But it's not seemly. It's not Christian."

"Being Christian don't have anything to do with keeping warm, ma'am." His voice turned oily and derisive. "Let me give you an education. Everyone dies sooner or later. People who survive learn to make do with what's left. Even if you burn this it ain't going to make the dead come alive. Believe me, I know."