The Gunslinger (3 page)

She pushed him down with one hand pressed against his uninjured shoulder. “Let me feed you some broth first.”

“Where's my gun?”

“I put it away.”

“Get it.”

“You're not in any danger.”

“Lady, the only time I don't wear a gun is when I'm making love to a woman, so unless you're aiming to climb into this bed with me, bring me the damn gun.”

Fire flashed within the blue depths of her eyes. She stomped to the bureau, jerked open the top drawer, and snatched out his gun belt. She stalked to the bed and flung it at him. Groaning when it thudded against his chest, he grabbed the holster and closed his hand around the smooth handle of the Colt, welcoming the uncomfortable peace it always brought him. He captured her gaze, certain she wanted to tell him exactly what he could do with his gun: use it on himself. Not that he hadn't once contemplated it. “Does anyone know I'm hurt?”

“No. I considered going for a doctor yesterday evening when you were delirious, but you threatened to put a bullet between my eyes if I did.”

He nodded. “The boy?”

“Hasn't left your side.”

In her voice, he heard the anger seething beneath the surface. He couldn't fault her. “I'll eat now,” he said quietly.

Her fists swinging at her sides she stormed from the room. Lord, she was mostly spit, but she intrigued him. He couldn't recall the last time a woman had caught his fancy.

He slid his gaze over to the boy, who furrowed his brow. “You wouldn't really have killed her, would you?”

Chance slowly shook his head. “Nope. But in my line of work, you live longer if people believe the lies.”

 

Chapter 3

A
S THE LOW
haunting melody of a harmonica filled the late afternoon air, Lillian stepped out of the barn where she'd been tending to the cows. Chance Wilder sat on the porch, his back against the wall, the front legs of the wooden straight-backed chair in the air, the harmonica pressed to his lips.

Toby sat beside him, his chair in the same reclining position, his eyes fastened on Wilder with something akin to adoration.

Reluctantly she had to admit she'd been impressed by Wilder's determination to summon up the strength to make his way to the front porch. His jaw had been clenched against the pain, his movements slow and measured as he shuffled through the house. He didn't comment on the sparse, simple furnishings, although she suspected he was more focused on moving one foot in front of the other instead of his surroundings. Once he reached his destination, he sat there all afternoon, Toby pestering him with one question after another, which he patiently answered, although he never volunteered more information than was needed to appease her brother's curiosity. She realized now that his impatience the first day had been the result of his directing all his efforts toward staying on his horse.

She didn't like witnessing his tolerance. It was much easier to dislike him when he was short-tempered with Toby. Much easier to dislike him before she'd seen his vulnerability and held his hand through the night.

She strolled to the house and rested her arms on the porch railing. The slight breeze toyed with the curls circling Wilder's head. His mouth moved slowly over the instrument, and she imagined his lips trailing a path along her throat. Heat that had little to do with late summer surged through her.

As though reading her thoughts, Wilder paused in playing and lifted a corner of his mouth. “Evenin'.”

Her heart thundered as though she'd never had a man speak to her with a sparkle in his eyes. “Toby, you need to finish up your chores before supper,” she announced, fighting to ignore the blatant attraction she felt for this man, this hired killer. She couldn't explain it, much less understand it. He represented violence when all she desperately longed for was peace.

“Ah, Lil—”

“Do what your sister says,” Wilder ordered.

With a scowl, Toby dropped the chair onto all fours and tromped toward the barn.

“Don't take offense, Mr. Wilder, but I'd rather you didn't encourage him—”

“Encourage him to do what? His chores?” he asked.

“Encourage him to spend time in your company. He's at an age where he's easily swayed. I'd rather he not be influenced by a man who kills.”

“You'd rather he be influenced by an old man's whore?”

Lillian staggered back as though he'd slapped her. Humiliation swamped her, angered her—that this sinner should sit in judgment of her. “What Jack Ward was to me is none of your damn business!”

Chance watched her storm past him and disappear into the house. He cursed long and hard under his breath. He had no right to say what he had, but every time he thought of an old man's gnarled hands touching her, touching her the way he wanted to, the way she'd never let him . . .

The boy loped to the house, his smile bright. Chance was surprised the kid's jaw didn't ache as a result of his constant grins. He leapt onto the porch. “You comin' in for supper?”

“Think I'll stay outside a little longer. Smells like your sister cooked up some stew. Why don't you bring me a bowl?”

“I'll sit out here with you,” he offered.

Chance shook his head. “Your sister needs the company.”

The boy nodded reluctantly before going inside. Chance slipped the harmonica into his pocket and gazed toward the horizon. Evening would arrive soon. In the passing years, he had most missed sitting on a porch in the quiet after a day filled with exhausting work. Now when his body ached, it was more often from a bullet wound than from laboring in the fields. In the evening, his back was usually against a wall in a saloon, while he drank whiskey, hoping to dull the memories and the yearning for a life far different than the one he led.

Hearing the footsteps, he glanced back over his shoulder. The woman stood in the doorway, a wooden bowl in her hands. “Toby said you wanted to eat out here.”

“Thought it best.”

She gave him a brusque nod, handed him the bowl, and turned to go back inside.

“Miss Madison?”

She stopped, but didn't look at him.

“I owe you an apology. I had no right to say what I did.”

She met and held his gaze, a corner of her mouth lifting slightly. “Well, we finally agree on something.”

“We agree on something else. I won't be influencing the boy. I'll leave come morning.”

Her smile fell and she furrowed her brow. “You can't be fully recovered.”

“Thanks to your tender ministrations, I'm strong enough. I'll bed down in the barn tonight and be gone by first light.”

“When you're finished eating, come inside and I'll change your bandage.”

He waited until she went into the house. Then he lifted the bowl of stew, inhaled the spicy aromas, and knew a longing so intense that he nearly doubled over with it.

He missed all the things he'd never have: meals prepared by a woman with loving care, a home where he could sit in the middle of the room, children who looked up to him . . . and a woman who loved him.

L
ILLIAN
CURSED HER
shaking hands as she unwound the bandages from around Chance Wilder's shoulder as he sat on the bed in her room. Her gaze slipped lower. A fine sprinkling of hair covered his chest. Tenderly, she touched her fingers to the wound and felt him stiffen. “I'm sorry. I just want to make certain no infection is brewing. You're really fortunate that the bullet went clean through.”

“Yep.”

She'd had to dig out some bits of cloth, but thankfully no lead. Her fingers strayed to a scar on his shoulder, the remnants of another wound. Other scars marked his arm. “Do you always get shot in a gunfight?”

“I usually come away with a nick or two. Like I said, I'm not fast.”

“Then why do you do it?”

“Why do you stay here when you're not wanted?”

Her fingers stilled as she studied his eyes. Silver like the gun he wore. She reached for clean bandages and began to redress the wound. “I have my reasons,” she stated softly.

“And I have mine.”

He bit back a groan when she jerked the bandage into a knot. “But you kill!” she spat, loathing laced through her voice.

“You wanted him to rape you?”

Horrified at the callousness of his words, the ease with which he spoke of such brutality, she stepped back. “No, but you could have wounded him.”

He gave a long thoughtful nod. “Could have.”

“You should have. Wounding him would have stopped him as effectively as killing him.”

“Would have stopped him this week. But what about the next? Or the one after that? You protest and act disgusted as though I killed an innocent man. One of his boys held a gun to your brother's temple. You think he wouldn't have given the order to shoot?”

Pressing a hand to her mouth, she spun around. Yes, he would have killed her brother to gain what he wanted from her. She pivoted back around. “Who are you to be judge, jury, and executioner?”

“He knew my reputation. He drew first. If I'd wounded him, he would have come after me, and he would have seen to it the odds weren't so even because then it would have been a matter of revenge. I learned the hard way to never leave a man who drew on me breathing, because he'll find another time to draw on me—usually when my back is turned.”

“How can you live like that?”

Averting his gaze, he stood and reached for his shirt, but not before she caught a glimpse of loneliness reflected in his eyes. Grunting with his efforts, he pulled his shirt over his head. Without thought, she tugged the linen down and began to slip the buttons into place. She felt the touch of his gaze roaming over her face like a gentle caress. She didn't move when he slowly lifted his hand. Tenderly, he cradled her cheek with a roughened palm that killed. She raised her eyes to his.

“I remember you holding my hand, caressing my brow—”

“I'd caress a snake to keep it from dying in my bed.”

His unexpected smile sent unwanted shafts of pleasure swirling through her. It changed him, made him look not so harsh, made it easy to forget that he valued life so little.

“You know the legend, lady, but you don't know the man. And damn if I'm not tempted to introduce you to the man.”

His nostrils flared, his lips parted as he lowered his mouth. She knew she should step away, but her feet were rooted to the spot like an ancient oak tree. He was wild and dangerous, everything she feared, all that she longed for. She welcomed the strength in his hand as he tilted her face, the yearning in his silver eyes, his breath wafting over her cheek as he neared.

Thundering footsteps resounded through the house mere seconds before Toby burst into the room. “Riders are comin'!”

Tenseness rippled through Wilder as he pierced her with his narrowed, suspicious gaze. She shook her head, knowing by his guarded expression what he was thinking. “I didn't tell anyone you were hurt.”

He snapped his attention to Toby. “How many?”

“They're workin' up a cloud of dust. I couldn't count 'em.”

Chance released her, withdrew his gun with the hand that had just caressed her cheek, checked the bullets, and slipped it back into his holster. He grabbed his duster, grimacing as he maneuvered into it. He settled his hat low over his brow. “You and the boy stay inside. If bullets start to fly, take cover.”

“Not every person is a threat.”

“If I'm wrong, then you can invite them in for tea,” he growled as he stalked from the room. She heard the front door slam in his wake.

“I don't think he's wrong, Lil,” Toby said.

She slipped her arm around him. “You stay here. I'm going into the front room so I can see what's happening.” As quietly as possible she left her bedroom, crept to the window that overlooked the porch, eased the blue gingham curtains aside and peered out. Wilder stood on the front porch, one hip cocked, his duster pulled back to reveal his gun. The riders drew their horses to a halt. One man urged his mount forward.

“Are you Chance Wilder?”

“Yep.” Wilder pulled a matchstick from his pocket and wedged it between his teeth.

“They say you always work for the man with the best offer.”

“That's what they say,” Wilder replied.

“Mr. Ward wants to see you up at his house.”

Wilder withdrew the match from his mouth and pointed toward the corral. “I'd be obliged if one of your men would saddle my horse. It's the dun-colored beauty.”

Lillian sank to the floor, her heart thundering. She could think of only one reason why John Ward would seek an audience with Chance Wilder. He wanted to hire the man, and she knew he'd offer Wilder more than a harmonica, a bent coin, and a length of string.

C
HANCE'
S SPURS JANGLED
as he followed John Ward's foreman through the sprawling ranch house to a room decorated with cow skulls and horns. A man in his mid-thirties glanced up from his chair behind a large oak desk. “Come in, Mr. Wilder, and have a seat.”

Ignoring the chair set in front of the desk, Chance ambled to a leather chair that rested against the wall. He sat and casually crossed his foot over his knee, studying the man who was studying him. John Ward looked as though he'd earned his place in the world.

“You're dismissed,” he said to the foreman without taking his gaze off Chance. The foreman backed out of the room and closed the door behind him.

“You were supposed to meet with me this afternoon,” Ward said.

“Had something else to do.”

A muscle twitched in Ward's jaw. “Wade Armstrong worked for me.” He leaned forward. “I thought you did, too.”

“I got a better offer.”

Ward narrowed his blue eyes and set his mouth into a grim line. “I don't take kindly to being betrayed. You and I had an understanding.”

“I never commit myself to an offer until I get a lay of the land and a feel for the stakes involved. I spent two days riding your land. I can't see that it's hurting you not to have that little patch the woman's living on.”

“How in the hell do you think my mother feels knowing that her husband died in his whore's bed?”

Chance's stomach knotted. Jack Ward had died in Lillian's bed, in her arms? Something akin to jealousy shot through him at the thought. He knew what she was, but he hadn't truly envisioned her in bed with the man, in the bed in which she'd tended his wound. “Make her an offer—”

“My father gave her all she'll ever get from the Wards. I want her and the boy run off that land, and if you won't do it, I'll find someone who will.”

“Be sure that he's as good as his reputation because he'll have to get past me first.” Chance unfolded his body and strode from the room.