The Gunslinger (5 page)

She nodded jerkily. “I don't want John Ward killed.” How could she warn the man when approaching him meant her certain death?

Wilder leaned in until his warm breath fanned her face. He shifted his thumbs and gently stroked the corners of her mouth. “I give you my word that I'll let the bastard live.”

He slashed his mouth over hers, demanding, claiming all that she offered to willingly pay: her body, her heart, her soul. She could not give one without giving the others.

His tongue delved deeply, hungrily, as though he were a man coming off a fast. Then like a man whose hunger had eased, he gentled his touch. He threaded his fingers through her hair while the callused pads of his thumbs caressed her cheek. She had never been kissed with such tenderness, had never experienced so great a yearning to give back in kind what she was receiving. She twined her arms around his neck and heard his guttural groan. He tore his mouth from hers and blazed a trail of hot, moist kisses along the column of her throat. A tiny gasp escaped her lips.

Without warning, he surged to his feet. She stared at his rigid back and listened to his harsh breathing echoing through the night. She struggled to her feet. Afraid her trembling legs would give out beneath her, she clung to the porch post for support. “Chance?”

“Go to bed, Li—lady,” he growled.

She licked her swollen lips, tasting where he had been. “Are you—”

“I'm sleeping in the barn.”

“I don't understand. I thought you wanted me.”

He spun around. “Christ, lady, I do want you . . . more than I've ever wanted anything. And that's the very reason I won't take what you're offering.”

She watched him storm toward the barn, disappointment slamming into her. Disappointment with him because he'd left her with a woman's yearnings. Disappointment with herself because she wished he'd satisfied those longings.

 

Chapter 5

H
AVING ENDURED A
restless night's sleep, Lillian dragged herself out of bed before the sun had yet to peer over the horizon. After washing her face, brushing and rebraiding her hair, she changed into a simple dress and apron. She made her bed, then walked to the window. Wilder's horse was still in the corral. She was hoping that he might have left sometime during the night. It was going to be awkward to greet him this morning. She had difficulty believing what she'd offered him. Or the sting of mortification she'd felt when he rejected it.

She couldn't deny that Wilder was handsome in a rugged sort of way. Nor could she deny that she was drawn to him as she'd never been drawn to another man. Maybe it was the loneliness in him that so mirrored hers. Maybe it was because they were both outcasts. Maybe it was because in spite of his roughened manner, he was patient with Toby.

Or maybe it was simply that he would be leaving soon, taking with him the absence of judgment. He didn't look at her as though she were beneath him. He didn't talk to her condescendingly. He didn't turn his back on her. He didn't try to harm her.

None of those things could be said about the citizens of this area. They were never going to accept her, not if John Ward had any say in the matter, and it appeared he had a great deal of say. But she wasn't going to be run off. The land was hers, and by God, they could bury her in it, but they weren't going to take it from her.

Sighing, she contemplated the barn inside which Wilder slept. She couldn't leave the cows much longer without milking them. No reason for them to suffer simply because she was dreading seeing the man who had kissed her so thoroughly and then walked away.

Grabbing the lamp, she left her room and peered into Toby's. He was still sprawled over the bed. He got up with the sun, not before. She refrained from going in and ruffling her fingers through his hair. She didn't know if she'd ever love anyone as much as she loved him. She hated that he was so quickly losing his innocence. Maybe they should leave, but what would she be teaching him if they walked away simply because things were difficult? If she'd learned one lesson in life, it was that things were always challenging.

In the kitchen, she traded the lamp for a lantern. When she stepped onto the porch, she realized the barn door was ajar and pale light was spilling out into the graying dawn. Straining her ears to hear any sounds coming from inside, she heard only the gentle wind whistling through the trees. With the lantern held aloft to guide her steps, she made her way to the sturdy structure. As silently as possible, she eased through the opening and was greeted with the low hum of her favorite song, “Red River Valley,” and the
shoosh
of milk hitting tin. She tiptoed forward until she reached Bessie's far stall.

Wilder sat on a small stool that was too short for his long legs. His hands were busy working Bessie's teats. He wore only his shirt, trousers, boots, and gun. But for a moment he appeared almost peaceful, lost in the perpetual rhythm, humming, eyes closed. She wanted to kneel beside him, comb her fingers through his hair, trail her thumbs over his face, settle them at the corners of his mouth.

But he seemed so serene, she felt like an intruder. Yet she couldn't make herself walk away. She wondered what had put this man on the path he traveled. He didn't seem evil or wicked or mean.

Bessie mooed. Wilder slowly opened his eyes. “Had your fill of staring?” he asked.

“I wasn't staring.” That would be rude. “I was just caught off-guard. How long have you known I was here?”

“Since you walked through the door.”

“You could have said something.”

He peered over at her, a corner of his mouth hitching up. “So could you.”

She wasn't going to confess she'd been too entranced, that he was a contradiction she wanted to explore, even knowing that with him, there would never be anything beyond heartache. “I don't expect you to do my chores.”

“It's good exercise for my hands, keeps them loose. I would have chopped some firewood for you, but I don't think my shoulder is up to heaving an ax just yet.”

She thought of how welcome it would be to have a man around permanently to handle that difficult task for her.

“Why doesn't the boy see to this chore?” he asked. “I was milking cows at his age.”

Suddenly he looked uncomfortable, as though he'd revealed too much. She'd never envisioned him as a child. Milking a cow seemed a normal activity for a boy. She wondered what else he might have done: swam in the creek, climbed trees, chased butterflies. No, she couldn't see him doing the latter. That was an activity in which she'd engaged, wanting to hold something so pretty. Instead she'd squashed one of the delicate creatures in her enthusiasm and never chased another. “I don't like him being out here before the sun is up. You never know what sort of animal is lurking in the shadows.”

His expression hardened, and she was compelled to say, “I wasn't referring to you.”

Yesterday morning, she would have been, but now she didn't know what to make of him.

“You can't protect him forever,” he said.

“No, but I can for a while.”

His hands stilled. Reaching for the bucket, he stood.

“I can carry that to the house,” she told him.

“I'll do it. It'll be good for my shoulder. It's getting stiff.”

The sun was beginning to ease over the horizon, hinting at a lovely day. She doused the flame in the lantern and tried not to consider the manner in which he barely looked at her. For all of his attitude, the kiss last night might just as well not have happened. It irritated her that she could grow warm with his nearness while he seemed not at all affected by hers.

She fought not to think about what it might be like to walk beside a man every morning as they tended to chores. She'd never had fanciful thoughts about love. She was much too practical. But sometimes . . .

“Do you ever think about settling down, Mr. Wilder?”

“No point in it.”

“In thinking about it or settling down?” she asked, making her voice light.

“Both. I see no point in longing for what you can't have.”

“Surely as big as this country is, you could find a place where people wouldn't seek you out.”

“You're going on the assumption that I don't want to be found.”

She nearly staggered over her feet, with the certain realization that he chose this life of violence. How easy it was to forget as a new dawn brought brightness to the day that darkness still hovered.

He set the bucket on the porch. “Let me know when you're ready to head into town. I'll saddle a horse for you.” He turned on his heel.

It seemed in this matter, at least, Wilder was going to serve as her champion, apparently holding with his promise to escort her to the sheriff. Her father had never been present when she was growing up, Toby's father had been in their lives only briefly, so she'd never known what it was to rely on a man for protection. She was accustomed to being independent, standing up for herself. Still, reluctantly she admitted that she was grateful she wouldn't have to go into town alone. She needed to put her reservations about this man aside and show her gratitude. “Breakfast will be on the table in half an hour, Mr. Wilder. I expect you not to be tardy.”

Stopping, he looked back over his shoulder. “Appreciate the food. I'll take it on the porch.”

“The table, Mr. Wilder. Inside.”

He lifted his arm, fingers poised as though to touch the brim of a hat he suddenly realized he wasn't wearing. “I'll wash up.”

Lifting the bucket, she watched as his long strides carried him back to the barn. He'd be leaving after they saw the sheriff. She didn't know why she wanted him to carry the memory of a few more minutes in her company with him. Or why she wanted to pretend for a while that neither of them were pariahs.

C
HANCE COULDN'T REME
MBER
the last time he sat down to a meal at a table situated inside a house. He ate in saloons, the occasional hotel, sitting in front of a campfire beneath the stars. And on front porches. He didn't usually get invited inside someone's home. He didn't count waking up in her bedroom. No invitation had been issued. Necessity had led him there.

But this . . . standing close to the table that was set near an oven, he watched as she bent over and removed biscuits from the heated interior. He grew warm at the sight of her backside, the apron strings running along a curve he longed to touch. He should have told her she couldn't order him to eat at her table. He should have just mounted his horse and ridden out. But where she was concerned, he hadn't done what he should since the boy barreled into the saloon asking for his help.

“Is there anything I can see to?” he asked.

“Just have a seat,” she said, smiling at him as she set down a basket holding the biscuits. A small bit of flour rested on the curve of her cheek, right up against her nose. He wanted to wipe it away with his lips, then take his mouth on a journey that covered every inch of her.

He'd known the moment she stepped into the barn. He'd trained himself to be attuned to his environment, to sense changes, to be alert to the smallest fluctuation in his surroundings. He'd heard the crinkle of hay beneath her feet, felt the shift in air accommodating her movements, was aware of her soft short breaths. When she was near enough, he inhaled her fragrance. He'd sat on that stool relishing the ordinary, had allowed those quiet moments to carry him back to a time before he'd strapped on a gun, when he would have welcomed her into his arms and greeted the day with far more passion.

Dangerous to let his thoughts wander to the possibilities that might exist between them. He couldn't stay and she didn't want to leave. And even if she did, what could he offer except the opportunity to watch him die when his luck ran out?

“Toby!” she called out, then retrieved a bowl of gravy and a plate of bacon, set them on the table, reached for her chair—

Chance beat her to it, pulling it out for her. She stared at him as though she hadn't expected him to know the courtesy a man extended to a woman. Or maybe she just thought he wouldn't have bothered, when the truth was that he wanted to do more for her. Again, dangerous thoughts that could lure him into forgetting the dangers, the loneliness, the ugliness his life entailed. He couldn't ask her to share it, wouldn't ask her.

His gaze dropped to her lips, and he contemplated taking one more kiss, just one.

The boy barreled in and dropped into his chair, breaking whatever spell had frozen them in place. She sat. Chance took his seat. She held the basket toward him.

“Lil makes the best biscuits,” the boy said.

“I'm sure she does,” he said, taking her offering and plucking out a biscuit that nearly scorched his fingers. He smothered it in gravy before adding the eggs and bacon to his plate. He'd wolfed down half his food before he realized she was eating slowly, delicately—civilized. “Been a while since I sat down to a meal with folks.”

She smiled softly. “I take it as a testament to my cooking when it's eaten with such enthusiasm.”

“Can't remember when I've had better.” Returning his attention to his plate, he finished off what remained before helping himself to seconds. He figured it was the best way to compliment her.

“Toby, we'll be going to town this morning,” she said.

The boy snapped his head around and stared at Chase, worry clouding blue eyes a shade lighter than his sister's. “You're coming, too, ain't you?”

Giving him a brusque nod, Chase watched as relief washed over the kid's face.

“We're going to speak with the sheriff,” she said. “After that everything will be fine.”

He wondered where she got her optimism. He thought it a shame that the folks around here would never give themselves the opportunity to know her. John Ward would ensure it, and he knew there was little he himself could do about it.

His plate empty, he downed the last of the sweet coffee she'd given him earlier. Then he stood. “Appreciate the meal. I'll be getting ready for our trip into town. Just let me know when you're all set to go.”

He strode through the doorway and into the vast expanse of the yard. Eating in her home—and it was a home, not a house—had been a mistake. With the force of a bullet through the chest, it had reminded him of what he'd never possess. He was more determined than ever to ensure she kept it.

At any cost.

L
ILLIAN WAS WA
SHING
the plates when she heard the echo of the first bullet. “Wait here,” she ordered Toby.

Broom in hand after sweeping beneath the table, Toby opened his mouth to protest. Two more reports cracked the stillness of the morning.

“No arguing,” she called over her shoulder, already rushing to the door. Opening it without thought to the dangers she might face, worried only about Wilder, she stepped onto the porch, surprised by the absence of men holding guns. She started to glance around—

Another gunshot. Jerking her head to the side, she saw Wilder standing a good distance from the house, his back to her, gun in holster—then the Colt was free of its moorings and he fired at a red bandana hanging from a tree branch. It whipped through the air before settling into place and fluttering in the breeze.

He slid the gun back into the holster, dragged his shirt over his head and dropped it to the ground. She watched in horror as he began removing the bandage. She started running. “Chance Wilder, don't you dare—”

She staggered to a stop as he struck with the swiftness of a rattler, sliding his gun from his holster as he went low, then froze. Breathing harshly, he shook his head. “Damn, lady, don't sneak up on a man who's practicing his shooting.”