The Gunslinger (6 page)

“I didn't sneak.” She was having difficulty drawing in air, as though every muscle in her body had locked. “I thought you were getting ready to go to town.”

He straightened, slid the gun back into the holster with ease. “I am.” Rolling his shoulder, he removed the remaining bandages. The wound looked red and angry, but the stitches were holding.

“You need that linen to protect your shoulder,” she told him.

“It's too confining.”

Realizing with mounting dread that his readying for a trip into town included preparing himself to kill someone, she marched forward until she was standing nearly toe-to-toe with him. “I don't believe in violence, Mr. Wilder.”

Staring at her as though she'd left her good sense in the kitchen, he shook his head. “It's not invisible angels that you can choose to have faith in. Violence exists, lady, whether or not you believe in it.”

“You're going into town expecting trouble.”

“Not expecting it, but equipped to handle it. I haven't drawn my gun in a couple of days so I need to loosen up. If you'll step aside . . .”

“And if I don't?”

He studied her as though she were a puzzle he was intent on deciphering.

She was barely aware of her fingers reaching out until they lighted upon his chest, warm and firm. She told herself that she was testing him for fever, but the fire was burning inside her, and there seemed little she could do to stop it. She felt the steady thundering of his heart against her palm. Did it remain as constant when he was facing death? “Why can't you walk away?” she asked.

Slowly he shook his head. “Damned if I know.”

She wondered if he was answering a different question than what she'd intended. She wanted to know why he couldn't walk away from a gunfight. She almost convinced herself that he was saying he couldn't walk away from her.

“Do you know how to use a gun?” he asked.

“A rifle, for hunting game.” She released a small laugh. “I miss my target more often than I hit it.”

Stepping back, he withdrew his gun, and she worked not to regret that she was no longer touching him. He held the gun toward her. “Here, take it.”

She couldn't keep the surprise from her voice. “You're giving up gunfighting?”

He grinned broadly. “No. I'm going to teach you how to use it.”

“Why would I need that particular lesson?”

“Because before we visit the sheriff, we're going to the gunsmith and purchase you a pistol.”

“I told you that I'm against violence.”

“I'm not saying you have to use it, but nothing wrong with knowing how. And if you handle it in the shop like you know what you're doing, word will spread. Rumors alone might keep the wolves from your door. That's what you want. Just to keep them away.”

She supposed there was some value in a deterrent. If she was going to have a gun on the premises, she needed to know how to use it, or at least give the impression of knowing how. Taking the gun, she was surprised by its weight and the solidness of it.

He came to stand behind her. “I assume you favor your right hand.”

“Yes.”

“Spread your feet, wrap both hands around the grip.”

She did as he instructed. His arms came around her and his hands folded over hers. She was acutely aware of his bare chest pressed to her back, the firmness of the muscles in his arms, the strength radiating through his large hands. Lowering his head until his cheek was just a whisper's breadth from hers, he said in a low voice that sent a shiver of unwanted pleasure through her, “Using your thumbs, pull back the hammer.”

She struggled with the tension, heard the click of success.

“Hold the gun level, look down the sight, aim at the center of the kerchief. You want to make it dance.”

She was incredibly attuned to his nearness, his dark masculine scent, the bristles along his jaw. How could she focus on a target when all her senses were concentrated on him? “What do you know of dancing, Mr. Wilder?”

“That I'd probably step on toes.”

In spite of her best intentions, she smiled. “Have you never danced?”

“No. You?”

“No.” Something else they had in common. She didn't like the kinship it made her feel toward him.

“Someday a fella will dance with you.”

“That sort of sentiment falls in the realm of dreams, and you don't strike me as a dreamer, Mr. Wilder.”

His breathing was slow, calm, while she was hardly breathing at all. “Even a realist can occasionally have a moment's fancy.”

She didn't know why his words sent joy spiraling through her. Was he imagining dancing with her, just as she was envisioning waltzing with him?

“Now, lady, aim for the red,” he said in a flat voice that shattered whatever delicate connection had been weaving itself between them.

Or perhaps she was simply having a moment of insanity to believe that anything at all was developing between them. She raised the gun, looked down the length of the barrel.

“Squeeze the trigger slowly but firmly,” he ordered.

She did. The flag danced. The recoil lifted her arms, knocked her back slightly, and his arms tightened around her, steadying her.

“Gawd almighty, you hit it!” Toby cried.

She and Wilder jumped apart as though they were too young lovers caught spooning. Wilder's face turned as red as an apple. The gunslinger was blushing, and that little fact warmed someplace deep inside her. She wished it didn't, wished she didn't notice everything about him. She turned to Toby. “I told you to stay in the house.”

“But you were gone so long, I had to make sure you were all right.”

She was at once touched and saddened that her young brother felt a responsibility toward her. She was supposed to be looking out for him.

Wilder strode to the red neckerchief and spread it wide to reveal a ragged hole. “Dang, you hit it right in the center.”

He untied from the branch what she now realized was the string Toby had given him. He stuffed it and the bandana into his pocket before walking over to retrieve his gun. “Remind me to never make you mad,” he said.

“I don't believe a gun is the answer to settling disputes.”

“Shame John Ward doesn't feel the same. Boy, help me get the horses saddled.” He snatched up his shirt and duster and headed for the barn, Toby trailing after him like a puppy desperate for a pat on the head.

It was a lucky shot, she knew that, but still, she hadn't much liked how during that one brief second when thunder had reverberated through her hands she had felt invincible. Was that what Chance Wilder was seeking? The power of life and death?

 

Chapter 6

“
N
OT A DAMN
thing I can do. They haven't broken any laws.”

Lillian glared at Sheriff Bergen. The graying mustache that drooped down on either side of his mouth gave him the appearance of frowning whether he was or not. She placed her hands on her hips and leaned slightly over his cluttered desk. “But he threatened to run us off our land.”

“No law against threatening people.” His brown eyes held an acceptance she wasn't willing to tolerate.

She leaned over farther. “He is going to hire someone—”

“Ain't against the law to hire someone.”

She jerked back. “It's not against the law to hire someone to kill me?”

The sheriff snorted. “John Ward isn't going to hire someone to kill you.”

The anger surging through her, she spun around and locked her gaze onto Chance's. He stood with his back against the wall, his arms crossed over his chest, his face void of expression, as though he had expected the sheriff's words. “Didn't he offer to hire you?”

He gave a long slow nod.

“To kill me?”

He twisted his lips into a sardonic smile. “He's too smart to put it that bluntly. All he told me to do was run you off the land. A man can take that any number of ways.”

“I imagine a hired killer would only take it one way,” she snapped, turning her attention back to the sheriff. “You have to do something.”

Bergen moved his mouth as though he were chewing an idea. “I know it's hard to understand, but until he's actually broken the law, I can't arrest him just in case he might break the law.”

“This is ridiculous. Can't you at least talk to him?”

“And tell him what?” the sheriff countered. “If he kills you, I'll arrest him? He knows that.”

“I can't believe there is absolutely nothing you can do.”

He shook his craggy head. “My job is to enforce the law—”

“And to protect the citizens,” Chance said. Lillian jerked her head around. He shifted his hard-edged gaze from her to the sheriff. “Why don't you arrange a meeting between Miss Madison and Ward? Maybe they could come to a peaceful agreement.”

“I don't imagine there will be any peace unless Miss Madison leaves or John's mother dies. Mrs. Ward can't stand the thought of her husband's . . .” The deep red circles burning brightly on Sheriff Bergen's cheeks seemed out of place on the older man. He cleared his throat. “ . . . Jack's mistress living near Lonesome. And you can understand if you look at it from her point of view—she was married to Jack for forty years, helped him build something out of nothing. A woman don't take kindly to evidence of a man's unfaithfulness, and him dying in your bed was damning evidence—for him and you.”

Lillian tasted the bitterness of defeat. They had lived here only three months, and the happiness she and Toby longed for hovered just beyond reach. She straightened her shoulders. “Thank you for your time, Sheriff.”

Trembling with fury, she marched out of the sheriff's office and stumbled to a stop on the wooden boardwalk. Toby turned away from the horses, his grin wobbly. “What'd he say?”

She forced herself to smile. “The sheriff doesn't think we have anything to worry about.”

She turned her head as Chance came to stand beside her. “You knew the sheriff wouldn't do anything to help me, didn't you?” she asked, her anger smoldering.

He tugged the brim of his hat lower. “Figured there wouldn't be a lot he could do. What you need is to hire someone to protect you. Fortunately for you, your brother already did that.”

“You said you were going to leave.”

“Changed my mind.”

Relief coursed through her, then warred with doubt. “I don't want a hired gun—”

“Don't argue with me, lady. I know you don't like what I am, but I'm the only chance you've got right now if you want to stay alive. If you won't keep me around for yourself, keep me around for the boy—until we can arrange a meeting with Ward and work out a better solution.”

“I don't understand you. There's no money in this for you, there's no gain.”

“Maybe there's something of more value.”

“What exactly would that be?”

He looked at her so long that she didn't think he was going to answer. Finally he said, “Redemption.”

A thousand questions spiraled through her mind. That he needed redeeming, she did not doubt. That helping her could provide—

“Wilder!”

She spun around. A man stood in the middle of the street, his hands flexing over a pair of guns strapped on either side of his hips. Chance slowly turned to face the man, who began to fidget.

“They say you're the best gun this side of the Rio Grande,” the man announced.

Chance gave a long slow nod. “That's what they say.”

“I'm calling you out.”

Chance released a low sigh as he reached into his pocket, pulled out a matchstick, and wedged it between his teeth. “Lady, you and the boy get inside.”

Her heart leapt into her throat. “You can't possibly—”

“Do it now,” he snarled between clenched teeth.

She grabbed Toby by the arm and pulled him into the sheriff's office. With the door slamming in her wake, she scurried to the window and watched Chance saunter confidently into the middle of the street. Coming up behind her, the sheriff gazed over her shoulder. “You've got to stop them,” she told him.

“Can't. They ain't broke no laws yet.”

In anger, she snapped her head around so quickly she was dizzy. “Damn you! Wilder will kill him.”

Sheriff Bergen shrugged easily, as though he carried no weight on those shoulders. “Probably, but Wilder always works within the law or he'd be wanted for murder.”

“As long as the person who wants the killing done makes the best offer.”

The sheriff raised a thick brow but didn't take his focus off the street. “Like that widow in Dripping Springs? Heard all he got from her was a pig. Besides, from what I hear, he's never killed anyone who didn't deserve to meet his Maker a little early. Take that fella who just called him out. He killed a sixteen-year-old boy in Sherman. Said he was cheating at cards. Hardly seems right to take a life over a jack of diamonds.”

Gunshots cracked the air and unexpected terror ricocheted through Lillian as she swiveled her attention back to the street. Chance was walking stiffly back toward the sheriff's office, and she knew him well enough now to know he'd been wounded. The other man was sprawled in the street, his blood pooling over the ground and soaking into the earth. Grabbing Toby's hand, she rushed outside and off the boardwalk, catching up with Chance as he neared the horses, her gaze flicking wildly over him. “Where did you get shot?”

“Get on your horse,” he said.

“How badly are you hurt?”

He gripped her arm and gave her a small shake, his cold eyes holding hers. “Get on the goddamn horse now.” He shifted his gaze to Bergen, as the sheriff approached them. “I've got witnesses—”

“And I'm one of them,” the sheriff said, stopping in front of Chance. “I saw that he drew first. His name—”

“Don't want to know his name,” Chance cut in as he dropped some coins in the sheriff's palm. “See that he gets a decent burial.”

Toby was already sitting astride his horse when Lillian mounted hers. She heard Chance groan low as he pulled himself into his saddle. She hoped they'd get home before he tumbled from his horse.

C
HANCE WINCED AS
Lillian dabbed the alcohol on his wound. The bullet had creased his right arm. The advantage to being left-handed was that his opponents had a tendency to aim for his right out of habit.

“You have got to learn to draw faster,” Lillian scolded.

A corner of his mouth curved up. He couldn't remember the last time anyone had shown an ounce of concern over his well-being. “Careful, lady,” he warned. “I might begin to think you care.”

His stomach clenched when he saw the tears well within the depths of her blue eyes. He felt as though someone had emptied a six-gun into his chest.

“Why couldn't you have ignored him?” she rasped.

“Because he wouldn't have let up. He was in the saloon the day I got here, trying to gather the courage to challenge me. He was looking to gain a reputation. At least by facing him, I was able to control from which direction the bullet came.” Cradling her cheek, stroking her soft skin, he knew he was inviting danger. Walking away last night had been the hardest thing he'd ever done—and he couldn't explain why he'd done it. She wasn't innocent. She'd been an old man's . . . lover. But never his whore. No matter how many men Lillian Madison took into her bed, she'd never be any man's whore. She was too fine, too gentle for that. So he admitted to her what he'd never told another soul. “I don't want the bullet with my name on it to come from behind.”

The tears brimmed over and trailed down her cheeks, rolling along the curve of his thumb. “Is that why you always keep your back against the wall, even here?”

He nodded. “I think about how nice it would be if I didn't worry about that last bullet, but the thought gnaws at me like a squirrel with a pecan.”

She blinked back the tears and sniffed. “Why do you stick a match into your mouth? You only seem to do it when you sense danger.”

“If I tell you, you gotta promise not to tell a soul.”

She gave a curt nod. “I promise.”

“In the heat of a gunfight, my tongue rolls out of my mouth. I damn near bit it off once. Biting down on a match keeps it in place where it belongs.”

She laughed, a musical melody that he'd remember as long as he drew breath, and touched her fingers to the hair curling around his ears. “You are nothing like I expected.”

“I could say the same about you.” Her laughter dwindled along with her smile. He brought her hand to his lips, holding her gaze. “And that, lady, makes you so damned dangerous.”

L
I
LLIAN WATCHED
W
ILDER
walk through the fallow fields beyond the house. He'd insisted on taking his supper on the porch even though she invited him to join them inside. It wasn't reasonable to want to know everything about him. It wasn't wise to be glad that he was staying a little while longer. It wasn't logical to realize she might be falling in love with him.

Strolling through the tall grass and weeds, she saw him crouch down. When she reached him, he scooped up the dirt and sifted it through his fingers.

“It's good soil,” he said. “What are you going to grow?”

She knelt beside him and shrugged. “I haven't a clue. I don't know anything about farming.”

“Corn would be good.”

Watching his gaze roam over the fields, she was left with the distinct impression that he could actually envision the corn growing. “Were you a farmer?”

He dumped the remaining dirt out of his palm, stood, and slapped his hand against his thigh. “Once. A long time back.”

She rose to her feet. “What turns a farmer into a hired gun?”

She watched his Adam's apple slowly rise and fall as he swallowed. “A desire to die.”

In long strides, he strode across the fields. She hurried to catch up to him. “Why would you want to die?”

“Because I didn't want to live.”

“Why?”

He staggered to a stop, and she nearly slammed into him.

“Why the sudden interest?” he asked.

“I've always been interested, but I think I was afraid to know the truth. What sort of man are you, Chance Wilder? A man offers you a fortune and you turn your back on it for a piece of string and a bent coin. You've killed twenty-four men, twenty-six counting Wade and that fella today.”

“That's what they say.”

She stared at him, comprehension slowly dawning. “
They say
you've killed twenty-six men.
They say
you're fast.
They say
you always work for the best offer. But you don't say.” She angled her head thoughtfully. “How many have you killed?”

“Before I came to Lonesome?”

She nodded, wondering whether to welcome or dread the truth, if it was what she suspected or far worse than anything she could imagine.

“Eight.”

Relief swamped her, washing away the tension that had mounted while she'd waited for his answer. He had killed, but not to the degree she'd believed. “Tell me about the woman in Dripping Springs. The one who paid you a pig.”

“Two pigs. She paid me two pigs to make her neighbor think twice before trampling his herd through her garden.”

“How did you stop him?”

“Paid him a visit, told him she was under my protection and that I'd take it kindly if he'd keep his cattle on his land. He obliged by putting up a fence.”

She laughed lightly. “You're not as tough as you pretend to be.”

He narrowed his eyes into silver slits. “I'm tough, lady. Never make the mistake of thinking I'm not. I've been on my own since I was fourteen.”

“What happened when you were fourteen?”

He hesitated.

“Are you afraid to tell me?” she goaded. “Afraid I might realize you aren't so tough?”

She saw a muscle in his jaw clench.

“I went hunting . . . with my brother. James was four years older than I was. It's been ten years, but I can see him clearly—like he was standing in front of me. We lived in Palo Pinto. Lot of renegades and outlaws causing trouble back then.” A far-off look came over his expression, as though his mind were traveling back to an earlier time, a different yet familiar place. “We separated, thinking we'd have better luck finding game. Then I heard him scream.” Anguish reshaped the lines of his face. “By my count close to two dozen renegades had taken him by surprise. They were torturing him, and his screams for mercy were echoing around me. I couldn't save him.”