A Texan’s Honor (16 page)

Seconds later, he brought Scout yet another glass liberally filled with amber fluid. Feeling like the girl was going to make him need a never-ending supply of the stuff, Scout lifted his tumbler with a wry expression. "Cheers."

As he tossed back another mouthful, she carefully poured her steeping tea into a chipped cup. After blowing on it twice, she closed her eyes and sipped tentatively, as if a cup of tea were a real treat.

He was just contemplating how many times she'd probably mended her ragtag dress, when she spoke. "Mr. Proffitt, there's no good way to ask you what I'm gonna."

"Then just spit it out."

Pressing her palms on the table, she leaned forward. "All right. I want you to kill my stepfather."

Part of his brain wished he was shocked. Surprised. But all her request did was answer the question. The stepfather was the reason for the torn dress.

But just to be sure he was reading everything right, he said, "Why?"

"Does it matter?"

"Not really if you pay me enough. But something tells me you don't got much."

"He beat me."

"That all?" To his way of thinking, that didn't explain the torn dress.

"No."

"Ah."

Her eyes widened as she realized he wasn't shocked. "My brother got himself killed with some rustlers a year ago. Since then, well, it's been just my stepfather and me," she said. Her voice cool and matter-of-fact, she continued. "He's an evil man. Mean."

"And your mother?"

The girl picked up the mug again and stared into the weak brew. "She didn't survive the war."

"I see."

Dark eyes flashed darker. "I don't know if you do. See, he's used me for as long as I can remember."

Used.
Pity flowed through him, somehow finding a thin, narrow-winding path to his heart and his conscience. Unable to help himself, he looked her over more carefully. Now that his eyes had adjusted better to the dim light, he noticed the bruises on the delicate skin of her neck. On the smooth expanse of bare skin bordering that torn collar.

Anger for her situation boiled deep inside. Irritation that she'd decided to involve him in her problems nagged him like tiny pinpricks. Hadn't he already told her he was no one's savior?

"Why don't you run?" he asked.

"I don't know where I'd go."

"Away. All you have to do is just go away." After all, that was what he'd done, wasn't it? When he'd realized that he'd missed the war 'cause he'd been too young, when one too many bitter, ruined men had looked at him with derision, saying he had no idea what life was like, he'd run because he'd known they were right.

Yep, he'd run when he'd realized that he was weak.

Then he'd ventured even further into the abyss when he'd realized he would never be the man his father was. And never, ever be the hero his older brother Clayton was. Clayton had commanded hundreds of men, some double his age and had courageously led them into battle. He'd saved innocents, supported the weak, and inspired the brave.

One night when his insomnia had been particularly bad, Scout had looked up into the stars and realized that God just didn't make men like Clayton more than once in a blue moon.

And moreover, the good Lord wasn't likely to waste time on someone as undeserving as himself.

And so he'd taken to wearing only black and made a reputation that could never compete with a soldier's honor and glory. A reputation so dark and ugly that the only way it could be measured with Clayton's was as the complete opposite.

Scout gripped the glass again and brought it to his lips, then was stunned to see that it was empty. Again. He held it up. "Barkeep?"

Sitting next to him, sipping that tea like she was at a church social, Kitty continued. "Mr. Proffitt, see . . . I'm not a man."

"I noticed that."

She ignored his comment. "There's no way for me to make my living unless I want to sell my body."

She had a point—no denying that. But what she didn't realize was that there was still a sweetness to her that paying for a murder would destroy.

Hoping to scare her, he raised a brow. "If you can't give me money, how do you suppose you're gonna pay my fee?"

Swallowing hard, she called his bluff. "However you want me to."

Lord have mercy!
Turning around, he begged the bartender for liquid salvation. "Whiskey," he ordered, his voice strained.

When the fool man finally started pouring, he turned back to Kitty. "I'm not going to kill for you. I'm sorry."

"But—"

"Look. If word got out that you hired me, you could be strung up for murder, and dying like that is a painful way to go." She blanched. Exactly as he'd intended for her to. "Sorry," he said again, surprising himself. He wasn't a man to apologize for anything.

At last the whiskey came. Scout picked up the shot like it was his lifeline.

A full minute passed.

She sipped her tea again, the tremors in her hands making Scout half hold his breath waiting for the hot liquid to slosh over the brim and burn her thin fingers.

"I'm sorry too, Mr. Proffitt," she said. After another sip, she started to scoot back. Then the door to the saloon opened and a dark hulk of a man appeared.

"Kitty! Kitty, where the hell are you?" he called out. His voice slurred. Desperate. "I heard you were in here. Kitty!"

To their right, the bartender cleared his throat.

One second passed. Maybe two. The girl across from Scout visibly shook but scooted out her chair the rest of the way and awkwardly got to her feet.

Scout knew the moment the man spied her. His stance became almost rock solid. "Git over here."

All discussion halted in the room as everyone stared. Waited.

Obviously, the scene had been played out before all over town.

It was also obvious that no one had any intention of changing things.

When Kitty stepped forward—one hand fingering the poorly mended collar like she was already preparing to sew it up again—Scout knew he had no choice. Throwing out a hand, he grasped her elbow and halted her. "Sit back down."

When she turned her head to stare at him, complete surprise was in her gaze.

Shaming him.

He lowered his voice until it was hardly more than a whisper. "Do it." She sat back down.

"Girl?" The drunk scanned the area, fixated on her, and trudged forward. "Git over—"

"I wouldn't say another word," Scout said.

"Why the hell not?"

The barkeep behind him coughed. The woman in the chair trembled.

Scout looked at her. "How old are you?"

"Eighteen."

Relief, sharp and cool, flowed through him. "Because this lady isn't your property any longer. She's of legal age."

The guy swayed and smirked. "And what are you gonna do? Stop me?"

Though he hadn't wanted to do this, Scout realized the outcome was inevitable. Blood was going to have to be shed, because sometimes that was the only thing that people paid attention to.

But just as he was fingering his Colt, deciding where to shoot so he wouldn't take out a handful of innocents along the way, the bartender spoke.

"That there is Scout Proffitt, Duke.
The
Scout Proffitt."

Some of Duke's oily confidence slipped away. "That true?"

"Why would he lie?" Scout murmured.

"That girl, she's mine."

"Not anymore." Scout looked around at the whole assemblage. At everyone who knew what wasn't right but hadn't wanted to make things better for the woman sitting on his left.

"Fact is, Kitty here was just telling me she's had just about enough of being yours." He paused then gave in to what surely seemed to be predestined. "I'm going to take her with me."

"You won't want her for long. . . . She'll scratch you."

The sick warning made his stomach turn. Though he ached to tell the man that he certainly didn't want to use the woman, that he had no intention of lying with her, he kept his thoughts to himself.

Instead, he smiled. "I guess I'll take my chances." Eyeing the crowd, he added, "Now, are y'all going to let us get on our way . . . or not?"

"Take her, Mr. Proffitt," the barkeep murmured behind him. "Not a soul here's gonna fight you. If you took her, it would be a blessing."

Scout turned around in surprise. Who would ever speak to him about blessings?

The shock must have shown on his face, because the man tugged at his collar and reddened.

And as Kitty sat there like a stone, listening to every word, the barkeep continued. "She's a decent sort, that girl is," he said, stumbling over every word like they were getting stuck in his teeth. "She could've been better . . . in other circumstances."

The words sounded familiar.

Funny, they were the same ones he'd told himself time and again when he was riding alone and the night was falling. He'd stop and think about his day—and his life—and compare it to Clayton's. He always came up wanting.

That's when he'd known that if things had been different everything would have been better. If he hadn't killed his mother in childbirth, if his pa hadn't died in the war, and if Clayton hadn't followed their father into battle, trying hard to be man enough for two.

If his sister hadn't had to shoulder so much responsibility. If everyone around him hadn't marched out to war then come home different.

If none of those things had happened, maybe he could have been someone to be proud of. Maybe he could have been someone who wasn't so ashamed.

"Mr. Proffitt, take her, would you? I promise, no matter what you do, it will be better than what she's got now."

"I don't prey on innocent women."

The barkeep's eyes darted away. " 'Course not. Meant no disrespect. It's just, well . . . if you took her, it really would be charity."

As if of Scout even knew what charity was. As if he still cared.

But what if he did? What if the good Lord hadn't given up on him after all? What if He had put him right in this woman's path all for this moment?

And what if he dismissed it?

It would be a blessing.

Leaning down, he spoke quietly and clearly. "In two minutes, we are going to leave. We're gonna go to your home where you will pack a duffle. And then we are getting out of this godforsaken town. Understand?"

She stood up, a new resolve in her eyes. And something that looked like . . . hope?

After tossing too much money on the table, he took her arm and escorted her through the maze of tables, ignoring most of the gamblers' curious looks. Past her irate stepfather.

When the man looked ready to grab at her, Scout looked his way and smiled, betraying that no matter how much he might try to redeem himself by helping one poor girl, he really was beyond help.

Because at that moment, right then and there, he knew he was itching to kill. He wouldn't even mind taking his stiletto and slicing deep, either. Make him bleed onto the floor, right there in front of everyone.

Fear entered into the man's gaze and he looked down at his feet.

Taking away Scout's opportunity to shoot. "Let's go," he murmured, gripping Kitty's arm a little more firmly, even though she didn't need his grip.

Only when they stood on the street in the cold, dark night did he release his hold. "Are you sure about this? Being with me ain't easy."

For a long moment, she gazed at him. Seemed to be measuring his worth. Probably was wondering how he was about to hurt her.

"I won't touch you," he sputtered. When her lips parted, he looked at her arm. Most likely, that arm sported five fingertip bruises on it. "I mean, I won't . . . I won't disrespect you."

She blinked. Then, to his surprise, she shrugged, as if his lies didn't really matter anyway. "My house is this way."

He walked by her side, thinking how wrong she was. No one knew what bad was until they'd experienced it. Things could always get worse. Always.

He stood outside the door of a humble house with nothing growing in the front yard beyond a few weeds and a month's worth of trash.

She paused, looking a bit ashamed. "I'll only be a couple of minutes," she said, her tone apologetic.

"Take your time. This here, it's nothing I haven't seen before," he murmured softly as she slipped inside.

As he watched her shadows behind sheer curtains, he lit up a cigar and breathed deeply. It was bitterly cold out. The wind had kicked up, stinging his cheeks and making his eyes water. He needed something to take off the edge.

To make him question what in the world he was doing. After all, he was on a killing mission, not a saving one.

Only two minutes passed until she returned again, a stuffed pillowcase in her hand. When he eyed it, she tucked her chin. "I don't have a duffle."

"That'll do. You got a horse?"

"My . . . I mean Duke, he does."

Scout finally let himself smile. "Not any longer. Show me where it is, Kitty."

After a moment's hesitation, she led him to a surprisingly good piece of horseflesh. Whatever the man did to his stepdaughter, he seemed to have more respect for a good animal.

After saddling the horse, he helped the girl onto the saddle and settled in behind her. As he expected, she tensed, unused to feeling his body.

"I'm not going to hurt you," he said again. "You don't have to believe me, but it's the truth."

While she thought about that one, he clicked the horse forward out of the ramshackle barn. Out of the weed-ridden yard. Out of Kitty's own version of hell.

"Let's move on now," he said, and almost smiled when he felt her body relax against his, lightly pressing her back against his chest.

They rode in silence. The horse nickered as he motioned it forward, down the street, beyond the saloon, and into the pitch dark night filled with desolate plains. The moon was gone, the stars dim under a curtain of clouds.

But he didn't mind. Neither did the horse. And, by the looks of things, neither did Kitty. As each minute passed, she seemed to settle more easily against him.

As he continued to move west, Scout had a feeling she'd be asleep within minutes, and was thankful for that.

But as the lights from the two-bit town faded into the distance, he realized with some surprise that he'd never asked a single person about Will McMillan. Or about the woman he was instructed to kill.