According to Hoyle (31 page)

Cage had been lucky in that respect, he realized. If Stringer had ever gotten it in his head to hurt him, he could have done so just like he was tonight. He may have had Cage bested both with his strength and possibly his ability with a gun, though he didn’t think even Stringer knew that. Cage’s bruised ribs didn’t help any, but that wasn’t really here or there now. Stringer had all the advantages, even with Gabriel outside trying to get to him.

Cage hit the floor hard and he snarled at the Oriental rug, growing angrier as the feeling of helplessness swamped him. He couldn’t even remember his reasons for leaving, now. He couldn’t remember why he had abandoned the men who were loyal to him, or the man who would have given his life for him. He reminded himself that his reasons had been good, though, and that even through the weakness brought on by pain and exhaustion, he still wanted to cut off the rest of Stringer’s fingers. Gabriel was out there fighting for him. He hadn’t left him here to die. Cage had to believe that Gabriel knew who he really was now and didn’t care.

“What in the Sam Hill is he doing?” Stringer bellowed as he kicked out at Cage again in frustration.

Cage curled up, trying to protect his vulnerable parts from more abuse.

“Who attacks twenty men with just two, huh? Who?” Stringer asked no one in particular as Cage fought not to groan aloud in pain. Stringer continued to rage. “This ain’t the damn Alamo! Custer’s fucking last stand! They all died in the end!”

Two of Stringer’s men began blockading the salon doors as most of the passengers whimpered and tittered from the far end of the room. The ones who were willing and able to fight, the rough and readies in the corner, had all been tied up and gagged with their own handkerchiefs long ago. Cage could see the fire in their eyes, though. If just one of those men got loose, Stringer and his men were as good as dead.

“What do we do, Cap?” one of Stringer’s men asked breathlessly.

Cage raised his head and looked around at them, recognizing the signs of panic burgeoning in the ranks. Again, his first instinct was to calm them and give orders. He fought it back and closed his eyes.

Stringer didn’t answer. He stood staring at the door, breathing hard and ignoring everything around him.

“That goddamn trinket ain’t worth dyin’ for!” another of the men hissed at him when he remained silent.

“You shut your mouth,” Stringer snapped back at him as he began to pace back and forth restlessly.

Cage watched him warily, covering his ribs protectively with his arms as he remained curled on his side. He had decided that if he didn’t move, Stringer might just lower his guard again. Cage wasn’t about to give up this fight yet.

“He said he’d leave if we give him his prisoner, I say we do it,” Alvarado declared as he reloaded his guns calmly. Stringer had picked a good man for his second-in-command. He didn’t seem to be bothered by the situation or by the blood spreading on his shoulder. Your right hand man had to be unflappable and steady.

“Well, that was before his other prisoner started shooting at us!” another of the men argued. “That marshal weren’t planning to leave any which way we went. I say we kill him.” He pointed his pistol at Cage. “And then hightail it out of here.”

“How?” Stringer asked, his voice calm once more. “You can’t run out there with nothin’ but a lick and a promise and plan to make it past that shotgun,” he scoffed.

“Rose can’t be as good as they say,” the man argued. “And he’s out of buckshot, all he’s got is his irons.”

“I seen Dusty Rose in action. He’s as fast as they say he is, you better believe it,” Stringer assured them as he stared off at the frightened passengers with a distant, thoughtful look. He seemed to be formulating.

Cage looked up at him in shock as he spoke, as did all his men. He and Stringer had ridden together since they were both between hay and grass, and Cage knew neither of them had ever seen Gabriel before. Stringer was either lying to his men, or he had seen Gabriel in action some time in the past twelve months. Gabriel had told Cage he had been laying low in Colorado and Missouri, trying to run from his reputation.

Again, Cage felt like he was missing something. Why would Stringer have been in either territory without at least a few of his men with him? Why would he go anywhere alone? And what had Gabriel been doing that Stringer had seen him?

Cage was still looking at him when Stringer turned and looked back down at him. Their eyes met and Cage found himself foundering in a confused mix of the intimacy of their old connection and the unfamiliarity of the man Stringer had become in the last few years. This new Stringer was both attractive in his confidence and frightening in his anger. But most of all, Cage wanted him dead. He swallowed heavily as he recognized the light of an idea in Stringer’s eyes.

“Gather up all the womenfolk,” Stringer ordered quietly without looking away from Cage. His men looked at him in confusion for a moment before turning to do as he had asked without question.

Stringer knelt in front of Cage and cocked his head. He reached out and Cage flinched away from what he thought would be another swing of Stringer’s fist, but Stringer’s fingers just barely brushed his cheek instead of doing anything violent. Cage jerked his head away and tried to sit up. His pride smarted from the fact that he had to face Stringer from his back and couldn’t do it eye to eye, toe to toe. He winced and curled back on his side as his ribcage screamed in protest. He gritted his teeth and pushed up and rolled to his knees

Stringer watched him with an impassive frown. “You love him?” he asked Cage.

Cage stared at him, his breaths coming with greater difficulty as his ribs burned and throbbed. He met Stringer’s eyes, searching for a trap in the question. He was surprised to find nothing there. His eyes flickered away from Stringer’s piercing gaze and he gave a confused shrug and a minute shake of his head. A few more questions like this, with Stringer’s mind full of his jealousy, Cage might be able to launch another attack. But the questions were troubling Cage too.

“Never known you to be indecisive.”

Cage just licked his lips and looked back at him warily. Stringer was right. Cage had rarely been indecisive. He had always known exactly what he wanted and he had taken it. He knew he wanted Gabriel. There was something there and he wanted to have more of it. He hadn’t expected to run into his past here in the midst of it all and have the waters muddied, though.

It wasn’t complicated, in the end. There came times in a man’s life when a side had to be chosen. This was one of those times, and Cage had chosen his side. He didn’t regret his choice, either.

He looked up at Stringer again and nodded his head.

“That’s what I thought,” Stringer whispered as his knuckles trailed down the side of Cage’s jaw in an uncomfortably intimate gesture. “Well, I’m willing to bet anyone you’ve gone and fallen in love with won’t go shooting a lady.”

Cage gritted his teeth and struck out. His fist caught Stringer on the chin, but the man had foreseen the attack and was leaning away. It was a glancing blow, worth nothing more than the satisfaction of making contact.

“Don’t get your back up, Boss,” Stringer said, infuriatingly calm. “If he is who you think he is, there’s no reason to worry.”

Cage balled his fist. The truth was that he had no idea what kind of man Gabriel Rose was. He didn’t know if Gabriel would shoot through a woman to get to his intended target. And what was worse, he didn’t know if he was more concerned about the womenfolk Stringer planned to use, or for Gabriel and Stringer themselves. What would happen if Bat Stringer and Gabriel Rose went face to face in a gunfight? Would either of them live through it? Would
anyone
?

Stringer read his reaction just as clearly as he had always done. “You worried about him or me?” he asked almost sadly as he looked over Cage’s face. Cage stared at him, determined not to let him know. “I guess we’re about to find out,” Stringer declared grimly.

W
ASH
flailed in Flynn’s grasp but, to Flynn’s surprise, he didn’t pull away. Flynn kissed him with everything he had as the smoke from the gun battle and the wispy fog from outside surrounded them, knowing that this was the last kiss he would ever take from someone. Either he would be killed in the ensuing gunfight or Wash would finish him off after for the unwanted advance. If, by some miracle, neither of those things came to pass, Flynn knew he would have no interest in ever kissing anyone besides Wash again.

Finally, Flynn pulled away from him. He moved slowly, hating to end it but knowing that it would have to end sooner rather than later. There were some things you just didn’t hold off, and gunfights were usually one of them. When he leaned far enough away to force his eyes open and look at Wash with a deep blush, Wash was staring at him with wide green eyes.

“Sorry,” Flynn whispered, his voice betraying the surprise he felt over his possibly ill-advised actions. Wash continued to stare at him in shock. “Always wanted to do that,” Flynn mumbled in embarrassment as he blushed even deeper, unable to look away.

Wash blinked rapidly and then licked his lips. Flynn watched him apprehensively as the sound of furniture scraping along the floor sounded from within the salon. He didn’t pay it much attention, though. He was concentrating solely on Wash and his expressive eyes.

“What took you so long?” Wash finally asked him hoarsely.

The knot of tension in Flynn’s stomach snapped as if Wash’s words had cut through it. His lips parted in surprise and relief, and Wash slowly grinned at him in return.

“That’s real sweet,” Rose observed flatly from the cover of the darkened room.

Wash and Flynn both jumped at the unexpected sound of his voice. Wash glanced guiltily over his shoulder and grunted in annoyance. He covered his embarrassment by finally managing to shrug his sling off completely and tossed it onto the ground with a grunt. Rose knelt down beside them without another word.

Flynn looked from one man to another, completely at a loss for what to do next. He was blushing furiously but elated, all the same. He was still trying to process what Wash had said and done. He hadn’t just accepted the kiss. He’d welcomed it. Even enjoyed it.

“Well, go on,” Rose huffed with a gesture between Flynn and Wash, “kiss him again. I’ll wait.”

Flynn and Wash shared a look that was an odd mixture of joy and guilt. But Rose seemed to actually be waiting for them to do it, because he hadn’t yet pointed out that they were in the midst of a gunfight or that the man Rose had been so keen to rescue all night was being held captive and in very real danger. Flynn let the guilt pass by, reached out and pulled Wash to him again.

The moment was marred by the sound of Rose calmly reloading his pistols, but Flynn enjoyed it all the same. Wash smelled like worn leather and fresh grass after it rained. His good hand came up to slide into Flynn’s hair and he pressed into Flynn until they lost their balance and toppled over backward.

“Greenhorns,” Rose muttered as he spun the cylinder of his pistol home and then slid it into his belt.

Flynn tried hard not to laugh as Wash snickered against his lips. They were giddy, Flynn knew. And this was no time for that.

Wash pushed himself off Flynn clumsily with his one good hand, obviously thinking along the same lines, and he grinned at him as he helped him up. “Later,” he promised in a low voice, and Flynn nodded in return.

Rose was watching them impassively, much as Flynn had seen small Indian children watch him as he rode through their camp. Like someone who understood what was going on but either didn’t really care or knew they had no part in it. Flynn glanced at him apologetically.

“They got two choices,” Rose told them quietly, apparently choosing to forego any jibes he might make about them.

Flynn found himself grateful, despite his lingering dislike of the man.

“And what are those?” Wash inquired as he wiped at his mouth in embarrassment.

“Either they wait ’til candlelight and try to slip past us while we’re nodding off, or they use those passengers in there as cover,” Rose put forth, nodding at the door as he spoke.

“Candlelight’s a long way off,” Wash murmured doubtfully as Flynn glanced out at the sky through the open doors, trying to gauge just how far off dawn might be. But the fog was all-encompassing and he couldn’t remember the last time he’d heard the clock strike an hour. He had no idea what time it was.

“Not as long as you think,” Rose corrected. “It’s comin’ up on five now.”

“You think they’ll wait that long?” Flynn asked.

Rose looked at him and then looked down, his brow furrowing and his lips pursing in thought.

“If it was you,” Flynn prodded. “What would you do?”

“Why am I always the one who has to think like the outlaw, huh?” Rose asked in annoyance.

“Because you’re the one who boarded in irons,” Flynn reminded, though he was smiling when he said it.

“Point well made,” Rose conceded grudgingly. He looked out at the darkness, his sharp black eyes darting this way and that as he looked for something Flynn couldn’t fathom. Finally, he shook his head slowly and sighed, as if he didn’t like the answer he had come up with. “I’d gather those passengers,” he finally answered in a low voice, “and I’d march them out in front of me.”

“Hide behind innocent people?” Wash asked incredulously.

Rose nodded unapologetically. “Hide behind them, and dare you to shoot at them as I get away.”

Flynn and Wash were both silent. Just the thought of watching helplessly as those men escaped behind the cover of some innocent civilian was appalling.

“So we got to get to them before they can move,” Wash finally proposed determinedly.

“How?” Rose asked flatly. “There is one door into that room, and you can bet the farm they’ve got it covered.”

“But the entire opposite wall is lined with windows and doors,” Wash pointed out. “We could
—
”

“That’s wonderful,” Rose responded sarcastically, interrupting Wash before he could go on. “But to what point? You can’t get to them. Not unless you go in from the deck above, which is damn near impossible unless you did a stint with Barnum and Bailey when you were younger. And even if you could find your way through the windows from twelve feet above them, how long do you suppose you’d last after crashing through the glass panes and falling on your face amidst a battalion of unfriendly guns?”