Quincy nodded. “Good. Tie this one up, too, and make sure to keep an eye on them at all times. I don’t want anything like what happened last night happening again.”
The bandit grabbed a piece of rope and moved so that he was sitting next to her. “Move forward,” he instructed.
Isabelle shifted forward and turned a little to the side. Her body ached, but she didn’t complain. Instead, she simply allowed the man to bind her wrists behind her back.
With that done, Quincy disappeared, taking the last rays of sunlight with him. Inside the wagon, a lantern burned as the two men watched them. There would be no escaping again. They were at Quincy’s mercy, and the man had none.
Chapter 15
Deadshot adjusted the pot on the pan over the fire and turned the meat. He liked his meat well done and saltier than what was probably healthy. It didn’t matter. Considering his age and the life he lived, he was relatively healthy. An extra pinch of salt was the least of his worries. He laughed at the thought of dying from eating too much salt instead of in a shootout. The idea was rather comical, actually.
It was late afternoon, and he still had a couple of hours before the sun would disappear. When he was living on the road, chasing criminals, he used to eat whenever the hunger got too much. Dinner was early in the morning, supper late at night, and sometimes he got so caught up in the chase that he skipped dinner altogether. Now that he had nothing but time, he preferred to take his time preparing his food and eat supper early in the evening.
Sitting back in his chair, Deadshot poured himself a drink and took a sip. He wasn’t much of a drinker, but since he had no responsibilities and enough money, he enjoyed a glass of whiskey once in a while. The liquid burned his throat, and he scowled at the taste. Even after forty-nine years, he still couldn’tunderstand why some men preferred whiskey over coffee. He would much rather have a cup of coffee. Swirling the dark brown liquid in his glass, he considered simply pouring it out but then took another sip instead. He only poured a quarter glass, so he’d finish it and then boil himself some coffee while he ate his supper.
The fire crackled, and he poked it a couple of times with a branch before adding it to the inferno. Deadshot preferred cooking outside. He had a coal stove inside his cabin, but he rarely used it. The thing was handy on rainy days, though. That was one thing he didn’t miss about his bounty hunting days. He never liked the rain, and now, with years of strain on his body, the rain and cold caused every ache to be ten times worse. No, he’d much rather take a dry and hot summer any day.
The sound of rustling leaves had his glass on the ground and his pistol in his hand before the intruder even came into view. He didn’t stand; he simply turned toward the sound and raised his pistol. Nobody ever came to his cabin. The townsfolk knew he didn’t like being disturbed, so whoever it was was either lost or looking for trouble.
The leaves rustled some more, the noise growing closer, and then, coming from the overgrown path that led to his cabin, a horse and rider appeared. Deadshot exhaled and holstered his weapon as he watched the kid approach. It had been weeks since he rescued him, and he hadn’t heard a word since. There were days when he had wondered whether they had ever found the bodies of the kid’s mother and sister, but he had pushed those thoughts far out of his mind. It wasn’t his problem. Thosekinds of things happened all the time, and it was the sheriff’s responsibility, not his.
Watching the kid bring his horse to a stop and get down, Deadshot felt curious. He never expected to see the kid again and had no intention of ever trying to find out what had happened after he had left. The kid was brave for coming to see him again, or maybe dumb; it depended on why he was there. Despite being curious, there was a big part of Deadshot that really didn’t want to hear what the kid had to say. For some reason, he doubted that it was going to be anything good.
“Why are you here?” Deadshot asked as the kid walked over to him.
“I...” the kid hesitated. “I need your help.”
Deadshot raised a brow as he tilted his head. “You don’t even know me.”
The kid sat down on a log across from Deadshot and clutched his hands together in his lap.
“I take it they didn’t find your mother and sister,” Deadshot guessed.
“No, they called off the search after three days, but I kept on searching every day for weeks on end. I searched the entire town and the areas directly outside of it, but they’re not there, or I’msimply looking in the wrong places.” The kid shook his head. “I need to find them, and I have no idea what I’m doing.”
“And so you came to me.” Deadshot wondered what the kid knew about him. “What makes you think I’d be able to help you?”
“Sheriff Stewart told me who you are,” the kid stated, looking hopeful. “And I saw firsthand what you can do.”
Sheriff Stewart didn’t mention anything to Deadshot that day about knowing who he was, but it wasn’t surprising that he did. Deadshot had quite a reputation, after all. “What exactly did he tell you?”
“That you’re the best bounty hunter ever,” the kid replied. “Said if there was somebody who could find Quincy Callaway, it was you.”
Deadshot shook his head, shocked that the kid would even consider going after Quincy. He had thought that the kid wanted him to help find his mother’s and sister’s bodies, but to go after Quincy and his gang was a whole different story. “Look, kid, I feel for you, but I retired a long time ago.” Deadshot felt bad for the kid—really, he did—but this wasn’t his fight or his job anymore. “I’m too old for that kind of life. My knees barely work anymore.”
“I saw you fighting. You didn’t look too old to me.”
The kid was clearly determined, but the crack in his voice gave away just how nervous he was too. It took a lot of guts to come to Deadshot, but unfortunately, he was going to leave disappointed.
“I did what I had to. You led those men right to my door.” Deadshot took a sip of his whiskey. “This is different.”
The kid didn’t say anything as he fidgeted with his hands and kicked at the ground.
Deadshot let out a long breath. “What exactly is your plan anyway? Why do you want me to find Quincy?”
“I’m not stupid, despite what you might think,” the kid replied. “I know my mother and sister are probably dead by now. People keep telling me to move on and that there’s nothing I can do, but I just can’t stop thinking about them. We haven’t found their bodies, so there is a chance, even if it is slight, that they might still be alive. I need to know, though; that is why I want to find Quincy.”
“So what? You just want me to find him and ask what he did with them?”
