The pressure on the smallof her back increased. “Shall we?”
Nodding, she allowed himto guide her back to camp. Silently, they prepared their horses andthen they set out. Mr Wade led the way along the trail and shetrained her gaze on his back, deliberately thinking only of thejourney to Ironwood...and to Callihan.
ChapterEight
NIGHT HAD FALLEN. MR Wade lounged opposite her, longlegs crossed at the ankle and hands laced over his stomach.Firelight flickered over his features, bathing the sharp plains inred and gold, and he’d forgone his hat, strands of dark hairframing his face as he watched the flames.
Dragging her gaze fromhim, Hope instead regarded her hands folded in her lap. The day hadpassed as they’d travelled toward Ironwood, and they’d spokenlittle about the events of that morning. Now, they had once moremade camp and she had no distraction from her thoughts.
She’d known, of course,that if she chose this path, violence would be frequent andunavoidable, but she hadn’t anticipated how it would make her feelonce it was before her. How she would remember being small andafraid, and how the pain would lance through her again, the redstaining her hands and soaking her pinafore—
Closing her eyes, sheshook her head of memories that had no place in the here andnow.
Exhaling, she regardedagain the contradictory man before her. She was used to a differentkind of violence: the violence of a big city, of carriage and cartaccidents, murders committed in darkness, pickpockets and thievesand a certain sort of sneakery. Brazen violence, the kind wherethey came and demanded something that wasn’t theirs only to killand injure and laugh…. She’d left that kind of violence behind withher dead and her belief in a fair and just world.
She was used to makingjudgements and decisions in less than a moment, and for the mostpart she was proven correct. She’d assessed Mr Wade to be a certainilk, a competent marshal who would likely assist her more thanhinder—but not by much. Then, this morning…
He had shown a differentskin, a side she had not known possible, a cold ruthlessness shewould never have thought him capable. In that moment, she had seenthe truth of the reputation he held, and she cursed herself shehadn’t realised it the moment she’d met him. He was such a mass ofcontradictions, this man she’d hired. He seemed to enjoy laziness,he spoke entirely too much, and he delighted in calling her‘darlin’ in that lazy drawl…but when confronted, he struck quicklyand true, the lazy drawl hardening into somethingchilling.
He rolled his shoulderand tilted his neck, displaying his strong jaw and neck. Images ofthat morning, of his naked, wet chest glistening in the earlymorning light, dried her mouth. Swallowing, she looked away. Itseemed he fascinated her for other reasons as well. What was shegoing to do about that?
“I reckon itis we’ll reach Ironwood tomorrow.”
She jerked her gaze tohim. He still regarded the flames and though he gave the appearanceof relaxation, even from across the fire she could see a muscleticked in his jaw and his hands clenched into fists andback.
Strangely, her breathgrew faster and tingles raced along her skin as she watched him.She found herself staring at his mouth, the soft flesh anothercontrast to the hardness of his jaw. Stillness enveloped her, andshe became aware of the rise and fall of her chest, of the clothagainst her skin, the slow beat between her legs….
Belated, she realised shehadn’t responded. Shaking herself of this strange spell, shethought how she should. What should she say? It was a statement.Did he intend her to answer? Should she agree? Silence stretchedfurther between them. It was too long now, wasn’t it? It would seemstrange if she spoke now.
Pushing himself up, hemoved closer to the fire. “Yep, tomorrow we’ll reach Ironwood by myreckoning. Last I passed through, weren’t more than a couplesaloons, and a hardware store in the throes of completion. Willinterest a body to see what changes they’ve made especiallypopulation-wise, seeing it were mostly prospectors from myrecollection—”
“I wonder ifthat man’s been found.” she interrupted. “The one from thismorning.”
He paused, his eyes onthe fire. “Why do you ask?”
She laced her hands inher lap. “I wondered.”
Picking up the stick heused as an iron, he stoked the fire. “He would have killed us, andfor no more than the few dollars he would get for selling yourclothes.”
“Iunderstand, Mr Wade. I am more concerned if he will be found, deador alive.
Turning, he levelled hisgaze his gaze upon her. “Why do you say that?”
“Should he bed-dead—” She stumbled a little over the word, over the thought thathe was. “His body should be buried. He might have been a bad man,but dignity is a small thing to pay.”
“He might notdeserve it.”
“He mightnot,” she agreed, and lapsed into silence. She was not used toexplaining herself, and it made her feel awkward to doso.
Mr Wade remained silent awhile. “It weren’t a killing wound,” he finally said. “I wouldwager he got back on his horse and made his way to whatever holewould have him.”
She cocked her head. “Doyou say this to placate me?”
“No. I seen awound that kills before, more times than I can count, and even morethat don’t. That weren’t it.”
“Yes. In yourprofession, you must have seen any number of deaths.” And been thecause of dozens more.
Mr Wade shook his head.“I try to avoid wounds, as much as I can. Better to convince a manto take himself off than to force his hand.”
