“I would nothave thought a gunslinger would use words.”
He scowled. “It’s thosedamn dime novels. Always getting the particulars wrong,” hegrumbled. “Don’t know why they’re so goddamn popular.”
Surprise hit her. “Youread?”
He scowled. “Yes, I read.You’ve seen me do it. Even know how to write my name.”
Heat burned her cheeks.She had not meant… She knew he read. As he said, she’d seen him doso, and she knew him to be an educated man, though perhapsself-taught. But pulpy novels of daring and adventure…she wouldhave thought he knew too much the truth of the life of a gunslingerto enjoy the tale of one. “I have seen you. I did not mean… It isthat you read dime novels that was of surprise.”
He shrugged “They’re easyto come across out here and light to transport. Can’t be haulingthe complete works of William Shakespeare on the back of myhorse.”
“No, Isuppose not.” She studied him. He shifted under her consideration,his expression irritated but she could also see discomfort. “Why doyou read them if they annoy you so?”
“Well,they’re damn addictive, aren’t they?”
“But youdon’t count them as true.”
He snorted.“No.”
She watched him closely.“Most people believe them to be historical retelling.”
“They aren’tthe goddamn newspaper. He exhaled. “I’m also one who regularlyhandles a gun, and it’s pretty goddamn clear the authors of thosenovels don’t. It might be they’re based on a body’s real life, butit’s also clear they enhance and embellish what’s already there. Iain’t complaining as such, being as it is they make it easier tofind work. Fame helps put cash in your pocket, food in your belly,and…uh, other things.”
She watched infascination as a dull red lit his cheeks. “Otherthings?”
Ducking his head, hemumbled, “Never mind about that.”
She concealed a smile.She knew exactly to what he referred but, like the lady manythought her to be, she would ignore it. “How many novels do youcurrently have?”
“Five. No,seven.”
Her eyebrows shot up. “Inyour saddlebags?”
“They’relight,” he defended.
She held up her handswhile, scowling, he turned his contemplation to thefire.
Fighting to hide yetanother smile, she turned her head. When she knew he couldn’t seeher, she allowed herself to grin. Jacob Wade read dime novels, hadseven of them in his saddlebags, and he’d read enough of theirnumber to be thoroughly annoyed by them.
When she had control ofherself, she regarded him once more. He still scowled at theflames, as if they had written the books he so lamented. “Where didyou see these wounds?”
“The war,” hesaid, viciously throwing a twig or somesuch into thefire.
But he was...surely hewas not old enough? “The war?”
Nodding, he threw a twigin the fire. “Uh-huh.”
“But you arenot old enough,” she blurted, and immediately blanched. Lord. Howvery gauche of her.
He, though, seemed not tothink it so. “Twelve I was, and I’ve always been big for my age.When I signed up, none thought to question.”
When she was twelve,she’d fought with her sisters over who had sole ownership of thepearl-backed hair brush. That, however, was before they had beenkilled. The stab of pain at their memory was familiar, and sheallowed herself to feel it a moment before putting itaway.
“Thirteen Ireckon I was, the first time I saw a man killed. His eyes werewild. They don’t tell you that. Tell you how a man reacts, how abody falls. It ain’t how you imagine,” he said, slight tilt to thecorner of his mouth.
“No,” shesaid.
His gaze flicked to her,and she could see his lips form the question.
