“Grazed.”
Carina sighed her relief. She hadn’t wanted to see the doctor dig a bullet from Quillan’s flesh. She had already imagined too many horrors. The train began to move as the doctor disinfected and bound Mr. Smith and Quillan’s wounds.
Then Carina took her seat once again across from her husband. “Does your arm hurt?”
“Burns a little.” Quillan eyed the bandage over the slit the slug had dug through the side of his arm.
“You could have been killed.”
“I wasn’t.”
Carina saw defiance in his eyes. Not the morbid affection Miss Preston bore danger, but akin to it, as though he willingly pitted himself against death, accepting either outcome. She shivered. There were depths to her husband she could not fathom.
“Go ahead.” His voice was low.
“What?”
“Ask.” He shifted his seat.
Had he read her thoughts? “How did you know him?”
“He’s the one who left me to take the fall for his robbery at the bank in Laramie.”
Carina raised her brows, recalling the brief angry explanation he’d given her before, how as a boy he’d been taken in and betrayed. Another rejection.
“I was impressed by him once. Now he’s just a worm.”
Carina sighed. “To people like Miss Preston he’s a hero.”
He was quiet a long moment. “If she still feels that way when she wakes up, then she’s more disturbed than I thought. People imbue some Robin Hood image on those brave enough to threaten the powerful and unscrupulous railroad barons. But they’re nothing but thieves and scoundrels, just like the roughs, preying on those weaker or more virtuous.”
But Quillan had stopped them. At his own risk, he had stopped the outlaws victimizing the train. Her heart swelled. Quillan was wise. And he was safe. And he had done a wonderful thing. Grazie, Signore.
Quillan stared out the window of the train. Shane Dennison. The sight, the sound of his voice, even the wheedling words he’d used to try once again to draw Quillan into his spell; all of it brought him back to that part of his life of which he was least proud. Had needing human approbation made him so susceptible to influence that even someone of Dennison’s ilk could seem heroic?
What was this need in him to be accepted, and at the same time make himself so difficult to accept? Hadn’t he tried to push Carina away with everything in him, all the while desperate for her love? It was a war inside. And the Shepards—had he been partly responsible for Leona Shepard’s accusations? Hadn’t he defiantly kept silent, even brazenly misled her at times?
Shane Dennison. Why had God crossed their paths again? Shane Dennison, to whom Quillan had once confided his unhappiness, his anger toward the reverend, his hatred of the reverend’s wife. Yes, he had prided himself in becoming a thorn to Reverend Shepard, called himself the reverend’s personal demon. Dennison remembered that? After fourteen years?
As for his “friend,” Dennison seemed to have stayed the course he set for himself. From that first robbery, how many others had followed until now they met up again, on opposite sides of this shootout? Quillan shook his head. It could have gone the other way. One of these days he’d get in over his head defending the underdog or standing for justice in an unjust world. But like so many other things, it seemed a tenacious part of his nature.
He’d hardly finished the thought when a man came forward, hand extended. It was the one who’d been keeping score for the shooting contest. “Mr. Shepard, may I offer my thanks.” His grip was firm, confident. “Roderick Pierce is the name. I’m in the newspaper business. I’d like to write up our little episode.”
Quillan shifted, aware of the burning wound in his arm. “The more print you give it, the better he’ll like it.”
“He?”
“Shane Dennison, the leader of the band.”
Pierce pulled out a notebook. “Dennison, you say? Friend of yours?”
Quillan didn’t answer. He trusted reporters on a level with lawyers like Beck. The man raised a questioning brow. Quillan shook his head. “Not a friend.”
“But you are acquainted?”
“I knew him once.”
The man scribbled. “How long ago?”
“Long.”
The pencil paused. Pierce looked up. “One, five, ten years?”
Still Quillan didn’t answer. He began to feel invaded. What if he told the man the year, the city, the connection he’d had with Shane Dennison. How would the story be twisted? Just as Wolf ’s life—and death—had been twisted into some macabre tale.
Carina leaned forward. Immediately Pierce took notice. “Ma’am?”
“My husband is injured. He needs to rest.”
“Certainly. This will only take a moment.” He turned back to Quillan. “If you could—”
Carina laid her hand on his arm. “Thank you for understanding.”
Pierce paused, looked from her to Quillan and back. Quillan felt Pierce’s reluctance crumble against Carina’s resolve. He should speak for himself, but one corner of his mouth twitched as he held his silence. Carina’s lips parted in a soft smile.
Pierce tipped his head. “As you like, ma’am. Mr. Shepard, I’ll speak with you again.” He turned crisply, glanced once more at Carina, lingering, in Quillan’s assessment, a moment overlong. Then he left.
Quillan closed his eyes, but even as he did, William Scott Bennet spoke his name. Wearily, Quillan opened his eyes again.
“Mr. Shepard . . .”
“Quillan.” It was habit, even if he no longer disdained the name of Shepard as he once had.
“Quillan.” Bennet held out his hand.
Quillan shook it.
“Some of the fellows would like to buy you a drink, sir. Would you do us the honor?”
Quillan glanced at Carina, but it seemed she wouldn’t come to his rescue this time. Now that she’d mentioned it, he was tired, but he couldn’t refuse the companions who’d stood with him. Quillan got up from his seat. “All right.” He just touched Carina’s shoulder as he left her.
Carina watched her husband be carried off by his exuberant admirers. It was fitting they should honor him. If not for his insistence, this entire episode could have—would have—ended differently. Yet she knew he was uncomfortable. He was not used to acclaim and acceptance, nor even companionship. Her heart jumped. Maybe now he would learn. Then she caught sight of Roderick Pierce hurrying after them.
She sighed. Quillan would reveal no more than he liked. But what would the newsman make of Quillan’s reluctance? Would he think her husband had something to hide?
FOURTEEN
How weak the man, bone and blood, felled by flying lead.
How glad my hand was not the one by which he now lies dead.
—Quillan