Jesse Colton is leaning ’gainst the frame of the open bedroom door when I step into the house. He’s got his arms folded and one boot crossed over the other. It’s a relaxed position, but one that drips confidence.
I’ve learned there are two types of men that project this look. Cocky ones that’re bluffing, or men that are cocky for just cause—men that’ve earned their scars and drawn their own on others and looked death square in the eye but still managed to walk away smirking.
I get the feeling Jesse’s the latter.
“Kate says you got her outta a bind. I owe you my thanks.” He extends an open palm.
I ain’t buying it. Just earlier, I heard him arguing that Kate shoulda shot me, and now he wants to make amends? I don’t trust him, but I realize he ain’t exactly going nowhere, and the longer I stand here denying him my hand, the more suspicious of me he’ll get.
So I reach out.
His grip is firm—more a clench than a shake—and our hands bob just once before Jesse yanks me nearer. With his free hand he grabs the cuff of my sleeve and rips it back, exposing the rose scar. As he takes in the puckered flesh on my forearm, his jaw tightens.
“Did you kill that family?” he asks.
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Why not?” I echo. “Why would I? Why would anyone? They were good people, the Lloyds. I worked for ’em and ate with ’em and slept under their roof. No one deserves what they got.”
Jesse’s brows rise a fraction, but he drops my arm. “Kate said Rose brought you into the gang ’cus he needed an extra, but I think that’s a lie.”
There’s a pair of twin Remingtons on his hips, just as there’d been the day I first met him. I’m bigger than I were then, fuller and taller, and still, Jesse Colton makes me feel small. His palm rests ’gainst the grip of one of the pistols. He’s waiting for an explanation, and I fear that if I answer wrong, the words may be my last.
But God, am I sick of lying.
Plus, I’ve a notion Jesse already knows. He’s quick to doubt, and I reckon he’s already figured it’s the coin that brought me here. He made a mistake. After killing Waylan Rose, he never shoulda emptied the man’s pockets and saddlebags. He just shoulda walked away.
“You were at the Lloyds’ ’bout a week before their deaths,” I say to him. “You gave me a gold piece in exchange for tending to yer horse.”
“I remember.”
“Boss was halfway through with the scar when he found it.”
“And why’s that matter?” Jesse asks. His face is calm as can be, his eyes stuck in that narrow, unflinching glare. He’s playing out a bluff, still trying to pretend he’s not the gunslinger who done killed Waylan Rose.
“You tell me,” I challenge.
“I remember what I gave you, not ’cus it were important, but ’cus its value were questionable. A standard three-dollar coin, but with the three filed off plus some more gold shaved from the edges. Desperate men do that sometimes, shave a bit of the gold for their own pocket and then attempt to use the coin at its face value. Dumb to file off the number, though. No merchant’s gonna miss that. So I gave the piece to you. Figured you could melt it down, find a use for it.”
“Boss said it were his brother’s coin,” I explain, “that he carried it everywhere. He looked ’bout ready to kill me, but I told him it were given to me by a cowboy.”
Jesse pales. “And?”
“And when he asked me if I could recognize the fella, I said yes.”
Jesse grabs the front of my shirt and shoves me into the wall. I cough out all my air.
“I knew you killed Waylan Rose,” I say, gasping. “Yer the gunslinger.”
“You shut up,” Jesse snarls. “You don’t know nothing. Nothing.”
I jerk my chin at his hands, still tangled in the front of my shirt. “Quite the reaction if’n yer innocent.”
“You just told me that yer boss thinks I killed his brother, which puts me and my family on his kill list. How else am I supposed to act?”
“For one,” I say, shoving him hard, “you can go back to thanking me for helping Kate.”
He steps away, running a hand through his dark hair. When he turns back to me, he spits out, “If’n you aimed to run from them after Wickenburg, what in the devil were you doing at our house to begin with?”
Only a fool would answer that question.
“You knew the bastards were on yer tail,” Jesse says, thinking aloud. “You worried you weren’t gonna cut loose after all, and you wanted information that could buy yer way back in. So you somehow figured out where I lived and paid a visit.”
“But I didn’t do nothing with that knowledge. I changed my mind, killed those guys when they did catch up with me.”
“Didn’t do nothing?” Jesse roars. “Look around you, boy. We had to flee our home. We got a cross on our backs now, just like you.” He turns away, then toward me, then away. His right hand’s curled into a fist by his thigh.
“You gonna get this over with?” I say. “Finish thanking me?”
He notices I’m looking at his fist and shakes it out. Then he steps real close, a finger held an inch from my nose. “I can be grateful for what you did for Kate and hate you at the same time. ’Cus you ain’t kept no one safe, not truly. You wanna right wrongs, Reece Murphy, then yer gonna have to face yer demons. We all are.”
He stomps out, leaving me standing there perfectly still, unharmed, un-struck.
When Boss makes threats, I always feel ’em. He punctuates his screams with fists and boots, and the following morning, bruises always remind me of his fury. Same was true with my pa.
This, somehow, is nearly as bad. Jesse Colton’s barely laid a finger on me, and yet I feel every last word of his speech. Those words hit real deep, in a place that don’t bruise but is just as tender.
I slide to the floor, my face in my palms.
Vaughn’s been right. There’s no running from this. If’n I want a new future, I’m gonna have to earn it.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
* * *
Reece
Kate and Jesse spend the rest of the morning whispering to each other outta my earshot, eyes consistently flicking my way. If they think I ain’t aware they’re talking ’bout me, they’re mad. When Jesse finally disappears to check the traps I set ’long the creek yesterday, it’s a relief.
Late in the afternoon, Vaughn works on her aim again while I stand in the doorway and Kate watches from the stoop.
“I don’t like having an audience,” Vaughn complains.
“Too bad,” Kate says. “It ain’t likely to be a relaxing moment next time you gotta use that thing, so you might as well practice in similar circumstances. Now, let’s get to it.” She’s set up additional targets—her Stetson hat a few paces to the left of the bucket and a saddle from the stables a few paces to the right—and starts calling out “hat” or “bucket” or “saddle.”
I gotta admit—Vaughn’s improving. Her form is better, her aiming quick. Ain’t I a fine teacher.
“I don’t see what help I’ll be if I never practice with ammunition,” she says.