CHAPTER SEVEN One Bed at Sundown House
Jude stood before Gideon without chains.
The iron lay in the dust beside Noah’s grave. The black gelding waited beneath the cottonwood with water, food, evidence, and enough ammunition to carry Jude toward any future he chose.
He had returned the revolver.
He had crossed the ruined schoolyard willingly.
Now he stood close enough that Gideon could feel his breath.
“Ask me again,” Jude said.
Gideon touched his face.
No steel pulled their wrists together. No injury required support. Nothing compelled Jude to remain inside the reach of Gideon’s hand.
“May I kiss you?”
“Yes.”
Gideon kissed him.
There was nothing hesitant in the first contact.
Restraint remained, but shame did not. Gideon placed one hand against Jude’s jaw and the other at his waist, drawing him close only after Jude’s body moved willingly into his.
Jude’s mouth opened beneath his.
The kiss deepened slowly, carrying everything they had stopped beside the spring.
Jude gripped Gideon’s coat and pulled until their chests met.
Gideon felt the strength of him without iron between them, felt Jude’s free hands moving wherever he chose—one at Gideon’s neck, the other sliding over his shoulder and into his hair.
Gideon had imagined that freedom would create distance.
Instead, it made every touch more powerful.
Jude could step back.
He did not.
He could reach for the horse.
He reached for Gideon.
Their mouths separated only long enough to breathe.
“Again,” Jude whispered.
Gideon kissed him again.
This time Jude took control. He turned Gideon, backed him against the surviving schoolhouse wall, and pressed close enough that the old stones touched Gideon’s shoulders through his coat.
Gideon allowed himself to be moved.
The choice sent heat through him.
Jude’s fingers traveled over the lapels of his coat, the open throat of his shirt, and the badge pinned above his heart. He touched the badge with one thumb.
“Still a marshal?” he asked.
“I don’t know.”
“Still taking me to Santa Reina?”
“Yes.”
Jude’s mouth curved. “Then your technique for transporting prisoners has improved.”
“You’re no longer my prisoner.”
“What am I?”
The question remained between them.
Gideon could name a dozen things Jude had become.
Witness.
Partner.
Danger.
Temptation.
The man whose body Gideon could recognize in darkness through breath and touch alone.
“I don’t know that either,” he admitted.
Jude studied him.
“Honest answer.”
“You said you needed one honest man.”
“I may have underestimated the inconvenience.”
Gideon brushed his thumb across Jude’s lower lip. “Do you want me to stop?”
Jude kissed the pad of his thumb.
“No.”
Gideon drew him close again.
They kissed in the ruins until the dead town no longer seemed to be watching.
Sundown House stood twenty-two miles west of Dry Mercy at the intersection of two stage roads neither company used regularly anymore.
The black gelding could carry both men, but Gideon intended to walk the first several miles. Jude rejected the plan before Gideon finished explaining it.
“You were stitched two nights ago,” Jude said.
“So were you.”
“No. I stitched you. You wrapped me in linen and disapproval.”
“The horse cannot carry two injured men indefinitely.”
“The horse carried one of Harrow’s trackers, and I guarantee that bastard weighed more than we do together.”
“You have no evidence.”
“I saw him in the canyon.”
“You did not weigh him.”
“I have an eye for large men.”
Gideon looked at him.
Jude smiled. “Present company included.”
They mounted together.
Gideon took the saddle because his side made climbing behind more difficult. Jude settled at his back, wrapped both arms around Gideon’s waist, and rested his cuff-free hands against Gideon’s stomach.
The voluntary embrace silenced Gideon more effectively than an argument.
Jude’s thighs crowded along the outside of his. His chest touched Gideon’s back. Whenever the gelding descended a slope, Jude tightened his hold.
“You could sit farther back,” Gideon said.
“The saddle ends.”
“You are nearly on top of me.”
“I remember you being less troubled when our positions were reversed.”
“You were injured.”
“I remain tragically delicate.”
Gideon glanced at the hands resting over his stomach. “Your ribs?”
“Still attached.”
“Your side?”
“Still wrapped.”
“That wasn’t my question.”
Jude leaned forward until his mouth approached Gideon’s ear.
“It hurts,” he said quietly. “Not enough to stop.”
The honesty changed Gideon’s irritation into something warmer.
He placed one hand over Jude’s.
“Tell me if it worsens.”
“Yes, Marshal.”
The title no longer sounded like an accusation.
They traveled until afternoon.
The land changed as they rode west. Sandstone ridges lowered into grass country dotted with mesquite and live oak. The stage road appeared as two pale tracks winding toward distant hills.
Sundown House emerged beneath a stand of cottonwoods.
The inn was a long two-story building with a shaded porch, whitewashed walls, and a stable leaning toward the eastern road. A painted sign depicting a red sun hung above the entrance.
The western sky behind it had turned brown.
A dust storm moved across the plains like a living wall.
“Again?” Jude asked.
“Different storm.”
“How reassuring.”
The wind reached them before the dust.
Cottonwood leaves turned silver. The sign began swinging wildly above the porch. A woman stepped outside carrying a double-barreled shotgun.
She was perhaps forty, with dark hair braided down her back and a long black skirt snapping around her boots. She aimed at Gideon before they came within fifty yards.
“Dismount,” she called.
Gideon stopped the gelding.
Jude leaned around his shoulder.
“Marisol.”
The shotgun shifted toward him.
The woman froze.
“Jude?”
He slid from the saddle before Gideon could help him.
Marisol crossed the yard with the weapon held in one hand. Gideon dismounted, expecting an embrace.
She struck Jude across the face.
His head snapped sideways.
Gideon reached for his revolver.
Jude caught his wrist without looking.
“Don’t.”
Marisol struck Jude again, this time against the chest with both palms.
“You bastard,” she said. “You living, breathing bastard.”
Then she threw her arms around him.
Jude stood motionless for one stunned second before holding her.
Marisol buried her face against his shoulder.
“We heard they caught you. Then word came that you killed a federal marshal and disappeared.”
“The marshal appears difficult to kill.”
Marisol looked toward Gideon.
She saw the badge.
Her grief hardened instantly.
She stepped away from Jude and raised the shotgun.
“Marisol,” Jude said.
“He’s bringing you back.”
“No.”
“He has you under guard.”
“No chains.”
“That does not mean no leash.”
Gideon kept both hands visible. “Rafael Vega is buried beneath the Dry Mercy schoolhouse.”
The shotgun wavered.
Marisol’s face emptied.
“What did you say?”
“Five graves. Rafael’s marker bears his initials.”
Jude moved beside her. “We found them this morning.”
Marisol looked from Jude to Gideon.
“Rusk said the bodies were in Coyote Sink.”
“Rusk lied,” Gideon said.
“I knew that.”
Her voice broke.
“I knew Rafael would never have let them take him that far.”
The dust wall advanced behind them. Wind threw sand across the yard.
Gideon reached inside his coat slowly.
Marisol’s shotgun rose.
“I’m taking out a letter,” he said.
She watched as he removed the oilskin packet.
He showed her Noah’s field book, map, and damaged letter.
Marisol recognized the handwriting immediately.
She touched the letter without taking it.
“Noah.”
“His survey box remained beneath the schoolhouse floor,” Gideon said.
The first dust struck the porch.
Marisol lowered the shotgun.
“Inside,” she ordered. “All of you.”
They reached the inn as the storm consumed the road.
Sand hissed against the windows. The sky vanished. Day became a dim red twilight filled with flying branches, dirt, and pieces of dry grass.
Marisol locked the doors and pulled heavy curtains across the front windows.
The inn appeared nearly empty.
The common room contained six tables, a long bar, and a stone fireplace. Dust covered everything. Several chairs lay upside down, and broken glass had been swept into piles near the staircase.
“Storm last week took the western windows,” Marisol said. “I’ve been trying to repair them alone.”
“You have no guests?” Jude asked.
“Stage company stopped coming after Dry Mercy. Harrow tells travelers my well is poisoned.”
“Is it?”
“No.”
“Then his imagination is deteriorating.”
Marisol looked at Gideon’s bloody shirt. “You need a doctor.”
“I need a room.”
“I have one.”
“One?”
“Rooms facing west are full of broken glass and sand. The roof leaks over the others.”
Jude looked at Gideon.
Marisol noticed.
Her eyes narrowed slightly, but she said nothing.
“Room six,” she continued. “Back of the hall. One bed.”
“That will do,” Gideon said.
Jude’s mouth moved as though he were suppressing a smile.
Marisol pointed upstairs. “There’s water in the pitcher. I’ll bring more after the storm. Towels are in the chest.”
She caught Jude’s arm before he turned away.
“You stay,” she said.
“I intend to.”
“No. I mean until morning.”
Jude’s expression changed.
Marisol knew him well enough to recognize whatever he had not told Gideon.
“I’ll be here,” Jude said.
She released him.
Room six contained one narrow bed, one washstand, one chair, and a framed painting of a saint whose expression suggested profound disappointment in all human behavior.
Dust rattled against the window.
Gideon closed the door.
The silence inside the room differed from every silence they had shared.
No chain.
No pursuers within sight.
No injury requiring immediate hands.
Jude crossed to the window and secured the shutter. Gideon placed the rifle beside the bed and set Noah’s papers inside the washstand drawer.
When he turned, Jude was watching him.
“What?” Gideon asked.
“Nothing is forcing us into the same room.”
“The storm.”
“There are tables downstairs.”
“Marisol gave us this room.”
“One bed.”
“I noticed.”
Jude moved closer.
“Nothing is forcing us into it.”
“No.”