CHAPTER FOURTEEN The Man Who Stayed #3
Jude’s thumb stroked the center of Gideon’s palm until the pain subsided. Then he dried the wound and wrapped it in clean cloth, passing the bandage around Gideon’s chest with slow, practiced movements.
“You have become skilled at that,” Gideon said.
“I have had an inconsiderate patient.”
“You could find another.”
“No.”
The answer was immediate.
Jude tied the bandage and leaned forward to press his lips against the skin just above it.
The kiss remained there.
Gideon’s hand rose into Jude’s hair.
“I am here,” Jude whispered against him.
Gideon closed his eyes.
“I know.”
That night, Gideon awoke to find Jude sleeping in the chair again.
Moonlight silvered the room. Jude had one hand on the mattress, fingers resting near Gideon’s but not touching them. His neck was bent at an angle that would punish him by morning.
“Jude.”
He woke.
“What hurts?”
“Nothing new.”
“Do you need water?”
“No.”
Jude reached for the lamp.
“Come to bed.”
His hand stopped.
“Gideon—”
“There is room.”
“The doctor said—”
“I am asking you to sleep, not wrestle cattle.”
Jude looked at the narrow mattress. “You are injured.”
“And you are falling out of that chair.”
“I have developed an understanding with it.”
“The chair despises you.”
“The feeling is mutual.”
“Come here.”
Jude removed his boots and gun belt. He stripped off his shirt but left his trousers on, then approached the bed with a care that made Gideon feel made of glass.
“Which side?” he asked.
“Left.”
Jude climbed in on Gideon’s uninjured side.
The mattress dipped. Gideon’s body rolled slightly toward him before pain corrected the movement. Jude arranged the pillows, drew the quilt over them, and lay rigidly on his back with one inch of empty space between their shoulders.
Gideon looked at him.
“This is not what I meant.”
“I am in the bed.”
“You look prepared for burial.”
“I am attempting not to touch you.”
“Why?”
“Because there is hardly a part of you that has not been shot, bruised, stitched, or insulted by a doctor.”
“My left side remains serviceable.”
Jude turned his head.
Gideon extended his hand.
Jude took it.
“Closer,” Gideon said.
Jude shifted onto his side. He moved until his chest rested lightly against Gideon’s arm and his thigh touched Gideon’s beneath the quilt.
“More.”
“I am not lying on top of you.”
“I did not ask you to.”
“You were considering it.”
Gideon placed their joined hands over his heart.
Jude’s expression changed when he felt the beat beneath his palm.
He lowered his head carefully to Gideon’s left shoulder.
There.
The shape of them settled.
Gideon felt Jude’s breath move across his chest. Jude’s knee fit beside his hip. Their fingers remained intertwined over Gideon’s heart, warm skin against warm skin, no steel closing either hand.
“This hurts?” Jude asked.
“No.”
“This?”
Jude shifted his weight slightly.
“No.”
“If you need me to move—”
“I will tell you.”
Jude’s body relaxed by degrees.
Gideon touched his hair.
“You truly stayed in that chair for three days?”
“I left twice.”
“For what?”
“To threaten the doctor and strike a newspaper reporter.”
“Why did you strike the reporter?”
“He asked whether your public confession was caused by blood loss.”
Gideon considered. “Was it?”
Jude raised his head.
“No.”
“I wanted to be certain.”
Jude tried to move away.
Gideon caught him with his left arm and drew him back, laughing until the pain beneath his shoulder ended it. Jude immediately went still.
“Idiot,” he murmured.
“Yes.”
Jude placed his palm over Gideon’s heart again.
They fell asleep touching.
The days that followed taught Gideon the precise weight of care.
It was heavier than a gun belt and more difficult to carry.
Jude fed him when his injured arm made a spoon unmanageable. He shaved Gideon’s face with Noah’s old razor, standing between his knees while Gideon sat propped against pillows. Gideon surrendered his jaw to Jude’s fingers and the vulnerable line of his throat to the blade.
Their positions reversed the shaving at Calder ranch, yet the trust remained the same.
Jude scraped foam from Gideon’s cheek in slow strokes.
“You are frowning,” he said.
“I am sitting still.”
“For you, the expressions are nearly identical.”
The razor moved beneath Gideon’s chin.
Jude’s thumb stretched the skin of his throat.
Gideon watched his concentration: the small line between his brows, the controlled angle of his wrist, the way his lower lip caught briefly between his teeth whenever the blade passed near a scar.
“You are beautiful,” Gideon said.
The razor stopped.
Jude’s eyes lifted.
“You cannot say things like that while I hold a knife to your throat.”
“Why?”
“It makes my hand unsteady.”
“I have never known your hand to be unsteady.”
“You were unconscious for the worst of it.”
Gideon’s smile faded.
Jude set down the razor and rested both hands on Gideon’s shoulders.
“I thought you would die after saying it,” he admitted.
Gideon knew which words he meant.
“He is the man I love.”
The declaration had been reported in every newspaper from Santa Reina to Tucson. Some printed it as scandal. Others printed it as evidence of compromised judgment. The Sentinel had placed the words beneath an engraving of the open cuffs lying beside Harrow’s body.
“I am not sorry I said it,” Gideon told him.
“I did not ask you to be.”
“I am sorry you had to hear it while holding my blood inside me.”
Jude’s eyes closed briefly.
“I kept thinking you had waited fifteen years to tell the truth,” he said. “And that the truth had cost you the last breath you possessed.”
“It did not.”
“I know that now.”
Gideon touched Jude’s waist.
“I intend to say it again under less dramatic circumstances.”
“You could practice.”
“I love you.”
Jude’s breath left him.
Gideon’s fingers tightened in his shirt.
“I love you,” he repeated.
Jude bent and kissed him with soap still cooling along Gideon’s jaw.
The kiss remained careful, but it was not timid. Jude held Gideon’s face and let their mouths open together, slow and warm, until Gideon felt desire stir beneath the weakness.
Jude felt it too.
He drew back before Gideon could reach for more.
“The doctor,” he said.
“Has poor judgment.”
“You said that about Cutter.”
“It applies broadly.”
Jude wiped shaving soap from Gideon’s face. “Heal.”
“Is that an order?”
“A promise.”
On the sixth morning, Gideon stood.
Jude positioned himself in front of him, hands ready at Gideon’s waist. Gideon sat on the bed’s edge with both boots planted against the floor.
“Slowly,” Jude said.
“I remain acquainted with the word.”
“Then demonstrate.”
Gideon leaned forward and pushed.
His legs trembled immediately.
Jude’s hands closed around his hips.
Gideon rose halfway before the room shifted. He caught Jude’s shoulders. Jude stepped between his knees and lifted, taking Gideon’s weight against his chest.
They stood together.
Gideon’s face pressed into Jude’s hair. His arms were wrapped around Jude, one useless in the sling and the other gripping the back of Jude’s shirt. Jude held him around the waist, legs braced, body solid beneath him.
Gideon had stood in gunfights without feeling as afraid as he did in that moment.
Not because he might fall.
Because he knew Jude would catch him.
“Let go a little,” Gideon said.
Jude loosened his arms without removing them.
Gideon found his balance.
His legs shook. Sweat gathered beneath his shirt. His heart struck hard enough to wake the wound.
But he remained upright.
Jude looked up at him.
“There you are,” he whispered.
Gideon kissed his forehead.
They crossed the room in six steps. Gideon leaned on Jude for four of them and pretended otherwise for two. At the window, they stood looking down at the Santa Reina street.
The wanted posters had been removed.
In their place, someone had nailed a copy of Noah’s final survey beneath the courthouse notice board. People gathered around it throughout the day, searching for the boundaries of land they had believed lost.
Gideon’s legs began to fail.
Jude did not wait for him to ask.
He carried Gideon’s weight back to the bed and lowered him carefully onto the mattress.
This time, Gideon did not apologize.
Jude noticed.
“So there is hope for your character,” he said.
“Limited.”
“Enough.”
By the ninth day, Gideon could dress.
He managed the trousers alone, though pulling his shirt over the sling required Jude’s assistance. Jude buttoned it, settled the collar, and fitted the gun belt around Gideon’s waist without adding the revolver.
“You forgot something,” Gideon said.
“You are not armed until you can lift the coffee pot without threatening the floor.”
“The coffee pot is heavier than a revolver.”
“That is not the point.”
“It appears central.”
Jude brought Gideon’s boots from beneath the chair.
He knelt.
The sight stopped Gideon’s breath.
Jude lifted Gideon’s right foot and guided it into the boot. His hands closed around Gideon’s ankle, strong and careful. Then he began fastening the leather.
Gideon reached down and caught him beneath the arms.
“Up.”
Jude looked at him. “I have not finished.”
“Stand.”
“You cannot lift me.”
“Do not make me prove otherwise.”
Something in Gideon’s voice reached him.
Jude rose.
Gideon drew him between his knees and placed both hands at his waist.
“I never want you kneeling before me because you believe you owe me anything,” he said.
“I was fastening your boot.”
“I know.”
“It is generally easier from the floor.”
“I know.”
Jude’s expression softened. “Gideon.”
“You owe me nothing. Not for Dry Mercy. Not for the mine. Not for the chains I removed or the bullet I fired.”
“And you owe me nothing for coming back to the barn.”
“No.”
“Or the gallows.”
“No.”
“Or the three days in the chair.”
Gideon’s hands moved higher along Jude’s sides.
“No.”
“Then perhaps I may kneel because your wounded self cannot reach his own feet.”
Gideon pulled him closer.
“Kneel when you choose,” he said. “Never because gratitude has convinced you that love is a debt.”
Jude placed his hands on Gideon’s shoulders.
“I know I owe you nothing.”
“Good.”
“That is why staying means something.”
Gideon looked up at him.