Chapter 27
KODIAK
Nobody’s ever talked to me like that and lived to tell it.
I’m a bull, seeing red, charging straight to the saloon.
Ain’t no proper saloon neither, but a first-class joint—no arguing, no fighting, just men with their brandy and the air thick with cigar smoke.
Ain’t half bad, ’less you’re looking for trouble. Tonight, I’m hiding from it.
If I’d stayed in that cabin with that ungrateful brat, I’d have hurt her, and God knows I couldn’t live with myself if I did. If nothing else, I’m a man of my word. I swore I’d protect her—even if that means protecting her from me.
What happened to that angel who fussed over me? Tender hands, soft voice. Now it’s nothing but complaints. Guess I shielded her too well. All I ever been is good to that woman, and she’s got the damn gall to call me a monster. Say I don’t feel nothing.
I know what I felt when that son of a bitch laid hands on her—pure rage. Fact I gave him a chance to square things with God ’fore I cut him ear to ear was a mercy he didn’t deserve.
I belly up to the bar, order a whiskey neat. Ain’t five minutes past with me sipping slow ’fore I hear it: “Mr. Byron.”
Damn near ignore it till I realize it was meant for me. Turn, find Taft sitting at a table with a few other men. I lift my glass, give him a nod, and face the bar again. Sometimes a man just wants to drink alone.
Truth is, that’s the way I prefer to drink.
Alone. And it ain’t no wonder. World’s gone soft.
Men hide behind the law like a mother’s skirts.
Used to be you stood your own ground, settled your own scores.
Now they whimper at a curse word, running to the law like babies.
A man like me can’t even lay low no more.
Now, some clerk taps a key in Kansas, and every badge from here to Texas knows my name.
Shit just keeps getting worse. Yet, here I am, wishing on a star, hoping for a blessing like a damn fool.
Bottom of the glass comes quick. Then another. Then another, till the smoke thins and Taft’s crowd starts drifting out, laughter trailing after them, all rosy-cheeked from port wine and parlor talk.
“Mr. Byron,” Taft calls again. He’s on his feet now, standing beside me, hand clapping my shoulder. “You should’ve joined us. We were playing whist, singing a bit. Even tried a hymn or two.”
He’s jawing on, but I ain’t hearing it. My attention’s on the bastard lingering by the door, shaking hands, smiling polite, uniform cut neat as a banker’s.
Hired gun.
Pinkerton.
My heart kicks hard against my ribs. That’s a wolf sniffing for blood.
I force myself back to Taft, smoothing my face, settling my voice into that false civility I wore at breakfast, though my tongue’s a little heavier now than it was then.
“Cards and hymnals?” I say, trying on a chuckle as if I wouldn’t rather sit on my spurs than spend an evening singing hymns with them.
“Sir, I’m afraid I’d spoil the harmony.”
Taft laughs, squeezes my shoulder like we’re old friends. “Nonsense, Mr. Byron. You’d have fit right in.”
I raise my glass, tip it polite, every inch the man I ain’t, while inside I’m coiling tight as a spring. All the while, that Pinkerton’s focus sweeps the room again, and I feel him stop on me. Turns my blood to ice.
One of the downsides to being built like me is I can’t vanish.
I could be wild haired and dusty from the trail, or dressed polite, don’t matter.
I stick out same as a black bear in church.
That Pinkerton’s studying me like he’s already matched my face to a poster.
Pinkertons don’t let go once they catch a scent.
They’ll trail you ‘cross three states if they need to. And I ain’t some small-time gambling cheat they’d pass by.
No, I’m the kind they’d dream of catching.
“Another round?” Taft asks, flagging the barkeep.
“Kind of you,” I say, laying the drawl on, “but I’ll see myself retired. Early breakfast, you know.”
“Ah yes, yes.” He pats my shoulder again, like he owns me. “Discipline. A fine trait in a man.”
Discipline, hell. Takes all I got to walk slow, calm, when my blood’s pounding to bolt. I nod polite, drain the dregs of my whiskey, and set the glass down careful. My hand don’t shake, though I can feel the tremor in my bones.
As I step away, I can feel the Pinkerton’s scrutiny hook me again, lingering long enough to set my teeth on edge. I don’t meet it. Just tip my head, gentlemanly as can be, and stroll out quiet, same as any other man full of whiskey and weary of company.
The hallway’s cooler, quieter, though my pulse don’t settle. I walk steady, making sure no one’s following. Each door I pass, I expect to hear boots behind me, feel a hand on my shoulder, a voice calling me out.
But none comes.
At last I reach our cabin. Hand on the latch, I glance back once more. Hall’s empty. I slip inside. Alice sits up when I ease through the door, lamplight catching her hair loose around her shoulders.
“Where have you—”
I shut the door soft, lift a hand to cut her short. “Not now.” My voice comes out low, rougher than I mean, but my chest’s hammering like I ran a mile.
She studies me, cautious. “What happened?”
I cross the cabin, set my hat on the peg, blood running hot. “Nothin’,” I lie. “Just had a drink.”
Her brow furrows. “You’ve had more than one.”
“Don’t start.” I pinch the bridge of my nose, trying to will the tightness out of my chest. “Place was thick with men laughin’, singin’. I weren’t fit for it.”
“Then why go?” she asks.
“Why stay here where I ain’t wanted?”
She don’t flinch, though her hands knot in her skirts.
The ship’s timbers creak, water slaps the hull. Finally, I drag a chair close to the bunk, drop into it heavy, elbows on my knees, head bowed. Her hand rests on my neck, warm and steady. For a breath, it quiets the storm inside me.
I look up at her. She tilts her head, studying me. “You look tired,” she says. Then, after a pause, “Do you mean to wash before bed?”
I drag a hand over my face, shake my head slow. “Ain’t thought on it.”
Her lips curve the faintest bit. “Then let me think on it for you.” She rises, moves toward the basin. She freshens the cloth, wrings it, then turns back to me. “You’ll need to take that off,” she says, nodding at my shirt.
I grunt, but I don’t argue. Fingers work at the buttons, my hands clumsy with whiskey and nerves.
She steps close, brushing mine aside, finishing the job herself.
Each button slips free under her touch till the shirt hangs loose, sliding off my shoulders.
She lays it over the chair back, neat as can be.
She works the cloth slow over my neck and ears, gentle like she’s tending to a pup or something precious. It’d make me sick if it didn’t feel so fine.
“Always fussin’,” I mutter. Though my voice is rough, ain’t no bite in it. She works down across my chest, over the scars and dirt, rinsing and wringing, coming back again. Each pass slower than it needs to be, her breath soft.
By the time she drags the cloth low over my torso, lingering at the waist of my trousers, she asks gently, “Do you want me to stop?”
Hell. I couldn’t say yes if my soul depended on it.
I lean back in the chair, chest heaving. “Go on, then.”
She works the button loose, then the next, drawing the fabric open with careful fingers.
The trousers slide down enough for her to reach me proper.
She takes up the rag again, freshens it in the basin, and kneels at my side.
Starts washing me low, thighs first, then hips.
Then she slides higher, to the root of me, wrapping me gently in that warm cloth like it’s part of her duty.
I’m already standing hard. Every pass lingers longer than it ought, the rag stroking up and down my length, soap and water slick between us. She keeps her head down like she’s intent on the work, but her hand’s steady, and it ain’t no mistake what she’s doing.
A broken groan rumbles out of me. I settle back in the chair, jaw tight, fighting to breathe as she strokes me. She pauses only to rinse the rag, wringing it clean, then wipes me careful, clearing away the suds. No hurry in her, no shame neither, just that calm, dutiful touch.
And then the rag slips from her fingers, falling back in the basin with a splash. She stays kneeling, both hands on me now. Her eyes lift at last, steady on mine, and before I can draw breath, her mouth closes over me.
Warmth seizes me the instant her lips close over the head, tongue circling like she means to taste every bit. My whole body jerks, a curse torn out low. “Christ.”
She takes me slow, careful, sinking inch by inch, her lips stretched tight around me, every nerve burning. The room narrows, and there's only the wet pull of her mouth, the way her tongue presses against the underside.
I grip the chair arms hard, fighting the urge to seize her hair and drive myself deep. My hips twitch anyway, but she don’t flinch, just hums low in her throat, and the vibration near makes me whimper.
Her hands keep working what her mouth can’t take, stroking the rest of me steady and firm. She pulls back, breathing soft through her nose, then sinks down again, taking more this time, her throat tight and hot round me.
“You’ll finish me fast if you keep lookin’ at me like that,” I rasp.
She don’t ease off. Every time she pulls back, it’s only to sink deeper, her lips sliding lower, till I’m damn near buried. Her hand grips the base, stroking the length in time with her mouth, each pass slicker, harder, till I’m cussing under my breath.
“God almighty,” I snarl, my hand shooting to her hair, rough, holding her steady. My hips jerk, driving me deeper, but she takes it, humming low, eyes locked on mine like she wants to see every damn second.
The obscene sound of it, breathy and slick, fills the cabin, drowning out the creak of the timbers. My thighs quake, blood roaring in my ears, every muscle strung tight enough to snap.
“Alice,” I grind out, voice ragged, “I’m close.”
But she don’t stop. She works me harder, faster, and the fire rips through me sudden and violent. A groan tears from my chest, guttural, raw, as I spill into her mouth, pulsing hard against her tongue. My body bucks, shuddering, and I hold her there, rough hand tangled in her hair.
When it’s done, I slump back in the chair, chest heaving, sweat running down my temples. She pulls off slow, lips glistening, and wipes her mouth with the back of her hand. Rising smooth, not a word passes between us, but I reckon this was some kind of apology.
If this is how she says she’s sorry, hell, I hope she keeps finding reasons to cross me.
She dresses for bed in silence, the room warm with lamplight, and we climb in close. The thought of that Pinkerton slips clean out of my head. The law can hunt tomorrow.