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Authors: Catherine Anderson
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huddle, arms locked around her bent knees. Her small face was so bloodless that he could scarcely tell where her white cotton nightgown left off and her skin began. Under her blue eyes, dark circles stood out in stark relief against her pale cheeks, and her soft, full lips were tinged with purple.
He searched his mind for some way—any way at all—to reassure her. The way she looked at him made him feeltoo big for his skin. Six-three in his bare feet, he stood a head taller than most men. To someone of her slight stature, he knew he had to seem huge. There had been countless times in Race’s lifetime when he’d had cause to wish his legs weren’t so long or his shoulders so wide, but never more so than now.
Barely aware of his movements or the thoughts that ran through his mind to prompt them, he folded a leg under himself to sit down, hoping he might seem less intimidating that way. Then, very slowly so as not to startle her, Race unbuckled his gun belt. Bless her heart, she was shaking so hard, she looked incapable of standing, let alone making a run for it. As she followed the movements of his hands, a look of stunned disbelief crossed her face.
Never taking his gaze off her, he folded the ends of the gun belt around the holsters, then leaned sideways to lay the weapons on the pallet, putting them as close to her as his arm would stretch. He followed the guns with his sheathed knife. Then he scooted away, the seat of his britches rasping on the floorboards, until his back met with the wall.
She stared at the weapons for a moment, then looked back at him, her expression indicating that she thought he’d gone plumb loco. And maybe he had.
He smiled slightly. “I got only one request,” he said in the gentlest tone he could muster. “If you decide to shoot me, aim true. Gettin’ gut shot ain’t real high on my list.”
Her gaze darted back to the guns, and she stared at them for several long seconds, as if she couldn’t quite believe he’d laid them there, unguarded and within her reach. That made two of them. He couldn’t quite credit it either. At this close range, she wouldn’t have to aim; just pointing the gun in his general direction and pulling the trigger would get the job done. And wouldn’t that be a hell of a note? Race Spencer, shot dead by a slip of a woman who’d probably never touched a sidearm in her life. Folks would talk about it for years to come.
Not that he was all that worried. If he was guessing right and she was a cheek turner, killing went against herreligion. Besides, he seriously doubted she had what it took to shoot someone. Three things had kept Race alive to see the ripe old age of thirty: being able to draw a gun faster than a man could spit and holler howdy, having the sense to choose his battles, and being a good judge of character. There was a gentleness in this young woman that ran bone-deep. He couldn’t say for certain what it was about her that led him to believe that, only that he did. Enough that he was willing to bet his life on it.
“Like I said, you got no call to feel afraid.” He inclined his head at the weapons. “You’ll notice I put ’em closer to you than to me. In these parts, it’s what we call a show of good faith, a layin’ down of arms so folks can feel safe while they parley.” At her blank expression, he quickly added, “Parley means to talk things out. And I reckon I got a heap of talkin’ to do. Now that I ain’t wearin’ my guns, I’m hopin’ you’ll feel a mite more inclined to listen. You reckon?”
A fair hand at reading people’s eyes, Race was starting to get a little worried. There was nothing in her expression to indicate she was getting the gist of what he was saying. Not a good sign. It occurred to him that maybe she didn’t understand English.
“You ain’t one of them Dutch folks, are you?” While riding shotgun on the Santa Fe Trail, Race had, on two different occasions, escorted an all-Dutch caravan from
He searched his mind for some way—any way at all—to reassure her. The way she looked at him made him feeltoo big for his skin. Six-three in his bare feet, he stood a head taller than most men. To someone of her slight stature, he knew he had to seem huge. There had been countless times in Race’s lifetime when he’d had cause to wish his legs weren’t so long or his shoulders so wide, but never more so than now.
Barely aware of his movements or the thoughts that ran through his mind to prompt them, he folded a leg under himself to sit down, hoping he might seem less intimidating that way. Then, very slowly so as not to startle her, Race unbuckled his gun belt. Bless her heart, she was shaking so hard, she looked incapable of standing, let alone making a run for it. As she followed the movements of his hands, a look of stunned disbelief crossed her face.
Never taking his gaze off her, he folded the ends of the gun belt around the holsters, then leaned sideways to lay the weapons on the pallet, putting them as close to her as his arm would stretch. He followed the guns with his sheathed knife. Then he scooted away, the seat of his britches rasping on the floorboards, until his back met with the wall.
She stared at the weapons for a moment, then looked back at him, her expression indicating that she thought he’d gone plumb loco. And maybe he had.
He smiled slightly. “I got only one request,” he said in the gentlest tone he could muster. “If you decide to shoot me, aim true. Gettin’ gut shot ain’t real high on my list.”
Her gaze darted back to the guns, and she stared at them for several long seconds, as if she couldn’t quite believe he’d laid them there, unguarded and within her reach. That made two of them. He couldn’t quite credit it either. At this close range, she wouldn’t have to aim; just pointing the gun in his general direction and pulling the trigger would get the job done. And wouldn’t that be a hell of a note? Race Spencer, shot dead by a slip of a woman who’d probably never touched a sidearm in her life. Folks would talk about it for years to come.
Not that he was all that worried. If he was guessing right and she was a cheek turner, killing went against herreligion. Besides, he seriously doubted she had what it took to shoot someone. Three things had kept Race alive to see the ripe old age of thirty: being able to draw a gun faster than a man could spit and holler howdy, having the sense to choose his battles, and being a good judge of character. There was a gentleness in this young woman that ran bone-deep. He couldn’t say for certain what it was about her that led him to believe that, only that he did. Enough that he was willing to bet his life on it.
“Like I said, you got no call to feel afraid.” He inclined his head at the weapons. “You’ll notice I put ’em closer to you than to me. In these parts, it’s what we call a show of good faith, a layin’ down of arms so folks can feel safe while they parley.” At her blank expression, he quickly added, “Parley means to talk things out. And I reckon I got a heap of talkin’ to do. Now that I ain’t wearin’ my guns, I’m hopin’ you’ll feel a mite more inclined to listen. You reckon?”
A fair hand at reading people’s eyes, Race was starting to get a little worried. There was nothing in her expression to indicate she was getting the gist of what he was saying. Not a good sign. It occurred to him that maybe she didn’t understand English.
“You ain’t one of them Dutch folks, are you?” While riding shotgun on the Santa Fe Trail, Race had, on two different occasions, escorted an all-Dutch caravan from
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