In Honor's Defense Read online

  Mr. Davenport halted his slow sideways slide. “I’m just tryin’ to make sure your aunt’s outta the line of fire. Wouldn’t want a stray bullet to find her on accident.”

  “I hit what I aim at,” Nathaniel bragged even as his arms quivered. His gaze darted back toward her for a heartbeat, and in the moment their eyes met, something flickered in his gaze that she’d not seen since she arrived. Regret. And for the briefest of seconds, she swore she saw a little boy’s plea for help. He was in over his head and had no idea how to extricate himself.

  Give him a way out.

  Mr. Davenport couldn’t hear her thoughts, of course, but she aimed them at him anyway with as much mental force as she could muster.

  “I respect you for protectin’ your womenfolk, Nate. But I don’t cotton to folks usin’ my rifle without permission.”

  Lord have mercy. Nate had stolen Mr. Davenport’s rifle? Damaris bit back a groan.

  “Yeah, well, I bet you’d use whatever weapon you could find to protect your family, permission or not.”

  Heavens. Did the boy have to antagonize everyone?

  “I would, at that,” the stranger admitted, surprising an exhale of relief out of Damaris.

  Thank you for cool heads, Lord. Now, if you could just soften Nathaniel’s stubborn heart . . .

  “Tell you what.” Mr. Davenport slowly lifted his hands and stretched his arms above his head. His fingers nearly touched the ceiling. “I’m going to turn around and place my palms against the wall. That way you know I won’t try to rush you or reach for my revolver. Your aunt can move to your side of the room, out of my reach, and you can set the rifle down on the table. Once I hear you set the gun down, I’ll turn, and we can all have a civilized conversation without the use of weapons. Sound good?”

  It sounded perfect. At least to Damaris. Nathaniel, however, possessed a more suspicious nature.

  “How do I know you won’t pull your revolver and shoot me the minute I set the rifle down?”

  “You have my word.”

  Nathaniel scowled. “I don’t know you, mister. Your word could be garbage.”

  The first flicker of impatience tightened Mr. Davenport’s face.

  Damaris’s heart rate doubled. Please, Lord.

  “Boy, I served with the 7th Cavalry for more than a decade, then rode with Hanger’s Horsemen until we hung up our spurs a little over a year ago. If I wanted to shoot you, I would have drawn on you and lodged a bullet in your shoulder before you could figure out how to lever a cartridge into the chamber of that repeater.”

  Nathaniel paled. “You’re a . . . a Horseman?”

  “Yep. And I’m gettin’ real tired of holdin’ my hands in the air. We got a deal or not?”

  Damaris had no idea what being a horseman had to do with anything, but a soldier with the 7th Cavalry—that she recognized. They’d been responsible for the massacre at Wounded Knee five years ago. Taken the lives of women. Children. Conscienceless atrocities that turned her stomach.

  Yet the man standing before her didn’t exude the ruthlessness she’d expect from such a vicious warrior. Quite the opposite. He personified patience and calm, like a man going out of his way to avoid bloodshed. If his claim were true about what he could have done to her nephew the instant he’d been threatened—and judging by his size and experience, Damaris found the claim easy to believe—this confrontation would have been over in a matter of seconds. Yet he’d chosen the path of peace and wisdom.

  “‘A soft answer turneth away wrath,’” she quoted under her breath, half prayer, half observation.

  “Proverbs 15:1,” Mr. Davenport murmured in equally quiet tones.

  Her gaze flew to him. He didn’t take his eyes off Nathaniel, but she swore she could feel his awareness of her.

  A man of God. Or at least a man familiar with the Bible. The realization assured her as nothing else could. He wouldn’t attack Nathaniel.

  She turned back to her nephew. Indecision etched his face, and sweat beaded his brow.

  “It’s all right, Nathaniel,” she urged. “I trust him.”

  She half-expected him to come back with a caustic remark about her being a sheltered spinster with no experience of men, which would have been completely true, but he didn’t. He gave a small nod instead, then waved the rifle barrel at Mr. Davenport.

  “All right. Turn around. Hands against the wall.”

  Mr. Davenport complied, turning his back on a scared, inexperienced boy who could shoot him on accident just as easily as on purpose.

  “Aunt Maris, collect his gun.”

  That hadn’t been part of the deal. What if Mr. Davenport objected?

  Damaris swallowed and took a step. Mr. Davenport turned his face slightly toward her and gave a little nod of consent. Her cresting anxiety ebbed. She took another step.

  “Go around, behind the boy,” Mr. Davenport said in a low voice. “Don’t cross the rifle’s path.”

  Still protecting her. Moisture gathered in her eyes as she changed direction and circled behind Nathaniel. Most of her life she’d felt like a hindrance to her family. One more mouth to feed. The odd daughter who preferred books and embroidery to social interaction. The child with no marital prospects, destined to live off the charity of others. The one more likely to be forgotten than sought after. Yet here she stood between a nephew she barely knew and a stranger whom she knew not at all, both taking extreme measures to protect her. Strange that she should feel more valued and cherished in the middle of an armed standoff than in the middle of her family.

  Then again, the Damaris her family knew was a spinster who specialized in fading into the woodwork. The new Texas Damaris was poised to pull a pistol from a giant gunman’s holster. A loaded pistol. A prospect that churned her stomach. Her mother would never believe her capable of such a feat. But the Texas Damaris had a nephew to raise and a brother to honor. She wouldn’t let either of them down with ill-timed squeamishness.

  Squaring her shoulders, she approached Mr. Davenport from the right and reached for his weapon.

  As if he sensed her nervousness, his low voice rumbled encouragement and instructions in her ear. “It won’t go off without being cocked first. Just keep it pointed at the floor, and you’ll be fine.”

  She bit her lip, clasped the handle end with her right hand, and lifted the gun carefully out of the holster. Once she had it out, she pointed the shooting end at the floor, then briefly rested her left hand on Mr. Davenport’s back.

  “Thank you.” For choosing peaceful surrender instead of confrontation. For protecting a young boy’s pride and easing a woman’s fears. For being the bigger man where it truly counted—in character.

  Her touch seeped through Luke like water soaking into scorched earth. It lasted only a heartbeat before she retreated, but even after her hand left his shoulder blade, he could feel the imprint linger. What was it about this woman that affected him so? It had been a simple pat. That was all. A gesture to let him know the sincerity of her gratitude. Nothing more.

  So why did it feel like more?

  He counted her footsteps as she moved away, then finally heard the sound he’d been waiting for—the soft thud of his rifle being set upon the table. A second, lighter click followed when his revolver was laid beside it.

  “All right, mister. You can turn around.”

  Luke pivoted slowly, not wanting to spook the kid. He brought his hands down and got his first good look at Nathaniel Baxter without a gun in front of his face. Luke’s gun. That still rankled. Not to mention the fact that the boy had been responsible for trapping Miss Damaris in the root cellar. Two strikes against him.

  On the other hand, when Nate spotted an unknown horse in front of his house and a strange man inside, he’d taken action to protect his aunt. That evened the score.

  The kid stood an inch or two shorter than his aunt and had the gangly, bean-pole limbs typical of a boy struggling to grow into a man. His eyes narrowed as he faced Luke, their steel-blue color radically different from the aunt’s soft brown. The boy stood close to the table where the weapons had been stored, his hip cocked against the rounded edge while his fingers pressed into the wood grain mere inches from the revolver. He’d regained a bit of his color and a good deal of his insolence.

  Nate flicked his head to get his overlong brown hair out of his eyes. “You really one of Hanger’s Horsemen?”

  “Yep.” Luke relaxed his stance, leaning his left shoulder against the hutch beside him. He kept his right arm free, however, just in case he needed to go for his knife. His gut told him the danger had passed, but his training insisted he always be ready. “Served under Captain Hanger in the 7th, then followed him to Texas. Oliver Grimes hired me to look into some rustling happenin’ at his place.”

  His casual mention of Grimes triggered a reaction. The boy broke eye contact and shifted his stance. Arms crossed over his midsection. Feeling guilty? For the vandalism, or for his involvement in the rustling?

  “The other Horsemen here, too?” Nate’s voice cracked a little on the question.

  “Nope. Just me. Captain Hanger’s retired. Runs a horse breeding farm down near San Antonio now. The others settled over in Llano County.”

  The kid looked far too relieved at that news. Luke couldn’t resist an extra little jab.

  “They’re like brothers, though. One telegram is all it’d take to bring them here in force.”

  Nate’s Adam’s apple bobbed up and down.

  Luke hid a smile. “But I don’t think I’ll need them. I’m pretty good at sniffin’ out troublemakers on my own.”

  Another hard bob of the Adam’s apple. The boy was definitely nervous.

  “In fact,” Luke pressed, pushing away from the hutch and closing a few steps of distance between him and his quarry, “I was hoping to ask you a few questions about it. Thought you might have some insight that would—”

  “I don’t know nothin’ about any rustling.” The boy’s hands dropped to his sides, balling into fists. “And even if I did, I wouldn’t do anything to help your boss.” His face reddened, and rage visibly vibrated his arms. “Oliver Grimes killed my father!”

  CHAPTER

  FIVE

  Luke steeled his expression to hide his shock. Miss Baxter, on the other hand, hid nothing. Her nephew’s angry accusation nearly felled her. She grabbed a nearby chair and collapsed into it.

  Luke raised a brow as he regarded Nate. “Those are strong words. You got any proof to back ’em up?”

  The kid scowled and sliced his arm through the air as if it were a weapon seeking a target. “Of course I don’t have proof. If I did, Oliver Grimes would be behind bars or swingin’ from the end of a rope.”

  A tiny guttural sound that reminded Luke of a kicked puppy echoed from Miss Baxter’s location. His attention shifted off the boy and onto the delicate woman who had wrapped an arm around her midsection and was rocking slightly. Her complexion had paled, and her shoulders rounded in on themselves like a shield.

  “Why don’t you tell me about it outside?” Luke suggested. Talk of hangings and murder wasn’t exactly fit for female consumption, especially a female who’d been raised to a more genteel existence. He didn’t know much about Damaris Baxter, but her clothes were well-made and more suited to a ladies’ drawing room than a cabin in the middle of Texas cattle country.

  Nate obviously agreed, for he gave one sharp nod, then strode for the back door. Luke crossed to the table to collect his guns. He’d barely slipped his revolver into its holster before Miss Baxter’s chair scraped against the floorboards.

  She jerked to her feet. “Stop!”

  The word carried all the weight of a command. Luke’s hand froze above his rifle, and his gaze sought hers. The pleading in her eyes arrested him, but her attention didn’t linger. It shot over to her nephew, who stood with his back turned to her and his hand on the door handle. He’d halted, but he made no move to face her.

  “I will not be excluded from this conversation.” She gripped the table edge, her knuckles as white as her ashen face. As Luke watched, however, she released the support and straightened to her full height. It was a rather remarkable sight, like a butterfly stretching its wings for the first time after emerging from a cocoon. “I want to hear your reasons for thinking Mr. Grimes is responsible for your father’s death, even if you don’t have proof.” She paused, nibbled on her bottom lip, then worked her way around the side of the table, her gaze rooted to her nephew’s back. “I loved your father too, you know. He was my big brother. If his death wasn’t the accident I was led to believe, I need to know.”

  She took a step. Then another. And a third. Halting less than a yard from Nate, she stretched out an arm. Her hand hovered behind the boy’s shoulder, poised for contact yet hesitating. A heartbeat passed. Then her elbow folded, and her fingers retracted. “Please, Nathaniel. Let me help.”

  Nate spun to face her at last, belligerence etched into his features even as moisture glistened in his eyes. “How do you think you can help, Aunt Maris? Read me stories like you did after my ma died? I ain’t a kid anymore. Lullabies and fairy tales ain’t gonna cut it.”

  She flinched, yet she didn’t back away. She stood fast, caring more about tending her nephew’s hurt than her own.

  “You can tell me your story this time.” Her soft voice soothed. Beckoned. Pleaded. “About Mr. Grimes. About your father. About where you go at night.”

  He’d been softening until she mentioned his nocturnal excursions. His expression turned stony after that, his chin jutting forward in defiance. “Where I go is my business. No one else’s. Quit tryin’ to mother me, Aunt Maris. It ain’t your place.”

  The boy yanked the back door open and shot out of the kitchen like a jackrabbit chased by a coyote. Grief couldn’t be outrun, though. It would catch him eventually, and when it did, he’d need the very thing he swore he didn’t want—his aunt.

  “Nathaniel, wait!” Miss Baxter charged after him, but the boy ignored her call. She ran as far as the clothesline before stuttering to a stop. She braced a hand against the wooden post. Tears trailed down her cheeks. The sight gut-punched Luke.

  “You all right?” He drew up beside her, having grabbed his rifle and raced after them both.

  She shook her head. “I pushed him too hard. Asked too many questions.”

  Luke touched her shoulder, just as she’d touched his earlier, hoping to dispense some measure of comfort. “He didn’t run because you asked questions. He ran ’cause he’s hidin’ something. You didn’t do anything wrong. In fact, from what I can see, you’re doin’ a whole lot right. The kid’s lucky to have you.”

  The woundedness in her brown eyes made his chest ache, but it hurt worse when she tore her gaze away from him to stare forlornly after the ungrateful boy sprinting over the low hill just beyond the barn.

  “He doesn’t seem to think so.”

  “Yeah, well, boys his age are stupid.” Luke dropped his hand from her shoulder and cocked a grin when she glanced his way. “I should know. I used to be one.” He turned and let out a shrill whistle. The quiet thud of hoofbeats followed.

  Miss Baxter’s eyes widened as she beheld Titan trotting toward him like a giant, faithful hound. Luke hid a smile as he slid his rifle into the saddle boot. “I’ll have Nate back to you by supper,” he promised as he mounted and took up the reins.

  Miss Baxter shaded her eyes with a hand to her brow as she peered up at him. “How? He’s gone.”

  Luke tipped his hat. “I’m a Horseman, ma’am. Hunting down outlaws and bandits is what I do.”

  “Yes, well, my nephew’s not an outlaw. He’s a fourteen-year-old boy. Be sure you remember that.”

  Luke tugged on the brim of his hat. “Yes, ma’am.”

  Although Nate’s age had little bearing on his outlaw status.

  The boy was knee-deep in trouble of some sort. Of that, Luke had no doubt. The question was what kind of mud he was slogging around in. The kind that would only muck up his shoes and leave a few stains on his trousers? Or a bottomless bog that would swallow him whole if he stepped wrong?

  And how did Oliver Grimes fit into all this? Did he really have something to do with Douglas Baxter’s death? Hard to believe when Luke knew Wilson Grimes, Oliver’s brother, to be an honorable man, a man of courage and duty. But then, men sharing blood ties didn’t necessarily share ties of morality or integrity. And thank God for that, or Luke would have ended up an abusive drunkard like his old man—one who’d rather rail at the world for dealing him a raw hand than actually do anything to make it better.

  Shaking off the bad memories, Luke nudged Titan into a slow canter and set off in the direction he’d last seen Nate. He slowed as he crested the hill, but it didn’t take long to spot his quarry. The boy made no effort to hide. He just ran. As if exertion and escape could manufacture the freedom he sought. Luke understood the compulsion. There was a reason he’d become one of the most accomplished swordsmen in his unit. Years of stockpiled resentment, rage, and hurt didn’t expunge itself. Luke had found an outlet first with his fists, then later with a cavalry saber. The mental concentration required to wield the weapon against a capable opponent quieted the demons, while the physical effort dulled the rage.

  After Luke became a proficient swordsman, Matt was the only officer willing to spar with him. The only one willing to take the punishment Luke dealt when the rage simmered too close to the surface. Matt had had his own demons to battle, and while he couldn’t match Luke’s brawn, his grasp of strategy kept the contest even. And somewhere amid all the sweat and exhaustion, a bond formed between the combatants. A bond that did more to subdue the demons than the sparring ever had. A bond that ultimately led Luke to the One with the ability to subdue the demons permanently. They still raised their nasty heads on occasion, too much a part of him to be fully eradicated until the perfection of heaven arrived, but they’d been chained and stripped of their power.

  And the God of peace shall bruise Satan under your feet. One of the many verses he’d memorized over the years ran through Luke’s head as he caught up to Nate. God’s peace was what the kid needed. But if Nate was anything like Luke had been at that age, getting him to let go of his anger and bitterness would not be easy. It had taken the horrors of war, the bonds of friendship, and a decade’s worth of maturing to teach Luke the value of peace. He prayed Nate would catch on quicker than he had.