The Devil's Own Desperado by Lynda J. Cox Page A

Saul and I went looking for them. Marshal Taylor was with them by then and tried to keep me and Saul away.”
    Colt took a step closer. The chill melted and an unexpected gentleness softened his expression. She held her hand up, halting his slow progress. “They were dead, and Jenny was hiding under the seat of the buckboard, under a buffalo rug. They had been robbed and Momma…”
    Amelia couldn’t force the last words out. She dropped her gaze to the floor. Her stomach twisted again with the memory of her parents’ frozen, bloodied bodies, partially drifted over with snow. Since that day, she had been forced to be strong for Saul, stronger for Jenny. What she wanted to do was exactly what Jenny had done. She wanted to retreat into her own shell and go back to a world that included her mother and father. Nightmares still tormented her.
    “It’s okay, Amelia.” He caught her hand and squeezed it once before releasing her. “I don’t need to know what they did to your mother. Unfortunately, I can guess.”
    Amelia lifted her eyes to him, grateful for his understanding. “We almost lost Jenny. She must have seen it all, and she got so sick afterward. She doesn’t like to look anywhere but at the ground, sometimes she won’t eat for days, and she hasn’t made a sound since that day. Dr. Archer thinks someday, she’ll be able to talk again, but he’s also afraid it may take something just as terrible to break through”—she struggled to recall the exact words the doctor had used—“to break through the walls her mind put up.”
    “How old was Jenny when this happened?” Colt pushed the white gelding’s head away from his injured shoulder.
    “It happened in January. She was six, almost seven.” Disoriented with the gentle sympathy in Colt’s expression and needing to change the subject, Amelia tilted her head to the horse. “He’s a beautiful animal. What’s his name?”
    “He doesn’t have one.” His cold mask slipped into place faster than an avalanche roaring down a mountainside. “I don’t name animals. Not anymore.”
    Not anymore . What had happened to him after his stepfather had thrown him out at the tender age of thirteen? “May I name him?”
    “Suit yourself.” Colt poured a scoopful of cracked corn and oats into the horse’s trough. “Amelia, I feel undressed without my gun. Where did you hide it?”
    “I think I’ll call him Angel. He’s as white as a Christmas angel.” She hoped if she ignored his question, he wouldn’t ask again. She wondered for a moment if her parents had ever had a conversation like this one when her father decided to walk away from his previous life and put on the vestments of a clergyman.
    “My gun, Amelia.” He spoke each word clearly, adding a little more force to each syllable. “Where did you hide it?”
    She shot a glance at him. Again, she was struck with the contrast of the pristine white sling against the black shirt. Black gave him an intimidating air, but also lent a new depth to his silver-shot, jet-black hair and added a startling deep cast to his eyes. “Are you leaving?”
    “Not yet. I’d just like to know where it is.”
    She nodded to his saddle on a rack across the barn. “The gun and your holster are in your saddlebags.”
    He strode across the barn. Amelia turned her back to him and stroked Angel’s face. A harsh, metallic click broke the peaceful quiet of the warm barn, followed by the unmistakable sound of the barrel spinning. She winced, but continued to stroke the gelding’s broad face.
    Another sharp click traced a chill up her spine.
    A quieter, but no less harsh double click lifted the hairs on the back of her neck.
    “Amelia, look at me.”
    With a sigh, she faced him.
    “We both know you can’t leave my gun in my saddlebags. If Saul gets really curious, this is going to be the first place he goes looking for it.” Colt lowered the hammer against the chamber, slipped the revolver into the holster and wrapped the