Promises Reveal (45 page)

He opened the box. The scent of gun oil and leather welcomed him back. His red-and-gold-embroidered leather vest lay on top. He picked it up, memories of his old life pouring over him—disjointed and violent, racing through his mind in an incoherent rush—almost as if he was recalling somebody else’s life, borrowing their experiences. He set it aside. The gun gleamed a dull charcoal color. He curled his fingers around the butt. The grip was warm and familiar.

“So what are you going to do, Shadow?”

So Jackson knew who he was. He’d suspected as much. Brad didn’t turn around, just lifted the gun belt clear and wrapped it around his hips. It didn’t matter that the others knew who he was. Not anymore. “I’m going to get my wife back.”

“Casey didn’t come alone.”

Brad turned. Jackson leaned against the wall with his familiar hip-shot nonchalance. His long blond hair flowed about the ammo strapped across his chest. In his arms he cradled a shotgun. Brad buckled the belt. “I didn’t figure he would.”

“He’s got eight men up on the roofs, three tucked in the alley around the saloon, and four in with Evie.”

Brad checked the revolver’s action. The cylinders spun as smoothly as ever. The hammer tripped at the slightest touch of the trigger. “Thanks.”

“He seems pretty serious about killing you.”

He glanced up. “That’ll work out well, then, since I aim to kill him.”

“Ask me to help.”

Brad snapped the loaded chamber closed. “No.”

He wasn’t having any more deaths on his conscience.

Jackson swore. “Taking them on by yourself is suicide.”

“Someone’s got to be around to make sure they spell my name right on the tombstone.”

“Assuming there’s going to be enough left to bury.”

“There’ll be enough.” Elijah’s deep baritone filled the church.

“Turn around and head back where you came from, Elijah,” Brad ordered as Elijah approached the pulpit. “You’re not part of this anymore.”

Elijah just planted his feet shoulder width and angled the barrels of the rifles he held in each hand back over his shoulders. “Not going to happen, Rev.”

Rev . . . when he used to be Shadow. The shift between past and present gaped and then narrowed.

“They’ve got Nidia, too.”

Brad slid the revolver out of the right holster. “Where?”

“The saloon.”

Opening the chamber, he loaded the bullets. “What the hell was Evie doing at the saloon?”

“Paying a social call on Nidia.”

Shit.
He snapped the chamber closed, returning the Colt to the holster before repeating the procedure with the other. “Why?”

“According to Evie, because it was her debt,” Jackson interjected, coming forward.

“How do
you
know?”

“Overheard it while walking down the hall.”

“You were eavesdropping at Nidia’s door?” Elijah asked, a growl in his drawl.

Jackson raised an eyebrow. “That would be underhanded.”

“And we all know you wouldn’t do anything underhanded,” Brad murmured, his eyes drawn to the vest again.

“Unless it was the quickest way to get to his goal,” Elijah countered.

“I’m hurt.”

Jackson didn’t look hurt; he looked relaxed, if one discounted the rhythmic tapping of his fingers on the rifle stock.

“More likely upset at being found out,” Elijah scoffed, before calmly asking, “So what’s the plan, Rev?”

“Haven’t gotten much past killing Casey and getting Evie back.”

“Straightforward and to the point.” Jackson nodded. “I like it.”

“Would that be sarcasm?”

Jackson shrugged. “Yes. You need a better plan.”

“I’ll work on it on the way.” Brad picked up the leather vest. The last time he’d worn this he’d been a desperate man, no home, no family, a posse on his tail, and his only future a hangman’s noose. He’d “died” at the hands of the McKinnelys and been reborn—risen from the grave to create the illusion of belonging, adding to it until it was the illusion that had substance and his old life that wavered with dreamlike inconsistency.

God’s little joke.

He glanced at the cross on the back wall.
Don’t know how you’ve kept that mean streak so secret for so long.

Brad looked around the small church with its polished pews, smooth floors, and the one stained-glass pane in the arched window above the front door. The pane that had been presented to him last Christmas from the parishioners. An outrageous expense for this small town. Given to him because they thought the simple things he did mattered. Because they were grateful. Because they thought, with him, they could build something. His fingers clenched on the wooden lid, wanting to throw the box and shatter the mockery he’d made of their belief. Evie’s belief. Son of a bitch, Evie’s belief.

His father’s voice. His father’s curse. Every Sunday, week after week, from his earliest memory he’d stood before the pulpit and, week after week, he’d been made to apologize for his existence before his father’s congregation. Made to atone for the circumstances of his birth with his blood and his humiliation until the thought of church and God put puke in his throat. Yet this pulpit had been his the last eighteen months. This town his home. These people his family. And Evie . . . he closed his eyes and took a breath. With all her outrageous ways, she was this town’s smile. And though he’d never seen it coming, she had also become his.

His lips tugged in wry remembrance at the challenge. Yeah. He could. He picked up the vest. He might not be good for much, but there was one thing at which he was damn near expert. He could steal anything. He could steal back his smile.

“No.” Elijah took the distinctive garment out of his hands and put it back in the box. His forest green gaze didn’t flinch from the challenge in Brad’s. “Shadow is dead.”

Jackson came up on his other side and handed him his black preacher’s coat, his gaze just as calm, just as resolved. It was easy to see why the McKinnelys depended on him in a fight. “But the Reverend’s got some ass to kick.”

 
BRAD WASN’T CRAWLING. If Casey’d hoped to break Brad with threats, he was doomed to disappointment. Evie stood with her face shoved against the window overlooking the street and felt a leap of hope, a trill of dread. Brad was a far cry from crawling. He walked down the street like he owned it, each long stride the flowing, measured approach of a predator intent on the kill. She wished she could see his face, find the man she’d married amidst this horror, but she couldn’t. His black hat was angled over his face, hiding his expression from view, his black coat blowing back from the black cotton of his pants. The late morning sun reflected off the belt strapped low on his lean hips. Off the guns tied low on his powerful thighs. Off the guns he wore so naturally.

Oh damn. She could believe that now. It all made sense. The predatory grace in his walk. His skill with cards. His ease with guns. His scars. He’d just failed to mention what he
had
been before. Whatever it had been, it had been violent. And, from the level of tension escalating in the room, he’d been good at it.

The gun under her chin pushed her face up as the man holding her called over his shoulder. “Shadow’s coming.”

Shadow, not Brad. There was only one Shadow. Evie blinked the tears from her eyes. He was dead.

Brad stopped just short of the saloon. As if he felt her presence, he looked up. To a stranger, his expression might have been impassive, but to anyone who knew him, the set of his shoulders signaled anger. Evie knew him. So did the man holding her.

“And he looks pissed, Bart.”

Casey came over, his chest pressing against her shoulder.

“More than pissed, Bart. I’d even say he was downright desperate.”

They didn’t know Brad at all. Evie smiled, the twist of muscles feeling grotesquely awkward as it occurred against the window. Brad didn’t get desperate. He planned, he arranged, and he made things happen. The way he wanted. A bit more hope seeped past her panic. Reverend or Shadow, she knew the man behind the names. And he was one to believe in. Wedging her bound hands up between her body and the glass, she pressed one flat, first finger and thumb drawn into a circle, just wanting Brad to know she was all right.

At first there was no response, but then he smiled that beautiful smile that always made her heart skip a beat. “You’re not where I left you, Evie darling.”

The words were muffled and distorted through the glass and she had to read his lips to fill in the gaps left by distance, but she understood. And, no she wasn’t, but she wished she were.

“What the hell did he say?” Bart growled.

“Open the window and find out,” Casey ordered, yanking her out of Bart’s hold and against him as he stepped back.

The window stuck. Bart pounded it open. Evie winced with every blow. Brad waited in the street, watching. From where she sat on the bed, Nidia watched with the same tense anticipation.

“Nice of you to stop by, Reverend,” Casey called.

“It’s a nice day for a walk. It was no never mind to stop by and pay a visit.”

“I was expecting you to bring company.”

“Your would-be guests weren’t feeling sociable.”

“The point was for you to make them want to be.”

Brad pulled his coat back from his gun and rested his right hand on his hip. He looked so incredibly masculine right then, so dangerous, so deadly, and so absolutely exposed, standing to the side of the street.

“My positive wasn’t able to overcome your negative.” He pulled his coat back from his other gun, resting that hand on his hip as well, in a blatant challenge. “Truth is, Casey, you’re a damn unlikable sort.”

“Isn’t that a bit of the pot calling the kettle black?”

“Why don’t you come down and we’ll discuss it?”

“Just the two of us?”

“Man to man.”

From behind someone muttered, “Hot damn. We’re finally going to find out who’s faster, Casey or Shadow.”

Casey pushed Evie forward until her face once again was pressed up against the window. Shielding him from any possible shot from below, while Brad just stood there exposed. Evie wanted to swat him and order him to get under cover.

“It’s a date,” Casey hollered down.

Brad tipped his hat back; his eyes caught the sun and reflected bright blue. “You hold on, Evie darling, and I’ll be right with you.”

What was she supposed to do with that? She tried to nod but Casey twisted his hand deeper in her hair. She drove her elbow back into his side. He didn’t even grunt, just mashed her check harder against the window.

“Don’t worry, she’ll be right here waiting for you.”

Over his shoulder, he ordered the men in the room, “As soon as I get down there and give the signal, shoot her. Make it messy.”

“Can’t get messier than a head shot,” offered one of the men whose name she didn’t know.

“Then make it a head shot,” Casey snapped before adding, “As soon as she’s dead, people are going to start filling the street. Signal the men to take out twenty and then we’ll move on.”

“That’s going to have every marshal in the state on our ass.”

“As the only people who really know who we are will be dead, they’ll be chasing ghosts.”

Bart laughed. Actually laughed.

“They know your name,” Evie pointed out desperately. He couldn’t seriously plan on killing all those innocent people.

Casey laughed. “They know a name, but it’s not mine.”

Evie exchanged a horrified look with Nidia. This wasn’t good.

With a small jerk of her chin Nidia indicated the mattress. Two downward stabs with her fingers and Evie got the message. She had a knife under the mattress—for all the good that was going to do them. Her hands were tied as tightly as Nidia’s. Maybe more so. They were outnumbered, outgunned, and in no position to do anything.

“What the hell are you two making eyes about?” Casey asked.

“We’re conspiring against you,” Evie answered.

He dismissed the threat with a snort.

“I’m waiting, Casey,” Brad called from the street.

Casey looked around. “You all know what to do?”

The men nodded. “We know.”

He stopped by Nidia’s side and caught her chin on his hand, yanking her face up. “If you want your death painless, you might consider telling me where my wife is.”

Nidia spat in his face. He backhanded her again. This time she didn’t bounce back. She just lay on the mattress unconscious.

“Oh God,” Evie groaned.

Bart hauled her over to the window. “Too late for prayers.”

Brad—Shadow. She closed her eyes and took a breath, the confusion of to whom she was married momentarily overwhelming her. She took a breath and started again with the only point that mattered. Her husband stood in the street, watching the door Casey would be coming through. She didn’t know what he was doing. He was a sitting duck. She wanted to kick his butt. She wanted to kiss him. She wanted to slap him. There was only one thing she wanted to do more than all of that. As if he felt her need, Brad looked up. Her lips shaped the words. His eyes narrowed and he shook his head. He hadn’t understood.

Bart put the gun to her head. She swallowed, panic welling until she realized that, if she couldn’t see Casey, neither could Bart. He wasn’t going to pull the trigger yet.

She put her hands against the sill, tears burning her eyes. What did it matter now what Brad called himself? Who he’d been before? What name he called himself had nothing to do with how she felt about him. In a few minutes she’d be dead, and while there were some things she’d willingly take to the grave, this wasn’t one of them.