Gunman's Song Read Free Page B

inside a glass globe, he weaved a bit before catching himself with one hand on the back of a tall wooden chair. The chair legs made a scraping sound on the stone floor and brought Carmelita up from the darkness where she had been lying on a deep wooden-framed sofa with a woolen Mexican serape around her.
    â€œLawrence?
¿Está usted?
” she asked, her voice not sounding like that of woman awakened from sleep.
    â€œ
Sí, estoy yo
…I mean yes, it’s me,” Shaw said, for a second speaking as he would have to Rosa, thencatching himself quickly. Not that it should have mattered, his speaking Spanish to Carmelita. But it did somehow. There was something to it that he could not explain, but somehow it mattered.
    â€œAre you hungry?” Carmelita asked. “I prepared some food. I can warm it.” Her eyes moved across the bottle in his hand, then moved away.
    â€œNo, I’m good,” said Shaw, sobering a bit now that he had to in order to speak clearly.
    â€œIs there anything I can get for you? If there is, tell me,” said Carmelita, stepping in closer, picking up the candle and holding it up for better light.
    Lawrence Shaw looked into her dark eyes, so overcome by the resemblance to his Rosa that he resisted the aching need to hold her to him. “I’m not hungry,” he said, averting his eyes from her, turning and walking through the darkness toward the bedroom at the end of the long hallway. Carmelita followed him with the candle, holding it up to light his way. Shaw avoided looking over at the broad hearth across the room. When he had arrived off the trail earlier that day, Carmelita had just finished scrubbing the hearthstone with a coarse brush and a bucket of soapy water. Shaw had pretended not to notice the pinkish color of the water or the two bullet holes in the hearthstones.
    In the bedroom, Carmelita set the candle on a table inside the door, then raised the globe of an oil lantern, lit it, and trimmed it to a soft glow. “Let me help you,” she said. Yet, turning toward him, she saw he had set the bottle on a nightstand and stood unfastening his gun belt. She watched him loop the belt, rebuckle it, and hang it on the corner of the bed within reach. She gazed at the gun and holster, athow they seemed so at home hanging there. When she looked back at Shaw he had seated himself on the side of the bed. He dropped a boot to the floor. She hesitated for a second, wondering if her offer of help was welcome, or even needed.
    â€œI talked to the sheriff,” Shaw said, reaching down, struggling with his other boot. “He told me the details.”
    â€œPlease,” Carmelita said softly, “let us not speak about it any more tonight.” She raised his foot and helped him take off the other boot. “You have had much to drink; let me help you.”
    â€œI’ll be leaving tomorrow, first light,” Shaw said. “Cray Dawson is coming by. He’s riding with me.”
    â€œOh,” she said matter-of-factly. “Then I will prepare some food for you to take with you.” She stepped in close and began unbuttoning his bib-front shirt as she spoke.
    â€œThat’s not necessary,” he said. Feeling her stop, he added, “The food, I mean. It’s going to be a long ride…a day’s food won’t matter much one way or the other.” He thought about what he’d just said, and corrected himself. “Unless you don’t mind doing it, that is?”
    â€œNo, I do not mind.” Carmelita finished unbuttoning his shirt and peeled it up over his shoulders, taking care with his healing wound. She dropped the shirt beside him and touched the tender flesh for a second as if examining it. Then she stepped around the bed and turned down the covers. “Finish undressing,” she said quietly, fluffing the feather pillows. “Will you need a nightshirt?”
    â€œNo, I’ve grown unaccustomed to