The Gunslinger Read Free Page B

well on his way to recovery. Now she wasn’t so sure. Although his fever was raging, he was shivering as though he’d just emerged from a river in winter. “I don’t know,” she whispered as she dipped a cloth into a bowl of warm water. She wrung it out and began to wipe the sweat from his throat. She felt his body stiffen beneath her fingers.
    â€œDon’t go for the gun,” he rasped. “Goddamn it! Don’t go for the gun!”
    He jerked, kicking at the blankets. She pressed her hands to his shoulders. “Mr. Wilder?” His breath came in short little gasps. “Mr. Wilder?”
    â€œHe’s gonna draw, dammit!” Groaning low, he convulsed, waving his hand frantically. She wrapped her hand tightly around his, and he settled into stillness. His breathing slowly evened out and he opened his eyes. She saw pain reflected in his silver depths, pain that traveled clear to his soul. “He’s dead,” he whispered.
    It wasn’t a question, but she nodded anyway.
    â€œI didn’t want to kill him,” he said, his voice low.
    Then why did you? hung on the tip of her tongue, but she couldn’t bring herself to voice her true thoughts when he seemed so weak, struggling with his inner turmoil.
    â€œI know,” she said softly, not fully understanding why she needed to comfort this man who was clinging to her hand as though it was the only thing keeping him anchored in this world. She felt him relax as though her words gave him absolution. She leaned forward. “Mr. Wilder, do you have family? Is there someone I should notify if you should . . . should die?”
    He rolled his head from side to side. “No family. No one who cares.” He smiled, reminding her of a small boy about to play a prank. “I won’t die in your bed, lady.”
    Her stomach lurched. Her troubles began the night Jack Ward had died in her bed. “See that you don’t.”
    His eyes drifted closed, but his hand remained firmly wrapped around hers. He had stopped shivering, and his cheeks felt a little cooler to her touch. She sat on the bed and stared at their clasped hands. He was a killer, but for a few moments he had simply been a man haunted by demons. She wished she hadn’t witnessed his vulnerability—wished she hadn’t wanted to hold him close and make the pain go away.
    C HAN CE AWOKE EXHAUSTED, his shoulder aching. Shafts of sunlight pierced the room. A woman’s room. It carried the fading fragrance of roses in bloom. Turning his head slightly, he saw the boy standing beside the bed, reverently touching the harmonica that rested on the bedside table.
    â€œDo you—” He’d planned to ask the boy if he knew how to play, but he couldn’t push the words past his parched throat.
    The boy jerked his head around. “Bet you’re needing some water,” he announced with authority.
    Chance struggled to sit up as the boy poured water from an earthen pitcher into a glass. He felt weaker than a newborn babe. He took the offered glass, hating the way his hand shook as he gingerly sipped on the cool liquid that eased the ache in his throat. Over the rim of the glass, he studied the one responsible for his current predicament. The boy no longer had cotton stuffed up his nose, but an ugly black bruise framed one eye. “Your nose hurting?”
    The boy shook his head vigorously. “Lil said it’ll probably be somewhat crooked, but that it’ll give me character.”
    Chance couldn’t prevent a corner of his mouth from lifting. “Character, huh?”
    The boy nodded. “I reckon that’s a good thing to have—whatever it is.”
    Chance’s smile grew. “Not too many people have character these days.”
    â€œDo you?”
    His smile withered away. “None at all.”
    â€œI’m supposed to get Lil if you woke up,” he said, and hightailed it out of the