business,” she said, short and tight.
“Still, I’d like to hear what you think.”
She snorted. “People don’t really mean it when they say that. Nobody wants to hear what I think.”
“I’m telling you I do.”
Silence fell as she closed her eyes for a deep breath. “Fine, then. I’m appalled by the fact that you kill people for a living.”
“I protect people. If the people trying to harm them are killed in the process, then so be it.”
She sat back against the seat, tall and rigid. “Oh, well please, be so cavalier about it!”
He shrugged. “I’m good at what I do. Not one of my clients has ever been killed. Some call that a perfect record.”
“Shootists are men without morals or scruples of any kind,” she returned tightly. “They kill for the pleasure of it and don’t care one whit whether the person they’re killing is the real criminal or if the person paying them is.”
He studied her for a long moment. Her arms began to shake in spite of the warm night. “You know me better than to believe I’d kill for pleasure. Not all of this venom is directed at me, I presume.”
A wave of guilt washed over her face, but it was quickly replaced by the stubborn set of her shoulders and slight lift of her chin. “My father was killed by a hired gun, paid for by my sister’s first husband, the same man who abused her and slit her throat, and had more hired guns keep her and me prisoner in his house for three years.” She shook her head with force. “Please tell me you can do better for your life than that, Dalton. For God’s sake, the work you did before was more honorable.”
She’d made a large leap in the wrong direction with her assumptions about him, and he felt his skin bristle in response. “You know, for someone who doesn’t want to be perceived as a Brahmin , you sure make it difficult to tell the difference. Are you always this judgmental?”
She pointed her index finger at him and sniggered. “You asked for my opinion. Besides, if I were a Brahmin , I would have smiled politely to your face and then crucified you behind your back. I can’t believe you would turn to that sort of work.”
He sat forward so their faces were inches apart. “I’m not like your sister’s first husband. And I’m not like the men he hired. I protect the innocent. Believe me, I’ve turned down many offers that would have made me rich but cost my peace of mind. My apologies if that doesn’t live up to your standards of honor, but it’s the only skill I have, and I’m damn good at it.”
A hot breath blew out of his mouth as he sat back against the carriage. He watched her eyes shift back and forth.
“That’s not true,” she declared quietly. “You have other skills. Honorable skills.”
He snorted and her eyebrows drew together severely.
“I’m being serious,” she said. “I still have in my possession a beautifully carved wooden horse.”
What was it with the women in his life? First his mother and now Marlena. Skills that couldn’t put food on the table were worthless. He blasted her with an icy glare. “There’s not much demand in Virginia City for wooden horses.”
She leveled her eyes at him. “Last I read they were building a railroad from California to Nevada for the sole purpose of carting in wood. People build houses and those houses need furnishings. There are all sorts of opportunities for a man who can work wood.”
The initial heat of his anger subsided because he had to admit she was right. He studied her face, not sure which thought intrigued him more. That she’d kept the horse, or that she considered his abilities a skill worth marketing. He fought the urge to laugh at her naiveté. To think he could just set up shop on Main Street and drum up business from the very people who knew him as a ruffian whoreson was laughable. No respectable family would employ him and they’d make damn sure their wives and daughters didn’t associate with him. He knew his
“Still, I’d like to hear what you think.”
She snorted. “People don’t really mean it when they say that. Nobody wants to hear what I think.”
“I’m telling you I do.”
Silence fell as she closed her eyes for a deep breath. “Fine, then. I’m appalled by the fact that you kill people for a living.”
“I protect people. If the people trying to harm them are killed in the process, then so be it.”
She sat back against the seat, tall and rigid. “Oh, well please, be so cavalier about it!”
He shrugged. “I’m good at what I do. Not one of my clients has ever been killed. Some call that a perfect record.”
“Shootists are men without morals or scruples of any kind,” she returned tightly. “They kill for the pleasure of it and don’t care one whit whether the person they’re killing is the real criminal or if the person paying them is.”
He studied her for a long moment. Her arms began to shake in spite of the warm night. “You know me better than to believe I’d kill for pleasure. Not all of this venom is directed at me, I presume.”
A wave of guilt washed over her face, but it was quickly replaced by the stubborn set of her shoulders and slight lift of her chin. “My father was killed by a hired gun, paid for by my sister’s first husband, the same man who abused her and slit her throat, and had more hired guns keep her and me prisoner in his house for three years.” She shook her head with force. “Please tell me you can do better for your life than that, Dalton. For God’s sake, the work you did before was more honorable.”
She’d made a large leap in the wrong direction with her assumptions about him, and he felt his skin bristle in response. “You know, for someone who doesn’t want to be perceived as a Brahmin , you sure make it difficult to tell the difference. Are you always this judgmental?”
She pointed her index finger at him and sniggered. “You asked for my opinion. Besides, if I were a Brahmin , I would have smiled politely to your face and then crucified you behind your back. I can’t believe you would turn to that sort of work.”
He sat forward so their faces were inches apart. “I’m not like your sister’s first husband. And I’m not like the men he hired. I protect the innocent. Believe me, I’ve turned down many offers that would have made me rich but cost my peace of mind. My apologies if that doesn’t live up to your standards of honor, but it’s the only skill I have, and I’m damn good at it.”
A hot breath blew out of his mouth as he sat back against the carriage. He watched her eyes shift back and forth.
“That’s not true,” she declared quietly. “You have other skills. Honorable skills.”
He snorted and her eyebrows drew together severely.
“I’m being serious,” she said. “I still have in my possession a beautifully carved wooden horse.”
What was it with the women in his life? First his mother and now Marlena. Skills that couldn’t put food on the table were worthless. He blasted her with an icy glare. “There’s not much demand in Virginia City for wooden horses.”
She leveled her eyes at him. “Last I read they were building a railroad from California to Nevada for the sole purpose of carting in wood. People build houses and those houses need furnishings. There are all sorts of opportunities for a man who can work wood.”
The initial heat of his anger subsided because he had to admit she was right. He studied her face, not sure which thought intrigued him more. That she’d kept the horse, or that she considered his abilities a skill worth marketing. He fought the urge to laugh at her naiveté. To think he could just set up shop on Main Street and drum up business from the very people who knew him as a ruffian whoreson was laughable. No respectable family would employ him and they’d make damn sure their wives and daughters didn’t associate with him. He knew his
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