Disclaimer: Not mine, makin’ no money … y’all know the drill
Notes: For this one fic, I have strayed from my beloved C/V to try my hand (metaphorically speaking <g>) at B/E. This is written for Katy, in celebration of her birthday. She is a truly dear person, a sweet and generous soul (and has been endlessly patient while I’ve stressed over this thing for way too long <g>) who deserves only good things. So happy birthday, Katy! I just hope I do justice to your boys!
Thanks: To Kerry and RubyJ. for beta-reading this sucker and just for being my friends. Trust me, sometimes I make the latter harder than the former. ;-) And, Kerry, you can stop smirking now <g>.
"I’m sorry …" Ezra Standish stared in outright disbelief at the man seated behind the desk, his usual unshakable composure nowhere in evidence. "I am certain I must have misheard you. Could you please repeat your last statement?"Marshal Ed Dobbins shifted uneasily in his chair and fidgeted nervously with the pencil held between his hands. He licked his lips slowly, swallowed hard and cleared his throat, set the pencil down and then picked it up again. "I said … uh …" He cleared his throat once more and lifted his gaze slowly to the outraged jade one threatening to burn a hole through him, then quickly dropped his eyes back to the desk top. "I said you an’ … an’ yer friend … Well, I … I’d appreciate it if y’all would … uh … leave town. T’day." He swallowed noisily. "By noon."
Ezra stiffened and sucked in a breath, lifting his head sharply and clenching his jaws and his hands, the latter to keep from reaching across the desk to strangle the pathetic excuse for a lawman opposite him. Anger boiled through him but he struggled to hold it in check, fairly certain that killing the loathsome fellow would not do him or his wounded companion any good, however much pleasure it might bring him.
Hell and damnation. As much as it pained him to admit such, he actually found himself in agreement with the astute if uncouth Vin Tanner. Some people did, indeed, just "need killin’."
But still he fought against that urge, forced himself to think clearly. Loosing a long, slow, deep breath through his nose, he forced his body to unclench one muscle at a time, willed down the desire to paint the shabby office with the marshal’s own blood, and reached deep inside himself for the cool calm that had ever been his greatest asset.
Then contented himself with the thought that a few appropriate words to Chris Larabee upon his return home might very well see his desire for blood granted.
"You do realize, of course," he drawled when he could speak without shouting or cursing, "that my companion is injured and is in no true state to travel?" He spoke calmly, evenly, his smooth voice giving no hint of the concern – and guilt – that injury caused him. "And that his injury was suffered through no fault of his own, but resulted entirely from another’s malicious attempt to harm me? Mr. Wilmington and I are the innocent parties here, marshal," his fluid tongue turned the title into a foul epithet, "and yet we are the ones being run out of your grimy little hamlet." He dropped his civil veneer then, leaned over the desk and braced both hands upon it, fixing his seething gaze upon the pale and sweating lawman. "Perhaps you would care to explain the reasonin’ behind that?" he snarled softly.
Dobbins shuddered and absently wiped the back of a hand across his moist upper lip. He knew who this man was, knew who the injured man was, knew who their friends were. Keeping men like these in town was trouble, he knew that; they’d already proved that they attracted it. He was beginning to suspect, though, that making them leave would just bring more trouble down upon him later.
He needed a raise.
"I just …" He cleared his throat again, wishing his voice would stop shaking and breaking. Wishing that fancy-dressed gambler would aim his murderous stare somewhere else. "I just think … it ain’t wise … fer y’all t’ stay," he finally managed to rasp. "Rance Manning had friends–"
"And just who might this Rance Manning be?" Ezra asked, the name meaning nothing to him.
Dobbins scowled at that. "The feller you shot?" he prompted sharply.
Ezra straightened abruptly, two chestnut brows shooting up. "That cretin with the knife had friends?" he blurted. "Good Lord, will wonders never cease!"
"Now, see here!" Dobbins protested, rising sharply to his feet. "I know who you an’ yer friend are, but y’all cain’t jist come bargin’ inta my town an’ shootin’ folks willy-nilly–"
"We did not barge," Ezra reminded him coldly. "We were here at the express request of Judge Orin Travis and yourself to identify that misbegotten miscreant currently awaiting execution at your hands for murders in our town and yours. You invited us here, remember?" he spat. "And, thanks to us, the fair citizens of this dry and dusty wide spot in a non-existent road will soon enjoy the festive atmosphere of a hangin’. But how have we been thanked? I was accosted by your esteemed Mr. Manning, who was as poor an assailant as he was a poker player, Mr. Wilmington was injured by the knife intended for me, and we are asked to leave!" He was appalled to hear his voice rising, but couldn’t seem to stop it. The events of the past eighteen hours were taking their toll, and he was perilously near losing control entirely. He needed a drink, he needed some sleep …
He needed Buck Wilmington to be all right.
Dobbins pasted a weak smile upon his face. "Doc said he weren’t hurt that bad–"
"And how the hell would he know?" Ezra shouted, slamming a fist onto the desk. "The man was drunk when he came up to tend Mr. Wilmington, and he hasn’t sobered up since! For your information, I have been the one tending Mr. Wilmington’s wound, as your doctor spent the night passed out in my room!"
Dobbins winced at that and bowed his head, closing his eyes tightly. Hell, Doc Watkins did pick all the wrong times to drink …
Ezra exhaled sharply and again drew himself upright, clenching his jaws and trying to bring his breathing – and his emotions – under control. He idly straightened his jacket, then tugged at each cuff, his anger visible in the sharp movements of his long fingers. He despised the man before him, he detested this town, and he bitterly wished for a few of Josiah’s Old Testament curses to fall upon them both.
"Very well," he said at last, his voice low and uncharacteristically harsh, "we shall leave. However, let there be no mistake about this." He fixed hard jade eyes upon the lawman and poured every bit of conviction he possessed into his next words. "Should any further harm befall Mr. Wilmington on our journey, or should, God forbid, he not survive the journey, you will know what hell is, for I shall bring the horsemen of the apocalypse to your very doorstep, and I shall smile as I turn them loose upon you." He raised a hand and touched two fingers to the brim of his hat, giving the marshal a cold, dimpled grin. "I bid you adieu."
Dobbins watched the Southerner turn smartly on his heel and all but glide out of the office. And as the door closed softly behind him, the marshal collapsed in a limp and sweating heap into his chair.
Forget the raise. What he needed was to retire.
7~7~7~7~7~7~7
Ezra stopped outside the marshal’s office and sagged against a post supporting the overhang, his breath escaping him in a heavy, unsteady gust. He closed his eyes and raised a shaking hand to his forehead, trying desperately to regain some semblance of control. He needed to settle down, he knew that, needed to calm himself and think. Thinking had always been his forte. With a cool head, a workable plan and sufficient time, he could extricate himself from any unpleasant situation. He simply had to put that cool head to work …
Except that his heart kept trying to interfere.
He groaned at that and straightened, allowing his gaze to sweep absently over the town. And, as he’d instinctively known it would, that gaze reached the hotel and went not one whit further. The hotel, the second floor of the hotel, the room there at the corner …
The room where Buck Wilmington lay, injured because of him.
Another groan escaped him and he wrenched his gaze away from that accusing window with an effort, plagued by guilt he knew he did not deserve but could not avoid. It hadn’t been his fault, he knew that! He couldn’t help it that Manning had been a lamentably inferior player. He couldn’t help it that the man hadn’t known when to cut his losses, couldn’t help it that the brainless oaf had ignored every chance he’d given him to walk away with at least a portion of his money. He’d dealt a scrupulously, almost painfully fair game–
And still Manning had had the audacity, the stupidity, to challenge him and demand his money back! All of his money! And when he’d refused – of course he’d refused; hell, any gambler worth the name would refuse! – Manning had charged him, that cursed knife appearing out of nowhere–
Only to slash into Buck Wilmington’s body as he had appeared out of nowhere to hurl himself between Manning and his intended victim.
Ezra shook his head slowly, dazedly, his gaze returning to that window. He didn’t understand it. He could have taken Manning, had taken him, had shot him just as Buck had slumped to the table. A neat shot drilled into the center of the bastard’s forehead–
A shot that Ezra didn’t even really remember making, because all his thought, all his fear, had been centered on Buck.
Who had come out of nowhere to save him.
He stared at the window and let his mind grapple with that thought. Why? Why in the world would Buck put himself in harm’s way for a man he had to have known was always prepared for just such a situation? That certainly hadn’t been the first time Ezra had been accosted at the tables, and it certainly wouldn’t be the last. Fools and their money might be easily parted, but that parting was not always gracious. In fact, it could often turn ugly–
And Mr. Wilmington did so abhor ugly.
Ezra’s lips twitched in a fleeting smile. He still so clearly recalled the day Buck had let that little gem fly, could see even now the lively twinkle in those impossibly blue eyes, the mobile mouth curving into a slow, wicked smile under that glossy dark mustache, the sinewy, loose-jointed slouch of that long, rangy body. He could see it all, remember it all–
What continued to elude him, though, was the precise moment when he’d fallen in love with the man.
And it was love, he knew that, was certain of it, despite his long-professed immunity to the ailment. He didn’t love, was incapable of love. Love required generosity, selflessness, honesty, and those qualities were anathema to Ezra.
Or so he’d thought …
He winced, tore his gaze again from the window and scowled down the dusty street. He’d been associating with those six men for too long. They were corrupting him, tainting him, ruining him. Oh, he might tease Vin Tanner about being "Robin Hood," but to his horror he’d discovered that Tanner and the others were turning him into Don Quixote …
And Buck Wilmington was the chink in his rusty armor.
7~7~7~7~7~7~7
He woke slowly, reluctantly, not yet ready to return to consciousness, to the pain he knew awaited him there. Even now, drifting between sleep and waking, he could feel it, but only vaguely so, like a half-formed memory lurking just at the edge of his awareness. He knew it was there, biding its time, and he would gladly have let it wait just a while longer …
If only the voice calling to him weren’t so insistent.
"Buck, please," Ezra said softly. Seated in the chair next to the bed, he leaned over and set a hand on Wilmington’s broad shoulder, trying not to notice the hardness of muscle or the warmth of smooth flesh beneath his fingers. Trying to fight the urge to caress. "I know you need to rest, and I truly wish I could leave you to that, but I fear I cannot. Please, Buck," he entreated, leaning closer still and unconsciously breathing the man’s scent into himself, "I need you to wake up now. We have rather a pressin’ matter before us."
Buck stirred weakly and moaned softly as that voice pulled him toward wakefulness, toward the pain. He wanted to resist its lure, but couldn’t. Soft and supple and smooth, it slid through his mind like sun-warmed honey and brushed against his thoughts like silk. He couldn’t fully understand the words, but didn’t need to. The voice itself was enough, a rich, sweet siren’s call that he was powerless to deny.
Ezra.
Relief swept through Standish in a hard wave as that whisper reached his ears. "Yes, it’s me," he breathed unsteadily, absently stroking Buck’s shoulder. Immediately, though, he stilled his fingers and forced that part of himself down, unwilling to take such base advantage of the man’s weakness. "I’m sorry, Buck, but you have to wake up," he insisted gently. "I’m afraid I have some bad news."
Buck stirred again, then gasped harshly and stiffened as full knowledge of the pain swept through him on a searing tide. Fire erupted deep in his body and exploded outward, tearing a harsh groan from him. Instinctively he reached for something to grip, and closed his fingers hard about the hand that slid into his. "If yer gonna … tell me … that I’m hurt," he ground out through gritted teeth, "I think I done … figured … that out!"
Ezra was startled by the force of Buck’s grip on his hand, but strangely reassured by it, too. Perhaps the wound wasn’t that bad … "Yes, well, while I do certainly admire your perspicacity," he drawled, "I fear the bad news pertains to another matter."
Buck cracked open an eye and scowled up at the man above him. "Wanta try that … in English … this time?"
Ezra sighed and ran his free hand through his already-disheveled hair. "I said we have a problem," he clarified.
Buck gave a breathless chuff of laughter and arched two dark brows weakly. "Hell, pard," he whispered, "wouldn’t be us … if we didn’t." He closed his eyes again and tried to relax against the bed, exhaling unsteadily as the pain receded to a more bearable level. "So what’s wrong?" he breathed, feeling Standish’s tension through the hand clasped in his.
Ezra stared down at Buck, took in his pallor and the lines of pain etched deeply into his handsome features, and felt another stab of anger at Dobbins. They shouldn’t have to do this, Buck shouldn’t have to do this, but that wretched excuse of a marshal had given them no choice.
"Ezra?" Buck prompted softly. Worry gripped him and he forced open his eyes, fixing them on the gambler’s face. Even through his pain, he could easily read the anger, the worry, written there, and that alone concerned him. While he’d gotten pretty good at reading the man, or thought he had, Standish rarely made it so simple for him. And for Ezra to make anything simple, things had to be bad. "Ya gonna tell me … or make me guess?"
Standish sighed heavily and shook his head, his features twisting into a scowl. "It seems," he answered tightly, "that we are bein’ run out of town. Not that this is exactly an unfamiliar occurrence to either one of us, but the timin’ is most inconvenient!"
"Got another game brewin’?" Buck asked with a faint grin.
And that grin only added to Ezra’s anger. "Of course not!" he snapped. Good Lord, could the man take nothing seriously? "But you, as you have so shrewdly deduced, are wounded and in no condition to travel! That imbecile in the saloon nearly killed you–"
"No, he didn’t," Buck put in, a trace more strength in his voice. "I been nearly killed … lotsa times … and this ain’t nothin’ like that."
"Very well, he could have killed you–"
"But he didn’t." He winced and slid his free hand to the bandage wrapped about his waist, feeling the deep, painful throbbing of his wound. However much it hurt, though, he couldn’t regret what he’d done. Not if it meant he’d saved Ezra. "So why are we … bein’ run out?"
Only now realizing he still held Buck’s hand, Ezra quickly released it and rose sharply to his feet, turning away from the bed and pacing about the small room. He hadn’t slept at all last night, had stayed awake to tend Buck and was exhausted. But the man’s nearness and vulnerability were playing hell with his frayed nerves, and he needed, for his own sake, to put some distance between them.
"The town marshal, a cowardly cretin named Dobbins, fears that we might be targets for associates of the late, lamented Mr. Manning – if indeed any such associates actually exist – and that they will attempt to exact some form of retribution from us for their comrade’s untimely yet deserved demise," he answered acidly.
Buck sighed, winced and closed his eyes, his tired and pain-fogged mind picking its way slowly through the Southerner’s convoluted speech. "He thinks that sonuvabitch’s pards are gonna come after us?" he finally breathed.
Ezra rolled his eyes and shook his head. "I believe that is what I just said," he snapped.
"Coulda fooled me," Buck retorted. He shifted again on the bed, trying to find some position that offered any escape from the pain, and gave a breathless groan when he failed. "Damn," he rasped, tensing beneath the renewed onslaught.
Ezra whirled around at that soft admission of pain and took an unsteady step toward the bed, then stopped himself abruptly and swallowed hard against his worry. Buck’s face, pale and beaded with sweat, was a tight mask of suffering, the hand at his side clenched into a white-knuckled fist. Everything in the gambler ached to go to the man and take him in his arms, comfort him, but he fought against that urge with a desperate strength, refusing to betray himself so. He had to get Buck home, and he couldn’t very well do that if the man shot him dead for making unwanted advances.
At least, he thought they were unwanted …
He turned away again and moved on leaden legs to the window, staring through it but seeing nothing of the world beyond it, consumed in his own confusion. There were times when Buck looked at him and he thought he saw a glimmer of … something … in those deep blue eyes, something that reached out to him, beckoned to him–
But no. It couldn’t be. The man’s love for women was notorious, and he’d never given the smallest sign of feeling any attraction to men. Ezra decided it was own attraction that was causing him to imagine that peculiar softening of Buck’s gaze when it fell upon him, decided it was his own longing to possess those mobile lips that made him think they smiled just a bit more tenderly at him. He was seeing only what he wanted to see, and simply would not be made a fool of by himself.
Buck sighed in sorrow as he watched Ezra turn away and draw into himself. He’d long known that he’d have to woo the man gently, carefully, that his most daunting task in winning Standish’s love would first be winning his trust. So many times he just wanted to blurt out his feelings, to pour them all out in a stream of words, but he knew that would only have sent Ezra running so fast and so far that Buck would never see him again.
And he just couldn’t have stood that. Somewhere along the way, Ezra had found and settled into a place in Wilmington’s heart that no one, man or woman, had ever occupied before. The man was crooked as a sidewinder and slick as greased glass, had a weakness for money that was sometimes painful to behold, but for all that there was an elemental goodness to him that surfaced at the damnedest moments, taking even Ezra by surprise. Standish tried to pretend it wasn’t there, could attribute some base motivation to almost any selfless act, but the plain truth was that the man had a conscience and a heart that defied his most determined efforts to deny them. He was a better man than he knew, and Buck loved him for it.
He just had to figure out how to make Ezra see that.
When he felt more in command of his emotions, Ezra turned away from the window and walked back to the bed, sinking once more into the chair at its side. "Perhaps you now understand the gravity of our situation," he drawled softly, clasping his hands together in his lap to keep from reaching for Buck’s. "We have been given until the most unimaginative hour of noon to depart these environs – clearly, Marshal Dobbins reads those same dreadful books as JD – and yet you are certainly in no shape to ride."
Buck sighed and raised a heavy hand to rub tiredly at his eyes. "He say what he’ll do if we don’t go?"
Ezra winced delicately. "I believe he mentioned something about arresting us and then telegraphing Mr. Larabee with news of our incarceration."
Buck let his hand fall to the bed and stared up at Standish in sick horror. "He’s gonna lock us up … an’ then wire Chris ta come get us?" When Ezra nodded, he groaned and closed his eyes. "Shit," he breathed, easily able to imagine just how well his old friend would take that bit of news. "Why the hell don’t he just go on an’ shoot us?"
"Thus you see our dilemma," Ezra said, arching a chestnut brow. "Caught between one man who loathes danger and one who is the very embodiment of it. If we stay here and Chris is called upon to retrieve us, he will not be happy. If we leave and I deliver you to town in your present condition, Chris will not be happy. Whatever we do at this point," he shrugged, "Chris will not be happy."
"Hell, Ezra," Buck forced a grin and a wink, "if folks only did things that made Chris happy, wouldn’t nothin’ ever get done."
Ezra had to laugh at that. While their leader was not nearly as dour as he’d been in the early days of their association, he certainly was still an intimidating presence. They had all learned to tread lightly upon Larabee’s sometimes hair-trigger temper. Except, perhaps, for Vin, who seemed to take a perverse delight in aggravating the combustible gunman into near apoplexy.
Sometimes Ezra had to wonder at the tracker’s bizarre idea of fun …
"Ain’t got a choice, do we?" Buck sighed, again sliding his hand to the wound at his waist. Damn thing hurt like hell with him just lying here. He didn’t want to think about what having to ride would do to him.
Ezra could hear the pain, and the faint but unmistakable note of fear, in the big man’s soft voice and was immediately gripped by a fresh resolve. "Of course we do," he snapped, straightening in his chair and lifting his head defiantly. "We will simply make our own choice. We will stay right where we are–"
"And what?" Buck asked wearily. "Shoot the marshal when he comes ta get us?"
Ezra snorted derisively at that notion and waved one elegant hand in dismissal. "The man is incapable of such a confrontation!" he spat contemptuously. "If he possessed that kind of courage, he wouldn’t be asking us to leave! He knows full well that we are the aggrieved parties here–"
"Don’t have ta confront us," Buck sighed, allowing his heavy eyelids to slide closed. "We’ll need food, water." He shook his head faintly against the pillow. "He can make it impossible for us ta get any. If he wants us gone that bad … he won’t rest ’til we go."
"But you cannot–"
"Ain’t got a choice." He wrenched open his eyes and stared blearily up at Standish, a wan smile ghosting about his mouth. "You’d be surprised … what a fella can do … when he ain’t got a choice."
Ezra opened his mouth to protest, wanted to protest … then closed his mouth and bowed his head when he realized that any further protest would be useless. Buck was right. Dobbins had any number of means at his disposal to make it impossible for them to stay, and any attempt to thwart the man would likely bring more harm to Buck.
And he couldn’t allow that to happen.
"Very well," he answered on a sigh, "we shall acquiesce to his demand. But," his voice hardened and he leaned forward, snaring Buck’s gaze with his own and holding it ruthlessly, "I want your word that you will listen to me, that you will do everything exactly as I say, and that you will not fight my attempts to care for you. Your life is in my hands, and I will expect you to submit to me without any argument at all, do you understand?"
Buck stared at him a moment, then again a faint shadow of his familiar grin ghosted around his mouth. "Why, Ezra," he breathed, "I thought ya’d … never ask."
7~7~7~7~7~7~7
Marshal Ed Dobbins stood in front of the hotel and watched through narrowed eyes as the fancy-dressed gambler stood at his wounded partner’s leg and made certain the man was securely seated on his horse. They were leaving, but they were taking their own damned sweet time in doing it.
The Southerner had forced the hungover doctor at gunpoint to check over and tend the injured man, then had accompanied the doctor – still at gunpoint – to his office and had taken from it all the medical supplies he might possibly need. And when the doctor had requested payment, the gambler had lowered his gun slightly and asked in which leg he’d like to receive it.
Doc Watkins likely wouldn’t come out of the saloon for days.
After pillaging the clinic, Standish had next gone to the livery and purchased a pack-horse, demanding that the hostler write out a bill of sale in the presence of a witness the Southerner had grabbed on his way into the stable. From there, the gambler had stalked to the mercantile for provisions, again paying for them, again demanding a written receipt of purchase with each and every item listed. Dobbins had followed the man at a discreet – and safe – distance, chilled to the bone by the implacable hatred and barely-leashed fury in the eyes that burned like twin green fires in the otherwise blank white mask of his face.
He just might be joining Doc Watkins at the saloon later.
Now, though, he was watching the two men leave. Finally. Standish took a few moments longer seeing to his friend, then left him to make a thorough – and leisurely – last check of the pack-horse, testing every cinch and strap with a maddening slowness. Finally, apparently satisfied, he sauntered to his own horse and climbed into the saddle, tugging at his hat and coat sleeves and brushing dust from his lapels before taking up the reins. He glanced once more at the pack-horse, once more at his companion, then settled a withering stare on Dobbins.
"You’ve won this hand," he said in a cold, smooth drawl. "Pray the pot doesn’t cost you more than you were prepared to ante." With that, he turned his horse and finally, finally started down the street, with Wilmington at his side and the pack-horse in tow.
Dobbins gulped, shuddered and looked at his watch. It was less than one minute to noon.
7~7~7~7~7~7~7
"Buck? Buck, wake up. We’re here."
"Hunh?" He lifted his head with an effort and pushed himself upright in the saddle, then peeled open his eyes to look groggily around. "Here?" Where? He couldn’t see the town, couldn’t see much of anything really, and couldn’t remember them riding long enough to be back home already. "Town?"
Ezra sighed and bowed his head, closing his eyes tightly and running a weary hand over them. They were only four hours out of Cedar Springs and had stopped twice already before now. The last time he’d had to stop the bleeding from Buck’s wound, and had felt the first heat of a fever in the man’s skin. Then, remembering this place from their ride in, he’d given Buck enough laudanum to allow him to ride just long enough to reach it.
This far and no further. He’d done as Dobbins had demanded; they were out of town. Not by much, but he didn’t care. He didn’t believe anyone would trouble themselves to avenge Manning’s shooting, suspected that Dobbins didn’t believe it either. More likely the marshal – and wasn’t that an affront to justice? – was just a weak little man who couldn’t face trouble and was afraid of those who could.
And, much to his own surprise, Ezra had realized that his own days of running were over.
"No, Buck," he said gently, setting a hand on Wilmington’s leg and gazing up into the man’s confused and fever-flushed face. "Not town, not yet. It’s just a small, deserted shack I noticed on our way in–"
"Shack?" Buck croaked, that word catching at his befuddled mind. "Chris’s shack?"
Ezra permitted himself a small wry smile, knowing how Larabee hated it when anyone referred to his rough, dilapidated cabin as a "shack." But the truth was the truth. "No, not Chris’s shack," he explained patiently. "That’s much too far away. We’re still only a few hours out of Cedar Springs. You do remember Cedar Springs, don’t you?"
Buck licked his lips and tried to concentrate, all the while clinging desperately to his saddle horn just to keep himself from falling. Pain throbbed hot and heavy through his middle, starting at his side but radiating outward in torrents of fire. He was weak and dizzy and thirsty as hell, and felt as if he were being roasted alive from the inside. He should’ve been in bed, he knew that … Had been in bed, he knew that, too … "Cedar Springs," he finally rasped. "Marshal … made us … leave."
"Yes, well," Ezra said coldly, "I plan to have a few words with our associates about that."
Buck frowned, still trying to think through the thick fog of pain, fever and laudanum clouding his mind. "Ass … ass … Y’ mean Chris ’n the boys?" he slurred.
Ezra’s lips twitched and one brow lifted. "Well, I am fairly certain that Mr. Larabee would not appreciate you referring to him as an ‘ass,’ yes, I do mean him and the others. But," he swept a gaze over Buck’s bowed form, "while it would no doubt be entertaining to mull over all the ways Mr. Larabee might choose to make his displeasure over our mistreatment known, I fear we have more pressin’ matters at hand. Like getting you off your horse and into that … shack." He sighed heavily and shook his head slowly. While he’d always admired Buck’s towering height and strong physique, for now he found himself wishing the man weren’t quite so much bigger than he. "It should be an interesting few minutes," he breathed.
In the end, though, it wasn’t quite as difficult as he’d feared. Buck was conscious enough, aware enough, to give him some help, and, between the injured man’s weak efforts and his own grim determination, he managed to help Wilmington off his horse and into the shack without inflicting too much damage on either of them. Still, by the time he lowered Buck into the cleanest corner he could find, he was sweating and breathing hard and trembling from a combination of exertion and sheer exhaustion.
He really did need to sleep!
But that would have to wait. Buck needed help, needed him, and for now that commanded his whole attention. When fairly certain that the man would remain sitting upright where he’d left him, Ezra went back outside to the horses and began unpacking those items he needed immediately. Blankets for a bed, the bag of medical supplies, water. As was old habit in a time of crisis, his mind began to function with a mathematical precision, cold and calculating, shutting out everything else that would only get in the way.
Like feeling. Especially feeling. That only complicated matters, clouded matters, got in the way and turned clarity into chaos. Hadn’t his time with these six men proven that? How many times had he gotten mired in some difficulty with them because he’d forgotten the first rule of survival and allowed himself to feel? Maude was right; his association with them was dulling his edge …
And, Lord, how he wished they were with him now!
Returning to the shack, he set about doing what he could to care for Buck, unrolling the blankets and making a pallet for him, then easing the injured man to his feet, helping him to the rough bed and lowering him carefully down upon it. Once he had Buck settled, he leaned over him and pressed the back of one hand to an unshaven cheek, wincing deeply at the heat burning in the man’s flesh.
God, they needed Nathan!
Unable to help himself, he gently stroked his fingers over Buck’s cheek, overwhelmed by worry and the sick realization of his own helplessness. He was a gambler, not a healer. True, he had some rudimentary knowledge of wound care – any man who traveled in these desolate, uncivilized parts would be a fool not to – but it seemed impossible that his few skills would be enough.
And yet they were all Buck had …
He continued to stroke Buck’s face, knowing it was wrong, foolish, but unable to stop. Weariness and worry had weakened his resolve; at least, he told himself it was weariness and worry. And he had wanted to do this for so long! Marveling at his temerity, and bemoaning his idiocy, he deftly traced the curve of Buck’s glossy dark brows, rubbed a thumb against the lines of pain furrowing the man’s forehead, then slid that thumb feather-light down his nose. Wilmington truly was a beautiful man, his features finely chiseled and cast to perfection. Next Ezra’s thumb drifted to Buck’s mouth and delicately stroked his lips, amazed at their softness. He absently licked his own lips, wondering anew how Buck’s would feel against them, would taste against them …
And snatched his hand away with a softly snarled curse when he realized what he was doing. God, the man was hurt and all he could think about was kissing him! Fine friend he was! The man’s life was in his hands and this was how he chose to exercise that responsibility? By daydreaming about what could never possibly happen? Buck deserved better. He needed better …
He needed Nathan, damn it!
Ezra exhaled unsteadily and bowed his head, covering his eyes with a shaking hand. But he was all Buck had. And somehow, God, somehow, he would have to be enough.
He scrubbed his hand over his face, took several slow, deep breaths to calm himself, then forced some semblance of clarity into his tired mind and returned his attention to the task at hand. Again ruthlessly thrusting his feelings aside, he removed Buck’s gunbelt, then began the struggle to strip the unconscious man of his vest, shirt and undershirt. He numbed himself to what he was doing, refused to acknowledge the allure of the body in his arms, forcefully ignored his own body’s response. After long, difficult moments, he laid Buck back down, the man’s torso naked save for the bandages swathing his trim, taut middle.
The blood-stained bandages. Dear Lord, the wound had come open again!
Barely fighting back a wave of despair, Ezra stared at the dark stain marring the white bandages and forced himself to think. Heaven knew he’d seen Nathan deal with a bleeding wound often enough in the past. If nothing else, the six men with whom he had thrown in his lot were good for a medical education!
So … what would Nathan do? And just how in the hell could the man do it as often as he did with such unfailing calm?
He thought a few moments more, recalling the many times he’d watched Jackson work on one or another of his injured comrades, and told himself he could do this. He had to do this. Taking another deep, calming breath, he steeled his resolve and pulled the bag of medical supplies to him, then went to work.
And marveled all the while at the unnatural steadiness of his hands.
7~7~7~7~7~7~7
Buck drifted helplessly, buffeted by hard gusts of pain, swept by waves of searing heat. The torment never released him, allowed him no rest. Even the once-simple act of breathing hurt almost beyond bearing.
Yet even through the agony he could feel gentle hands tending him, stroking him, could hear a low, sweet voice murmuring softly, soothingly to him, and knew instinctively that he was safe. When the pain was at its worst, strong arms cradled him; when the heat raged at its hottest, nimble fingers bathed him. And always, always that supple voice spoke to him, wound about him, bound him to this place, to the man at his side, and kept him from drifting away.
Ezra.
The sure and certain knowledge that Ezra was with him lent him more comfort than any amount of laudanum could, infused him with a strength that came more from his heart than from his wounded body. He gave himself completely into the Southerner’s care, sought refuge in the man from his suffering.
And knew he was exactly where he belonged.
7~7~7~7~7~7~7
For two days Ezra tended Buck with a mixture of dogged determination and loving tenderness, draining and cleaning the ugly knife wound in his side, bathing his fevered body, spooning mouthfuls of water and broth into him. He seldom strayed far from the wounded man’s side, was too painfully aware of Buck’s precarious condition to leave him for long, was gripped by the irrational fear that if he did leave, Buck would just slip away.
And he simply couldn’t have borne that.
Yet, even seated right next to him, Ezra realized that already he missed Buck terribly. Missed his easy, even temperament, the quick flash of his wit, the rakish charm that was his calling card. More than that, though, he missed Buck’s warmth, that deeply empathetic and compassionate side of the man that somehow allowed him to take just about everyone he met into his heart and cradle them there for safekeeping. Ezra had never known anyone who truly cared as much and as deeply as Buck Wilmington and at first had been leery of so open and generous a spirit. It was his experience, after all, that no one ever gave so much of themselves without expecting, and eventually demanding, something in return, and he’d braced himself for the inevitable day when Buck would do the same.
That day had yet to come, and he was only now accepting that it never would. What Buck gave, he gave without condition or reservation and without ever attaching a price. And he loved in exactly the same manner, withholding nothing of himself, offering everything he was and everything he had, pouring himself out completely for those he held dear. Whether he was nurse-maiding Chris through another dark bout of painful memories, trying to protect JD from his own youthful exuberance or easing the burdens of one or another of their bizarre band with his understanding and patience, Buck Wilmington was one of those select few who were at their best while taking care of another.
Ezra thought it the height of irony that he, who’d never cared about anyone but himself, should now be the sole care-taker for a man who was the very embodiment of that role.
"You have to get well, Buck," he murmured, again leaning over the man to bathe his face with a damp cloth. Almost immediately after settling into the shack, he’d discovered that the water pump out front was rusted and useless beyond repair. To his great relief, though, he’d found that the well out back, likely spring-fed, still yielded a good supply of water; water he’d been using almost constantly since in his fight to bring down Buck’s fever. "You mean too much to us … to me … to leave just now. I’m afraid I … I have come to … to depend on you …"
He swallowed hard and bowed his head, closing his eyes tightly against the chaotic rush of so many unfamiliar emotions. He didn’t know what to do with them, how to deal with them. His first instinct, as always, was simply to force them back down and hide them, deny them, but he knew that was no longer possible. Somehow the events of the past few days had sent a crack through his soul that he was powerless to close, and now every feeling he’d kept locked so carefully inside was spilling out into the light of day. "You have to come back!" he pleaded harshly. "You have to help me … I don’t know how to do this!"
"I’d say … yer doin’ fine."
He looked up sharply, his eyes flying open, at that breathless whisper. To his shock, two glazed blue eyes were open and gazing up at him, a faint smile on Wilmington’s lips. "You … you heard me?" he gasped in horror.
Buck’s smile softened and he slid a leaden hand to Ezra, curling his fingers weakly about the gambler’s. "Been hearin’ ya … all along," he breathed. "Yer voice … yer touch … what’s kep’ me … hangin’ on."
The words, and the inference behind them, tore a sharp, startled breath from Ezra, and he sat absolutely still. At least, he thought there was an inference behind them … hoped there was … Or, God, maybe his lack of sleep was simply catching up with him.
Weak as he was, still in pain, still fevered, Buck nevertheless recognized the doubt running through the man and knew he had to lay it to rest once and for all. He’d told himself that he needed to wait until the time was right. He figured it wouldn’t get any righter than this.
"Wondered … when ya’d finally … let yourself admit it," he said, clinging to Ezra’s hand with what little strength he had. "I know … yer scared. Know … y’ ain’t got much … experience … with this." He swallowed and licked dry lips, doggedly forcing himself on through his pain and weakness. "But you need t’ know … that I love ya … an’ that all I want … is just ta show ya … how much."
Ezra suddenly felt light-headed, light-hearted … and terrified out of his mind. Buck’s admission was everything he’d wanted, everything he’d hoped for, and everything he feared. He tried to speak, but no words would come; tried to breathe, but seemed to have forgotten how. Buck … loved him …
"You’re delirious!" he rasped unconsciously.
Buck gave a weak, pained laugh, but held all the harder to Ezra’s hand. His eyes wanted to close, but he fixed them on the Southerner’s face and wouldn’t let them waver. This was too important, and he wouldn’t let either of them be robbed of it.
"Then I’ve been delirious … a good while now," he breathed. "I’ve tried … lettin’ ya know … but every time I came too close … you just skittered away … an’ closed yer eyes to the truth. I ain’t delirious, Ez," he insisted weakly. "I love ya. I’m as clear on that … as I’ve ever been … about anything in my life."
"But … all your women," Ezra protested weakly, still unable to accept this. "Inez …"
Buck sighed softly, realizing this might just be harder than he’d thought. For both their sakes, though, he knew he couldn’t give up. "I know … Inez … don’t want me that way," he said through his pain. "Known it … all along. Chasin’ after her … just a diversion."
Ezra frowned at that and shook his head slightly, not understanding. "Diversion?"
Buck swallowed again. "Could I get … some water?" he asked. "I’m a mite parched here."
"Oh, Lord!" Ezra gasped, irritated at his own distraction. "I’m sorry!" He set the damp cloth down on the corner of Buck’s pallet and reached for the cup of water he kept nearby. Then sliding his other hand under Buck’s head, he lifted slightly and placed the cup to the man’s lips, tipping a small portion of the water into the injured man’s mouth. "Slowly," he urged gently. "I wouldn’t want you to choke … or worse."
Buck sipped gratefully, delighting in the cool, wet glide of the water into his dry mouth and down his throat. Of equal delight, though, was the feel of the strong hand cupping his head and the thumb slowly stroking through his hair. He hated this pain, this weakness, but if nothing else it had finally allowed him to know the feel of Ezra’s hands upon him.
Now he just had to convince the man that they could both have so much more …
"Thanks," he sighed when he’d finally finished the water. Ezra withdrew the cup and lowered his head back to the blankets, and he gazed up at the Southerner with a soft smile. "Been takin’ real good care of me," he said, "Means more’n … y’ know."
Ezra grimaced and looked away, all too aware of his own insufficiencies in this area. "Yes, well, no doubt you would have done better to have one of the others, but I fear I am all you have–"
"Don’t want … nobody else," Buck assured him solemnly, again reaching for Standish’s hand and latching onto it. "Wish I could … make you understand that." He watched as the green eyes turned slowly back to him and saw the struggle being waged behind them. That struggle only strengthened his resolve. "I know … you’ve seen me … chase after a lotta women," he said, forcing what little strength he had into his voice. "Chased after … some men, too … though I doubt ya’ve seen that. But," he tightened his hand about Ezra’s and stared compellingly up at the man, "you tell me this, Ez. You ever … in all the time ya known me … ever once known me … t’ lie ta any of them women? Ever once heard … that I’ve led any of ’em on … with false promises?"
Ezra remained silent and still, green eyes fixed on Buck’s pale and pain-lined face. And knew what his answer had to be. They had all often teased Buck about his sexual escapades and his "animal magnetism," but they also knew that for all his seeming lechery, the big man was scrupulously honorable, in his own strange way, when it came to his conquests. He didn’t lie, didn’t make promises he never intended to keep. The secret to Buck Wilmington’s success was his absolute and heartfelt sincerity.
Dear Lord …
Buck saw Ezra’s eyes widen, heard the sudden breath he sucked in, and knew the truth was finally penetrating the thick walls around the Southerner’s heart. He smiled slightly and nodded weakly. "Ain’t ever lied ta any of ’em, Ez," he said softly. "Ain’t lyin’ ta you. I love ya … been lovin’ ya fer a while now … an’ I just want a chance ta show you how much."
Ezra stared at him as disbelief warred with desire within him. "I w … want that, too," he whispered. His hand strayed helplessly to Buck’s face and stroked lightly, lovingly, his fingers shaking. Then they wandered to the lips that had fascinated him for so long and he traced their beautiful shape, then absently licked his own.
Buck stayed absolutely still, letting Ezra caress him, allowing the man to come to terms with this in his own way, in his own time. Much as he wanted this, he wouldn’t rush it, figured Ezra was worth waiting for.
"I never dreamed …"
Buck sighed sadly as the man’s words trailed into silence. "That’s a shame, Ez," he breathed. "A man needs ta dream. Gives him life. Gives him hope."
Ezra grimaced and shook his head. "Perhaps. But when one has had hope snatched away so many times, indulging in it becomes little more than an exercise in self-torment."
"I ain’t goin’ nowhere, Ez," Buck assured him. "You go ahead an’ hope in me."
"I am not … accustomed … to hoping," he admitted slowly, his gaze intent on Buck’s face. He had learned early to read men, had built a life on that ability, was a master at it. And all he saw in the man gazing back at him was complete and heartfelt honesty. "I am not certain I know how."
Buck smiled gently. "Them let me teach ya," he urged, his strength waning. "I won’t hurt ya. I promise."
Those words, so weak but so sure, sank through Ezra and took root in his heart, his soul, giving him a strength and a courage he’d not had in a very long while. They banished doubt, cast out fear, gave him a reason and the will to believe. Slowly, very slowly, he let the last wall inside himself fall, let his hope, fragile and almost forgotten, rise, and marveled at how good, how right it felt. He drew a deep breath, the first free breath he felt he’d taken in ages …
Then leaned down and, without a hint of hesitation, brushed his lips lightly against Buck’s. "Teach me," he whispered against the man’s mouth. "Teach me how to hope."
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