Cole felt his face constrict. He felt his pulse hammering against his throat. He longed to jump forward and throttle the life out of Quantrill, to close those pale, calculating eyes forever.
"Nope, you weren't so finicky about methods when I met you first, Cole Slater. You had revenge on your mind, and nothing more."
Cole forced his lips to curl into a humorless smile. "You're wrong, Quantrill. Yeah, I wanted vengeance. But I could never see murder done in cold blood. I could never draw up a list of men to be gunned down. I could never see dragging terrified, innocent women out of their beds to be raped and abused. Or shooting down children."
"Hell, Cole. Children fight in this war."
"And that's the hell of it, Quantrill. That's the whole bloody hell of it. The war is hell enough. The savagery is too much."
"We fight like we've been attacked, and that's the plain truth of it. You go see the likes of Lane or Jennison. Tell them about innocents. You can't change the war, Cole. Not you, and not anybody else. Not anybody."
"I didn't come here today to end the war, Quantrill," Cole said calmly.
"You just want me to rein in on Zeke, is that it?"
"Well," Cole told him casually, "you can rein in on him or I can kill him."
Quantrill grinned and shrugged. "You're overestimating my power, Slater. You want me to call Zeke in when this girl isn't anything to you. Not anything at all. She's not your sister and she's not your wife. Hell, from what I understand, Zeke saw her first. So what do you think I can do?"
"You can stop him."
Quantrill sat back again, perplexed. He lifted a hand idly, then let it fall to his lap. "What are you so worried about? You can outdraw Zeke. You can outdraw any ten men I know."
"I don't perform executions, Quantrill."
"Ah… and you're not going to be around for the winter, huh? Well, neither are we. We'll be moving south soon enough —"
"I want a guarantee, Quantrill."
Quantrill was silent. He lifted his glass, tossed back his head and swallowed the whiskey down in a gulp, then wiped his mouth with his sleeve. His eyes remained on Cole. He set the glass down.
"Marry her."
"What?" Cole said sharply.
"You want me to give the girl a guarantee of safety. A girl Zeke saw first. A girl he wants —badly, I'd say. So you give me something. Give me a reason to keep him away from her. Let me be able to tell the men that she's your wife. That's why they have to stay clear. She'll be the wife of a good loyal Confederate. They'll understand that."
Cole shook his head. "I'm not marrying again, Quantrill. Not ever."
"Then what is this McCahy girl to you?"
What indeed, he wondered. "I just don't want her hurt anymore, that's all."
Quantrill shook his head slowly, and there was a flash of something that might have been compassion in his pale eyes. "There's nothing that I can do, Slater. Nothing. Not unless you can give me something to go on."
The damnedest thing about it, Cole thought, was that Quantrill seemed to want to help him. He wasn't trying to be difficult and he wasn't looking for a fight. He was just telling it the way it was.
"We will be gone pretty soon," Quantrill said. "Another month of raids, maybe. Then the winter will come crashing down. I intend to be farther south by then. Kansas winter ain't no time to be foraging and fighting. Maybe she'll be safe. From us, at least. The jayhawkers might come down on the ranch, but Quantrill and company will be seeking some warmth."
"Another month," Cole muttered.
Quantrill shrugged.
The two men sat staring at one another for several moments. Then Quantrill poured more whiskey.
He couldn't marry her. She couldn't be his wife. He'd had a wife. His wife was dead.
He picked up the whiskey and drank it down in one swallow. It burned. It tore a path of fire straight down his throat and into his gut.
"You going east?" Quantrill asked.
Cole nodded. Maybe he shouldn't have, but Quantrill knew he would have to get to Richmond sooner or later, and probably sooner.
Cole let out a snarl and slammed his glass down on the table. The piano player stopped playing again. Silence filled the saloon, like something living and breathing. All eyes turned toward Cole and Quantrill.
Cole stood. "I'm going to marry her," he told Quantrill. Then he looked around at the sea of faces. "I'm going to marry Kristin McCahy, and I don't want her touched. Not her, and not her sister. The McCahy ranch is going to be my ranch, and I'm promising a slow, painful death to any man who thinks about molesting any of my property."
Quantrill stood slowly and looked around at his men. "Hell, Cole, we're all on the same side here, aren't we, boys?"
There was silence, and then a murmur of assent. Quantrill lifted the whiskey bottle. "Let's drink! Let's drink to Cole Slater's bride, Miss McCahy! Why, Slater, not a man jack here would think to molest your property, or your woman. She's under our protection. You've got my word on it."
Quantrill spoke loudly, in a clear voice. He meant what he said. Kristin would be safe.
Quantrill offered Cole his hand, and Cole took it. They held fast for a moment, their eyes locked. Quantrill smiled. Cole stepped back, looked around the room and turned to leave. He had his back to the room, but he had probably never been safer in his life. Quantrill had guaranteed his safety.
He walked through the red door, his shoulders squared. Outside, he felt the sun on his face, but the breeze was cool. Fall was fading, and winter was on its way.
He had just said he would marry her.
Hell.
The sun was bright, the air was cool, and the sky was cloudless and blue. He stared at the sun, and he felt cold. He felt a coldness that seeped right into him, that swept right around his heart. It was a bitter cold, so deep that it hurt.
He found his horse's reins and pushed the huge animal back from the others almost savagely so that he could mount. Then he turned and started at a trot down the street.
It couldn't be helped. He had said he would do it, and he had to carry it through.
He had to marry her.
It wouldn't be real, though. It wouldn't mean anything at all. It would just be the way it had to be, and that would be that.
The cold seeped into him again. It encompassed and encircled his heart, and he felt the numbness there again, and then the pain.
He couldn't do it. He couldn't marry another woman. He couldn't call her his wife.
He would marry her. But he never would call her his wife.
Malachi was the more serious of Cole's two brothers, Kristin quickly discovered. Like Cole, he had gone to West Point. He had studied warfare, from the campaigns of Alexander the Great to the American Revolution to Napoleon's grand attempts to take over Europe and Russia. He understood the South's situation in the present struggle for independence, and perhaps that understanding was the cause of gravity. He was on leave for no more than three weeks, so he would have to be returning soon to his unit. Kristin wondered if that meant Cole would return soon. Malachi was courteous to her. He seemed to be the last of the great Southern gentleman, perhaps the last cavalier. Shannon retained her hostility toward him, though. Since Malachi's arrival, she had become a Unionist. She loved to warn both Malachi and Jamie that her brother would come back and make them into nothing more than dust in the wind. Jamie was amused by Shannon. Malachi considered her a dangerous annoyance. Since Kristin had her own problems with Cole, she decided that Shannon was on her own.
Kristin didn't think Matthew would make it home. The last letter she had received from him had stated that his company had been sent east and that he was fighting with the Army of the Potomac.