That she didn't automatically assume Colt had come to her rescue this time was understandable, since he'd let things go so far. Yet it was his gun that was still trailing a small stream of smoke, aod his eyes she met as she sagged in relief — then almost immediately began to seethe.
But her sudden anger was under perfect control.
She slowly turned and handed her useless gun back to its owner, then calmly walked out of the saloon.
She was never going to speak to Colt Thunder again. For whatever diabolical reason he had refrained from doing anything until the last possible moment, and she suspected it was just to teach her a lesson, he'd allowed her to be frightened half to death, and she wouldn't forgive him for that.
Chapter Forty-two
Colt watched the duchess walk out of the saloon, but made no move to follow her. He couldn't just then. He felt weak as a baby. His heart was still slamming against his ribs, his skin still clammy with cold sweat. Nothing like this had ever happened to him before, and he wasn't sure what did happen.
He'd noticed Ramsay Pratt looking at him in the mirror, recognized him, and felt such primitive sat-isfaction he nearly let out a war whoop. So many times he'd imagined coming across the man again, imagined calling him out and emptying his gun into him, not to kill him but to cripple him. He didn't want him dead. He wanted Pratt to live with the same kind of bitterness and pain that had been a part of his own life ever since they last crossed paths.
He'd deliberately let the man get worked up by not answering him. He'd wanted him good and mad, mad enough to break out that whip of his. But when he got what he wanted and started to turn around to face the bastard, he found that he couldn't. It was as if his body had just clicked off when he saw that whip, as if the part of his mind that controlled it had decided not to participate in another confrontation with the whip-wielder, as if he were afraid to go through that experience again.
Even when Ramsay had lashed him, he'd been un-able to break out of the trancelike stupor that gripped him. Not that there was any pain to help him out of it. With so much damaged tissue and nerves, hot coals could be set on his back and he wouldn't be likely to feel them. He didn't know even now if Ramsay had done any damage this time. He wouldn't know until he could see his back for himself.
But if it was fear that had paralyzed him without his conscious knowledge, it had been stark terror that he'd felt when the duchess had been threatened and he still couldn't move; stark terror that had brought the sweat and debilitation when he thought she'd be hurt. It was only when he saw the whip actually raised against her that the rage had exploded in his head and given him back his mobility.
He watched as Pratt's body was hauled out of the saloon. There were a few comments, but none di-rected at him. Most of the patrons went back to doing what they'd been doing before the violence began. It was a typical reaction when violence was more or less an everyday occurrence.
Colt felt nothing, no regret, no satisfaction, no emotion at all for the man he'd just killed. It was that look of utter contempt he'd had from the duchess just before she walked out that disturbed him. He didn't have to wonder why he'd received it. And what was he supposed to tell her? That he'd been afraid without conscious awareness of it? That he'd wanted to keep her out of it, had tried, but just couldn't move? Couldn't move? She'd really buy that, wouldn't she?
He returned to the station yard and that fancy railroad car she'd acquired so easily. The duchess was there, but locked in the sleeping compartment. Colt debated for about a minute whether to pound on the door, then decided against it. This just might be for the best. He'd be losing a few days with her, but he had to give her up anyway, so what did that really matter?
He gathered up his gear and headed for the door. He'd buy a ticket for the passenger car and let the conductor inform the duchess where he'd be. There was no reason for them to even see each other again until they arrived in Cheyenne. But on his way out one of the mirrors caught his eye and he remembered his back. He dropped his gear and yanked off his shirt to have a quick look-see. Pratt must have lost his touch over the years, Colt decided. He couldn't detect a single mark.
"Dear God in heaven!"
He swung around, reaching for his gun. "What?!" But he knew from the expression on her face. Pity he couldn't take at the best of times, and from her not at all.
Jocelyn dropped the rifle out of her hand to cover her mouth. She was going to be sick. She'd seen enough violence in the past hour, but this, the result of violence, done to him — to him! She ran for the lavatory.
Colt threw his shirt to the floor with a vicious curse and ran after her, jerking her around before she reached the door. "Don't you dare! It's nothing, do you hear? Nothing! If you wanted to spill your guts, you should have done it when the buUwhacker spilled his, not now!"
She swallowed the bile in her throat, shaking her head. The tears were already starting. She didn't know why he was so angry. She couldn't help the emotion tearing up her insides.
When he saw the tears, he snarled, "Don't!" but her wail drowned him out as she threw her arms around his neck. He tried to break her hold, but couldn't without hurting her. And she wasn't letting go, was clinging so tightly she nearly choked him.
"Ah, shit," he said after a moment and carried her to the nearest chair, where he sat down to cradle her in his lap. "You've got no business doing this to me, woman. What the hell are you crying for anyway? I told you it was nothing."
"You call. that. nothing?" she sobbed into his shoulder.
"Nothing to you. It happened a long time ago. Do you think it still hurts or something? I assure you it doesn't."
"But it did!" she cried even louder. "You can't tell me it didn't! Oh, God, your poor back!"
He stiffened. He couldn't help it. "Listen to me, Duchess, and listen well. A warrior can't accept pity.
He'd rather be dead."
She leaned back then, somewhat surprised. "But I don't pity you."
"Then what's all this crying about?"
"It's the pain you must have felt. I–I can't bear to think of you suffering like that."
He shook his head at her. "You're not looking at it from the proper perspective, woman. It was a whipping meant to kill me. There aren't many men who could have survived it, but I did. The scars represent triumph over my enemies. I defeated them by living."
"If you're proud of those scars, like you are of these" — her fingers brushed against the puckered skin over one nipple, making him jerk—"then why have you hid them from me? And you have, haven't you?"
She recalled now the times they had both been completely without clothes while making love, and every time she had reached for his back, he had stopped her by taking her hands and holding them over her head or at her sides. She also recalled the time she had told him she ought to have him horsewhipped.
Dear God, how insensitive! But she hadn't known.
"I didn't say I was proud of them, Duchess. But remember your reaction to these," he said bitterly as he pressed her hands to his nipples, "and your reaction just now, and you have your answer. These bring forth disgust. My back makes women puke."
"Do you know why?" she asked with some heat. "Because you did one set yourself, deliberately in-flicting self-torture, and you're proud of it. But someone else did the other, mutilating this magnificent body, and that's an atrocity beyond description. Who did that to you, Colt?"
He wasn't sure if he'd just been scolded or complimented. "You just watched him die."