Page 10 of In Honor’s Defense

“‘A soft answer turneth away wrath,’” she quoted under her breath, half prayer, half observation.

“Proverbs 15:1,” Mr. Davenport murmured in equally quiet tones.

Her gaze flew to him. He didn’t take his eyes off Nathaniel, but she swore she could feel his awareness of her.

A man of God. Or at least a man familiar with the Bible. The realization assured her as nothing else could. He wouldn’t attack Nathaniel.

She turned back to her nephew. Indecision etched his face, and sweat beaded his brow.

“It’s all right, Nathaniel,” she urged. “I trust him.”

She half-expected him to come back with a caustic remark about her being a sheltered spinster with no experience of men, which would have been completely true, but he didn’t. He gave a small nod instead, then waved the rifle barrel at Mr. Davenport.

“All right. Turn around. Hands against the wall.”

Mr. Davenport complied, turning his back on a scared, inexperienced boy who could shoot him on accident just as easily as on purpose.

“Aunt Maris, collect his gun.”

That hadn’t been part of the deal. What if Mr. Davenport objected?

Damaris swallowed and took a step. Mr. Davenport turned his face slightly toward her and gave a little nod of consent. Her cresting anxiety ebbed. She took another step.

“Go around, behind the boy,” Mr. Davenport said in a low voice. “Don’t cross the rifle’s path.”

Still protecting her. Moisture gathered in her eyes as she changed direction and circled behind Nathaniel. Most of her life she’d felt like a hindrance to her family. One more mouth to feed. The odd daughter who preferred books and embroidery to social interaction. The child with no marital prospects, destined to live off the charity of others. The one more likely to be forgotten than sought after. Yet here she stood between a nephew she barely knew and a stranger whom she knew not at all, both taking extreme measures to protect her. Strange that she should feel more valued and cherished in the middle of an armed standoff than in the middle of her family.

Then again, the Damaris her family knew was a spinster who specialized in fading into the woodwork. The new Texas Damaris was poised to pull a pistol from a giant gunman’s holster. A loaded pistol. A prospect that churned her stomach. Her mother would never believe her capable of such a feat. But the Texas Damaris had a nephew to raise and a brother to honor. She wouldn’t let either of them down with ill-timed squeamishness.

Squaring her shoulders, she approached Mr. Davenport from the right and reached for his weapon.

As if he sensed her nervousness, his low voice rumbled encouragement and instructions in her ear. “It won’t go off without being cocked first. Just keep it pointed at the floor, and you’ll be fine.”

She bit her lip, clasped the handle end with her right hand, and lifted the gun carefully out of the holster. Once she had it out, she pointed the shooting end at the floor, then briefly rested her left hand on Mr. Davenport’s back.

“Thank you.” For choosing peaceful surrender instead of confrontation. For protecting a young boy’s pride and easing a woman’s fears. For being the bigger man where it truly counted—in character.

Her touch seeped through Luke like water soaking into scorched earth. It lasted only a heartbeat before she retreated, but even after her hand left his shoulder blade, he could feel the imprint linger. What was it about this woman that affected him so? It had been a simple pat. That was all. A gesture to let him know the sincerity of her gratitude. Nothing more.

So why did it feel like more?

He counted her footsteps as she moved away, then finally heard the sound he’d been waiting for—the soft thud of his rifle being set upon the table. A second, lighter click followed when his revolver was laid beside it.

“All right, mister. You can turn around.”

Luke pivoted slowly, not wanting to spook the kid. He brought his hands down and got his first good look at Nathaniel Baxter without a gun in front of his face. Luke’s gun. That still rankled. Not to mention the fact that the boy had been responsible for trapping Miss Damaris in the root cellar. Two strikes against him.

On the other hand, when Nate spotted an unknown horse in front of his house and a strange man inside, he’d taken action to protect his aunt. That evened the score.

The kid stood an inch or two shorter than his aunt and had the gangly, bean-pole limbs typical of a boy struggling to grow into a man. His eyes narrowed as he faced Luke, their steel-blue color radically different from the aunt’s soft brown. The boy stood close to the table where the weapons had been stored, his hip cocked against the rounded edge while his fingers pressed into the wood grain mere inches from the revolver. He’d regained a bit of his color and a good deal of his insolence.

Nate flicked his head to get his overlong brown hair out of his eyes. “You really one of Hanger’s Horsemen?”

“Yep.” Luke relaxed his stance, leaning his left shoulder against the hutch beside him. He kept his right arm free, however, just in case he needed to go for his knife. His gut told him the danger had passed, but his training insisted he always be ready. “Served under Captain Hanger in the 7th, then followed him to Texas. Oliver Grimes hired me to look into some rustling happenin’ at his place.”

His casual mention of Grimes triggered a reaction. The boy broke eye contact and shifted his stance. Arms crossed over his midsection. Feeling guilty? For the vandalism, or for his involvement in the rustling?

“The other Horsemen here, too?” Nate’s voice cracked a little on the question.