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Chapter One
Gray Woodson didn’t know much, but he knew one thing… Life had been a lot easier when he was killin’ people.
This whole retirement thing, on the other hand, was a pain in his saddle-hardened ass. It had taken all of two days for him to be recognized in a new town this time. He hadn’t thought his face would be so well-known way out here. It wasn’t much to look at. Nothing he’d call memorable. Now, his trigger finger? Sure. He was the fastest draw in the country, after all. Gave him some bona fide bragging rights. But it wasn’t like he was wandering down the streets of town, drawing his gun on complete strangers.
But people still recognized him. All it took was someone’s uncle’s friend’s little brother’s cousin who happened to be in that one town that one time something had gone down, and that was it. Notoriety for life. Lucky him.
And now it looked like he’d need to move on again sooner than he’d hoped.
Gray repressed a sigh as the barkeep’s shaking hand sloshed more mineral water—only dead gunslingers ordered whiskey, in his book—on the counter than made it into his glass. The man stuttered out an apology and then filled the glass almost to the brim, pushing it toward Gray with the air of a man feeding a starving coyote.
“It’s on the house,” he said.
Gray shook his head. “That’s not necessary.”
The man’s face paled even more, if that were possible. “Don’t sell much mineral water ’round these parts. I mostly keep it in stock for mixing drinks. I’m happy to get rid of it.”
Yeah, people always said things like that when Gray objected to special treatment, and then a week later the gossips were clucking about the big bad gunfighter who was terrorizing honest men out of their hard-earned money. No thank you. He wasn’t playing the game anymore. He was retired.
Gray slapped his money on the counter. “I pay for what I take.”
The barkeep accepted the coins with trembling fingers. “Th-th-thank you, Mr. Quick Shot, sir. You’re very generous, sir.”
Gray grit his teeth to keep from snapping out a retort. The last thing he needed was for the man to drop dead at his feet. “It ain’t generous to pay what I owe. And the name is Woodson.”
The barkeep’s face drained of all color. “Yes, sir. Sorry, Mr. Woodson, sir.”
Gray didn’t bother hiding his eye roll as he took his drink back to the table in the corner, as far away from prying eyes as he could get.
Didn’t matter how far in the shadows he sat, though.
“My reputation doth precede me,” he muttered into his glass while he watched the other patrons shoot furtive glances at him.
“Well, itisquite the reputation,” a familiar man in his early twenties with dark-brown hair said cheerily as he pulled out a chair and sat at Gray’s table.
Gray scowled. “Sunshine.”
Jason Sunshine—and yes, the man was every bit as irritating as his last name implied—tipped his hat in greeting, ignoring Gray’s foul mood. He leaned in and squinted at Gray for a moment before sitting back. “You’re looking a little crusty, if you don’t mind me saying so.”
Well, that’s a fine way to say howdy. He scraped his hand across only a coupla days’ growth of beard. “I do mind. Go away.”
Jason grinned, his smokey brown eyes twinkling. “But I’ve only just found you.”
“Lucky me,” Gray mumbled, still glowering. “You’re not lookin’ so fresh yourself, you know. I think you’ve been on the road too long. Maybe you should go back to school, teachin’ or tutorin’ or whatever it was you did in your fancy city before you decided to start houndin’ me.”
Jason didn’t rise to the bait, too busy watching everyone else watch them. “Tell me, how does it feel to command the respect of everyone in the room the moment you mosey on in?”
Gray clenched his fist around his glass, glaring at the only man who’d dare invade his space, uninvited. His free hand itched to go for his gun, but he checked himself. Evenpre-retirement he hadn’t killed a man just for sitting at his table.
Well… Okay, maybe once. But there had been extenuating circumstances. Honest.
And had the irksome little prat sitting across from him now found him a few weeks earlier, Gray might have made an exception in this case as well. Jason had been pestering him for weeks, trying to get Gray to teach him his “trade.” Gray’s surly refusal hadn’t dissuaded him one flat bit.
“It’s not respect. It’s fear,” Gray said. “And it doesn’t appear to work on everyone in the room.” He gave Jason a significant look that the much younger man brushed off with a grin.
“Oh, it works on me. I’ve just decided that the possible benefits outweigh the risk of you putting a bullet through me.”
“Might want to work on your decision-making skills.” He drained his glass and slammed it on the table. “Anything I can do to dissuade you of that foolish notion, you just let me know.”
