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He frowned. No, she hadn’t. Damn Sunshine. For some reason, his mere suggestion that he take Gray’s place had gotten him all discombobulated. He didn’t like the thought of Jason anywhere near Mercy. Gray was the one with a verbally binding agreement to be her man. Not that he wanted the job. But he certainly didn’t want Sunshine waltzing in and replacing him. He pinned Jason with a glare that would have most men pissing in their boots.
Jason, who had been watching them, his head swiveling back and forth like an inebriated owl, just smiled and crammed more biscuit into his mouth.
“Where are your guns?” he asked, motioning to Gray’s empty holsters.
He’d stashed the guns again once they’d returned home, to keep them all safe from Mercy, though he’d kept the holsters on. More out of habit than anything. It was bad enough not having the weight of the guns against his hips. The holsters were going to stay where they were for the time being.
Mercy snickered. “They’re stashed in the flour drawer.”
“Dammit,” Gray said, shoving himself out of his chair to go retrieve them. Now he’d have to find a new hiding spot. Not that the flour drawer had been ideal, seeing as how she dipped into it often. He held them up and grimaced. Not to mention the fact that they were now coated with flour and would have to be cleaned.
When he returned, Mercy was explaining why he kept hiding his guns.
“So, you won’t teach her either?” Jason asked. “At least now I know it’s not something personal against me.”
Gray scowled. “No, it’s very personal against you.”
Jason waved him off and took another gulp of his apple cider.
Gray slumped into his chair and watched him. “Why do you want to be a gunfighter, anyway? It’s not some noble profession.”
“That depends on your definition of noble,” Jason said.
“Your mother sure as hell won’t be proud of you for it.”
Jason shrugged. “My mother died when I was ten, and frankly, she’d just be happy to see me safe and making a decent living.”
“You have an interesting understanding of the words safe and decent.” Gray’s eyes narrowed. Sunshine was certainly a stubborn bastard. “You got lawmen constantly on your tail.”
Jason shook his head. “You’ve used that one before, but I’ve been following you for weeks and I haven’t seen one lawman after you. And you certainly don’t seem overly concerned about running into one. Especially considering your current arrangement,” he said with a wink at Mercy.
Gray shrugged. “That’s because I never start the fight. You never start the fight, it’s self-defense. Not my fault, so there’s nothing to charge.”
“Interesting,” said Jason. “See, I’m learning so much from you already. Imagine what I could learn if you were actually trying to teach me something. Don’t start the fight. Got it.”
“No, that’s not… You can’t just…”
Jason and Mercy both watched him with quizzical expressions, and he threw his hands up.
“You two… You just…” He growled in frustration, jumping up so fast, his chair squeaked against the wooden floor, and marched out the door. He needed a break.
He stood on the porch for a moment, surveying the yard. He slapped his hand against his thigh and a cloud of flour puffed up. Damn. His guns. Where was he going to stick them this time?
One of the goats meandered by, gave him a lazy bleat, and continued on her way past the garden. Hmm. The garden. Mercy frequented the garden, of course, but only to pull specific items. It might do for a few days.
He found an out of the way corner and scraped out a foot or so of soft earth with a small spade he’d found nearby. He wrapped the guns in a mostly clean bandana he’d pulled from his pocket. Then he laid them in the hole and buried them.
The dirt falling over the bundle sent a curious pang through him. Almost as though he were presiding over his own burial. Not such a stretch of the imagination, really. Those guns were a part of him. Had saved his life on more than one occasion. Had been his most trusted companions for most of his life. He’d frankly expected to be buried with them. Probably because of them. Instead, he was burying them to avoid them poisoning other people’s lives.
An odd thought. But apt. Those guns were his saviors and executioners, all in one.
And those two in the house wanted him to teach them to live as he did? They didn’t know what they asked, and he wasn’t going to enlighten them.
Not that he really knew how to teach anything. He hadn’t meant to live the life he’d ended up in. He’d always been good with a gun. There’d been an overabundance of rats on the farm where he’d been raised. His grandfather had let him practice shooting them when the cats proved unable to keep the rodent population down, and he’d gotten good. And fast. A skill he hadn’t made widely known. Not that there were many to tell.
His skills with the cards, on the other hand, well that he exploited to the best of his exceptional ability. He’d made a decent living of playing cards. And then one day he’d won too large a hand against the wrong man. Gray hadn’t even known the man. Or his reputation. He’d certainly had no plans to utilize his skills. Until after the man had gone for his gun and Gray had reacted without thinking. It had been as the man had lain bleeding at Gray’s feet that he’d learned he’d killed a notorious gunfighter. The loudmouths who’d spread the story had sealed his fate.
And he’d have no part of sending anyone else to a similar fate. He’d lived far past the time anyone, including himself, had expected. Gray had earned his retirement.
