Nomi (the girl from Santa Fe)'s POV – set five months after my other fanfic Burn
The sound of voices in the sheriff's office pulls me to alertness, and I sit up on the cot. If Mongin is back... I tense at the thought.
Trapped.
But not defenseless, I remind myself, letting my fingers curl around the knife concealed beneath my waistband. The voices get louder and I stare through the cell bars at the door, hoping my expression looks defiant. But with my own blood still smeared across my face, I probably just look pitiful.
The door creaks open, and I prepare myself for Mongin's ugly leer.
I'm not prepared for the blue eyes that haunt my dreams.
Judging from the way those eyes widen in shock, he wasn't expecting to see me, either.
The sheriff comes through the door after him, still talking. " – a look at Ben here, but like I said, I doubt he's the man you're after."
Randall barely glances at the man in the other cell, just long enough to say, "Yeah, that's not him." Then his eyes are back to me, and I meet them with a glare. I don't need his help.
"What's she in for?" he asks, his voice casual.
"Nothing that concerns you," I growl.
The sheriff laughs. "Don't mess with that one. She assaulted the town's lawyer."
Something flickers in Randall's eyes – anger, pity? I can't stand seeing either, so I turn away to glare at the wall.
"Yeah, I can see who did the assaulting," Randall mutters.
The sheriff ignores him and continues. "He's not pressing charges but I fined her for disturbing the peace. She couldn't pay the fine, so I'm holding her for a few days."
"Suppose we talk in private," Randall says abruptly, and they go back into the sheriff's office.
I exhale and lean against the wall. He's here. That was really him. Suddenly I'm furious. I wanted those blue eyes to remember me with passion, not pity. In all honesty, I'd never wanted to see him again, because he's calm danger and wild beauty; he talks like a king and smiles like a rebel. Seeing him again makes me believe in that stuff, even though it's insane poetic nonsense. And that's why he scares me.
The door opens again, but thankfully it's just the sheriff. He yanks keys from his pocket and approaches my cell door, and I barely contain another growl. Randall.
"He paid your fine," the sheriff informs me coldly, swinging the door open. "Your things are on the desk. Now stay out of trouble."
"Pass that along to Mongin," I tell him. If his voice was chilly, mine is ice. I shove past him into his office and survey his desk. My bag is there, but not my gun. Randall is likewise absent. I sling my bag over my shoulder and stare at the sheriff. "Give me my gun."
He shrugs dismissively, and I want to punch him. "Randall took it. Figured he had a right to it since he paid your fine. He said to look for him at the hotel if you wanted it back."
I leave, because I have to or else I'll be wanted for murdering a sheriff. I still might murder a certain bounty hunter.
I ignore the looks I get from the staff when I ask for his room at the hotel, and it's not until I'm pounding on his door that I remember I still have blood on my face from Mongin's fist splitting my eyebrow. Wonderful.
He opens the door a half second later.
"What do you want?" I spit at him.
His eyebrows rise slightly over his concerned expression. "I want to know if you're alright. That's all."
"That's why you paid my fine and took my gun?" I retort in disgust. "Yeah, right. No, you wanted me to come here. So what do you want?"
Hurt flashes in his eyes, and I feel bad for a second. At least, bad enough that I decide not to kill him.
"I'm sorry, Nomi," he mutters. "I know it wasn't any of my business. But you were sitting in a cell covered in blood. What was I supposed to do?"
I close my eyes for a second, and then realize I'm still standing in the doorway. "Can I come in?" I snap.
He steps back, and I enter and glance around the room. My gun is on the bed beside his. He follows my gaze as he shuts the door. "Figured the sheriff wouldn't let you have it back. Thought I'd better secure it."
"And you knew I'd come for it," I point out.
He smiles, but there's no mirth in his eyes. He knows I would have left town by now if not for needing my gun. Which brings me to the point. "I don't have a cent right now," I tell him bluntly. "You paid my fine. You have my gun. What do you want from me? Whatever you want, I'm not going to fight you."
He looks at me like I'm crazy. "I want you to sit down and wash your cut while I get you something to eat. And I don't want you to skip town until you've eaten, you hear?"
"I hear," I say. I can't think of what else to say. He pierces me with those eyes, nods, picks up his gun, and leaves.
I slump on the bed. I don't care about my cut. I don't care about my bruised body or how exhausted I suddenly feel. I swore I'd never trust a man, never rely on a man. And never let a man do anything to me that I didn't want, too. I haven't broken my sworn oath. I just want Randall, no matter how dangerous he is. I want him because I'm dangerous too. Because in that hotel room in Santa Fe, we were equals, just like our guns. Well, kind of like our guns. I'm pretty sure mine's better. But he had to find me now, at a time when I'm hardly the equal of some dung-shoveling drunk.
And he still treats me like his equal.
I lurch off the bed and over to the basin on the dresser, where I splash water on my face and rake my fingers through my tangled, frustratingly long dark hair. Last time he saw me, I'd just washed it and he said it smelled like rain. He smelled like wind. He still does, but I'm sure I smell like blood right now.
Peering into the blurry mirror, I put a couple stitches in my eyebrow using a thread and needle from my bag, then wipe away the blood. If Randall brings back some alcohol I'll splash a little on to disinfect it.
Next, I dig through my bag to find my other shirt. It's not exactly clean, but at least it's not blood-splattered. I don't own many clothes right now, just the two shirts and the leather pants I'm wearing. I made them before I left home, over a year ago. I had a couple dresses until last week when I traded them for a pack of grub. Usually I make enough money winning at cards, since men don't expect a woman to be as good as I am, but I haven't been at my best lately.
I sit back down and check out my gun, glad to feel its weight in my hands again. I should have shot Mongin, but I suppose they would have hung me if I had. He touched me, I punched him, and he punched me. No one believed me when I said he started it. Yeah, they definitely would have hung me if I'd shot Mongin.
Great town.
Hurry up with the food, Randall. I can't wait to get out of here.
As if I summoned him, footsteps sound outside the door and I tighten my grip on my gun, because it might not be him. But he speaks through the door and eases it open, precariously balancing two plates in his hands. The relief in his eyes when he sees I'm still here makes me feel like a monster for even considering the thought of bailing.
"It's only cornbread and gravy," he says apologetically, handing me a plate.
I shake my head at him. "It's a feast, believe me."
He smiles at that and says quietly, "Yeah I know."
We eat in silence, because he's too polite and I'm too stubborn to ask about each other's lives. Santa Fe was six months ago, but I can remember exactly what he told me in a halting whisper while his mouth was brushing my neck. "I'm a screwed-up ex-confederate who hunts men for money. Are you sure I'm someone you want to sleep with?"
"And I'm the bastard daughter of a Cheyenne woman and the most evil scumbag man in Nebraska," I had whispered back. "You don't have to worry about my reputation."
And that's all we know about each other, although I've heard people talk about Josh Randall, saying he's the best. I don't think they were referring to his character, per se, but if they were I'd have to agree.
"So the guy, Mongin," he says when we're almost done eating. "Think he might come after you?"
"If he wants to die," I say carelessly. "But in all seriousness, I don't think he'll be a nuisance. He's the town's lawyer; he's not going to risk his well-secured life. He's disgusting, but not crazy."
Randall nods. "Too bad. I was hoping to have an excuse to plug him."
I raise my brows slightly. "I thought you told me in Santa Fe that you didn't like killing."
"Don't." He shrugs. "But you know Mongin will try it again and next time it'll be a woman who doesn't fight back."
I wince but mimic his shrug. "We can't protect the world, Josh."
I think it's the first time I've called him by his first name today. I think he realizes it too because he clears his throat. "Did the sheriff tell you to leave town?"
"No, but I'm still leaving. My horse is over at the livery stable; I paid the board when I got into town."
"Did you pay for tonight?" he asks.
I look at him, debating how I want to answer this. "Why?"
"Because you look worn out. Because it's almost night. Because I'm not leaving until tomorrow. And because I want to discuss a job with you." He looks at me with those eyes, and I sigh. He got me out of jail and brought me a meal. If he wants me to stay, it's not right to refuse.
"I'll stay. What's the job?"
"I'll tell you tomorrow." He picks up my plate and stacks it with his own on the dresser. "You want the floor or the bed?"
I smile tiredly. "Don't want to spoil a good memory with a crappy remake, huh?"
He gives me an odd look. "That was a good memory for you?"
My smile fades. "What does that mean?"
"You're the one who left," he tells me, his eyes wary. "I thought you were upset or something."
"Yeah, I was. Because I had to leave, idiot."
His gaze softens. "Do you always have to leave?"
"Not tonight," I tell him.
He studies my face. "Yeah, not tonight. Because I'm not sure this isn't about you feeling indebted."
"It's not," I insist, but he grabs his bedroll from his pack and spreads it on the floor. Damn his good character.
"Like you said, it'd be a crappy remake," he reminds me. "You look exhausted Nomi. Get some sleep."
"Fine. But you paid to sleep in a bed, so sleep in the bed. Don't make me feel more indebted to you."
His mouth opens but I glare him down, and he ends up smiling. "It's almost hard to believe Mongin bothered you. I would have been scared off by that expression."
I smirk and move to the other side of the bed. Josh unbuckles his gun belt and pulls off his shirt, tossing the shirt on his bedroll and hanging his gun belt over the headboard of the bed. He looks at me and frowns. "What?"
I realize I'm staring at his chest. "Sorry," I mumble. "But two more gunshot scars? Seriously, Josh?"
He glances down at the puckered marks, one dangerously near his heart and one lower on his abdomen. "Yeah, they keep shooting holes in me."
"Or you keep forgetting to duck."
"Hey, you don't duck either." He points with his chin at my eyebrow.
Yup. We're both suckers.
He gets into the bed and before he can stop me, my mouth is on the scar above his heart.
"Nomi," he half growls, half groans. It's a warning.
I growl back and move down toward the one near his hip, but he tangles a hand in my hair. "Nomi, stop." His voice is pleading and his grip is almost painful in my hair, so I stop and look at his face. He leans up and presses a kiss to my eyebrow. "Just go to sleep, or I'm moving back to the floor."
So I do, because I want him beside me for just one night before I leave.