Chapter Eight

You ask about my conscience
And I offer you my soul
You ask if I'll grow to be a wise man
Well I ask if I'll grow old
You ask me if I've known love
And what it's like to sing songs in the rain
Well, I've seen love come
And I've seen it shot down
I've seen it die in vain
--Blaze of Glory, Bon Jovi

He could smell death on the air.

As a man with blood on his hands, his nose could narrow in on the scent of it like it had with his dead Nana's marranitos baking in the oven when he was a child. By the time the exhausted paint he'd driven for more than eight hours limped into town, the oppressive cloud had him worried.

It was months since he'd seen his hermanita last but years ago he had entrusted her safety and welfare to a more honorable man than he. During the brief ceremony in the church at the edge of town, all who witnessed the small tender smile that touched his face were almost terrified. Many even grimaced, unable to associate this soft emotion with the bloodthirsty ruthless killer he was known to be.

Her face shone with the beauty of all things good and pure as she joined her life to a man humbled by her love. It was a feeling most felt around Lily. There was a kindness of spirit inside his florecita that drew the heavy hearted like a moth to flame.

As he looped the leather reigns around the hitching post he couldn't help but notice the expressions of grief on the people who were on the street. Several women, even those putas who spread their legs for money in the tiny rooms over the saloon, were dressed in their mourning clothes. It gripped his heart without him knowing why. And yes, that worried him.

And when Manny Ruiz worried, a smart man had reason to fear.

He'd killed more men than most and in ways that could turn the stomach of even the most hardened of his kind. He had no preference. A gun was nice, could make a man dance. A knife was better, twist in the gut and a spill of blood. He'd killed for money. He'd killed for revenge. Hell, he'd killed just for the hell of making a man scream like a newborn babe and most time he enjoyed himself.

The watering hole was empty as he stepped through the wooden swing doors. Strange, he knew as he cast a glance around the shabby establishment. A place like Lucky Strikes was always busy come sunset. Men in for a shot of whiskey before heading back to their ranches or off a cattle drive looking for a hot meal and a warm body, all found their way through these doors as the light slowly faded in the sky.

Especially the one who were like him, just no damned good and rotten to the core. A hand of cards were always waiting which usually resulted in a quick draw and a visit to the undertaker. But that was just a regular night.

These faces were drawn as well, lines carved deeper than the usual hardships of men who weighted themselves down with guns. The barkeep caught his eye, froze like a jack rabbit ready to become an evening meal, and almost dropped the glass he had been drying. It wasn't just his reputation that put the fear of God into the old man, no it was something else and the more he thought about it, the more the twist in his gut began burning.

The shot of whiskey he'd been anticipating was replaced with the need to see her.

By the time he departed the next morning on a fresh horse heading for the mountains of Wyoming, Manny Ruiz had murder in his eyes.

ooXXoo

"New Orleans right?"

The petite woman startled badly from her place in front of the window of his sister's study. Long dark hair pulled into one of those fancy twists his mother liked to wear to church framed a face meant to inspire men. He remembered one of those old stories his mother had read to him, greek tragdies, she called them. Helen of Troy. A woman who started a war. Jason could imagine a woman like the one before him driving men to madness all with the crook of her finger.

Carefully concealed beneath a moss green gown were curves to get lost in. She had full lush breasts meant to entice that no amount of material could hide and a waist his hands would surely span.

But it was her eyes that had haunted his memories until he finally realized exactly where he had met her before.

"Beg pardon?"

He wondered how hard she worked to clean the Creole from her voice. Everything about New Orleans remained burned in his memories to torture him. The oppressive humidity that sweated through his clothes. The voices so thick sometimes he could barely understand. The rich food and the music so melancholy at times it stirred the soul.

The dark alley were he killed two men for the first time.

Those wide innocent eyes watching him from the doorway of the brothel.

"New Orleans," he stepped further into the room, closing the door a discrete distance so no one would easily hear their conversation. "That's where I've seen you before. Le Desirez?"

Fear leapt into her those eyes, eyes rich like the finest of bourbons with the capacity to be be just as warm. It suddenly struck him that fear had been amazingly absent that night in the depths of his darkest nightmares. Vulnerablity, certainly. Some emotion he couldn't yet put his finger on, yes, but not fear.

"You can't say that again," she crossed quickly to him then, looking around nervously before placing restraining hands on his arms. It shocked him for a moment, she so freely touched him were most wouldn't dare. "Please, for goodness sake, you cannot say the name of that place again."

"I'm not here to reveal your secrets," he murmured, "I just needed to know for certain."

"I'm surprised you remember," she sighed, closing her eyes tiredly. He knew he hadn't been fair to her today, leaving her terrified that at some point he would say something about the past she was obviously hiding. "It's been years. And you barely said ten words to me."

"You remember," he pointed out and her gaze snapped back to his, with more bite this time.

"It isn't every night I witness two men being killed."

And those words were enough for him to take a step away. And wonder at the loss of warmth those slender hands provided. When he turned to leave, she grabbed his arm again, this time her grip determined, forcing him to glance down at her. "Are you planning to say anything?"

"What happened that night in that alley isn't something I speak of." He told her truthfully. It wasn't his place to expose her past. His own burdens were heavy enough for him to bear, he had no need to carry hers.

"I thank you," her gratitude grated for some reason he couldn't understand. She had nothing to be ashamed of from where he stood. Evidently she had left that life behind and made a better one for herself. From the way the Marshall Spencer was carrying on with his possessive protective attitude, she was involved with a man on the right side of the law. "Not just for me, there are things in my past-"

"I understand," he stopped her halted words, "You don't owe me any explanations. It just stuck with me that's all."

"What?" she frowned and he realized he had said more than he should have. When he shook his head, she tighted her grip on his arm. "No really, what stuck with you?"

"Your face," he admitted quietly, watching the various emotions that flickered across her face at his words. Surprise. Understanding. Pleasure. That one threw him. What reason would she have to be pleased as far as he was concerned.

"My face?"

"Yes, but you don't need a man like me to tell you you're beautiful."

They weren't unfamiliar words. Many men had acknowledged her beauty. Before her family lost everything, she had her pick of suitors for the coitions and balls. Her social calendar had been full, so that when the Jacks family finally approached her father for marriage each eligible canadate had been carefully scrutinized.

Men from Le Desirez had spoken in low greedy tones of appreciation of her face and body. Each trying to be the first to slide between her legs. All stalking away in anger when she rebuffed their advances.

Even Lucky had expounded on her beauty, though she had trusted his awkward words more than any of the others. Except he seemed determined to place her on a pedastal, making her feel guilty for not trusting him enough with her past.

Not any of those words touched her the way Jason's had. He didn't want anything from her, except maybe to escape the memories her presence forced him to relive. There was no need to lie to him about her past, for he knew the worst of her secrets and even if he hadn't Sam knew that Jason wouldn't have held any of it against her. He wouldn't be appauled like her suitors from New Orleans, nor would he be treat her like trash like those customers had when she removed their hands from her body. And she didn't have to fear the shame and embarrasment that would lay in Lucky's eyes.

"I thank you," she finally released him by taking a step away to give him leave to escape her presence. Before he could reach the door, words she hadn't expected flew from her lips. "The woman?" Eyes pinned her then, cold as ice and she placed a hand to her stomach to stop the fluttering.

She should have been afraid of the intensity in his gaze, but her body was dancing along the edges of awarness instead. Her pores opened, a flush of heat climbing her neck to spread across her face. "They killed her, those two men. I heard you." Why was she doing this? The flare of grief in his eyes was old but not as strong or deep as that night in the alley.

"Yes they did. You've lived here in Redemption long enough to have heard the story I'm sure. There is nothing the people here like more than keeping the grapevine active with fresh gossip. I've been the center of it for more years than I care to remember."

"Robin? That was her name, Robin. She was your fiancee," she nodded. "I'm sorry. I can't imagine what it must have felt like to lose her that way." Her eyes widened as she realized just how those words must have sounded. "I'm sorry."

Jason frowned, allowing his steps to bring him back before her. He stared at her for a long time before responding. "I loved her but not as much as I should have and she died. It was my fault that she died just as if I had pulled the trigger myself."

"I don't believe she would think that. But what would I know, I've never had a man love me."

"And what would you know?" The bitterness in his voice was ugly, near the edges of rage. It seemed this wound had yet to heal. No, she shouldn't be prodding him so but there was just this whisper inside her that wanted to know how this man would be whole. Healed. How he would love. "You know nothing about Robin, so can you think you know how she would feel!"

"I know if a man loved me as much as you loved her," she whispered, closing her eyes, afraid of what she was revealing not only to him but to herself as well. "Loved me enough to hunt down the men who had killed me, I wouldn't want him hurting forever. Because I would know how much I was loved. I would know how blessed I was to have known a love like that."

When she opened her eyes, emotions blurred them so she couldn't tell if the tears in his sky blue gaze was real or not. She didn't imagine, however, the trembling hand that touched her cheek just for a second, or the way it made her want to preen like a kitten and lean into the caress.

"You need to stay away from me," his voice was rough and shaky before he abruptly snatched his hand away.

As she watched him stalk from the room, she couldn't help but wonder if he meant those words as a threat to her or a warning to himself.