III
The outlaw was asleep. The last rays of the sun painted his skin golden, making his hair burn auburn. He shifted on the bed, his brow turning into a soft frown. He made a small noise in his throat that was almost a whimper. His free hand was twitching and his feet were shaking.
"n—no," he mumbled, his handsome face crumbling into such display of fear, I wanted to get up and smooth his hair.
The nightmare seemed to worsen as he kept tossing on the bed, his eyes squeezed tight, his hand trying to shield him. Then his upper body sprang up from the bed and his eyes flew open. He let out his breath in deep pants, his gaze unfocused. His arm was stretched behind him, his hand still tied to the iron bedpost. He yanked at the cuff, hissing. Then he looked around and when he saw me, he took in a quick breath. His face was contorted in pain and I watched in wonder as it slowly smoothed down, the frown giving away to his usual smooth look. He brushed back his hair and looked at me again, but this time the smirk was gone.
"Not a very comfy bed," he said and when I gave a laugh, he looked almost hurt. So the killer had his weaknesses. Watching him suffer hadn't been fun but I felt more comfortable knowing he was human, too.
"You want some water," I asked and immediately regretted the words. The smirk was back, and he nodded.
"Sure, sugah," his confidence had returned and he leaned back on the bed again.
"The name's Bella," I said and gave him the glass. He lifted it in salute.
"Here's to you. Bella the Bountyhunter," he made it sound like the worst insult.
"So how much am I worth exactly? Last time I looked it was around ten grand. Old money." He seemed proud of his price.
"More like five. And how the hell do you think anyone would even have ten grand of old ones lying around. The money's practically evaporating," I took the empty glass from him and put it on the dresser.
"That's the trouble with cash. Unless it's gold or plastic it's not going to last. Hell, I can't make even gold last for long," he shrugged. His gambling habit was well known. Adding that to the list of his sins it was probably one of the minor ones.
"Plastic's not worth much these days," I said, knowing the couple of cards I had in my back-pocket would barely fetch me a piece of bread.
"Nothing's worth much these days," he said.
"Do I detect some cynicism? The jaded killer, who values nothing, not even life," I lifted my brow at him.
"Life's not worth much. Not when men will gladly kill for nothing but empty promises."
"Bet you've killed for less than that," I wiped my hands against my jeans. Talking to him wasn't a good idea. It was pretty likely I'd have to shoot him at some point, unless the sheriff really was coming. God I hoped the sheriff was coming.
"I've killed four men. All of them deserved it." he looked at me, his eyes empty of emotion. No smile on his face this time, though.
"Do you deserve it?" I asked.
He gave a dry laugh. "Suppose I do."
"How did it feel, killing those men?" the words were out before I could stop myself. Here I was, having a polite chat about killing. Me, who had never killed more than a couple of chickens and even that had always made me sick.
He was silent for a while, looking somewhere beyond me. Then his eyes met mine.
"It feels like death," he said. Then he slouched back, crossed his boots and closed his eyes. "It's late. You should get some rest. It won't be easy to get me to the train tomorrow."
My eyes were burning from the need to close them and my head felt like a beehive but his words kept me wide awake. No, it wouldn't be easy tomorrow. I had gotten him in here without anyone noticing but tomorrow would be a different thing. There would be men waiting at the station, men who would take one look at him and shoot him dead at first sight. Men who would just as easily kill me, to get the reward. I couldn't march him there on gunpoint. And he wouldn't go anywhere unless I held a gun to him. I needed a plan and I needed one fast.