Once A Gunslinger Read online

  Once A Gunslinger

  By Diana Bold

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Once A Gunslinger

  By Diana Bold

  Copyright March 2017

  Cover Artist: Kim Killion

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced electronically or in print without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in reviews.

  Dedication

  To all my friends at the Walsenburg Police Department, Huerfano County Sheriff’s Department, Sterling Police Department, and Logan County Sheriff’s Department. Thanks for keeping me company on the dark side. You’re the dysfunctional family I never had.

  Prologue

  May 6, 1864

  Tristan Kane sprawled flat on his back in a bed of pine needles and dirt, staring numbly at the inferno blazing all around him. The trees to his right looked like giant demons, swaying in some macabre dance, while their fiery dirge roared relentlessly in his ears.

  Lifting a hand to his throbbing temple, he probed the painful gash that seemed to be the source of his confusion. Blood stained his fingertips when he pulled them away. For a moment, he merely stared in fascination. Nearly four years of war, and this was the first time he’d been wounded.

  Fighting a wave of nausea, he struggled to sit up, only to find he’d lain among a sea of corpses, both friend and foe. The blue and gray uniforms were impossible to distinguish, covered as they were by filth and blood.

  Beside him lay Tom Skinner, a private who’d not yet seen his eighteenth birthday. Tristan turned his face away from the boy’s sightless blue eyes and bowed his head, overwhelmed with grief and exhaustion.

  He was so sick of this damnable war.

  What had happened? He recalled being sent to the center of the line to help Longstreet hold back Wadsworth’s Union troops, but everything after that was a blur. He’d been riding in front of his men, trying to guide them through the chaos and smoke, afraid he was leading them in circles…

  Oh, God. His gaze swept over the carnage surrounding him until it settled on the dull black coat of a dead horse. “Calypso?”

  He surged to his feet and stumbled toward the animal that had faithfully carried him through hell and back these last four years. Her sleek, ebony neck had been torn apart by shrapnel.

  “No,” he whispered, dropping to his knees. He pressed futilely at the wound, as if he could somehow save her.

  “No,” he moaned again, closing her sightless brown eyes with a trembling hand. He couldn’t bear to lose her. She was all he had left of home, his only link to the thoroughbred horses that had once been his heritage, until he’d turned traitor in the eyes of his family and friends.

  The flames crept closer, but he no longer cared. Calypso was gone—perhaps he should join her. There was a bit of honor in that, wasn’t there? Rather like a captain who refuses to leave his sinking ship.

  He closed his eyes, wondering if a bullet had grazed him or if he’d hit his head when Calypso buckled beneath him. Why did he continue to survive while everything he loved died?

  Almost everything. Memories of a beautiful girl with auburn hair and deep blue eyes overwhelmed him, reminding him he still had something to live for. He’d broken Savannah McKenzie’s heart when he left her, but he couldn’t bear the thought of leaving things unresolved between them.

  An unearthly scream of pain rent the air, interrupting his thoughts and drowning out the steady staccato of distant battle and the roar of the fire. The unrelenting heat consumed everything in its path, swallowing the wounded alive.

  The acrid smell of burning flesh wrenched him from his despair. He wasn’t ready to die. Not yet.

  He unfastened Calypso’s cinch, falling backward as the saddle came free. For a moment, the heavy weight defeated him, but leaving it behind wasn’t an option. Supplies had become nonexistent in the Confederacy.

  Gritting his teeth against the pain, he clutched the familiar leather bulk to his chest and stumbled to his feet.

  Like so many before, the day became something to survive. Every step he took through the smoldering underbrush was a victory, something the Yankees couldn’t take from him. At last, he made his way to a small, winding creek the fire hadn’t yet reached. He stumbled down the bank, coughing and choking.

  Dropping the heavy saddle, he sank to his knees and crawled to the edge, desperate for a drink. The water ran red with the blood of men who’d died farther upstream, but he hesitated only a moment before dunking his entire head into its lukewarm depths, then swallowing greedily from his cupped hands.

  Shaking the excess water from his hair, he leaned back against the muddy bank, trying to catch his breath. He didn’t know how far he’d come, but he was past the point of exhaustion. Maybe it would be all right if he closed his eyes for a few seconds. God, how he needed some sleep...

  A sound in the trees across the bank roused him. Earlier, he’d been oblivious to his surroundings, but now he saw he wasn’t the only one who’d taken refuge at the creek. Dozens of wounded men lined the water’s edge. Most looked beyond hope, waiting for death, but someone moved among them, tall and unharmed. The stranger stooped periodically beside each dying man, as though looking for something.

  A gust of hot wind cleared the smoky haze that hung over the water, revealing a glimpse of Yankee blue. Tristan’s tenuous thread of control snapped in an explosion of rage. The son of a bitch was looting, searching through the pockets of men who weren’t even dead yet.

  He reached for his gun and leveled it, blinking back a trickle of sweat and blood. Determined to rid the world of at least one more Yankee before he met his own fate, he pulled the trigger.

  The enemy went down, but at the same moment a wave of excruciating pain swept through Tristan’s left leg. He glanced down in confusion, fearing his gun had misfired.

  “Damn it, Tristan.” The familiar voice jolted Tristan out of his confusion, drawing his gaze back across the creek. His victim laughed and sank to the ground, pressing a hand over the ragged wound in his left thigh. “I knew you were pissed, but I sure as hell didn’t think you’d shoot me.”

  Tristan’s gaze was riveted on the face of the man he’d just shot, a face identical to his own. “Michael,” he whispered, fear and guilt slamming into his gut.

  Dear God. He’d just shot his twin brother.

  Chapter One

  Summer, 1871 ‐ Colorado Territory

  Tristan Kane hated to kill a man before breakfast. It ruined the whole damned day.

  The first tendrils of daylight were streaking across the eastern horizon when he strode out the front door of the seedy hotel where he’d spent the night. Despite the early hour, a crowd had gathered along the wide, dusty street that ran through the center of town.

  Tristan let his gaze drift over the ragged group of cowboys and shopkeepers, willing them to feel his contempt. Christ, didn’t they have anything better to do at this time of day than watch him put another unwanted notch on his gun?

  A duel at dawn. He’d never been involved in anything so ridiculous, unless he counted the war. He was a gun for hire, not a dime-novel villain. Why had he agreed to this?

  Last night’s lunacy could only be attributed to an overabundance of whiskey and rage. The last thing he needed was another ghost to haunt him.

  “Kane.” The crowd parted and Johnny Muldoon stepped off the wooden boardwalk in front of the elaborate, false‐fronted mercantile. “I’m surprised you decided to show.”

  Tris
tan sighed, then inhaled the clean, crisp scent of pine, borne on a cool breeze from the wooded slopes behind him. He’d played out this scene before, in countless dusty Kansas railway towns, but for some reason he’d thought things would be different in Colorado. He’d hoped to outrun his reputation, escape the scent of death that clung to him like the dark clothes he wore.

  He should have known it would take more than a change of scenery.

  “Surprised?” Tristan questioned. “I’d say you’re scared shitless.” The crowd tittered.

  Johnny’s face blanched parchment white, making his freckles more prominent. “You’re talking to the man who’s going to send you to hell, Kane. You’d best mind your manners.”

  “Man?” Tristan taunted. “All I see is a scared little boy.”

  Johnny was perhaps twenty years old, but looked even younger. The kid wanted to make a name for himself, but beneath the bravado his terror was obvious. He still feared death, which was why it would be so easy for Tristan to kill him.

  The man who won a gunfight was usually the one who didn’t give a damn whether he lived or died.

  “I ain’t afraid of you.” Johnny’s voice held steady, but his gaze veered left, to a dark‐haired girl on the sidelines. Tears streaked her pale face, and her mouth moved soundlessly, as though she chanted a prayer.

  Was she his wife? His sweetheart? He cursed beneath his breath, wishing he hadn’t seen her. How could he gun this boy down while the woman who loved him watched?

  He let his attention slide from his opponent to the tidy shop fronts and well‐kept homes lining the quiet, dusty street. He’d give anything to belong here, to have a chance at the kind of peaceful, everyday life the war had stolen from him, the kind of life these people took for granted.

  But Johnny had proven that was never going to happen. It didn’t matter how fast or how far he ran, he could never shake his past.

  Perhaps I should let the kid win.

  The thought took hold and tumbled through his mind. All he had to do was let that moment, the one when he knew the kid was going to draw, pass by. Then it would be over. At last his nightmarish existence would end.

  Could he do it? Did he have the guts?

  He’d come to Colorado to find his brother’s best friend, Joel McKenzie. Joel was a doctor and had been with Michael until the end. He’d planned to ask Joel about Michael’s last few moments of life, desperate to know if his brother had forgiven him, but maybe he wasn’t ready. He didn’t want to know. Not really.

  He walked out into the middle of the street, letting his hand fall away from his gun. “Go ahead, Johnny. Let’s see how brave you are.”

  It would have been so simple. Johnny’s face was easier to read than a grade school primer. He saw the moment of resolution, knew the exact second Johnny decided to kill him.

  His hand twitched reflexively, but he didn’t go for his weapon.

  Instead, he waited for death to take him.

  The bullet whined by, missing him by several feet.

  Shit. Disbelief rose in his throat, choking him. Nothing in his life had ever gone the way it was supposed to. Why had he expected this to be any different?

  He unbuckled his gun belt and threw it on the ground, advancing menacingly on his opponent. “Do it,” he snarled. “You want to be a hero. You want to be the one to take me down. So what are you waiting for? Shoot me!”

  Johnny shook his head and stumbled backward in an attempt to escape.

  “Coward.” Tristan turned away in disgust and headed back toward the hotel. It had been a long time since he’d been this ashamed of himself. His life was in shambles, but he didn’t want it to end this way. He didn’t want to die like a dog, gunned down in the middle of the street.

  He’d only taken half a dozen steps when something slammed into his back. The force of it drove him to his knees. He blinked in confusion, unsure what had happened until he heard Johnny’s triumphant shout.

  “I did it. I killed Kane.”

  Funny. He’d never taken the kid for a back shooter.

  The murmur of shock that rippled through the crowd seemed to come from very far away. He crumpled forward but, before darkness could claim him, his gaze locked upon a familiar face.

  Joel, he thought numbly. He’d finally found Joel.

  * * * * *

  Joel McKenzie wasn’t in the habit of watching men gun each other down in the streets, but today he’d stood frozen on the sidelines, watching as a ghost from his past attempted to commit suicide.

  Tristan Kane.

  Of course, it was Tristan. It had to be Tristan. But for one heart‐stopping moment he’d thought it was Michael.

  The shock had kept him from stepping forward, and now Tristan lay broken and bleeding on the ground.

  “Do something, Uncle Joel. You’ve got to help him.” Joel’s young nephew, Billy, looked at him imploringly, horror widening his big, blue eyes.

  Joel bit back a curse, wishing Billy wasn’t here to see this. Would he make the connection between this man and his father, who had died so long ago? “Go get my bag. It’s under the seat in the wagon. And find your Uncle Ian. We’ll need his help.”

  “Yeah, sure.” Billy backed away, his gaze glued to Tristan’s inert form, then finally turned and ran.

  Pushing through the stunned crowd, Joel knelt in the dirt beside the man who had been his friend since their childhood in Maryland. A thready pulse beat in Tristan’s throat, and he breathed a sigh of relief.

  Tristan wasn’t dead. Not yet, anyway.

  The crowd pressed in, their initial shock at Tristan’s insane behavior giving way to morbid curiosity. Joel glanced up distractedly. “Give me some room here.”

  They moved back a few steps, but not nearly enough. He hadn’t practiced medicine in quite some time, and he didn’t want an audience. Especially now, with this patient.

  He eased Tristan onto his side, cursing when he saw the widening crimson pool beneath him. A quick examination assured him the bullet had lodged in Tristan’s right shoulder. It probably hadn’t hit anything vital, but he was losing far too much blood.

  “Will he live?” Sheriff Patrick Keegan poked Tristan’s inert body with the toe of one expensive black boot. “I don’t want him bleeding all over my jail.”

  Joel glared until Keegan removed the offending foot. “I don’t know if he’ll live, Sheriff. But you’re not taking him to jail. He’s not wanted for anything.”

  Keegan set his jaw in an angry line and tilted the brim of his hat so it threw his wolfish face into shadow. “How the hell would you know?”

  “I’ve kept track. He’s a friend of mine.” Joel glared at the town’s only lawman. He’d never liked the self‐righteous son of a bitch.

  “Oh really, Doc?” Keegan gave a mocking smile. “How many other gunfighters do you count among your friends?”

  “Just this one,” Joel replied, refusing to be baited. “I’m taking him home with me. If you need him for anything, that’s where he’ll be.”

  Billy returned with Joel’s long unused black medical bag, interrupting the battle of wills. Joel also noticed his older brother, Ian, pushing through the crowd from the opposite direction. Relieved to have his brother at his side, Joel turned his back on the sheriff and concentrated on stopping the flow of blood oozing from Tristan’s shoulder.

  “Damn you, Tristan,” he whispered. But he knew he was too late.

  Tristan Kane had been damned a long time ago.

  * * * * *

  “Mama!”

  Savannah Kane put aside the bucket of nuts she’d been shelling and stood, shading her eyes with her hand. Her ten‐year‐old son, Billy, galloped down the dusty road from town, pushing his mount to breakneck speed.

  “Mama,” he called again, excitement making his voice shrill. “You’ll never guess what happened.”

  She stepped off the shady, covered porch into the heat of the summer day. Billy’s horse pranced and blew nervously as he pulled up in front of the
house. She caught the animal’s bridle, soothing him with soft words of comfort while Billy leapt off his back and slid to the ground.

  “A gunfighter,” Billy exclaimed, gesturing back toward town. “He’s been shot. Joel and Ian are bringing him home in the wagon.”

  Savannah shook her head in confusion. “Why on earth would Joel bring someone like that here?”

  Billy shrugged. “I don’t know. He said they were friends. From the war, maybe? Anyway, he sent me ahead to tell you to boil some water and find some clean bandages. They’ll be here any minute.”

  Joel had never mentioned knowing a gunfighter, but there were a lot of things about that cursed war he kept to himself. “All right,” Savannah muttered. “I suppose we can put him in Grandpa’s old room, but I don’t like it.”

  She turned back toward the sprawling white farmhouse, stopping short when Billy moved to follow her. “Oh no, you don’t,” she said, pinning him with a look. “I want you to walk that horse, and then give him a good rubdown. What were you thinking, running him in this heat? Ian would skin your hide if he knew, and I have a good mind to tell him.”

  Cattle kept food on the table, but horses were the lifeblood of the McKenzie ranch.

  Billy opened his mouth to argue but then snapped it shut, managing to look properly chagrined. “You’re right, Mama. I’m sorry.” He grabbed the horse’s reins and took off toward the barn.

  Savannah watched him for a moment, then sighed and hurried up the steps to the house. She didn’t share Billy’s enthusiasm at the prospect of having a known killer in her home, but she was intrigued by the fact that Joel had chosen to bring a patient here.

  He hadn’t practiced medicine in years, and she was pleased something had happened to jar him out of his self‐imposed punishment. This would be good for him. Besides, she was sure he wouldn’t bring the man here if there were any real danger.