14

"All done," he mumbled, his voice huskier than usual as he took a quick step away.

She cleared her throat and pressed a hand to her stomach to still the butterflies before turning. Her brow lowered in a concerned frown at seeing him, "You look like you just ate one of Widow Smithton's meat pies."

He forced a smile and slowly exhaled, "Do you want to get out of here... maybe go for a walk while we talk?"

Hazel blinked and smiled, more than relieved to get away from the smell of smoke and all the wreckage upstairs. "I'd love to... I'll just..." she turned in a slow circle, her brow creasing with a frown as she searched the floor for her boots.

"You looking for something, Jonesy?"

"My shoes, I thought I-" she froze when he lifted the hem of her dress and petticoats to expose her legs up to her knees, "Shepard Thaddeus Devereaux, are you trying to get a look at my bloomers?"

He chuckled and dropped her skirts, "No, ma'am, I got my fill of them frilly things yesterday."

She turned to face him, attempting—and failing—to give her best disapproving scowl, all while silently commanding her heart to stop trying to beat its way out of her chest. "Then, what were you doing? This isn't The Lilypad; you can't just go around-"

"You said you were looking for your boots," Shepard interrupted.

He held up his hands in innocence but couldn't wipe the grin from his face no matter how hard he tried. "I thought I'd look in the most obvious of places before I got down on my hands and knees in search of 'em."

Hazel pulled her skirts up to her shins and stuck her right foot out. Sure enough, her mud-caked ankle boots stared back at her—or they would have if they had eyes. She shook her head at such a ridiculous thought and delicately cleared her throat, allowing her skirts to fall back in place. "Thank you."

Shepard winked and motioned to the door with his left hand as he offered her his right elbow. He watched her stare at it in indecision before reaching out a tentative hand and tucking it in the crook of his arm.

A swarm of butterflies instantly took flight in his gut at her touch. Swallowing, he wasted no time in walking her outside, waiting just long enough for her to grab a green paisley shawl hanging from a peg on the wall and lock the door as he asked, "Where to, Jonesy?" And then headed in the direction she pointed.

They walked in awkward silence for several minutes, listening to the birdsong from the trees among their footfalls on the dirt road. A gentle breeze blew on by, bringing with it the smell of clean air, wet soil, and pine needles.

Wispy clouds flitted across the bright blue sky, creating the perfect backdrop to the Big Horn Mountains' jagged snowcapped peaks.

"This town sure is real pretty," he mumbled, turning this way and that to take in the scenery. "I can see why you decided to settle here."

Hazel looked at him, then focused on the grass and bushes along the side of the narrow road they walked. It was really little better than a game trail, but that point seemed of little significance at the moment. The beauty of the scenery had had nothing to do with her decision to call Sheridan home.

"It is. Pretty, I mean."

She rolled her eyes at her inept attempt at conversation and sighed, fighting against the urge to tell him the truth. She lost. "I thought that almost five hundred miles would be far enough away from San Luis and Dynamite and his men to start a new life...turns out that was rather foolish of me."

Shepard looked at her out of the corner of his eye, "From what Jeremiah said about him, I've no doubt Dynamite would have tracked and followed you across the world if need be."

She gave him an odd look and wrapped her shawl more tightly around her shoulders, "You make it sound as though he's obsessed with me."

"I think last night is proof he is," Shepard shrugged, "at the very least, you're unfinished business. He doesn't seem the sort to allow a little thing like distance to keep him from what or who he wants."

Hazel kicked at the rock in her path, picturing it was Dynamite's face. It skipped a fair way down and slightly to her right before stopping. When they drew near, she let go of Shepard and kicked it back toward the path.

She chewed on the inside of her cheek, silently deliberating on the wisdom of voicing the question perched on her tongue before giving in. "Why'd you leave San Luis?"

Shepard shoved his hands in his front pockets, biting back a grin when she continued to kick the rock. "You don't know?"

She shook her head.

"My uncle made me."

Hazel looked at him in surprise. "Why?"

"We fought a lot after my folks died, and me and William went to live with him. It got real bad one day," he flicked a glance at her before returning his attention to watching her kick the rock. "I didn't care for the way he talked to or treated William, and I made it known—broke his nose. That night he forced me out at gunpoint, said he'd shoot me dead if I came back."

"That was you?" She gasped with a chuckle. "He told Ada, the girl he liked to see at The Lilypad, he got accosted by someone trying to steal from the mercantile."

Shepard grunted. "He always was a liar."

Hazel nodded, then looked at him in surprise, unsure if she'd heard him correctly. "What do you mean 'was'?"

"He died the day I rode into San Luis."

"Did you kill him?" She asked, stepping over the rock instead of kicking it.

Shepard glanced at her, grateful there had been no judgment in her voice. "I wish I had. I sure wanted to after I found William on the gallows, but no, he keeled over before I got the chance."

He paused for a moment, allowing himself to remember that horrible day. His gaze narrowed, and his lips pressed into a firm line before he muttered, "Maybe I scared him to death." He hoped so; it made the ache over William's loss easier to bear.

Hazel grunted and tucked her arm around his elbow once more, as though it belonged there. "I'm sorry."

Those two words brought a small smile to Shepard's face. "That I didn't get the chance to shoot Brittle Bones?"

"Yes," she said without hesitation, "but also for what happened to William. He really was a sweet boy, charming too... he reminded me an awful lot of you at his age. I think—until Dynamite arrived in town and got his hooks in him—you would have been proud of the man he was becoming." She glanced at Shepard, her hand at his elbow softly caressing as she lowered her voice and asked, "What made you decide to come back?"

Shepard swallowed and clenched his jaw. "Because it was time."

He cleared his throat and focused on a flock of birds swooping through the sky, trying to keep the emotion from his voice when he continued, "I spent four years cowboying before I fell into bounty hunting and finally earned enough to buy William's freedom. Nearly ten thousand dollars, Jonesy... enough money for us to make our dreams come true... turned out I was too late. Rode into San Luis the day after they hung him."

Hazel clamped her trembling bottom lip between her teeth, fighting against a rush of tears. Her heart broke for him. She knew the pain he had to have felt, or at the very least, had experienced a similar loss, and yet she didn't know what to say that wouldn't sound trite.

And then it hit her.

Ten thousand dollars.

She looked at him, her eyes wide and her mouth falling slack as her feet faltered and she tripped.

"Whoopsie-daisy," Shepard murmured, adjusting his hold on her, "Didn't mean to be walking so fast."

Hazel grunted, unable to form coherent words when her mind was still reeling. The roll of money he'd given her, all mangled with a bullet—it made sense now why he didn't want it back, let alone touch it with a ten-foot pole. She couldn't blame him. If she'd stood in his place, she wouldn't want it either.

"So..." Shepard started, not knowing what he planned on saying next.

Thankfully, he didn't have to worry too long because no sooner than the single word left his mouth, Hazel pulled him to a stop, her hand clutched his tight as she lifted her right arm and pointed up ahead.

"Look," she whispered, her voice laced with excitement and awe, "it's a hummingbird... isn't it beautiful? Did you know they weigh less than a nickel and can fly backward?"

His gaze followed where she pointed, his lips bending in a soft smile when he finally spotted the little ruby-throated bird. "Where'd you learn that?"

"Read it in a book a long time ago."

They watched it in silence for several minutes, their troubles and the rest of the world around them momentarily forgotten.

After it flew out of view, Hazel sighed.

It was a sad sound that made Shepard frown as he looked at her out of the corner of his eye when they continued walking. "Something wrong, Jonesy? We can head back to town if you're tired. Probably oughta check on Jeremiah anyhow."

Hazel reluctantly nodded and smiled up at him, but it didn't reach her eyes. She remained quiet as they turned and retraced their steps, and Shepard fought against the urge to ask what had upset her. Had he stepped on her toes without knowing?

"Have you ever..." Hazel slowly began saying, her face creasing in a pensive expression.

But then she shook her head and let out a sigh, looking as though she'd decided against speaking further.

Shepard nudged her gently with his elbow, suddenly desperate to know what it was she'd been tempted to say. "Have I ever what?"

Hazel flicked a glance at him. "Have you ever looked at an animal and wondered what it'd be like to be them for a day?"

He thought about it for a moment, then shook his head.

"Well, I have," she whispered, so low it was as though she were confessing sins to a preacher. "So many times I've lost count...."

A small smile curled Shepard's lips, "Any animal, in particular, Jonesy?"

"Birds... " Hazel mumbled with a self-conscious grin, watching him out of the corner of her eye.

"I should have known," Shepard winked.

Hazel blushed and tucked a lock of hair behind her ear. "I've always loved birds for as long as I can remember. My mama used to call me her golden oriole," she laughed and gave her head a little shake. "She always said yellow looked glorious on me. I don't know if that's true, but I wear it all the same... as a way to remember her." She looked to see if he was still listening.

Shepard nodded, his gaze fastened on hers as their feet slowed to a stop near a tall cottonwood. "She was right," he softly admitted, "you do look glorious in yellow."

Hazel blushed and smiled. "I don't think I've ever heard you utter that word before."

He chuckled, positive he never had. But it was a fitting word for how the simple color looked on her. "What is it you like about birds anyhow?"

"Their ability to fly anywhere they want and not be worried about what others might think of them. What it must be like to have complete freedom... I can only imagine how it would feel."

"Not all birds fly. Chickens, for instance," Shepard chuckled. "Though I've seen plenty of hens give it a good try on occasion."

Hazel slowly nodded and forced her lips into a semblance of an amused smile. But Shepard didn't buy it.

Grasping her hand, he pulled her to face him, "What's wrong?"

"Nothing," she said, a little too quickly and in a tone that revealed the word meant the opposite.

Shepard quirked a knowing brow and held silent.

Hazel averted her gaze and licked her lips seconds before the words spilled free of their own accord. "I was remembering—not long after mama died, I was in the kitchen...it was so hot and uncomfortable it felt like I couldn't breathe. I gave Mildred a flimsy excuse about needing to use the outhouse—one I know she saw right through—but she took pity and sent me outside on some imagined chore."

She paused and swallowed, her eyes becoming unfocused as the memory took shape. "I had no sooner closed the door than I heard a strange flapping or rustling. So, I went searching, thinking one of the chickens might have escaped from the coop."

The breeze picked up, blowing tendrils of her damp hair into her face. She absently brushed them away, "It was a robin with a broken wing making all the noise, struggling to fly. I kept thinking, I should help it or end its suffering, but I couldn't move or look away. I just stared at it, feeling deep down, me and that robin were the same creature, lost, hurting, and lonely, waiting to either be rescued or put out of our misery... "

When she fell silent, Shepard quietly asked, "What happened to it?"

Hazel blinked, forcing the image of the broken bird from her mind. "I don't know. Mildred called me to the kitchen, and when I went back outside later that night, it was gone." She shrugged and sighed, "A coyote or a cat probably got to it."

Shepard gently squeezed her hand, aching from the heartbroken tone of her voice. "Or someone else found it and nursed it back to health. Bertie Strickland, maybe... she's always taking injured animals home. Jeremiah talked about it several times these past two weeks."

They watched the birds swooping in and out of the trees up ahead for a few minutes without saying a word. Then Shepard glanced at Hazel out of the corner of his eye and quietly added, "I may not have wondered what it would be like to be an animal for a day, but I do know that broken feeling, Jonesy. " He turned his full attention back to the trees and nodded, "I don't think there's a soul alive who hasn't suffered from broken wings now and then. But I'll make you a deal."

She tilted her head to the side and tried to ignore the way the sunlight made his eyes look like pools of freckled amber.

"The next time you're feeling broken," he said, taking her by the hand and capturing her gaze, "you let me know, and I'll come to your rescue."

He meant every word; that much became evident by the swirling emotions he didn't try to hide as his eyes bored deep into her soul. Hazel blinked back a sudden sting of tears, "The same goes for you, Shepard."

He gave a perfunctory nod, "Deal."

Shepard watched her for a minute, looking as though he might say more, then glanced at the tree canopy overhead. "Yessir... for all we know, that old robin could be in a nest somewhere up there, living a happy life, raising babies thanks to Bertie."

Hazel smiled at him, her heart squeezing at the tenderness in his gaze. "I never realized you were such an optimist, Shepard Thaddeus Devereaux."

Shepard scoffed and tucked a wisp of hair behind her right ear. He hadn't thought himself an optimist either, not until he'd heard the defeat in her voice. His palm brushed her skin, and he delighted in the silkiness against his calloused hand. "Did you know, besides my mama, you're the only person ever to use my full name?"

"Is that so?" Hazel's smile softened, and she gave in to the urge to press her cheek more fully against his palm for a brief moment.

Shepard nodded. "Only difference is, when my mama used it, I knew I was headed for a paddling." His lips curled in a lopsided smile.

Her brown-sugar eyes stared back at him, warm with emotions that made his heart kick against his ribs, his stomach flutter, and his mouth flood with moisture.

He wanted to kiss her—wanted it so bad, his body quaked with need. It became a pervading thought he couldn't shake or ignore no matter how hard he tried.

His arms ached to hold her again, to clutch her to him and know she was finally back where she belonged. It was a realization he'd arrived at last night within the first two minutes of waiting for Doc Graham. As soon as it hit, he hadn't even bothered trying to deny it. There'd seemed no point.

And twenty minutes later, while that realization settled around his heart and he had relinquished his hold on Hazel to allow the doctor to do his job, he silently acknowledged another truth. One he'd pushed aside and ignored as best he could since he was old enough to understand its importance in a person's life.

It was the reason he'd always called her Jonesy. He'd somehow gotten it into his head when he was younger that if he didn't call her by her given name, he might be able to safeguard his heart. But with each utterance, 'Jonesy' became tantamount to an endearment and hidden declaration of his true feelings.

He was madly in love with Hazel—probably had been from the moment he first clapped eyes on her at the age of thirteen. The intensity of the emotion was terrifying, because along with accepting what he felt, also came the sure knowledge his heart would shrivel up and die if anything happened to her.

It was bad enough seeing the bruises all along the left side of her body from her ordeal with Dynamite when he'd changed her into his only dry shirt last night. If her wounds had been fatal—he shrunk from the thought and gladly focused his attention on Hazel standing alive and healthy before him.

"I could paddle you... " Hazel softly chuckled, oblivious to his inner turmoil, "I'm sure there's something you've done in the past six years to make a good paddling well deserved and long overdue."

"I don't think there's a wooden spoon strong or big enough for all the wrong I've done, Jonesy."