Chapter Eleven

Marston opened his eyes and knew instantly that Rose was no longer in the bed with him. He laid his hand over her pillow and realized it was still warm. She hadn't been gone long.

A glance out the window told him there were still a few hours before dawn. Knowing it was those damned nightmares that had her awake once again, Marston tossed his legs over the edge of the bed and stood slowly.

Pulling his trousers up on his legs, Marston frowned at the scars covering him. He scratched at his scarred up, hard muscled stomach and wondered what in the world it was that that beautiful woman saw in a beaten and battered man like him. His hand still didn't work as well as it once had, he limped when he got up in the mornings and he was fairly certain there was a gray hair or two beginning to pop up in his beard.

Deciding that it didn't matter what she saw just so long as she saw it, Marston left the room to go find his woman and offer her what comfort he could. He made his way down the hall and the staircase and his ears picked up the sound of her moving about in the kitchen.

He stepped into the room silently, and even though her back was to him, he saw her shoulders tense and knew that she knew he was there. He crossed the room with long strides, spun her around and pulled her against his chest.

She wrapped her arms around his waist and they simply stood there for several long moments. Finally Marston pulled away just enough so he could tip her head up and look into her blue eyes.

"Nightmares again?" he asked. When she shook her head, he frowned. "What then? Are you sick?"

"It's nothing. I'm fine," she countered.

With a growl, Marston scooped her up into his arms causing her to gasp and wrap her arms around his neck. "What are you doing?" she demanded gently.

"I shouldn't have to explain it to you," he replied as he carried her toward the stairs.

"Yes, but I'm too big and you're getting too..." She stopped suddenly.

Marston's brow quirked upward. "Too what?"

"Old," she mumbled, burying her red face in his neck.

Marston laughed as he stepped into their bedroom. "You are perfect," he countered, laying her down upon the bed. He laid hungry kisses to her jaw. "And the day I'm too old to carry you to bed is the day I want someone to place a gun to my head and put me out of my misery."

Rose was smiling as he slipped from his trousers and slid into the bed beside her. Pulling the blanket over them both, Marston sighed. "So what had you in the kitchen in the middle of the night?"

"I just have a bad feeling," she replied quietly as she traced his bicep with her fingertips.

Marston trembled. Then he growled, snatched up her hand and pressed a kiss to her fingers. "Stop trying to distract me," he warned. "And what kind of bad feeling do you have?" He had learned that when Rose had a bad feeling about something, it was best to listen.

"You don't want to hear about it," she assured him. "I'm sure it's nothing."

Marston met her stubborn gaze. "If it has you up in the middle of the night pacing then I want to know about it. Tell me."

Rose let out a sigh and her gaze went to his chest. "I have a feeling Jeremiah might be in trouble."

Marston pressed a quick kiss to her temple. "I promise you that worthless sack of...."

"Marston!" Rose interrupted crossly.

He grinned. "That wonderful example of a morally bankrupt human being is just fine. And if he is in trouble then it's his own damn fault and there's nothing for us to be worried about. Honestly, I'm hoping I never have to see him again."

"You don't mean that."

"Yes I do," Marston countered, laying a kiss to her temple and then trailing them down along her jaw and to her neck.

"He's your brother," she whispered breathlessly as she clung to his arm. His expert hands slid beneath her sleeping gown and stroked her thigh.

"Nope," he growled, his lips moving to that mole on her collarbone.

"We'll talk about this later," Rose warned, burying her hands in his thick dark hair and moving his mouth lower.

Marston chuckled against her breast. "Yes ma'am."

***

"Get off me!" Jeremiah snapped, shoving the petite blond to the side just before he spent himself.

She smiled in that sultry way that whores seemed to have perfected and ran her finger across his arm. "The girls were right about you."

Jeremiah scowled. "Get the hell out of here. I didn't pay to hear you speak."

Insulted, the whore stood and quickly donned her corset and petticoat. Jeremiah didn't spare her a glance as she snatched up her money from the bedside table and stomped from the room, slamming the door behind her.

"Temper. Temper," Jeremiah muttered. He threw his legs over the side of the bed and shoved himself to his feet. Stumbling his way to the washbasin, Jeremiah splashed water on his face and cleaned himself before staring hard at his reflection.

Damn, he looked like hell.

True, he'd never had the striking good looks that his brother possessed but he hadn't always looked this....worn.

His cheeks were thin and gaunt beneath his sharp cheekbones. His once firm lips were chapped and nearly colorless. His skin had grown paler and his golden eyes were bloodshot.

When Jeremiah slid into his clothes, it was obvious that he'd lost weight. They hung off his skin and bone frame and were dirty and torn. He had no money to buy new with. What little money he'd had had just left the room with the blond.

How long had it been since Jeremiah had looked at his reflection and recognized himself? He wasn't sure. It had been months since he'd been sober. Hearing Langley tell him what he thought of him and having Marston turn his back and Duke chew his ass had been more than Jeremiah could take.

He'd wanted to kill them all but instead he'd taken to killing whiskey shots. Whiskey bottles. Whiskey vats. Anything with whiskey was open game. He couldn't say how long it had been. The days seemed to be running together.

Jeremiah snorted. He wasn't a damn drunkard but he did like his drink. Speaking of.... He went to the dresser and grabbed the whiskey bottle he'd left there only to realize it was empty.

Jeremiah felt desperation fill him. He was falling into a sober state and that wasn't allowed. Sober meant thinking and thinking was bad. He tore apart his hotel room in search of another bottle. He tossed tables, chairs, yanked back the mattress and pulled out the drawers but found nothing.

Finally he fell exhausted to the floor and stared up at the ceiling. His chest rose and fell rapidly. As Jeremiah lay there and wondered if it was worth getting up, he thought about Langley. Where was that little bastard? Langley had better hope that Jeremiah never saw him again. If he did, Jeremiah would shoot him and leave him lying. Langley had ruined his life when he'd gotten himself arrested.

Pain gripped Jeremiah gut and he clutched at it with desperation. He had to find whiskey. That was the only option.

He stood slowly and put his hat over his dirty hair. Grabbing his gun belt, Jeremiah slid it onto his bony hips—using the holes he'd cut into the belt to latch it. He strapped on his knife and headed out the door.

The sun nearly blinded him when he stepped into the morning air. Jeremiah cursed its existence as he squinted toward the street. Who needed the damn sun anyhow? All it was good for was causing a man's head to pound.

Where was a man to find whiskey when he was dead broke?

Jeremiah went to the livery and saddled his horse. His prepaid stay there had run out so Jeremiah would have to find somewhere else to house the beast. The burning in his gut told him he needed to find Whiskey. Jeremiah licked his lips and wiped his itching, shaking hands on his pants leg.

"Sir, how much will you give me for this horse?" he asked a well-dressed gentleman passing him on the street.

The man sniffed. "I have no use for your horse," he stated, taking a step to the side.

Jeremiah turned to a second man and clutched at his arm. "How much? How much will you give me for the horse?"

The second man simply laughed, pulled his arm away and continued down the road. Jeremiah yanked off his hat and stomped it into the ground. He needed money for whiskey and he needed it now!

"I'll give you ten dollars for that horse," a man stated as he stepped out of the mercantile with a grin.

Jeremiah swallowed hard. His horse was worth more than ten dollars. The gray was big and strong and in his prime... but Jeremiah wasn't going to turn down the money. He could buy five bottles of whiskey with that and still have some left over!

He agreed to the offer and fifteen minutes later, Jeremiah was walking out of the mercantile with his saddlebags over one shoulder and his sack of whiskey bottles over the other. He had one bottle open and clutched in his hand as he sipped at it and walked.

Jeremiah walked for hours, deciding he needed to leave the tiny Colorado Territory town. He was fine and happy with the world. Whistling a tune, Jeremiah knew that life couldn't get any better.

Then he saw a man coming on horseback and his stumbling feet stopped. The man was well dressed in a fancy black suit and his top hat made Jeremiah grin.

What Jeremiah needed was a horse and this man had a fine one. Sturdy and brown with white feet and a star on its head.

It took Jeremiah several tries but he finally managed to fumble around and draw his gun. "Hey misser," he slurred.

The man stopped and glanced down at Jeremiah with nothing more than minor interest. "Is there a reason you're holding me at gunpoint, sir? If I were you I would be careful. In your drunken state, you're very likely to blow your own foot off."

"We got ouself's a slick talker!" Jeremiah chuckled before stumbling backward and nearly falling.

"Who exactly are you referring to when you say 'we'?" the man questioned.

Jeremiah squinted up at him and grinned. "My whizkey boddle of course." Jeremiah waved the bottle in the air with a flourish.

The man sighed and adjusted his hat. "Yes, well, I have no time for your brain addled conversations with your beverage of choice. I'll be going now."

"I want that damn horse!" Jeremiah bellowed. He pulled the trigger on the revolver in his hand but he was weaving so badly that he missed his target by a mile.

Jeremiah was trying desperately to cock his gun to take another shot but his fingers simply wouldn't do as he wanted. His eyes couldn't focus. The whiskey bottle in his hand crashed to the ground and just as Jeremiah glanced down at it, a shot rang out.

Searing pain pierced his shoulder. A second shot followed the first and Jeremiah dropped to the long grass when the bullet slammed through his leg. He lay there on his back, staring up at the clouds and he heard the man ride away.

Jeremiah felt his blood pooling around him as his body went strangely numb. It was ironic, really, that the man who had never needed anyone was going to die alone.

One more drink.

If Jeremiah could get one more drink, he'd die a happy man. His fingers reached for the sack he'd dropped and he slowly closed them around the smooth glass of a bottle.

He managed to pull that bottle to his chest. His head began to swim, the numbness overtook him and Jeremiah knew nothing but darkness.