Saving the Gunslinger

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-One

Timothy watched Zachary and Samantha ride out of town and said a quick prayer that Samantha would be able to reach into Zach's thick skull and pull out the sense that Timothy knew had to be in there. He was worried about his oldest friend. Zachary had always been a bit closed off when it came to his feelings but the way he was lately.... Timothy could only hope that he was opening up to Samantha. The man needed somebody and while Timothy would gladly be there for his best friend, he had a feeling that feisty red-head with big green eyes and quiet strength, was what Zachary really needed.

A commotion behind him had Timothy turning to see the bartender Otis, helping a shaken Thomas out of the saloon. Blood was still dripping steadily from the cut on his throat, his nose was swollen and crooked, his lips were split and bleeding, and he was clearly still too addled to stand on his own as he leaned heavily on Otis.

"Did you learn your lesson?" Timothy asked, raising his brow.

Thomas seemed as if he had been deflated. He looked scared, small, and no longer resembled the strong, cocky, angry man he'd been an hour ago. "That man was going to kill me..." Thomas's voice was thick and garbled and Timothy wasn't sure how much of that was because of the state of his nose and mouth, and how much was emotion he was fighting back. "Thank you for saving my life."

Timothy laughed, shaking his head. "I didn't do it for you, asshole. As far as I'm concerned any man who puts bruises on ladies—" Timothy's gaze went to Eleanor and the dark bruise on her arm that was clearly fingerprints from being grabbed. He looked back at Thomas. "—deserves exactly what Zach wanted to do to you. No, I stopped him for him. Because you aren't worth being hanged over."

Timothy motioned down the street. "You might want to get him to the doc, Otis. And, Thomas, if you see Leonard I'd suggest you tell him you fell on the bar and broke a bottle with your neck. I wouldn't push Zachary any further than you already have. I might not be able to stop him next time."

Thomas' small beady eyes grew wider than Timothy had ever seen them and he nudged Otis to get the bartender to begin helping him hurry down the street.

Timothy found himself laughing again.

"We should go get ready for work," Caroline's voice drew Timothy's attention back to the two women standing with him. He suddenly found himself feeling as awkward as a preacher caught with his pants down when he realized that he had, on several separate occasions, paid to lay with both of them.

He rubbed the back of his neck and motioned toward the saloon. "If uh.. if he gives y'all any more trouble, just let me know."

"Why? Are you going to fight him too?" Caroline asked with amusement as her dark brow raised.

"I ain't much of a fighter, ma'am," Timothy admitted, doing his best to keep his gaze from straying to the blond, Eleanor. "But I won't stand to see women mistreated either, so like I said, just let me know."

"Thank you." Eleanor's voice was quiet, and while she stood only a few feet away she sounded distant. Timothy saw her rubbing at that bruise on her arm and he wondered if there were more. She seemed different from what he remembered. Standing on the boardwalk she seemed quiet, withdrawn, almost haunted—the last time he'd interacted with her at the saloon she'd been full of laughter, unashamed sultriness, and plenty of spirit. What had happened?

Then again, maybe she only acted that way to lure men in and earn herself more money. Timothy had never taken the time to think that a whore might be anything other than she put on while working—but maybe there was more to these women. Timothy internally smacked himself. Of course, there was. Everyone had a story. What was Eleanor's?