The Gunslinger's Man by Helena Maeve Page A

of benefits to turning bandit…”
    Though he must have felt the meaningful stare, Blackjack didn’t raise his gaze from the stain he was feverishly worrying on the steel barrel of his pistol.
    “Maybe for some people,” Asher said. “Me, I’ve only ever been good at one thing—”
    “Oh, yeah!” Charlie’s whole face lit up when he grinned. “You used to work in Howard Franklin’s shop. Wesley said so. Boy, how you didn’t go cross-eyed from fiddling with all them gears and pins…” He shook his head with what seemed like genuine astonishment.
    “Howard’s my uncle. Didn’t really have a choice to learn the trade… I don’t suppose—that is, if it’s not too much trouble—that you could get him a message from me?”
    Blackjack looked up, arching his brow.
    “Just to tell him I’m all right,” Asher explained, annoyed that he had to justify himself at all. “So he won’t worry.”
    “Sure,” Charlie answered. “I mean, if it’s okay with, uh…”
    Blackjack paid him no heed. “Did you ask Halloran?” he asked of Asher.
    He could lie. What were the odds the Riders would have discussed this among themselves? Asher tightened his grip around the chipped mug. “No, but—”
    “Wait until he gets back.”
    Asher scowled. “Don’t he have more important things to fret about?”
    “You’ll wait,” Blackjack said with pointed emphasis, and went back to attending to his gun.
    There was no relief in glowering at his bald, scarred head.
     
    * * * *
     
    The sky was a dark bruise by the time Halloran returned to the house. The clomping of horse hooves outside was the only warning Asher had before the front door was wrenched open. Halloran stepped through with his usual swagger. Dirt marred the toes of his black boots and his duster had been ripped at the shoulder.
    The telltale signs of a brawl were replicated in his fellow blood-spattered Riders, who stalked in, chattering among themselves in low, angry voices.
    “You don’t know what you missed, Blackjack,” said the only woman in the outfit.
    Asher thought her name might be Maud, but he couldn’t swear to it. He was dimly aware of Blackjack volleying a reply, deadpan as always, but couldn’t tear his gaze from Halloran. His frown didn’t bode well. Asher had turned his request over and over in his mind all day. He bit it back now. “You forgot to lock me in before you left,” he muttered without rising from the rocking chair by the fire. Halloran’s chair. Halloran’s fire.
    Halloran’s glare. “You think me forgetful?”
    “Must be. Otherwise…” Asher shrugged with shammed indifference. Otherwise Halloran had deliberately granted him permission to roam around the house. Otherwise he wanted Asher to have a taste of freedom, knowing full well he’d be brought back kicking and screaming if he tried to take more than was on offer. “You look a mess,” Asher said instead, opting to change the subject rather than beat a horse already dead.
    Halloran peered down at himself, as if only then noticing the state of his gear. “So I do.”
    “Did you get into a brawl?”
    He snorted and proceeded to peel off his duster with care. It was much too little, much too late. The sleeve was a bust and would have to be patched up. The boots could be cleaned, though, and Asher, who’d shined enough shoes for pocket money when he was a boy, winced to see them tossed haphazardly aside. Halloran wore socks underneath, which shouldn’t have been astonishing. What was surprising was the state of them—no holes, not even a stain.
    A tidy bandit. Asher sucked the corners of his mouth to hide a smile.
    “You gotta hand it to him,” Nyle drawled, joining them in with a lit cigar in hand. “Ambrose may be a slick son of a bitch, but he knows how to do business.”
    Asher’s blood went cold. “Ambrose?”
    Most of the Riders had kept their distance while Asher had been tied up in the bedroom. The few times they’d had cause to venture upstairs,