Cole spun the firearm on his finger and replaced it in the holster before offering Ned a triumphant smile. “That’s three on one exhale.”
Ned pushed at his chest with a snort. “I was gonna get to those! But I gotta admit, you could make good money if you rode with a traveling show. Your stage name—The Deadeye!”
Cole offered a wide smile. “Oh yeah? You impressed? Pay me for the show then.” He put his palm up, standing only two inches away, so very deep in Ned’s personal space.
Ned squinted and butted his forehead gently against Cole’s to distract him as he snaked his hand to the holster at Cole’s belt. “With what? You know I’m broke.”
“What do you have?” Cole’s skin was hot against his own, and when their eyes met from up close, the intimacy of the moment made him freeze. His lips tickled when Cole wouldn’t look away. It was a strange kind of standoff, because the fire buzzing in Ned’s veins didn’t feel like anger that would precede a fight, even one meant for play.
Ned had no snappy reply, and the prolonging silence had him confused over what Cole might have been thinking. He squeezed the loaded gun in Cole’s holster, but despite this being a challenge, the other man didn’t try to stop him, even though he was very protective of his ivory-handled revolver.
“What are you up to, lovebirds? What’s this mating dance, eh?” Zeb’s raspy voice was followed by a mean chuckle and felt like a shot to the groin, meant to both hurt and humiliate.
Ned stepped back, his hand tight on the butt of Cole’s gun, face on fire. He didn’t know why the moment he’d just shared with Cole felt like a secret that shouldn’t have been witnessed, but embarrassment still seeped into his skin. Cole and him had an understanding, and what they did when alone was for no one else's eyes nor ears. He would not be explaining himself to a lowlife like Zeb.
Zeb shouldn’t have snuck up on men practicing with revolvers. Ned only had half a second to think through his reaction, but he yanked Cole’s pistol out of the holster, raised his arm and shot at Zeb’s head.
And missed.
The man’s dirty brown hat flew off. Zeb’s eyes widened as if he were facing Death’s scythe, but Ned’s heart pumped hot blood. Once the time came, he’d stay by the gallows and watch this man draw his last, violent breath. For his father. For his mother. For all the poor souls Zeb stepped over to live out his lawless freedom. He might not have butchered Ned’s father and cut him up into portions as if he were a slaughtered pig, but he’d beaten Father black and blue before that happened.
Cole grabbed Ned’s forearm and forced it down, but on the edge of the woods Zeb drew too, and his bullet swished through the air as Cole smashed into Ned and sent them into the dirt. His weight knocked the air out of Ned’s lungs, and the pebbles scattered everywhere smashed into his flesh like bare knuckles.
The gun flew out of Ned’s hand, but he wouldn’t have shot again anyway. “I apologize! You got me spooked.” A measly explanation offered just so Zeb wouldn’t pack them full of lead. Ned’s body throbbed with the heat of fire raging under his skin. He would have killed Zeb if he tipped the revolver a tiny bit lower. He surely wouldn’t have regretted taking the bastard’s life, but all the other Gotham Boys, even Tom, would have walked free.
Dumb fucking move.
Zeb didn’t accept the apology and stormed toward them, not bothering to retrieve the fallen hat. He kicked Ned straight in the ribs the moment he got within reach. “You’re not a fuckin’ stag to get spooked, boy! You try that again, and I’ll pulverize your face for good measure!”
Anger had always simmered deep in Ned’s chest, but since the night his father had died, he’d learned to contain it deep inside. Had he not followed his mother’s request then and burst out of that cupboard to save her, both of them would have been killed. She’d known a boy of twelve stood no chance against a pack of bloodthirsty outlaws. But now that he’d pulled the trigger once, the fury within him exploded with force as great as the one he’d used to hold it in.
“Fuck you!” he yelled and grabbed Zeb’s foot so violently the bastard toppled like a dead tree.
Cole scrambled for his gun and pushed it back into the holster, but as he faced the two of them on his knees, his face expressed both confusion and anger.
“Let go of him!”
Ned didn’t want to listen to Cole or anyone else now that he was free from under his uncle and aunt’s boots, but he stalled just long enough for Zeb to smash his heel into Ned’s face. Numbness was only a prelude to pain once the rowels of Zeb’s spurs cut into vulnerable flesh and tore skin apart, blinding Ned with a splash of his own blood.