The Man Who Loved Cole Flores (Dig Two Graves 1)

The air reeked of iron and urine, but particles of dust shimmered in the sunlight as if nothing had happened. Like Cole had predicted, his severe black outfit didn’t show any signs of the brutal fight that couldn’t be smoothed out with the brush of a hand, but bloodstains were there, inconspicuous like the faded scars of torture Cole still carried on his body.

His revolvers were back in their holsters as soon as it was over.

“Your hand—” Cole uttered, dropping to his knees right next to Ned. His touch remained steady as ever, but the gentle way he pried Ned’s arm away from his torso didn’t befit a man who’d just shot three men in cold blood.

Ned was still too stunned to speak after almost being both killed and exposed as a rat. Cole’s words rang in his ears like the church bell on Christmas.

My man.

He reached out with his trembling hand, but as he glanced at the mutilated body, he felt no regret over the Vulture’s death. Unlike the poor civilians on the train, this man had been an outlaw, and he’d hurt Cole. He deserved what he got.

“I… It’s fine,” Ned finally uttered and pulled down his bandana to get more air. “We better go.”

No man had ever shown him this much tenderness. Maybe his father, but Ned had been a child back then. Uncle Liam and Aunt Muriel believed hiding one’s pain built character, so any accidents he’d suffered since arriving at their ranch he’d endured with gritted teeth. But Cole patted his hand and cradled it as if it were a precious piece of china worth shedding tears over.

“I shouldn’t have pulled you into this. You lack experience,” he said with a stiff expression, outkicking up his flask. Before Ned could have responded, spirit drizzled over the fresh wounds, prompting him to bite his lips to keep from yelling in pain.

With his good hand, Ned grabbed Cole’s forearm and stroked it. Because he could do that now—touch a man and receive praise for it. “I wouldn’t have let you go alone.” Ned faked a grin when his eyes watered from the alcohol bite.

“I’d be fine. I always am,” Cole told him, the roguish smile back as he pulled out a clean white handkerchief and wrapped it around Ned’s bleeding hand. He then removed his own bandana and used it to fasten the makeshift dressing.

They both froze when a low sob echoed from behind the wooden divider designating the clerk’s workspace, and Cole exhaled, looking over the shoulder. “You can come out. I’m not after you.”

Ned got to his feet, fighting through the uncomfortable softness in his legs. He leaned over the counter and shot the poor man his most intimidating glare. With the blood on his face, he had to make a nasty picture. “You keep everything that happened here today to yourself, understood?” He yelled, making a point of catching the man’s gaze. He’d know Ned meant the telegram as well.

Cole put his hand on Ned’s back. “He won’t talk if he knows what’s good for him. These men will have money on them. Use it for repairs. Say they had an argument and shot each other.”

“Yes. You weren’t here!” The clerk nodded with another sob.

Cole sniggered. “See, Ned? That’s how you live to old age out here.”

An ugly mix of pity and power twisted in Ned’s chest when he stepped over Scarecrow. He wasn’t part of the world inhabited by men like the telegrapher anymore and remained uncertain of what that would mean for him in the future. Would he ever be able to go back to an honest life now that he’d tasted blood? Only time would tell.

The Vultures on the other hand? He understood the fury that had led Cole to ignore Scarecrow’s pleading, because when he imagined any of these dead bastards putting their hands on Cole, he wanted to be the one to put lead in their heads.

They left the office to find the yard empty. None of the people calling this place home dared to peek out windows. Then again, maybe they simply knew how to survive in the cutthroat world that made Cole Flores the man he was.

Despite his distaste for driving wagons, Cole took the reins this time, to save Ned the pain of handling them with his injured hand, and soon enough the trading post disappeared from sight as they made their way back along the same road that had brought them there.

Cole took two sips from the flask filled with strong alcohol and exhaled, staring into the sky. “So that got out of hand. Not exactly how I imagined our afternoon to go.”

Ned huffed and shook his head. “And you don’t even have a scratch! We should have left.” But they hadn’t. The bloodshed could have been avoided, yet Cole seemed so happy with himself it was making Ned grow spikes.