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

“That’s taking a long time,” Tom said, his voice like sudden snowfall catching them both in the thinnest clothes. They both glanced toward the camp, at the figure in black, who emerged from behind the nearby rocks with a pipe hanging from his mouth.

“It’s hot. Besides, I thought we’d give y’all more time to chew on all this,” Cole said, joining Ned by the unfinished grave.

“How about less chatting, more digging?” Tom swept his gaze over the two of them, but his expression was impossible to read.

Ned shrugged. “Are we in a hurry?”

Tom exhaled a cloud of smoke, which swirled between the brown curls growing beyond the receding hair at his temples. “You and me should have a chat, O’Leary.”

Ned didn’t miss the way Cole stiffened next to him.

“You can say whatever you need to. I hold no secrets from Cole,” Ned said with a heavy heart, because he wasn’t looking forward to another confrontation. So it was a lie, but one he wished to be true.

Tom was relaxed like a rooster among hens. But Ned held a shovel, and if he wanted, he could bury Tom along with Scotch. If only Cole weren’t so damn attached to the bastard…

“I was thinking Cole could finish this up, and we’ll go for a little ride, you and I,” Tom said in a soft voice.

At Ned’s side, Cole was close to growling. He lowered his head and squared his shoulders like a mountain lion ready to protect its cubs. “No reason for that. Speak plainly, Tom.”

“You’ll know my plans when I tell you about them, Cole. And you better be up for it. That sheriff will regret what he did, and so will the whore’s husband. For now, O’Leary, go get your horse.”

Ned stuck the shovel into the ground and winked at Cole to make him loosen up. “Don’t work too hard. Leave some for me.”

But every step Ned took seemed to aggravate Cole further. He walked past the shovel and got in Tom’s face, their noses uncomfortably close. “Leave your cleaver. He better come back.”

Tom snarled. “You’ll be telling me what to do now? If I wanted him dead, he’d already be mince without a grave, and feeding the buzzards, so get on with your job!”

Ned pulled on his shirt and raised his hands. “It’s all right, I’m sure Tom just wants a friendly talk.” Or to break his nose, but time would tell.

Cole didn’t seem reassured, but he nodded at Ned and packed a few more raisins into his mouth the way some men sipped booze from flasks. Ned had drunk some shine to calm his nerves, but Cole wanted to stay sharp as the razor waiting for Butcher Tom’s throat.

“Go on. You walk ahead,” Tom said as they moved along the rocks, already out of Cole’s sight.

Ned didn’t have anything to say, so he took off his bandana and used it to clean the dirt off his hands. Back in camp, he was surprised to see that someone had taken care of Nugget, fed him, and even brushed his long tail. Not everyone loathed them then. Ned would find out who’d done it and remember their kindness.

Tom didn’t bother speaking to him and mounted his chestnut stallion. The bastard could say it was only a leisurely ride all he wanted, but Ned would stay vigilant nevertheless.

If Tom really meant Ned harm, what would become of Cole? Would he hang his head and stay at the Butcher’s side? Or worse, would he get killed in a futile attempt at retaliation?

It struck Ned to his core that he’d rather Cole gave up on revenge and left the gang behind. If Ned died today, he’d want Cole to ride far, far away. Find happiness with someone who wouldn’t scheme behind his back, and offered him the sweet loving he deserved.

Would Ned’s parents have wanted for him to quit? He was too far in to consider such matters.

They rode through the empty landscape peppered with shrubs and boulders, and while it seemed to take ages, Ned stopped trying to break the silence after attempting it several times, to no avail. His voice always got stuck in his throat, and that wouldn’t change just because other folk were far away.

Tom was used to riding for hours at a time. The cleaver he’d refused to leave at Cole’s request glinted in the sun, grinning at Ned, hungry for blood, yet they kept moving until the desert went still with them, waiting for something that would stir its sands.

Ned swallowed when he spotted the bare-bones wagon he and Cole had driven to the trading post parked by a pile of rocks topped with a single cottonwood tree. Zeb stood on the driver’s box, his tall silhouette imposing, as if he were a medieval executioner awaiting a man he was meant to send to the afterlife.