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

“Just tell me where to start, Mr. Teach.”

The dark shadow from his childhood, who now sat in front of him in the flesh, with a woman in his lap, smiled and waved his hand. “Oh hell, just call me Tom, like everyone else.”

Ned imagined his own grin was a knife twisted into the guts of the unsuspecting monster. “You won’t regret this, Tom,” he said. But the bastard would one day. He’d curse the day they met once a noose tightened around his throat.

The smile on Ned’s face died at the loud bang of a pistol originating somewhere dangerously close.

Doc, who stood closest to the tent entrance, briefly looked out but didn’t reach for the six-shooter hanging at his belt. “Adam Wild and Saul are back.”

Chapter 7

By the time Ned unloaded sacks of grain, cans of fruit, and whole smoked pork leg from the stolen cart, he was damp under the shirt. Two gang members had come to camp with a wagon of goods—some of them quite luxurious—and since everyone else was entitled to celebrating the occasion, it was up to the new man to unpack most of the loot.

He’d been about to get some rest after the tough work and a whole day’s ride, but Doc was there to give him another job the moment Ned strayed from the empty wagon. It seemed that regardless of how much Cole seemed to like him, Ned would still have to prove his worth to everyone else, so he got busy preparing wood for the fire without a complaint.

He’d been reluctant to take off his shirt at first, since there was an unexpected amount of women around, but once it became clear all of them were of more or less loose morals, Ned lost his inhibitions. He still tried not to stare at the shoulders uncovered when the heat of the bonfire became too much, but it was impossible to not hear the obscene flirting going on between some couples.

One of the women sat on her own, knitting, and when Ned allowed himself a longer look at her, he realized that she was using the same color of yarn he’d seen in Tom’s tent. Her neat dress was a rich blue color that complimented her blonde hair and spoke of wealth that most of the other female gang members didn’t seem to have. She met Ned’s gaze for the briefest moment, but before she could have acknowledged his existence further, Tom appeared behind her with a necklace that glinted in the light of the fire.

“Don’t you have eyes for anyone but me,” he murmured, smiling as he placed the jewelry on her uncovered neckline. Ned flushed when she took a sharp intake of air the moment the metal brushed her skin, and she pressed her lips to Tom’s.

Ned’s breath halted when Tom noticed him staring, but the Butcher grinned, holding the woman in his arms despite pulling his lips away from hers.

“I can see a want in you, Mr. O’Leary, but there’s no point in trying to talk to my Lotta. She doesn’t speak, and that’s a mighty fine trait in a woman. Can’t nag even if she wanted to, and between the thighs she looks the same as any other woman.”

He laughed when Lotta slapped him on the arm, but there was no anger on her features, as if all the depravity was only teasing. The fact that there was another woman in camp whom Tom called his wife didn’t matter in this strange new reality.

Pearl didn’t seem jealous either, because she sat nearby, engaged in a whispered conversation with Zeb, and cleaned a revolver.

Ned would have answered if the intrusive gaze burning his back wasn’t too distracting. And he knew exactly who it belonged to.

One of the men who’d come with the loot was a middle-aged Indian, but he was nothing like his father’s Pawnee friend. Saul, because that was what everyone called him, dressed in white man’s clothes for one, and despite wearing his hair in a long, thick braid, he didn’t adorn himself with any Native trinkets. He hadn’t put away his rifle since arriving in camp an hour back and wouldn’t stop watching Ned, as if he considered the newcomer a wild dog that might start biting people’s heels.

“You. New guy. What’s your name?” Saul asked with his face so tense it seemed made of bronze.

“Ned O’Leary—”

Saul cut him off before he could say anything else. “Irish,” he spat in a deeper voice, making Ned square his shoulders and frown at the man. Just as Cole had warned him, he couldn’t be a sheep among all these wolves.

“That a problem?”

Saul cocked his head. “What’s a good Catholic boy doing here, huh? Shouldn’t you be somewhere with your people, crawling on your knees in a church?”

Ned crossed his arms on his chest. “Well it ain’t Sunday.”