“I have no life. I only exist to come after you. To punish you for what you’ve done. You destroyed me, Ned O’Leary, and I deserve the truth!”
Blood buzzed in his ears, dulling even the fervent splashing. The peaceful day around them was as fake as Ned’s facade had been, because Cole’s world would never be at peace. Facing those green eyes again opened up the wound that had barely stopped bleeding after seven years. He’d never be fine. He’d forever remain a wreck of the man he used to be, living a painful existence devoid of warmth and trust, because he couldn’t make himself offer those to anyone ever again.
Cole yanked on Ned’s hair to pull his head out from under the water and allow him a gasp of air. “Ready to talk?”
Ned spluttered, coughing loudly, but when his gaze gravitated to the side, the thudding in Cole’s head quieted down enough for him to take note of voices. There couldn’t be any witnesses to what he’d wanted to do, so when he saw a small crowd of people, two of whom wore tin badges on their vest lapels, disappointment punched him in the gut. Even in his death, Ned O’Leary would have the last word.
His shoulders sagged, and energy only kicked in when Lars made a face from beyond the sheriff’s back, tapping his head in warning. Cole felt cool air on his forehead. His bandana must have slipped off during the scuffle, revealing the marking identified on his bounty posters.
But he needed to play it cool. He hadn’t been in the area since his chance meeting with Ned O’Leary, so perhaps new information about Cole Flores the outlaw hadn’t yet reached these parts. He just ought to stay calm and find his hat.
“The fugitive tried to make a run for it,” he said and stood in the water, only now realizing how thoroughly soaked he was.
He shivered as he pulled on the lump of gasping flesh that was Ned O’Leary. His hat lay at the shore, picked on by a bird too small to take it to its nest. All Cole needed to do was casually pick up the head covering as he made his way back. For now, he let his damp hair fall forward to obscure the mark.
“Good thing you caught ‘im!” yelled the graying man with lush whiskers, who had to be the sheriff, because Cole assumed the young lanky fellow with the big nose was a deputy.
Cole relaxed, dragging Ned behind him to the shore, where he picked up the fallen hat and covered the old burn mark. The cattle rancher and his hands had paid with blood for marking the wrong man with a cattle iron, but his initials, AB, would be forever etched in Cole’s skin.
“I’m just a concerned citizen.”
“So this is our Wolfman,” the sheriff said with a curious glance at Ned as he extended his hand to shake Cole’s freezing fingers.
Cole was about to speak, but as soon as their hands met, the sheriff pulled with a force Cole didn’t expect from a man his age, and twisted Cole’s arm back. At the same time, the deputy beat Cole’s other hand to the holster at Cole’s hip and pulled out his gun.
As the sheriff pushed Cole to his knees, the deputy aimed at Lars. “Stay where you are!” he yelled, even though his voice trembled a little.
Lars paled and showed his palms. “What is the meaning of this? We’re two honest bounty hunters bringing you the Wolfman of the Rockies.”
The sheriff scoffed. “You might be, but this friend of yours is a wanted man, so don’t make no sudden moves. Wouldn't have recognized him if it wasn’t for my deputy’s keen eye,” he said, and the gathering people murmured to each other as the young man stood taller and gave a quick nod.
“Cole Flores. Murderer, horse rustler, outlaw, train robber, took part in the Three Stones poisoning, and is accused of the stagecoach atrocity near Beaver Springs. Wanted dead or alive. Half-Mexican, black hair, an AB mark on the forehead, and a star-shaped scar under the eye,” he recited from memory as if he were some outlaw encyclopedia.
Cole chuckled, shaking his head at the irony of his situation. It was only fitting that after destroying everything Cole loved and poisoning his life, Ned would also drag him to an early grave. His eyes caught Lars’s, and he shook his head, knowing it was a lost cause. Their mutually beneficial agreement had just come to an end.
“So you have me. Had poor Lars here fooled, but I suppose he still brought me to you. I didn’t poison the folk in Three Stones, but you’re right about everything else,” he said, looking at the young man who knew so much about him.
Ned chose that moment to speak up, shaking his head to get rid of the damp hair falling into his eyes. “Rory? You a deputy now?”
The young man paled and lowered Cole’s gun. “Ned?”
“You know this man?” the sheriff urged him.
“Ned O’Leary,” Rory said, and when he nodded, the sun glinted in his red curls. “Murderer of Pinkerton agent Homer Craig, outlaw, train robber, took part in the Three Stones poisoning—”
“That’s your cousin?” The sheriff exclaimed and looked up at Ned, but his hold on Cole’s arms hadn’t weakened. “Well, I’ll be damned! Wasn’t enough for you to bring shame on your family? Had to come back to these parts?”
Lars cleared his throat. “In that case, I understand I’ll be receiving all three bounties? Ned O’Leary, Cole Flores, and the Wolfman?”
A few of the men chuckled at the audacity of such a request, but that was Lars—bold, loud, and convinced he deserved the world. Cole would have clapped if his hands weren’t being tied by a man who’d ran up to them with a bundle of rope.
After a lifetime on the run, he was oddly calm in the face of impending doom. At least the pain would end without him having to make that decision. He wasn’t ignorant and knew what he’d done, so there was no point in begging for mercy or denying he was the man they sought. Soon enough, he’d fade away, and if fear kicked in, it would only last so long.
He hoped Ned hung first so he could witness it.
“I’m not payin’ you twice for the same man,” the sheriff said, pushing Cole toward the main street of the town. The weather was nice at least, though now Cole regretted that he hadn’t laid in the grass and enjoyed his last day in the sun.
Even that had been spoiled by Ned O’Leary.
“But I’ll be taking his horse. Just so that we’re clear!” Lars exclaimed.
Ned was being led away by his cousin, but he still turned his head and spat at Lars. “No honor!”
Cole cracked, his brains boiling without a way to let out steam. How dare he? How dare Ned O’Leary speak of honor when he’d proven to have no sense of loyalty?
He kicked back, making the sheriff utter a strangled yelp, and as soon as there was no hand holding him in place, he charged at Ned, and they both dropped like trees cut down by a careless lumberjack. The smell of booze filled his nostrils, but he pushed on, to the bare flesh sticking out from under the matted hair, and bit down on it with all the strength he had.
Ned screamed, writhing like an eel. Cole didn’t listen to the laughter and yelling around them, focused only on the taste of blood filling his mouth. He would not let go of the bastard even as several strong arms pulled at him, and only clenched his teeth harder, just like he had for seven damn years. Clenching his teeth and bearing with the pain.
“Put them in separate cells!” the sheriff yelled, and Cole’s teeth finally met to the melody of Ned’s howl.