According to Hoyle by Abigail Roux
“Never known you to be indecisive.”
Cage just licked his lips and looked back at him warily. Stringer was right. Cage had rarely been indecisive. He had always known exactly what he wanted and he had taken it. He knew he wanted Gabriel. There was something there, and he wanted to have more of it. He hadn’t expected to run into his past here in the midst of it all and have the waters muddied.
It wasn’t complicated, in the end. There came times in a man’s life when a side had to be chosen. This was one of those times, and Cage had chosen his side. He didn’t regret his choice, either.
He met Stringer’s eyes again and nodded his head.
“That’s what I thought,” Stringer whispered as his knuckles trailed down the side of Cage’s jaw in an uncomfortably intimate gesture. “Well, I'm willing to bet anyone you’ve gone and fallen in love with won’t go shooting a lady.”
Cage gritted his teeth and struck out. His fist caught Stringer on the chin, but the man had foreseen the attack and was leaning away. It was a glancing blow, worth nothing more than the satisfaction of making contact.
“Don’t get your back up, Boss,” Stringer said, infuriatingly calm. “If he is who you think he is, there’s no reason to worry.”
Cage balled his fist. The truth was that he had no idea what kind of man Gabriel Rose was. He didn’t know if Gabriel would shoot through a woman to get to his intended target. And what was worse, he didn’t know if he was more concerned about the womenfolk Stringer planned to use, or for Gabriel. What would happen if Bat Stringer and Gabriel Rose went face-to-face in a gunfight? Would either of them live through it? Would anyone?
Stringer read his reaction just as clearly as he had always done. “You worried about him or me?” he asked almost sadly as he looked over Cage’s face.
Cage stared at him, determined to let him know the answer wasn’t him.
Stringer smiled grimly. “I guess we’re about to find out.”
Wash flailed in Flynn’s grasp, but to Flynn’s surprise, he didn’t pull away. Flynn kissed him with everything he had as the smoke from the gun battle and the wispy fog from outside surrounded them, knowing that this was the last kiss he would ever take from someone. Either he would be killed in the ensuing gunfight or Wash would finish him off after for the unwanted advance. If, by some miracle, neither of those things came to pass, Flynn knew he would have no interest in ever kissing anyone besides Wash again.
Finally, Flynn pulled away from him. He moved slowly, hating to end it but knowing that it would have to end sooner rather than later. There were some things you just didn’t hold off, and gunfights were usually one of them. When he leaned far enough away to force himself to look at Wash with a deep blush, Wash was staring at him with wide green eyes.
“Sorry,” Flynn whispered, his voice betraying the surprise he felt over his own actions. Wash continued to stare at him in shock. Flynn blushed even deeper, unable to look away. “Always wanted to do that.”
Wash blinked rapidly and then licked his lips. Flynn waited apprehensively as the sound of furniture scraping along the floor came from within the salon. He didn’t pay it much attention. He was concentrating solely on Wash and his expressive eyes.
“What took you so long?” Wash finally asked, voice gone hoarse.
The knot of tension in Flynn’s stomach snapped as if Wash’s words had cut through it. His lips parted in surprise and relief, and Wash slowly grinned.
“That’s real sweet,” Rose said, voice absent of any inflection in the cover of the darkened room.
Wash and Flynn both jumped at the unexpected sound of his voice. Wash glanced over his shoulder and grunted in annoyance. He finally managed to shrug his sling off completely and tossed it onto the ground with a huff. Rose knelt down behind them without another word.
Flynn glanced from one man to the other, completely at a loss for what to do next. He was blushing furiously but elated, all the same, still trying to process what Wash had said and done. He hadn’t just accepted the kiss. He’d welcomed it, returned it. Even enjoyed it.
“Well, go on,” Rose huffed with a gesture between Flynn and Wash, “kiss him again. I’ll wait.”
Flynn and Wash shared a look that was an odd mixture of joy and guilt. But Rose seemed to actually be waiting for them to do it, because he hadn’t yet pointed out that they were in the midst of a gunfight or that the man Rose had been so keen to rescue all night was being held captive and in very real danger. Flynn let the guilt pass by, reached out, and pulled Wash to him again.
The moment was marred by the sound of Rose calmly reloading his pistols, but Flynn enjoyed it all the same. Wash smelled like worn leather and fresh grass after it rained. His good hand slid into Flynn’s hair and he pressed into Flynn until they lost their balance and toppled over backward.
“Greenhorns,” Rose muttered. He spun the cylinder of his pistol home and then slid it into his belt.
Flynn tried hard not to laugh, but Wash snickered against his lips. They were going giddy, Flynn knew. And this was no time for that.
Wash pushed himself off Flynn clumsily with his one good hand, and he smirked as he helped him up. “Later,” he promised, and Flynn nodded.
Rose was watching them impassively, much as Flynn had seen small Indian children watch him as he rode through their camp. Like someone who understood what was going on but either didn’t really care or knew they had no part in it. Flynn glanced at him apologetically.
“They got two choices,” Rose told them quietly, apparently choosing to forego any jibes he might make about them.
Flynn found himself grateful. It seemed the man wasn’t all bad.
“And what are those?” Wash inquired as he wiped at his mouth.
“Either they wait ’til dawn and try to slip past us while we’re nodding off, or they use those passengers in there as cover,” Rose put forth, nodding at the door as he spoke.
“Dawn’s a long way off,” Wash said doubtfully.
Flynn glanced out at the sky through the open doors, trying to gauge just how far off dawn might be. But the fog was all-encompassing, and he couldn’t remember the last time he’d heard the clock strike an hour. He had no idea what time it was.
“Not as long as you think,” Rose said. “It’s coming up on five now.”
“You think they’ll wait that long?” Flynn asked.
Rose peered at him and then lowered his head, his brow furrowing and his lips pursing in thought.
“If it was you,” Flynn prodded. “What would you do?”
“Why am I always the one who has to think like the outlaw, huh?” Rose asked.
“Because you’re the one who boarded in irons,” Flynn said, though he was smiling as he said it.
“Point well made,” Rose said, albeit grudgingly. He peered out at the darkness, his sharp eyes darting this way and that as he looked for something Flynn couldn’t fathom. Finally, he shook his head slowly and sighed, as if he didn’t like the answer he had come up with. “I’d gather those passengers, and I’d march them out in front of me.”
“Hide behind innocent people?” Wash asked incredulously.
Rose nodded unapologetically. “Hide behind them, and dare you to shoot at them as I get away.”
Flynn and Wash were both silent. Just the thought of watching helplessly as those men escaped behind the cover of some innocent civilian was appalling.
“So we got to get to them before they can move,” Wash finally said determinedly.
“How?” Rose asked, voice going flat again. “There is one door into that room, and you can bet the farm they’ve got it covered.”
“But the entire opposite wall is lined with windows and doors,” Wash said. “We could—”
“That’s wonderful,” Rose said sarcastically. “But to what point? You can’t get to them. Not unless you go in from the deck above, which is damn near impossible unless you did a stint with Barnum and Bailey when you were younger. And even if you could find your way
“I see your point,” Wash said dejectedly.
“There’s nothing to do but wait them out.”
“And what about Cage?” Flynn asked before he could think better of it.
“What about him?” Rose asked coldly.
“Not two hours ago, you were preaching to me about attacking and saving someone you loved. Now, you’re playing it safe?”
“That was before we knew who he really is,” Rose snapped. The pain in his voice was all too obvious. “For all we know, Cage is in league with them and he used me to get himself on this boat. In case you haven't noticed, I’m not one for self-sacrifice.”
“He’s here because you tried to escape. You pulled him along, not the other way around.”
“I don’t think he’s in cahoots with those boys,” Wash said immediately. “They ain’t been kind to him. Got a few bruised ribs, I’m sure of that.”
Rose looked at him almost angrily for a moment, and Flynn recognized the emotion in Rose’s eyes as frustration. He didn’t truly believe what he’d said, he was just trying to deal with the feeling of helplessness.
“What do you care if he’s really Jack Kale?” Flynn asked, understanding what he might be dealing with.
Rose glanced at him warily.
“You might love him, right? You certainly care about him. Don’t make the same mistake you kept me from making. Save him now. Question yourself later.”
Rose stared uncertainly for another long moment before shifting where he knelt. “Why do you care?”
“I don’t. I just need your guns,” Flynn said, shuffling his weight from one knee to the other, hoping the observant shootist didn’t see through the lie. He didn’t know why he cared, but he did. He didn’t want to have to try to explain why he gave a hoot about the lives of two outlaws, much less hoped that they were happy.
Rose snorted and shook his head. “I do love your honesty, Marshal Flynn,” he grumbled as he began loading his other gun. “Okay. We’re going after them before they can move. So what’s the plan, marshals?”
Flynn and Wash looked at one another, mutually stumped by the predicament.
Rose glanced back up at them and sighed impatiently. “Have either of you stopped to wonder who’s steering this blasted thing?” he asked as he spun the cylinder and flicked it back into place.
Flynn blinked at him and shook his head. He hadn’t given it much thought. But someone had to be guiding the cumbersome paddle steamer through the treacherous waters of the Mississippi. If not, they would have long ago run aground.
Rose slid his last two rounds of buckshot into his shotgun. “You two cover those doors. I’ll go see if I can’t shake loose some varmints,” he practically growled before slinking away into the fog.
Flynn watched the eddying mist open up to admit him and then swirl closed to cover his tracks. He shivered violently, then licked his lips and met Wash’s eyes. They stared at one another, at a loss after essentially giving up their authority to their own prisoner, until Wash edged closer and kissed Flynn again gently.
“We better hope he don’t get himself killed,” Wash finally said, his breath gusting over Flynn’s lips enticingly.
“Why? ’Cause he’s the only one knows what the hell’s going on?” Flynn asked dazedly, distracted by Wash’s body so close to his.
“Well, there’s that,” Wash said. Then he gestured between them and smirked. He practically snickered into one last kiss. “But mostly ’cause he’s the only one can tell us how to go about doing this sort of thing.”
“Get up,” Stringer murmured as he tugged at Cage’s arm.
Cage managed not to groan in pain. Stringer slid his arm under Cage's chin, choking him as he tightened his grip. He lifted him to his feet, then wrapped one arm around Cage’s chest to hold him securely from behind.
Cage hung his head and inhaled deeply, his breath hitching with the pain as his body was forced to stretch out. He fought not to lean his weight against Stringer. He didn’t have much strength left, but he was determined not to lean on the very man who was probably going to kill him.
He looked up to see what was left of Stringer’s boarding party gathering the women up and tying their hands behind their backs, then looping them together like a line of prisoners going to the hangman’s noose. Cage craned his neck, trying to meet Stringer’s eyes, shaking his head and opening his mouth, begging Stringer to reconsider.
“I ain’t dying here,” Stringer whispered to him. “I don’t give a lick if they do.”
Cage’s brow furrowed, and he started to shake his head again, but Stringer wrenched him around and pressed their lips together violently. Cage didn’t struggle this time, even though he told himself to. All the activity in the large room seemed to fall away. The pain in Cage’s ribs faded to a dull throb. Nothing mattered but the kiss he was sharing with a man he had once cared for. It mattered because he realized in that moment that it meant absolutely nothing to him. The memory of what they had been was no longer strong enough to make up for what Bat Stringer had become.
Cage gasped against Stringer’s mouth, trying to wrench away. Stringer kissed him hard one last time and then turned him around to hold him once more, Cage’s back pressed to Stringer’s chest and facing away from him. The barrel of Stringer’s gun came to rest against Cage’s jaw.
“Let’s go,” Stringer whispered into his ear.
Cage closed his eyes as he saw the men lining the women up in front of the door, guns to their backs and forcing them forward. They were crying and pleading with their captors, begging them to find some other way even as two men moved aside the things they had piled against the door.
Cage turned his head into the gun, brushing the side of his face over Stringer’s nose and mouth. It was his silent way of pleading, and Stringer knew it well enough. He felt Stringer’s breath catch and hope swelled briefly within him.
The boat lurched under their feet, making them both stagger. The echo of a shotgun blast sounded in the distance. Cage and Stringer both froze, apparently the only ones who had heard it. Seconds later, they both jerked and went tumbling to the deck as the ship beneath them made a radical change of direction.
Several guns went off as men lost their balance. Cage’s ribs sent blinding pain through his entire body as he landed, making it impossible to breathe for a few crucial moments, and he didn’t have the presence of mind to even think about what had happened, much less try to escape. He only had time to be thankful that Stringer had merely released the gun he’d been holding to Cage’s head rather than squeezing the trigger. He foundered on the deck. The muscles between his ribs wracked with spasms, paralyzing him as Stringer rolled away. Stringer was back to his knees, looking around in confused alarm as Cage tried desperately to get up.
Stringer and several others had just regained their footing when the paddle steamer came to a jarring stop and sent everyone to the ground again with shouts and screams of alarm.
Around the room, no one had managed to keep his or her feet. People were piled on the floor near the door and cautiously struggling to gain their balance once more. Several of the women got to their feet faster than Cage would have thought possible and raced for the unchained door. They threw it open even with their tied hands and ran, leaving behind their husbands and fathers and brothers and sons, dragging the ladies who were still tied to them and not able to keep up. Some of the prisoners crowded against the far wall were fighting with their bonds, taking advantage of the sudden chaos and attempting to free themselves.
Cage struggled to his knees and then shakily to his feet as he observed the disarray.
Something had stopped the riverboat.
Flynn and Wash both lurched forward, unable to keep their balance even though they had braced themselves after hearing the shotgun. Wash grunted in pain as he
“Son of a bitch!” Wash shouted as he tried to get to his feet.
The deck was tilted, and Flynn ended up sliding even after he found his footing. He bent and helped Wash up, still blinking around in confusion. Rose must have fought with the man in the wheelhouse before he fired the shotgun or the crash would have been delayed much longer. Flynn glanced to the wheelhouse worriedly, wondering if Rose had even been the one to fire the gun.
How many people had been inside the wheelhouse? How many people could Rose take on before he lost a fight?
Wash cursed again as the door to the salon was thrown open and people started pouring out. Flynn grabbed for his gun and raised it, aiming and waiting for a target that wasn’t wearing a dress. Wash was beside him, breathing hard and aiming his own gun with one hand.
The escaping passengers scrambled out into the main cabin and hit the curved staircase like a herd of stampeding cattle, all tied together and so frightened that they didn’t even notice the two marshals standing there.
Flynn and Wash both lowered their guns and watched them, jaws lax in shock as the cavalcade of gingham and lace stormed by.
A moment later, they were gone, up or down the stairs to what he supposed they thought was safety. Flynn looked at Wash and shrugged helplessly. Even if they had been thinking to try to stop them, they wouldn’t have been able to make a dent in that kind of panic.
“At least they didn’t jump overboard,” Wash said.
Flynn had to purse his lips to keep himself from smiling.
Seconds later, the sound of running feet shook them out of it, and Flynn raised his gun again. Beside him, Wash fired once, twice, three times in quick succession. Two men fell as they tried to escape the salon. One got back up and began limping toward the doors, trying to get away. Flynn hesitated, uncertain as to whether these were actually the hijackers or if they were escaping passengers. Even when one of the men fired back at Wash, Flynn couldn’t make himself pull the trigger. If the prisoners were escaping, they could also have armed themselves, he reasoned hastily.