Page 111 of Westin

“When my father gave Sovereign and me a plot of land, we divided the labor according to who was best at what,” he says. “I’ve always been able to shoot, fight, and defend myself. So, I became that for us, for this land. Sovereign is good at running things; he’s a sharp businessman.”

“So what does that make you?”

“An asshole with a god complex,” he says.

“I’m being serious,” I say.

He rises, taking off his coat. “I’m the housekeeper.”

“Westin.”

He drops the jacket. I can tell he’s bothered, because he starts rolling up his sleeves.

“I can shoot a tin can from the back of a moving horse with the sun in my eyes, Diane. What do you think you do with a skill like that?”

He kills people, probably anyone who stands in the way of Sovereign Mountain. Of course, I know what that word branded into his back means. I just hadn’t realized it was so literal. I curl my cold hands tight.

“So…how many of those tin cans have you shot?” I ask quietly.

“Quite a few.” He might be agitated, but his voice is calm. His body is restrained.

After being so afraid of Thomas and Avery, it’s a relief that he doesn’t let his emotions get the better of him. One thing I’m confident of is that Westin Quinn will never hurt me. I might be one of the few people immune to that.

“Am I too much for you?” he asks.

Maybe he is too much, but I shake my head.

“How does the brand come into all this?” I whisper.

“I was on a job, two men who came for Sovereign after he acquired their land,” he says. “I miscalculated for the first time in my life. I took a risky shot and missed the motherfuckers. He hit me hard enough I passed out. When I came to, they had me tied to a chair, and they used a branding iron to carve that into my back.”

My stomach turns. My head is light.

“How did you survive that?” I whisper.

“Getting branded won’t kill you, in most cases,” he says. “I broke a molar gritting my teeth, but I didn’t make a sound.”

I slip my fingers under his shirt. The top buttons pop open, giving me access to the brand on his back. My fingertips stroke over the hard, twisted lines of scar tissue.

His eyelids flicker, like I’m touching an open wound.

“Why that word?” I ask.

He snorts. “When Sovereign and I were working our way up, we had a lot of opposition. They’d call us the King and the Gunslinger as a way to mock us, like we’d never amount to anything. After a while, Sovereign gained a lot of respect, but I don’t do much in the spotlight. They kept calling me Gunslinger. They still do, maybe as a way of saying I’m an accessory. Less important, like all I am is a gun for hire, at Sovereign’s disposal.”

“I’m sorry.” My lips crack, and I wet them.

He shrugs one shoulder. “Honestly, it could have been something a lot worse. I got off easy.”

“They branded your back. That’s horrifying.”

His jaw works. My brows rise.

“What did you do to them?” I ask hoarsely.

“Someone came in at the last minute, got me untied,” he says. “They fled, and I took a horse and went after them. Ran them halfway to South Platte before shooting them off the backs of their horses.”

There’s a long silence.

---