Free Walking on Air by Catherine Anderson Page B

swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing in his sun-browned neck. “Well, maybe inestimable is a stretch, but he was a very rich man. He never acknowledged me as his son until he died. Never even saw to it that I was cared for. I grew up on the streets, scavenging for food from people’s trash and stealing clothes off drying lines. When I had no shoes, I cut stolen sheets into strips and wrapped my feet in linen.”
    Nan stared at him, too shaken to feel sympathy, yet shocked to her core nevertheless. Her childhood had been dreadful, but the one he described was far worse.
    “I was fourteen when I got tired of being kicked around,” Valance continued. “And, yes, a homeless, hungry boy living hand-to-mouth does get kicked around. There are men in this world who take pleasure in hurting those who can’t fight back.” He rubbed beside his nose. “With a good deal of afterthought, I’ve got reason to believe I wasn’t any too bright at that age, because stealing a sidearm off a sleeping drunk on the boardwalk was a bad mistake. Once I had a weapon, I mucked horseshit out of livery stalls to earn enough money to buy bullets, and then, every second I wasn’t shoveling manure or sleeping wherever I could find shelter, I practiced shooting at targets. Once I could take the head off a matchstick without fail at fifty yards, I worked on my speed until nary a man in Kansas City could clear leather faster.
    “Right about then was when my lack of good sense really began to show, because I walked into a saloon, bold as brass, with a chip on my shoulder so big it would have taken a club to knock it off. I went into the establishment to show the world that I was no longer a snot-nosed brat who couldn’t fight back. I mistakenly thought that just wearing a gun would accomplish that. I never anticipated that it would take an exchange of lead to get the job done. Unfortunately for me, there was a gunslinger of some repute passing through town, and he was bellied up to the bar, washing the trail dust from his throat with a jug of whiskey. When he saw me swagger in, still a kid with peach fuzz for whiskers, acting like I could nail any man who challenged me, he took exception, told me to make fast tracks, and when I didn’t, he made the mistake of going for his gun. I killed him before his Colt ever cleared the holster.”
    Nan closed her eyes. She had asked for an introduction, but hearing this story was more than she’d bargained for. Mr. Valance didn’t seem to sense her reluctance to hear more, so he continued.
    “Once a man outdraws a famous gunslinger in public—exhibiting that much speed and accuracy—he becomes, hell, I don’t know, a target, I reckon you could say. Word travels fast. Before I knew it, every fellow who fancied himself a quick draw wanted to face me in the street to prove that he was faster. By the time I was eighteen, I’d killed six men, never once because I set out to, but because I had no choice. I had to defend myself or die, and I wasn’t quite ready at that age to meet my maker. After six encounters, I took to the trail, trying my damnedest to stay one step ahead of the fools who were trying to find me, but over the last fifteen years, I’ve failed in that endeavor eight times, so, all in all, fourteen men have made the fatal mistake of challenging me.”
    Nan lifted her lashes. For the life of her, she couldn’t think of a single word to utter.
    “So,” Valance said with a tip of his hat, “do you consider us to be properly introduced now, Miss Sullivan, or do I have to tell you every other ugly detail of my past to get the job done?”
    Nan finally found her voice. “If this is your idea of courtship, M-Mr. Valance, I can assure you that it leaves a great deal to be desired.”
    He laughed, and the gruff rumble of humor came so unexpectedly that she started. “No, ma’am, it’s not my idea of courtship. I’ll tend to the courting part after I put a ring on your finger.”
    “I