Insert romantic title

[4]

Chapter 4

I woke up laying down somewhere dark and warm. Light licked my face. There was an ache in my arm, and pain ripped through my leg. I looked around, and noticed I was in a cave. It looked like someone set up a campsite in here. The light and warmth came from a fire. Then I saw him. The b****y black bandit.

The orange and yellow glow accented his black clothes well. I remembered what happened. He shot me. He shot me!

"You shot me," I whispered. Fear raged through me. The b****y black bandit doesn't leave survivors. So my end was near.

"Correction," he said, sounding apethetic, but he was finally loud enough to hear. He was on the other side of the cave, but he started walking over menacingly. "The sheriff shot you," he said, picking up my face in his hand.

His bandana and hat cast shadows over the few parts of his face I could see. Now it looked like I was talking to nothing but a shadow.

"How are ya feelin'," he asked. The harshness in his tone disappeared.

"What do you mean, 'the sheriff shot me'," I asked quietly.

"Still on that, are we," he asked mockingly. "I mean that man ya'll call a sheriff needs to work on his aim! He tried to hit me, but hit you instead. Any of his shots from there just hit the ground," he said. The harshness was returning in his voice. So I just sat there.

I tried to sit up, but pain ripped through my leg. A black leather glove touched my forehead. It wasn't an aggressive move though, in fact his touch was gentle and relaxed. His hand gently pushed my head back, having me lay down.

"Nice try Missy, but you ain't gettin' away that easy," he said calmly. Like someone trying to soothe a crying child.

"If you're going to kill me, make it fast," I said. Tears were coming to my eyes. The bandit doesn't leave survivors. He would kill any witnesses to a crime, be it children, babies, men or women. Even animals. So why wouldn't he kill me?

"Who said I was going to kill you," he asked. He was a barbarian. Just let me die already. But instead he leaves me with the anxiety of knowing I'm gonna' die.

"You know, I can't bring you back to town," he said. He almost sounded sad. But why would he be sad? Its not like I meant anything to him.

"Why not?"

"I said the sheriff shot you. But I never said it was an accident. Apparently, your town don't like no dreamers. So, he tried to kill me, and planned to kill you next. That man needs to aim better. But, you ain't going back there any time."

I was dumbfounded. Why would the town hate me for dreaming? And why would they go so far as murder? And why did the bandit care? There were too many questions in my head. My mind was racing a million miles per hour. I couldn't focus.

"Where will you go now," he asked. I just looked at him. Now all the built up tears began to roll down my cheeks. "No where, huh? Guess that kinda makes you an outlaw," he said.

I just stared at him. I hugged my knees to my chest and looked down at my feet. He was right. I couldn't go back. But where else could I go? He took my face in his hand and looked into my eyes.

"Why don't you sit here and think. I need to go get firewood," he said.

His hand slowly slid off my cheek. I almost wish he would stay. But looking at the fire, it had died down. He walked out of the cave and I felt alone. Why? Why?! He was a criminal! I should be relieved and trying to run.

Yet here I am. Today was really strange. Maybe tomorrow will be better. So I closed my eyes and let darkness overtake me.

I saw my parents. My mama was crying in the corner, while papa had his hand raised. He was about to hit me again. Hurting me was his favorite pastime. Just before his hand made contact with my head, I was being shaken.

Something was gripping my shoulders. Tightly. I opened my eyes and saw the bandit. His eyes were full of fear. I could feel tears streaming down my face.

"Are you alright," he asked.

I opened my mouth, but no words would come out. I must have looked stupid. My throat was dry, my head was pounding, I couldn't think straight, and I was seeing stars. I hadn't had that dream, or relived the memories in years.

I thought I'd buried the memories. I thought…I thought…

"LOOK AT ME," he shouted. I stared into his eyes, expecting to be met with a cold hard stare. But instead, he looked worried. Distressed even. Impossible!

"Why are you crying," he asked, his voice full of concern.

"And why would you care," I asked, venom laced in my voice. I was taught that no one cared. That I was loved by no one. And that stuck with me. So why would he care?

What would make the b****y black bandit care about a bartender like me?