“To your promotion!” Hurley said, raising his glass. They sat at a table in a saloon not far from Jamie’s apartment.

Jamie’s throat tightened. “So what is this good news you have to share?” he asked, hoping to divert Hurley’s attention from himself.

Hurley put down his beer and wiped the foam from his mustache. “My work on the squad has been noticed. I’m getting a medal, and word has it Senator Pemberton himself will be at the ceremony.”

“That’s wonderful,” Jamie said. But his normal rush of pride was tempered by the memory of Nick’s words yesterday, concerning the Pemberton Act. About how it punished everyone for the deeds of a few.

Uncle Hurley wouldn’t be involved in anything wrong; of that much Jamie was certain. He was just doing his duty, that was all. Arguments about whether a law was just or not belonged to the politicians. It was a policeman’s job to enforce, not to judge.

Wasn’t it?

He had the feeling Nick wouldn’t agree with that sentiment at all. Thank Mary, Jamie had let Nick go off on his own, because otherwise this dinner would be even more painfully awkward.

“I’m glad you took my advice,” Hurley said. “So what sort of familiar did you get?”

“A horse.” Should he go into more detail, or would that only make things worse when he and Nick parted ways at the end of the month?

Hurley didn’t seem particularly interested, though. “Makes sense you’d pick a horse, Rough Rider.” He grinned and held out an unlit cigar. “Quick—draw up a fire hex and show me your magic.”

Jamie shook his head. “No one uses hexes to light their cigar.” Well, maybe rich nobs; that sounded like something people with too much money might do.

“I ain’t asking you to do it all the time. Just this once.” Hurley’s grin faded a bit. “Take pride in your accomplishments, lad.”

Jamie’s chest tightened. Hurley wanted him to rely more on his history as a soldier. To parlay being a Rough Rider into a political career, or at least use it to move up the chain within the police department. Just like Hurley had done a few years ago, when he saved then-Commissioner Roosevelt from a poisoned hex.

“I can’t, Uncle,” Jamie said. “I promised not to use his magic unless I asked first.”

The last of Hurley’s smile vanished. “You did what? Why?”

Jamie shifted uneasily. “It’s his magic, ain’t it?”

“Nay. It’s yours.” Hurley shook his head. “What sort of nonsense has the MWP put in your head? You’re the witch, Jamie. It’s up to you to decide when and how to use your familiar’s magic, and for good reason.” He leaned over the table. “One thing working on the squad has taught me, it’s that the world is ordered the way it is for a reason. Familiars might look human, at least some of the time, but they ain’t like you and me. They’re controlled by their emotions. No logic at all. That’s why the Good Lord gave them witches to watch over them.”

Jamie tried to imagine Nick’s response to the idea he needed anyone else ordering his life. “We’re a team,” he said.

“I never claimed you weren’t,” Hurley replied. “I’m sure you’ll do fine together. Just remember who’s holding the reins.” He laughed at his own humor. Jamie managed a weak chuckle, and nothing more. The joke rubbed him the wrong way, leaving him unsure how to respond.

Nick would know. He wouldn’t just quietly roll his eyes at Hurley’s attitude.

Surely it wasn’t worth picking a fight with Hurley tonight, though. Not when Jamie would be back to being unbonded in less than a month.

Jamie excused himself as soon as they cleared their plates and started back to his apartment. He’d managed to find a decent enough place, on the first floor so he had only a minimum of stairs to navigate. A couple of neighbors sat on the stoop, and he paused just long enough to exchange a few words with them before continuing in.

His crutch leaned against one of the two shabby chairs in what could generously be called a parlor. He sat down, rolled up his trouser leg, and unlaced the prosthetic with a sigh. The thing fit well enough and wasn’t too heavy, but it was still a relief to have it off. Especially since he’d done more walking in the last two days than he was used to. He carefully cleaned the cup the stump rested in, and set it aside to dry overnight.

What was Nick doing now? Working, most like. He’d looked so tired this morning. Worn down, as if from more than the loss of a couple of nights’ sleep. As if the weight of years and not days accumulated on his shoulders.

Jamie focused on the bond. On that little patch of warmth in his chest. It told him Nick’s general direction, though nothing else. If Nick had been in horse form, at least they could have talked.

This was stupid. He wasn’t some youth, swooning over his first love. Nick barely even seemed to tolerate Jamie’s presence, most of the time.

He’d certainly tolerated Jamie well enough when he was balls-deep in him.

Maybe that was Nick’s problem. He’d sworn he didn’t fuck witches, but the draw between them had been undeniable from the first, even before they’d bonded. Did he feel he’d betrayed his principles?

Nick was full of fire, like the broncos real rough riders knew how to break. Jamie didn’t want to break him, though. Didn’t want him to lose that fighting spirit.

Jamie sighed and rubbed at his face. Wyatt had his principles, too, just like Nick. Surely he would have felt shame over his desertion, no matter the cause. Had he stayed away from Jamie because he couldn’t stand to look him in the eye? Or had it been the inevitable court-martial he’d feared?

The main fighting had been over by the time Eddie and Wyatt had been given their special assignment, or so Jamie had been told. Wyatt had left the other Rough Riders behind, flown away, let everyone think he was dead. Most would judge it the act of a coward. Wyatt had never been that.

So what was the truth? Nick believed Wyatt left to avoid bonding with another witch…and maybe he was right, but the explanation didn’t sit well with Jamie.

If only Jamie had been there to know for himself.

He stared at the lower part of his trouser leg, hanging empty without the prosthetic to fill it out. It had taken a while, but he’d made his peace with the loss. He still constantly wondered what might have happened if the artillery shell had fallen short, or overshot, or even come five minutes later. Could he have saved Eddie? Would he at least know why Wyatt had chosen a path that on the surface seemed so unlike him?

Nick had sent a bat to watch for a killer who struck only after dark. When Nick got word the Wraith was back, it would be night. Jamie wouldn’t be with him, just as he hadn’t been with Wyatt. Of course Rook was right, Nick wouldn’t waste a single moment, when hesitation might mean life or death for the Wraith’s next victim.

Maybe Nick would be fine. Apprehend the killer on his own. Or maybe something terrible would happen to Nick, something Jamie could prevent, if only he was there.

One way or another, Jamie would have to keep an eye on Nick, to make sure he didn’t go into danger alone.

Jamie had already lost Wyatt to the killer. He’d be damned if he lost Nick as well.

Nick sat at his desk the next day, trying to make the numbers add up. The saloon was closed, and it was supposed to be their day off at the MWP, so he hadn’t bothered leaving the building. The ledgers were sadly neglected, and working through the dry columns of profit and loss had seemed a good way to distract himself from thoughts of the witch. His witch.

Not that it had worked. He’d tossed and turned all night, memories of those moments in the Cave teasing him relentlessly. Followed by unexpected flashes of remorse over Jamie’s look of disappointment and hurt. As a result, the ledger blurred in front of him no matter how much coffee he drank, and the bed in the other room tempted him to collapse into its sheets and not get back up again.

Which he couldn’t do. He had work. People depending on him. No time for sleep or anything else.

There came a sharp rap on the door. Nick suppressed a sigh. No doubt one of the ferals from the tenement, wanting something. More time to make the rent, or a window needed replaced, or a perch had broken and they wanted to borrow a hammer. If he was lucky, it would be a better distraction than the numbers.

When he opened the door, it was to find Jamie’s pale face staring back up at him.

“What the hell are you doing here?” Nick blurted.

Jamie’s dark brows arched. “You wear spectacles?”

Nick touched the pince nez perched on his nose. “When I have to do close reading. What’s it to you?”

“Nothing. They look good on you.” Jamie glanced casually past him. “Getting the books in order, eh? My brother-in-law owns a Chinese laundry, and I kept his ledgers when I was younger, before I joined the MWP. I’ve a good head for math.”

The desire to have someone else break their brain on the sums seized Nick with an almost physical longing. Unfortunately, it wasn’t the only sort of physical longing he was feeling at the moment. The teasing thread of Jamie’s sandalwood cologne was enough to send him right back to the Cave, and his cock hardened beneath his worsted trousers.

“I’m sorry about yesterday,” he said, to remind himself as well as Jamie.

“I ain’t.” Jamie tipped his head back to meet Nick’s eyes. The brown splotch amidst the green seemed redder today, probably due to the rust-colored vest Jamie wore. “Not about the fucking, at least. Are you?”

He wasn’t, which was the damned problem. “Why are you here?” he asked instead of answering. “Haven’t you got anything better to do?”

Jamie shrugged. “Nay.” He paused. “Or should that be…neigh?”

He put enough of a whinny into the word to make the pun clear. “Hilarious,” Nick said. “You and Rook should have your own Vaudeville act.” He stepped back. Jamie’s hip brushed his thigh as he passed, sending a shock of lust right to his groin. He cleared his throat before continuing. “Fine. You can help. Just stay out of my way. No wandering around on your own. You don’t set foot outside my apartment without me, and you definitely don’t go anywhere near the saloon.”

“Aye,” Jamie agreed. He stripped off his overcoat, then his suit coat. “Where do you want me to work?”

Nick dragged a second chair up to the desk, then turned the ledger to a page he’d already completed. Covering the running total and results with spare sheets of paper, he said, “Do this correctly, and you can stay.”

It was an obvious test, but Jamie didn’t seem put out. Instead, he only said, “Do you mind if I take off my leg?”

On the one hand, Nick wasn’t sure letting Jamie make himself any more comfortable was a good idea. On the other, he didn’t want to give Jamie the impression the prosthetic bothered him.

Not that he cared what Jamie thought, of course. “Go ahead.”

He settled in on the other side of the desk, intending to focus on his work. But the prosthetic Jamie propped against the desk caught his eye. Was the foot wooden, beneath the sock and shoe, or one of the newer ones with a rubber covering to make steps less jarring? The calf was wooden, the frame metal, supporting a leather inner socket. The leather sheath with lacing would go around Jamie’s thigh, just above the knee.

When he looked away, it was to find Jamie watching him, a little frown line between his brows. “That’s not a Palmer,” Nick said without thinking.

The frown eased into a laugh. “I’d hope not. Those were popular in the War Between the States. Mine is a little bit newer than that.”

“Right,” Nick said, feeling foolish. The handful of soldiers his father had treated had all been older, and that had been nearly twenty years ago as it was.

“You know something about prosthetics, then?” Jamie asked.

“No.” Which was more or less true. “Had some acquaintances, older men, who had bits shot off by the Confederates.” Nick didn’t share his history with anyone, so he added, “Do you know anything about numbers? Because I didn’t let you stay so you could talk my ear off.”

Jamie only laughed and bent his head over the page. In an astonishingly short amount of time, he pushed the ledger in Nick’s direction. Nick uncovered his calculations and shook his head. “Wrong answer.”

“Let me see.” Jamie studied it again, then tapped the page. “You made a mistake on line fifteen.”

Nick snatched the ledger back, then cursed aloud. “Don’t look so damned smug.”

Jamie leaned forward, propped his elbows on the desk, and smirked. “So, can I stay and help?”

“Fine. But I’m not paying you.” Nick stood up. “I’ll make some more coffee.”