The Gunslinger's Bride

by Cheryl St. John

  Laine took Abby’s hand. “What happened the day your brother died?”

  Abby studied their fingers. “It was night. And he was murdered.”

  “How?”

  “Brock had asked me to meet him in the foothills by the river. It was our secret place. I took a horse like I always did.” She turned a pleading gaze on Laine. “I was so in love with him. I thought he felt the same. I thought…”

  “What?”

  “Well, I thought our—relationship was quite romantic and forbidden and exciting. He was the most handsome young man—those sad blue eyes and that wavy hair—and he had this…this appeal. I can’t explain it.”

  “I think I understand.” Laine’s sympathetic eyes said as much, too. “But what about Guy? He did not like you with Mr. Brock?”

  “Afterward he found the note Brock had written, asking me to meet him. He knew I’d been taking a horse and disappearing for hours at a time.”

  “And he was angry.”

  “He was very angry. He set out to avenge a wrong he thought had been done to me. I rode after him. I got to town in time to see Brock pull his gun and shoot Guy.”

  “He seems like such a nice man. You said your brother had gone after him. Did Guy shoot at Mr. Brock?”

  Those words seemed traitorous to Abby. She stared at Laine. “A nice man? He killed my brother!”

  “Did he not have cause to draw his gun? If he was a cold-blooded murderer, he would be in jail right now, would he not?”

  “If there was any justice!” Abby replied, tears forming in spite of her anger.

  “I am sorry, my friend.”

  Abby shook her head and blinked away the moisture. “I blamed myself for not getting there in time, for losing my head and making such an awful mistake.”

  “You weren’t to blame for your brother’s death.”

  “I wanted Brock so much that I didn’t think of the consequences.”

  “And he wanted you?”

  In all these years Abby had never allowed herself to think of Brock—to remember the feelings and the passion and the wonder—because their time together had so swiftly turned ugly. But she had to face it now. “He is Jonathon’s father.”

  The confession had been so easy to say. Part of the tension inside her abated and she took an easy breath, not realizing she’d been holding herself rigid and barely breathing.

  Laine’s eyes widened in surprise. “Jonathon’s father! Who knows of this? Your husband knew of this?”

  The rest came easily now that that had been revealed. “We never spoke of it, but he knew. No one has ever spoken of it until now. Until Brock came and asked me. That was the first time I’d ever heard the words aloud. Saying them to him—to you—have been the first times I’ve heard the truth other than in my head.”

  “It must feel good to have the truth out in the open.”

  Abby gave her head a quick shake. “I’m glad I’ve told you, but it’s not good that he knows. It frightens me what he’ll do.”

  “What do you want him to do?”

  “I want him to go away and leave us alone.”

  “You still have feelings for him,” Laine stated.

  Abby’s stomach clenched at the accusing words. “I have no feeling beyond contempt for a cold-blooded killer!”

  “You have made excuses for his behavior. His parents were gone, he was miserable with his fighting brothers. You think he is handsome.”

  “I do not.”

  “You do. You describe his hair and his eyes and his— what did you call it? Appeal.”

  “That was a long time ago! He’s not the man I thought he was.”

  “Same hair. Same eyes.” Laine pressed her small hands against her breast. “Same attraction. And you have a son together. Jonathon is a tie that binds.”

  Abby clenched her fists in her lap. “I am not attracted to that man.” At her friend’s skeptical look, she protested more emphatically, “I’m not! And as far as I’m concerned he is not the kind of father Jonathon needs. His influence can be nothing but harmful.”

  “A boy needs a father.”

  “Perhaps, but not a father who is a murderer. Whose side are you on?”

  “If sides are drawn, I will stand on yours, of course.”

  Having a sympathetic confidante was new to Abby, and she was grateful for Laine’s caring and loyalty. “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  Abby swallowed her indignation and gave her outspoken friend a half smile. Laine’s old-fashioned father believed she should be silent, bowing to the decisions and wishes of the males in her family. Because she respected her father, Laine did her best to oblige them and be an obedient daughter, but her Americanized thinking had her in hot water more often than not. She had been born and raised in a Western mining camp, not in her father’s native land of China, and she loved to share her opinions.

  Laine returned the smile.

  Abby leaned toward her and the two embraced.

  “I am glad you told me,” Laine said.

  “Me, too. I’m sorry I didn’t know how to say it before. I didn’t want you to think badly of me.”

  “I could not think badly of you.”

  “Others would.”

  “Others should not matter, but I know they do. You know you have my confidence.”

  “I know.”

  “Now come. Sell me some lamp oil.”

  That afternoon, when Jonathon and Zeke arrived at the hardware store after school, Abby hung their coats and poured them mugs of milk she’d warmed. She’d thought of little else but Brock’s visit and his warnings all day.

  As Jonathon sipped his milk beside the stove and bit into a raisin cookie, she studied his dear, familiar face with its delicate nose and spray of freckles. The freckles and nose were hers; every other feature he’d inherited from his father.

  His hair, as fine as a baby’s, had turned thick and wavy. If it were longer, it would curl over his collar like Brock’s did.

  Jonathon had never known any other home but this one, any other life but that of playing between barrels and kegs and wheelbarrows. They lived overhead, their quarters taking up only half of the huge expanse. The hardware store was three levels. The lower level was partially underground and filled with bins of coal and stacks of lumber. The middle level was the retail area, and the upper floor was divided into living sections. One side had always been rented to Asa and Daisy Spencer, which made Abby feel safer than if she were completely alone.

  Jed had made his home above the store for as long as Abby could remember. Coming from a ranch, she had felt it confining at first, but she’d learned to appreciate the convenience of working and sleeping in the same building, without braving the harsh Montana elements in the winter. And Jonathon knew nothing else.

  “Me and Theke wanna play marbleth, Ma,” he said, raising those irresistible blue eyes. “We got jarth and jarth of ’em and no dirt.”

  “No dirt is a problem,” she said, and her mind tossed around possibilities. The ground was frozen too hard to loosen enough dirt to bring inside, but come this summer she could make them a ring in a frame somehow. For now… “How about something that would slow the marbles down, like dirt does, something like…fabric? Canvas maybe. We could cut a circle and nail it to the floor.”

  “Think it would work?”

  “We can try.” She found shears and set to cutting a length of tarpaulin.

  When John Whitefeather came for Zeke, the boy didn’t want to leave.

  “Look, Uncle John! We’re playin’ marbles.” Zeke showed him excitedly.

  “Your ma has a fine roast and a cinnamon cake ready,” he replied. “And your pa needs some help stacking wood.”

  Zeke shot up and ran for his coat. “Bye, Jonathon. My ma makes the best cinnamon cake in the world and I gotta help my pa!”

  Abby helped bundle him into his coat and hat and mittens, and waved them off. Jonathon climbed on a bench and watched through the square panes of gla
ss. “Theke hath hith own horth, Ma. Look, that’th him there. John brought him for Theke to ride home. Ain’t he purty? Hith pa teached him how to ride and they do work together.”

  With an ache in her chest, Abby stood behind her son, smoothed down the cowlick that sprang right back up, and watched the riders on the street. “Looks like a fine horse.”

  “Did you have a horth when you were a little tyke, Mama?”

  “We had a lot of horses where I grew up. It was a ranch.”

  “But one of your own…did you have one of your own that you named and everything?”

  She heard the wistful tone in his young voice. “No. Nothing that special.”

  “Did my grandpa teach you to ride?”

  Good memories of her father were tainted by the recent ones, and the sad-sweet twinge of retrospection tugged at her already aching heart. She blinked back tears—for herself—and for her son, who believed he was fatherless. “Yes, he did.”

  “I’m gonna have me a horth when I get bigger. One like Theke’th.”

  “You have to pay to board a horse when you live in town,” she told him.

  “Oh, I ain’t gonna live in town. I’m gonna live on a ranch.”

  “Oh.” Abby rubbed his shoulder. “Well, come help me get ready to close up. If someone comes late, they can ring the outside bell and I’ll come down and help them.”

  Jonathon stood to inherit the hardware store, as well as the Franklin ranch. Abby hadn’t wanted to sell it, and had leased the land to a young rancher eager to build his own herd. She guessed it would be Jonathon’s choice what he wanted to do when the time came.

  A shiver of anxiety left her uneasy as she thought about her boy’s future. He was still young, but if he had his heart set on being a rancher, that was fine by her. What effect would Brock Kincaid have on their lives now that he was back? He wanted to be a part of Jonathon’s life, and that would probably mean passing down a share of Kincaid land, as well. Jonathon could easily grow to be one of the wealthiest men in Montana.

  Her responsibility to raise him to be an upright, honest man had never been so clear. And she had never been so afraid or felt so alone.

  Brock planned his trip to town for supplies on Saturday, when Jonathon would be out of school. When he arrived at the hardware store, he stopped the wagon beside another that sat at the loading dock. The man he’d seen from the window at the hotel was helping Matt Darby roll barrels into the back of a springboard. Brock set the brake, jumped down and climbed the stairs.

  “Hey, Brock,” Darby said, thumbing back his hat and straightening. His gaze dropped to the revolvers slung low on Brock’s hips. “I heard you were back.”

  “Matt.” Brock strode forward and shook the rancher’s hand.

  “You in Whitehorn for good?”

  “I am.”

  The other man approached. “Sam Rowland,” he offered. “I work for Mrs. Watson.”

  Mrs. Watson. The name sounded ill-fitting. Brock shook his gloved hand. “Brock Kincaid.”

  “I know who you are.”

  Brock glanced from one man to the other. “I’ll bet you do. The stories are flying right now, eh?”

  Matt grinned. “Biggest news since Will came back. Some folks even think you’re Jack Spade.”

  Brock had spent the previous evening with Will and Caleb, catching up on their lives, hearing Will’s side of the story about the gold. Will had related the rumors circulating through town. “What do you think, Matt?”

  The man tugged his gloves a little tighter. “I think if you were a famous gunslinger you’d be crazy to come back here, and I don’t think you’d put your family in danger like that.”

  Brock didn’t flicker an eyelash.

  “My bet is on Linc Manley,” Matt added.

  “The man in black who arrived on the stage and set tongues to wagging?”

  “That’s how he’s registered at the hotel,” Sam explained.

  Brock nodded, and the men turned back to their task. He looked Sam Rowland over—a sturdy enough fellow with a lean face and more than capable demeanor. Working daily with Abby, he was bound to have formed a working relationship with her. Brock wondered if there was anything more to it.

  He entered the store and pulled a wrinkled list from his pocket. Caleb had been glad to turn over the run into town, and Brock had a feeling the chore would be his from now on. Harry Talbert called a greeting from his spot beside the stove, and Brock sauntered back to say hello, wondering with amusement how the man ever managed to give a haircut when he was always here.

  An elderly gentleman that Brock didn’t recognize sat with a cane leaned against his bony knee and a coffee mug resting on the other. He squinted at Brock from beneath wispy white eyebrows. “Mighty fancy Peacemakers ya got there.”

  His interest seemed genuine, not critical. Brock slid one of the ivory-handled six-shooters from its leather sheath and displayed the carved eagle for his inspection.

  “Man who carries a gun like that knows how to use it. Them’s either peacemakers or troublemakers.” The old gent ran shaky fingers over the ivory in admiration.

  Brock exchanged a look with Harry, but the man seemed more amused than curious. “I’ve done some peacemaking. Marshaled in Nevada, South Dakota.”

  “Bringin’ criminals to justice, eh? Meet any of the Earp boys, did ya?”

  “Saw them in passing.”

  “Mr. Kincaid!”

  Brock turned, the gun sliding automatically into his palm.

  Abby faced him, her face flushed with anger. She shot her fiery gaze to the revolver in his grip. “I would appreciate it if you would keep your weapons out of sight in my establishment. My customers have no reason to shoot one another.”

  “I was just showing the gentleman—”

  “Golly!” a child’s voice interrupted. “Can I thee it, Mithter?” Jonathon ran forward, his face alight with admiration.

  “No!” Abby shouted, stopping him with a forearm across his upper chest. The length of her thick braid swung forward and draped her arm to her elbow. “You may not.”

  “But, Ma!”

  “Guns serve only one purpose, Jonathon, and no son of mine will be a killer.”

  “Man needs a gun in this country, Miz Watson,” the old man said. “Man can get hisself killed without one.”

  “If everyone got along peaceably, there would be no use for violence,” she argued.

  “This ain’t fairyland,” the old gent said with a laugh. “Or even Boston. This here’s Montana, and a body needs to protect his home and his family.”

  “Killing isn’t a solution to every problem.” Indignant, she straightened and glared from Brock to the old man.

  Harry cleared his throat. “I think I have to give a haircut.”

  “Might not be a solution to every problem, but it sure shuts up the criminals,” the old man continued with a gleeful cackle.

  Harry grabbed his coat, plunged his hat down over his head and bolted for the door.

  “Mr. Waverly, please refrain from placing barbarous ideas in my son’s head.”

  Brock had holstered his .45, and he removed his coat and hung it up. “Here’s a list of supplies. Jonathon, will you show me the rope, please?”

  She took the slip of paper with a frown. “I can show you—”

  Brock raised a palm to stop her in her tracks. “Jonathon will show me.”

  Her green eyes spat fire, but she bit her tongue. She followed them with a worried frown as Jonathon led Brock to the other side of the store.

  “Thith here’th the rope.”

  Brock made a choice. “Do you know who I am?” he asked.

  Jonathon gazed up with round blue eyes and nodded. “You’re Mithter Brock. Theke’th uncle.”

  Brock surveyed the elfin face with a light sprinkling of freckles and let his gaze caress the hair so like his own. The urge to touch that baby-soft skin and wavy hair was so strong, he clamped his hand on the length of rope. “Y-yes,” he said, his vo
ice breaking so that he had to say it again.

  “Theke thaid you been gone a long time. You wath off fightin’ bad guyth. That right?”

  “Something like that.”

  “Did you thoot ’em with your gun?”

  Brock understood Abby’s protectiveness. He did. He would rather take a beating than expose this child to the ugliness in the world. If only it were reasonable to think Jonathon could be protected from reality. But that wasn’t possible. Or even wise. He would need to know how to protect himself.

  “We all have to do things that we don’t want to do sometimes,” was all he said, and it sounded trite.

  When they returned to the stove several minutes later, the old man was sipping coffee. He grunted and shook his head.

  Brock followed Jonathon to where Abby stood beside a counter, calculating a stack of figures. “Do you want this on the ranch account?” she asked in a businesslike tone.

  “Yes.”

  “Sam will help you carry out the kegs.”

  “I’d just as soon wait awhile, so I can visit with Jonathon.”

  Her hesitation was evident in the way she paused over the numbers, in the way her chin lifted slightly.

  “Or I can take him back to the ranch with me, and he can play with Zeke and help me put things away.”

  Unfairly, he’d suggested it in front of the boy, and Jonathon shot forward, raising a small hand to place it on the counter by her paper. “Can I, Mama? Can I go play with Theke? Brock wanth me to help him!”

  Abby’s gaze lifted and struck Brock with as much force as a bullet. Anger simmered there, but the fear in her eyes took him aback. Why it should bother him, he didn’t know. He had her where he wanted her. She was afraid to let her son go, but she was afraid Brock would tell Jonathon the truth if she didn’t comply.

  He looked down. “Let me talk to your ma alone for a minute, okay?”

  “Okay!” The child shot away and disappeared into the depths of the store.