“I’m not going to snatch him and ride off,” he assured her. “You don’t have to fear that. I told you I would get to know him. This seems like a good way. He’s used to Zeke and Caleb. What would people think if I sat around your store all day long?”
He had her there. She cared very much what people thought. And she obviously cared very little for his tactics. “If you sank any lower, you wouldn’t have to open the door to slide out of here,” she said in a venomous tone.
He took a step toward her.
Her heartbeat fluttered at her throat. The soft scent of lilacs floated to his nostrils, striking an unexpected chord of familiarity.
“You didn’t mind me so much once,” he said, his voice as even and insinuating as he could make it.
She released the pencil she’d been holding and dropped her hand to her side, taking a step back and coming up against the cool glass display case. “I was a fool.”
He inched closer. Her green gaze focused on his shoulder, and she refused to meet his eyes.
“We all make mistakes, don’t we, Abby?”
Her chin lifted a notch. “Some more than others.”
He remembered now their brief, heated encounters, his anger and mental chaos and her warm welcoming embrace that soothed and satisfied. He had sought comfort in her arms, taken her virginity, knowing she was smitten with him but also knowing he wasn’t of a mind to be making decisions or commitments. He couldn’t truthfully say what would have happened if Guy’s actions hadn’t forced him to defend himself.
“I won’t hurt our son. I make you that promise.”
At those words, her gaze rose to his, hurt, bewildered.
“Have I ever made you a promise before?” he asked.
She gave a jerky little shake of her head and whispered, “No.”
“So you see, I’ve never broken a promise to you, either. You’re going to have to trust me.”
“I will never trust you until you take off those guns and admit your guilt.”
Guilt because of Guy? Or his guilt over her? If that was what made her mad, it was sure funny that she didn’t remember her part in their carryings on, as if he’d seduced an unwilling partner. Hardly. He remembered then how she’d claimed to hate him. “Then you’re never going to trust me.”
She blinked.
“But you don’t have a choice that I can see, now do you?”
She tightened her lips as though she was clamping them shut against a torrent of raging words. “You’re despicable,” she hissed.
“No,” he replied with stern denial. “Rape is despicable. You came to me willingly.” He lowered his voice and added, “Eagerly.”
Her face flamed.
“Stealing is despicable. I only took what you offered.”
Tears glistened and she blinked them back.
“Denying a child is despicable. I acknowledge my son. I want to know him and teach him and be a father to him.”
Holding herself so rigidly like that, she’d shatter into a million pieces if he pushed her over, he imagined. “Murder is despicable,” she accused.
For a confused moment, he thought perhaps she knew more about him than he’d revealed, but that couldn’t be. He’d been too careful. She meant Guy. “He drew on me first, Abby, and you know it. You’re just too stubborn to admit it.” He stood a step back, giving her space, distancing himself so he wouldn’t be tempted to grab her and shake some sense into her. “I’ll return Jonathon before dark.”
Before Brock’s return, Abby had never in her life wanted to hit someone, and the fact that she again wanted more than anything to strike out at this man shocked her. She stood by helplessly, rooted to the floor, as Brock called her son. She stood fast while she watched Jonathon bring his coat and hat, despite the fact that her fingers itched to help while Brock bundled him up.
Watching them prepare to leave, she felt a chasm yawn in her chest. Her breath came in shallow, painful gasps, and she wanted to run to Jonathon and clasp him safely to her, protect him from the truth and the man who threatened the sanctuary of this home she’d made for them.
Brock had donned his own coat, but he knelt, one knee touching the worn wood floor, and said something to Jonathon.
Her son’s blond head turned her way, and without hesitation he darted toward her and hugged her around the waist. “Bye, Mama. I’ll be back before dark.”
Abby loosened his slender arms and knelt to fold him in a desperate hug. She petted his shiny hair and inhaled his unique little-boy scent. “Goodbye, darling. I love you.”
“I love you, too, Mama.” Pulling away, he ran to join the tall man who waited patiently.
He raised his gaze to Brock’s, and Brock looked down. Jonathon trustingly placed his mittened hand in Brock’s huge, gloved palm, and they walked away. The bell over the door clanged a finale to the heart-wrenching scene. Abby’s chest felt as though a lead weight were pressing down upon it. She drew a staggered breath and placed her hand over her heart, where the real ache gnawed.
Stinging tears bit her eyes and she closed the lids tightly.
The bell rang again.
He’d changed his mind! Her eyes flew open.
Her fiancé, Everett Matthews, stood in the doorway, looking over his shoulder, and she knew he was watching Jonathon depart with the stranger.
Stupefied, he turned and met her gaze. “What is going on, Abby?”
Chapter Four
Not now! Why now, of all times, did Everett have to show up? The tears Abby held inside threatened to burst through her defenses and engulf her, but she couldn’t allow Everett to see them, to sense even a glimpse of her torment. He would surely suspect something was wrong if she behaved the least bit odd.
Turning as he removed his coat, she plucked up the pencil and held it over the paper as if she could actually see or think to figure. “Oh, hello, Everett.” He wore a neat, brown serge suit and vest, and a matching bow tie at his neck. The perfect gentleman. “What brings you out today?”
He walked forward with his coat folded over his arm. “Why is Jonathon leaving with Brock Kincaid? What’s going on?”
“Jonathon’s going to play with Zeke for the afternoon. He’ll be home before dark,” she said, forcing lightness into her voice.
“I’ve never seen you let that boy out of your sight except to go to school.”
“Why, that’s not so. He’s gone to play with Zeke before. The winter days are so long. He needs a change of scenery now and again.”
“But Brock Kincaid?” Everett stepped closer, and she was forced to look up, somehow managing a tight smile. “You hate that man!”
Abby’s eyes wanted to clamp shut tight. She wanted to roll into a ball and disappear under the counter like a clump of dust. She would love to pound the floor and kick and scream that she did, in fact, hate that insufferable man.
She didn’t want to stand here all sweet faced and pretend to her betrothed that she didn’t loathe the man who had just walked out with her child! Instead, she scrambled for something—anything logical to say to prevent him from suspecting the worst. “All that was a long time ago. Caleb and Ruth are our friends, after all, and Jonathon and Zeke are best friends.” She took Everett’s coat and hung it on a brass hook. “Jonathon loves to play with him. Besides, Brock is Caleb’s brother, so I might as well let bygones be bygones.”
Had she said that? Had that atrocious lie rolled from her tongue? Abby tasted acrid bitterness and decided that, indeed, it had. She couldn’t abide deceptiveness, and here she was lying to the man she was going to marry. Once again, because of Brock Kincaid, she was going against her principles.
Everett shook his head of thick, neatly trimmed brown hair. One dark brow rose now, and coffee-colored eyes bored into hers in disbelief. “Pinch me to wake me up, because I can’t believe my ears. I must be dreaming, because I thought you just excused the man.”
“You’re not dreaming, silly. It’s not healthy for a person to go around with hard feeling
s locked up inside. I’ve decided to let the feud go. That’s all.”
“That’s all? That’s all, Abby? Did he apologize?” he asked in amazement. “Did Kincaid say he was sorry about your brother?”
“Oh, yes.” She told the bald-faced lie and turned to carry a lantern back to its shelf. “He regrets that they ever had a misunderstanding and that things got out of control so quickly. He’s a changed man.” Changed from bad to worse, anyway.
“I never really understood what it was they fought over,” Everett said, following.
“I don’t think anyone really remembers,” she said dismissively, as though the worst event of her life was of no importance. “It was a long time ago and they were probably too drunk to know what they were doing.”
“This is quite a change of heart for you,” her fiancé said, still seeming to have trouble understanding.
“Yes,” she agreed sweetly. “People are allowed to change.”
Abby glanced aside to note that Mr. Waverly, who still sat by the stove with his cane against his knee, watched her in silence, a shrewd expression on his grizzled face. He couldn’t have overheard her earlier restrained conversation with Brock, but he’d heard their original exchange and was now getting an earful of this one—and the two sure didn’t line up.
“Do we need a fresh pot of coffee, Mr. Waverly?” she asked.
“Couldn’t hurt. I lost m’spoon in the last cup.”
“I’ll get some water.”
She went about carrying the pot to the back room to rinse and fill. Everett waited while she stoked the fire and set the pot to boiling.
Taking her elbow, he led her aside, away from the old man’s curious gaze. “This is all such a…a surprise,” he said carefully once they were hidden in an aisle of garden tools. “I’ve never seen anything but scorn from you when the man’s name was mentioned, and now this sudden act of forgiveness.”
“Don’t concern yourself with it. It was time to lay things aside, that’s all.” She looked up and gave him a warm smile to distract him. She pulled her elbow from his gentle grasp and placed her hand on his forearm. “Have you heard any interesting news?”
Everett worked at the telegraph office. News passed through his fingers daily, and he loved to share what he’d learned. His curious demeanor seemed to change at her touch. “Seems they have a few cases of measles over toward Billings.”
Abby pretended interest. “Oh, really?”
“And the surrounding marshals have been alerted to watch for Jack Spade. No one’s sure where he headed, but he was reported crossing the Missouri at Helena and coming this way.”
She grew uneasier at that report. “Some are saying he’s the man who’s been in the saloons the last few nights.”
“I confess I stopped at the Four Kings last night to have a look-see.”
She cast him a playful frown. “Am I engaged to a drinking man, then?”
“You know better than that. I had a couple of rounds and a cigar, waiting to see if anything happened.”
“And what would you have done if it had?” Suddenly genuinely interested, she withdrew her hand and went on. “Those places are nothing but trouble. You could’ve been shot if guns had been fired.”
Everett didn’t carry a gun, one of the things she appreciated most about him. He didn’t try to charm her or intimidate her, either; in fact, Everett was everything Brock Kincaid wasn’t. Stable, levelheaded, responsible. He would make an adequate husband and a good father for Jonathon.
Her heart tugged with fresh insecurity at that thought.
She’d believed for the last year that she was making a wise choice for Jonathon’s well-being by saying she’d marry Everett. “A boy needs a father,” Brock and Laine had both said, and she knew that was a fact. But a father like Everett, not one like Brock.
“I would never want to worry you,” Everett said with a repentant tilt of his head. Moving forward, he took both her hands and clasped her fingers in his. “I’m looking forward to our dinner tonight. I would like to treat you to a meal at the hotel. You shouldn’t have to cook for me after you’ve worked hard all day.”
“That’s a tempting offer.”
“What have you planned for Jonathon?”
“I’ve planned for him to stay with the Spencers. They love his company.”
“Then you’ll have dinner with me at the Carlton.”
Abby didn’t have to think twice about not cooking their meal. “All right,” she agreed with a nod.
“Very well then.” He leaned forward and brushed a quick kiss against her cheek. Rarely did he kiss her on the lips, and whenever she turned her face to deliberately make that happen, he seemed embarrassed. “I’ll come for you at six-thirty.”
“I’ll be ready.”
Everett released her hands and hurried away to get his coat.
Mr. Waverly eventually headed for home, but not after observing her closely for another hour. He lived alone in a tiny room behind the livery, so he divided his days between watching Lionel Briggs at his forge and drinking coffee at the hardware store. Ordinarily Abby welcomed his presence. Today’s annoyance with his eavesdropping had been unusual.
She counted the day’s earnings, placed the money in a strongbox in the back room and swept the floor, starting on one side and working her way across the front of the building. The store was too big to do it all at once, so she made a point of cleaning a section each evening.
The sky had just begun to turn dark when a forceful knock sounded. Running forward, Abby opened the front door. Jonathon stepped in, followed by Brock, who helped the boy remove his neck scarf and hat.
“Come look, Mama!” Jonathon said, pointing through the windowpanes. “Brock din’t bring the wagon thith time. He rode me on hith horth! Ain’t it big?”
Abby observed the handsome gray tethered to the dock. “He’s big for sure.”
“Brock’th gonna teach me to ride all by mythelf. Won’t that be thomethin’?”
“That’ll be something, all right.”
“I’m gonna take ’im up and thow ’im my carved hortheth.”
“Jonathon, you need to wash up and eat. I’m having dinner out tonight, remember?”
“I already ate at Theke’th, Ma. Come on, Brock.” He took the man’s gloved hand, and Abby got a catch in her throat, seeing the familiarity, the worshipful expression on her boy’s face, the proud smile Brock couldn’t hide. A casual onlooker would think they’d known each other forever.
Abby tasted a grim measure of fear. “But I have to get ready.”
“We won’t bother you,” Brock said. “I’ll keep an eye on the boy while you get ready.”
“Come on, the thepth ith back here.”
Speechless, Abby watched her son tow Brock into the back room toward the stairs that led to their living quarters above. Anger simmering at Brock’s audacity, she yanked down the shades and locked the front door. After double-checking the banked fire in the potbellied stove and pouring a pail of hot water, she headed up the stairs.
Jonathon was excitedly showing Brock his carved horses when she entered her own kitchen, feeling like an intruder. She carried the bucket past them into her room. Seeing them like that, their heads together and their hair the same shimmering fair shade, her chest got tight. Jonathon deserved a father.
A simple cotton curtain separated the bedroom from the living area, and the sounds from the kitchen carried down the hall. Abby shrugged out of her work dress. Having no door on her bedroom had never bothered her until now. Now she wished for something more than flimsy fabric between her vulnerable undressed state and that unscrupulous man out there.
She bathed self-consciously in the water she’d poured into her basin. Her gaze was constantly drawn to the curtain, and every little sound nearly made her jump. Hurrying, she slopped water on the floor and spent several minutes cleaning it up. Finally dry and dusted with talcum powder, she selected her rose-colored wool skirt and cotton blouse with ruffled cap sleeves
and ruffled waistline, because she felt competent and attractive in them. She brushed out her hair, rebraiding the thick length into order. An upswept curled style would be more fashionable, but her heavy straight hair never cooperated with current fashion.
Abby buttoned her boots, picked up her reticule and pushed past the curtain. Taking a deep breath, she hurried down the narrow hall. Jonathon and Brock still sat in the kitchen, their heads bent together over a small wooden horse.
Jonathon looked up. “You look pretty, Mama!”
“Thank you.”
Brock’s blue gaze traveled over her clothing, face and hair. “If you’d told me you had plans for the evening, I’d have kept the boy at the ranch.”
“Aw, Ma!” Jonathon whined. “I coulda thayed at the ranch!”
“You always have a good time with the Spencers,” she said. “And Asa looks forward to your company.”
“I think that’th ’cuz Mizz Thpencer ain’t a very good checker player,” Jonathon confided to his new friend.
Amusement turned up one corner of Brock’s full lips, giving Abby another hitch in her chest. “Is that so?” he asked.
“This way Jonathon only goes across the hall, and I don’t have to take him out in the cold to bring him home and put him to bed.”
“I can see the advantage to that,” he replied. Relief flowed through Abby, since she’d been fully expecting Brock to insist on staying or on taking Jonathon back to the Kincaid ranch. Surprisingly, he seemed to have accepted her explanation and her wishes. “Do you have a room all your own?” he asked the boy.
“Yup. Wanna thee it?”
Brock stood, his revolvers coming into view above the tabletop and making Abby queasy. He’d hung his coat over the back of a chair as if he’d been invited to stay. “Sure do.”
Jonathon cheerfully ran ahead and flung aside the pleated fabric that covered his doorway. “Here’th my bed an’ my chetht o’ drawerth and my box o’ writin’ paper an’ them are bookth I’m learnin’ to read.”
Abby’s gaze followed Brock’s broad back as he dwarfed their kitchen, the hall and the doorway to Jonathon’s room with his height and breadth. His intrusion into their home, their life, made her feel helpless, and she hated the feeling. He had her over a barrel and he knew it. They both knew it.
The Gunslinger's Bride Page 5
