The Gunslinger's Bride

by Cheryl St. John

  She smiled gratefully.

  The men around the table exchanged knowing glances, and the attention shifted away from Matthews.

  Brock sat through several hands, Ruby at his shoulder, Matthews glaring. George called it a night for himself and the game broke up. Grabbing his coat, Brock let Ruby take his hand and lead him through the doorway to the back stairs.

  Out of sight now, Brock pulled his hand from hers. She stood on the bottom step and gave him a curious frown. Brock took a gold coin from his pocket and placed it in her palm.

  Skirts swishing, she turned and started up the stairs, then, realizing he wasn’t following, stopped and faced him. “You coming?”

  He shook his head. “Enjoy a night to yourself. On me. No offense intended.”

  She wrapped her fingers around the coin and blinked rapidly. “None taken.”

  “’Night, Ruby.”

  “Good night, Brock.”

  He left through the kitchen, the only one there to see him a Chinese woman washing glasses in a tin tub. He nodded a greeting and shrugged into his coat, quickly opening and closing the door as he let himself out into the frosty night air.

  Lionel Briggs let him into the livery, and they exchanged a few comments about the weather before Brock saddled his horse and headed for the ranch. The snow glistened beneath the luminous white moon, and he gave the gray his head, sensing his restlessness and trusting his keen ability to retrace their earlier tracks.

  Brock had defrayed the challenge from Matthews this time. The man didn’t seem the type to actually draw a gun and have a face-off, but men who had their territory threatened never let up. Matthews seemed more the type to cause dissention in a less flagrant way. Especially if he knew he wasn’t going to win in a straightforward confrontation. Brock needed to stay more alert than ever, especially watching his back. Matthews’s attack might not be from a bullet.

  Chapter Eight

  Holding an iron skillet with the corner of the white apron she wore over her beaded shirt and leather skirt, Ruth placed sausages on each man’s plate. John Whitefeather thanked his sister with a nod and waited for Caleb to pass the pitcher of syrup.

  Brock sipped strong black coffee and watched with amusement as baby Bart smeared his chubby hands in the pool of butter and syrup on his tray, then wiped it into his fair hair until the tufts stood up in spikes.

  Ruth turned from setting the skillet on the stove to discover his latest antic. Placing her hands on her hips, she gave him a loving look that clearly showed her amusement as well as her frustration. “What am I going to do with you, little one? I have calls to make this morning, and now I will have to give you a bath.”

  “If you’d let me hire someone, you’d have help with the boys,” Caleb said matter-of-factly, as though they’d had the discussion before.

  “Your husband is wise,” John told her. “A helper could share the chores and see to the children’s needs.”

  “Once again you are siding with my husband, hestatanemo,” she replied without offense.

  John glanced at Brock. “My sister’s healing skills are often needed at the reservation. Her pride makes her think she can do more than one thing at a time. And my nephew is a full-time job for one person.”

  Barton punctuated that statement by flipping a soggy chunk of flapjack from his finger to his father’s sleeve. At Caleb’s surprised look, he chortled with glee.

  Caleb smothered a laugh, finished his coffee and glanced around. “Have you seen my pipe?”

  “Perhaps you should hire someone to keep track of your pipe,” Ruth replied in a teasing tone. “It’s beside your chair over there.”

  Caleb retrieved his pipe and returned to give his wife a brief kiss. She touched his cheek tenderly and said something Brock couldn’t hear. His brother’s obvious joy and contentment with his family contrasted sharply with Brock’s chaotic situation, but he couldn’t have been happier for Caleb.

  “Don’t forget,” Ruth said, including Brock and John in her admonition, “that Asa Spencer is giving his wife an anniversary party at the Carlton Hotel this Saturday night. We’re all expected to attend.”

  “They don’t want me there,” John said.

  “Daisy spoke with me and was very certain about wanting you there,” she told him. “It will be a good chance to meet the available young women.”

  “I hardly think the fathers of Whitehorn want me dancing with their white daughters.”

  “I understand your feelings,” Ruth said gently. “But Daisy would be hurt if we didn’t attend.”

  “You can go.”

  “I am as much Cheyenne as you. This is her way of trying to make peace between the townspeople and ranchers, and show them that we are accepted.”

  “We will never be accepted, and you’re fooling yourself if you think so.”

  “John,” Caleb interrupted. “Your sister has suffered her share of rejection, but she’s willing to make this gesture for the Spencers. Anyone who doesn’t want to come because of the company has a right to stay home. But don’t let it be you.”

  John took a drink of his coffee and grimaced. “I will go. But I won’t stay long.”

  Ruth hugged him around the shoulders and poured him a fresh cup of coffee.

  John reached across the table and ruffled Zeke’s hair, and Brock wondered why the half-Cheyenne had never married. It had been a surprise to find him living at the ranch and working as foreman, though he and Caleb had been friends for many years. John wore his long black hair in a tail that hung down his broad back. Brock could only imagine how difficult it must be to find acceptance among two different peoples who were intolerant of one another.

  John noticed Brock’s look. “You riding with me to day?”

  Brock nodded. “East to look for wolves?”

  “Yes. Yesterday I found an old bull elk that had been killed. I want to follow the tracks and check the herds. We should probably bring the first-time calvers in close.”

  There was still plenty of time before calving season, but the cows with their first calves needed to be protected and eventually brought into the corrals for help.

  “Take this deer jerky in case you don’t get back for dinner,” Ruth said, handing Brock a cloth sack. She gave his arm a gentle squeeze and waved to her brother.

  The three men bundled into their coats and walked outside, where feathered flakes lit on their hats and shoulders.

  “I figured you’d take the hardware store run later in the week,” Caleb said to Brock.

  “Make a list,” he replied.

  Caleb’s mouth inched into a grin.

  John moved ahead toward the barn.

  Caleb slowed and spoke. “Got a plan yet?”

  Brock squinted toward the snow-capped mountains. “I’m gonna be a father to my boy. And I’m going to make up to Abby for taking off like I did.”

  “Interesting triangle you’ll have goin’ there.”

  “Yup. What d’you know about Matthews?”

  “Spends a lot of time at the Double Deuce.”

  “I figured that.” They reached Brock’s horse, which was tethered at the corner of the corral. Brock untied the reins and rubbed the gray’s forehead with his knuckles. “What else?”

  “Not much to know. Lives alone. Likes cards. Courting Abby.”

  “She must see something in him,” Brock mused aloud.

  “What do you suppose that is?”

  “Damned if I know.”

  Caleb puffed on the pipe he’d carried with him, and the smoke curled lazily into the morning air. “Face wouldn’t curdle milk.”

  Reins still in one hand, Brock pulled on his gloves, using his teeth for the left one. “’Spose not.”

  “Proximity says a lot.”

  “Meaning what?”

  “Meaning he was here and you weren’t. Winters are long. Anyone would get lonely.”

  Brock gave a half nod. “And appearances mean a lot to her.”

  “Like most women,” Cale
b concurred.

  “Seems she was holding tight to the belief that no one suspected Jonathon wasn’t Jed’s son.”

  “If people talked at first, it wasn’t to me.” Caleb stood aside as Brock mounted the gray. “How’re you gonna make it up to her?”

  He thought a moment. “Be there.”

  “Does Abby want you there?”

  “She will.” With a shouted, “H’yah!” he turned the gray’s head and kicked the horse into a run after John, who was already riding eastward at a good pace.

  Laine had offered to stay with Jonathon, though Abby had tried repeatedly to convince her to attend the party.

  “You know how I feel about social gatherings,” Laine told her again as she helped Abby curl and pin her hair.

  “Just because Daisy wants me there does not mean I would be comfortable with the stares and whispers.”

  “Well, it’s not right,” Abby complained.

  “Perhaps not. But it is so. And my father would never approve.” Laine wound bright green ribbons through Abby’s curls.

  “How will you find a husband?” Abby asked. “And I know you want one, so don’t deny it.”

  “My ancestors will bring me one. If I ask them.”

  Abby smiled at her in the mirror. “Does that work?”

  “Most definitely.”

  Standing, Abby presented her back. “Now pull the laces tighter.”

  “I will never understand this torture garment you insist on wearing.”

  “My waist is not as tiny as—yours. I need all the h-help I can get. Oh!”

  Laine tied the laces and studied her friend’s image in the mirror. “How does a woman do this alone?”

  “She doesn’t. Proper ladies have maids, I under stand.”

  “Yes, I read about them in the stories from the library.” Laine took up Abby’s emerald-green, satin dress and helped her into the yards of rustling fabric. “You look like a fairytale princess.”

  “I wouldn’t go that far. I’m a little too muscled from work,” Abby mused, studying her arms and waist, “and my hands are neither soft nor white.” She examined both sides of the offending appendages before plunging them into a pair of long white gloves. “My feet are a nice ladylike size, however.” Extending a stockinged foot, she wiggled delicate toes.

  “I am sure Mr. Matthews will lend all his attention to your feet this evening,” Laine replied with a raised eyebrow.

  They laughed, and Abby pulled on satin slippers, lamenting that she’d have to wear boots over them.

  “Mama, Mister Matthews is here,” Jonathon said from the doorway, emphasizing his S’s.

  “Thank you, darling. I’ll be right out.”

  “You look beautiful,” he said, his blue eyes lit with adoration.

  Abby kissed his fair head. “Thank you. Now you be a good boy for Laine.”

  “I will.”

  “I know you will. And don’t let him convince you that I said he could stay up past nine-thirty,” she said to her friend.

  “Oh, no,” Laine replied, then winked at Jonathon, who giggled.

  Abby grabbed her cloak and hurried out to where Everett waited.

  “That’s a lovely color for you,” he said, taking her wrap and helping her into it.

  Abby perched on a kitchen chair and pulled boots on over her fancy slippers.

  The Carlton Hotel’s dining room had been decorated with bright streamers, the tables and chairs arranged around the perimeter of the space, leaving a platformed area for the band, and a larger one for dancing.

  Guests had begun to arrive, and Asa and Daisy greeted each at the door. Abby knew nearly everyone, ranchers and their wives, bankers and businessmen alike, as almost everyone had been to the hardware store at some time or another in the last seven years. These occasions were always a pleasant diversion from the winter isolation and a rare chance for the citizens of Whitehorn to dress in their finery and catch up with friends and acquaintances.

  Abby greeted Haley and Jesse Kincaid. “It’s so nice to see you.”

  “And such a happy occasion,” Haley agreed.

  “Asa and Daisy are a blessing to me,” Abby told them. “They are good company, living so close and always eager to help with Jonathon.”

  Jesse nodded. “It’s good to see Daisy contented.” He wore an introspective expression, but smiled at Abby’s curious gaze. “She and my father were…friends before my father died.”

  “I didn’t know that,” Abby replied.

  When Jesse walked away to find the punch, the two women discussed the approaching birth of Mary Rowland’s child.

  A hush fell over the crowd, and Abby glanced up as Caleb and Ruth Kincaid entered the dining room. Daisy embraced each of them, as well as Ruth’s brother, his ebony mane of hair in a tail that divided his broad back. John Whitefeather, obviously uncomfortable with the hug and the situation, trailed his sister to a table. Many scrutinizing pairs of eyes followed his journey.

  Abby’s attention riveted upon Brock, however, as he accompanied his family across the room. He wore a dark suit and white shirt, a tie knotted at his tanned throat. The clothing contrasted with his fair hair, making him breathtakingly handsome. She realized she was holding her breath, a painful act inside the restricting corset, so she quickly released it.

  Haley looked at her oddly, and Everett returned with two plates, each holding a few sandwich squares. He set them on the table. “He’s got a lot of nerve coming here,” he said, holding Abby’s chair.

  She sat, her heart fluttering nervously. “Brock?”

  “No, the half-breed.”

  “The Spencers invited him.”

  “I’m sure they didn’t think he would attend.”

  “They wouldn’t have invited him if they hadn’t wanted him to come. They invited Laine, too.”

  “At least she had the sense to stay away.”

  Abby blinked at that remark. “What do you mean?”

  Everett sat beside her, speaking softly. “Only that it’s wiser to stay with one’s own kind. I didn’t mean anything else. It’s Caleb Kincaid’s business who he married, but he must know his wife and her family are not the same ilk as these folks.”

  An uncomfortable warning rang in Abby’s head at those words. What she recognized as anger made her purse her lips and study Everett’s profile, wondering if she knew him as well as she thought she had. Surely he meant no harm. Some people were conditioned by experience and frightening stories to fear Indians, no matter their bands or actual character as individuals. It was a common bigotry, but one she hoped could be diminished with education and tolerance.

  “The Kincaids are nice people, Everett,” she said softly. “Ruth does a lot of kind things for neighbors and is always willing to call on the sick. John Whitefeather has always been a prefect gentleman whenever he’s in the store.”

  “Why are you sticking up for the Kincaids all of a sudden?”

  “I’m not sticking up for the Kincaids.”

  “Yes, you are.”

  “Well, if I am, I guess it’s because you’re attacking them.”

  “And you feel some need to defend them?”

  “I would defend anyone who was unjustly criticized.”

  “Oh, really?”

  “Really.”

  “How about that murdering brother? You wanna stick up for him again now, too?”

  Abby looked down at her plate, resentment and defensiveness warring in her breast.

  The band struck up a tune just then and people moved onto the floor to dance. Hazel Wright, a widow with a dressmaking shop, approached them. “Hello, dear,” she said to Abby. “Mr. Matthews, you handsome devil.”

  “Mrs. Wright,” Everett replied, politely scrambling to his feet.

  “I haven’t seen you for quite some time,” Abby told her.

  “I haven’t been out much this winter. My hip is bothering me and I don’t trust myself on the ice. One of Big Mike’s boys comes and takes my grocery order and shops fo
r me.”

  “Well, if there’s anything you need from the hardware store, you send him to me,” Abby instructed her. “And if you need help, I’ll be glad to come—or I can send Sam.”

  “That baby come yet?”

  “Not yet.”

  “You’re not dancing with this beautiful young thing?” Widow Wright asked Everett pointedly.

  “Not just yet.”

  “Well, music shouldn’t be wasted.” She extended her arm and Everett took it. “Bear with an old woman’s clumsiness.”

  He led her to the dance floor. Abby nibbled her food and observed with an amused smile. Everett pulled a face over Widow Wright’s shoulder.

  “Where is our son tonight?”

  The question as well as the voice snapped Abby’s heart into a rapid flutter. Her first reaction was to check for anyone who may have overheard.

  “No one’s listening,” Brock said, standing over her.

  “Have a care for propriety, will you?” she whispered indignantly.

  He seated himself on the chair next to hers and spoke softly. “Where is Jonathon?”

  “He’s at home. Laine is with him.”

  “He might have come out to the ranch to play with Zeke. Ruth’s young niece is with the boys.”

  “He might have,” she said in agreement. She had no problem with Jonathon playing with Zeke or visiting at the Kincaid ranch. It was good for him to have friends and experience something other than his mother’s narrow life.

  “Next time I’ll remember and make arrangements.”

  “All right.”

  “We agreed on something,” he said, amusement lacing his tone.

  She allowed him a brief glance, noting his freshly shaved jaw and the glimmer of his blue eyes, before glancing down to discover the absence of guns tethered to his thighs, then quickly looked toward the dancers. “Where are your guns?”

  “Checked them at the door, like everyone else.”

  “What if someone crosses you and you’ve no weapon?” Her remark was meant to be cutting, since the conversation had turned uncomfortably friendly.