The Gunslinger's Bride

by Cheryl St. John

  A night on her divan gave him a crick in his neck, and he woke constantly. Occasionally, he checked on the dog or fed the heater. By the time morning arrived he’d gone over every detail of their explosive joining the night before. She had warned him. He couldn’t fault her for not being honest. She hated him more than ever.

  But did she truly? Or was it her lack of control that she detested? If he’d made any progress in his quest to prove his sincerity and win her trust, it surely wasn’t apparent.

  Seduction hadn’t been in his plan. Desire just erupted between the two of them as naturally as fire consumed dry tinder. And since last night had proved that she was still as crazy for him as he was for her, he was assured he was on the right track.

  He folded the bedding and left before Jonathon awoke and found him there, but returned as the two of them were eating breakfast.

  “Hey, Mithter Brock,” his son said with a welcoming smile. “We got more oatmeal in the pan—enough for you.”

  “Why thanks, partner,” he replied, and, after hanging up his coat and holster, seated himself at the table.

  Abby, a clean white apron over her church dress, spooned globs of cereal into a bowl and placed it before him without ever meeting his eyes.

  “Thought I’d stay with the dog while you go to church,” Brock said.

  “Mama thaid we could give him more broth when we wath done here,” Jonathon told him. “He’th prob’ly real hungry.”

  Abby didn’t sit back down, though her bowl was only half-empty. She took some broth from the ice box and heated it in a pan.

  “Do you go to the Epithcopal church?” the boy asked.

  “I didn’t ever thee you at our church.”

  Abby still hadn’t looked at him. “I—uh, haven’t gone to church for a long time,” Brock replied.

  “You din’t?” Jonathon said, eyes wide in his innocence. “You could come with me an’ Mama.”

  “I have to take care of the dog,” he replied.

  Abby set a bowl on the table with a thud.

  “I’m done, Mama.” Jonathon pushed his own bowl away and stood. “I’ll feed the dog.” He took the dish and carried it carefully toward the other room.

  “Got a lot to repent of this morning?” Brock asked when they were alone.

  “You keep your gloating to yourself,” she told him, pointing a spoon. “You’d be sorry, too, if you had a decent bone in your body.”

  “I’m not a bit sorry,” he replied.

  “I’m so surprised.”

  “And you’ve been reacquainted with every bone in my body, so you’d know what’s there and what’s not.”

  With a sputter, she threw the spoon, missing his head, but hitting a cupboard.

  He couldn’t hold back a chuckle. Her skin was pink and glowing, her green eyes ablaze with an internal fire. It seemed the night had done her a world of good. “Glad you haven’t lost your pluck.”

  “Anything I ever lost, you took,” she said hotly.

  “Oh, no,” he disagreed. “You gave it all up willingly.”

  Turning away, her shoulders tight, her spine stiff, she rested her hands on the counter and let her head fall back. “I hate you.”

  He got up and carried his empty bowl to the pan of water and dropped it in before pausing behind her. He studied the nape of her delicate neck, where her auburn hair had been pulled up and fashioned into a knot. He remembered kissing that very spot and the way she’d shivered and melted against him.

  “You just keep telling yourself that,” he said, and saw his breath flutter the fine hairs. He strode away to join his son.

  He couldn’t spend all of his nights at Abby’s. He did care about her reputation, no matter what she believed. The dog improved enough so that Brock came in the morning to carry the mutt down the outside stairs and stand with him in the alley while he did his business. He returned at night to do the same.

  On one of those return trips in the middle of the week, Abby had a late customer, so Brock joined Jonathon in the back room. The child jubilantly showed him that the dog could get up and take a few shaky steps to retrieve a rubber ball. The boy scratched the animal’s fur and let him lick his cheek. “He liketh playin’ ball, don’tcha, Dilly?”

  “Dilly?”

  “That’th hith name.”

  “I see. How’d he get that name?”

  “Well, I wath eatin’ one o’ Mama’th pickleth, and he kept lickin’ the juithe off my hand. He liketh pickleth.”

  “Dilly. Well, that’s as good of a name as any. Do you think he’s well enough to move now?”

  Jonathon’s face fell. He looked at the pet with yearning in his luminous eyes. “Where ya gonna take ’im to?”

  “The ranch. I just had to make sure he could travel.”

  “Doeth he have to go, Brock? Couldn’t you leave ’im here? I can take good care of ‘im. I’ll feed ‘im and take ’im out to the alley an’ everything. He won’t be no trouble.”

  “Well…” Brock rubbed his chin and considered the boy’s sincere wish. “That would be fine with me, but your mama is the one who would have to decide.”

  “Can we athk her?”

  Brock nodded. Jonathon leaped up and flung himself against Brock’s chest in an enthusiastic display. Brock’s heart opened completely to this child he’d grown to love more than he’d ever dreamed possible. He placed his hand on his son’s hair and stroked it, a knot forming in his throat.

  The curtain moved and Abby appeared in the doorway. Her expression flashed from tenderness to indifference like quicksilver.

  “Mama?” Jonathon asked excitedly. “Brock thaid I can keep Dilly. Can I? I’ll take care of him and you won’t even know he’th here. I’ll feed ’im and let ’im out….” He went through his list of promises, while Abby held her face impassive. “Can I plee-eth keep him?”

  She let her gaze touch Brock for the first time all week, but returned it rapidly to Jonathon and the dog. “I guess it couldn’t hurt to have a watchdog for the store,” she said finally.

  “Yes!” Jonathon jumped up and down and did a little jig around Dilly, who thumped his tail and yipped a couple of times, as if celebrating his good fortune.

  Jonathon stopped and ran to his mother. “Thank you, Mama.” He hugged her around the waist.

  She returned the hug as best she could from her position above him. “Don’t thank me. Mr. Brock brought him to you. He’s the one responsible.”

  “Thank you, Brock.” The “mister” that he’d recently dropped when addressing Brock was blatantly noticeable.

  “You’re welcome, Son.”

  The word had slipped out, natural-like. Jonathon thought nothing of it, enamored as he was with his new pet. He gave Brock another hug and knelt to scratch Dilly’s ears.

  Abby had noticed, however. Her shoulders stiffened and tears came to her eyes. She blinked them back and turned away to remove her apron.

  Brock would feel better with a dog here to alert them to anyone who might approach the place during the night. This twist of events had turned out better than if he had planned it, he thought, mollified. Good old Dilly had provided a night of passion with Abby, a couple of hugs from his son, and now would look after them when Brock couldn’t be here.

  After a trip to the alley, Brock carried the mutt up the stairs and got him settled.

  “Can you thtay and play checkerth with me while Mama maketh dinner?” Jonathon asked. “Mama, can he?”

  She had washed up and tied on a fresh apron. Brock had begun to realize how hard Abby worked, morning to evening in the store, and then taking care of Jonathon and their quarters.

  “Why don’t I go buy us supper from the hotel?” he suggested. He would have asked her to go to the hotel for a meal, but knew she’d never agree to be seen with him.

  Abby seemed hesitant to accept the offer, though he knew the idea had to be appealing. “I’m going,” he said. “You two play checkers till I get back.”

  Abby watched him go
, her emotions ragged after the last few days of constant self-reproach, and his insistence on showing up morning and night. Saying the dog was Jonathon’s should take the responsibility away from Brock now. The more he ingratiated himself into Jonathon’s graces, the harder it was to discourage him.

  They had played three games before Brock returned with their meal. “I had to make a deposit for their lousy plates, can you believe it?” he asked.

  “I’ll return them,” Abby assured him.

  He had selected huge cuts of beef, fresh cooked vegetables and spicy fried potatoes. Abby enjoyed the treat tremendously, and managed to thank him when they were finished.

  “Shall I carry Dilly down one more time?” Brock asked Jonathon. The boy agreed, and the two of them bundled up to take the dog out. Upon their return, Brock gathered his hat and guns and wished them a good night.

  “I really like Brock, Mama,” Jonathon told her as he put his checkers away.

  She didn’t know how to reply, so simply nodded. She remembered the way Brock had called him “Son.” It had sounded more like an endearment than just a casual term, and maybe that’s because she was sensitive to everything the man said and did, as though trying to find an underlying motive. As though she needed to preserve his true nature in her mind, so she wouldn’t be caught off guard.

  Jonathon took out his schoolbooks and went to work on a paper. Abby used the extra time she had gained by not cooking to wash out a few of her underclothes and stockings. She hung them on a rope she stretched across the kitchen. Some time later, there was a knock at the door.

  Abby’s heart leaped nervously, and Jonathon scurried out of his chair to answer it.

  Chapter Twelve

  “Oh, hi.”

  “Where’s your mother?” Everett moved past Jonathon to step into the kitchen and close the door. “Hello, Abby.”

  “Guess what I got?” Jonathon asked.

  He glanced down. “I came to speak with your mother.”

  “I got a dog. Hith name’th Dilly. Wanna thee him?”

  “Hiz name iz Dilly,” Everett corrected, enunciating the S’s. “Do I want to s-see him? Not particularly.” He glanced around and spotted the line of damp clothing. “You do your own laundry?”

  Defensive anger had welled up in Abby’s breast. “Why don’t we step into the other room and let Jonathon do his schoolwork?” she suggested.

  Everett followed her to the sitting room, where the dog raised his head from his mat and wagged his tail.

  “Good God, where did that pathetic-looking mongrel come from?”

  “Jonathon’s been nursing him to health. He’s done a fine job of it, too.”

  “Why you’d allow the creature in your home is more than I can understand,” her fiancé said.

  “Everett, please don’t correct Jonathon’s speech again,” she said plainly.

  “He’s seven years old and still talks like a baby.”

  “He’ll grow out of it if we don’t make him self-conscious. He’s just a child.”

  “Very well,” he said. “I’ll respect your wishes.”

  “Thank you.”

  “I haven’t had a chance to leave work the last few days, and I wanted to ask you to have dinner with me Friday evening.”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “You’ll find someone to stay with the boy.”

  “Yes,” she replied, then realized he never involved Jonathon in their time together.

  “Do you want to sit?” she asked.

  He glanced at the divan, then brushed his hands across his black coat. “Thank you, no.”

  “I’ll take your coat.”

  “No, I’ll be going now.” He walked back though the kitchen. “Until Friday.”

  “Good night.” She slipped the lock into place and turned to study her son.

  He glanced up from his figures on the paper. “He don’t like dogz, I gues-s.”

  “Some people don’t.”

  “We won’t have to get rid of Dilly when you marry him, will we?”

  “No,” she promised. “Dilly’s yours to keep. I give my word.” Just as she’d given her word to marry Everett.

  She avoided Brock the rest of the week, assuring him by Friday that Dilly was strong enough to travel the stairs on his own. Daisy and Asa were happy to have Jonathon for the evening, so Abby bathed and dressed in blessed quiet. When Everett came for her, she donned her boots and coat and accompanied him to the hotel.

  They shared a pleasant meal, and she was able to forget his behavior around Jonathon for an hour or so.

  To her chagrin, Brock and John Whitefeather showed up and were shown to a nearby table.

  She looked the other direction, but felt Brock’s gaze boring into her as if she was an insect pinned to a display board.

  “I’m appalled at the riffraff they allow in this establishment,” Everett complained.

  She attempted to change the subject. A few minutes later, a bottle of wine was delivered to their table.

  “From the gentleman over there,” the waitress said, nodding.

  Brock gave them a sardonic salute.

  Abby fumed.

  Everett examined the bottle. “Excellent choice. Thank the man for us.”

  Abby stared at him.

  The waitress moved away, and Everett uncorked the bottle and filled their glasses.

  “I don’t care for any, thank you,” she said stiffly.

  “A virtuous woman never touches spirits,” he said with an appreciative note in his voice.

  If Brock hadn’t been watching them, she would have been tempted to snatch the bottle from Everett’s hand and crack him over the head with it. The mental picture alone was satisfying.

  Everett took a blissful sip.

  Brock raised a brow at Abby.

  She looked away. “Might we visit your place tonight?”

  Everett’s eyebrows rose. “I live at the boardinghouse, as you well know. Any fraternizing with guests of the opposite sex is prohibited.”

  “Couldn’t you get me in without anyone seeing?”

  “I wouldn’t even attempt it, and I’m shocked that you would ask.”

  “It just seems our time together is so brief,” she re plied.

  “That will change once we’re married,” he said.

  That’s what she’d hoped about everything. He drank another glass of wine, then instructed the waitress to cork it and wrap it so he could take it home.

  He walked her toward the hardware store, and Abby pulled her collar up against the cold. Once inside, Dilly met them. Abby closed the door and locked it. “Would you like coffee?”

  “Tea perhaps.” Everett avoided the dog by stepping away.

  “Sit in the other room while I prepare us a pot.”

  He moved away, Dilly sniffing after him and emitting low growls.

  Abby shushed him before boiling water and steeping tea, then carried a tray into the sitting room. She spooned sugar into her fiancé’s cup and handed the hot drink to him on a saucer.

  “Thank you.”

  She took her own cup and sat beside him.

  After a lengthy silence, she asked, “Where do you usually take your supper?”

  “Mrs. Harroun provides breakfast and supper for her boarders,” he replied.

  “I’ve heard she’s a good cook.”

  “Adequate.”

  “Do you visit with the other boarders of an evening?”

  He sipped and lowered the cup. “Occasionally.”

  “Surely you don’t stay in your room alone every night.”

  “I’m not much for mixing with the other boarders.”

  Abby set her tea down. “I’m curious about something. Before you were—interested in my company, did you have someone else in mind to court?”

  “Why do you ask?”

  “I don’t know. I guess I thought a handsome bachelor like yourself would be more interested in someone younger. Someone who’d never been married before.”

&nbs
p; “You’re not that old,” he replied.

  He wouldn’t kill her with gushing compliments anytime soon. “Seems I recall you were seeing one of the Cooper girls some time back.”

  “She married a rancher from up north.”

  “Women aren’t plentiful out here,” Abby said. “I guess I was a prospect just because I was a female.”

  He gave her an odd look.

  She shrugged in resignation.

  “You’re insinuating I’m not discriminating, which I assure you is not the case.”

  “Good. Glad to know that not just anyone would do.”

  “You’re behaving rather strangely, Abby.”

  “Am I? A woman wants to be assured that the man she’s going to marry finds her desirable.”

  He thrust his chin out above his collar in a gesture of discomfort.

  “Do you find me desirable, Everett?”

  “Without question.”

  “I don’t just mean as marriage material. I mean as a partner…you know.”

  His ears turned red. “I don’t think this is an appropriate conversation.”

  “Between two people who are engaged? Why ever not?”

  “Ladies don’t talk about such things.”

  “I see.” She took his cup and placed it on the low serving table. “Will you kiss me a few times, then—without us talking about it, of course?”

  He turned toward her, his expression wary, and lifted an arm to the back of the divan. His gaze explored her face and rested on her lips. He swallowed.

  If she didn’t know better, she would swear he was afraid. But what did he have to fear? Perhaps men were nervous about a woman’s acceptance of them. That was it. She could assure him. In the back of her mind a faint taunt rang: My God, Abby, you’d eat him alive. She blocked it out.

  Seconds ticked past as she waited for him to lean forward or take her in his arms. Beginning to feel as nervous as he looked, she touched her hair at her neck and gave him a weak smile.