The Gunslinger's Bride

by Cheryl St. John

  He hung the cloth over the bowl’s edge and blew out the lamp, plunging the room into darkness. The sound of him removing his dungarees was loud in the sudden stillness. “Where is Caleb and Ruth’s room?” she thought to ask.

  “At the other end of the hall, by Zeke’s. John is a safe distance away, too. There’s an empty room between us and anyone else.”

  She opened the covers to welcome him, and he wrapped her in his strong embrace. Abby gratefully snuggled into the warmth and comfort of his arms, pressed herself against his hard limbs and sleek skin and sighed with pleasure. She felt safe here…secure.

  When she sought his lips in the darkness, he complied by kissing her mouth and drawing her tongue into his. When she needed air, he sensed it and kissed her neck, nipped her chin and her shoulder. When she craved his hands on her body, he satisfied her every wish by plucking her nipples teasingly, then flattening his rough palms over her breasts and intensifying the sensation.

  Abby didn’t have a need that Brock didn’t anticipate and cater to. Once she even thought she need only imagine her desire and it became hers beneath his skillful attention.

  He gritted his teeth and withstood her intimate explorative caresses, tensing and releasing quick breaths. The touches he returned had her clinging to him and holding her breath in sweet expectation.

  He pulled her beneath him, entered her and rode her pleasure to its quivering climax, then jerked away and spilled himself on her belly. Reaching for the cloth, he gently wiped her clean and kissed her tenderly. The interruption was unexpected, forcing her to remember their situation. The last time, neither one of them had thought about the chance they were taking. This time he had protected her. He might have planted his seed in her to force her to his will, but he hadn’t. He had thought more carefully than she. And in doing so, he had changed.

  It was then, in the darkness, with the air cooling her damp skin, that she remembered Everett.

  Brock cradled her for hours, touching her hair, kissing her temple, her shoulder, and she slept. When he tiptoed from the room in the early-morning darkness, she awoke at the loss of warmth. His remembered tenderness, his scent and the gentle loving cocooned her and she slept again.

  When she came fully awake, the sun streamed through the part in the drapes and created a beam of light on the carpeted floor. Abby sat and blinked, orienting herself, holding the sheet to her naked body. The night came back to her on a sensual wave of memory. She thought of the total abandon with which she had given herself to Brock, and how the fact that she was engaged to be married hadn’t entered her mind until afterward. Even the last time she and Brock had made love, she’d never once thought of her fiancé. What kind of woman was she?

  Distant gunshots reverberated, rousing her from her reverie. They echoed again, and she wondered who had cause to be firing a gun on Sunday morning. This close to the house, they wouldn’t be hunting.

  Abby discovered a note from Brock on the bureau, assuring her she was alone upstairs and letting her know he’d heated a tub of water for her across the hall.

  Abby donned the borrowed wrapper, gathered her clothing, the soap and towels, and ventured across the deserted hall. An inviting bathing chamber surprised her, and the water he’d promised was still warm. She sank into it and enjoyed the luxury.

  Everett didn’t carry a gun. He didn’t try to charm her or seduce her. He had a stable position in town, was a responsible citizen. She had wanted to marry him because he didn’t make her lose her head; that was the truth of it. She’d felt safe with him because he couldn’t possibly hurt her. No matter what he did, he’d never break her heart… because she would never give it to him. He didn’t have the power.

  That was why Brock frightened her. He had the ability to crush her heart to a pulp.

  But only if she gave it to him again. Her future happiness depended on keeping herself safe from that possibility. So far she hadn’t done so well in resisting him, and her weakness was scandalous. Why, then, did being with him seem so right…so pure?

  She dried off and surveyed her clothing, which didn’t look too bad. Refreshed and dressed, Abby straightened Brock’s room, made his bed and hung her towels to dry before making her way down the stairs. The house was silent, her steps creaking the floorboards as she checked for signs of the Kincaid family or her son.

  A kettle of hot water sat on the kitchen stove, so she made tea and sipped a steaming cup. The back door opened and Brock came in from outside, cold air swirling in around him.

  He looked so incredibly good with his skin ruddy from the cold, his hair tossed around his face—a tall, beautiful man who filled a room with his presence. A smile broke across his familiar face when he saw her, and her recalcitrant heart fluttered. “You’re up.”

  “Shamefully late,” she agreed with a blush. “I can’t imagine what your family thinks of me.”

  “They think nothing, because they all left early to visit the reservation.”

  “Jonathon, too?”

  “Jonathon, too. He’ll love it. Zeke will introduce him to his cousins. There’s a plate in the oven for you. Eat and then I’ll take you for a ride. I’ve even hitched a buggy. One of the hands was heading toward Whitehorn and I asked him to pay a call on Sam, see if he’d go over to the store and let Dilly out.”

  “Oh, Dilly!” she said with another twinge of guilt. “I forgot.”

  Brock went to the oven, pulled out her plate and stuck a couple of bricks in. “For your feet,” he said.

  “You’ll spoil me.” She tasted the frybread and spicy potatoes, finding them delicious.

  Brock leaned over her, his coat brushing her shoulder, and said beside her ear, “You deserve to be spoiled once in a while.”

  Warmth spread through her limbs. Abby turned her face to see his eyes, so blue, so seemingly earnest, and wished with all her heart that this was what her life could be like forever.

  He kissed her lips, and she watched his lashes flutter down. His mouth was cold, his hair and skin smelling of outdoors.

  But forever was a risk she wasn’t willing to bet on. She had a son to think about now, besides herself, and she hadn’t done a very wise job of making choices for him so far. As usual, when Brock was around, she lost her perspective. Everett came to mind, and she ended the kiss to eat her breakfast.

  Once she’d finished, Brock gathered her warm outer clothing, helped her with her boots and carried the hot bricks out to the waiting buggy.

  A solitary black mare had been harnessed to the rig, and she stepped out at a brisk pace at Brock’s prompting.

  “Where are we going?” Abby asked.

  Brock glanced at her lovely face, her curious, yet troubled green eyes, and gave her a smile. “Not far. You’ll see.”

  She rode beside him, snuggled into the blanket he’d wrapped around her, and from time to time pointed out a bird or a small animal. Once they saw an old bull elk watching them from a stand of bare cottonwoods.

  Brock guided the rig to the settler’s cabin and stopped in the clearing. Animal tracks led back and forth in the snow, and a squirrel chattered at them from a nearby limb.

  “This is my land,” he told her, watching her face for a reaction.

  She glanced around and back at him. “Yours?”

  He nodded. “The sections I inherited from my father. I’ve mapped them out and made plans for spring.”

  “What kind of plans?”

  “A house. New barns and corrals.” He jumped down and came around for her. “Not much to see yet, I guess.” He glanced at the scenery he’d been so enamored with since deciding on this place. “Want to walk some?”

  She let him help her down, her boots immediately becoming engulfed in the deep snow, her dress hem dragging.

  “I picked this spot for the water and the windbreaks. The house will face south…over here. With a big wide porch for sitting in the summer.”

  She surveyed his land, her nose red from the cold, but she said nothing. What had he wa
nted her to say? He’d wanted to show her this. Show her he was staying. Convince her. Maybe she wouldn’t believe him until the house was built and the ranch was in operation…after it was too late and she’d married Matthews. She was just stubborn enough to continue with her plans, even though he’d proved to her that she wanted him.

  “Be a good place to raise a family, wouldn’t it?” he asked, surveying the mountains.

  “It would,” she agreed. “What is this place?” she asked, gesturing at the cabin.

  “It’s been here for years. Probably before Kincaids owned the land. I plan to use it while the house is being built.”

  He watched her exhale white clouds into the air, and realized that bringing her here didn’t prove anything, least of all his dependability. He would have to earn her trust. “Abby?”

  She turned luminous green eyes on him.

  She’d changed since last night; she held herself less rigidly, hadn’t said a heated word yet. She was somehow softer, more vulnerable, and he remembered her agonized tears. He’d never felt so close to anyone in his life—and it wasn’t just the sex. It was the intimacy of sharing what had been held so tightly inside, recognizing how he’d hurt her, and admitting his regret.

  Could she forgive him? He didn’t know how to ask.

  She was waiting for him to say something. Instead he shook his head and looked away, feeling inadequate, angry at himself.

  A brisk wind tugged at his hat and he secured it.

  “Well, I’m sure it’s a nice place for a house,” she said at last.

  He studied the mountains, the bare trees and the snow-laden ground before turning back. He didn’t know what he’d accomplished by bringing her here; it had just seemed crucial to do so.

  The horse neighed and shook her head, jingling the harnesses. She reared up suddenly, bucking the buggy precariously. Brock darted forward to calm her, but she shied away from him and continued her nervous prancing. He grabbed her halter and pulled her head down, placing his hand over her nose.

  He scanned the nearby shrubs and spotted the source of her agitation. A lean gray wolf surveyed them from a distance of twenty feet. Holding the horse with his left hand, Brock drew the .45 from his right hip. “Abby, move slowly and come around behind me. Don’t get too close to the horse.”

  She spotted the wolf and alarm crossed her features. She did as he asked, but instead of avoiding the horse, she stepped to the other side and took hold of the halter, soothing the more with soft words.

  “Stay between her and the wolf, so she can’t see it, and keep your hand over her nose.”

  “Are you going to shoot it?” she asked, using the same calm tone he had.

  “Not if I don’t have to. Maybe it’ll move on.”

  “What if it has a pack nearby? Maybe we should unharness the mare and let her run.”

  He didn’t spare her a glance. “Then what will we do?”

  “Then you can go get her when it’s clear.”

  The horse reared up and it took both of them to keep her from overturning the buggy.

  “Or maybe we should just get in the buggy and leave,” Abby suggested.

  “Not as spooked as she is,” he replied. “She’d spill us out in no time.”

  “Well, then, what do you suggest?” she asked.

  “That you have a little patience and shut up,” he told her.

  Chastened, Abby kept silent and watched the wolf. By and by, two more joined it, both smaller, one obviously nursing pups.

  Brock cursed under his breath. The click of his trigger being thumbed back was loud. The hair on her neck rose and Abby held her breath in trepidation.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Brock’s gaze narrowed.

  Abby contemplated his impassive expression.

  “Wolves kill calves, Abby,” he told her.

  She knew. “Yes.”

  “I’ll only get one and the others will run.”

  “Don’t kill the mother,” she pleaded.

  “I really should, you know.”

  “I know,” she said again.

  Without seeming to take aim, he raised the gun and pulled the trigger. The gunshot reverberated loud in Abby’s ears. Barks and yelps echoed. The horse whinnied and sidestepped and Abby hung on. She had squeezed her eyes shut, but opened them to see the male wolf lying lifeless on the snow, a neat hole in his head, the others nowhere in sight. Her heart raced as though she’d been running, but relief sliced through her cold limbs.

  Brock holstered his gun and calmed the horse. Abby looked from the dead predator to Brock’s grim face. The regret in his eyes made it plain he hadn’t wanted to do it, but shooting the wolf had been his only choice. She’d seen that look once before—the day he’d shot Guy. How had she ever imagined Brock and her brother as being the same? Her only excuse was foolishness, youth. Brock wasn’t the man she’d made him out to be all those years.

  “I—I heard shots this morning,” she said, and her words sounded funny in her ears.

  He nodded once and met her eyes squarely. “I was teaching Jonathon to shoot a rifle.”

  A resigned sadness filled her chest and her heart. A year ago—a month ago—she would have shrieked and stormed and accused him of leading her son along a deadly path of destruction. She’d heard all of Brock’s arguments and they had never made a difference—until now. After this, after seeing the need for safety, which she already knew, but had denied, she understood the necessity for self-defense.

  What if Jonathon had been with them and Brock hadn’t been wearing a gun? What if the horse had run off with the buggy and they’d been left here without protection? She’d always known. A man could be thrown from his horse and left on foot. There were a hundred dangers in this untamed land, the least of them wild beasts. “A boy should learn how to take care of himself,” she said finally.

  Brock’s usually stoic expression revealed his surprise at her accepting words. Of course he’d be shocked; she’d berated him at every opportunity for carrying a gun. A person could get hurt with a knife or an ax, too, but that didn’t mean they weren’t necessary tools. She’d been a foolish, spiteful, hurt girl for a lot of years. For her son’s sake, she had to let the fear go.

  Once the mare was calm, Brock lifted Abby into the buggy and headed back to the ranch. She waited in the barn with him while he unhitched the horse, brushed and fed her. Jonathon’s gelding nickered on the way past.

  “Jonathon rode to the reservation with someone else?”

  “With John,” Brock answered.

  Abby stopped to greet the horse. “Has he named him?” she asked, scratching the animal’s forehead.

  “He wanted to name him Jack. I told him to think some more.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “Jack,” he explained. “After the gunfighter in the dime novels.”

  “Oh.” She tilted her head. “And you wouldn’t like that?”

  “I didn’t think you would. Besides, those stories are just glorifying a job that isn’t all that glamorous.”

  “Spoken like one who knows.”

  He shrugged and leaned a shoulder against the stall.

  “You’ve read them?” she asked. “The books?”

  “James loaned me one.”

  “I asked Asa to stop reading them to Jonathon,” she told him. “Do you think that was wrong?”

  “I don’t know,” he replied. “Boys like to hear about adventures. Robin Hood was an outlaw.”

  “You don’t think the stories would influence him to want to take up that kind of life? Like…like Guy did?”

  Brock’s blue eyes were penetratingly dark in the shadowy barn. “You’re asking me as though you care about my opinion, Abby.”

  Ignoring him, she looked back at the horse and gave him a final pat on the neck. Brock took her hand and led her from the barn.

  The family returned within the hour. Jonathon wore a beaded necklace given to him by a new friend on the reservation. He excitedly showed Abby and
proceeded to tell her about the food and the tents and the fires, and described the children Zeke had introduced him to.

  “I hope it’s okay that Jonathon went with us,” Ruth said as Abby helped her prepare a meal. “Brock thought you could use the rest.”

  Wondering if Ruth knew Brock had been with her in her room last night, Abby’s cheeks grew warm. “I didn’t mind a bit.”

  Many of the townspeople snubbed Ruth and John, but the Kincaids surely knew by now that Abby wasn’t one of them.

  After supper, Caleb helped his wife clean up the kitchen. John and Zeke played a game of checkers, and Brock showed Jonathon a treasure trove of wooden toys stored in a window seat. “They belonged to me and my brothers when we were your age.”

  Abby smiled at Jonathon’s delight at playing with the miniature carved soldiers. He built a fort from notched blocks, and Brock helped him with the stockade.

  “I’d better get you home,” Brock said at last, ruffling the boy’s hair and glancing up at Abby.

  Jonathon turned a pleading gaze on his mother.

  “You have school tomorrow,” she reminded him.

  “Can Mama come back again?” he asked, his blue eyes wide and sincere. “She likes it here, I think.”

  “Your mama can come back anytime she likes.” Brock gave Abby a warm smile.

  Coming back probably wasn’t a good idea. She was already terrified of Jonathon becoming too attached to Brock. They needed to put a safe distance between them for a while—she needed to distance herself because she had no stores of reserve when it came to the man.

  Abby thanked the Kincaids and accompanied Jonathon to the yard, where Brock had stopped the buggy.

  “I thought we’d ride!” Jonathon said.

  “It’s cold tonight, partner,” Brock replied. “We need to keep your mama warm.” He helped them into the vehicle and tucked blankets around mother and son.

  The moon reflected from the glistening countryside, while a light dusting of new snow fell and created a magical world. They drew close to town and, for the first time in years, Abby felt as though the streets and buildings were an imposed restriction.