The Gunslinger's Bride

by Cheryl St. John

  After all that she’d been through, after condemning and hating him, she’d taken the blame upon herself in Jonathon’s eyes. Had she truly had a change of heart? Refusing to marry Matthews must have been a result of her transformed attitude.

  “Why did you take the blame?” he asked.

  “Because it’s the truth. And it’s past time that the truth be uncovered.” She explained the remaining details and assured him that Everett hadn’t seriously harmed her. “I think you should talk to him now,” she said, referring to Jonathon.

  “When?”

  “Whenever you want.”

  “How about now?”

  “That would be fine.”

  He turned, tossed tools and wire on the wagon bed and got his coat and hat. “Let’s get you to the house and warm you up first.”

  To his amazement, Abby was frank with Ruth, explaining the situation and the bruises on her face.

  Ruth made a poultice and asked Abby to allow her to treat her while they talked. The hot packs removed much of the pain and swelling from her face and jaw. Caleb entered the house at eleven, and while they ate, Abby thanked him for his years of silent support and consideration, and explained the situation to him.

  “The entire town will be buzzing in no time,” she told them, “so the more people who hear the truth from me or from one of you, the better.”

  “This is very brave of you,” Ruth told her.

  “Not so brave,” Abby denied. “Just not as cowardly as trying to keep secrets.”

  “I’ll ride back to Whitehorn with you,” Brock told her.

  “Let me go up and change.” He dipped a bucket of hot water from the well in the stove and left.

  Caleb headed back to his work.

  “You are free once again,” Ruth said. “Does this mean you will be thinking about marrying Brock?”

  No one had mentioned a word about a future for the two of them, least of all Brock. “He’s never spoken of wanting to marry me,” she told her. “And even if he did, I don’t have it in my heart to trust him.”

  “There is more trust in your heart than you are willing to look at,” Ruth replied. “You are no longer that wounded girl. Brock is no longer a young boy. Believe in the man he has become.”

  Abby thanked her for the healing poultices and the understanding friendship, and joined Brock for the ride back to town.

  Etta Larimer was sweeping the boardwalk in front of the newspaper office when they rode past, and she paused in her task to observe.

  Brock touched the brim of his hat politely. Abby waved.

  Etta waved back hesitantly, then returned to her sweep ing.

  Brock met Abby’s gaze. Had news spread already or was she imagining the curious look? Abby out riding of an afternoon instead of at work in the store was probably an oddity in itself.

  A loaded wagon sat before the dock, and Mr. Meeks and Sam were unloading the supplies.

  “Where are your helpers?” Abby called, dismounting and tying her horse to the rail.

  “Boys have a fever,” Meeks told her. “Their mama wanted ’em home today.”

  Abby started toward the heavily ladened wagon.

  “I’ll help,” Brock offered. “I might as well hang around until you get Jonathon.”

  He pitched in and, with his help, the job progressed quickly. Abby checked over the invoice sheet and paid Mr. Meeks for the trip from Butte.

  “Sam,” Abby said directly, once the three of them were alone and the door was closed. “You’re going to hear some things, so I want you to hear them from me first. The right way. The truth.”

  Her employee and friend looked from Abby to Brock. “All right.”

  “Brock is Jonathon’s father,” she said simply, then hated the rush of discomfiture that brought heat to her face. This was a difficult admission to make so boldly. “Things didn’t work out for us back then… A lot of misunderstandings and hurt feelings…and pride. But Brock has come back to start over in this town, and I want him to be a part of Jonathon’s life.”

  Sam’s expression showed only interest. “Thank you for telling me, Abby. I’ve heard talk, but never gave it much thought.” He and Brock exchanged a look. “Guess we’re both new fathers, huh?”

  “Guess so. Congratulations, by the way.”

  Sam reached a hand forward and Brock gripped it in a firm shake. “You, too.”

  And so it began, this revealing of the truth, and with it a newfound freedom. There would be those who looked down on her or shunned her, but she would deal with them with her head held high.

  She went to Laine’s for Jonathon just before it was time for school to get out. Back at the hardware store, she took their coats and watched the boy scamper toward the rear of the building. He came to a halt in his tracks before he reached the counter, where Brock stood with a mug of coffee. Abby noted his hesitation, but trusted Brock to set him at ease.

  “Daisy sent cinnamon rolls over this morning,” she said, finessing a measure of privacy for the two of them.

  “Jonathon, why don’t you take Brock upstairs and share a couple? Zeke can help me with a few chores when he gets here.”

  “Okay.” Quite naturally, Jonathon reached for Brock’s hand.

  Abby watched her son and his father head for the back stairs.

  Chapter Seventeen

  No part of Brock’s body had ever taken such a beating as his heart was taking right now. “Did you have a nice time at Miss Shan’s?”

  “Yeah.”

  He walked behind him up the stairs and followed Jonathon into the kitchen.

  Jonathon paused and looked from Brock to the covered plate on the table. “You want milk?”

  “I’d like some milk.”

  “I can get it.”

  “Okay.” Brock perched on a chair and watched the boy carry a pitcher from the ice box, then pull out a chair to reach two cups from a cupboard shelf. Watching his son perform these simple, yet somehow grown-up tasks gave Brock pleasure he hadn’t expected. He’d spent so much time regretting what he’d missed that he hadn’t taken time to appreciate the fact that from now on he was part and parcel of the boy’s life.

  Jonathon poured milk, spilling only a few drops on the tabletop, and placed a small plate in front of each of them. Then he peeled the napkin away from the plate on the table, revealing the gooey rolls. “Go ahead.”

  Loving his child more each second, Brock took a roll. “Your mother told me everything that happened last night.”

  Jonathon met his gaze. “Mr. Matthews is a really bad man.”

  “Yes, he is,” Brock replied, noting Jonathon’s careful pronunciation.

  “He called my mama bad names.” He placed a roll on his plate and licked his fingers.

  “That must’ve hurt her feelings a lot.”

  He shook his head. “Nope. Made her real mad.”

  Brock had thought this was going to be a serious and difficult discussion, but already the boy had him smiling. “How about you? Were you mad, too?”

  “Yup. And so was Dilly. He kept bitin’ his legs and feet and stuff.”

  “Good for Dilly.”

  “He’s a good dog, ain’t he?” Jonathon took a big bite.

  Brock agreed, before asking, “And your mama told you how it was between us?”

  He swallowed. “She said you’re my real father.”

  Brock’s throat tightened at the words. “Yes,” he managed to answer.

  “She said you love me a lot.”

  There was only one other person he’d ever loved as much. “I do.”

  “Can you teach me to protect my mama?” he asked, as if he’d already accepted Brock as a parent, and his love as due.

  “That’s what a father’s supposed to do, I guess, huh?”

  “I reckon. She din’t get mad about you showin’ me how to shoot the rifle.”

  Brock had been amazed about that himself. “I know.”

  “Maybe you can show me how to shoot those Colts.” He g
estured to Brock’s revolvers. “Them’s just like the ones Jack Spade has. Billy Warren says his papa thinks you’re really Jack Spade, not that Manley fella.”

  “If I was Jack Spade, what would I be doing working on a ranch and nursing sick dogs and helping your mama in her store?”

  The boy shrugged. “I guess even Jack Spade needs a holiday.”

  “Wouldn’t he travel to Europe or somewhere exciting if he needed a holiday?”

  “I reckon.” His voice held disappointment.

  “You know, Jonathon, those Jack Spade stories are only partly true. A lot of that stuff is made up to make for a better story.”

  “But there really is a Jack Spade.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Everybody knows. They wrote about him in the newspapers, and those people really seen him do stuff.”

  “What people say isn’t always what really happened,” Brock reminded him. “Just like you might hear people talking about your mother, or me and your uncle Guy. But only we know the real story.”

  “You gonna tell me?”

  Brock nodded. “I think your mama and I will tell you together…tonight.”

  The boy’s eyes sparkled. “Like a family, huh?”

  Brock couldn’t answer. He scrubbed his hand over his chin. Inquisitive, yet trusting, bright and charmingly innocent, with an elfin chin and round liquid eyes, this boy was more than any father could hope for. Brock would prove himself worthy of the boy’s love; he would make up for the past.

  It would be easier to accomplish that with his son than it would be with Abby. Jonathon already accepted him with childlike faith; Abby still didn’t know she could trust him.

  From a distance, the sound of the bell in the store clanged.

  “Don’t ya like the roll?” Jonathon asked.

  Brock had been so engrossed in the boy, he’d forgotten to eat. “I like the company better.”

  Jonathon grinned.

  Since she wanted to make a few purchases at the mercantile, Ruth came for Zeke. Abby held Bart while Ruth got Zeke into his coat, and then waved them off.

  Later, after the store was closed, and Brock had purchased dinners from the hotel for their supper, the three of them sat upstairs near the hard-coal heater and sipped from steaming mugs.

  “Mama makes the best hot cocoa in the whole world,” Jonathon declared.

  “I’ll have to take your word for it. I’ve only tasted hot cocoa once or twice.”

  “What did you always drink to keep warm?”

  “Coffee.”

  “Oh.”

  Brock exchanged a glance with Abby.

  “Wish we had a fireplace,” Jonathon said wistfully. “Like at Zeke’s house.”

  “Jed thought this was the modern way to heat,” Abby said to Brock. “And it is. But it’s missing the coziness of a real fire.”

  “Are we gonna talk about everything together?” Jonathon asked then. “Mama, Brock said—” He stopped mid-sentence. “Am I apposed to call you Brock? I mean, since you’re my real father an’ all?”

  “You can call me anything you’re comfortable with,” Brock told him.

  “Don’t seem like you’re a papa,” he said, one side of his mouth twisted in thought. “Papa was…well, he was older.”

  “Jed will stay your papa,” Brock assured him, not wanting to take away anything Jonathon had shared with the man who had raised him as his own. “He was a good papa to you.”

  “What did you call your father?” Jonathon asked.

  “I called him sir,” Brock replied. “You would have had to know him.”

  “I remember him,” Abby said. “Years ago our families were neighboring ranchers,” she told her son.

  “And you knew each other a long, long time ago?”

  “We did,” Abby replied. She told him about her brother, Guy, about how he’d fancied himself a fast shot and had been hot-tempered and quick to draw his gun for any small reason. Her story was related with no animosity toward Brock. When she said that Brock’s leaving was her fault, he interrupted to share the blame.

  “And you see,” Brock told him, “that those dime novel stories might be exciting and sound adventurous, but when men get killed, the people left behind who loved them are hurt.”

  “I never thought about that,” Jonathon replied.

  “And even if the dead man was an outlaw, the man who killed him still has to live with the fact that he took a life.”

  Abby studied Brock as though considering him from a whole new perspective. Bringing a finger beneath her eye, she quickly brushed away moisture and looked away.

  Jonathon lay with his head in Abby’s lap and absorbed the story of his uncle and the lesson it had provided. His eyelids grew heavy. “I think just Pa,” he said out of the blue.

  “What’s that?” Abby asked.

  He sat and took stock of Brock. “I think I want to call you Pa. That sounds grown-up, don’t it?”

  “It just sounds good to me,” Brock managed to answer, around a lump in his throat.

  Jonathon got to his feet, leaned over and kissed Abby on the cheek. “’Member I’m grown-up today?”

  “I remember.”

  “I’m gonna get ready for bed so Pa can tuck me in.”

  Abby thought of him snuggling with her just the night before, and knew he was making some adjustments toward maturity. “I’m sure he’ll like that very much,” she told him.

  “Come to my room in five minutes.” He held up his hand with all five fingers outstretched.

  “Five minutes,” Brock agreed.

  Jonathon ran from the room with Dilly on his heels.

  When Brock found him in his room, pajamas buttoned up crooked, the covers under his armpits and Dilly lying on the foot of the bed, he grinned. When he bent to tuck him in and Jonathon reached to hug him around the neck, an incredible warm feeling touched his heart and brought tears to his eyes.

  “I love you, Son,” he said, drawing away and looking into the eyes so like his own.

  “I love you, too…Pa.”

  Brock clamped down on the emotion and smiled through the blur. He extinguished the lamp, gave Dilly a final pat and left the room. He stood in the hall for a few minutes, dealing with the new emotions.

  Abby was rinsing their cups in the kitchen when he found her, and he stopped a few feet behind. “You’ve done a great job…with Jonathon,” he told her.

  “Jed helped,” she said.

  Brock accepted that, was grateful for it, even. He had wondered once if he could put his past behind him to become the man he wanted to be. He knew now that he would—because he wanted to be a good father to his son. If he could have a part in raising a fine boy—making a difference in his life—he could at last live at peace with himself. Even if Abby never let him make up the past to her, he could start over with Jonathon.

  But he hoped she would.

  She turned around, found him close, and took a cautious step away, obviously distancing herself.

  “Abby,” he said softly.

  “I’m a stronger person now,” she told him with a little shake of her head.

  “You were always a strong person. I liked that you had a mind of your own—knew what you wanted.”

  “No,” she stated. “I was always weak. I let everything get out of control because of it.”

  “Because of me, you mean.”

  “Because I let things happen.”

  “Things? Like what we’ve done together?”

  She only nodded.

  “Since we’re being honest and getting everything out in the open, there’s something I have to ask you,” he said.

  She brought her luminous gaze to his, her hesitation apparent.

  “Can you forgive me?”

  The question hung in the air like the retort of distant gunfire. A minute ticked by and he waited, her silence ringing in his ears.

  “I don’t hate you,” she conceded at last. “I don’t think I ever did. I just hated what I�
�d become because of you—or maybe because of my reactions to you—to us.”

  “We’re really something together,” he said softly.

  Her cheeks reddened with embarrassment—or shame?

  “Do you think it’s a weakness to want someone?” he asked.

  “If they don’t want you back,” she declared.

  “It’s never been that way between us. I’ve always wanted you just as much. More.”

  “No.” She shook her head. “Desire. You desire me. It’s different.”

  “You desire me, too. Right?” She could confuse him easily this way.

  “It’s different,” she argued. “I wanted you!” Her voice broke. “Wanted you to stay, wanted you to love me, wanted you to make a family with me.” She moved away and wrapped both hands over the back of a chair.

  He studied the lustrous braid that hung down her back, the delicate curve of her bruised cheek, the coil of fine hair at her neck. Just looking at her, he could smell the delicate lilac scent of her skin, though the smell had to be imprinted in his memory because he was standing too far away.

  She was a woman of strong passions: love, hate, resentment, desire. A woman of strength and fortitude, a prickly woman when defensive. But like a porcupine, she had a vulnerable underbelly.

  He understood now. Since her passion for him had been so strong, her loss had been agony as well. He regretted ever hurting her, ever making her lose her trust, cursed himself for crushing her girlish fancies.

  “I’m asking you to forgive me for being a fool,” he said. “I didn’t know what I wanted back then. I wouldn’t have made a good husband. I shouldn’t have taken advantage of you, because I knew you were in love with me. I knew I wasn’t capable of being what you wanted, and that scared me.

  “I’ve admitted I was a coward. I’ve done everything but stand on my head and spit nickels to change your mind about me. I’m just damned sorry, Abby. What more is there?”

  She turned halfway back, glanced at him and away. “It’s over,” she said. “It’s past and behind us. Let’s forget it.”

  “And you’ve forgiven me?” he asked.

  “Why do you have to make me say the words? Can’t you just let it go?”