The Gunslinger's Bride

by Cheryl St. John

  “I understand, Abby.”

  “I know you do. And that’s why I was afraid. That and a lot of other reasons. If I couldn’t love you, I had to hate you—I had to hate myself. You said I was strong because I knew what I wanted. But what I wanted I couldn’t have, and so I told myself I didn’t want it. I told myself I didn’t love you. I told everyone I could that you were a detestable, vile excuse for a human being, and then I started to believe it.

  “Until you came back…until I was forced to see who you really are and what I’d become.”

  “You were hurt,” he said. “Hurt and young and scared, that’s all.”

  “But you see,” she went on, “if I forgave you, then I would have to forgive myself. And if I forgave both of us, then I would risk loving you again.”

  “And you love me, don’t you?”

  “Sure of yourself, aren’t you?” she asked, tears threat en ing.

  “About some things.” Stepping toward her, he took her hands, and she knew he could feel her trembling. “I’m sure I can stay here now. Nothing will ever make me leave again. Nothing.”

  “I believe you.” She’d seen him slip those playing cards into Linc Manley’s pocket so that it would look like the man who had died was the famous Jack Spade. Why would he do that unless he was Jack Spade and he wanted to put that entity to rest once and for all?

  She had never wanted anything as much as she wanted this man in her life, wanted him to have and to hold forever.

  “Forgive me,” she begged softly. “Like I’ve forgiven you.”

  Brock wrapped his arms around her and pressed her to his chest comfortingly. “You don’t need my forgiveness, Abby.”

  She pulled back enough to slug his chest with a closed fist. “Don’t tell me what I need! I know what I need. I held on to those feelings of anger and resentment, and I talked bad about you to everyone. I blamed you for things we did together, without taking responsibility, and I need forgiveness!”

  He grabbed her hand. “All right, woman, I forgive you.”

  She laughed, but it came out a sob. “That’s better.”

  “Shall we drink our coffee now?” he asked, his expression almost teasing. “That is why you brought me up here, isn’t it?”

  “I brought you up here to tell you I forgave you and that I love you, but you make everything so—so difficult.”

  His face did change then, a perceptible flutter of eyelashes and the flare of a nostril. It was a heady feeling to crack the steel-plated armor of a man like Brock Kincaid. Abby experienced the satisfaction of a personal victory.

  “I love you,” she said again, testing the power of those words.

  A luminous sheen in his blue eyes told her she’d shaken him, but he said nothing. Her heart softened. Fluttered. This fearless man, who fought outlaws and faced down gunfighters without a quiver, trembled when she made love to him…wept when she professed her love. Yes, he loved Jonathon—but he loved her, too. Had loved her first.

  She smiled through her own tears and framed his be loved face in her hands. “I love you,” she said again, this time a heartfelt promise, rather than a confession or a test. “And I want you. Forever.”

  He hauled her up against him and kissed her hard, parting her lips, tasting her, leaving the buttery taste of corn bread on her tongue. This kiss was a melding of souls, a blend of cleansing and forgiving in the form of a greedy consummation. She released his cheeks to wrap her arms around his neck and cling to him. That he could really be hers at last was a joy that filled her mind and her heart.

  Experiencing the liberation of not hating herself for wanting him like this, she gave herself over in newfound freedom. Happiness welled from the depths of her being in the form of tears.

  Brock released her and, holding her hands, knelt and gazed up. “You’ll marry me, Abby.”

  The laugh she emitted sounded more like crying. “Was that a question?”

  He gripped her hands. “You know I love you—say you’ll marry me.”

  That was the best proposal she could hope for, so she nodded her agreement. Threading her fingers into his silky hair, she leaned forward and pressed her lips to his, kissed his eyes, his forehead. He gripped her bottom through her skirts and petticoats, forcing her to straighten, and pulled her hips toward him, pressing his face into her skirt.

  Abby’s heart pounded.

  He got to his feet and pressed himself against her.

  She reached for the buttons of his shirt.

  “I probably smell like I’ve been working all morning,” he said.

  She continued to open the front of his shirt. “I have hot water and soap.”

  “That’s sounds like a proposition.”

  “If I’m going to trust you, I want you to trust me, too,” she said.

  “I trust you.”

  “Then show me your gun.”

  He stilled, as if wondering what she was asking.

  “Show me that one,” she said, pointing to the revolver at his right hip. The one she’d seen his hand on.

  Hesitantly, he drew it from the leather holster.

  “Now show me the bullets.”

  He knew now what she was asking to see; she recognized the decision he made to comply.

  He turned the barrel away, deftly thumbed the release aside and revealed the ends of the bullets in the cylinder.

  “Turn it all the way around,” she said, with a vague idea of how the cylinder held the bullets and how the repeat action turned it to place another bullet in front of the chamber.

  Brock turned it slowly, the ends of the bullets moving past, until an empty chamber came into view.

  He had fired a bullet. The one that hit the kid’s hand. And his gun had been back in his holster before anyone had time to realize what had happened. She would bet the store that Linc Manley’s gun hadn’t been fired.

  Brock raised his gaze to hers.

  “Thank you,” she said.

  Without looking, he slid a bullet from his belt, fed it into the empty chamber, flipped the cylinder back into place and holstered the gun. Just as she’d known, he kept all the chambers full.

  “You can take that off and put it under my bed,” she suggested.

  “Am I going to make it to your bed?”

  “Well…” She continued unfastening his shirt, pulling the hem out of his pants, and stripped it down his arms. He wore a flannel union suit. “This is interesting.”

  “It’s cold out.”

  She unbuttoned that, too, and his pants, while he lay the gun belt on the table. “Remember that day in here—the day we kissed?”

  “I remember.”

  “I thought of pushing you right down on the floor and…”

  “And?”

  “And you still need to wash, right?”

  She left him standing with his pants open, his union suit unbuttoned, and poured warm water into the sink.

  “Want to take those boots off, cowboy?”

  He made quick work of the boots and the pants, his underwear folded down over his lower body.

  Abby soaped a cloth and handed him a towel. She washed his face, pausing to kiss him tenderly. He closed his eyes and released a deep sigh. After soaping his hands and arms and chest, she rinsed the cloth and removed the suds, having him lean forward over the sink so she could rinse him. Drying his shoulders and chest, she kissed the warm damp flesh, tasted him with her tongue.

  “I think these got wet.” She indicated the under wear.

  “You’re still dressed,” he said.

  With a seductive smile, she unbuttoned her shoes and kicked them aside, rolled down her stockings and slid them off her feet. After undoing the buttons of her shirtwaist, she removed it. Brock kissed her neck and touched his tongue to her collarbone, while unfastening her skirt, untying her petticoats and shoving them out of the way.

  He had knelt to help her out of the layers, and without rising, pulled her to him, crushing her to his bare chest. With only the thin layer of
her cotton underclothes between them, Abby felt the heat and strength of his hard body. She ran her hands over his arms and shoulders, and shuddered with anticipation when he buried his face against her breasts and cupped her bottom.

  “How can it be so wonderful each time?” she asked incredulously. “Will it always be this way between us?” Truly amazed and overcome by the power of sensation and desire that raged unchecked between them, she closed her eyes and soaked Brock in through her pores.

  He opened her chemise and suckled her breasts, and pleasure rippled through her, an erotic expectancy so sweet and intense, she bit her lower lip and groaned. He cupped her through her drawers and she ground herself against his palm.

  She wanted to kiss him. She bent forward and covered his mouth with hers. She wanted him inside her, filling her. Pushing him back, she tugged his underwear down at the same time he disposed of hers, and she straddled him quickly, urgently, watching his expression as her body took his.

  She kissed him. He moved beneath her.

  She stroked his chest. He cupped her bottom and gazed at her breasts, her face.

  Her braid fell over her shoulder and he used both hands to remove the tie and work the hair loose, spreading it over her shoulders, her breasts.

  She kissed him. He grasped her hips.

  She ran her finger across his lips. He drew it into his mouth and sucked it.

  She held her breath. He smiled, slow and lazy and oh so brazenly. He knew he turned her inside out. He knew she loved it. Knew she loved him. And that was okay. He should know. Anyone who was loved as much as this man should know.

  “I love you,” she said.

  He reached up and cupped her face, a smile reaching his eyes. “And you do it so well, my Abby, my love.”

  She loved him unashamedly, without reservation, without fear.

  He held her still for a moment, meeting her gaze. “This time we might make a baby, Abby.”

  She smiled and moved sensuously against him, knowing she was pushing him to the edge. “This time you’ll be here when he’s born.”

  She watched emotion and pleasure cross his features, shared his release, and wiped the perspiration from his forehead with her rumpled petticoat.

  “There isn’t another woman like you in all of Montana,” he told her, a tender smile on his lips.

  “And you would know,” she teased, kissing him.

  “Nor in all of the West, actually.”

  “My, your conquests are broad.”

  He chuckled. “I love you, Abby.”

  “Yes,” she said. “I believe you do.”

  Epilogue

  “He’ll never shoot with that hand again,” Ruth told Brock and James. Upon Laine’s request, she had visited the jail and assured the Chinese woman that she’d done all she could to heal him. Without a surgeon, luck wasn’t on the kid’s side.

  Or perhaps it was. At least he’d stay alive for a while.

  “He’ll learn to use the other one,” Brock told his cousin and Caleb.

  “Not for a long time,” James assured them. “He killed a man in cold blood in front of fifty or more witnesses. He’s going to die in jail.”

  Brock looked through the bars at the young man they spoke about. Stupidity. Foolish youthful stupidity. A wasted life.

  The kid glared at him.

  “What if he escaped?”

  “He’s not going to escape. I take him to court, he gets sentenced. He’ll probably go to Helena.”

  “Somebody has to take him, right?”

  “A marshal will come for him.”

  “You could hire me. I’ve marshaled.”

  Ruth gave him a sideways stare. “Your wife would kill you.”

  “Not if she doesn’t find out.”

  “You’re talking crazy here,” Caleb said.

  “Not at all. I take him, but he gets a jump on me, escapes. Nobody’s ever the wiser.”

  “Except us,” James objected. “I can’t let a prisoner escape deliberately.”

  “What is he, seventeen?” Brock asked. “Look at him.”

  “You can be seventeen and still kill men.”

  “Not if you’re scared spitless.”

  “And you’re going to scare him spitless?”

  “If you let me.”

  “No. Absolutely not.”

  Benji Buchanen awoke with a start. Handcuffs weren’t the most comfortable bed partners. And this Kincaid fellow was so crazy, Benji slept with one eye open, watching him.

  Now he was moving around the campfire, fishing in his saddlebags. He stepped over to Benji and knelt over him. “So, you wanna take your chances with me?”

  Benji squinted up at him. “What’re you talkin’ about?”

  “You’n me. A shoot-out. Winner leaves free and clear. Loser…well, dies.”

  The man had already shot his hand, but Benji had been too embarrassed to tell anyone. He’d let ’em think it was Jack Spade, but truth was, Spade hadn’t even cleared his holster. This maniac, on the other hand, had fired and sheathed his gun just like nothin’ had ever happened. Benji still couldn’t figure that one out.

  “What do you say, big gunfighter? You game?”

  “I can’t draw now. You shot my right hand.”

  “You can use your left, can’t you? You wear two guns.”

  “Yeah, I can use it, but what kind of match is that— against a man with two good hands?”

  “Hey, that’s a chance you take in the business you’re in. You get caught in a crossfire and get shot, you’ve still got to keep firing or you die.”

  Seemed Benji didn’t have much choice. Still wasn’t much of one.

  “Okay, we’ll make it fair. I’ll wrap my right hand up and keep it behind my back. Suit you?”

  Refuse and live his life in jail, Benji thought. Go along and at least he had a fifty-fifty chance. He’d seen the man shoot, though. Maybe not fifty-fifty. But at least a chance. “Okay.”

  He was sweatin’ by the time Kincaid had him released and handed him his guns. How he’d come by those, Benji couldn’t figure. Except that the sheriff had the same last name. Didn’t look nothin’ alike, though.

  Warily, Benji strapped on his guns. What if he didn’t have any bullets and the man shot him to pieces?

  “Go ahead,” Kincaid said. “Look.”

  He checked for bullets: loaded. His heart hammered and his skin felt clammy.

  Kincaid wrapped a strip of cowhide around his fingers and thumb, wrapped his whole right hand up and tightened a knot with his teeth. He placed the hand behind his back. “This is it, then.”

  Kincaid backed up, his ivory-handled revolvers gleaming in the firelight. Wasn’t very good light to shoot by.

  “Maybe we should wait till mornin’,” Benji suggested.

  “When there’s more light.”

  “Gunfights don’t happen under perfect conditions,” Kincaid told him. “Sometimes it’s raining. Sometimes the dust is blowing in your eyes. Sometimes you got more than one shooter aiming for you. Sometimes you get shot.” Benji swallowed.

  “Killed many men yet?” Kincaid asked conversationally. He was crazy.

  “Just the one. Jack Spade.”

  “Thought you’d start out with the best, eh? Where you going to go from here? Nowhere to go but down.”

  “Why don’t you shut your trap and let’s get to business.”

  “Okay, okay. I was just trying to be friendly.” He shook his left wrist and took a loose-legged stance. “Ready when you are.”

  “You gonna talk the whole damned time?”

  Kincaid shook his head and showed he was ready.

  Cold sweat poured from every pore in Benji’s body.

  He observed the other man’s calm expression, the way he waited like a snake ready to strike. Benji shoulda stayed in Nebraska, and none of this woulda happened. He shoulda listened to his aunt Neda and his pa and stayed to plant. Now he might never see them again.

  His only prayer was to shoot this craz
y man and ride outta here and never look back. He calmed himself. Thought back over all his practice. All those bean cans and squash he’d murdered easy as you please. He might be able to do it if he didn’t throw up first.

  This was it. Live or die. A twist of fate made in a second. His head grew light. He steadied his hand, calmed his nerves and cleared his mind.

  He reached for his gun.

  Bullets pelted the ground in front of him, spraying dirt and pebbles across his pant legs and boots. One bullet caught the end of his boot, another his sleeve. Benji jumped back, hobbled, and fell on his butt.

  “You’re crazy!” he screeched, in shock that none of the shots had hit him. He hadn’t even gotten his gun out of the holster. He couldn’t think. He looked at himself. Nothing hurt.

  “See that stain on your heel?”

  “What?” He raised his boot to look.

  Kincaid fired, hitting his boot and knocking his foot back with a stinging jerk. Benji yanked his wild gaze from the man to his boot, where a bullet lodged. The man could have killed him in a heartbeat.

  “Why didn’t ya kill me?”

  “I killed a boy your age before. It broke his father’s heart—his sister’s, too. And I’ve lived with it for nearly eight years. I’ll live with it until I die. Just like you’re going to live with the death of that man you killed in Whitehorn, wondering if he had a family, if they know what happened to him, if they’ll come after you.”

  “You ain’t gonna kill me?”

  “No.” He unwrapped his hand and tossed the leather away. “Did you give the sheriff your real name?”

  “No.”

  “What is it?”

  “Benji.”

  “I’m setting you free, Benji. And I think you’re just smart enough to go home and make a new start.”

  “I am. I’m real smart.” Tears of relief sprang to his eyes and he cried like a baby.

  Kincaid strapped a bedroll to one of the horses, added a canteen and a saddlebag. “You got family at home?”

  He nodded. “My pa. And my aunt Neda.”

  “Well, you give your aunt Neda a hug. And be a good son to your pa. A father wants to be proud of his son.”