The Gunslinger's Bride

by Cheryl St. John

  Brock hung the holster over a hook beside his coat, still in plain reach if he had to grab a revolver in a hurry, but out of reach for a little boy.

  “Thank you,” she said softly. The lilac scent of her hair surrounded him like a fragrant, sensual cloud as he moved past her and entered the hallway, then Jonathon’s room.

  The child lay on his bed, covers pulled to his armpits, and he wore a dismal expression of boredom.

  “Hey, half-pint. How ya doing?”

  “Not too good. Mama thayth I have to be in bed all day. I told her I feel better. Laine gived me thtuff and I ain’t coughing too much now.”

  Brock felt the boy’s forehead and found it warm but not alarmingly so. “Your mother knows best,” he assured him. “Rest is what you need.”

  “But it’th boring!”

  “I know, partner.”

  “Will you thtay and play with me?”

  “Sure.” He seated himself on the bed. “It’s been a lot of years since I played, so you’ll have to remind me how.”

  Jonathon sat up. “Yippee!” Immediately a cough at tacked him.

  Brock gently pushed him back against his pillows. “Don’t get excited, you’re supposed to be resting.”

  “You won’t go nowhere, right?”

  “Right.”

  “We could pretend theth are wild,” Jonathon said, reaching for the carved horses beside his bed. Brock stretched an arm and easily retrieved the figures for him. “And that we’re cowboyth who hafta round ’em up!”

  “Okay.” It wasn’t so difficult playing once Jonathon slipped into his imagination mode and Brock figured out he was supposed to change his voice from one cowboy to the next and call commands to Jonathon’s pretend cowboy characters. Somehow he became the leader of a trail drive, and was supposed to show the horses where to eat and sleep.

  One of Jonathon’s wild horses got away, and he made all kinds of whinnies and shouts in getting him back to the herd on the patchwork quilt.

  Brock laughed at the boy’s creative antics, mesmerized by his freckles, delicate ears and small hands, captivated by blue eyes that sparkled with delight and mischief, and completely charmed by his creativity and his delightful speech. Brock had never been around many children, but he believed this one to be one of the brightest and most handsome he’d ever seen.

  Abby had done a wonderful job of raising him. Jonathon was polite and confident, smart as a whip, naturally curious and outspoken. It was obvious he’d been guided with love and discipline, and Brock gave Abby due credit.

  But the boy needed more than book knowledge and gentle guidance from a mother. He needed a man in his life, too, one to teach him how to train horses and hunt food and survive in this brutal land. The man Abby had eaten dinner with didn’t fit the image of a father who would teach a boy those skills—not any boy, let alone Brock’s son. The thought of Matthews taking over as Jonathon’s father stuck in Brock’s craw.

  Horse in hand, Jonathon finally leaned back against the pillows, his eyelids heavy. He made a few halfhearted gallops across the covers before letting the carved animal fall still. His luminous blue gaze rose to Brock’s in sleepy seriousness. “You won’t leave, right?”

  At the knowledge that the boy wanted him there, something in Brock’s chest swelled almost painfully. “I won’t leave,” he promised, his voice choked.

  “Even if I thleep.”

  “Even if you sleep. I’ll wait right here.”

  Jonathon studied him, his eyelids drooping lower and lower, until finally they remained closed.

  Brock took the opportunity to observe the delicate veins in his temples and the sprinkling of freckles across his nose. Jonathon’s fair hair fell in a disheveled tumble over his forehead.

  Brock raised his hand to brush the locks back from the child’s brow, then stared in amazement at his trembling fingers. The moment seemed to extend unnaturally long. His hands never shook. He had stared down cold-blooded killers with total composure. His life had depended on nerves of steel for so long that any show of weakness had become intolerable.

  Now here he was, shaking like a green kid in his first shoot-out, unsure of whatever threat this was that had a more frightening effect than all the outlaws he’d faced and conquered.

  Tenderly, he combed the silky hair back, then stared at his blunt, dark-skinned fingers against the ivory skin of the boy’s cheek. Jonathon’s skin was softer than anything Brock had ever touched before—except maybe… He drew his hand away. This boy’s mother. Her skin had been incredibly satinlike.

  The image of Abby’s fiancé rose in his mind. A handsome enough man, Brock supposed. Clean, well-dressed. A dandified city man through and through, and the world needed city men, it did. His own brother, Will, was a banker, and his profession took nothing away from his manliness. Brock couldn’t fault Abby’s intended for his job.

  Neither did he want to imagine the man exploring the satiny contours of her body, so he clamped his will down tight on that disgusting image and corralled his runaway thoughts.

  Careful not to wake Jonathon, Brock slipped the horse from his small fingers, gathered the others and placed them all on the stand beside the bed. The Watsons didn’t seem to be lacking anything. This room held heavy, well-made furniture, and the bed was more comfortable than the one Brock had been sleeping on at the ranch. Each time he’d seen Jonathon, the boy had been nicely dressed, and he owned a warm coat and boots. So far the only thing he didn’t seem to have that he wanted was a horse. Obviously that wasn’t because Abby couldn’t afford one.

  Hardware was a lucrative business, and this store was the only one of its kind for a hundred miles.

  Footsteps sounded behind him, and Brock turned to see Abby crossing the room toward the bed. She pulled up the covers and smoothed Jonathon’s hair back much as Brock had, but as a caress when performed by her. She had braided her hair, and the thick rope hung down her back. A crisp white apron had been tied over a plain, high-necked blue dress. The exotic scent of her hair filled the room.

  “He needs his sleep,” she said softly.

  Brock nodded, then took a deep breath. “I promised I wouldn’t leave.”

  She straightened and shot him a surprised look.

  “He asked me not to leave, even if he fell asleep. I said I’d stay right here.”

  Her brows lowered in angry frustration. “You had no right to do that.”

  “It made him go to sleep.”

  She glanced around the room, avoiding his eyes. “And now what?”

  “Don’t worry about me. I’ll just sit right here until he wakes up.”

  “He’ll probably sleep for hours.”

  “I don’t mind.” Just then his stomach growled, reminding him he hadn’t taken time to eat before he’d hurried away from the ranch.

  Abby clasped and unclasped her hands. “You haven’t eaten.”

  “I can go a long while without food.”

  She gave her head a small shake. “Not at my house you won’t go without eating. That’s foolish. The bread is still warm and I have ham to slice. I haven’t eaten, either. Come into the kitchen.”

  After glancing at Jonathon’s soundly sleeping form, Brock stood and followed her.

  She gestured for him to sit at the table, and he did so, watching her set out two blue-patterned plates and checkered napkins.

  Efficiently, she sliced fragrant bread and ham on a cutting board, then brought out a wedge of cheese and cut it into thick chunks.

  Her kitchen even held a barrel-shaped, cast-iron ice box, from which she drew a pitcher of milk, pouring them each a cold glass. One convenience to living in town, he supposed, was ice delivery. The Kincaid ranch had a well cooler, which did the same job, but too often froze in winter. When it did, milk and butter were kept on the enclosed back porch.

  She offered him bread, butter and ham, and he made a sandwich. “How did—” The words your husband wouldn’t push past his lips. “How did Jed die?”

  Sh
e seated herself across from him, as though resigned to his company. “Caught a fever two years back. He was a healthy man, but it took him in just a week.”

  Did you love him? The question burned in his gut. Brock watched her make a sandwich and daintily slice it into quarters. “Was Jonathon attached to him?”

  She looked up. “Jonathon believed Jed was his father. What do you think?”

  “Well, I don’t know. Some fathers and sons are close, others aren’t.”

  “Jed was good to him.” She sat holding a square of bread and meat, but not tasting it. “He was good to me. He gave us everything we needed.”

  Did you love him? Why did he even care? “You have nice things,” Brock agreed, glancing around.

  “I didn’t marry Jed for his money,” she said defiantly. “My father brought me here and told me this was what I was going to do. It just so happened Jed made a good living.”

  “And left it all to you.”

  “I was his wife. Don’t act like I planned to marry him and inherit his money. I didn’t kill him. I didn’t want him to die.”

  “I never said you did.”

  “You should be glad that Jonathon has been well provided for.”

  Brock wouldn’t deny that. “I am.”

  “I never asked your family for anything.”

  He ate solemnly, thinking about her words, mulling over her anger. Finally Abby bit into her meal and chewed.

  “Abby,” he said at last. “Everything you say to me is accusatory. As if I knew I had a son and abandoned him.”

  She swallowed and took a sip of her milk.

  He pointed out, “I didn’t know about Jonathon.”

  She blotted her upper lip on her napkin. “If you had known, would it have made a difference?”

  He’d thought the question over a hundred times since his return. “I don’t know,” he answered honestly. He wiped his fingers and laced them above his plate. “Even if I had stayed, even if I had known about Jonathon, what about how you felt toward me? How you still feel toward me? You hated my guts, Abby, and you wouldn’t have changed those feelings overnight. You haven’t changed them in nearly eight years. If I hadn’t run off like I did, can you say you’d have wanted to let me be a father to him?”

  She blinked and looked down at her plate. “You could have stayed to find out.”

  “The only reason I’m here now is because you’re afraid I’ll spill the truth and embarrass you. Maybe make you lose your shot at marriage to the dandy.”

  Some of the color seemed to drain from her face.

  “So don’t constantly harangue me about my supposed desertion. You told me you hated me and I left. Simple.”

  Simple, he said. Simple. The word festered in Abby’s head. Nothing about the two of them had ever been simple, least of all her feelings on or about the day he’d killed Guy. She had been mad about Brock, had worshipped him, would have done anything for him. Blindly, exclusively, desperately in love with him she’d been.

  She’d excused his rowdy behavior, his drinking and carousing as the actions of a confused young man who’d lost his father and was coming to terms with his identity in his family. She’d overlooked any rash talk, and his greedy passion for their lovemaking had been flattering and euphoric. The killing capability had been there all along, and she’d been too stupid to recognize it.

  Her brother had been gunned down in the street, his life’s blood had ebbed into the dirt, and she had deluded herself into thinking she’d loved the man responsible. Perhaps she’d even played a part in allowing Brock to think he could do no wrong, to imagine that she’d forgive him no matter what foolishness or atrocity he performed. She’d overlooked every bad thing before.

  Simple. Her every ideal and dream had been wrapped around the vulnerable heart she’d offered him.

  She hadn’t been able to tell her father about her and Brock. She was too ashamed, too hurt. Even if Brock had stayed, she couldn’t have revealed her weakness to the world. Look, this man planted a baby in me without intentions of marriage, and then he killed my brother. But I love him. No.

  What had happened wasn’t simple. Much as she hated to admit the truth now, he’d forced her to acknowledge that her accusations where Jonathon was concerned were small-minded. She had shouted angry, hurtful things at Brock that day, perhaps helping to drive him away. But she wouldn’t admit a mistake to him.

  “Abby,” he said softly, and her stomach fluttered at her name on his lips. “I see now that I didn’t act like a gentleman back then.”

  She said nothing, thinking of how she’d craved his ungentlemanly behavior.

  “It was wrong of me to take liberties when I hadn’t considered getting married.”

  Heat spread up her cheeks. Was he admitting he’d never intended to marry her? Or only that he’d never thought that far ahead?

  “I did a lot of things back then that I regret,” he continued.

  So he regretted “taking liberties” with her. Meaning he was sorry he’d gotten her with child, no doubt.

  Abby stood and placed a kettle of water on the stove for tea. How was it he still had the power to create confusion and inflict pain? Why did she allow him to affect her this way? Emotion surged in her heart, pangs of hurt and guilt and piercing regret. She struggled against the tears of humiliation rising to flood her eyes.

  Getting herself under control, she brewed tea, poured them each a cup and placed one before Brock. Remembering the pumpkin pie she’d bought, she cut him a slice and sat back down.

  He took a drink of the tea and grimaced. Holding the cup aloft, he asked, “Does Matthews drink this stuff?”

  “Tea? Yes.”

  He shook his head and set down the cup.

  “There’s cream. And sugar.”

  Finishing the dessert, he pushed the plate back and ignored the tea. “We might as well make a truce,” he suggested.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I’m not going anywhere. I’ll be visiting Jonathon and having him out to the ranch. You and I will be seeing a lot of each other.”

  “How am I supposed to explain that to Everett?” she asked sharply.

  “That’s not my problem,” he replied.

  The man was infuriating. Always thinking of only himself. “Nothing is ever your problem, is it?”

  He leaned forward. “That’s exactly the kind of talk I want you to cut.”

  She folded her napkin and set it aside. “Now you’re going to tell me how to talk?”

  “I’m going to tell you how not to talk, anyway. And you’re going to stop talking as though I’m irresponsible.”

  “Aren’t you?”

  “You have no idea what I am or who I am.”

  “I’m sure you’re right about that. I thought I knew once, but I was wrong then, too.”

  He tossed his napkin down in a heap. “Are you this hateful toward all the men in your life, or just me?”

  The insult burned and she wanted to cut him to the quick. He made her feel hateful. He did this to her, and she resented him for turning her into someone she couldn’t stand. She stood and picked up their plates, carrying them to the enamel pan. In a huff, she scraped off a curl of soap and poured the remaining hot water from the kettle over their soiled dishes.

  “Thanks for the meal,” he said from his seat behind her.

  She plunged her hands into the sudsy water and scrubbed energetically.

  “I’ll just go sit beside Jonathon,” he said.

  “There’s a rocking chair in the other room. You can take that in beside his bed.” She didn’t care whether or not he was comfortable, but her manners wouldn’t allow her to not offer.

  His boots sounded on the wooden floor, then muted on the carpet in the hallway. Abby washed and dried the dishes, giving herself time to calm down.

  A tap sounded on the outside door, startling her. She opened it and discovered Everett.

  He pushed past her and her heart thundered. What would happen when he di
scovered Brock here?

  “I was surprised you missed church this morning.”

  “Jonathon had a cough. We stayed home so he could rest. Laine gave him something and he’s sleeping. Here, let me take your coat.”

  He turned around and when he did, she ripped off her apron and threw it over Brock’s wraps and gun belt, then turned back quickly to assist Everett in slipping off his coat. She hung it and draped the neck scarf that followed over another hook.

  “Have you eaten?” she asked.

  “Yes, thank you.”

  “Well, let’s go into the sitting room then.” She led the way, keeping her body between him and Jonathon’s room. As they passed, she made sure the curtain wasn’t gaping open. Please, Brock, stay in there and stay quiet!

  “I won’t stay long,” Everett said unnecessarily. He never stayed long, unwilling as he was to harm her reputation. “I just thought I’d see that you were all right.”

  “We’re fine.”

  He seated himself on the divan, and Abby took a chair across from him.

  “Would you care for tea?” she asked.

  “No, thank you.”

  She folded her hands in her lap and they glanced at one another and away. Abby had tried unsuccessfully to imagine him living here with her. He had a room at Mrs. Harroun’s boardinghouse, so they’d decided that he would move here until the time came that they were ready for their own house.

  This had been Jed’s home and these were his furnishings, and she’d added her own touches over the years. Jed had been satisfied living over his business, and Abby had acclimated herself to his life and his home. They’d been comfortable together, and Jonathon had filled out their family.

  Everett’s company wasn’t comfortable. Prolonged silences screamed for someone to speak. She was always relieved for him to ramble on about local happenings and news he’d passed along the telegraph wires, for it took away the pressure for her to come up with small talk.

  He chatted a bit, discussing a reported railroad heist to the west and the latest on Amos Carlton’s sickly wife. “Sheriff Kincaid is keeping an eye on the man calling himself Linc Manley. He hasn’t actually denied being Jack Spade, and that’s keeping suspicion high. He seems to have no purpose in Whitehorn except to gamble nightly.”