The Gunslinger's Bride

by Cheryl St. John

  Jonathon lay with his head on Brock’s chest, nestled in the curve of his arm, his face sweetly pink and slack in slumber. The similarity between the two was unmistakable. Anyone seeing them like this would know they were father and son.

  Abby studied the two for a full minute, her heart fluttering crazily in her breast. She raised both hands and laced her fingers before her lips. The touching picture of serenity and trust brought tears to her eyes. Not wanting to intrude on the idyllic scene, she observed in awed silence.

  What had she done? She’d created a child out of wedlock with this man. What could she have done differently once that had happened? Told her father the truth. Made him go after her baby’s father. But she hadn’t wanted Brock that way. And she hadn’t wanted him because he’d killed Guy.

  Sleeping peacefully, Brock didn’t look like the murderer she’d believed him to be. Lying with their son in his embrace, he didn’t seem at all like the man with whom she’d been so angry that day. If she truly believed him to be a cold-blooded killer, would she have allowed him in her home? The protective wall she’d constructed around her heart now had a crack, and that frightened her.

  She wanted to hate him. She needed to hate him. For if she didn’t, what were the alternatives? For her son’s benefit, could she let the world know the truth?

  Jonathon breathed easily enough, no sign of a cough apparent. What was Brock’s presence going to do to him? He craved the attention of a fatherly man, which Brock provided. Jonathon was loving this, eating up every minute. And why shouldn’t he? Why should her son be deprived of the attention he so rightfully deserved?

  But what if Brock left again? It would break the boy’s heart.

  As much as she’d wanted Brock gone, the prospect of him leaving again now was devastating.

  Brock’s eyes opened and he looked right at her. She realized she’d made a pathetic little sobbing sound, and placed her fingers over her lips. Had he actually been asleep?

  She hadn’t known she was standing so close until he reached out a long arm and caught her skirt, tugging her toward him.

  She grasped the fabric. “Don’t you dare hurt my son,” she warned in a deadly quiet voice. Then she yanked the material from his grasp and hurried from the room.

  Brock watched her go, a mixture of regret and anticipation chugging through his veins. He loved her.

  He’d loved her from the beginning, when she’d been the only one who accepted him and showed him any concern. He’d loved her from the first time he’d looked into those green eyes and lost himself. He’d loved her since the night she’d eagerly surrendered herself, body and soul, to his touch.

  He’d loved her all those years he’d spent trying to make up for disappointing her—by rooting out outlaws and risking his life and proving his merit.

  He’d loved her the nights he’d bedded auburn-haired whores and found them sadly lacking. He’d loved her as he’d planned his return and cautiously disappeared from his previous life without a trace, spending months making certain no one followed or knew his true identity.

  He’d loved her the day he’d seen her appear on the dock in an apron, a look of startled recognition on her lovely face. And he loved her now. Even though she couldn’t stand the sight of him and he had to blackmail her into allowing him to know his son. Even though she wanted to marry another man. Even though she wished he’d never come back.

  Jonathon was the icing on the cake. He smoothed the child’s hair and inhaled his little-boy scent. Jonathon made it all worthwhile.

  The sound of Abby washing dishes roused him from his musings. They’d made a game of cooking breakfast, and Jonathon had been dutifully impressed at Brock’s flapjack skills. Then they’d set about righting his messy bedroom. While the child dressed himself, Brock had peeked into Abby’s room.

  Fascinated by the feminine sight of crocheted lace on the pillow slips and the delicate powdery scent in the air, he’d stepped in and absorbed that place where she slept and dressed and…he’d glanced at the mirrored dressing table scattered with pins and ribbons…and brushed out her hair.

  Drawn to touch something of hers, he had reached down and straightened her pillow, pulled up the white linen sheets, and been struck anew by her soft, familiar lilac scent. It had suddenly seemed so intimate to be touching her bed, knowing she slept beneath these sheets and blankets. Alone.

  But she hadn’t always been alone here, he couldn’t help thinking. She’d shared this bed with her husband. The knowledge pierced him cruelly.

  Her words of explanation about how she’d come to be here were vivid in his mind. She’d been afraid to tell her father about the baby growing inside her. But when he knew I was getting sick in the mornings, he figured it out. He made all the arrangements, then he hauled me off to Whitehorn, watched Reverend McWhirter marry us, and rode back to the ranch without a backward glance.

  How terrifying that must have been for her. She’d been young and alone. And forced to marry a man she barely knew. She’d probably felt completely deserted—by her father—and by Brock himself. No wonder she hated him.

  She had raised her lovely face and looked him straight in the eye to say, “I cooked and cleaned and learned about hardware, and I had a baby. There wasn’t anywhere for me to run.”

  Brock had stared long and hard at that bed, thinking of her lying there with Jed Watson, hating the thought, hating his own part in putting her there. But right then he accepted the blame for placing her in that position, and he understood her resentment.

  He would make it up to her. Whether she wanted him to or not. Easing Jonathon out of his hold and onto the divan, he stood and moved silently to the kitchen.

  She stood at the sink, drying dishes.

  He moved in behind her. “I was going to do that. Don’t you have work to do?”

  She dropped the plate and whirled, but with a lightning-fast reaction, Brock caught it before it hit the floor. He handed the china to her.

  Blinking, Abby took it and set it aside. “Yes, but I wanted to see how—how Jonathon was doing.”

  “You checked up on us, and I didn’t let him starve or bleed or anything, did I?”

  “It appears you did an adequate job.” She turned away.

  “He could go to school this afternoon. I’m glad to stay the rest of the day, but he’s getting bored and restless, and he didn’t cough the whole time.”

  “And he’s not warm or anything?”

  “Not a bit.”

  She nodded. “Maybe that’s a good idea. He can go after he has a bite to eat.”

  “I’ll fix it and take him on my way out of town.”

  She shook her head. “No. You can’t take him. Too many people will see you, and it won’t look right.”

  “I’m not going anywhere,” he told her. “Eventually everyone is going to see us. I don’t care what they think.”

  “You never have cared what people thought. But think about me for a change. Think about what they’ll say about me. And about Jonathon. I’m planning a wedding!”

  Remembering his resolve to make things up to her, he bit back the remark on his tongue. “All right. I’ll feed him and bring him down. You can walk with him, if he wants someone to go along.”

  She studied Brock skeptically, as if his abrupt change of attitude unnerved her. “Good.” She pointed to the ice box. “Make certain he drinks milk.”

  He gave her a salute, and she headed for the hall door, looking at him over her shoulder. “In a little while then.”

  “A little while,” he agreed.

  Jonathon was happy at the news that he got to return to school. They ate, and Brock gathered their coats and hats and walked him downstairs.

  Abby bundled up her son and stood on the dock while he walked down the street to the schoolhouse. Through the panes in the door, Brock observed her wave before she came back inside.

  Sam was absorbed in a task in the back of the store, and Brock took a moment to pull on his coat and strap his gu
n belt around his hips. “Maybe you will have to get used to people wondering about Jonathon,” he said quietly.

  Sorting a box of screws, she shook her head against the possibility.

  “Maybe more people suspect than you think.”

  She shot her gaze to his. “What makes you think that?”

  “Caleb knew simply by observation. How difficult is it to have done the figuring when Jonathon was born? And the older he gets the more he looks like me, right?”

  Abby’s cheeks blazed. “I was married to Jed when Jonathon was born. He has a good name and a good inheritance.”

  “Then you’d better decide what lies you’re going to tell to explain my interest in the boy. And think about what you’re going to tell him when he’s old enough to figure it out on his own. His inheritance doesn’t change what he’ll see in the mirror.”

  Abby looked absolutely stricken at his words, but she was going to have to face reality. Brock spoke the truth as kindly as he could, but facts were facts.

  “Some kid who’s overheard his parents talking might tell him if you don’t,” he added.

  Those green eyes filled with horror.

  “Think about it. Because I’m going to be around.” He adjusted his hat on his head. “A lot.”

  And with that, he left the store, the bell clanging behind him.

  Abby made a fist and brought it down on the counter, catching the edge of the box and sending screws flying in all directions. The man was infuriating, but more than that, she was beginning to fear he was right. Panic edged her consciousness, and she blinked to clear her vision.

  Seeing the two of them together had thrust the truth into her heart like a rusty knife. The similarity between Brock and Jonathon was unmistakable. She’d only been fooling herself to think no one would know. Maybe people had guessed all along. She’d been aware of Caleb’s silent knowledge, but were there others? Laine hadn’t figured it out, but then she’d never seen Brock until his return, never had a reason to suspect, because she hadn’t heard the stories of Guy’s death.

  If people had known all along, and Abby hadn’t realized it, then nothing had really changed—except that now she knew they knew. She had an obligation to go through with her promise to marry Everett. Calling it off now would only cause more speculation and gossip. She could still hold her head up. She’d done the very best she could.

  Brock’s question about Jonathon was the truly disturbing one. She would hate to admit she’d let him believe a lie his whole short life—that Jed hadn’t been his father. What was in his best interest? For him to know? She had never allowed herself to consider that someone else might tell him, but now that very real possibility terrified her. How could she protect him?

  “Need some help?”

  Abby jumped at Sam’s call from the doorway, but immediately busied herself with collecting the strewn screws. “Oh, no. I just tipped the box over. I’ll get them.”

  She knelt and plucked more from the wooden floor. Obviously, she had a lot more to think about than she had ever admitted to herself. And ignoring the facts hadn’t gotten her anywhere thus far. Abby was going to have to face the truth. And deal with it. Heaven help her.

  Gribble and Warren Saloon was mostly deserted that evening. Brock nursed the lukewarm beer, chatted briefly with the bartender and glanced at the surroundings. Nothing had changed here in the last ten or fifteen years. The bar was more scarred, the floorboards more worn. The ceiling had more holes dotting the tin where bullets had pierced. The circuit judge still held court here, evidenced by a Bible and gavel on top of the dilapidated piano.

  Tossing a coin on the bar, Brock nodded and left, making his way across the icy boardwalks toward another establishment. The Centennial Saloon featured boxing on Friday and Saturday nights, but this was Monday, so only the billiard players would be circling the tables.

  He hadn’t been in the Double Deuce since his return, since Caleb was now part owner, so he headed for the sounds of tinny music and laughter behind the closed double doors.

  This was where the activity was tonight, he discovered, the bar lined with miners and ranch hands, the tables surrounded by those intent on card games. Thick smoke hung near the ceiling and made a gray haze around the throng of men and brightly dressed women. He found an open space and ordered a shot. The bartender, Cameron something, sounded vaguely familiar as he shared his knowledge of the most recent election in a nearby town.

  Brock, ever alert and vigilant, studied the patrons, assessing each one. It had taken him all of thirty seconds to pick out the man who’d been the center of Whitehorn gossip and conveniently taken away much of the attention from Brock’s return. Trying hard to look like a dime novel hero, the man referred to as Linc Manley sat at one of the poker tables, a slim cigar between the first and second fingers of his left hand. He wore black well, appearing sleek and ominous in the slim trousers, shirt and leather vest. Brock noted the curved handle of the Smith & Wesson Pocket .32, a light model esteemed by many gunfighters, that showed from his holster.

  The man had noticed him, too. Though he showed no external sign, his recognition was there in the set of his shoulders, his seemingly relaxed but alert position on the chair. He had a planned vantage point, his back in a corner, his face to the door, a defensive station Brock knew well. What flawed the man’s credibility was the blatant dress, the deliberate call for attention. Men like that were as dangerous because of their foolishness as were the more chameleon-like predators who blended into their surroundings.

  Brock recognized several men, who either nodded or raised a hand in greeting as he took stock of the customers. At another table, a familiar man sat with his back to Brock, and after a moment of nagging awareness, he identified Everett Matthews. George Lundburg, the butcher, beckoned to Brock. “We have a seat open. I’ll buy you a drink.”

  Brock sauntered over and draped his coat on the back of the chair. “Thanks.”

  The expression on Matthews’s face when he looked up and recognized Brock was worth sitting in on a game he didn’t particularly want to join. He slid onto the chair, instinctively noting the players and those who sat at nearby tables.

  “Everyone know Brock Kincaid?” George asked.

  A couple of the men who introduced themselves were ranchers Brock had met at one time or another. The one named Alvin Waverly dealt Brock in.

  “You related to the old fellow who occupies a chair at the hardware store?” Brock asked.

  “My uncle,” the man replied. “Hasn’t had anything to do with my family for a dozen years. Some feud between him and my father.”

  A saloon girl in a low-cut red dress with a sagging feather in her upswept hair delivered a bottle and placed a spotted shot glass in front of Brock. George handed her a coin and she poured Brock’s drink.

  Thanking her, Brock studied his cards.

  “What’re you doing in Whitehorn, anyway?” Matthews asked, his tone deliberately probing.

  Brock took stock of everything from the expression in his eyes to the way he held his cards. “Brock is from Whitehorn,” George said by way of explanation.

  The others grew silent.

  Everett leaned forward, elbows on the table. “Way I hear it, you hightailed it out of here a long time ago. What brings you back?”

  “A man don’t have to explain himself,” George said.

  “It’s all right,” Brock assured him. “Mr. Matthews is obviously quite concerned about my business. I don’t mind setting him straight.”

  The silence at the table was palpable.

  “My family’s here,” he said easily. “And my family’s ranch. I have every reason to come home.”

  “Why now?” Matthews asked. “You killed Abby’s brother and took off. Why come back now?”

  His forwardness brought a quick intake of breath from the girl who stood beside Brock’s chair.

  Brock’s gaze didn’t waver. “I defended myself. If you know anything about that, then you know he came after me
intent on murder. And if you knew me, you’d know I never wanted to kill him. A dozen witnesses can tell you it was self-defense.”

  “There weren’t even charges against you? I guess it pays to have a rich, powerful family in Whitehorn.”

  Now an ever-widening circle of silence eddied across the smoky room.

  If the fool drew a gun, he would never know what had hit him. He wasn’t wearing one where it could be seen, but he could have one beneath his jacket. Brock couldn’t let that happen. Kill Abby’s brother and then her fiancé? No, the situation had to be diffused.

  “I’ll take your remarks as coming from a position of ignorance,” Brock said calmly. “I would guess you’ve heard somewhere that Abby and I were friends before that happened, and now that I’m back, I suppose your confidence in her affections is shaky. I’d be a little nervous if I were in your place, too. So your manners are excusable.”

  Matthews face glowed as red as a beet. He sat with his lips clamped shut, his fingers white as he mangled the cards in his grip. “You can go to hell, you cocky son of a bitch,” he managed to choke out.

  Brock chuckled. “Thanks for your permission, but I don’t think I needed it.”

  A few uncomfortable laughs erupted around the table.

  The girl in the red dress sidled up against Brock’s shoulder and rubbed his neck. “Win a hand with those cards and buy me a drink,” she said, placing her red-painted lips near his ear. Her cheap perfume mixed with the cloying scent of cigar smoke, whiskey and fear.

  “Do I know you?” he asked, averting his attention only when he was satisfied that Matthews wouldn’t pull a gun. “Ruby, darlin’,” she said, gesturing with a hand flattened on her spilling white bosom.

  Recognition dawned. She’d been all of fifteen or sixteen the first time he’d bought her a drink in this saloon. The years hadn’t been particularly kind to her. “Of course,” he said, with a smile just the same. “Ruby, darlin’. I’d love to buy you a drink.”