The Gunslinger's Bride

by Cheryl St. John

  “Your mama has some thinking to do. And an apology to make. Don’t you, Mama?” He made the name sound like a profanity.

  Abby pulled herself together. If her son was going to see this, he wasn’t going to see her bullied without a fight.

  “Go to hell,” she managed to gasp through achingly clenched teeth. His fingers were bruising her face. The other hand yanked her hair. Her eyes stung from the pain.

  “Uh, uh, uh,” he warned. “Be nice, Abby. Be nice or I’ll tell everyone.”

  He would do it, she had no doubt. He would reveal her private shame and heartache without a qualm. In the midst of her tumultuous thoughts floated the memory of Brock’s admonition that people probably knew more than she’d let herself think. He’d pointed out Jonathon’s uncanny resemblance to him, the fact that people could put two and two together on their own.

  She’d realized that Caleb knew, but she’d blindly ignored the possibility that others might, too. The whole damned town probably knew anyway, so the hell with Everett’s threats. “I’ll never marry you,” she said through gritted teeth. “I don’t care what you do.”

  If there were people who would be shocked by the truth, she would live with that. Her son was as good as anybody, and she’d teach him to believe the best about himself.

  “You care,” Everett said. “And you’ll care more when the town shuns your bastard son.”

  In a fury, Abby used both fists to beat him in the head.

  Dilly barked and lunged for Everett.

  Everett screeched and released his hold on her hair and face to kick at the dog. Dilly yelped.

  Jonathon howled with fright.

  Breathless, Abby escaped and sprang up from the mattress. If she had a gun, she would shoot him in the heart without a qualm. The violent thoughts shocked her. She glanced wildly about for a weapon to use to defend herself and her son.

  Everett stood and straightened his clothing and his collar, as though he’d only just finished a cup of tea. Red marks dotted his hands from Abby’s fingernails, and he bore a welt on one cheek. Adjusting his tie, he turned his spiteful gaze from Abby to Jonathon. “You look just like him, you miserable little rat.”

  Confused, his blue eyes wide with fright, Jonathon cast Abby a pitiful glance. His lower lip quivered.

  Abby picked up the nearest heavy object, the pitcher on her washstand, and swung it toward Everett’s head.

  Seeing it coming, he raised his arm and deflected the blow. The pitcher fell with a crash and broke into several pieces. He held his forearm against his middle, a look of pain distorting his vengeful features.

  “Get out of my home!” Abby yelled.

  “Your home, your precious home. What did you do to earn this place? You just waltzed in and seduced a rich man, then inherited everything when he kicked off. Not a bad trade for a few years in the old guy’s bed.”

  “You don’t know what you’re talking about. Get out of here.”

  “Did you let him think the kid was his? Were you that good? Didn’t he ever figure it out?”

  “Get out!” she screamed, and dimly thought she heard knocking.

  “Thought you had everybody fooled, didn’t you? Too bad the kid’s the spitting image of his murdering father.” He turned to Jonathon then and the boy cringed. “That’s right,” he said, stepping over the pieces of broken pottery. “Your father is a murderer, kid. He killed your uncle.”

  “It was self-defense,” Abby declared.

  “My papa never kilt no one,” Jonathon denied.

  Pounding sounded on the interior door. The Spencers had heard the commotion.

  “That old man wasn’t your papa,” Everett said with a sinister smile. “Your real father is a worthless, no-good coward who ran away.”

  “No he ain’t!” the boy shouted, his face red with indignation. “Why’s he thayin’ that thtuff, Mama?”

  “Becauth it’th the truth,” Everett said, leaning toward Jonathon and mocking his speech. “Brock Kincaid is your father. Your mama is his whore.”

  Abby picked up the bowl that remained and lunged toward Everett, raising the heavy crock and bringing it down with a sickening thud on the back of Everett’s head.

  He crumpled to the floor.

  Crying, Jonathon ran to Abby. She dropped to her knees and folded him in her arms. Whining, Dilly licked his face.

  “He’s a bad man, ain’t he, Mama?”

  “Yes, darling, a very bad man.”

  “He’s a liar, ain’t he?”

  The truth, Abby. All the damage had already been done. And she’d hidden her secret for long enough.

  “He’s a liar sayin’ my papa wasn’t my papa. Why’d he say that?”

  “He said it because he’s mean and he wanted to hurt me. But…” She pushed him an arm’s length away and studied his precious, tear-streaked face.

  “Abby!” Daisy’s alarmed voice registered now, along with the frantic pounding.

  Glancing at Everett’s prone body, Abby stood and pulled Jonathon along with her to the hallway door. He might rouse, and she’d better be gone if he did. She yanked open the door.

  “For heaven’s sake, what is going on in there?” Daisy wore her flannel wrapper, and her silver-streaked blond hair flowed across her shoulders. “Are you all right?”

  “It’s Everett,” Abby said. “I hit him and he’s on the floor…in my bedroom.”

  “Asa went for the sheriff.” She moved past Abby, revealing the derringer in her hand. “Is he dead?”

  “Lord, no! I don’t think so, anyway.”

  “Well, we’ll wait for the sheriff.”

  Abby nodded her agreement. Jonathon still clung to her side, his body trembling. She rubbed his shoulder and bent to kiss the top of his head. “We have a lot to talk about.”

  Some time later, after Abby narrated her abbreviated story and Daisy and Asa backed it up by telling what they’d heard, James took Everett, handcuffed and unconscious, to jail. Abby locked her doors tight and made Jonathon hot chocolate.

  He sat at the kitchen table, a wary expression on his young face.

  “Jonathon, there’s something you need to know.”

  “What is it?”

  “Your papa was a good and kind man who loved you very much. He provided for us and took care of us and loved us. He loved you and nothing can ever change that.”

  Her son studied her solemnly, a chocolate mustache rimming his upper lip.

  “But he was not your true father.”

  Jonathon’s eyes were wide and blue, and he had never reminded her more of Brock than he did at that moment. “He wathn’t?”

  She shook her head. “I met your real father many years ago. I thought I loved him very much.”

  “But you din’t?”

  How could she ever explain this to a child when she could barely understand it herself? “No, I did,” she assured him, knowing it was true. She had adored him, all those years ago. “I did love him very much.”

  “Mr. Matthews thaid Brock is my father.”

  “Everett was right about that part. But before you think that Brock wasn’t here for you or that he didn’t want you, I have to tell you what happened…and why he never knew about you until this very year.”

  As honestly and simply as she could, she explained that she and Brock had loved each other, but that her brother hadn’t approved of their love and had come after Brock, intending to shoot and kill him.

  The most difficult thing to explain was her part in driving Brock away, but she did her best, assuring Jonathon that Brock hadn’t known about him. Once he had learned about Jonathon, he’d done everything he could to claim him as his son without hurting either Jonathon or Abby.

  “Is he still my father?”

  She studied his innocent features. “You can’t change who your father is. You can have a new father if your mother marries, which is how Jed became your papa. But the man who helped create you will always be your real father. And Jonathon,” she told him, “b
eing a true father means caring for you and loving you. Jed loved you very much, just as Brock does now. So you’re a pretty special boy because you have had two fathers.”

  “But Brock is my real daddy.”

  “Yes.”

  “And you’re my real mama.”

  She smiled. “Always.”

  He thought a minute. “Can a kid have two mamas?”

  “Well, I guess he could. His mother could leave or die, and he could get a new mama when his father married again. Zeke had two mamas, remember?”

  “I’m only gonna have one.”

  “That suits me just fine.”

  He yawned and blinked sleepy eyes.

  “You need some sleep, little fellow.” She removed their cups from the table.

  “Are you gonna sleep, too?”

  “I’m going to try. There’s still a couple of hours before daylight.”

  “Can I sleep with you?”

  “Sure.” She took his hand and they scurried into her room and cuddled beneath the covers. Abby smoothed his hair and rested her palm above the steady rhythm of his heart.

  “Mama?” he asked some time later.

  “Yes?”

  “You’re not gonna marry Mr. Matthews no more, are you?”

  “Certainly not.”

  “Good. Me’n Dilly don’t like ’im.”

  “I don’t like him, either.”

  “He won’t hurt you no more, will he?”

  She hated that her child had witnessed that terrible scene. “No. He’s in jail right now, and he’ll have to deal with the circuit judge.”

  “Brock’s teachin’ me how to shoot a gun. I could get a gun and keep it under my bed.”

  Abby’s heart fell at his words. She had never wanted him to have thoughts like those, but how could reality be avoided? “Brock is also teaching you that guns are necessary, but to be used only when there is no other choice, right?”

  “He said a smart man knows when to leave his gun in the holster, but a man who fires at everythin’ is marked for death.”

  Abby studied the ceiling in the darkness. Like Guy. “He’s a wise man,” she told him. “You pay attention when he tells you things.”

  “I’m too big to be thleepin’ with my ma, ain’t I?” Jonathon said a few minutes later.

  “Do you think you’re too big?”

  “I think I’ll be too big tomorrow. Tonight it’th okay.”

  “I think you’re right. You’re doing a lot of growing up tonight.”

  He fell still and silent, and his breathing deepened. Abby released him from her embrace and lay on her back. Oddly enough, she felt as though an enormous weight had been lifted from her chest. And it wasn’t that circumstances had changed as much as it was that she had changed. At long last, she had been honest with herself, and with Jonathon. He deserved to know the truth. She would have chosen another way to tell him, but the end result was what mattered now.

  Wondering what would happen with Everett, she knew James Kincaid wasn’t the kind to spread malicious talk. But others would gossip; it was natural. News would spread.

  She owed it to Brock to tell him what had happened before he heard it by some other means.

  The following morning, she kept Jonathon home from school and took him to Laine’s for the morning. Leaving Sam in charge of the store, she trudged to the livery. Surprised to see her, Lionel Briggs rented her a horse and helped her into the saddle by offering her a step up on his laced fingers. He wiped his palms on his pant legs. “You sure you know how to handle ’im?”

  “I’m a rancher’s daughter, Mr. Briggs,” she assured him.

  “I’ve been riding since I was barely able to walk.”

  With a shrug, he waved her off.

  Her confidence wavered momentarily when she had to get her bearings and assure herself she was headed in the right direction. She’d been to the Kincaid ranch recently, and she would simply remember to keep the mountains at her left shoulder. Sure enough, the landmarks were familiar, and before long, she recognized the copse of trees Brock had pointed out as marking their property border.

  She thought briefly of the wolves, and decided not to borrow trouble by imagining the worst. The ranch house was a little east of where she thought she’d find it, but the smoke and tracks led her right to it.

  John Whitefeather spotted her immediately and rode out to meet her. “Mrs. Watson,” he said politely.

  “Good morning, John.”

  “Ruth will be pleased to have company.”

  “Actually, I’ve come to see Brock.”

  John leaned back in the saddle and pointed to a horse and wagon a measurable distance from the corral. “That’s him.”

  She thanked him and nudged the horse forward.

  Brock was hammering at a section of fence, his coat and hat slung over the back of the wagon. He wore a thick sweater, dungarees and boots, and of course, the ivory-handled revolvers.

  Catching sight of her from the corner of his eye, he straightened, the hammer falling still in his gloved hand.

  Abby rode close and reined in.

  “This is a surprise,” he said.

  She was probably the last person he’d expected to see riding here today. She threw her leg over and dismounted, and he dropped the tool to help her.

  A line of worry furrowed between his brows. “Is Jonathon all right?”

  “Jonathon’s fine.”

  Quick as a snap, his expression changed and his whole body seemed to come to attention. His gaze had focused on her face, and he ripped off a glove to cup her chin and tilt her face up. “What the hell happened to you?”

  She had forgotten the rows of bruises on her cheeks, which had been barely visible in her mirror in the bleak morning light. If they looked anything like they felt, they had probably turned a vivid purple. “Do I look bad?”

  “You look like a prizefighter after a match. What the hell happened? This looks like— Lord, Abby, these look like finger marks!”

  “There’s something I have to tell you.”

  “Damned right you do.” He released her chin and stepped back. “Did that son of a bitch Matthews do this to you?”

  “Yes, but—”

  He cursed and punched the air, muttering a string of profanities.

  “But he’s in jail,” she assured him, grabbing his arm and silencing him. “The sheriff locked him up.”

  Pain was evident in his eyes when he turned them back to her, as though he couldn’t bear to look at her injuries. His tone of voice had softened to one of almost agony. “What did he do to you?”

  “He got angry because I told him I wasn’t going to marry him.”

  Brock let the words sink in to make sure he got the information right. “You did?”

  She nodded. “I made a decision yesterday.”

  He inspected the bruises marring her beautiful face and drilled his gaze into hers. His chest grew tight. The sweat under his clothing chilled now that he’d stopped working, but he ignored the cold and hung on to her words.

  “I realized that I couldn’t marry him. Actually, I made the decision in my heart a few days before, but it took a while to get to my head. I shared it with Laine, and she encouraged me to go tell him right away—get it over with.”

  The joy of knowing she had changed her mind—that she wasn’t going to go through with the wedding—mixed with the fury of knowing the detestable man had harmed her. “And he did this to you?”

  “Not right then. I found him at the Double Deuce, told him on the street out front. He came over later—during the night. I wouldn’t have opened the door, but I guess I thought it was you.”

  “I told you to ask who it was!”

  “I know, I know. But I still wouldn’t have thought him capable of what he did. I probably would have let him in anyway.”

  “What else did he do?” A horrible thought crossed his mind, an unacceptable image of Matthews forcing himself on Abby. “Did he—Abby, what did he do?” Waiting w
as agony.

  “He was angry—he’d been drinking. He shouted and said horrible things.”

  “What things?”

  “Things about you—about us—about Jonathon.”

  Her skin was pale in the cold, making the bruising look all the worse. He wanted to pull her close and comfort her, but he didn’t want to stop her talking.

  “Jonathon woke up and was scared.” Her chin trembled then.

  Brock held himself still and waited.

  “Everett told Jonathon that Jed wasn’t his father.”

  Brock’s heart hammered against his breastbone.

  “He told him that you were—and that you were a murderer.”

  Clenching his jaw against the anger and pain, Brock imagined his little boy hearing those hateful words, imagined the confusion he must have felt. “I’m so sorry, Abby.”

  It came out a choked whisper.

  She blinked. “The blame isn’t yours!”

  “I’m responsible. Way back then I made bad choices.”

  “Not just you,” she told him sternly. “I blamed you for so long that I never took time to admit my part in what happened. I’m responsible, too. Maybe more than you. I knew you were unhappy and confused, but I let myself think that I could be the answer to all your problems. What kind of girlish foolishness was that?”

  He shook his head, no reply forming. “What did Jonathon do? What did he say?” He brought a hand to his temple. “I can hardly stand to think of it.”

  “It wasn’t so awful,” she told him gently. “Well, Everett was awful. But I knocked him out and—”

  “How?”

  “With my washbowl.”

  He pictured it. Amazement washed over him.

  “Asa and Daisy had been knocking on my door. When I was able to let them in, Asa went for help and the sheriff took Everett away. After that Jonathon and I had a long talk and I told him the truth.”

  An unexpected satisfaction flooded Brock at the knowledge that his son knew about him now. Now he could be free to love him, to express himself as he hadn’t been able to. “Is he okay?”

  “He’s an amazing little man,” she said, pride lacing her tone. “He accepted the news surprisingly well.” A brisk wind caught Abby’s turned-up collar and blew it against her face. “I also told him about my part in making you go away. I assured him that you didn’t know about him when you left—and that I made you leave.”