"Cheryl St. John delivers an exciting romance with a
western flair"
~ ReaderToReader.com www.newandusedbooks.com
THE GUNSLINGER'S BRIDE features Brock, the youngest brother in the legendary Kincaid family. Seven years ago, after a deadly gunfight, Brock left Whitehorn, Montana and hasn't been heard from since. Now he's back, face to face with the family and the girl he left behind.
Abby has never forgiven Brock for her younger brother's death. Nor has she forgiven him for leaving her alone to face an angry father and a gossiping community. She has made a good life for herself. Although widowed, Abby has a son she adores, and everything is going smoothly until Brock's unexpected return.
Rumor has it that the legendary gunfighter, Jack Spade, is in Whitehorn, too, and even Abby has trouble figuring out who the famous gunslinger truly is. Is it Brock? Or a newly arrived man dressed in black? Only the real Jack Spade knows for sure, and he's not telling.
Abby's love for Brock has never died. The reawakened attraction confuses and humiliates her, and though she'd just as soon never see him again, there's something between them that can't be ignored or forgotten. . .and Brock won't let her forget.
If you've never read a Montana Mavericks before, it doesn't matter—each of the books in this new trilogy stands alone. If you've read the continuity series or either of the Big Sky anthologies, these new stories will transport you back to the early years in Whitehorn.
Writing THE GUNSLINGER'S BRIDE and coordinating the details with fellow authors and good friends, Deborah Hale and Carolyn Davidson, was a delight. Once you read my story, I know you'll be as eager as I am for those that follow.
Chapter One
JANUARY 1897
Brock Kincaid squinted at the slate-gray clouds that had been shifting down from the Crazy Mountains since he’d broken camp that morning, and pulled his sheepskin collar around his neck against the bitter wind. Born and raised in Montana, He found that seven years away hadn’t dimmed his ability to smell a blizzard coming from the north. He built a fire and melted snow for the horses, one he rode, the other carrying his bedroll and supplies, as well as gifts carefully chosen for the brothers he hadn’t seen since he’d left the Kincaid ranch behind.
Caleb, the oldest, would be there, running the ranch, but Will had been gone when Brock left, having headed out after repeated disagreements with Caleb. Brock had no idea where he was now, just as they hadn’t a clue where he’d been or what he’d been doing. For their protection, he’d been careful to hide his identity. . .and his whereabouts.
Cooling the water with a handful of snow and holding the dented pail for his mount to drink, Brock scratched the animal’s bony forehead and yawned. Imagining his brother’s reaction to his return had kept him awake most of the night, and he’d started out after only a couple hours’ sleep.
After the horses were finished, he stowed the pail, then bent and scooped snow to scrub across his tired face. A few more hours and he’d reach Whitehorn, where he could board the animals and get a night’s rest before heading to the ranch. He wanted to be alert and prepared before facing Caleb.
With a creak of cold leather, Brock mounted and let the gray pick his way around overgrown scrub and drifted snow. The pack horse whinnied and shook its head, and Brock paused to gather the slack from the lead rope until it calmed. Wolf tracks and bright red blood spattered on the pristine snow several yards to his right told him he didn’t want to be around after dark. He drew his .44 Winchester from the scabbard on his saddle and rested it across his thighs. Damn, but a warm bed would feel good tonight. It had been a long time since he’d been comfortable.
A minute later, the rimed crust of snow crunched beneath the horses hooves as he nudged his mount forward, those steps the only sound, save the horses’ snorts in the bitter air.
He’d cut all ties with his acquaintances of the last few years, transferred funds, changed horses and saddles, bought new clothes, and taken a painstakingly slow, roundabout trail to reach Montana. He’d covered his tracks with as much caution as humanly possible.
The only personal possessions he still owned were the pair of carved ivory-handled .45 Peacemakers in the holsters strapped to his thighs, as much a living part of him as his arms or his legs. They’d saved his life more times than he could count, and leaving them behind would make him more vulnerable than he could afford to be and still live.
Brock blinked against the snow glinting pink and gold from the mountains and adjusted his hat brim to shade his eyes. By late afternoon, he’d skirted the outlying ranches and made his way toward town. With luck, no one would recognize him, and he'd have time to prepare himself for the only showdown he’d ever had doubts about.
A tinny bell clanged, and the door of the schoolhouse flew open. Brock halted the horses in a stand of bare-branched cottonwoods, and watched bundled children charge out the door and down the wooden stairs of the structure which had been built on the outskirts of Whitehorn since his departure. The grays, actually black-skinned with white hairs, and chosen for their light coloring against a snowy landscape, stood silent.
A few parents near the building waited with wagons or horses. Brock let his gaze scan the students.
Was his nephew Zeke among the children? He did a quick calculation and figured the boy would be eight by now. Was someone from the Kincaid ranch down there to meet the child? Heart chugging nervously, he studied those waiting, but none struck him as familiar. From this distance he couldn’t make out brands on the horses.
None of those departing headed for the Kincaid ranch, but several children ran toward town.
Brock observed the willowy dark-haired woman who locked the schoolhouse door and trudged through the snow toward the main street.
Once the area was clear, he rode out of his secluded spot and followed. Whitehorn looked much the same as it had the last time he’d seen it, false-fronted buildings with signs proclaiming the businesses: the telegraph office, a dress making shop, the No Bull Meat Market, the Double Deuce Saloon, Whitehorn News, Watson Hardware, the bank. Big Mike’s Music Hall and Opera House was new, as was a structure that looked to be made of oil cans bearing a sign advertising "Fish for Sale".
He passed Old Lady Harroun’s boardinghouse and the Centennial Saloon before stopping at the livery. Lionel Briggs, a long-faced fellow, emerged from the warmth of the forge and greeted him. "How long you stayin’, mister?"
"I’m not sure," Brock said, keeping his hat pulled low. "I’ll pay for tonight. They need feed and rest." He pulled his glove from his numb fingers and reached inside his coat for silver coins.
"I’ll treat ‘em good. Check their feet?"
Brock nodded and paid him.
The man stared suspiciously, a frown and then recognition registering on his face. "Brock Kincaid! I’ll be damned! Thought I recognized that voice."
"I’d be obliged if you didn’t mention that you’d seen me," Brock said. "I’d like to get some rest before I visit the ghosts."
"Where ya been all this time?" the man asked. "Some said you was workin’ with Bill Cody. Others claimed you’d settled down in New Mexico."
"I saw some of New Mexico," he replied non-committally, pulling down his rifle and unstrapping his gear. "Can I leave my bedroll in a stall?"
"Certain you can."
"Still get a decent meal and room at the Carlton?"
Lionel nodded. "Amos still runs a good place. That hasn’t changed. Wife’s sickly now, though."
Brock threw his saddlebags over his shoulder and thanked the livery man.
His boots clomped across the boardwalk as he headed for the hotel. He’d reached the wide dock that fronted the hardware store when a couple of laughing boys wrapped in heavy coats, wool caps and scarves, shot out the door and ran into his legs, knocking him sideways. Groping for balance, he dropped his gear and grabbed a wooden post.
"Jonathon! Zeke! Apologize to the gentleman. You weren’t even looking where you were going."
A slender russet-haired young woman without a coat appeared in the doorway, a white apron covering her plain dress and calling attention to her curvy figure.
"Thorry, mithter," the shorter of the two said with an endearing lisp. "We wathn’t lookin’ where we wath goin’."
The other boy struggled to pick up Brock’s cumbersome saddle bags and hand them back to him. "Didn’t mean no harm," he said. The wool cap he’d worn tumbled off his head and he turned to grab it, knocking into the smaller boy. Both of them landed on their butts on the icy loading dock.
Chuckling, Brock bent over and plucked both of them up and steadied them on their feet. The youngest one gazed up, dark blue eyes wary of the stranger. A wisp of wavy blonde hair escaped his cap. Was this a Kincaid nephew? Brock glanced at the other boy, also fair-haired and blue-eyed.
Then he turned and saw the young woman for the first time.
She was staring at him, her complexion gone pale, a sprinkling of freckles standing out against the pink rising in her cheeks. "Abby?" he asked uncertainly.
A combination of things had driven him away from this town. The constant discord in the Kincaid house was surely part of it. The other part--the bigger part--was the fact that he’d killed this woman’s young brother.
She stared at him still, as though not believing what her eyes were telling her. Once his identity registered, her expression quickly changed to one of cool hostility. "Come inside boys," she said curtly.
"But we didn’t get licorith yet," the younger one complained.
"We didn’t mean to knock the man down," the other added.
"No harm done," Brock said kindly, stooping to pick up his leather bags. He couldn’t help casting another hungry look at the boys who reminded him so much of him and his brothers at that age.
"One of you Zeke Kincaid?" he asked.
The taller boy’s eyes widened. "How’d you know that?"
"Come inside now, boys!" Abby told them sharply.
"Are you Zeke?"
The lad nodded, then gave Abby a quick look. Caleb’s son. Brock’s nephew. Brock looked him over hungrily, all the years away from here seeming so wasted and lonely. Caleb’d had more children and Brock had missed their births. Abby must be watching them for Marie.
"Come in immediately," Abby ordered.
"Aw, Ma," the younger boy said unhappily.
Ma? The address hung in the air like the report of a bullet. Brock’s gaze shot to Abby’s face. Shuttered and distant, her expression revealed only her disdain. "Your son?" he managed to ask past a dry throat.
"That’s right. Jonathon is my son. Now excuse us." She nearly pushed the boys inside the store and slammed the door so hard the glass panes rattled and the bell inside clanged.
Her son? But that child was unquestionably a Kincaid. Had Marie died and Caleb married Abby? Had Will come back and married Abby?
Snow had begun falling in earnest, blowing up across the dock and dusting Brock’s boots. He wasn’t sure how long he stood there in confusion, contemplating the shocking information and the possibilities. Of course, life here had gone on without him; why had he imagined everything would still be the same?
Through the square panes of window glass, he could see that the hardware store held a few customers. What Abby Franklin was doing in there, he had no idea, but he didn’t want the entire town to know he was here before he’d had a chance to see Caleb, and the stove at the hardware store was the social gathering place on winter afternoons such as this.
Tamping down his questions and his eagerness to see his nephews, he adjusted the heavy bags over his shoulder and hurried through the snow to the hotel.
Abby Watson stared out the window at Brock’s tall long-legged form retreating through the swirling snow. She bit her lip and pressed a shaky hand to her thundering heart. Surely she’d expected that he’d be back one day. He owned a share of Kincaid land, for heaven’s sake! Both of his brothers were here, Caleb running the ranch, Will having returned and made his amends a year ago. He now ran the bank.
At the time of Will’s return, she’d been forced to think of Brock--to wonder where he was and whether or not he too would make his way back to Whitehorn and his family home. She’d considered selling the store and leaving before that became a reality, but her roots had grown deep into this land. Her father and brother were dead now, but Jonathon had family here, even though he didn’t know it. She owned her father’s ranch as well as a thriving business, and she felt good about being a respected affluent citizen.
With a discretion Abby appreciated, Caleb had never asked Abby to clarify Jonathon’s parentage. The fact that he knew the truth had been evident in his actions for years.
Caleb couldn’t acknowledge Jonathon publicly without shaming Abby, because Abby had married Jedediah Watson and the older man had accepted the boy as his own. Caleb had seen to it that Zeke and Jonathon spent plenty of time together, though, especially since Jed’s death two years ago. Zeke coming home with Jonathon after school every day had begun as much to keep the boys together as to spare Zeke the tension of his unhappy home life, Abby suspected. Now that Zeke’s home life had changed for the better, he still came here every day.
Abby glanced back at her handsome fair-haired son brushing snow from his pants and a sick feeling curled in her belly. What would happen when Brock learned the truth? Would he even care? He hadn’t seemed to in all these years, so she couldn’t imagine that he’d suddenly develop a conscience.
She brought her worried gaze back to the window. Men like Brock Kincaid thought only of their prowess with a gun, to the exclusion of family and loved ones. Men like him had no loved ones. And they robbed other people of theirs, as well.
A shiver ran through her body.
"What’re you lookin’ at out there, Miz Watson?" Harry Talbert, the barber called from his favorite chair beside the stove. "That snow is gonna come down whether or not you keep an eye on it."
More than seven years ago Brock Kincaid had shot and killed her brother, then ridden out of town without a backward glance.
Now he was back. And about to find out he had a son.
Brock awoke at first light, placed his feet on the frigid floorboards and strode naked to the window. From this second story, he could see much of the frozen rutted street, the shops with mounds of snow drifted across the boardwalk and against their doors, a few animals tracks leading in and out of the alleyways, and smoke drifting from chimneys.
The brick smokestack at Watson’s Hardware belched a steady gray cloud. He’d watched until dark and Abby hadn’t left the place. Caleb had come with a team and wagon and taken one of the boys away. If Abby’d left, it had been late, or she’d exited by a rear door, but Brock couldn’t imagine why she would bother.
He dressed and continued his vigil at the window. One by one, lamps came on in the businesses below. Merchants arrived and shoveled boardwalks. Shades rose. A man with a key entered the hardware store, a man too young and fit to be Jedediah Watson.
A team and buckboard pulled up alongside the dock that fronted the hardware store and the driver climbed the stairs and tried the door. He knocked. Lights came on and the door opened to admit the customer.
Sometime later, the rancher came out, followed by the man who’d entered earlier and together they carried boxes, rolled barrels across the dock, and loaded the supplies into the wagon bed.
Abby appeared at the doorway, wearing a white apron. She waved as the rancher pulled away. The youngman entered the store behind her and the door closed. She looked as though she belonged there. If the man was her husband, why had he just arrived when it was apparent she’d been there all night? If she worked there, perhaps she had a room over the store. Brock glanced at the lace curtains at the upper windows.
He could stand here supposing all day, but he had business to see to with his brother, so he packed his bags and left.
Lionel had fed and groomed the horses, and Brock paid him an extra dollar for their care, loaded his belongings and rode out. He followed the ice-crusted creek, from time to time spotting wolves sunning themselves on outcroppings that jutted from the rock walls of the foothills. The horses startled an occasional deer or rabbit. He’d missed the wide open spaces of this country, missed a sense of belonging and of family, more and more as the years passed.
At the time, leaving had seemed like the best thing, the only thing he could do. Caleb had married Marie, a pampered young woman who’d been expecting his child, and her immediate withdrawal had confused everyone. Unhappy in his marriage, Caleb had turned cold and distant, and Will’s competitive badgering wore on him. Will had resented Caleb being groomed to take over the ranch, and his jealously drove a rift between them.
Brock had been torn between his two older brothers. Though he’d been the troublemaker in his youth, he had kept his tomfoolery away from the ranch, wreaking havoc in the saloons and streets instead. As the youngest, his irresponsibility had been overlooked. Frustrated by his lack of position in the family and on the ranch, as well as by the constant rivalry between his siblings, Brock had taken a devil-may-care attitude. When Will stole money from Caleb’s safe and headed East, his actions had stabbed Brock like a knife to the heart.
That hadn’t been the final straw however. He probably could have stuck it out, moved to town perhaps, away from Caleb and Marie, though he adored their fair-haired baby, Zeke. No, the event that had driven him to pack his bags and ride toward the horizon had taken place the day he’d shot and killed the boy--Abby’s brother.
Brock sat his horse in a flurry of swirling spindrift and gazed at his family home, at the well-kept barns and corrals and the cattle on the nearby hills. Caleb had done well. So well that he wouldn’t welcome Brock’s return?
He nudged the gray and headed forward.
A figure on horseback emerged from the concealment of trees to the north and rode swiftly toward the barns. Brock recognized the brown-and-white skewbald and the figure atop as John Whitefeather, a half Cheyenne and friend of Caleb’s.
Before Brock reached the yard, the tall, broad figure of his brother, dressed in denims and a flannel shirt, appeared in the open doorway of the barn. Shaggy, dark blond hair blew back from his face in the cold wind. But despite the wind and the frigid air, he stepped away from the shelter of the building and ran forward.
Brock reined in the gray several yards away and dismounted, closing the final steps that brought him face to face with his brother.
Caleb looked older, still muscled from hard work, his gray-blue eyes not revealing the thoughts or feelings behind them. He looked so much like their father that a wave of odd familiarity swept Brock, then disappeared when Caleb’s mouth turned up in a grin. "Little brother," he said calmly. Those steely eyes scanned the mountains and the sky. "Some time of year you picked for traveling."
"Yeah, well, you know I never had much sense when it came to practical things."
Caleb’s gaze moved to Brock and seemed to warm with his assessment of what he saw. "Your room’s still there. Don’t think the shirts are going to fit, though. You’ve grown some."
Brock took that as a welcome, and the reticence which had created a stone wall around his heart cracked.
"Bet you could use a bath and a hot meal."
The crack widened and a thread of hope snaked through. "Sure could. Who’s cooking?"
Caleb reached for the reins and took them from Brock’s gloved hand, then led the animals toward the barn. "Things have changed around here. We have a lot to catch up on."
Brock walked beside him. "I’m looking forward to it."
The gray-blue eyes that met his held an unmistakable sheen. "Me, too, little brother."
After unsaddling and brushing the horses, then and throwing down hay for them, they walked toward the house, where a familiar dark-skinned woman with a glossy black braid met them at the back door and led them into the warm humid kitchen. She rested a chubby dark-haired baby on her hip.
"Ruth is my wife now. This is our son, Barton." At Brock’s puzzled expression, Caleb added. "I told you there was a lot to catch up on. Marie’s dead," he explained, referring to his first wife. "She was thrown from a horse and stayed in a coma until she died."
Brock was at a loss for words. ‘I’m sorry’ didn’t seem adequate, yet he couldn’t help thinking guiltily how miserable Caleb had been with his first wife and how he was better off without her.
"I’m glad you’re home, Brock," Ruth said with a warm smile, teeth white against her dark skin. "And don’t let your brother fool you, he’s glad you’re here, too."
Ruth was John Whitefeather’s sister, and she had stayed with them for a time many years ago.
Brock nodded. "I’m glad to be back."
"Dada!" the baby burbled, and flapped a chubby arm at his father.
With a wide smile, Caleb took the boy from his mother and tossed him in the air. The baby chortled and a string of drool hit Caleb on the chin. He shook his shaggy head and grimaced, which only made the baby giggle harder. Caleb brought the boy to rest against his wide chest and wiped his face with his shirtsleeve.
Ruth laughed and the couple exchanged looks of affection and pride. She turned to Brock then and said, "Let’s get you settled. I’ll heat water for a bath."
"Do I smell?" he asked with a grin.
She laughed good-naturedly. "The first thing your brother wants to do after he returns from a trip is clean up."
"Well, you’re right about that. I stayed at the hotel last night, but I didn’t take time for the niceties."
"You were in town overnight?" A furrow dipped between Caleb’s brows.
"Yes. I needed a little time to collect myself. I wasn’t sure--well, I wasn’t sure how you were going to react to seeing me."
"Ruth’s right. I’m glad to see you. About damned time is all I have to say." Caleb handed the baby back to his wife. "We’ll talk at supper."
With that, he turned and left the house, the door banging shut in a gust of wind.
"He doesn’t have a coat on," Ruth commented.
"I think he was a little distracted," Brock replied.
"He is glad you’re here."
"I hope so." For some reason it seemed easier to talk to this woman than to his brother. "I spent too long on the trail and I’m ready to settle in somewhere. Make up for the lost years if I can."
"Well, you’re welcome here. This is your home."
He didn’t know if she’d feel the same if she knew what he’d been doing all those years, if she knew the things he had to put behind him: the violence and the bloodshed and the wavering line between right and wrong that he’d walked for so long. Too long.
And Brock didn’t know if it was possible to put all that behind him, if the man he’d become could be the man he wanted to be. Even if he cut himself off from every person who’d known him or known of him, and started over, could he ever live at peace with himself?
"I’ll have the tub and water brought to your room."
Brock thanked his new sister-in-law and climbed the stairs, his gun hand riding the glossy banister.
Catching up took Brock and Caleb most of the day, half a bottle of rum, and several cigars. Ruth prepared lunch, something she claimed to enjoy, since Caleb normally ate in the bunkhouse with the hands at noon.
After telling the story of his and Ruth’s romance, Caleb related how Will had come home a year ago wanting to return the gold. Caleb hadn’t wanted it, didn’t want money to be a factor between them, so they’d secretly buried it in a cornerstone of the Double Deuce Saloon, which Caleb owned.
"That doesn’t sound like the Caleb I remember," Brock told him. "I can’t picture you doing something like that."
Caleb grinned. "Hopefully I’ve changed--for the better."
"I saw Zeke yesterday," Brock told him.
Caleb slapped a hand against his thigh. "Are you the stranger he saw outside the hardware store?"
Brock grinned. "That’s me."
"He was taken with the revolvers you wore. See you don’t have ‘em on today."
And he had no idea how difficult it was for Brock to leave them in his room, even while in this house.
Caleb’s eyes narrowed and he pierced Brock with a look he remembered too well, a look that said he’d see though him if he tried to lie. "So what have you been doing all these years, little brother?"
Chapter Two
Brock brushed his fingertips across the empty space on his denim-clad thigh where his holster should have been. The absence of that familiar weight kept surprising him. "I hired on in a range war in Wyoming after I left here. Occasionally I rode shotgun for Wells Fargo on special runs. But the ranchers kept hiring me to do their dirty work, and they paid too well to say no. After a while it seemed I was getting so many offers that I could choose."
Brock stood and stretched his legs, striding to the window and gazing out at the snow-covered mountains. "I traveled with army details to recover stolen horses. Took a couple of U.S. Marshal jobs. Things like that."
"You never wrote."
The words hung in the air, more of a hurt-revealing question than an accusation.
Brock hadn’t written because he hadn’t wanted his enemies to be able to track him to his family. The sugarcoated version of the past he was feeding his brother was enough. The less Caleb knew, the better. "I didn’t know what to say."
"You could have said you were okay."
"You were mad that I left, weren’t you?"
"I was mad at your hotheaded foolishness that got that boy killed."
Brock stiffened and turned his gaze to Caleb. "I didn’t go looking for that kid, he came gunning for me."
"Because you dishonored his sister!"
"What happened between me and Abby was our business."
"Something like that becomes family business, Brock. Her father would have come after you himself if he’d known first. But it was Guy who found out and Guy who tried to protect his sister’s honor."
"I never even had a chance to make it right," Brock argued.
"What would you have done? Married Abby?"
The question sucked the tension from Brock’s body. He drew a palm over his face, then hung his thumb in his belt. "I don’t know."
"You wouldn’t have," Caleb answered for him.
"I was young."
"You were a hothead."
"Maybe I was, but I didn’t want to kill Guy."
"I know that." Those words were laced with sincerity and regret. "And things were ugly here, too. I knew why you left. I always knew. It wasn’t just the boy. You’d have been found innocent of his death, there were witnesses. You were protecting yourself. Guy was just the last straw."
"I was all mixed up. You and Will were fighting. . .and then he left with the gold."
"Don’t forget Marie," Caleb added.
"And Marie," he agreed with a nod. Caleb’s understanding eased away the burden of Brock’s worries. His brother had changed, and it was a change Brock liked. "You’re different now than before I left."
"Maybe that’s why I understand that you’re different, too. It’s been a long time. We all change. And grow. Thank God."
"And Zeke is so big, I can hardly believe it. He looks like you did."
Caleb grinned and agreed.
Brock’s thoughts switched to the other boy he’d seen the day before. "What is Abby doing at Watson’s Hardware anyway? Working there? Seems like an unlikely place for a female."
"Might be an unlikely place for a female, but she’s been doing a fine job of running it since Jed passed on."
"Running it? What for?"
"She owns the store now. She’s Jedediah Watson’s widow."
Widow. The prickly news didn’t want to settle nicely in Brock’s mind. It poked around nervously, leaving stinging wounds. His breath grew short and he had a difficult time drawing air into his lungs. "She married Jedediah Watson?"
"Yep."
"He’s an old man."
"Was. And I don’t think he was over fifty when he died."
"What the hell did she marry him for?"
"Why do most women marry? Security maybe."
"She said the other boy is hers--the boy I saw with Zeke."
"Jonathon. Smart as a whip, that one."
"I thought he was yours."
Caleb looked at him in surprise. "Mine? Why would you think that?"
"I saw him with Zeke. The two look like brothers, don’t they?"
Caleb’s expression closed before he pulled out a pocket knife and worked at a sliver in his thumb. "There’s a resemblance."
"I was sure that boy was a Kincaid."
"Hmm."
Brock didn’t like his brother’s avoidance one bit. It made him nervous as hell. "Don’t you think it’s odd?"
"What?"
"That he looks so much like. . .."
"Like what?"
"Like we did." His heart kicked an unsteady rhythm as the pieces came together in his mind. "Caleb, how old is Jonathon?"
His brother folded the blade away and studied his knife. "About seven, I guess."
Brock took a few frantic steps toward the chair where Caleb sat, the weight of wonder growing heavier on his chest. "When’s his birthday?"
"I don’t remember."
"Caleb--."
"Brock, these questions are for Abby. Go talk to her."
The tension inside Brock had built until he felt sick to his stomach. "You know something, don’t you?"
Caleb stood and drilled his blue-gray gaze into Caleb’s. The room around them took on an odd gray-tinged bleakness. "I don’t know any more than you do. Go ask Abby. And that’s all I’m saying about it."
Brock couldn’t leave the room fast enough.
Abby tied up a brown paper package with a length of twine and handed it to Etta Larimer, her first customer in an hour.
"Did you hear there’s a gunslinger in town?" Etta asked, an edge of excitement in the reedy voice of the newspaper man’s wife.
"No, I hadn’t heard."
"He got off the stage yesterday, all dressed in black. Fancy clothes and fancy guns. Henry Hill saw him and says he wears silver-plated six-shooters in silver-studded holsters and a scarlet silk neckerchief."
"Henry noticed his neckerchief?"
"Well, it would be a striking contrast to the dress in this town. People are saying he’s that Jack Spade fellow."
Abby had heard the humors of the famous Jack Spade being in the area for some time now. Her fiancé, Everett Matthews, worked at the telegraph office and he’d been seeing conflicting reports of the dime novel hero’s supposed whereabouts. Her immediate thought was of Jonathon at the schoolhouse, but she dismissed her motherly fears as being intensified by the appearance of Brock Kincaid yesterday. "Those kind of men are trouble wherever they go, and I hope Sheriff Kincaid sends him on his way immediately. We don’t need his kind in Whitehorn."
Etta’s expression grew subdued. "Of course, you’re right, dear." She lowered her voice. "I just hope I get to see him before he leaves."
"Not me. I hope I don’t have to set an eye on him or anyone like him."
The front door opened and even clear across the cavernous interior of the fully-stocked store, Abby could feel the cold snake in and wrap around her ankles. She thanked Etta for her business and moved to add more fuel to the fire in the stove. She was poking the coals with an iron tool when boot heels sounded loudly behind her.
"I was wondering where all the customers were this after--." She stopped abruptly in her turn, the sight of Brock Kincaid’s formidable figure in a long snow-dusted coat bringing her up short. His dark blue eyes radiated as much heat as the stove behind her. She set the tool aside. "What do you want?"
"I want to talk to you."
"This isn’t the place or the time."
"I think it is."
Abby glanced around. Her only customer had departed and Sam Rowland, her hired man, was gone for the day since his wife was expecting a baby soon and hadn’t been feeling well. A shiver of fear slipped up her spine. Rarely was she frightened to be alone here where men gathered and shopped. They held a healthy respect for the widow of Jedediah Watson, but this man wasn’t one of them. He was a stranger now. A killer. "I don’t have anything to say to you."
"You’ll answer my questions."
A statement. A threat? She made herself look at him again.
He was bigger than she remembered, taller with wider shoulders and the expressionless face of a hard man. She would not let him see the sudden rush of fear that sent a cold chill through her blood. She seated herself abruptly on one of the worn wooden chairs near the stove and folded her hands in her lap. "Hurry then. I run a business here."
Brock took his time removing his sheepskin coat, hanging it on one of the brass hooks that protruded from the nearby post for just that purpose. A pair of embossed leather holsters were strapped to the length of his thighs, ivory-handled revolvers gleaming deadly in the light. Her heart slowed to almost no beat, then raced alarmingly. She drew a shaky breath and quickly looked down at the floor.
His boots left puddles of melted snow on the scratched varnish. He stepped closer and she closed her eyes in keen trepidation of the inevitable.
"How old is Jonathon?"
She swallowed, knowing what was coming, dreading it from the depths of her wounded soul. Countless sleepless nights and innumerable days of wondering and waiting had culminated in this moment. She felt light-headed and disconnected, as though this was happening to someone else and not to her. "Seven."
"When’s his birthday?"
"What difference does it make to you?"
"It makes a difference."
"I don’t think it’s any of your business."
"I think it is." His voice was quiet, but held a tone that brooked no argument.
She argued anyway. This was her life at stake. "I don’t have to tell you."
"Then I’ll ask him."
She opened her eyes finally, her head clearing and her protective instincts on full alert, and brought her gaze up to his. "You stay away from him."
"What are you afraid of?"
He was calm, too calm for a man tearing someone’s life apart. His cool detachment frightened her more. "I mean it! Stay away from him."
"He’s a Kincaid." He spoke it with deadly calm.
Was her heart still beating? Of course, that was what the deafening drumbeat in her ears was all about. She fought to keep her expression bland.
"I knew it the minute I saw him. He looks like a Kincaid through and through. You can’t deny it."
"What are you insinuating?"
"I’m not insinuating anything. I’m stating a fact. He’s either Caleb’s or Will’s. . .or mine."
Caleb’s or Will’s! Indignant at the insult, Abby shot from her seat and swung her right hand toward his face. Too swiftly, he caught her wrist and held it fast, her braid whipping across her shoulder and smacking him in the chest. She struggled against his hold and raised her other hand, but he grabbed her upper arm.
"Leave us alone!" she managed to bite out past the mounting fury.
"Why did you marry Jed Watson?" he said, staring down into her face.
Her entire body trembled with anxiety, and she hated that he could feel her weakness. "He was kind. He was good to me and to Jonathon."
His strong hands gripped her painfully. A disturbing light flared in his eyes. "Why did you marry him?"
"I don’t have to explain anything to you. I don’t owe you a thing."
"I have a lot of time, Abby." His hold relaxed a measure. "I’ve come to Whitehorn to stay. I can sit here all day, every day and wait for you to tell me the truth." And he demonstrated by releasing her.
She almost fell at the loss of support, bumping into a counter and sending a tool flying with a clang, then catching her balance. She wrapped her arms around herself, massaging the places on her arms where she could still feel his biting touch.
He sat on a chair, propped his feet on another, and rested his arms behind his head in an infuriatingly nonchalant pose. How dare he come back here after all this time and act as though he had any rights whatsoever! This man had taken every girlish dream she’d ever had, shot them full of holes, and left them to die an agonizing death.
Anger boiled up and she wanted to throw something at him. She glanced around at the rows of tools and boxes of springs and bolts. The bell over the door clanged, saving her from a violent act she would have regretted.
Brock looked up and gave her a cruel grin. "You have a customer."
She wouldn’t cry. She wouldn’t. She would not give the malicious man the satisfaction. She’d shown weakness once before, but she’d learned a harsh lesson. She turned away, composed her quaking chin and picked up a cast-iron utensil that had been knocked off a shelf, replacing it with trembling fingers.
"I’ll wait right here," he said from behind her.
The ‘customer’ was Harry Talbert, the barber. He made his way past spools of wire and down the long row of silver-nickled dome-top, coal-burning stoves. "The coffee doesn’t smell burnt. . . yet."
"No, no it’s still drinkable."
He took his stained mug from the rack on a nearby shelf and poured himself a cup of dark brew, turning slowly to see who occupied the chair. Coffee sloshed onto the stovetop and hissed. "Brock Kincaid? Good Lord, you haven’t been in these parts for--how long? Five, six years?"
"Almost eight."
The words grated along Abby’s nerves like a shiver.
"Has it been that long? Well, I guess so. Since that day--." His gaze shot to where Abby stood. The day he’d killed Guy was what he didn’t finish saying.
She turned and hurried away, checking the orders she had started writing the day before. She overheard bits and pieces of their conversation as they discussed cattle and snow, and Harry brought Brock up to date on some of Whitehorn’s residents and businesses. The low rumble of Brock’s laughter grated on her nerves. The nerve of the man to make himself comfortable in her establishment, at the expense of her peace of mind.
She moved on to dusting oil lamps and the endless length of glass showcases, and then inventoried the kegs of nails she’d already counted that morning. Brock could afford to sit about and converse merrily. He hadn’t a care in the world, save the killing of innocent men, which obviously didn’t worry his conscience a whit.
Harry stayed over an hour, before he called out a good-bye and the bell rang. Abby had waited on a few customers in the meantime, all of them raising eyebrows or asking her about the man occupying a seat near her stove. Ready to order him out, she stomped back to where he sat calmly twining a scrap of fuse around his index finger.
"You were about to tell me why you married old Jed."
His words and his insolence were intolerable. "Don’t call him that! He was a decent man! A responsible man willing to marry a woman and provide for her--her and her son!"
"Her son. But not his."
She clenched and unclenched her hands in rage and frustration. "I don’t owe you an explanation. I don’t owe you anything. And I don’t want anything from you. Except for you to leave us alone."
"I can’t do that, Abby." His voice was as hard and cold as his steely blue eyes. "I want the truth."
She shook her head and her own voice came out annoyingly weak. "Why are you doing this?"
"I don’t want to hurt you. Abby, I never wanted to hurt you."
"You killed Guy!"
"What should I have done? Let him kill me?"
"He wouldn’t have killed you; he was a poor shot, as you found out. He was a stupid angry boy, but he didn’t deserve to die!" Tears stung behind her eyes and she fought to keep them back.
"He shouldn’t have come after me with a loaded Colt. He didn’t leave me any choice."
"Just leave me alone, Brock," she pleaded again. "Please."
Heat radiated off the iron stove. A rafter in the lofty ceiling creaked.
"He’s my son, isn’t he?" His gaze dropped to her breasts, to her belly, as though he imagined her with his child growing there.
A never-soothed ache swelled and burned in her chest. Abby had an empty feeling that a lot more people suspected the truth than had ever let on. They had pitied her, and she had married a respected businessman, so the truth had been overlooked. Caleb found ways to help and to get the boys together without embarrassing her. Never once had he asked her about Jonathon’s parentage. But he knew. And she had accepted his help and the tie to the family, because it was the truth.
Brock brought his attention back to her face, which burned anew with humiliation. "Say it, Abby. Say he’s my son. Tell me the truth."
She stared at him long and hard, remembering all the days and nights after he’d ridden away. Remembering her father’s outrage at discovering her condition and his insistence that she marry Jed. She remembered her fear and her loneliness and her final resignation. When dreams died, they died hard. "The truth?" She looked him in the eye. "You want the truth, Brock? Jonathon is your son. And I despise you more than words can say."
Countless times, Brock had stared into eyes that radiated hatred and he’d stared back, unfazed. Uncaring. Unfeeling. Not caring or feeling had kept him alive. Being quick on the draw wasn’t the only critical factor in winning a showdown. Most victories were won by gaining the upper hand before a gun ever cleared a holster. Mental strategy, confidence and a complete lack of emotion had given him the edge.
This time, God help him, he cared. The two facts struck like poison arrows and spread numbness through his chest and belly.
Jonathon was his son.
Abby hated him.
He’d missed seven years of his son’s life. Missed seeing the squalling infant come into the world, missed his first smiles and first teeth. Brock had spent his life on trains and horseback, in saloons and jails, taking pay to do things men were afraid to do for themselves. He’d been sleeping in strange hotel rooms and beside campfires, and Abby had been raising his son.
"Who does he think his father is?"
"He called Jed papa."
Brock swallowed a groan and let the piercing hurt sink in. "Jed knew he was my son?"
"He knew I was expecting Jonathon before he married me."
"Why did you marry him, Abby?" He still couldn’t comprehend her reasoning.
"My father arranged it. He was furious when he discovered I was going to have a baby. I didn’t have a choice."
"Surely there was something--."
"Such as what? My father had just buried a son, if you’ll recall. Guy didn’t tell him about us, and I was too afraid. I never told him anything, 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."
Brock imagined Abby, young, afraid, bearing her father’s anger, mourning her brother’s death, and married to a stranger.
"What did you do?"
She raised her chin and met his eyes. "I cooked and cleaned and learned about hardware, and I had a baby. There wasn’t anywhere for me to run."
He had no explanation that would change her mind about him. He’d been young and confused, but she’d been young and confused, too. Nothing he said now would change what had happened back then. She was acting as though he’d had a lot of choices. Even if he’d wanted to make it right, he couldn’t have. If he’d asked her to marry him then and there, she would have refused. Even if he’d known he had a son, still he couldn’t have come back. "I want to see him."
"No. I forbid it."
"You can’t forbid me from seeing my son."
"You won’t do anything to hurt him. You have that much decency. If people caught on, they would treat him cruelly, and you don’t want that. You’ve left us alone all these years, why should that change now?"
"Because now I know."
"You’d have known back then if you had stayed and faced what you’d done."
"We both know it was self-defense."
"I have a feeling that everything is self-defense with you," she said in a tone meant to inflict injury. "Have you ever taken responsibility for anything?"
Those words penetrated armor that bullets had never pierced. It was easy for her to blame him, easy for her to think the worst of him. Brock had never intended to kill her brother; he’d never even wanted to hurt him. The boy had drawn first, moved into the bullet. But he was dead all the same.
Little did she know Brock had taken responsibility for her safety and that of the son he hadn’t known existed--as well as his entire family--by staying away.
All the things she took for granted, things like a good night’s sleep in a familiar bed, like eating a meal without looking over her shoulder, like being able to live here, were the things he’d lost.
"I won’t do anything to hurt him. But I will see him."
Fear clouded her expressive eyes. Did she think he would hurt her? Did she think he’d take the boy and disappear? She hadn’t tried to hide her contempt, but she’d done a poor job of covering other emotions. She thought he was a monster. Let her think it. Utilizing fear had always given him an edge.
"I want to know my son. It can be as hard or as easy as you make it, but a boy needs a father."
"As usual, your feelings are the only ones that count," she said with cool accusation. "Not mine. Not Jonathon’s."
The bell over the door rang, echoing across the expansive interior and sparing him a reply.
A small figure dropped a scarf away from her head, revealing jet black hair, parted down the middle and pulled away from her oval face. She made her way toward the seating area near the stove, shaking the wool scarf as she went. "It is starting to snow again."
Abby glanced uncomfortably from the girl to Brock.
He coolly lifted one brow.
"Am I interrupting a sale?" the young woman asked.
Up close, Brock observed her dark, almond-shaped eyes and obviously Asian features. She was exceptionally pretty, with an open friendly face.
"I was just leaving." He reached for his coat.
"We haven’t yet met," she said, ignoring the dark look Abby shot her. "You are either the infamous Jack Spade that everyone is talking about--."
Brock wore the expressionless mask he’d perfected and didn’t so much as flicker a lash.
"--0r you are the Kincaid brother who has been gone for years. You don’t look to me like the gunfighter everyone talks about."
"Brock Kincaid," he said easily.
"I’m Shan Laine Mei."
"How do you do, Shan Laine Mei," he said, uncertain of how to address her properly. "Is it Miss Shan?"
She smiled broadly. "It is. The Shan family runs the fish market."
"The structure made of. . .oil cans?"
She nodded. "Cans are filled with stones and dirt. Fireproof. Bulletproof, too."
He hadn’t thought of that. "How is business this time of year?"
"My father and brother cut wood to sell during the winter. I sell canned vegetables that I garden during the growing season. Come by if you want good squash."
"I will." He situated his hat on his head and touched the brim. "Pleasure to meet you."
"And you, Mr. Brock.
He gave Abby a strong look. "I’ll be back."
She pursed her lips and looked away.
The bell over the door clanged at his exit.
"Laine, how could you stand there and converse with the man as though he were a gentleman?" Abby said to her friend in irritation.
"Mr. Brock is not a gentleman?"
"No, he most certainly is not. He’s a selfish, infuriating cold-blooded killer, that’s what he is."
Laine’s dark eyes widened. "You know this for a fact, Abby?"
Abby turned and placed a kettle of water on the stove. "I watched him shoot and kill my brother."
Slowly Laine removed her coat and hung it up. "You have not told me of this before."
Abby rubbed her palms together. Few people in town associated with Laine socially, so she’d never been filled in on the gossip surrounding Brock Kincaid. "I don’t like to talk about it."
"If he murdered your brother, why isn’t he in jail? Or why wasn’t he hanged?"
Abby flustered at the question. "Guy had his gun drawn. It looked like self-defense."
"The law said it was self-defense?"
"But Guy was seventeen years old. Just a boy."
"I am sorry. I knew your brother died young, but I did not know the circumstances. Mr. Brock, he is sorry for his part in your brother’s death?"
"He thinks of nothing but himself."
"You know he was not sorry? He has said so?"
"He didn’t take time to say anything. He turned and ran."
"But you said Guy had his gun out. Did he mean to shoot Mr. Brock?"
Now look what she’d done. She’d opened a can of worms she didn’t want to discuss, and her friend wasn’t one to back down. Abby chastised herself for letting her anger place her in this uncomfortable position, and measured tea into a metal strainer. "My brother was furious with Brock--for good reason. He was doing what he thought was right. Brock, on the other hand, was doing what he always did--wearing a gun and looking for a reason to fire it."
Laine came and stood beside her. "You knew Mr. Brock well?"
Abby closed her eyes, and the anguish of those days washed over her in an oppressive wave. Tears burned her throat. How could she answer that question and not lie?
Laine’s hand touched her shoulder in a comforting gesture.
Did Abby want to deny the truth any longer?
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