Stories of family and romance beneath the Big Sky!

“That boy is a Kincaid.

“I knew it the minute I saw him,” Brock continued. “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. Jonathon is 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 Brock’s face. Too swiftly, he caught her wrist and held it fast. His strong grip held her close and a disturbing light flared in his eyes.

“Why did you marry Jed Watson?”

“I don’t have to explain anything to you!” She managed to get past her growing fury. “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.”

The Gunslinger’s Bride

Cheryl St.John

www.millsandboon.co.uk

CHERYL ST.JOHN

A peacemaker, a romantic, an idealist and a discouraged perfectionist are the words that Cheryl uses to describe herself. The award-winning author of both historical and contemporary novels says she’s been told that she is painfully honest.

Cheryl admits to being an avid collector, displaying everything from dolls to depression glass, as well as white ironstone, teapots, cups and saucers, old photographs and—most especially—books. When not doing a home improvement project, she and her husband love to browse antiques shops. In her spare time she’s an amateur photographer and a pretty good baker.

She says that knowing her stories bring hope and pleasure to readers is one of the best parts of being a writer. The other wonderful part is being able to set her own schedule and have time to work around her growing family.

Cheryl loves to hear from readers! Email her at SaintJohn@aol.com.

This book is dedicated to

Bernadette Duquette

Debra Hines

Barb Hunt

and Donna Knoell

who not only can eat as much chocolate as I can, but always help me write the best possible story.

Thanks again.

And to our newest baby

Jared

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Epilogue

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. There were two: one he rode; the other carried 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 packhorse 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 crust of snow on the ground crunched beneath the horses’ hooves as he nudged his mount forward, 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? Brock 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 dressmaking 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 boarding house 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 noncommittally, 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.”

Thanking the livery man, Brock threw his saddlebags over his shoulder. 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 saddlebags 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 blond 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 had 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 citizen.

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 the 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 animal 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 young man 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 he’d been 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, half Cheyenne and a 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 that 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 throwing down hay for them, the two men 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.

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. I 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 through 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 in 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. There was 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 rumors 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 as she turned, 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 said 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 Brock had 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 goodbye 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—and her son!”

“Her son. But not his.”

She clenched and unclenched her hands in raged 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, while 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.

“—or 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 grew 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?

Chapter Three

“Abby, are you all right?”

She nodded silently, but her cheeks blazed with the heat of humiliation. She had never shared what had happened with anyone. She’d been too ashamed and embarrassed. For nearly eight years she’d held her silence about what had been a painful and life-changing turn of events.

Brock’s return had resurrected old hurts, all those chaotic feelings of confusion and apprehension. His insistence on seeing Jonathon endangered the secure life she’d grown comfortable with. She would go crazy if she couldn’t release the tension by at last telling someone.

Opening her eyes, she turned, seated herself upon a chair and patted the one beside her. She couldn’t carry this burden alone any longer. “I foolishly fancied myself enamored with him when I was young,” she confessed matter-of-factly, knowing her confidence was well-placed in Laine.

“You had feelings for Mr. Brock?” Her friend sat beside her, their skirts touching.

Abby nodded, incredibly relieved to make the confession at last. “But he barely gave me a second glance. I always knew when he was at a gathering because I watched for him and observed his every move. I knew the way he walked and the way he smiled and how he held a partner on the dance floor. When he looked my way I could barely breathe.” She shook her head at her childishness.

“So you see, it was a one-sided admiration. Until one summer all those years ago.” She paused to think about that particular year, and could still remember the scent of the pines in the high country, the vivid splashes of paintbrush streaking the mountainsides and the unique paleness of pink sunsets. That summer had defined all that was beautiful—and what had happened had characterized all that was ugly.

“He was miserable at home. His brother Caleb was married to an insufferable woman. Brock had no father or mother by this time, and his brothers fought all the time. He used to ride into town with the ranch hands and shoot up the saloons, then sleep off the liquor in jail.”

Laine gave her a puzzled look. “And you were sweet on this young man?”

“I knew him before all that,” Abby replied with a dismissive shrug. “I remembered him from when his mother was alive and our families were friends. Obviously I had an image of him that wasn’t the real person. I thought he was misunderstood. Humph.” Again she shook her head at her youthful foolishness. “I was the one who misunderstood. I thought he possessed redeemable qualities.”

Laine took Abby’s hand. “What happened the day your brother died?”

Abby studied their fingers. “It was night. And he was murdered.”

“How?”

“Brock had asked me to meet him in the foothills by the river. It was our secret place. I took a horse like I always did.” She turned a pleading gaze on Laine. “I was so in love with him. I thought he felt the same. I thought…”

“What?”

“Well, I thought our—relationship was quite romantic and forbidden and exciting. He was the most handsome young man—those sad blue eyes and that wavy hair—and he had this…this appeal. I can’t explain it.”

“I think I understand.” Laine’s sympathetic eyes said as much, too. “But what about Guy? He did not like you with Mr. Brock?”

“Afterward he found the note Brock had written, asking me to meet him. He knew I’d been taking a horse and disappearing for hours at a time.”

“And he was angry.”

“He was very angry. He set out to avenge a wrong he thought had been done to me. I rode after him. I got to town in time to see Brock pull his gun and shoot Guy.”

“He seems like such a nice man. You said your brother had gone after him. Did Guy shoot at Mr. Brock?”

Those words seemed traitorous to Abby. She stared at Laine. “A nice man? He killed my brother!”

“Did he not have cause to draw his gun? If he was a cold-blooded murderer, he would be in jail right now, would he not?”

“If there was any justice!” Abby replied, tears forming in spite of her anger.

“I am sorry, my friend.”

Abby shook her head and blinked away the moisture. “I blamed myself for not getting there in time, for losing my head and making such an awful mistake.”

“You weren’t to blame for your brother’s death.”

“I wanted Brock so much that I didn’t think of the consequences.”

“And he wanted you?”

In all these years Abby had never allowed herself to think of Brock—to remember the feelings and the passion and the wonder—because their time together had so swiftly turned ugly. But she had to face it now. “He is Jonathon’s father.”

The confession had been so easy to say. Part of the tension inside her abated and she took an easy breath, not realizing she’d been holding herself rigid and barely breathing.

Laine’s eyes widened in surprise. “Jonathon’s father! Who knows of this? Your husband knew of this?”

The rest came easily now that that had been revealed. “We never spoke of it, but he knew. No one has ever spoken of it until now. Until Brock came and asked me. That was the first time I’d ever heard the words aloud. Saying them to him—to you—have been the first times I’ve heard the truth other than in my head.”

“It must feel good to have the truth out in the open.”

Abby gave her head a quick shake. “I’m glad I’ve told you, but it’s not good that he knows. It frightens me what he’ll do.”

“What do you want him to do?”

“I want him to go away and leave us alone.”

“You still have feelings for him,” Laine stated.

Abby’s stomach clenched at the accusing words. “I have no feeling beyond contempt for a cold-blooded killer!”

“You have made excuses for his behavior. His parents were gone, he was miserable with his fighting brothers. You think he is handsome.”

“I do not.”

“You do. You describe his hair and his eyes and his— what did you call it? Appeal.”

“That was a long time ago! He’s not the man I thought he was.”

“Same hair. Same eyes.” Laine pressed her small hands against her breast. “Same attraction. And you have a son together. Jonathon is a tie that binds.”

Abby clenched her fists in her lap. “I am not attracted to that man.” At her friend’s skeptical look, she protested more emphatically, “I’m not! And as far as I’m concerned he is not the kind of father Jonathon needs. His influence can be nothing but harmful.”

“A boy needs a father.”

“Perhaps, but not a father who is a murderer. Whose side are you on?”

“If sides are drawn, I will stand on yours, of course.”

Having a sympathetic confidante was new to Abby, and she was grateful for Laine’s caring and loyalty. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

Abby swallowed her indignation and gave her outspoken friend a half smile. Laine’s old-fashioned father believed she should be silent, bowing to the decisions and wishes of the males in her family. Because she respected her father, Laine did her best to oblige them and be an obedient daughter, but her Americanized thinking had her in hot water more often than not. She had been born and raised in a Western mining camp, not in her father’s native land of China, and she loved to share her opinions.

Laine returned the smile.

Abby leaned toward her and the two embraced.

“I am glad you told me,” Laine said.

“Me, too. I’m sorry I didn’t know how to say it before. I didn’t want you to think badly of me.”

“I could not think badly of you.”

“Others would.”

“Others should not matter, but I know they do. You know you have my confidence.”

“I know.”

“Now come. Sell me some lamp oil.”

That afternoon, when Jonathon and Zeke arrived at the hardware store after school, Abby hung their coats and poured them mugs of milk she’d warmed. She’d thought of little else but Brock’s visit and his warnings all day.

As Jonathon sipped his milk beside the stove and bit into a raisin cookie, she studied his dear, familiar face with its delicate nose and spray of freckles. The freckles and nose were hers; every other feature he’d inherited from his father.

His hair, as fine as a baby’s, had turned thick and wavy. If it were longer, it would curl over his collar like Brock’s did.

Jonathon had never known any other home but this one, any other life but that of playing between barrels and kegs and wheelbarrows. They lived overhead, their quarters taking up only half of the huge expanse. The hardware store was three levels. The lower level was partially underground and filled with bins of coal and stacks of lumber. The middle level was the retail area, and the upper floor was divided into living sections. One side had always been rented to Asa and Daisy Spencer, which made Abby feel safer than if she were completely alone.

Jed had made his home above the store for as long as Abby could remember. Coming from a ranch, she had felt it confining at first, but she’d learned to appreciate the convenience of working and sleeping in the same building, without braving the harsh Montana elements in the winter. And Jonathon knew nothing else.

“Me and Theke wanna play marbleth, Ma,” he said, raising those irresistible blue eyes. “We got jarth and jarth of ’em and no dirt.”

“No dirt is a problem,” she said, and her mind tossed around possibilities. The ground was frozen too hard to loosen enough dirt to bring inside, but come this summer she could make them a ring in a frame somehow. For now… “How about something that would slow the marbles down, like dirt does, something like…fabric? Canvas maybe. We could cut a circle and nail it to the floor.”

“Think it would work?”

“We can try.” She found shears and set to cutting a length of tarpaulin.

When John Whitefeather came for Zeke, the boy didn’t want to leave.

“Look, Uncle John! We’re playin’ marbles.” Zeke showed him excitedly.

“Your ma has a fine roast and a cinnamon cake ready,” he replied. “And your pa needs some help stacking wood.”

Zeke shot up and ran for his coat. “Bye, Jonathon. My ma makes the best cinnamon cake in the world and I gotta help my pa!”

Abby helped bundle him into his coat and hat and mittens, and waved them off. Jonathon climbed on a bench and watched through the square panes of glass. “Theke hath hith own horth, Ma. Look, that’th him there. John brought him for Theke to ride home. Ain’t he purty? Hith pa teached him how to ride and they do work together.”

With an ache in her chest, Abby stood behind her son, smoothed down the cowlick that sprang right back up, and watched the riders on the street. “Looks like a fine horse.”

“Did you have a horth when you were a little tyke, Mama?”

“We had a lot of horses where I grew up. It was a ranch.”

“But one of your own…did you have one of your own that you named and everything?”

She heard the wistful tone in his young voice. “No. Nothing that special.”

“Did my grandpa teach you to ride?”

Good memories of her father were tainted by the recent ones, and the sad-sweet twinge of retrospection tugged at her already aching heart. She blinked back tears—for herself—and for her son, who believed he was fatherless. “Yes, he did.”

“I’m gonna have me a horth when I get bigger. One like Theke’th.”

“You have to pay to board a horse when you live in town,” she told him.

“Oh, I ain’t gonna live in town. I’m gonna live on a ranch.”

“Oh.” Abby rubbed his shoulder. “Well, come help me get ready to close up. If someone comes late, they can ring the outside bell and I’ll come down and help them.”

Jonathon stood to inherit the hardware store, as well as the Franklin ranch. Abby hadn’t wanted to sell it, and had leased the land to a young rancher eager to build his own herd. She guessed it would be Jonathon’s choice what he wanted to do when the time came.

A shiver of anxiety left her uneasy as she thought about her boy’s future. He was still young, but if he had his heart set on being a rancher, that was fine by her. What effect would Brock Kincaid have on their lives now that he was back? He wanted to be a part of Jonathon’s life, and that would probably mean passing down a share of Kincaid land, as well. Jonathon could easily grow to be one of the wealthiest men in Montana.

Her responsibility to raise him to be an upright, honest man had never been so clear. And she had never been so afraid or felt so alone.

Brock planned his trip to town for supplies on Saturday, when Jonathon would be out of school. When he arrived at the hardware store, he stopped the wagon beside another that sat at the loading dock. The man he’d seen from the window at the hotel was helping Matt Darby roll barrels into the back of a springboard. Brock set the brake, jumped down and climbed the stairs.

“Hey, Brock,” Darby said, thumbing back his hat and straightening. His gaze dropped to the revolvers slung low on Brock’s hips. “I heard you were back.”

“Matt.” Brock strode forward and shook the rancher’s hand.

“You in Whitehorn for good?”

“I am.”

The other man approached. “Sam Rowland,” he offered. “I work for Mrs. Watson.”

Mrs. Watson. The name sounded ill-fitting. Brock shook his gloved hand. “Brock Kincaid.”

“I know who you are.”

Brock glanced from one man to the other. “I’ll bet you do. The stories are flying right now, eh?”

Matt grinned. “Biggest news since Will came back. Some folks even think you’re Jack Spade.”

Brock had spent the previous evening with Will and Caleb, catching up on their lives, hearing Will’s side of the story about the gold. Will had related the rumors circulating through town. “What do you think, Matt?”

The man tugged his gloves a little tighter. “I think if you were a famous gunslinger you’d be crazy to come back here, and I don’t think you’d put your family in danger like that.”

Brock didn’t flicker an eyelash.

“My bet is on Linc Manley,” Matt added.

“The man in black who arrived on the stage and set tongues to wagging?”

“That’s how he’s registered at the hotel,” Sam explained.

Brock nodded, and the men turned back to their task. He looked Sam Rowland over—a sturdy enough fellow with a lean face and more than capable demeanor. Working daily with Abby, he was bound to have formed a working relationship with her. Brock wondered if there was anything more to it.

He entered the store and pulled a wrinkled list from his pocket. Caleb had been glad to turn over the run into town, and Brock had a feeling the chore would be his from now on. Harry Talbert called a greeting from his spot beside the stove, and Brock sauntered back to say hello, wondering with amusement how the man ever managed to give a haircut when he was always here.

An elderly gentleman that Brock didn’t recognize sat with a cane leaned against his bony knee and a coffee mug resting on the other. He squinted at Brock from beneath wispy white eyebrows. “Mighty fancy Peacemakers ya got there.”

His interest seemed genuine, not critical. Brock slid one of the ivory-handled six-shooters from its leather sheath and displayed the carved eagle for his inspection.

“Man who carries a gun like that knows how to use it. Them’s either peacemakers or troublemakers.” The old gent ran shaky fingers over the ivory in admiration.

Brock exchanged a look with Harry, but the man seemed more amused than curious. “I’ve done some peacemaking. Marshaled in Nevada, South Dakota.”

“Bringin’ criminals to justice, eh? Meet any of the Earp boys, did ya?”

“Saw them in passing.”

“Mr. Kincaid!”

Brock turned, the gun sliding automatically into his palm.

Abby faced him, her face flushed with anger. She shot her fiery gaze to the revolver in his grip. “I would appreciate it if you would keep your weapons out of sight in my establishment. My customers have no reason to shoot one another.”

“I was just showing the gentleman—”

“Golly!” a child’s voice interrupted. “Can I thee it, Mithter?” Jonathon ran forward, his face alight with admiration.

“No!” Abby shouted, stopping him with a forearm across his upper chest. The length of her thick braid swung forward and draped her arm to her elbow. “You may not.”

“But, Ma!”

“Guns serve only one purpose, Jonathon, and no son of mine will be a killer.”

“Man needs a gun in this country, Miz Watson,” the old man said. “Man can get hisself killed without one.”

“If everyone got along peaceably, there would be no use for violence,” she argued.

“This ain’t fairyland,” the old gent said with a laugh. “Or even Boston. This here’s Montana, and a body needs to protect his home and his family.”

“Killing isn’t a solution to every problem.” Indignant, she straightened and glared from Brock to the old man.

Harry cleared his throat. “I think I have to give a haircut.”

“Might not be a solution to every problem, but it sure shuts up the criminals,” the old man continued with a gleeful cackle.

Harry grabbed his coat, plunged his hat down over his head and bolted for the door.

“Mr. Waverly, please refrain from placing barbarous ideas in my son’s head.”

Brock had holstered his .45, and he removed his coat and hung it up. “Here’s a list of supplies. Jonathon, will you show me the rope, please?”

She took the slip of paper with a frown. “I can show you—”

Brock raised a palm to stop her in her tracks. “Jonathon will show me.”

Her green eyes spat fire, but she bit her tongue. She followed them with a worried frown as Jonathon led Brock to the other side of the store.

“Thith here’th the rope.”

Brock made a choice. “Do you know who I am?” he asked.

Jonathon gazed up with round blue eyes and nodded. “You’re Mithter Brock. Theke’th uncle.”

Brock surveyed the elfin face with a light sprinkling of freckles and let his gaze caress the hair so like his own. The urge to touch that baby-soft skin and wavy hair was so strong, he clamped his hand on the length of rope. “Y-yes,” he said, his voice breaking so that he had to say it again.

“Theke thaid you been gone a long time. You wath off fightin’ bad guyth. That right?”

“Something like that.”

“Did you thoot ’em with your gun?”

Brock understood Abby’s protectiveness. He did. He would rather take a beating than expose this child to the ugliness in the world. If only it were reasonable to think Jonathon could be protected from reality. But that wasn’t possible. Or even wise. He would need to know how to protect himself.

“We all have to do things that we don’t want to do sometimes,” was all he said, and it sounded trite.

When they returned to the stove several minutes later, the old man was sipping coffee. He grunted and shook his head.

Brock followed Jonathon to where Abby stood beside a counter, calculating a stack of figures. “Do you want this on the ranch account?” she asked in a businesslike tone.

“Yes.”

“Sam will help you carry out the kegs.”

“I’d just as soon wait awhile, so I can visit with Jonathon.”

Her hesitation was evident in the way she paused over the numbers, in the way her chin lifted slightly.

“Or I can take him back to the ranch with me, and he can play with Zeke and help me put things away.”

Unfairly, he’d suggested it in front of the boy, and Jonathon shot forward, raising a small hand to place it on the counter by her paper. “Can I, Mama? Can I go play with Theke? Brock wanth me to help him!”

Abby’s gaze lifted and struck Brock with as much force as a bullet. Anger simmered there, but the fear in her eyes took him aback. Why it should bother him, he didn’t know. He had her where he wanted her. She was afraid to let her son go, but she was afraid Brock would tell Jonathon the truth if she didn’t comply.

He looked down. “Let me talk to your ma alone for a minute, okay?”

“Okay!” The child shot away and disappeared into the depths of the store.

“I’m not going to snatch him and ride off,” he assured her. “You don’t have to fear that. I told you I would get to know him. This seems like a good way. He’s used to Zeke and Caleb. What would people think if I sat around your store all day long?”

He had her there. She cared very much what people thought. And she obviously cared very little for his tactics. “If you sank any lower, you wouldn’t have to open the door to slide out of here,” she said in a venomous tone.

He took a step toward her.

Her heartbeat fluttered at her throat. The soft scent of lilacs floated to his nostrils, striking an unexpected chord of familiarity.

“You didn’t mind me so much once,” he said, his voice as even and insinuating as he could make it.

She released the pencil she’d been holding and dropped her hand to her side, taking a step back and coming up against the cool glass display case. “I was a fool.”

He inched closer. Her green gaze focused on his shoulder, and she refused to meet his eyes.

“We all make mistakes, don’t we, Abby?”

Her chin lifted a notch. “Some more than others.”

He remembered now their brief, heated encounters, his anger and mental chaos and her warm welcoming embrace that soothed and satisfied. He had sought comfort in her arms, taken her virginity, knowing she was smitten with him but also knowing he wasn’t of a mind to be making decisions or commitments. He couldn’t truthfully say what would have happened if Guy’s actions hadn’t forced him to defend himself.

“I won’t hurt our son. I make you that promise.”

At those words, her gaze rose to his, hurt, bewildered.

“Have I ever made you a promise before?” he asked.

She gave a jerky little shake of her head and whispered, “No.”

“So you see, I’ve never broken a promise to you, either. You’re going to have to trust me.”

“I will never trust you until you take off those guns and admit your guilt.”

Guilt because of Guy? Or his guilt over her? If that was what made her mad, it was sure funny that she didn’t remember her part in their carryings on, as if he’d seduced an unwilling partner. Hardly. He remembered then how she’d claimed to hate him. “Then you’re never going to trust me.”

She blinked.

“But you don’t have a choice that I can see, now do you?”

She tightened her lips as though she was clamping them shut against a torrent of raging words. “You’re despicable,” she hissed.

“No,” he replied with stern denial. “Rape is despicable. You came to me willingly.” He lowered his voice and added, “Eagerly.”

Her face flamed.

“Stealing is despicable. I only took what you offered.”

Tears glistened and she blinked them back.

“Denying a child is despicable. I acknowledge my son. I want to know him and teach him and be a father to him.”

Holding herself so rigidly like that, she’d shatter into a million pieces if he pushed her over, he imagined. “Murder is despicable,” she accused.

For a confused moment, he thought perhaps she knew more about him than he’d revealed, but that couldn’t be. He’d been too careful. She meant Guy. “He drew on me first, Abby, and you know it. You’re just too stubborn to admit it.” He stood a step back, giving her space, distancing himself so he wouldn’t be tempted to grab her and shake some sense into her. “I’ll return Jonathon before dark.”

Before Brock’s return, Abby had never in her life wanted to hit someone, and the fact that she again wanted more than anything to strike out at this man shocked her. She stood by helplessly, rooted to the floor, as Brock called her son. She stood fast while she watched Jonathon bring his coat and hat, despite the fact that her fingers itched to help while Brock bundled him up.

Watching them prepare to leave, she felt a chasm yawn in her chest. Her breath came in shallow, painful gasps, and she wanted to run to Jonathon and clasp him safely to her, protect him from the truth and the man who threatened the sanctuary of this home she’d made for them.

Brock had donned his own coat, but he knelt, one knee touching the worn wood floor, and said something to Jonathon.

Her son’s blond head turned her way, and without hesitation he darted toward her and hugged her around the waist. “Bye, Mama. I’ll be back before dark.”

Abby loosened his slender arms and knelt to fold him in a desperate hug. She petted his shiny hair and inhaled his unique little-boy scent. “Goodbye, darling. I love you.”

“I love you, too, Mama.” Pulling away, he ran to join the tall man who waited patiently.

He raised his gaze to Brock’s, and Brock looked down. Jonathon trustingly placed his mittened hand in Brock’s huge, gloved palm, and they walked away. The bell over the door clanged a finale to the heart-wrenching scene. Abby’s chest felt as though a lead weight were pressing down upon it. She drew a staggered breath and placed her hand over her heart, where the real ache gnawed.

Stinging tears bit her eyes and she closed the lids tightly.

The bell rang again.

He’d changed his mind! Her eyes flew open.

Her fiancé, Everett Matthews, stood in the doorway, looking over his shoulder, and she knew he was watching Jonathon depart with the stranger.

Stupefied, he turned and met her gaze. “What is going on, Abby?”

Chapter Four

Not now! Why now, of all times, did Everett have to show up? The tears Abby held inside threatened to burst through her defenses and engulf her, but she couldn’t allow Everett to see them, to sense even a glimpse of her torment. He would surely suspect something was wrong if she behaved the least bit odd.

Turning as he removed his coat, she plucked up the pencil and held it over the paper as if she could actually see or think to figure. “Oh, hello, Everett.” He wore a neat, brown serge suit and vest, and a matching bow tie at his neck. The perfect gentleman. “What brings you out today?”

He walked forward with his coat folded over his arm. “Why is Jonathon leaving with Brock Kincaid? What’s going on?”

“Jonathon’s going to play with Zeke for the afternoon. He’ll be home before dark,” she said, forcing lightness into her voice.

“I’ve never seen you let that boy out of your sight except to go to school.”

“Why, that’s not so. He’s gone to play with Zeke before. The winter days are so long. He needs a change of scenery now and again.”

“But Brock Kincaid?” Everett stepped closer, and she was forced to look up, somehow managing a tight smile. “You hate that man!”

Abby’s eyes wanted to clamp shut tight. She wanted to roll into a ball and disappear under the counter like a clump of dust. She would love to pound the floor and kick and scream that she did, in fact, hate that insufferable man.

She didn’t want to stand here all sweet faced and pretend to her betrothed that she didn’t loathe the man who had just walked out with her child! Instead, she scrambled for something—anything logical to say to prevent him from suspecting the worst. “All that was a long time ago. Caleb and Ruth are our friends, after all, and Jonathon and Zeke are best friends.” She took Everett’s coat and hung it on a brass hook. “Jonathon loves to play with him. Besides, Brock is Caleb’s brother, so I might as well let bygones be bygones.”

Had she said that? Had that atrocious lie rolled from her tongue? Abby tasted acrid bitterness and decided that, indeed, it had. She couldn’t abide deceptiveness, and here she was lying to the man she was going to marry. Once again, because of Brock Kincaid, she was going against her principles.

Everett shook his head of thick, neatly trimmed brown hair. One dark brow rose now, and coffee-colored eyes bored into hers in disbelief. “Pinch me to wake me up, because I can’t believe my ears. I must be dreaming, because I thought you just excused the man.”

“You’re not dreaming, silly. It’s not healthy for a person to go around with hard feelings locked up inside. I’ve decided to let the feud go. That’s all.”

“That’s all? That’s all, Abby? Did he apologize?” he asked in amazement. “Did Kincaid say he was sorry about your brother?”

“Oh, yes.” She told the bald-faced lie and turned to carry a lantern back to its shelf. “He regrets that they ever had a misunderstanding and that things got out of control so quickly. He’s a changed man.” Changed from bad to worse, anyway.

“I never really understood what it was they fought over,” Everett said, following.

“I don’t think anyone really remembers,” she said dismissively, as though the worst event of her life was of no importance. “It was a long time ago and they were probably too drunk to know what they were doing.”

“This is quite a change of heart for you,” her fiancé said, still seeming to have trouble understanding.

“Yes,” she agreed sweetly. “People are allowed to change.”

Abby glanced aside to note that Mr. Waverly, who still sat by the stove with his cane against his knee, watched her in silence, a shrewd expression on his grizzled face. He couldn’t have overheard her earlier restrained conversation with Brock, but he’d heard their original exchange and was now getting an earful of this one—and the two sure didn’t line up.

“Do we need a fresh pot of coffee, Mr. Waverly?” she asked.

“Couldn’t hurt. I lost m’spoon in the last cup.”

“I’ll get some water.”

She went about carrying the pot to the back room to rinse and fill. Everett waited while she stoked the fire and set the pot to boiling.

Taking her elbow, he led her aside, away from the old man’s curious gaze. “This is all such a…a surprise,” he said carefully once they were hidden in an aisle of garden tools. “I’ve never seen anything but scorn from you when the man’s name was mentioned, and now this sudden act of forgiveness.”

“Don’t concern yourself with it. It was time to lay things aside, that’s all.” She looked up and gave him a warm smile to distract him. She pulled her elbow from his gentle grasp and placed her hand on his forearm. “Have you heard any interesting news?”

Everett worked at the telegraph office. News passed through his fingers daily, and he loved to share what he’d learned. His curious demeanor seemed to change at her touch. “Seems they have a few cases of measles over toward Billings.”

Abby pretended interest. “Oh, really?”

“And the surrounding marshals have been alerted to watch for Jack Spade. No one’s sure where he headed, but he was reported crossing the Missouri at Helena and coming this way.”

She grew uneasier at that report. “Some are saying he’s the man who’s been in the saloons the last few nights.”

“I confess I stopped at the Four Kings last night to have a look-see.”

She cast him a playful frown. “Am I engaged to a drinking man, then?”

“You know better than that. I had a couple of rounds and a cigar, waiting to see if anything happened.”

“And what would you have done if it had?” Suddenly genuinely interested, she withdrew her hand and went on. “Those places are nothing but trouble. You could’ve been shot if guns had been fired.”

Everett didn’t carry a gun, one of the things she appreciated most about him. He didn’t try to charm her or intimidate her, either; in fact, Everett was everything Brock Kincaid wasn’t. Stable, levelheaded, responsible. He would make an adequate husband and a good father for Jonathon.

Her heart tugged with fresh insecurity at that thought.

She’d believed for the last year that she was making a wise choice for Jonathon’s well-being by saying she’d marry Everett. “A boy needs a father,” Brock and Laine had both said, and she knew that was a fact. But a father like Everett, not one like Brock.

“I would never want to worry you,” Everett said with a repentant tilt of his head. Moving forward, he took both her hands and clasped her fingers in his. “I’m looking forward to our dinner tonight. I would like to treat you to a meal at the hotel. You shouldn’t have to cook for me after you’ve worked hard all day.”

“That’s a tempting offer.”

“What have you planned for Jonathon?”

“I’ve planned for him to stay with the Spencers. They love his company.”

“Then you’ll have dinner with me at the Carlton.”

Abby didn’t have to think twice about not cooking their meal. “All right,” she agreed with a nod.

“Very well then.” He leaned forward and brushed a quick kiss against her cheek. Rarely did he kiss her on the lips, and whenever she turned her face to deliberately make that happen, he seemed embarrassed. “I’ll come for you at six-thirty.”

“I’ll be ready.”

Everett released her hands and hurried away to get his coat.

Mr. Waverly eventually headed for home, but not after observing her closely for another hour. He lived alone in a tiny room behind the livery, so he divided his days between watching Lionel Briggs at his forge and drinking coffee at the hardware store. Ordinarily Abby welcomed his presence. Today’s annoyance with his eavesdropping had been unusual.

She counted the day’s earnings, placed the money in a strongbox in the back room and swept the floor, starting on one side and working her way across the front of the building. The store was too big to do it all at once, so she made a point of cleaning a section each evening.

The sky had just begun to turn dark when a forceful knock sounded. Running forward, Abby opened the front door. Jonathon stepped in, followed by Brock, who helped the boy remove his neck scarf and hat.

“Come look, Mama!” Jonathon said, pointing through the windowpanes. “Brock din’t bring the wagon thith time. He rode me on hith horth! Ain’t it big?”

Abby observed the handsome gray tethered to the dock. “He’s big for sure.”

“Brock’th gonna teach me to ride all by mythelf. Won’t that be thomethin’?”

“That’ll be something, all right.”

“I’m gonna take ’im up and thow ’im my carved hortheth.”

“Jonathon, you need to wash up and eat. I’m having dinner out tonight, remember?”

“I already ate at Theke’th, Ma. Come on, Brock.” He took the man’s gloved hand, and Abby got a catch in her throat, seeing the familiarity, the worshipful expression on her boy’s face, the proud smile Brock couldn’t hide. A casual onlooker would think they’d known each other forever.

Abby tasted a grim measure of fear. “But I have to get ready.”

“We won’t bother you,” Brock said. “I’ll keep an eye on the boy while you get ready.”

“Come on, the thepth ith back here.”

Speechless, Abby watched her son tow Brock into the back room toward the stairs that led to their living quarters above. Anger simmering at Brock’s audacity, she yanked down the shades and locked the front door. After double-checking the banked fire in the potbellied stove and pouring a pail of hot water, she headed up the stairs.

Jonathon was excitedly showing Brock his carved horses when she entered her own kitchen, feeling like an intruder. She carried the bucket past them into her room. Seeing them like that, their heads together and their hair the same shimmering fair shade, her chest got tight. Jonathon deserved a father.

A simple cotton curtain separated the bedroom from the living area, and the sounds from the kitchen carried down the hall. Abby shrugged out of her work dress. Having no door on her bedroom had never bothered her until now. Now she wished for something more than flimsy fabric between her vulnerable undressed state and that unscrupulous man out there.

She bathed self-consciously in the water she’d poured into her basin. Her gaze was constantly drawn to the curtain, and every little sound nearly made her jump. Hurrying, she slopped water on the floor and spent several minutes cleaning it up. Finally dry and dusted with talcum powder, she selected her rose-colored wool skirt and cotton blouse with ruffled cap sleeves and ruffled waistline, because she felt competent and attractive in them. She brushed out her hair, rebraiding the thick length into order. An upswept curled style would be more fashionable, but her heavy straight hair never cooperated with current fashion.

Abby buttoned her boots, picked up her reticule and pushed past the curtain. Taking a deep breath, she hurried down the narrow hall. Jonathon and Brock still sat in the kitchen, their heads bent together over a small wooden horse.

Jonathon looked up. “You look pretty, Mama!”

“Thank you.”

Brock’s blue gaze traveled over her clothing, face and hair. “If you’d told me you had plans for the evening, I’d have kept the boy at the ranch.”

“Aw, Ma!” Jonathon whined. “I coulda thayed at the ranch!”

“You always have a good time with the Spencers,” she said. “And Asa looks forward to your company.”

“I think that’th ’cuz Mizz Thpencer ain’t a very good checker player,” Jonathon confided to his new friend.

Amusement turned up one corner of Brock’s full lips, giving Abby another hitch in her chest. “Is that so?” he asked.

“This way Jonathon only goes across the hall, and I don’t have to take him out in the cold to bring him home and put him to bed.”

“I can see the advantage to that,” he replied. Relief flowed through Abby, since she’d been fully expecting Brock to insist on staying or on taking Jonathon back to the Kincaid ranch. Surprisingly, he seemed to have accepted her explanation and her wishes. “Do you have a room all your own?” he asked the boy.

“Yup. Wanna thee it?”

Brock stood, his revolvers coming into view above the tabletop and making Abby queasy. He’d hung his coat over the back of a chair as if he’d been invited to stay. “Sure do.”

Jonathon cheerfully ran ahead and flung aside the pleated fabric that covered his doorway. “Here’th my bed an’ my chetht o’ drawerth and my box o’ writin’ paper an’ them are bookth I’m learnin’ to read.”

Abby’s gaze followed Brock’s broad back as he dwarfed their kitchen, the hall and the doorway to Jonathon’s room with his height and breadth. His intrusion into their home, their life, made her feel helpless, and she hated the feeling. He had her over a barrel and he knew it. They both knew it.

So she stood, waiting nervously for him to decide that he’d done enough bullying for one day and be gone.

A knock sounded on the outside door behind her, and she stifled a startled shriek. She opened the door to Everett, who stood at the top of the stairs, his wool collar pulled up around his ears against the wind.

“I thought you had a customer, but it’s all dark downstairs.”

“No, I closed up.”

“There’s a horse out front.”

Boots sounded on the floor of the hall. Everett’s dark gaze traveled beyond Abby’s shoulder. He hid his surprise well, turning and gently closing the door behind him.

“Don’t think we’ve met,” Brock said, striding forward and stating his name.

“Everett Matthews,” he said, removing his glove to take the hand Brock offered.

“Everett is my fiancé,” Abby managed to say, then watched Brock for a reaction.

“Well,” he said, his face void of emotion. He took his coat from the chair. “I’ll be going now. Have a nice evening.”

“Where’th your hat, Brock?” Jonathon asked.

“Left it on my saddle, half-pint.”

“Thank you for lettin’ me ride your horth.”

“You’re welcome. We’ll do it again.”

Jonathon grinned jubilantly. “Hear that, Mama? Brock’th gonna let me ride hith horth again!”

“Yes, I heard. Gather your things to take to the Spencers’ now.”

“G’night.” Brock nodded at Abby and exited onto the outside stairs.

She could tell Everett didn’t know what to say. He studied the door for a moment, then turned his dark gaze, almost accusingly, on Abby.

Jonathon appeared with his bundle, and Abby walked him across the hall to the Spencers.

“There’s my checker buddy!” Asa called from beside the hard-coal heater identical to the one that kept Abby and Jonathon’s quarters cozily warm.

“I made Jonathon some bread pudding,” Daisy said with a cheerful smile.

“You spoil him,” Abby admonished.

“Well, we have to have somebody to spoil, don’t we? Have a good time.”

“Thank you.”

Everett walked ahead as they descended the narrow stairs, and Abby clutched his shoulder for support in the dark. They reached the ground and walked toward the hotel, several buildings away and across the street.

Once inside the Carlton, Everett hung their coats, and the two of them were promptly seated in the dining room. Most of the tables were full, but Amos Carlton had extra help on Saturday evenings.

“News has it Amos’s wife is barely hanging on,” Everett reported. “He wired her sister back East.”

“Poor thing.” The woman had been ill for some time. “I’ll make a point to send her a little something.”

Abby knew everything on the menu, but read it anyway, avoiding the subject she knew Everett would bring up next, though the queries were inevitable. When the waitress took their orders, Everett ordered pot roast, potatoes and carrots, as she knew he would. Pot roast was the special, and Everett was frugal.

“I was quite surprised to see Kincaid in your home,” he said finally.

Not any more surprised than she was to have him there. Her stomach fluttered nervously. “I’m sure you were. Jonathon wanted to show him his horse collection.”

“I don’t know if it’s wise, allowing Jonathon to get friendly with the man.”

Abby was certain it wasn’t wise, but she was helpless to keep Brock from his son. She shrugged.

“I can’t see as how this will do anything except confuse our relationship,” Everett pressed. “Jonathon has to get used to a new father.”

Her heart raced at his words, and her mind went blank for a moment.

“Kincaid’s presence is only going to muddy the waters while I’m trying to be his father.”

Of course he didn’t know Brock was Jonathon’s father. He was referring to himself! The waitress brought strong tea and she laced hers with cream, something about the thought of Everett being Jonathon’s father making her uneasy. She wanted a father for him, so she should just be thankful for his concern and willingness to take on a ready-made family.

“You could be referring to half the population of Whitehorn when you refer to him as Kincaid,” she said lightly, without touching the subject.

“No one even knows where he’s been all these years,” Everett continued quietly, flattening a palm on the tabletop.

Abby finally found her voice. “I heard him mention he’d been a U.S. Marshal.”

“There’s a fine line between marshals and hired guns,” he replied.

His comment brought even more awkwardness to their meal. Their food arrived and Abby tasted her glazed chicken.

Several minutes later, Everett laid down his fork with a clank. She turned her head and followed his scowling gaze to the patrons being seated several tables away. Accompanying Will and Lizzie Kincaid was Brock. Big as you please, he folded himself onto a chair directly facing their table. The three Kincaids got settled, greeted neighbors on either side of their table and glanced around.

Brock’s gaze unerringly met Abby’s. One side of his mouth inched up in that provocatively irritating manner, and he gave her an exaggerated nod.

Her heart jumped.

Abby didn’t want to greet him civilly, but Everett was watching her reaction, so she returned the nod with a stiff smile and jerked her head back to their own table. The nerve of the man! He’d known she was going out to dinner and he’d deliberately come here to torment her!

Her chicken tasted like sawdust, and she had trouble swallowing the delicately browned potatoes. All she had to do was turn her head and she’d find him staring at her. Using every ounce of her resolve, she ate her entire meal without glancing over once. Why did he have the power to make her heart race so erratically, then stop altogether? Why did she want to know where he was looking and who he was talking to? That he held so much control over her was a revelation she would have rather never faced.

The waitress cleared their plates and brought them fresh tea, and Abby sipped hers as though she hadn’t a care in the world.

“He’s making himself right at home,” Everett said.

“Whitehorn is his home,” she replied, hoping Everett hadn’t noted her wry tone. And Whitehorn being Brock’s home was the problem. Most of the problem, anyway. She could have continued her life the way it had been, married Everett and been perfectly happy to never set eyes on Brock again. Instead he’d come back and deliberately turned her world upside down at every opportunity. Where was this going from here? She couldn’t begin to imagine. She gave Everett a sweet smile for no reason, and he became flustered under her gaze.

They finished their tea and sat speaking about the weather and the telegraph news for nearly half an hour, as though Everett, too, was loath to let Brock run them off. Finally, Everett pushed his chair back and stood, coming around to assist Abby.

She refused to look again, though she could feel Brock’s gaze on her back the whole time she walked to the foyer and slipped into her coat. The cold night air felt gloriously refreshing on her heated skin. Everett took her arm and guided her over the treacherously icy boardwalks.

“Thank you for dinner,” she told him at the top of the stairs. “Would you like to come in?”

“Just for a moment. It’s getting late.”

It wasn’t late at all, but rarely did he come inside to be alone with her. She had always appreciated his thoughtfulness, knowing he was protecting her reputation, but she grew lonely, too, and craved adult company on these long winter nights. Her relationship with Jed had been warm, but never passionate or truly personal. Sometimes she imagined a man who would wrap his strong arms around her, kiss her with more than duty or perfunctoriness.

They stood inside the door in their coats, and Everett leaned toward her as was expected of him. Abby raised her face and accepted his kiss. She was older now, wiser and more mature. Not having to hide her relationship with Everett stole the excitement she’d known in her impetuous youth. Those were factors in the lack of passion they shared, and she was glad for it. Not being crazy in love allowed her to make better choices. What was passion compared to stability, anyway?

When they pulled apart, he kissed her cheek and went down the stairs. His form disappeared into the darkness beyond the gas lamp, and she closed the door, leaning her forehead against the cool wood and blotting out acute disappointment. She had herself to blame. She’d allowed Brock liberties before marriage. She had never been courted properly, and the proper way was slowly. Everett was a gentleman.

Abby remained at the Spencers’ for over an hour, since Jonathon wouldn’t let Asa stop reading to him. Daisy chatted to Abby about this and that.

Descriptive words caught her attention, and she realized the story Asa read was one of the many dime novels glorifying Jack Spade, the legendary gunfighter. She had never told Asa not to read such a book to her son, so he wasn’t going against her directions, but the man should know better than to fill a boy’s head with such violent tales!

“Mama, did you know how Jack Thpade got that name? Cauth he leavth a jack of thpadeth on the body of the bad men he killth.”

She had never heard about the gunman leaving a jack of spades on his victims, and she didn’t think Jonathon had needed to know it, either. She would talk to Asa the following day and let him know she disapproved of his bedtime stories.

“Jack Thpade ith in town, Mama, did you know that?”

She took her son home and put him to bed, then undressed herself and climbed beneath her heavy quilt. An hour later, she had barely begun to doze when Jonathon’s cough woke her. She checked on him, finding his skin warm and his hair damp. After bathing his face with cool water, she sat at his side until he slept peacefully, then tiredly lay down beside him.

The following morning, Jonathon was still warm and the cough nagged. Abby went to get Daisy, who’d been preparing for church, to sit with Jonathon while she went to Laine’s. The town council had been looking for a new doctor since Dr. Leland’s death. Harry Talbert took care of teeth and boils and the like, but Abby had complete confidence in her Chinese friend’s herbal remedies.

“I will come,” Laine said after Abby woke her and told her of Jonathon’s symptoms. She packed several small cloth bags and a few tiny bottles in a basket, and they trudged along the paths in the shin-deep snow and up the flight of stairs.

“It’s nothing serious,” she told Abby, after checking Jonathon over, looking in his eyes and mouth, and listening to his heart and lungs. “The fever will run its course and he will feel better. I will make a tonic for his cough, though. He will sleep better, then.”

“Thank you, Laine. You’ve attended Jonathon through all his childhood ailments, and I wouldn’t trust a licensed physician as much as you.”

“Thank goodness many of the families in Whitehorn feel the same.” Laine grinned. “And my father is none the wiser about the nice nest egg I have set aside.”

Her father didn’t approve of her practicing herbal medicine on the townspeople, so over the last few years she had deposited her earnings in the bank without his knowledge.

Abby sat at the kitchen table while Laine crushed herbs into a fine power and added tinctures from her bag. “You and I aren’t like most women this far West,” Abby told her. “We aren’t dependent on a man for our livelihood.”

“Your inheritance is not a secret, however.” Laine added a few drops of boiling water to her mixture. “My savings are. But my father did not force me into the marriage he wanted for me, and for that I am thankful. I work as hard as my brother, and unlike many fathers, mine sees my value.” She poured the mixture into a bottle and corked it. “Your father forced you to marry your husband?” she asked quietly.

Abby nodded.

“I cannot imagine how difficult that must have been for you.”

“Doing what I did, I didn’t give him much choice, I guess,” she replied with a shrug.

“You believe you lost your head with Mr. Brock because you were young and foolish?” her friend asked.

“Definitely young and foolish,” Abby agreed. “Stupid.”

“And if you could live it over, you would do it differently?”

“I would do it differently. But I’m not sorry about Jonathon. He’s the best thing that ever happened to me.”

“Is it not the same regarding Mr. Brock?”

Abby frowned. “What do you mean?”

“Was he not young and foolish, too?”

“I didn’t carry a gun and look for trouble,” she said.

“If he had it to live over, would he not do it differently?”

“He still flaunts those guns,” Abby declared. “He never learned anything!”

“Abby, most every man I see carries a gun. This land where we live requires them to do so for protection.”

“Using them against bears and cougars is one thing,” Abby protested. “Shooting people is different.”

“We need protection from people as well as animals.” Laine sighed. “I am talking about you and Mr. Brock, and you are avoiding the discussion by talking about guns.”

Abby stood and pulled out ingredients to bake bread. “I’m not going to agree with you, so stop trying to make me change my mind.”

Laine shrugged. “All right. Let me show you how to give this to Jonathon.”

They dropped the subject, and Laine stayed for another hour, helping Abby knead dough and entertaining Jonathon. Finally, she said her goodbyes and hurried out.

While the dough was rising, Abby heated water and washed her hair, then sat before the stove, drying the heavy length.

A light tap sounded on the outside door, startling her into dropping her brush with a clatter. She picked it up and hurried forward, expecting Laine to have returned. Instead, Brock stood in the cold, wearing a stern expression she had begun to recognize and resent. His handsomely carved features softened slightly as he took in her loose hair flowing over her shoulders and down her back.

“What do you want?” she asked.

“I came to see Jonathon. I heard he was sick.”

“How on earth could you have heard that?”

“Daisy told Will and Lizzie, and they told me when they got home from church.”

“Of course,” Abby said, throwing up the hand with the hairbrush.

Brock glanced at the brush and back at her hair, and her face grew warm, remembering. He’d loved her hair. All those years ago, he’d loosened her braid and run his fingers through the tresses, bringing them to his face, touching her skin through her hair.

He obviously remembered, too, the recognition changing his features and darkening the blue of his eyes.

Abby’s pulse beat faster. She became aware of her femininity as she hadn’t for a long time, feeling his gaze touch her hair and face and infuse her with sudden heat.

As she moved back and allowed him to shut out the cold, the rustle of her skirts seemed loud, the fit of her modest dress suddenly revealing a woman’s body.

And he noticed. Lord help her, he noticed.

Chapter Five

Brock allowed the warmth of the room, the yeasty smell in the air and the seductive beauty of the woman to silence him for a full minute. Seven years had changed her. Her shape had blossomed; her breasts beneath the plain fabric dress had become more rounded and womanly than he recalled. Her face had lost its charming girlish roundness, and now delicately modeled bone structure and pearly skin characterized her haunting beauty.

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