The Gunslinger's Bride. Cheryl St.John
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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