The Gunslinger's Bride. Cheryl St.John
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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