The Gunslinger's Bride. Cheryl St.John
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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