The Gunslinger's Bride. Cheryl St.John
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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