Cheryl St.John - The Gunslinger's Bride

“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.