Cheryl St.John - The Gunslinger's Bride

Brock couldn’t leave the room fast enough.

Abby tied up a brown paper package with a length of twine and handed it to Etta Larimer, her first customer in an hour.

“Did you hear there’s a gunslinger in town?” Etta asked. There was an edge of excitement in the reedy voice of the newspaper man’s wife.

“No, I hadn’t heard.”

“He got off the stage yesterday, all dressed in black. Fancy clothes and fancy guns. Henry Hill saw him and says he wears silver-plated six-shooters in silver-studded holsters and a scarlet silk neckerchief.”

“Henry noticed his neckerchief?”

“Well, it would be a striking contrast to the dress in this town. People are saying he’s that Jack Spade fellow.”

Abby had heard the rumors of the famous Jack Spade being in the area for some time now. Her fiancé, Everett Matthews, worked at the telegraph office, and he’d been seeing conflicting reports of the dime novel hero’s supposed whereabouts. Her immediate thought was of Jonathon at the schoolhouse, but she dismissed her motherly fears as being intensified by the appearance of Brock Kincaid yesterday. “Those kind of men are trouble wherever they go, and I hope Sheriff Kincaid sends him on his way immediately. We don’t need his kind in Whitehorn.”

Etta’s expression grew subdued. “Of course, you’re right, dear.” She lowered her voice. “I just hope I get to see him before he leaves.”

“Not me. I hope I don’t have to set an eye on him or anyone like him.”

The front door opened, and even clear across the cavernous interior of the fully stocked store, Abby could feel the cold snake in and wrap around her ankles. She thanked Etta for her business and moved to add more fuel to the fire in the stove. She was poking the coals with an iron tool when boot heels sounded loudly behind her.

“I was wondering where all the customers were this after—” She stopped abruptly as she turned, the sight of Brock Kincaid’s formidable figure in a long, snow-dusted coat bringing her up short. His dark blue eyes radiated as much heat as the stove behind her. She set the tool aside. “What do you want?”

“I want to talk to you.”

“This isn’t the place or the time.”

“I think it is.”

Abby glanced around. Her only customer had departed, and Sam Rowland, her hired man, was gone for the day, since his wife was expecting a baby soon and hadn’t been feeling well. A shiver of fear slipped up her spine. Rarely was she frightened to be alone here where men gathered and shopped. They held a healthy respect for the widow of Jedediah Watson, but this man wasn’t one of them. He was a stranger now. A killer. “I don’t have anything to say to you.”

“You’ll answer my questions.”

A statement. A threat? She made herself look at him again.

He was bigger than she remembered, taller, with wider shoulders and the expressionless face of a hard man. She would not let him see the sudden rush of fear that sent a cold chill through her blood. She seated herself abruptly on one of the worn wooden chairs near the stove and folded her hands in her lap. “Hurry then. I run a business here.”

Brock took his time removing his sheepskin coat, hanging it on one of the brass hooks that protruded from the nearby post for just that purpose. A pair of embossed leather holsters were strapped to the length of his thighs, ivory-handled revolvers gleaming deadly in the light. Her heart slowed to almost no beat, then raced alarmingly. She drew a shaky breath and quickly looked down at the floor.

His boots left puddles of melted snow on the scratched varnish. He stepped closer and she closed her eyes in keen trepidation of the inevitable.

“How old is Jonathon?”

She swallowed, knowing what was coming, dreading it from the depths of her wounded soul. Countless sleepless nights and innumerable days of wondering and waiting had culminated in this moment. She felt light-headed and disconnected, as though this was happening to someone else and not to her. “Seven.”

“When’s his birthday?”

“What difference does it make to you?”

“It makes a difference.”

“I don’t think it’s any of your business.”

“I think it is.” His voice was quiet, but held a tone that brooked no argument.

She argued, anyway. This was her life at stake. “I don’t have to tell you.”

“Then I’ll ask him.”

She opened her eyes finally, her head clearing and her protective instincts on full alert, and brought her gaze up to his. “You stay away from him.”

“What are you afraid of?”

He was calm, too calm for a man tearing someone’s life apart. His cool detachment frightened her more. “I mean it! Stay away from him.”

“He’s a Kincaid.” He said it with deadly calm.

Was her heart still beating? Of course. That was what the deafening drumbeat in her ears was all about. She fought to keep her expression bland.

“I knew it the minute I saw him. He looks like a Kincaid through and through. You can’t deny it.”

“What are you insinuating?”

“I’m not insinuating anything. I’m stating a fact. He’s either Caleb’s or Will’s…or mine.”

Caleb’s or Will’s! Indignant at the insult, Abby shot from her seat and swung her right hand toward his face. Too swiftly, he caught her wrist and held it fast, her braid whipping across her shoulder and smacking him in the chest. She struggled against his hold and raised her other hand, but he grabbed her upper arm.

“Leave us alone!” she managed to bite out past the mounting fury.

“Why did you marry Jed Watson?” he said, staring down into her face.

Her entire body trembled with anxiety, and she hated that he could feel her weakness. “He was kind. He was good to me and to Jonathon.”

His strong hands gripped her painfully. A disturbing light flared in his eyes. “Why did you marry him?”

“I don’t have to explain anything to you. I don’t owe you a thing.”

“I have a lot of time, Abby.” His hold relaxed a measure.

“I’ve 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?”