Cheryl St.John - The Gunslinger's Bride

“Did my grandpa teach you to ride?”

Good memories of her father were tainted by the recent ones, and the sad-sweet twinge of retrospection tugged at her already aching heart. She blinked back tears—for herself—and for her son, who believed he was fatherless. “Yes, he did.”

“I’m gonna have me a horth when I get bigger. One like Theke’th.”

“You have to pay to board a horse when you live in town,” she told him.

“Oh, I ain’t gonna live in town. I’m gonna live on a ranch.”

“Oh.” Abby rubbed his shoulder. “Well, come help me get ready to close up. If someone comes late, they can ring the outside bell and I’ll come down and help them.”

Jonathon stood to inherit the hardware store, as well as the Franklin ranch. Abby hadn’t wanted to sell it, and had leased the land to a young rancher eager to build his own herd. She guessed it would be Jonathon’s choice what he wanted to do when the time came.

A shiver of anxiety left her uneasy as she thought about her boy’s future. He was still young, but if he had his heart set on being a rancher, that was fine by her. What effect would Brock Kincaid have on their lives now that he was back? He wanted to be a part of Jonathon’s life, and that would probably mean passing down a share of Kincaid land, as well. Jonathon could easily grow to be one of the wealthiest men in Montana.

Her responsibility to raise him to be an upright, honest man had never been so clear. And she had never been so afraid or felt so alone.

Brock planned his trip to town for supplies on Saturday, when Jonathon would be out of school. When he arrived at the hardware store, he stopped the wagon beside another that sat at the loading dock. The man he’d seen from the window at the hotel was helping Matt Darby roll barrels into the back of a springboard. Brock set the brake, jumped down and climbed the stairs.

“Hey, Brock,” Darby said, thumbing back his hat and straightening. His gaze dropped to the revolvers slung low on Brock’s hips. “I heard you were back.”

“Matt.” Brock strode forward and shook the rancher’s hand.

“You in Whitehorn for good?”

“I am.”

The other man approached. “Sam Rowland,” he offered. “I work for Mrs. Watson.”

Mrs. Watson. The name sounded ill-fitting. Brock shook his gloved hand. “Brock Kincaid.”

“I know who you are.”

Brock glanced from one man to the other. “I’ll bet you do. The stories are flying right now, eh?”

Matt grinned. “Biggest news since Will came back. Some folks even think you’re Jack Spade.”

Brock had spent the previous evening with Will and Caleb, catching up on their lives, hearing Will’s side of the story about the gold. Will had related the rumors circulating through town. “What do you think, Matt?”

The man tugged his gloves a little tighter. “I think if you were a famous gunslinger you’d be crazy to come back here, and I don’t think you’d put your family in danger like that.”

Brock didn’t flicker an eyelash.

“My bet is on Linc Manley,” Matt added.

“The man in black who arrived on the stage and set tongues to wagging?”

“That’s how he’s registered at the hotel,” Sam explained.

Brock nodded, and the men turned back to their task. He looked Sam Rowland over—a sturdy enough fellow with a lean face and more than capable demeanor. Working daily with Abby, he was bound to have formed a working relationship with her. Brock wondered if there was anything more to it.

He entered the store and pulled a wrinkled list from his pocket. Caleb had been glad to turn over the run into town, and Brock had a feeling the chore would be his from now on. Harry Talbert called a greeting from his spot beside the stove, and Brock sauntered back to say hello, wondering with amusement how the man ever managed to give a haircut when he was always here.

An elderly gentleman that Brock didn’t recognize sat with a cane leaned against his bony knee and a coffee mug resting on the other. He squinted at Brock from beneath wispy white eyebrows. “Mighty fancy Peacemakers ya got there.”

His interest seemed genuine, not critical. Brock slid one of the ivory-handled six-shooters from its leather sheath and displayed the carved eagle for his inspection.

“Man who carries a gun like that knows how to use it. Them’s either peacemakers or troublemakers.” The old gent ran shaky fingers over the ivory in admiration.

Brock exchanged a look with Harry, but the man seemed more amused than curious. “I’ve done some peacemaking. Marshaled in Nevada, South Dakota.”

“Bringin’ criminals to justice, eh? Meet any of the Earp boys, did ya?”

“Saw them in passing.”

“Mr. Kincaid!”

Brock turned, the gun sliding automatically into his palm.

Abby faced him, her face flushed with anger. She shot her fiery gaze to the revolver in his grip. “I would appreciate it if you would keep your weapons out of sight in my establishment. My customers have no reason to shoot one another.”

“I was just showing the gentleman—”

“Golly!” a child’s voice interrupted. “Can I thee it, Mithter?” Jonathon ran forward, his face alight with admiration.

“No!” Abby shouted, stopping him with a forearm across his upper chest. The length of her thick braid swung forward and draped her arm to her elbow. “You may not.”

“But, Ma!”

“Guns serve only one purpose, Jonathon, and no son of mine will be a killer.”

“Man needs a gun in this country, Miz Watson,” the old man said. “Man can get hisself killed without one.”

“If everyone got along peaceably, there would be no use for violence,” she argued.

“This ain’t fairyland,” the old gent said with a laugh. “Or even Boston. This here’s Montana, and a body needs to protect his home and his family.”

“Killing isn’t a solution to every problem.” Indignant, she straightened and glared from Brock to the old man.

Harry cleared his throat. “I think I have to give a haircut.”

“Might not be a solution to every problem, but it sure shuts up the criminals,” the old man continued with a gleeful cackle.

Harry grabbed his coat, plunged his hat down over his head and bolted for the door.

“Mr. Waverly, please refrain from placing barbarous ideas in my son’s head.”

Brock had holstered his .45, and he removed his coat and hung it up. “Here’s a list of supplies. Jonathon, will you show me the rope, please?”

She took the slip of paper with a frown. “I can show you—”

Brock raised a palm to stop her in her tracks. “Jonathon will show me.”

Her green eyes spat fire, but she bit her tongue. She followed them with a worried frown as Jonathon led Brock to the other side of the store.

“Thith here’th the rope.”

Brock made a choice. “Do you know who I am?” he asked.

Jonathon gazed up with round blue eyes and nodded. “You’re Mithter Brock. Theke’th uncle.”

Brock surveyed the elfin face with a light sprinkling of freckles and let his gaze caress the hair so like his own. The urge to touch that baby-soft skin and wavy hair was so strong, he clamped his hand on the length of rope. “Y-yes,” he said, his voice breaking so that he had to say it again.

“Theke thaid you been gone a long time. You wath off fightin’ bad guyth. That right?”

“Something like that.”

“Did you thoot ’em with your gun?”

Brock understood Abby’s protectiveness. He did. He would rather take a beating than expose this child to the ugliness in the world. If only it were reasonable to think Jonathon could be protected from reality. But that wasn’t possible. Or even wise. He would need to know how to protect himself.