Читать книгу The Gunslinger's Bride - Cheryl St.John - Страница 8

Brock brushed his fingertips across the empty space on his denim-clad thigh where his holster should have been. The absence of that familiar weight kept surprising him. “I hired on in a range war in Wyoming after I left here. Occasionally I rode shotgun for Wells Fargo on special runs. But the ranchers kept hiring me to do their dirty work, and they paid too well to say no. After a while it seemed I was getting so many offers that I could choose.”

Brock stood and stretched his legs, striding to the window and gazing out at the snow-covered mountains. “I traveled with army details to recover stolen horses. Took a couple of U.S. Marshal jobs. Things like that.”

“You never wrote.”

The words hung in the air, more of a hurt-revealing question than an accusation.

Brock hadn’t written because he hadn’t wanted his enemies to be able to track him to his family. The sugarcoated version of the past he was feeding his brother was enough. The less Caleb knew, the better. “I didn’t know what to say.”

“You could have said you were okay.”

“You were mad that I left, weren’t you?”

“I was mad at your hotheaded foolishness that got that boy killed.”

Brock stiffened and turned his gaze to Caleb. “I didn’t go looking for that kid, he came gunning for me.”

“Because you dishonored his sister!”

“What happened between me and Abby was our business.”

“Something like that becomes family business, Brock. Her father would have come after you himself if he’d known first. But it was Guy who found out and Guy who tried to protect his sister’s honor.”

“I never even had a chance to make it right,” Brock argued.

“What would you have done? Married Abby?”

The question sucked the tension from Brock’s body. He drew a palm over his face, then hung his thumb in his belt. “I don’t know.”

“You wouldn’t have,” Caleb answered for him.

“I was young.”

“You were a hothead.”

“Maybe I was, but I didn’t want to kill Guy.”

“I know that.” Those words were laced with sincerity and regret. “And things were ugly here, too. I knew why you left. I always knew. It wasn’t just the boy. You’d have been found innocent of his death—there were witnesses. You were protecting yourself. Guy was just the last straw.”

“I was all mixed up. You and Will were fighting…and then he left with the gold.”

“Don’t forget Marie,” Caleb added.

“And Marie,” he agreed with a nod. Caleb’s understanding eased away the burden of Brock’s worries. His brother had changed, and it was a change Brock liked. “You’re different now than before I left.”

“Maybe that’s why I understand that you’re different, too. It’s been a long time. We all change. And grow. Thank God.”

“And Zeke is so big, I can hardly believe it. He looks like you did.”

Caleb grinned and agreed.

Brock’s thoughts switched to the other boy he’d seen the day before. “What is Abby doing at Watson’s Hardware, anyway? Working there? Seems like an unlikely place for a female.”

“Might be an unlikely place for a female, but she’s been doing a fine job of running it since Jed passed on.”

“Running it? What for?”

“She owns the store now. She’s Jedediah Watson’s widow.”

Widow. The prickly news didn’t want to settle nicely in Brock’s mind. It poked around nervously, leaving stinging wounds. His breath grew short and he had a difficult time drawing air into his lungs. “She married Jedediah Watson?”

“Yep.”

“He’s an old man.”

“Was. And I don’t think he was over fifty when he died.”

“What the hell did she marry him for?”

“Why do most women marry? Security maybe.”

“She said the other boy is hers—the boy I saw with Zeke.”

“Jonathon. Smart as a whip, that one.”

“I thought he was yours.”

Caleb looked at him in surprise. “Mine? Why would you think that?”

“I saw him with Zeke. The two look like brothers, don’t they?”

Caleb’s expression closed before he pulled out a pocket knife and worked at a sliver in his thumb. “There’s a resemblance.”

“I was sure that boy was a Kincaid.”

“Hmm.”

Brock didn’t like his brother’s avoidance one bit. It made him nervous as hell. “Don’t you think it’s odd?”

“What?”

“That he looks so much like…”

“Like what?”

“Like we did.” His heart kicked in an unsteady rhythm as the pieces came together in his mind. “Caleb, how old is Jonathon?”

His brother folded the blade away and studied his knife. “About seven, I guess.”

Brock took a few frantic steps toward the chair where Caleb sat, the weight of wonder growing heavier on his chest. “When’s his birthday?”

“I don’t remember.”

“Caleb—”

“Brock, these questions are for Abby. Go talk to her.”

The tension inside Brock had built until he felt sick to his stomach. “You know something, don’t you?”

Caleb stood and drilled his blue-gray gaze into Caleb’s. The room around them took on an odd gray-tinged bleakness. “I don’t know any more than you do. Go ask Abby. And that’s all I’m saying about it.”

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?”

“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 death, and married to a stranger.

“What did you do?”

She raised her chin and met his eyes. “I cooked and cleaned and learned about hardware, and I had a baby. There wasn’t anywhere for me to run.”

He had no explanation that would change her mind about him. He’d been young and confused, but she’d been young and confused, too. Nothing he said now would change what had happened back then. She was acting as though he’d had a lot of choices. Even if he’d wanted to make it right, he couldn’t have. If he’d asked her to marry him then and there, she would have refused. Even if he’d known he had a son, still he couldn’t have come back. “I want to see him.”

“No. I forbid it.”

“You can’t forbid me from seeing my son.”

“You won’t do anything to hurt him. You have that much decency. If people caught on, they would treat him cruelly, and you don’t want that. You’ve left us alone all these years. Why should that change now?”

“Because now I know.”

“You’d have known back then if you had stayed and faced what you’d done.”

“We both know it was self-defense.”

“I have a feeling that everything is self-defense with you,” she said in a tone meant to inflict injury. “Have you ever taken responsibility for anything?”

Those words penetrated armor that bullets had never pierced. It was easy for her to blame him, easy for her to think the worst of him. Brock had never intended to kill her brother; he’d never even wanted to hurt him. The boy had drawn first, moved into the bullet. But he was dead all the same.

Little did she know Brock had taken responsibility for her safety and that of the son he hadn’t known existed—as well as his entire family—by staying away.

All the things she took for granted, things like a good night’s sleep in a familiar bed, like eating a meal without looking over her shoulder, like being able to live here, were the things he’d lost.

“I won’t do anything to hurt him. But I will see him.”

Fear clouded her expressive eyes. Did she think he would hurt her? Did she think he’d take the boy and disappear? She hadn’t tried to hide her contempt, but she’d done a poor job of covering other emotions. She thought he was a monster. Let her think it. Utilizing fear had always given him an edge.

“I want to know my son. It can be as hard or as easy as you make it, but a boy needs a father.”

“As usual, your feelings are the only ones that count,” she said with cool accusation. “Not mine. Not Jonathon’s.”

The bell over the door rang, echoing across the expansive interior and sparing him a reply.

A small figure dropped a scarf away from her head, revealing jet black hair, parted down the middle and pulled away from her oval face. She made her way toward the seating area near the stove, shaking the wool scarf as she went. “It is starting to snow again.”

Abby glanced uncomfortably from the girl to Brock.

He coolly lifted one brow.

“Am I interrupting a sale?” the young woman asked.

Up close, Brock observed her dark, almond-shaped eyes and obviously Asian features. She was exceptionally pretty, with an open, friendly face.

“I was just leaving.” He reached for his coat.

“We haven’t yet met,” she said, ignoring the dark look Abby shot her. “You are either the infamous Jack Spade that everyone is talking about—”

Brock wore the expressionless mask he’d perfected and didn’t so much as flicker a lash.

“—or you are the Kincaid brother who has been gone for years. You don’t look to me like the gunfighter everyone talks about.”

“Brock Kincaid,” he said easily.

“I’m Shan Laine Mei.”

“How do you do, Shan Laine Mei,” he said, uncertain of how to address her properly. “Is it Miss Shan?”

She smiled broadly. “It is. The Shan family runs the fish market.”

“The structure made of…oil cans?”

She nodded. “Cans are filled with stones and dirt. Fireproof. Bulletproof, too.”

He hadn’t thought of that. “How is business this time of year?”

“My father and brother cut wood to sell during the winter. I sell canned vegetables that I garden during the growing season. Come by if you want good squash.”

“I will.” He situated his hat on his head and touched the brim. “Pleasure to meet you.”

“And you, Mr. Brock.”

He gave Abby a strong look. “I’ll be back.”

She pursed her lips and looked away.

The bell over the door clanged at his exit.

“Laine, how could you stand there and converse with the man as though he were a gentleman?” Abby said to her friend in irritation.

“Mr. Brock is not a gentleman?”

“No, he most certainly is not. He’s a selfish, infuriating, cold-blooded killer, that’s what he is.”

Laine’s dark eyes widened. “You know this for a fact, Abby?”

Abby turned and placed a kettle of water on the stove. “I watched him shoot and kill my brother.”

Slowly Laine removed her coat and hung it up. “You have not told me of this before.”

Abby rubbed her palms together. Few people in town associated with Laine socially, so she’d never been filled in on the gossip surrounding Brock Kincaid. “I don’t like to talk about it.”

“If he murdered your brother, why isn’t he in jail? Or why wasn’t he hanged?”

Abby grew flustered at the question. “Guy had his gun drawn. It looked like self-defense.”

“The law said it was self-defense?”

“But Guy was seventeen years old. Just a boy.”

“I am sorry. I knew your brother died young, but I did not know the circumstances. Mr. Brock, he is sorry for his part in your brother’s death?”

“He thinks of nothing but himself.”

“You know he was not sorry? He has said so?”

“He didn’t take time to say anything. He turned and ran.”

“But you said Guy had his gun out. Did he mean to shoot Mr. Brock?”

Now look what she’d done. She’d opened a can of worms she didn’t want to discuss, and her friend wasn’t one to back down. Abby chastised herself for letting her anger place her in this uncomfortable position, and measured tea into a metal strainer. “My brother was furious with Brock—for good reason. He was doing what he thought was right. Brock, on the other hand, was doing what he always did—wearing a gun and looking for a reason to fire it.”

Laine came and stood beside her. “You knew Mr. Brock well?”

Abby closed her eyes, and the anguish of those days washed over her in an oppressive wave. Tears burned her throat. How could she answer that question and not lie?

Laine’s hand touched her shoulder in a comforting gesture.

Did Abby want to deny the truth any longer?