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Through the square panes of window glass, he could see that the hardware store held a few customers. What Abby Franklin was doing in there he had no idea, but he didn’t want the entire town to know he was here before he’d had a chance to see Caleb, and the stove at the hardware store was the social gathering place on winter afternoons such as this.
Tamping down his questions and his eagerness to see his nephews, he adjusted the heavy bags over his shoulder and hurried through the snow to the hotel.
Abby Watson stared out the window at Brock’s tall, long-legged form retreating through the swirling snow. She bit her lip and pressed a shaky hand to her thundering heart. Surely she’d expected that he’d be back one day. He owned a share of Kincaid land, for heaven’s sake! Both of his brothers were here, Caleb running the ranch, Will having returned and made his amends a year ago. He now ran the bank.
At the time of Will’s return, she’d been forced to think of Brock—to wonder where he was and whether or not he, too, would make his way back to Whitehorn and his family home. She’d considered selling the store and leaving before that became a reality, but her roots had grown deep into this land. Her father and brother were dead now, but Jonathon had family here, even though he didn’t know it. She owned her father’s ranch as well as a thriving business, and she felt good about being a respected citizen.
Caleb couldn’t acknowledge Jonathon publicly without shaming Abby, because Abby had married Jedediah Watson, and the older man had accepted the boy as his own. Caleb had seen to it that Zeke and Jonathon spent plenty of time together, though, especially since Jed’s death two years ago. Zeke coming home with Jonathon after school every day had begun as much to keep the boys together as to spare Zeke the tension of his unhappy home life, Abby suspected. Now that Zeke’s home life had changed for the better, he still came here every day.
Abby glanced back at her handsome, fair-haired son brushing snow from his pants, and a sick feeling curled in her belly. What would happen when Brock learned the truth? Would he even care? He hadn’t seemed to in all these years, so she couldn’t imagine that he’d suddenly develop a conscience.
She brought her worried gaze back to the window. Men like Brock Kincaid thought only of their prowess with a gun, to the exclusion of family and loved ones. Men like him had no loved ones. And they robbed other people of theirs, as well.
A shiver ran through her body.
“What’re you lookin’ at out there, Miz Watson?” Harry Talbert, the barber, called from his favorite chair beside the stove. “That snow is gonna come down whether or not you keep an eye on it.”
More than seven years ago Brock Kincaid had shot and killed her brother, then ridden out of town without a backward glance.
Now he was back. And about to find out he had a son.
Brock awoke at first light, placed his feet on the frigid floorboards and strode naked to the window. From the second story, he could see much of the frozen, rutted street, the shops with mounds of snow drifted across the boardwalk and against their doors, a few animal tracks leading in and out of the alleyways, and smoke drifting from chimneys.
The brick smokestack at Watson’s Hardware belched a steady gray cloud. He’d watched until dark and Abby hadn’t left the place. Caleb had come with a team and wagon and taken one of the boys away. If Abby’d left, it had been late, or she’d exited by a rear door, but Brock couldn’t imagine why she would bother.
He dressed and continued his vigil at the window. One by one, lamps came on in the businesses below. Merchants arrived and shoveled boardwalks. Shades rose. A man with a key entered the hardware store, a man too young and fit to be Jedediah Watson.
A team and buckboard pulled up alongside the dock that fronted the hardware store, and the driver climbed the stairs and tried the door. He knocked. Lights came on and the door opened to admit the customer.
Sometime later, the rancher came out, followed by the man who’d entered earlier, and together they carried boxes, rolled barrels across the dock and loaded the supplies into the wagon bed.
Abby appeared at the doorway, wearing a white apron. She waved as the rancher pulled away. The young man entered the store behind her and the door closed. She looked as though she belonged there. If the man was her husband, why had he just arrived, when it was apparent she’d been there all night? If she worked there, perhaps she had a room over the store. Brock glanced at the lace curtains at the upper windows.
He could stand here supposing all day, but he had business to see to with his brother, so he packed his bags and left.
Lionel had fed and groomed the horses, and Brock paid him an extra dollar for their care, loaded his belongings and rode out. He followed the ice-crusted creek, from time to time spotting wolves sunning themselves on outcroppings that jutted from the rock walls of the foothills. The horses startled an occasional deer or rabbit. He’d missed the wide-open spaces of this country, missed a sense of belonging and of family, more and more as the years passed.
At the time, leaving had seemed like the best thing—the only thing—he could do. Caleb had married Marie, a pampered young woman who’d been expecting his child, and her immediate withdrawal had confused everyone. Unhappy in his marriage, Caleb had turned cold and distant, and Will’s competitive badgering wore on him. Will had resented Caleb being groomed to take over the ranch, and his jealously drove a rift between them.
Brock had been torn between his two older brothers. Though he’d been the troublemaker in his youth, he had kept his tomfoolery away from the ranch, wreaking havoc in the saloons and streets instead. As he’d been the youngest, his irresponsibility had been overlooked. Frustrated by his lack of position in the family and on the ranch, as well as by the constant rivalry between his siblings, Brock had taken a devil-may-care attitude. When Will stole money from Caleb’s safe and headed East, his actions had stabbed Brock like a knife to the heart.
That hadn’t been the final straw, however. He probably could have stuck it out, moved to town perhaps, away from Caleb and Marie, though he adored their fair-haired baby, Zeke. No, the event that had driven him to pack his bags and ride toward the horizon had taken place the day he’d shot and killed the boy—Abby’s brother.
Brock sat his horse in a flurry of swirling spindrift and gazed at his family home, at the well-kept barns and corrals and the cattle on the nearby hills. Caleb had done well. So well that he wouldn’t welcome Brock’s return?
He nudged the gray and headed forward.
A figure on horseback emerged from the concealment of trees to the north and rode swiftly toward the barns. Brock recognized the brown-and-white skewbald and the figure atop as John Whitefeather, half Cheyenne and a friend of Caleb’s.
Before Brock reached the yard, the tall, broad figure of his brother, dressed in denims and a flannel shirt, appeared in the open doorway of the barn. Shaggy, dark blond hair blew back from his face in the cold wind. But despite the wind and the frigid air, he stepped away from the shelter of the building and ran forward.
Brock reined in the gray several yards away and dismounted, closing the final steps that brought him face-to-face with his brother.
Caleb looked older, still muscled from hard work, his gray-blue eyes not revealing the thoughts or feelings behind them. He looked so much like their father that a wave of odd familiarity swept Brock, then disappeared when Caleb’s mouth turned up in a grin. “Little brother,” he said calmly. Those steely eyes scanned the mountains and the sky. “Some time of year you picked for traveling.”
“Yeah, well, you know I never had much sense when it came to practical things.”
Caleb’s gaze moved to Brock and seemed to warm with his assessment of what he saw. “Your room’s still there. Don’t think the shirts are going to fit, though. You’ve grown some.”
Brock took that as a welcome, and the reticence that had created a stone wall around his heart cracked.
“Bet you could use a bath and a hot meal.”
The crack widened and a thread of hope snaked through. “Sure could. Who’s cooking?”
Caleb reached for the reins and took them from Brock’s gloved hand, then led the animals toward the barn. “Things have changed around here. We have a lot to catch up on.”
Brock walked beside him. “I’m looking forward to it.”
The gray-blue eyes that met his held an unmistakable sheen. “Me, too, little brother.”
After unsaddling and brushing the horses, then throwing down hay for them, the two men walked toward the house, where a familiar dark-skinned woman with a glossy black braid met them at the back door and led them into the warm humid kitchen. She rested a chubby, dark-haired baby on her hip.
“Ruth is my wife now. This is our son, Barton.” At Brock’s puzzled expression, Caleb added, “I told you there was a lot to catch up on. Marie’s dead,” he explained, referring to his first wife. “She was thrown from a horse and stayed in a coma until she died.”
Brock was at a loss for words. “I’m sorry” didn’t seem adequate, yet he couldn’t help thinking guiltily how miserable Caleb had been with his first wife and how he was better off without her.
“I’m glad you’re home, Brock,” Ruth said with a warm smile, teeth white against her dark skin. “And don’t let your brother fool you, he’s glad you’re here, too.”
Ruth was John Whitefeather’s sister, and she had stayed with them for a time many years ago.
Brock nodded. “I’m glad to be back.”
“Dada!” the baby burbled, and flapped a chubby arm at his father.
With a wide smile, Caleb took the boy from his mother and tossed him in the air. The baby chortled and a string of drool hit Caleb on the chin. He shook his shaggy head and grimaced, which only made the baby giggle harder. Caleb brought the boy to rest against his wide chest and wiped his face with his shirtsleeve.
Ruth laughed and the couple exchanged looks of affection and pride. She turned to Brock then and said, “Let’s get you settled. I’ll heat water for a bath.”
“Do I smell?” he asked with a grin.
She laughed good-naturedly. “The first thing your brother wants to do after he returns from a trip is clean up.”
“Well, you’re right about that. I stayed at the hotel last night, but I didn’t take time for the niceties.”
“You were in town overnight?” A furrow dipped between Caleb’s brows.
“Yes. I needed a little time to collect myself. I wasn’t sure—well, I wasn’t sure how you were going to react to seeing me.”
“Ruth’s right. I’m glad to see you. About damned time is all I have to say.” Caleb handed the baby back to his wife. “We’ll talk at supper.”
With that, he turned and left the house, the door banging shut in a gust of wind.
“He doesn’t have a coat on,” Ruth commented.
“I think he was a little distracted,” Brock replied.
“He is glad you’re here.”
“I hope so.” For some reason it seemed easier to talk to this woman than to his brother. “I spent too long on the trail and I’m ready to settle in somewhere. Make up for the lost years, if I can.”
“Well, you’re welcome here. This is your home.”
He didn’t know if she’d feel the same if she knew what he’d been doing all those years, if she knew the things he had to put behind him: the violence and the bloodshed and the wavering line between right and wrong that he’d walked for so long. Too long.
Brock didn’t know if it was possible to put all that behind him, if the man he’d become could be the man he wanted to be. Even if he cut himself off from every person who’d known him or known of him, and started over, could he ever live at peace with himself?
“I’ll have the tub and water brought to your room.”
Brock thanked his new sister-in-law and climbed the stairs, his gun hand riding the glossy banister.
Catching up took Brock and Caleb most of the day, half a bottle of rum and several cigars. Ruth prepared lunch, something she claimed to enjoy, since Caleb normally ate in the bunkhouse with the hands at noon.
After telling the story of his and Ruth’s romance, Caleb related how Will had come home a year ago, wanting to return the gold. Caleb hadn’t wanted it, didn’t want money to be a factor between them, so they’d secretly buried it in a cornerstone of the Double Deuce Saloon, which Caleb owned.
“That doesn’t sound like the Caleb I remember,” Brock told him. “I can’t picture you doing something like that.”
Caleb grinned. “Hopefully I’ve changed—for the better.”
“I saw Zeke yesterday,” Brock told him.
Caleb slapped a hand against his thigh. “Are you the stranger he saw outside the hardware store?”
Brock grinned. “That’s me.”
“He was taken with the revolvers you wore. I see you don’t have ’em on today.”
And he had no idea how difficult it was for Brock to leave them in his room, even while in this house.
Caleb’s eyes narrowed and he pierced Brock with a look he remembered too well, a look that said he’d see through him if he tried to lie. “So what have you been doing all these years, little brother?”
Chapter Two
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.”
