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“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.
“We all have to do things that we don’t want to do sometimes,” was all he said, and it sounded trite.
When they returned to the stove several minutes later, the old man was sipping coffee. He grunted and shook his head.
Brock followed Jonathon to where Abby stood beside a counter, calculating a stack of figures. “Do you want this on the ranch account?” she asked in a businesslike tone.
“Yes.”
“Sam will help you carry out the kegs.”
“I’d just as soon wait awhile, so I can visit with Jonathon.”
Her hesitation was evident in the way she paused over the numbers, in the way her chin lifted slightly.
“Or I can take him back to the ranch with me, and he can play with Zeke and help me put things away.”
Unfairly, he’d suggested it in front of the boy, and Jonathon shot forward, raising a small hand to place it on the counter by her paper. “Can I, Mama? Can I go play with Theke? Brock wanth me to help him!”
Abby’s gaze lifted and struck Brock with as much force as a bullet. Anger simmered there, but the fear in her eyes took him aback. Why it should bother him, he didn’t know. He had her where he wanted her. She was afraid to let her son go, but she was afraid Brock would tell Jonathon the truth if she didn’t comply.
He looked down. “Let me talk to your ma alone for a minute, okay?”
“Okay!” The child shot away and disappeared into the depths of the store.
“I’m not going to snatch him and ride off,” he assured her. “You don’t have to fear that. I told you I would get to know him. This seems like a good way. He’s used to Zeke and Caleb. What would people think if I sat around your store all day long?”
He had her there. She cared very much what people thought. And she obviously cared very little for his tactics. “If you sank any lower, you wouldn’t have to open the door to slide out of here,” she said in a venomous tone.
He took a step toward her.
Her heartbeat fluttered at her throat. The soft scent of lilacs floated to his nostrils, striking an unexpected chord of familiarity.
“You didn’t mind me so much once,” he said, his voice as even and insinuating as he could make it.
She released the pencil she’d been holding and dropped her hand to her side, taking a step back and coming up against the cool glass display case. “I was a fool.”
He inched closer. Her green gaze focused on his shoulder, and she refused to meet his eyes.
“We all make mistakes, don’t we, Abby?”
Her chin lifted a notch. “Some more than others.”
He remembered now their brief, heated encounters, his anger and mental chaos and her warm welcoming embrace that soothed and satisfied. He had sought comfort in her arms, taken her virginity, knowing she was smitten with him but also knowing he wasn’t of a mind to be making decisions or commitments. He couldn’t truthfully say what would have happened if Guy’s actions hadn’t forced him to defend himself.
“I won’t hurt our son. I make you that promise.”
At those words, her gaze rose to his, hurt, bewildered.
“Have I ever made you a promise before?” he asked.
She gave a jerky little shake of her head and whispered, “No.”
“So you see, I’ve never broken a promise to you, either. You’re going to have to trust me.”
“I will never trust you until you take off those guns and admit your guilt.”
Guilt because of Guy? Or his guilt over her? If that was what made her mad, it was sure funny that she didn’t remember her part in their carryings on, as if he’d seduced an unwilling partner. Hardly. He remembered then how she’d claimed to hate him. “Then you’re never going to trust me.”
She blinked.
“But you don’t have a choice that I can see, now do you?”
She tightened her lips as though she was clamping them shut against a torrent of raging words. “You’re despicable,” she hissed.
“No,” he replied with stern denial. “Rape is despicable. You came to me willingly.” He lowered his voice and added, “Eagerly.”
Her face flamed.
“Stealing is despicable. I only took what you offered.”
Tears glistened and she blinked them back.
“Denying a child is despicable. I acknowledge my son. I want to know him and teach him and be a father to him.”
Holding herself so rigidly like that, she’d shatter into a million pieces if he pushed her over, he imagined. “Murder is despicable,” she accused.
For a confused moment, he thought perhaps she knew more about him than he’d revealed, but that couldn’t be. He’d been too careful. She meant Guy. “He drew on me first, Abby, and you know it. You’re just too stubborn to admit it.” He stood a step back, giving her space, distancing himself so he wouldn’t be tempted to grab her and shake some sense into her. “I’ll return Jonathon before dark.”
Before Brock’s return, Abby had never in her life wanted to hit someone, and the fact that she again wanted more than anything to strike out at this man shocked her. She stood by helplessly, rooted to the floor, as Brock called her son. She stood fast while she watched Jonathon bring his coat and hat, despite the fact that her fingers itched to help while Brock bundled him up.
Watching them prepare to leave, she felt a chasm yawn in her chest. Her breath came in shallow, painful gasps, and she wanted to run to Jonathon and clasp him safely to her, protect him from the truth and the man who threatened the sanctuary of this home she’d made for them.
Brock had donned his own coat, but he knelt, one knee touching the worn wood floor, and said something to Jonathon.
Her son’s blond head turned her way, and without hesitation he darted toward her and hugged her around the waist. “Bye, Mama. I’ll be back before dark.”
Abby loosened his slender arms and knelt to fold him in a desperate hug. She petted his shiny hair and inhaled his unique little-boy scent. “Goodbye, darling. I love you.”
“I love you, too, Mama.” Pulling away, he ran to join the tall man who waited patiently.
He raised his gaze to Brock’s, and Brock looked down. Jonathon trustingly placed his mittened hand in Brock’s huge, gloved palm, and they walked away. The bell over the door clanged a finale to the heart-wrenching scene. Abby’s chest felt as though a lead weight were pressing down upon it. She drew a staggered breath and placed her hand over her heart, where the real ache gnawed.
Stinging tears bit her eyes and she closed the lids tightly.
The bell rang again.
He’d changed his mind! Her eyes flew open.
Her fiancé, Everett Matthews, stood in the doorway, looking over his shoulder, and she knew he was watching Jonathon depart with the stranger.
Stupefied, he turned and met her gaze. “What is going on, Abby?”
Chapter Four
Not now! Why now, of all times, did Everett have to show up? The tears Abby held inside threatened to burst through her defenses and engulf her, but she couldn’t allow Everett to see them, to sense even a glimpse of her torment. He would surely suspect something was wrong if she behaved the least bit odd.
Turning as he removed his coat, she plucked up the pencil and held it over the paper as if she could actually see or think to figure. “Oh, hello, Everett.” He wore a neat, brown serge suit and vest, and a matching bow tie at his neck. The perfect gentleman. “What brings you out today?”
He walked forward with his coat folded over his arm. “Why is Jonathon leaving with Brock Kincaid? What’s going on?”
“Jonathon’s going to play with Zeke for the afternoon. He’ll be home before dark,” she said, forcing lightness into her voice.
“I’ve never seen you let that boy out of your sight except to go to school.”
“Why, that’s not so. He’s gone to play with Zeke before. The winter days are so long. He needs a change of scenery now and again.”
“But Brock Kincaid?” Everett stepped closer, and she was forced to look up, somehow managing a tight smile. “You hate that man!”
Abby’s eyes wanted to clamp shut tight. She wanted to roll into a ball and disappear under the counter like a clump of dust. She would love to pound the floor and kick and scream that she did, in fact, hate that insufferable man.
She didn’t want to stand here all sweet faced and pretend to her betrothed that she didn’t loathe the man who had just walked out with her child! Instead, she scrambled for something—anything logical to say to prevent him from suspecting the worst. “All that was a long time ago. Caleb and Ruth are our friends, after all, and Jonathon and Zeke are best friends.” She took Everett’s coat and hung it on a brass hook. “Jonathon loves to play with him. Besides, Brock is Caleb’s brother, so I might as well let bygones be bygones.”
Had she said that? Had that atrocious lie rolled from her tongue? Abby tasted acrid bitterness and decided that, indeed, it had. She couldn’t abide deceptiveness, and here she was lying to the man she was going to marry. Once again, because of Brock Kincaid, she was going against her principles.
Everett shook his head of thick, neatly trimmed brown hair. One dark brow rose now, and coffee-colored eyes bored into hers in disbelief. “Pinch me to wake me up, because I can’t believe my ears. I must be dreaming, because I thought you just excused the man.”
“You’re not dreaming, silly. It’s not healthy for a person to go around with hard feelings locked up inside. I’ve decided to let the feud go. That’s all.”
“That’s all? That’s all, Abby? Did he apologize?” he asked in amazement. “Did Kincaid say he was sorry about your brother?”
“Oh, yes.” She told the bald-faced lie and turned to carry a lantern back to its shelf. “He regrets that they ever had a misunderstanding and that things got out of control so quickly. He’s a changed man.” Changed from bad to worse, anyway.
“I never really understood what it was they fought over,” Everett said, following.
“I don’t think anyone really remembers,” she said dismissively, as though the worst event of her life was of no importance. “It was a long time ago and they were probably too drunk to know what they were doing.”
“This is quite a change of heart for you,” her fiancé said, still seeming to have trouble understanding.
“Yes,” she agreed sweetly. “People are allowed to change.”
Abby glanced aside to note that Mr. Waverly, who still sat by the stove with his cane against his knee, watched her in silence, a shrewd expression on his grizzled face. He couldn’t have overheard her earlier restrained conversation with Brock, but he’d heard their original exchange and was now getting an earful of this one—and the two sure didn’t line up.
“Do we need a fresh pot of coffee, Mr. Waverly?” she asked.
“Couldn’t hurt. I lost m’spoon in the last cup.”
“I’ll get some water.”
She went about carrying the pot to the back room to rinse and fill. Everett waited while she stoked the fire and set the pot to boiling.
Taking her elbow, he led her aside, away from the old man’s curious gaze. “This is all such a…a surprise,” he said carefully once they were hidden in an aisle of garden tools. “I’ve never seen anything but scorn from you when the man’s name was mentioned, and now this sudden act of forgiveness.”
“Don’t concern yourself with it. It was time to lay things aside, that’s all.” She looked up and gave him a warm smile to distract him. She pulled her elbow from his gentle grasp and placed her hand on his forearm. “Have you heard any interesting news?”
Everett worked at the telegraph office. News passed through his fingers daily, and he loved to share what he’d learned. His curious demeanor seemed to change at her touch. “Seems they have a few cases of measles over toward Billings.”
