Caleb’s or Will’s! Indignant at the insult, Abby shot from her seat and swung her right hand toward Brock’s face. Too swiftly, he caught her wrist and held it fast. His strong grip held her close and a disturbing light flared in his eyes.

“Why did you marry Jed Watson?”

“I don’t have to explain anything to you!” She managed to get past her growing fury. “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.”

The Gunslinger’s Bride

Cheryl St.John

www.millsandboon.co.uk

CHERYL ST.JOHN

A peacemaker, a romantic, an idealist and a discouraged perfectionist are the words that Cheryl uses to describe herself. The award-winning author of both historical and contemporary novels says she’s been told that she is painfully honest.

Cheryl admits to being an avid collector, displaying everything from dolls to depression glass, as well as white ironstone, teapots, cups and saucers, old photographs and—most especially—books. When not doing a home improvement project, she and her husband love to browse antiques shops. In her spare time she’s an amateur photographer and a pretty good baker.

She says that knowing her stories bring hope and pleasure to readers is one of the best parts of being a writer. The other wonderful part is being able to set her own schedule and have time to work around her growing family.

Cheryl loves to hear from readers! Email her at SaintJohn@aol.com.

This book is dedicated to

Bernadette Duquette

Debra Hines

Barb Hunt

and Donna Knoell

who not only can eat as much chocolate as I can, but always help me write the best possible story.

Thanks again.

And to our newest baby

Jared

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Epilogue

Chapter One

January 1897

Brock Kincaid squinted at the slate-gray clouds that had been shifting down from the Crazy Mountains since he’d broken camp that morning, and pulled his sheepskin collar around his neck against the bitter wind. Born and raised in Montana, he found that seven years away hadn’t dimmed his ability to smell a blizzard coming from the north. He built a fire and melted snow for the horses. There were two: one he rode; the other carried his bedroll and supplies, as well as gifts carefully chosen for the brothers he hadn’t seen since he’d left the Kincaid ranch behind.

Caleb, the oldest, would be there, running the ranch, but Will had been gone when Brock left, having headed out after repeated disagreements with Caleb. Brock had no idea where he was now, just as they hadn’t a clue where he’d been or what he’d been doing. For their protection, he’d been careful to hide his identity…and his whereabouts.

Cooling the water with a handful of snow and holding the dented pail for his mount to drink, Brock scratched the animal’s bony forehead and yawned. Imagining his brother’s reaction to his return had kept him awake most of the night, and he’d started out after only a couple hours’ sleep.

After the horses were finished, he stowed the pail, then bent and scooped snow to scrub across his tired face. A few more hours and he’d reach Whitehorn, where he could board the animals and get a night’s rest before heading to the ranch. He wanted to be alert and prepared before facing Caleb.

With a creak of cold leather, Brock mounted and let the gray pick his way around overgrown scrub and drifted snow. The packhorse whinnied and shook its head, and Brock paused to gather the slack from the lead rope until it calmed. Wolf tracks and bright red blood spattered on the pristine snow several yards to his right told him he didn’t want to be around after dark. He drew his .44 Winchester from the scabbard on his saddle and rested it across his thighs. Damn, but a warm bed would feel good tonight. It had been a long time since he’d been comfortable.

A minute later, the crust of snow on the ground crunched beneath the horses’ hooves as he nudged his mount forward, the only sound, save the horses’ snorts in the bitter air.

He’d cut all ties with his acquaintances of the last few years, transferred funds, changed horses and saddles, bought new clothes and taken a painstakingly slow, roundabout trail to reach Montana. He’d covered his tracks with as much caution as humanly possible.

The only personal possessions he still owned were the pair of carved, ivory-handled .45 Peacemakers in the holsters strapped to his thighs, as much a living part of him as his arms or his legs. They’d saved his life more times than he could count, and leaving them behind would make him more vulnerable than he could afford to be and still live.

Brock blinked against the snow glinting pink and gold from the mountains, and adjusted his hat brim to shade his eyes. By late afternoon, he’d skirted the outlying ranches and made his way toward town. With luck, no one would recognize him, and he’d have time to prepare himself for the only showdown he’d ever had doubts about.

A tinny bell clanged, and the door of the schoolhouse flew open. Brock halted the horses in a stand of bare-branched cottonwoods and watched bundled children charge out the door and down the wooden stairs of the structure, which had been built on the outskirts of Whitehorn since his departure. The grays, actually black-skinned with white hairs, and chosen for their light coloring against a snowy landscape, stood silent.

A few parents near the building waited with wagons or horses. Brock let his gaze scan the students.

Was his nephew Zeke among the children? Brock did a quick calculation and figured the boy would be eight by now. Was someone from the Kincaid ranch down there to meet the child? Heart chugging nervously, he studied those waiting, but none struck him as familiar. From this distance he couldn’t make out brands on the horses.

None of those departing headed for the Kincaid ranch, but several children ran toward town.

Brock observed the willowy, dark-haired woman who locked the schoolhouse door and trudged through the snow toward the main street.

Once the area was clear, he rode out of his secluded spot and followed. Whitehorn looked much the same as it had the last time he’d seen it, false-fronted buildings with signs proclaiming the businesses: the telegraph office, a dressmaking shop, the No Bull Meat Market, the Double Deuce Saloon, Whitehorn News, Watson Hardware, the bank. Big Mike’s Music Hall and Opera House was new, as was a structure that looked to be made of oil cans bearing a sign advertising Fish for Sale.

He passed Old Lady Harroun’s boarding house and the Centennial Saloon before stopping at the livery. Lionel Briggs, a long-faced fellow, emerged from the warmth of the forge and greeted him. “How long you stayin’, mister?”

“I’m not sure,” Brock said, keeping his hat pulled low. “I’ll pay for tonight. They need feed and rest.” He pulled his glove from his numb fingers and reached inside his coat for silver coins.

“I’ll treat ’em good. Check their feet?”

Brock nodded and paid him.

The man stared suspiciously, a frown and then recognition registering on his face. “Brock Kincaid! I’ll be damned! Thought I recognized that voice.”

“I’d be obliged if you didn’t mention that you’d seen me,” Brock said. “I’d like to get some rest before I visit the ghosts.”

“Where ya been all this time?” the man asked. “Some said you was workin’ with Bill Cody. Others claimed you’d settled down in New Mexico.”

“I saw some of New Mexico,” he replied noncommittally, pulling down his rifle and unstrapping his gear. “Can I leave my bedroll in a stall?”

“Certain you can.”

“Still get a decent meal and room at the Carlton?”

Lionel nodded. “Amos still runs a good place. That hasn’t changed. Wife’s sickly now, though.”

Thanking the livery man, Brock threw his saddlebags over his shoulder. His boots clomped across the boardwalk as he headed for the hotel. He’d reached the wide dock that fronted the hardware store when a couple of laughing boys wrapped in heavy coats, wool caps and scarves shot out the door and ran into his legs, knocking him sideways. Groping for balance, he dropped his gear and grabbed a wooden post.

“Jonathon! Zeke! Apologize to the gentleman. You weren’t even looking where you were going.”

A slender, russet-haired young woman without a coat appeared in the doorway, a white apron covering her plain dress and calling attention to her curvy figure.

“Thorry, mithter,” the shorter of the two said with an endearing lisp. “We wathn’t lookin’ where we wath goin’.”

The other boy struggled to pick up Brock’s cumbersome saddlebags and hand them back to him. “Didn’t mean no harm,” he said. The wool cap he’d worn tumbled off his head and he turned to grab it, knocking into the smaller boy. Both of them landed on their butts on the icy loading dock.

Chuckling, Brock bent over and plucked both of them up and steadied them on their feet. The youngest one gazed up, dark blue eyes wary of the stranger. A wisp of wavy blond hair escaped his cap. Was this a Kincaid nephew? Brock glanced at the other boy, also fair-haired and blue-eyed.

Then he turned and saw the young woman for the first time.

She was staring at him, her complexion gone pale, a sprinkling of freckles standing out against the pink rising in her cheeks. “Abby?” he asked uncertainly.

A combination of things had driven him away from this town. The constant discord in the Kincaid house was surely part of it. The other part—the bigger part—was the fact that he’d killed this woman’s young brother.

She stared at him still, as though not believing what her eyes were telling her. Once his identity registered, her expression quickly changed to one of cool hostility. “Come inside, boys,” she said curtly.

“But we didn’t get licorith yet,” the younger one complained.

“We didn’t mean to knock the man down,” the other added.

“No harm done,” Brock said kindly, stooping to pick up his leather bags. He couldn’t help casting another hungry look at the boys, who reminded him so much of him and his brothers at that age.

“One of you Zeke Kincaid?” he asked.

The taller boy’s eyes widened. “How’d you know that?”

“Come inside now, boys!” Abby told them sharply.

“Are you Zeke?”

The lad nodded, then gave Abby a quick look. Caleb’s son. Brock’s nephew. Brock looked him over hungrily, all the years away from here seeming so wasted and lonely. Caleb had had more children and Brock had missed their births. Abby must be watching them for Marie.

“Come in immediately,” Abby ordered.

“Aw, Ma,” the younger boy said unhappily.

Ma? The address hung in the air like the report of a bullet. Brock’s gaze shot to Abby’s face. Shuttered and distant, her expression revealed only her disdain. “Your son?” he managed to ask past a dry throat.

“That’s right. Jonathon is my son. Now excuse us.” She nearly pushed the boys inside the store and slammed the door so hard the glass panes rattled and the bell inside clanged.

Her son? But that child was unquestionably a Kincaid. Had Marie died and Caleb married Abby? Had Will come back and married Abby?

Snow had begun falling in earnest, blowing up across the dock and dusting Brock’s boots. He wasn’t sure how long he stood there in confusion, contemplating the shocking information and the possibilities. Of course, life here had gone on without him; why had he imagined everything would still be the same?

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?”

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The Gunslinger's Bride

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