The Gunslinger's Bride. Cheryl St.John

telling someone.

      Opening her eyes, she turned, seated herself upon a chair and patted the one beside her. She couldn’t carry this burden alone any longer. “I foolishly fancied myself enamored with him when I was young,” she confessed matter-of-factly, knowing her confidence was well-placed in Laine.

      “You had feelings for Mr. Brock?” Her friend sat beside her, their skirts touching.

      Abby nodded, incredibly relieved to make the confession at last. “But he barely gave me a second glance. I always knew when he was at a gathering because I watched for him and observed his every move. I knew the way he walked and the way he smiled and how he held a partner on the dance floor. When he looked my way I could barely breathe.” She shook her head at her childishness.

      “So you see, it was a one-sided admiration. Until one summer all those years ago.” She paused to think about that particular year, and could still remember the scent of the pines in the high country, the vivid splashes of paintbrush streaking the mountainsides and the unique paleness of pink sunsets. That summer had defined all that was beautiful—and what had happened had characterized all that was ugly.

      “He was miserable at home. His brother Caleb was married to an insufferable woman. Brock had no father or mother by this time, and his brothers fought all the time. He used to ride into town with the ranch hands and shoot up the saloons, then sleep off the liquor in jail.”

      Laine gave her a puzzled look. “And you were sweet on this young man?”

      “I knew him before all that,” Abby replied with a dismissive shrug. “I remembered him from when his mother was alive and our families were friends. Obviously I had an image of him that wasn’t the real person. I thought he was misunderstood. Humph.” Again she shook her head at her youthful foolishness. “I was the one who misunderstood. I thought he possessed redeemable qualities.”

      Laine took Abby’s hand. “What happened the day your brother died?”

      Abby studied their fingers. “It was night. And he was murdered.”

      “How?”

      “Brock had asked me to meet him in the foothills by the river. It was our secret place. I took a horse like I always did.” She turned a pleading gaze on Laine. “I was so in love with him. I thought he felt the same. I thought…”

      “What?”

      “Well, I thought our—relationship was quite romantic and forbidden and exciting. He was the most handsome young man—those sad blue eyes and that wavy hair—and he had this…this appeal. I can’t explain it.”

      “I think I understand.” Laine’s sympathetic eyes said as much, too. “But what about Guy? He did not like you with Mr. Brock?”

      “Afterward he found the note Brock had written, asking me to meet him. He knew I’d been taking a horse and disappearing for hours at a time.”

      “And he was angry.”

      “He was very angry. He set out to avenge a wrong he thought had been done to me. I rode after him. I got to town in time to see Brock pull his gun and shoot Guy.”

      “He seems like such a nice man. You said your brother had gone after him. Did Guy shoot at Mr. Brock?”

      Those words seemed traitorous to Abby. She stared at Laine. “A nice man? He killed my brother!”

      “Did he not have cause to draw his gun? If he was a cold-blooded murderer, he would be in jail right now, would he not?”

      “If there was any justice!” Abby replied, tears forming in spite of her anger.

      “I am sorry, my friend.”

      Abby shook her head and blinked away the moisture. “I blamed myself for not getting there in time, for losing my head and making such an awful mistake.”

      “You weren’t to blame for your brother’s death.”

      “I wanted Brock so much that I didn’t think of the consequences.”

      “And he wanted you?”

      In all these years Abby had never allowed herself to think of Brock—to remember the feelings and the passion and the wonder—because their time together had so swiftly turned ugly. But she had to face it now. “He is Jonathon’s father.”

      The confession had been so easy to say. Part of the tension inside her abated and she took an easy breath, not realizing she’d been holding herself rigid and barely breathing.

      Laine’s eyes widened in surprise. “Jonathon’s father! Who knows of this? Your husband knew of this?”

      The rest came easily now that that had been revealed. “We never spoke of it, but he knew. No one has ever spoken of it until now. Until Brock came and asked me. That was the first time I’d ever heard the words aloud. Saying them to him—to you—have been the first times I’ve heard the truth other than in my head.”

      “It must feel good to have the truth out in the open.”

      Abby gave her head a quick shake. “I’m glad I’ve told you, but it’s not good that he knows. It frightens me what he’ll do.”

      “What do you want him to do?”

      “I want him to go away and leave us alone.”

      “You still have feelings for him,” Laine stated.

      Abby’s stomach clenched at the accusing words. “I have no feeling beyond contempt for a cold-blooded killer!”

      “You have made excuses for his behavior. His parents were gone, he was miserable with his fighting brothers. You think he is handsome.”

      “I do not.”

      “You do. You describe his hair and his eyes and his— what did you call it? Appeal.”

      “That was a long time ago! He’s not the man I thought he was.”

      “Same hair. Same eyes.” Laine pressed her small hands against her breast. “Same attraction. And you have a son together. Jonathon is a tie that binds.”

      Abby clenched her fists in her lap. “I am not attracted to that man.” At her friend’s skeptical look, she protested more emphatically, “I’m not! And as far as I’m concerned he is not the kind of father Jonathon needs. His influence can be nothing but harmful.”

      “A boy needs a father.”

      “Perhaps, but not a father who is a murderer. Whose side are you on?”

      “If sides are drawn, I will stand on yours, of course.”

      Having a sympathetic confidante was new to Abby, and she was grateful for Laine’s caring and loyalty. “Thank you.”

      “You’re welcome.”

      Abby swallowed her indignation and gave her outspoken friend a half smile. Laine’s old-fashioned father believed she should be silent, bowing to the decisions and wishes of the males in her family. Because she respected her father, Laine did her best to oblige them and be an obedient daughter, but her Americanized thinking had her in hot water more often than not. She had been born and raised in a Western mining camp, not in her father’s native land of China, and she loved to share her opinions.

      Laine returned the smile.

      Abby leaned toward her and the two embraced.

      “I am glad you told me,” Laine said.

      “Me, too. I’m sorry I didn’t know how to say it before. I didn’t want you to think badly of me.”

      “I could not think badly of you.”

      “Others would.”

      “Others should not matter, but I know they do. You know you have my confidence.”

      “I know.”