The Gunslinger's Bride. Cheryl St.John

them mugs of milk she’d warmed. She’d thought of little else but Brock’s visit and his warnings all day.

      As Jonathon sipped his milk beside the stove and bit into a raisin cookie, she studied his dear, familiar face with its delicate nose and spray of freckles. The freckles and nose were hers; every other feature he’d inherited from his father.

      His hair, as fine as a baby’s, had turned thick and wavy. If it were longer, it would curl over his collar like Brock’s did.

      Jonathon had never known any other home but this one, any other life but that of playing between barrels and kegs and wheelbarrows. They lived overhead, their quarters taking up only half of the huge expanse. The hardware store was three levels. The lower level was partially underground and filled with bins of coal and stacks of lumber. The middle level was the retail area, and the upper floor was divided into living sections. One side had always been rented to Asa and Daisy Spencer, which made Abby feel safer than if she were completely alone.

      Jed had made his home above the store for as long as Abby could remember. Coming from a ranch, she had felt it confining at first, but she’d learned to appreciate the convenience of working and sleeping in the same building, without braving the harsh Montana elements in the winter. And Jonathon knew nothing else.

      “Me and Theke wanna play marbleth, Ma,” he said, raising those irresistible blue eyes. “We got jarth and jarth of ’em and no dirt.”

      “No dirt is a problem,” she said, and her mind tossed around possibilities. The ground was frozen too hard to loosen enough dirt to bring inside, but come this summer she could make them a ring in a frame somehow. For now… “How about something that would slow the marbles down, like dirt does, something like…fabric? Canvas maybe. We could cut a circle and nail it to the floor.”

      “Think it would work?”

      “We can try.” She found shears and set to cutting a length of tarpaulin.

      When John Whitefeather came for Zeke, the boy didn’t want to leave.

      “Look, Uncle John! We’re playin’ marbles.” Zeke showed him excitedly.

      “Your ma has a fine roast and a cinnamon cake ready,” he replied. “And your pa needs some help stacking wood.”

      Zeke shot up and ran for his coat. “Bye, Jonathon. My ma makes the best cinnamon cake in the world and I gotta help my pa!”

      Abby helped bundle him into his coat and hat and mittens, and waved them off. Jonathon climbed on a bench and watched through the square panes of glass. “Theke hath hith own horth, Ma. Look, that’th him there. John brought him for Theke to ride home. Ain’t he purty? Hith pa teached him how to ride and they do work together.”

      With an ache in her chest, Abby stood behind her son, smoothed down the cowlick that sprang right back up, and watched the riders on the street. “Looks like a fine horse.”

      “Did you have a horth when you were a little tyke, Mama?”

      “We had a lot of horses where I grew up. It was a ranch.”

      “But one of your own…did you have one of your own that you named and everything?”

      She heard the wistful tone in his young voice. “No. Nothing that special.”

      “Did my grandpa teach you to ride?”

      Good memories of her father were tainted by the recent ones, and the sad-sweet twinge of retrospection tugged at her already aching heart. She blinked back tears—for herself—and for her son, who believed he was fatherless. “Yes, he did.”

      “I’m gonna have me a horth when I get bigger. One like Theke’th.”

      “You have to pay to board a horse when you live in town,” she told him.

      “Oh, I ain’t gonna live in town. I’m gonna live on a ranch.”

      “Oh.” Abby rubbed his shoulder. “Well, come help me get ready to close up. If someone comes late, they can ring the outside bell and I’ll come down and help them.”

      Jonathon stood to inherit the hardware store, as well as the Franklin ranch. Abby hadn’t wanted to sell it, and had leased the land to a young rancher eager to build his own herd. She guessed it would be Jonathon’s choice what he wanted to do when the time came.

      A shiver of anxiety left her uneasy as she thought about her boy’s future. He was still young, but if he had his heart set on being a rancher, that was fine by her. What effect would Brock Kincaid have on their lives now that he was back? He wanted to be a part of Jonathon’s life, and that would probably mean passing down a share of Kincaid land, as well. Jonathon could easily grow to be one of the wealthiest men in Montana.

      Her responsibility to raise him to be an upright, honest man had never been so clear. And she had never been so afraid or felt so alone.

      Brock planned his trip to town for supplies on Saturday, when Jonathon would be out of school. When he arrived at the hardware store, he stopped the wagon beside another that sat at the loading dock. The man he’d seen from the window at the hotel was helping Matt Darby roll barrels into the back of a springboard. Brock set the brake, jumped down and climbed the stairs.

      “Hey, Brock,” Darby said, thumbing back his hat and straightening. His gaze dropped to the revolvers slung low on Brock’s hips. “I heard you were back.”

      “Matt.” Brock strode forward and shook the rancher’s hand.

      “You in Whitehorn for good?”

      “I am.”

      The other man approached. “Sam Rowland,” he offered. “I work for Mrs. Watson.”

      Mrs. Watson. The name sounded ill-fitting. Brock shook his gloved hand. “Brock Kincaid.”

      “I know who you are.”

      Brock glanced from one man to the other. “I’ll bet you do. The stories are flying right now, eh?”

      Matt grinned. “Biggest news since Will came back. Some folks even think you’re Jack Spade.”

      Brock had spent the previous evening with Will and Caleb, catching up on their lives, hearing Will’s side of the story about the gold. Will had related the rumors circulating through town. “What do you think, Matt?”

      The man tugged his gloves a little tighter. “I think if you were a famous gunslinger you’d be crazy to come back here, and I don’t think you’d put your family in danger like that.”

      Brock didn’t flicker an eyelash.

      “My bet is on Linc Manley,” Matt added.

      “The man in black who arrived on the stage and set tongues to wagging?”

      “That’s how he’s registered at the hotel,” Sam explained.

      Brock nodded, and the men turned back to their task. He looked Sam Rowland over—a sturdy enough fellow with a lean face and more than capable demeanor. Working daily with Abby, he was bound to have formed a working relationship with her. Brock wondered if there was anything more to it.

      He entered the store and pulled a wrinkled list from his pocket. Caleb had been glad to turn over the run into town, and Brock had a feeling the chore would be his from now on. Harry Talbert called a greeting from his spot beside the stove, and Brock sauntered back to say hello, wondering with amusement how the man ever managed to give a haircut when he was always here.

      An elderly gentleman that Brock didn’t recognize sat with a cane leaned against his bony knee and a coffee mug resting on the other. He squinted at Brock from beneath wispy white eyebrows. “Mighty fancy Peacemakers ya got there.”

      His interest seemed genuine, not critical. Brock slid one of the ivory-handled six-shooters from its leather sheath and displayed the carved eagle for his inspection.

      “Man who carries a gun like