Page 12 of The Gunslinger’s Bride (Montana Mavericks: Historicals #1)

B rock allowed the warmth of the room, the yeasty smell in the air and the seductive beauty of the woman to silence him for a full minute.

Seven years had changed her. Her shape had blossomed; her breasts beneath the plain fabric dress had become more rounded and womanly than he recalled.

Her face had lost its charming girlish roundness, and now delicately modeled bone structure and pearly skin characterized her haunting beauty.

And that hair. The shining, fragrant mass aroused memories whose erotic images shot a reaction from his brain to his loins. His palms itched with the urge to touch the silken skein and know if it still felt the way he remembered.

Her luminous green eyes were shimmering with a combination of confusion and something he could have sworn was desire, and when he focused his attention on her mouth, he thought her breathing stopped.

He’d never forgotten the softness of those lips, the heated passion of the young woman or the exquisite pleasure of hot slick intimacy with her.

Her nearness still had the same disturbing effect on him.

For a split second he fought light headedness, until his thoughts were under control.

His body didn’t obey as quickly, so he stoically ignored it.

“What’s wrong with him?” he demanded, more roughly than he’d intended.

She blinked and licked her lips. He refocused his gaze on her shoulder, but it was covered by that glorious hair and didn’t provide much distraction. “Nothing serious. Laine made him some medicine.”

“Laine? What’s she doing giving him medicine?”

“She has treated Jonathon and me both since he was very small. She’s an herbal healer. There’s no doctor in Whitehorn.”

“I could ride to Butte for a doctor.”

“That’s not necessary. I trust her implicitly.”

“She’s done this before?”

“Many times.”

“I want to see him.”

“He’s resting now—”

“Mama, who’th here?”

Brock shrugged out of his coat and hooked it on a peg beside the door. His hat followed.

He turned to find her frowning. “Something wrong?”

“I believe you should have respect for my wishes when you’re in my home. If you insist on coming here and seeing Jonathon, then I would prefer that you didn’t wear those weapons.”

Brock’s hand went to the butt of one revolver in its holster. She had every right to ask him to remove them in her home. She simply didn’t know what she was asking. He’d have been more comfortable removing his clothing.

But knowing how she felt, and knowing, too, that her strong feelings involved a fear for Jonathon, Brock unfastened the buckle and removed the holster.

He was perfectly justified in doing so, he told himself, but he never knew when he would need the .

45s, and their weighty assurance had been a constant companion for years.

Brock hung the holster over a hook beside his coat, still in plain reach if he had to grab a revolver in a hurry, but out of reach for a little boy.

“Thank you,” she said softly. The lilac scent of her hair surrounded him like a fragrant, sensual cloud as he moved past her and entered the hallway, then Jonathon’s room.

The child lay on his bed, covers pulled to his armpits, and he wore a dismal expression of boredom.

“Hey, half-pint. How ya doing?”

“Not too good. Mama thayth I have to be in bed all day. I told her I feel better. Laine gived me thtuff and I ain’t coughing too much now.”

Brock felt the boy’s forehead and found it warm but not alarmingly so. “Your mother knows best,” he assured him. “Rest is what you need.”

“But it’th boring!”

“I know, partner.”

“Will you thtay and play with me?”

“Sure.” He seated himself on the bed. “It’s been a lot of years since I played, so you’ll have to remind me how.”

Jonathon sat up. “Yippee!” Immediately a cough at tacked him.

Brock gently pushed him back against his pillows. “Don’t get excited, you’re supposed to be resting.”

“You won’t go nowhere, right?”

“Right.”

“We could pretend theth are wild,” Jonathon said, reaching for the carved horses beside his bed. Brock stretched an arm and easily retrieved the figures for him. “And that we’re cowboyth who hafta round ’em up!”

“Okay.” It wasn’t so difficult playing once Jonathon slipped into his imagination mode and Brock figured out he was supposed to change his voice from one cowboy to the next and call commands to Jonathon’s pretend cowboy characters.

Somehow he became the leader of a trail drive, and was supposed to show the horses where to eat and sleep.

One of Jonathon’s wild horses got away, and he made all kinds of whinnies and shouts in getting him back to the herd on the patchwork quilt.

Brock laughed at the boy’s creative antics, mesmerized by his freckles, delicate ears and small hands, captivated by blue eyes that sparkled with delight and mischief, and completely charmed by his creativity and his delightful speech.

Brock had never been around many children, but he believed this one to be one of the brightest and most handsome he’d ever seen.

Abby had done a wonderful job of raising him. Jonathon was polite and confident, smart as a whip, naturally curious and outspoken. It was obvious he’d been guided with love and discipline, and Brock gave Abby due credit.

But the boy needed more than book knowledge and gentle guidance from a mother.

He needed a man in his life, too, one to teach him how to train horses and hunt food and survive in this brutal land.

The man Abby had eaten dinner with didn’t fit the image of a father who would teach a boy those skills—not any boy, let alone Brock’s son.

The thought of Matthews taking over as Jonathon’s father stuck in Brock’s craw.

Horse in hand, Jonathon finally leaned back against the pillows, his eyelids heavy. He made a few halfhearted gallops across the covers before letting the carved animal fall still. His luminous blue gaze rose to Brock’s in sleepy seriousness. “You won’t leave, right?”

At the knowledge that the boy wanted him there, some thing in Brock’s chest swelled almost painfully. “I won’t leave,” he promised, his voice choked.

“Even if I thleep.”

“Even if you sleep. I’ll wait right here.”

Jonathon studied him, his eyelids drooping lower and lower, until finally they remained closed.

Brock took the opportunity to observe the delicate veins in his temples and the sprinkling of freckles across his nose. Jonathon’s fair hair fell in a disheveled tumble over his forehead.

Brock raised his hand to brush the locks back from the child’s brow, then stared in amazement at his trembling fingers.

The moment seemed to extend unnaturally long.

His hands never shook. He had stared down cold-blooded killers with total composure.

His life had depended on nerves of steel for so long that any show of weakness had become intolerable.

Now here he was, shaking like a green kid in his first shoot-out, unsure of whatever threat this was that had a more frightening effect than all the outlaws he’d faced and conquered.

Tenderly, he combed the silky hair back, then stared at his blunt, dark-skinned fingers against the ivory skin of the boy’s cheek. Jonathon’s skin was softer than anything Brock had ever touched before—except maybe… He drew his hand away. This boy’s mother. Her skin had been incredibly satinlike.

The image of Abby’s fiancé rose in his mind.

A handsome enough man, Brock supposed. Clean, well-dressed.

A dandified city man through and through, and the world needed city men, it did.

His own brother, Will, was a banker, and his profession took nothing away from his manliness.

Brock couldn’t fault Abby’s intended for his job.

Neither did he want to imagine the man exploring the satiny contours of her body, so he clamped his will down tight on that disgusting image and corralled his runaway thoughts.

Careful not to wake Jonathon, Brock slipped the horse from his small fingers, gathered the others and placed them all on the stand beside the bed.

The Watsons didn’t seem to be lacking anything.

This room held heavy, well-made furniture, and the bed was more comfortable than the one Brock had been sleeping on at the ranch.

Each time he’d seen Jonathon, the boy had been nicely dressed, and he owned a warm coat and boots.

So far the only thing he didn’t seem to have that he wanted was a horse.

Obviously that wasn’t because Abby couldn’t afford one.

Hardware was a lucrative business, and this store was the only one of its kind for a hundred miles.

Footsteps sounded behind him, and Brock turned to see Abby crossing the room toward the bed.

She pulled up the covers and smoothed Jonathon’s hair back much as Brock had, but as a caress when performed by her.

She had braided her hair, and the thick rope hung down her back.

A crisp white apron had been tied over a plain, high-necked blue dress.

The exotic scent of her hair filled the room.

“He needs his sleep,” she said softly.

Brock nodded, then took a deep breath. “I promised I wouldn’t leave.”

She straightened and shot him a surprised look.

“He asked me not to leave, even if he fell asleep. I said I’d stay right here.”

Her brows lowered in angry frustration. “You had no right to do that.”

“It made him go to sleep.”

She glanced around the room, avoiding his eyes. “And now what?”

“Don’t worry about me. I’ll just sit right here until he wakes up.”

“He’ll probably sleep for hours.”

“I don’t mind.” Just then his stomach growled, reminding him he hadn’t taken time to eat before he’d hurried away from the ranch.

Abby clasped and unclasped her hands. “You haven’t eaten.”

“I can go a long while without food.”

She gave her head a small shake. “Not at my house you won’t go without eating. That’s foolish. The bread is still warm and I have ham to slice. I haven’t eaten, either. Come into the kitchen.”