Page 13 of The Gunslinger’s Bride (Montana Mavericks: Historicals #1)

After glancing at Jonathon’s soundly sleeping form, Brock stood and followed her.

She gestured for him to sit at the table, and he did so, watching her set out two blue-patterned plates and checkered napkins.

Efficiently, she sliced fragrant bread and ham on a cutting board, then brought out a wedge of cheese and cut it into thick chunks.

Her kitchen even held a barrel-shaped, cast-iron ice box, from which she drew a pitcher of milk, pouring them each a cold glass.

One convenience to living in town, he supposed, was ice delivery.

The Kincaid ranch had a well cooler, which did the same job, but too often froze in winter.

When it did, milk and butter were kept on the enclosed back porch.

She offered him bread, butter and ham, and he made a sandwich. “How did—” The words your husband wouldn’t push past his lips. “How did Jed die?”

She seated herself across from him, as though resigned to his company. “Caught a fever two years back. He was a healthy man, but it took him in just a week.”

Did you love him? The question burned in his gut. Brock watched her make a sandwich and daintily slice it into quarters. “Was Jonathon attached to him?”

She looked up. “Jonathon believed Jed was his father. What do you think?”

“Well, I don’t know. Some fathers and sons are close, others aren’t.”

“Jed was good to him.” She sat holding a square of bread and meat, but not tasting it. “He was good to me. He gave us everything we needed.”

Did you love him? Why did he even care? “You have nice things,” Brock agreed, glancing around.

“I didn’t marry Jed for his money,” she said defiantly. “My father brought me here and told me this was what I was going to do. It just so happened Jed made a good living.”

“And left it all to you.”

“I was his wife. Don’t act like I planned to marry him and inherit his money. I didn’t kill him. I didn’t want him to die.”

“I never said you did.”

“You should be glad that Jonathon has been well provided for.”

Brock wouldn’t deny that. “I am.”

“I never asked your family for anything.”

He ate solemnly, thinking about her words, mulling over her anger. Finally Abby bit into her meal and chewed.

“Abby,” he said at last. “Everything you say to me is accusatory. As if I knew I had a son and abandoned him.”

She swallowed and took a sip of her milk.

He pointed out, “I didn’t know about Jonathon.”

She blotted her upper lip on her napkin. “If you had known, would it have made a difference?”

He’d thought the question over a hundred times since his return.

“I don’t know,” he answered honestly. He wiped his fingers and laced them above his plate.

“Even if I had stayed, even if I had known about Jonathon, what about how you felt toward me? How you still feel toward me? You hated my guts, Abby, and you wouldn’t have changed those feelings overnight.

You haven’t changed them in nearly eight years.

If I hadn’t run off like I did, can you say you’d have wanted to let me be a father to him? ”

She blinked and looked down at her plate. “You could have stayed to find out.”

“The only reason I’m here now is because you’re afraid I’ll spill the truth and embarrass you. Maybe make you lose your shot at marriage to the dandy.”

Some of the color seemed to drain from her face.

“So don’t constantly harangue me about my supposed desertion. You told me you hated me and I left. Simple.”

Simple, he said. Simple. The word festered in Abby’s head.

Nothing about the two of them had ever been simple, least of all her feelings on or about the day he’d killed Guy.

She had been mad about Brock, had worshipped him, would have done anything for him.

Blindly, exclusively, desperately in love with him she’d been.

She’d excused his rowdy behavior, his drinking and carousing as the actions of a confused young man who’d lost his father and was coming to terms with his identity in his family.

She’d overlooked any rash talk, and his greedy passion for their lovemaking had been flattering and euphoric.

The killing capability had been there all along, and she’d been too stupid to recognize it.

Her brother had been gunned down in the street, his life’s blood had ebbed into the dirt, and she had deluded herself into thinking she’d loved the man responsible.

Perhaps she’d even played a part in allowing Brock to think he could do no wrong, to imagine that she’d forgive him no matter what foolishness or atrocity he performed.

She’d overlooked every bad thing before.

Simple. Her every ideal and dream had been wrapped around the vulnerable heart she’d offered him.

She hadn’t been able to tell her father about her and Brock. She was too ashamed, too hurt. Even if Brock had stayed, she couldn’t have revealed her weakness to the world. Look, this man planted a baby in me without intentions of marriage, and then he killed my brother. But I love him. No.

What had happened wasn’t simple. Much as she hated to admit the truth now, he’d forced her to acknowledge that her accusations where Jonathon was concerned were small-minded.

She had shouted angry, hurtful things at Brock that day, perhaps helping to drive him away.

But she wouldn’t admit a mistake to him.

“Abby,” he said softly, and her stomach fluttered at her name on his lips. “I see now that I didn’t act like a gentleman back then.”

She said nothing, thinking of how she’d craved his ungentlemanly behavior.

“It was wrong of me to take liberties when I hadn’t considered getting married.”

Heat spread up her cheeks. Was he admitting he’d never intended to marry her? Or only that he’d never thought that far ahead?

“I did a lot of things back then that I regret,” he continued.

So he regretted “taking liberties” with her. Meaning he was sorry he’d gotten her with child, no doubt.

Abby stood and placed a kettle of water on the stove for tea.

How was it he still had the power to create confusion and inflict pain?

Why did she allow him to affect her this way?

Emotion surged in her heart, pangs of hurt and guilt and piercing regret.

She struggled against the tears of humiliation rising to flood her eyes.

Getting herself under control, she brewed tea, poured them each a cup and placed one before Brock. Remembering the pumpkin pie she’d bought, she cut him a slice and sat back down.

He took a drink of the tea and grimaced. Holding the cup aloft, he asked, “Does Matthews drink this stuff?”

“Tea? Yes.”

He shook his head and set down the cup.

“There’s cream. And sugar.”

Finishing the dessert, he pushed the plate back and ignored the tea. “We might as well make a truce,” he suggested.

“What do you mean?”

“I’m not going anywhere. I’ll be visiting Jonathon and having him out to the ranch. You and I will be seeing a lot of each other.”

“How am I supposed to explain that to Everett?” she asked sharply.

“That’s not my problem,” he replied.

The man was infuriating. Always thinking of only himself. “Nothing is ever your problem, is it?”

He leaned forward. “That’s exactly the kind of talk I want you to cut.”

She folded her napkin and set it aside. “Now you’re going to tell me how to talk?”

“I’m going to tell you how not to talk, anyway. And you’re going to stop talking as though I’m irresponsible.”

“Aren’t you?”

“You have no idea what I am or who I am.”

“I’m sure you’re right about that. I thought I knew once, but I was wrong then, too.”

He tossed his napkin down in a heap. “Are you this hateful toward all the men in your life, or just me?”

The insult burned and she wanted to cut him to the quick.

He made her feel hateful. He did this to her, and she resented him for turning her into someone she couldn’t stand.

She stood and picked up their plates, carrying them to the enamel pan.

In a huff, she scraped off a curl of soap and poured the remaining hot water from the kettle over their soiled dishes.

“Thanks for the meal,” he said from his seat behind her.

She plunged her hands into the sudsy water and scrubbed energetically.

“I’ll just go sit beside Jonathon,” he said.

“There’s a rocking chair in the other room. You can take that in beside his bed.” She didn’t care whether or not he was comfortable, but her manners wouldn’t allow her to not offer.

His boots sounded on the wooden floor, then muted on the carpet in the hallway. Abby washed and dried the dishes, giving herself time to calm down.

A tap sounded on the outside door, startling her. She opened it and discovered Everett.

He pushed past her and her heart thundered. What would happen when he discovered Brock here?

“I was surprised you missed church this morning.”

“Jonathon had a cough. We stayed home so he could rest. Laine gave him something and he’s sleeping. Here, let me take your coat.”

He turned around and when he did, she ripped off her apron and threw it over Brock’s wraps and gun belt, then turned back quickly to assist Everett in slipping off his coat. She hung it and draped the neck scarf that followed over another hook.

“Have you eaten?” she asked.

“Yes, thank you.”

“Well, let’s go into the sitting room then.” She led the way, keeping her body between him and Jonathon’s room. As they passed, she made sure the curtain wasn’t gaping open. Please, Brock, stay in there and stay quiet!

“I won’t stay long,” Everett said unnecessarily. He never stayed long, unwilling as he was to harm her reputation. “I just thought I’d see that you were all right.”

“We’re fine.”

He seated himself on the divan, and Abby took a chair across from him.

“Would you care for tea?” she asked.

“No, thank you.”