Page 16 of The Gunslinger’s Bride (Montana Mavericks: Historicals #1)

Brock tugged on his coat. Caleb had known, but had said nothing. Jonathon’s hair and eyes were unmistakable clues that he was a Kincaid. Perhaps Abby was the only one fooled. He paused to look at her thoughtfully, but dared not shatter her illusion. She needed no fuel for her hatred. “ I know.”

“You can’t order me around,” she affirmed. “You rode out of my life and I got by the best I could. I don’t want to be alone. I have a right to marry and be happy.”

Brock took his hat down and curled the brim absently. “Nobody gave me any choices, Abby. I have rights, too. You do have a right to marry, I guess. But he’s not going to make you happy.”

“You can’t say that.”

“I said it.” He leaned forward and emphasized the words. “He’s not going to make you happy. My God, woman, you’d eat him alive.”

She blinked, confusion apparent in her luminous green eyes. “What do you mean by that?”

“Think about it.” He settled his hat on his head and went out, closing the door behind him.

It felt good to get away, to feel the crisp cold, to smell wood smoke and evergreen in the air.

He inhaled deeply to clear his head. Turning left at the foot of the stairs, he trudged through the alley, instead of entering the street from beside the hardware store, making sure no one saw him leaving her place.

It was almost surprising to find the snow around the hardware store hadn’t been melted away by the heat they’d generated with those kisses. The frigid air cooled his heated face.

Since leaving all those years ago, Brock had tried to put Abby out of his mind.

A man couldn’t concentrate on the tasks at hand if he allowed the past to dull his senses.

But she had been hard to forget. And all it had taken was seeing her again to bring it all back: the passion, the hunger, the confusion.

All it had taken was to kiss her again to know that nothing had changed.

The years hadn’t taken away one degree of desire.

She was fooling herself about more than just believing no one knew about Jonathon’s parentage. She was fooling herself to think for a moment that she’d be satisfied with a husband like Matthews. Abby needed a man to match her fire and her passion.

Being Sunday night, the saloons were closed up tight.

All the talk about the man in black had Brock wondering if he shouldn’t check out the situation, see who this fellow really was and what he was up to in Whitehorn.

Brock decided to visit the establishments tomorrow night.

He got his gray at the livery and rode for the ranch.

Abby read Jonathon a few of his storybooks before he drifted off to sleep. She was sure he was better, but one more day of rest was in order. She tidied his room, wiped the kitchen table and checked the fire in the hard-coal stove, finding tasks to keep her thoughts busy.

Finally, she went to her room and prepared for bed.

She had avoided disturbing thoughts all evening, but once she’d changed into her cotton nightgown and extinguished the lamp, the troublesome memories besieged her.

Sitting on the edge of her bed, she hugged her elbows and remembered the hungry, unconstrained kisses she and Brock had shared.

That’s the way it had always been with him, spontaneous, natural…

without the reserve she’d learned from Jed—from Everett.

She and Brock had shared a passion without limits, one that couldn’t be forgotten or dismissed.

With him lovemaking had come so very naturally, with heat and abandon and the immeasurable joy of sweet indulgence.

She couldn’t forget the unbounded freedom.

Only days ago she’d reminded herself that stability was better than passion.

She’d also told herself that being older and more mature had taken away the thrill, but she’d been wrong.

This evening had proved that. All he had to do was touch her to make her go up in flames.

His parting words about Everett taunted her: He’s not going to make you happy. My God, woman, you’d eat him alive.

Brock had been talking about her physical appetites!

Hadn’t he? Mortified, Abby flung herself back on her bed.

He may have meant her temperament. She’d thrown some well-deserved, but caustic comments his way; perhaps he didn’t think Everett could hold his own in a battle of wits. But she and Everett never argued.

They never made love, either. Never even came close.

Of course not; he was a gentleman. But shouldn’t two people preparing for marriage be eager for the physical aspects of the union?

Perhaps Everett tamped down his eagerness for her sake.

That’s what she’d been assuring herself all along.

He would show more enthusiasm once they were married.

Does your pulse beat faster when he stands this near? Her heart had hammered mercilessly at her ribs at Brock’s mere presence behind her. Does your breath come hard and fast when he touches you? Never. Only when Brock touched her had she ever lost her ability to breathe evenly.

Abby’s breasts tightened at the memory of his enticing words and his fiery touches.

What was wrong with her that she physically desired a man she detested?

Do his kisses start a fire in your veins that spreads through your whole body?

Everett’s kisses had never even set off a spark.

Brock’s kisses and his hard-edged lovemaking had always been a torture so sweet she craved more, craved it all.

She placed her hands over her breasts and knew the only man she wanted to have touch her was the one she shouldn’t want.

She’d already made the mistake of letting her body rule her head where Brock was concerned.

Abby brought trembling fingers to her eyes as if she could hide from the truth.

She could not make the same mistakes again.

She would marry Everett and she would be content.

Frustrated tears wet her fingertips. She knew the textures of Brock’s strong, muscled body, had reveled in the heat of his kisses, knew the sensation of taking him deep inside her and riding out crests of intense pleasure.

Time had not erased her desire for him, for more of what they’d shared during the brief time in which her son had been conceived.

The years had primed her ardor, refining it to a new degree.

Her humiliation was sharp and complete. And he knew exactly what kind of effect he had on her, had used it to its fullest. He had bluntly pointed out everything that was missing between her and Everett.

At least Everett didn’t make her hate herself for her lack of control. With him she retained command of her senses. She could use the discipline to her advantage. She would never make a fool of herself over her new husband.

It was none of Brock’s business why she was marrying Everett. Whatever they were, her reasons were her own. She’d rationalized that Jonathon needed a man around, that she needed a companion, but if she really wanted to marry him because he didn’t make her lose her head, that was her choice.

But Jonathon’s words to Brock came to undermine her confidence and make her question her choices.

Her son had never said anything to her about Everett not liking him…

but then, she’d never asked. Brock had asked Jonathon what he was thinking and feeling, and her son had been forthright in sharing his doubts.

Brock had spent the entire afternoon and most of the evening at Jonathon’s side, and he claimed he’d be back tomorrow.

Everett, on the other hand, had come to see why Abby wasn’t in church, and now that she thought about it, she couldn’t remember him inquiring about Jonathon’s health.

She’d chosen him to be a father to her son, and now she questioned her choice.

Prospective brides always got the jitters, she assured herself. She would never sleep if she allowed her thoughts to run wild and these doubts to assail her, so she fought them down once again and thought about the orders she needed to place, until she fell asleep.

Brock passed Caleb’s study on the way through the silent house. A light could be seen beneath the door, so he tapped softly.

“Come in.”

Brock entered. “Ruth and the boys asleep?”

Caleb nodded from his seat behind his desk. “I had some papers to go over before tomorrow, and never had a chance during the day.”

“Am I disturbing you?”

“Yes, thank goodness. Sit down.” He got up and opened a cupboard, removing two glasses and a bottle of aged bourbon. After pouring a splash into each glass, he handed one to Brock and seated himself across from him near the glowing fireplace. “How’s Jonathon?”

“He’s better. Abby said her friend Laine treated his cough.” He took a drink and continued, “Is the girl credible?”

“She has quite a following of believers,” Caleb assured him. “The Chinese have healers like the Cheyenne. Ruth has the touch herself, you know. Let her know and she’d be glad to check on him.”

Brock nodded. “He seems to be all right. Abby said he had a slight fever, but it’s gone now. I’m going to go back tomorrow and stay with him.”

Caleb swirled the amber liquid around in the bottom of his glass before speaking. “You’re making things hard on Abby, you know.”

“Are we going to have a heart-to-heart talk now?”

“Maybe. Abby made a life for herself,” his brother said. “She’s done the best she could raising a child alone and running a business.”

“You sound just like her.”

Caleb was silent for a long minute, and Brock thought of the situation his brother had been in when he had left nearly eight years ago.

Caleb had married the woman he’d gotten with child, even though Marie had tricked him into bed.

And he’d stuck it out, as miserable as he’d been.

Brock, on the other hand, hadn’t bothered to find out if he’d fathered a child or not.

“I don’t want to see either one of them hurt,” Caleb said at last.