Page 17 of The Gunslinger’s Bride (Montana Mavericks: Historicals #1)

“I’m not going to hurt them.”

“Not deliberately. I don’t want you to get hurt, either.”

Brock nodded. “I know.”

“What are you going to do?”

Brock finished his drink. “I’m going to look out for the boy. That’s my responsibility. You understand responsibility.” Zeke had been the outcome of that loveless union, but Caleb loved him with all his heart.

“At the expense of Abby’s happiness?” Caleb asked, raising one brow.

“What do you want me to do? Pretend like I don’t know? Deny that Jonathon is my son? I can’t do that.”

“I know that.”

“Then what?”

“Then you’re going to have to make it right.”

“That’s sounds about as easy as putting out a forest fire with a mouthful of spit.”

“Family is family.”

Brock stood and paced in front of the fire. “Even if she didn’t hate the sight of me, I don’t know that I’d want to marry the woman, if that’s what you’re thinking. She’s as prickly as they come.”

“You must have gotten past those prickles at one time.”

“That was a long time ago. Things were different then.”

“How?”

Brock shrugged.

“You loved her then?”

“I don’t know. I don’t think so.”

“She loved you?”

Brock had never thought about Abby in terms of love, so he wasn’t prepared for Caleb’s provoking questions. Love had never had anything to do with what he and Abby had done together….

He didn’t like to think about his life back then.

He didn’t like to remember the chaotic feelings and his unhappy home life and how restless he’d been and how drinking and gambling and fighting had become a purging of the anger and frustration.

He wasn’t proud of those times. And Abby had been part of them. A big part. But love?

“She seems like a woman who would have to love a man she gave herself to,” Caleb said.

“What about Jed Watson?” Brock asked roughly. “Did she love him, too, then?”

“This country’s hard on women,” Caleb replied.

“Sometimes they do what they have to do. I knew Irvin Franklin, and he was a good man, but a hard one. If he found out about Abby’s condition, he wouldn’t have given her a choice.

I always figured he’d dragged her into town and watched until the ring was on her finger.

Jed had admired Abby for some time, but he wasn’t the kind of man to court a younger woman without some encouragement.

Irvin knew his interest and used it to marry off his wayward daughter. ”

Which was exactly the way Abby had told him it had happened. If Brock accepted all that, if he believed for a moment that Abby had once loved him, then he had to accept responsibility—no, blame —for leaving her in that predicament.

“I don’t know much about love,” Brock muttered uncomfortably to his brother.

“Who does?” Caleb asked. “But I learned that you never really get your first love out of your system no matter how hard you try. Maybe there’s something you need to admit to yourself.”

“The voice of experience speaking?”

“Something like that. The important thing is that you’re back now. And that you want to do the right thing.”

Brock wished him a good night and carried a lamp to his room. The right thing had been a lot clearer when he was upholding the law or protecting someone’s property. It was when the edges of right and wrong had blurred that he’d decided to cash in his chips while he was ahead and find his way home.

The right thing here was to take responsibility for the child he had fathered.

He was sure of it. But how did he go about that when the child’s mother wanted him to leave them alone?

Caleb’s disturbing talk about love had him thinking in directions he didn’t want to go.

Love was something stifling and manipulating, and he didn’t want any part of it.

He’d asked Abby if she loved Everett. He’d wondered if she loved the man. If she’d loved her husband. Why would he care if he didn’t place significance on it? Love wasn’t scorching kisses and satiating sex.

Brock removed his holsters, rolled the belt and tucked it within reach beneath his bed. After undressing, he blew out the lamp and stretched out upon the mattress.

Thinking about the way he’d wanted to take care of Jonathon, the way he’d wished he could hold him, hug him, he decided that was probably more like love.

That odd, tight feeling he got in his chest when he looked at the boy.

He would do anything to protect his child.

Brock thought back, assured of how carefully he’d burned his past and covered his tracks before returning.

Yes, he loved Jonathon. No weakness in admitting that.

He relaxed. It had been a long time since he’d spent more than a few nights in one room, since he’d taken off his guns and lain down without a revolver under his pillow.

If he hadn’t been absolutely certain he was not leading trouble to this place, he’d never have come back.

The last thing he would ever do was bring danger to his brother’s home, to the son he hadn’t known about… to Abby.

But that man calling himself Linc Manley might have brought a problem to Whitehorn by not denying that he was Jack Spade. Jack Spade’s reputation drew unsavory men like dung drew flies. Brock had to find out what the man was doing. He owed it to the people he loved.

Abby woke late with a splitting headache. She made herself a powder and drank it before padding back across frigid floors to her room with a pitcher of warm water.

The sound of horses and a wagon outside drew her to the window, where she peered down at the bulging delivery wagon.

Tom Meeks and his sons had arrived with a load of supplies from Butte, where the railroad passed, and she would bet a warm bed that Sam was still at home with his wife, as he had been every morning of late.

He was a conscientious husband, she gave him that.

Hammering up the window with the heel of her hand, she called into the freezing air, her breath puffing out in white clouds, “I’ll be down in just a minute, Mr. Meeks!” then slammed the window shut and shivered.

She should have had the potbellied stove glowing and coffee made for the man.

A knock sounded on her outside door, and she cursed under her breath. “Of all the… Just a minute! ”

She pulled her chemise and drawers on over her cold skin and leaned into her wardrobe for a skirt.

“It’s cold in here,” a familiar male voice said from the other room. How had Brock gotten in? She’d locked that door last night.

“Mama din’t make the fire yet,” her son replied. Jonathon was up.

“What’s she doin’?”

“Dunno. I heard her yellin’ a minute ago.”

“Who’s she yelling at now?” he asked, and his boots pounded along the floorboards of the hall. “You got someone in there, Abby?”

“Stay out of here!” she sputtered, snatching the first shirtwaist blouse that her fingers located. “I was calling down to the delivery man is all. I got up late.”

Too late. The curtains were parted by a large hand and Brock took a step into the room.