Page 22 of The Gunslinger’s Bride (Montana Mavericks: Historicals #1)

A hush fell over the crowd, and Abby glanced up as Caleb and Ruth Kincaid entered the dining room.

Daisy embraced each of them, as well as Ruth’s brother, his ebony mane of hair in a tail that divided his broad back.

John Whitefeather, obviously uncomfortable with the hug and the situation, trailed his sister to a table.

Many scrutinizing pairs of eyes followed his journey.

Abby’s attention riveted upon Brock, however, as he accompanied his family across the room.

He wore a dark suit and white shirt, a tie knotted at his tanned throat.

The clothing contrasted with his fair hair, making him breathtakingly handsome.

She realized she was holding her breath, a painful act inside the restricting corset, so she quickly released it.

Haley looked at her oddly, and Everett returned with two plates, each holding a few sandwich squares. He set them on the table. “He’s got a lot of nerve coming here,” he said, holding Abby’s chair.

She sat, her heart fluttering nervously. “Brock?”

“No, the half-breed.”

“The Spencers invited him.”

“I’m sure they didn’t think he would attend.”

“They wouldn’t have invited him if they hadn’t wanted him to come. They invited Laine, too.”

“At least she had the sense to stay away.”

Abby blinked at that remark. “What do you mean?”

Everett sat beside her, speaking softly. “Only that it’s wiser to stay with one’s own kind. I didn’t mean anything else. It’s Caleb Kincaid’s business who he married, but he must know his wife and her family are not the same ilk as these folks.”

An uncomfortable warning rang in Abby’s head at those words.

What she recognized as anger made her purse her lips and study Everett’s profile, wondering if she knew him as well as she thought she had.

Surely he meant no harm. Some people were conditioned by experience and frightening stories to fear Indians, no matter their bands or actual character as individuals.

It was a common bigotry, but one she hoped could be diminished with education and tolerance.

“The Kincaids are nice people, Everett,” she said softly. “Ruth does a lot of kind things for neighbors and is always willing to call on the sick. John Whitefeather has always been a prefect gentleman whenever he’s in the store.”

“Why are you sticking up for the Kincaids all of a sudden?”

“I’m not sticking up for the Kincaids.”

“Yes, you are.”

“Well, if I am, I guess it’s because you’re attacking them.”

“And you feel some need to defend them?”

“I would defend anyone who was unjustly criticized.”

“Oh, really?”

“Really.”

“How about that murdering brother? You wanna stick up for him again now, too?”

Abby looked down at her plate, resentment and defensiveness warring in her breast.

The band struck up a tune just then and people moved onto the floor to dance. Hazel Wright, a widow with a dressmaking shop, approached them. “Hello, dear,” she said to Abby. “Mr. Matthews, you handsome devil.”

“Mrs. Wright,” Everett replied, politely scrambling to his feet.

“I haven’t seen you for quite some time,” Abby told her.

“I haven’t been out much this winter. My hip is bothering me and I don’t trust myself on the ice. One of Big Mike’s boys comes and takes my grocery order and shops for me.”

“Well, if there’s anything you need from the hardware store, you send him to me,” Abby instructed her. “And if you need help, I’ll be glad to come—or I can send Sam.”

“That baby come yet?”

“Not yet.”

“You’re not dancing with this beautiful young thing?” Widow Wright asked Everett pointedly.

“Not just yet.”

“Well, music shouldn’t be wasted.” She extended her arm and Everett took it. “Bear with an old woman’s clumsiness.”

He led her to the dance floor. Abby nibbled her food and observed with an amused smile. Everett pulled a face over Widow Wright’s shoulder.

“Where is our son tonight?”

The question as well as the voice snapped Abby’s heart into a rapid flutter. Her first reaction was to check for anyone who may have overheard.

“No one’s listening,” Brock said, standing over her.

“Have a care for propriety, will you?” she whispered indignantly.

He seated himself on the chair next to hers and spoke softly. “Where is Jonathon?”

“He’s at home. Laine is with him.”

“He might have come out to the ranch to play with Zeke. Ruth’s young niece is with the boys.”

“He might have,” she said in agreement. She had no problem with Jonathon playing with Zeke or visiting at the Kincaid ranch. It was good for him to have friends and experience something other than his mother’s narrow life.

“Next time I’ll remember and make arrangements.”

“All right.”

“We agreed on something,” he said, amusement lacing his tone.

She allowed him a brief glance, noting his freshly shaved jaw and the glimmer of his blue eyes, before glancing down to discover the absence of guns tethered to his thighs, then quickly looked toward the dancers. “Where are your guns?”

“Checked them at the door, like everyone else.”

“What if someone crosses you and you’ve no weapon?” Her remark was meant to be cutting, since the conversation had turned uncomfortably friendly.

“I didn’t say I didn’t have a weapon.”

Her gaze shot back to his face, and he gave her an insolent, one-sided grin. Unconsciously, her attention dropped to the front of his dark jacket, and she couldn’t help wondering whether or not he concealed a deadly weapon beneath the elegantly tailored garment.

Surreptitiously, Brock leaned toward her, his gaze focused elsewhere, and slowly opened the front of his jacket, revealing only cranberry-colored satin lining and the crisp white fabric of his shirt. No gun lurked against his ribs or protruded from the inside pocket.

The dress shirt covering a chest she knew to be hard and warm struck Abby as the most teasingly masculine sight she’d ever seen, and her insides turned to liquid. Against her will, her gaze slid from his shirt to the impeccable black trousers covering his muscled thighs.

He turned his head slowly, and she brought her eyes to his, working to keep her breathing even. He had made that move deliberately, knowing the heated effect he had on her, and she had fallen into his sensual snare like a mindless strumpet.

In a graceful motion, he stood and reached a hand to her. “May I have this dance?”

“Don’t do this,” she begged softly.

He only waited, his hand extended.

An embarrassed glance proved that several pairs of curious eyes were on them. She had no choice but to force a friendly smile and take his hand.

The minute she did so, warmth shot up her arm, the contact, even through her gloves, a fatal mistake. He guided her to the dancing area, and without giving her time to balk, placed a hand at her waist and drew her smoothly into step.

For these few glorious moments, she was not the widowed proprietor of a hardware store.

She became a genteel, sought after young woman in the embrace of a handsome admirer.

Brock’s part in the fantasy was no stretch of the imagination, for he was unquestionably the best looking man in the room.

Her slippered feet glided effortlessly in time to the music.

Abby’s senses were besieged by the masculine scents of starch and leather that enfolded her.

Through her gloves and his jacket, she knew the strength of the arm and shoulder that she touched, however innocently.

She knew what his skin felt like, sleek heat over corded muscle; possessed keen recall of the erotic sensations their bodies created pressed together in passion; could close her eyes and hear the sounds of pleasure coming from his throat.

Perspiration formed beneath Abby’s corset, heat spiraled from the inside out and she felt as though she were trapped in a drugged spell.

Her eyes had drifted shut and she forced them open, focused her gaze on the dancers around them.

She had control over her own reactions, and she refused to lose her head over this man again.

“You’re a beautiful woman, Abby.” His voice held admiration and perhaps a touch of regret.

She refused to look up. She didn’t reply, but turned her head aside as if interested in something she’d seen.

“You don’t really want Matthews,” he said.

She glanced up then. “Don’t presume to tell me what I want.”

His deep blue gaze studied her features, rested on her mouth and then met her eyes. “He cheats at cards.”

His words took a minute to register. “How do you know?”

“And he doesn’t even do it well.”

“You’ve played cards with Everett?”

“That says something about a man, Abby.”

She wanted to laugh, but she would have much preferred to stomp on his foot and scream in frustration. Instead, her fingers tightened on his arm. “What do you care?”

“You’re planning to marry him,” he said, carefully keeping his voice low. “He’s the man you’ve chosen to replace me as Jonathon’s father.”

“Replace you? Replace would mean that you’d been his father first. And you weren’t. Jed was Jonathon’s father.”

“In whose opinion?”

“Jonathon believed he was his father.”

A muscle ticked in Brock’s jaw. “He has a true father. It’s unfair of you to deny him.”

“Me? I’m not the one who denied him a father.”

“You are now, Abby.”

She glanced around, making certain their conversation wasn’t picked up. “I am giving him a father by marrying Everett,” she whispered. “I was going on with my life quite nicely before you came back.”

“And I told you. You don’t really want him.”

“And I told you…” She stopped, took a breath and changed gears. “You would say anything to get what you want. I’m not sure what it is you want, but I’m not a pawn. Neither is Jonathon.”

“I think you should smile.”

“What?”

“Smile. People are starting to look concerned.”

Somehow, she turned up the corners of her lips. “I think you’re a selfish, egotistical slug, and I regret the day I met you.”

Brock returned her smile. “Oh, really? Why is it then that I could pull up your skirts and bury myself inside you at any time and you would welcome it?”

Abby’s skin burned with humiliation. “I hate you.”

“So you’ve said.”

The music ended and she pulled from his easy embrace and marched across the floor, her chin high, the smile plastered to her scorching face.

Everett stood near the table where she’d been sitting earlier, a frown creasing his features.

He handed her a cup of punch, which she accepted and drank thirstily.

“You two seemed quite friendly,” he said.

“Simply a dance,” she replied. To her extreme displeasure, she realized Brock had been walking behind her.

“Thank you for the dance, Mrs. Watson,” he said, with a polite nod.

“You’re welcome.”

“Save me another, if your fiancé doesn’t monopolize all your time.”

“Why she’d want to dance with you, I can’t guess,” Everett said.

“I think it’s my suave execution of those tricky steps.” Brock’s grin was evidence of his refusal to be baited.

Abby sank onto the seat of a chair, and noticed Brock’s brother Will and his young wife approaching. “Good evening, Will. Lizzie.”

Brock turned to greet his brother and sister-in-law. Lizzie took a seat beside Abby and brushed a lock of curly blond hair away from her face. “I’ve been looking forward to this evening. Winter can get so dreary, can’t it?”

She engaged Abby in conversation, and the men took a few steps away.

Abby paid scant attention to Lizzie’s dialogue, while half listening to make sure Everett wasn’t causing a scene.

He simply stood in their midst as the brothers were joined by Matt Darby and Bart Baxter, and the subject of seeking a new town doctor came up. She relaxed.

“When is the wedding?” Lizzie asked.

“What wedding?”

“Your wedding, of course!”

“Oh!” Abby clapped her hand to her cheek and gave an embarrassed laugh. “March.”

“You’ll let me know what I can do to help?”

“I will, Lizzie. Thank you.”

A hush ran through the crowd and Abby followed Lizzie’s blue-eyed gaze. A lean, dark-haired man dressed in black, with silver spurs and a silver conch at his throat, had arrived with a young woman on his arm.

“Who is that?” Lizzie asked.

“I think it’s the man some say is Jack Spade.”

“Whatever is he doing here?”

Abby shook her head. “I can’t imagine Asa or Daisy inviting him,” Abby replied. “Sylvia Banning must have asked him as her escort.”

Daisy had been friends with the widowed Sylvia for several years. Some said she was a former saloon girl. Daisy had never been one to hold people’s past or heritage against them, so Abby wouldn’t be surprised if it were so.

“It’s glaringly obvious that none of the ladies from the Benevolence Society accepted this invitation,” Lizzie said with amusement.

The gathering was a rather odd mixture of types, Abby realized. She couldn’t help but take note of Everett’s frown as the newly arrived couple were greeted by the hosts and shown to the table of refreshments.

Everett at last asked Abby to dance, and she spent the time during several musical selections working hard not to compare his effect on her with Brock’s.

Brock made her angry, and that’s why her heart raced when she was with him.

She had made up her mind about this joining, and she and Everett had long ago announced their engagement.

If Brock hadn’t returned to Whitehorn, she would never have questioned her decision.

Darn the man for placing doubts in her head.

In her heart, she knew marrying a reliable man like Everett was the right thing to do for her son.

The evening grew late, and Abby became weary. She’d worked the better part of the day, reserving only minimal time to run up and bathe and dress. “I’m tired,” she told her fiancé a little before ten. “May we leave now?”

Everett glanced around the gathering and pulled out his gold pocket watch. He flipped the cover closed with a snap. “Whatever you’d like. I’ll get our wraps.”

Several others had thanked Asa and Daisy and were making their way toward the door as Everett helped Abby into her coat. They followed the crowd through the open double doorway, and Everett turned back to pull the door shut.

A shot rang out, and the wood above Everett’s head splintered. Women screamed and Everett ducked to a crouch. In a moment of confusion, men and women scrambled and cried out. Abby glanced around at the chaos, caught in a rapidly unfolding scene that seemed like a dream.

From out of nowhere, a heavy weight launched itself against her, and she found herself flattened into the crusty snow, an enormous body pressing her down.