Page 23 of The Gunslinger’s Bride (Montana Mavericks: Historicals #1)

A bby tried to see what was happening. “What the—”

Another shot rang out.

“Keep your head down,” Brock cautioned, and pressed her cheek into the snow.

Abby sputtered, but lay still, her heart thundering.

From the corner of one eye, she could make out the enormous barrel of the gun Brock held at the ready in his bare hand.

Panic welled up in her chest and her body began to tremble with cold and fear.

“A rider heading west, fast. Between the buildings over there.” Caleb’s voice.

Brock’s weight lifted immediately. He lunged toward a horse standing at the post and vaulted into the saddle. “Tell Darby I have his bay. Someone get James,” he called, referring to his cousin, the sheriff.

“I’ll go.” John Dillard pushed his wife, Tess, toward Will and ran toward the sheriff’s office.

Brock hesitated, glancing back at Abby, then at Will. “Will?”

“I’ll make sure Abby’s looked after,” Brock’s brother assured him.

Without another word, Brock kicked the horse into a run.

Will guided Lizzie and Tess back into the hotel, pausing briefly to wait for Everett to move away from the door, then he came back for Abby. “You all right?”

“My cheek is frozen,” she said, rubbing warmth into it with her gloved hand.

Everett stepped between them and brushed snow from Abby’s coat and hair. “I can take care of her.”

“See that you do.” Will gave him a steely-eyed, warning glance before joining his wife and Tess Dillard inside.

“This is the last time we join an event attended by this class of people,” Everett declared when they were alone.

Abby stared at him. “How can you blame the people here?”

“Look at the guest list, Abby,” he scoffed. “What did the Spencers expect? Someone probably came gunning for the half-breed or that gunslinger. Because of them everyone here is in danger. Let their enemies pick them off somewhere else, I say. Spare civilized people.”

Abby pulled from his grasp in disgust. “I’m going home.”

“You need to come inside with the others until it’s safe.”

“Whoever it was is long gone, and Brock and the sheriff have ridden after him.”

“Come back immediately, Abby.”

She turned and stared at him. “Don’t order me about as though you have a right. I want to go home, and I will.”

“This is unbecoming behavior.” Everett moved forward and took her coat sleeve. “Do as I say until we’re certain the streets are safe.”

“Go back inside if you wish. I’m going home.” She pulled her arm away and hurried along the snow-packed path, muttering to herself. “Do as I say…humph!”

Brock followed the tracks as best he could in the light of the half-moon. It didn’t help that it hadn’t snowed off and on for a few days and that a myriad of tracks led every which direction in and out of town.

James met up with him at the base of a narrow gully overgrown with scrub and drifted with snow. There they discovered a campsite that had been used for several days, but was now deserted.

“Man’d have to be crazy to stay out here in the weather when there’s a hotel and a boardinghouse within an hour’s ride,” James commented.

Brock had seen many a night when he’d preferred the elements to the possibility of being spotted in a populated area, but said, “He’d have to be crazy to take shots at half the town when they were gathered with their womenfolk, too, but someone did.”

Together they examined the campsite, discovering a few buried remains of meals. Brock was no tracker; he would ask John Whitefeather to accompany him to this spot tomorrow and see what the Cheyenne could decipher about the man and the horse.

Riding back toward town, Brock felt a sick worry settled like a rock in his belly.

He’d been so careful. He was sure no one had been able to follow him.

The shooter, whoever he was, was probably after Linc Manley, and the fact that Brock had been there was merely a coincidence.

But until he was sure, he wasn’t taking any chances with Abby or Jonathon’s safety.

It wouldn’t do to place Caleb and Ruth in any additional danger, either, so he’d stay in town for a few days.

It would be more difficult for a stranger to go unnoticed in town, and after tonight the population would be wary.

After discussing with James his plans to engage John Whitefeather’s help, he located Matt Darby and returned his horse.

Making a furtive inspection of the saloons, Brock found them for the most part quiet and sparsely populated.

Matthews occupied his usual seat at the Double Deuce, which meant Abby was alone.

Without making his presence known, he stood at the bar and observed the game for a moment.

A girl in a tight yellow dress with black beads twined around her neck and wrists carried a foamy pitcher of beer to Matthews.

He tucked a bill into her powdered cleavage and hooked her around the waist to pull her onto his knee.

Disgust boiled in Brock’s chest. With a woman like Abby, a man had no need of the crude attentions of these girls.

Matthews’s behavior cheapened what he could have with Abby, and Brock was embarrassed for her, even though she was unaware.

He would love to tell her what kind of man Matthews was, about his lack of commitment, but Brock was no saint himself.

He’d taken his pleasure with any number of nameless women over the past several years, but since his return, just the thought brought a sense of regret.

Anyway, she’d only think he was making it up to bully her.

After leaving the Double Deuce, he turned into the alleyway across from the hardware store and observed the building and the street for several minutes.

The structure was dark, except for a light in an upper window he knew to be Abby’s room.

Crossing the street, he ducked into the alley, watched and listened, making certain no one followed or had seen him, then he bounded silently up the stairs and gave a light tap.

Moments later, the door opened a crack, exposing the yellow glow of a lantern and Abby’s shiny auburn braid as she peeked out.

“You should have asked who it was,” he said, and pushed the door open wider to enter. “Don’t open the door unless you know who it is.” He closed the door behind him and locked it.

“What are you doing here?” She clutched the neck of the simple white cotton nightdress with one hand and held the lamp in the other. Dainty bare toes peeked beneath the voluminous hem.

“I’m staying tonight.” He removed his coat and hung it on a peg, then pulled out a chair and sat to remove his wet boots.

“What? You—what are you doing? You’re not staying here.”

“I’m staying to make sure you and Jonathon are safe, and that’s that.”

“What did you find when you rode after that man? And why would we be in danger?”

“All we found was a campsite. He could be anywhere, could be gone for all I know. I thought about taking you to the ranch, but it’s more isolated. It’s safer here.”

“Safer from what? I don’t have any enemies. Jonathon and I have been alone for two years. We don’t need your concern now.”

“You don’t even own a gun,” he told her, standing and placing his boots on spread newspaper near hers.

“And I never will,” she replied.

“Go on to bed.” He motioned for her to precede him into the hallway.

“You can’t stay here!” she insisted, refusing to move.

“Abby.”

“What?”

“Shut up.”

She blinked. Her mouth opened and closed. Her skin appeared pinker than usual in the lantern light. Finally, she seemed to find her voice again, and when she did it was laced with indignation. “Put on your coat and boots and leave my property at once. I have no need for your protection.”

Brock moved into the hallway and checked the door that led downstairs to make sure it was locked.

Satisfied, he paused to peek in on Jonathon, but couldn’t see anything until Abby came up behind him with the lamp.

The child slept peacefully on his side, his knees curled up beneath the blankets, his fair hair tousled.

Brock had missed a lot of bedtimes. A good many evenings and mornings and all the simple pleasures, like just watching his son sleep.

He glanced back and discovered Abby’s expression gentled as she, too, observed their son’s serene slumber. Her gaze lifted to his and questions troubled her brow in concerned lines, but she remained silent.

At last he moved past her toward the sitting room.

She padded behind, shadows bobbing and weaving upon the walls. “I don’t understand,” she said finally.

“I know.” He took the lamp from her and placed it on a mahogany table. “Just trust me that I know what’s best. Get some sleep.”

She didn’t move. Her bare feet had to be freezing, because his were cold in his wool stockings. “No one saw me,” he assured her. “I’ll leave at first light and be careful not to be seen.”

He stepped over to the hard-coal heater and added fuel.

She turned and walked into her room, then returned with several blankets and a pillow, which he accepted.

The memory of dancing with her was vivid in his mind, and her alluring scent played havoc with his senses.

Her skin had a pearly glow in the golden light, and fire danced in her incredible hair.

If he touched her, she’d turn to liquid heat in his arms. If he kissed her, she would respond with an angry intake of breath and then return the kiss with enough energy and passion to bring him to his knees.

She had no idea how much power she held over him. Wouldn’t she just laugh if she knew? “Go to bed, Abby.”

She walked as far as her doorway and paused to look back. “I hated dancing with you.”

“I know.”