Page 25 of The Gunslinger’s Bride (Montana Mavericks: Historicals #1)

B rock returned to the ranch with John in time to join the hands for the noon meal.

All of them had heard about the shots fired the night before, and those who didn’t resent John or shy away from him were curious to hear any news.

Brock had learned from him that day that he was working for Caleb to repay money Caleb had loaned him to buy land for his tribe and spare them being sent to the reservation.

Floyd Cobb stabbed a chicken breast from the platter and asked, “You able to tell anything from the tracks, John?”

“Only that the man was alone and that he wasn’t a hunter or a trapper.” He glanced at Brock.

“He ate from tins,” Brock explained, helping himself to a piece of corn bread.

“The horse was well shod and well fed,” the Cheyenne added.

“Maybe he got it from the livery,” Bluey Muir suggested.

“That’s possible. Same pattern to the shoes,” John replied. “But then Briggs shoes a good many horses in these parts.”

“You could check the horses he rents.”

“Briggs doesn’t think much of me,” John replied. “I don’t think he’d be big on letting me look at his stock.”

“How ’bout we get you into the stable without ’im knowing?” Floyd asked.

“Even if I could identify the horse and we found out who’d rented it, do you think anyone would take my word for it?” he asked.

“James would,” Brock said.

John merely shook his head. Brock understood, as Caleb surely did, that John had the responsibility of his entire tribe on his shoulders, and involvement with something like this would bring him trouble he didn’t need.

A silence fell over the men, and they continued their meal, glancing from time to time at the hands who sat at the other end of the table to avoid John.

Brock thanked John, carried his tin plate to the tub of sudsy water and followed Caleb outside. “Been thinking about something.”

Caleb withdrew his pipe and a drawstring bag, from which he pinched tobacco and poked it into the bowl. “What’s that?”

“Maybe it’s time I used my share of land. Built a house, started a spread of my own.”

Caleb nodded. “The land is there. You just have to choose which sections you want.” He lit his pipe and puffed until fragrant smoke filled the crisp air. “This have anything to do with Abby and Jonathon?”

The insightful question amused Brock. “Couldn’t hurt to have a place of my own, could it?”

“Nope. Would confirm to anyone that you meant to stay.” He gazed off toward the purple-hazed mountains. “Shows me you’re staying.”

“I’m staying,” Brock confirmed, warmed by the fact that his brother had been glad to have him back and truly wanted him here.

“We can get out the maps and go over the details tonight. You’ll want good water and natural windbreaks for the house site. John helped me bring the maps up to date a year or so ago. There’s something else, Brock.”

“What’s that?”

“There’s a small case of our mother’s jewelry in the safe. I’ve taken a couple of pieces for Ruth, and Will wanted a pair of earrings for Lizzie, but there’s more. We didn’t want to divide it all without you.”

“Thanks.” The fact that his brothers had waited for him to share their mother’s keepsakes meant a lot. Brock agreed they’d meet after supper, and joined the men on their way back to their duties.

A week later he had a handle on exactly which sections were his and how he wanted the buildings laid out.

He spent a couple of days in Butte, ordering supplies and contracting help for the project, which he planned to start after the weather cleared in the spring.

An old settler’s cabin and barn that had weathered many a season and sat far above where spring thaws would flood had been chosen as a central location from which to work.

Brock walked the gray around the log structure and the still-adequate barn, then halted and studied the winter-white landscape.

A sound like thunder echoed in the distance, and he recognized the noise as an avalanche in a high canyon.

A startled rabbit leaped from the underbrush several yards away and bounded toward a concealing thicket.

Brock had been too young and too headstrong to appreciate the legacy his father had left him here on the rugged Montana frontier.

This land provided everything needed to sustain a man and his family: fresh water, abundant game, virgin timber and good soil.

It wasn’t too late to start over. Not here, anyway.

And he’d see to it that it wasn’t too late to start over with Abby and his son, too.

On Friday night the Double Deuce was filled with cowhands restless from the winter isolation and impatiently waiting for calving season.

Brock sat in a poker game with Will and John.

Linc Manley, Harry Talbert and a hand from Matt Darby’s ranch filled out the table.

The hand, who went by the name of Ajax, dealt the cards, then leaned his chair back on two legs, watching the others with a tick in his whiskered cheek.

He’d been nursing a bottle of cheap whiskey for the last hour.

Brock had been on a winning streak, having reaped a stack of coins and as much paper money. He had another good hand this time and only took one card, which filled a queen high straight. He tossed five coins in the pot.

Ajax gave a menacing scowl when the bid came to him, and used his thumb to still the twitch in his cheek while he considered his bid. Only two coins still lay on the green cloth at his right hand. “I got a horse to bet,” he said in a gravelly tone.

It always disturbed Brock to see a man so desperate for a winning hand that he’d bet his last dollar or his property, and this time was no different. He almost wished he’d stayed home and played checkers with Caleb.

“Okay by me,” Harry said with a shrug.

Murmurs of agreement went around the table. A bad feeling rose in Brock’s chest.

Final bids were made, John and Harry folded, and the other men revealed their hands. Ajax laid down his full house, a cocky grin on his lips, and waited expectantly.

Brock spread his hand on the table.

The man sprang from his chair, knocking it backward with a clatter. “You cheated! Nobody’s that damned lucky!”

“You dealt those cards, partner,” Brock said, raising both hands above the table. He would not kill this man over a game of poker.

“Sit down and cool off,” Will said calmly.

“The son of a bitch cheated,” Ajax declared, swinging his arm in an arc that knocked glasses and cards and coins flying. He reached for the Colt at his hip.

Brock’s lightning-fast reaction was instinctive. Half a dozen guns cleared holsters and were aimed at the man, but their appearance came precious seconds after Brock had drawn.

The disgruntled cowboy glared wildly, first at Brock, then at Linc Manley, one of those with a revolver drawn, and finally at Will. The tick in the man’s cheek had started to involve the corner of his eye.

“Put the gun down,” Brock said in a calm tone.

The cowboy knew he’d made a mistake. He would either shoot to save face now or he’d back down, and Brock was betting he’d rather back down than take several slugs at close range. The odds were stacked against him. Wisely, he lowered the Colt to the table.

Will reached over to secure it. A collective breath was released in the room. “Somebody go get James,” Will said.

John holstered his gun. “I’ll go.” He picked up his money and donned his coat before heading out into the cold.

Ajax made an awkward break for the door, knocking into a chair, bumping one of the saloon girls with his shoulder.

Brock and Will were right behind him; Brock caught his arm and stopped his momentum, spinning him around.

Will closed in just as Ajax fell, and jammed his foot in his back.

Brock caught a length of rope that Cam tossed from behind the bar, and together they tied the struggling man’s wrists and ankles.

Brock stood and met Linc Manley’s intense stare.

No one else had seemed to make too much of Brock’s speedy draw; he’d always been faster than his brothers, faster than James or any of his youthful friends.

But the man who apparently fancied himself a gambler and a gunfighter appeared affected by the scene—or the knowledge he’d just ingested.

Brock looked away and gathered his things.

An hour later, he sat in James’s tidy office, sipping strong coffee. Ajax had been locked in a cell, and James, after remembering he’d seen a paper with a drawing that looked like this cowboy, had sent a wire to Butte.

Irritated at being called away from his game to send the message and wait for the reply, Matthews flung the jail door open and slapped a paper on James’s desk.

“You were right. Man who looks like him is wanted for horse stealing and various other crimes. Any more messages can wait until morning.” He gave Brock a sideways glare and left as quickly as he’d entered.

“Looks like the horse you won may be stolen,” James said.

“I don’t want the damned horse,” Brock replied.

“Why don’t you look it over for a brand?” James straightened the papers on his desk. “Stayed as fast as ever with those guns, did you?” he asked, referring to the reports about what had occurred in the saloon.

Did James suspect anything? Brock shrugged.

As youngsters they’d practiced on apples from Daniel Pratt’s orchard, which they’d lined up along the top of the fence.

Brock, James and Daniel had all three received a licking with a switch when their fathers had to replace a twelve-foot section of the Pratts’ fence.

Brock had always been the quickest, the most accurate shot.

It had been something he’d done well, and the only thing that gained him much attention after his mother’s death. “Stayed alive,” he said finally.

“You think Linc Manley is this Jack Spade fellow?” James asked. “Seems Spade hasn’t been seen anywhere else since the man got here.”

“He acts the part,” Brock replied noncommittally.