Page 33 of The Gunslinger’s Bride (Montana Mavericks: Historicals #1)

They were coming about twenty a day, giving the ranch hands barely time to rest and handle the other chores in between, so for another week, Brock didn’t make it back to town. He would have loved for Jonathon to see this.

Brock watched one slippery young calf come into the world, steam rising into the cold air, and thought how his son would have reacted.

Helping the cow clean her baby quickly, he bundled the calf for a ride to the barn.

The miracles of nature never failed to humble and amaze him, and his thoughts quite naturally turned to Abby, helping Sam’s wife give birth.

Not for the first time, he regretted not knowing about his son, not being there for the miracle of his tiny life as it came into the world.

Who had helped Abby? Had it been a long labor? A difficult or easy birth? Had Jed been at her side? An ache consumed Brock at the thought. Had she thought of him? Cursed him, no doubt.

Brock tied a bandanna around the cow’s right front leg so he could identify her when he returned the calf, and pushed the wheelbarrow across the rutted, frozen earth to the barn.

That night he sat at the table in the bunkhouse, the oil lamps lit against the night, and listened to the snores of the sleepers and the weary talk of those eating in shifts.

This was a good life, a life he could tuck into and enjoy if, like Caleb, he had a warm bed and a wife to go home to at night.

How could Abby proceed with her plans to marry Matthews?

Brock hadn’t planned what had happened between them to make her change her mind, but it should have.

Lord, it should have. How could she deny the pull between them?

How could she shrug it off as a mistake or a physical act that meant nothing?

He’d thought of it every day. And every night.

Along with every other confusing thing about Abby.

Belatedly, he chastised himself for getting carried away with his desire for her.

The last thing he needed was to plant a baby inside her and have her marry another man again—this time right in front of him.

How could he have been so reckless? A tiny, nagging voice told him a baby would trap her, would make her his, but he knew better.

Even if she chose to tell him, which she quite likely would not, that didn’t mean she would suddenly change her mind about him. And even if she did, he didn’t want her that way.

He wanted her, but he wanted her to come to him because she cared for him.

What more could he do? Maybe drastic measures were called for. Finishing his meal and taking a turn on a narrow cot for a few winks, he let his plans take shape.

It had been nearly two weeks since Abby had seen Brock.

Everett had come over for dinner twice, but he’d never mentioned the kissing incident.

The whole time she was with him, she strained not to compare him to Brock.

When she was alone, thinking and planning, she could make this impending marriage seem more plausible, because Everett was just an idea then; but when she spent time in his company, a growing uneasiness invaded her peace of mind and her confidence.

She would remember the kiss, and his reaction and her reaction, and her stomach would tighten.

Since it was Saturday, and fairly nice weather, she had a steady stream of customers. By late afternoon business dropped off, and Sam swept the floor. Through the panes of glass, Abby watched Jonathon build a snowman on the corner of the dock.

A gray horse and rider appeared, leading a black horse with a rope, and Abby recognized Brock immediately.

Even wearing his long coat, he dismounted in a fluid motion and tied the reins to the post at the corner of the dock below Jonathon. Her son waddled over in his layers of winter clothing. Brock tipped his hat to the back of his head and looked up.

He gestured to the horse in tow.

Jonathon jumped up and down and nearly fell off the edge of the wooden structure. Brock steadied him and then lowered him to the ground. A minute later, he lifted the boy to the saddle on the horse’s back and grinned up.

Abby got a bad feeling in the pit of her belly. What was going on? Grabbing an old coat, she slipped into it and stepped outside, wary of her footing on the icy dock.

Jonathon saw her approach. “Mama! Look! Brock gave me a horse! A horse of my very own! I can even name him! Ain’t he purdy?”

The fact that the word horse had come from her son’s lips without a lisp surprised her more than the manipulative deed Brock had executed.

“Where will you keep this horse of yours?” she asked, careful not to say he couldn’t have it and therefore alienate him.

“He can stay at Brock’s ranch and I can thee him there! Ain’t that grand?”

“That’s just grand,” she replied without enthusiasm.

“Can I ride him now?” Jonathon asked.

“Have you ridden alone before?” Brock asked.

“No, but I can do it. I know I can.”

“You need a little practice first,” Brock told him. “Just for safety. I’ll walk you down the street.”

Jonathon’s expression fell.

Brock took the reins and led the sad-faced boy on the shiny black gelding away from the store.

The wind bit into Abby’s cheeks and made her eyes water, but she watched until they returned.

“Brock thays I can come to the ranch for the night. Can I, Mama? Please?”

“Why don’t you join us for the evening?” Brock’s tone sounded deceptively innocent. “You’d probably like some time away for a change, right? We can pop some corn by the fireplace.”

Jonathon’s expression pleaded for her to concede.

“Do you have a wagon?” she asked, fearing she knew the answer.

He shook his head. “You haven’t forgotten how to ride, have you?” he asked. “You and Jonathon can ride together.”

“Thay yes, Mama! Thay yes!”

“I have a few things to do before I can close the store.” She gestured lamely behind her.

“We’ll help.” Brock reached for Jonathon and placed him back on the dock before tying the horse beside his and sprinting around to the stairs to meet them at the door. “That’s a fine-looking snowman you made there, partner.”

Delegating the tasks, and running upstairs to change and get extra warm clothing, Abby delved deep inside herself, desperately seeking the anger that she needed to get her through this.

This horse was another ploy by Brock to worm his way into Jonathon’s life, and maybe even into hers.

Denying a boy his father would be wrong, she had started to realize, but before she could sort anything out in her head, the man was always coming up with something else.

There was no way Brock could acknowledge Jonathon as his son and she could save face at the same time.

Her hurt and her anger had served her well in reinforcing the protective shell she’d drawn around herself and her son.

She’d fended the man off with torrents of nasty words and scathing looks and disapproval—the one exception being that solitary physical encounter, which had set her on her ear emotionally.

Perhaps she was just plain weary of the animosity.

Maybe he’d beaten down her defenses until nothing remained but resignation.

Otherwise, why would she be going with him?

She had used her brother as an excuse for so long that she hadn’t faced the truth of her real reasons for holding a grudge.

Guy had been the obvious excuse. Brock’s desertion had been the true cause of her resentment, and now she could admit she’d played a part in his leaving.

Sam went home and Abby locked the store. Brock steadied the horse, while she and Jonathon mounted from the dock, Jonathon in front of her in the saddle. She pulled a blanket around them, covered her face with her scarf, checked Jonathon’s wraps and nudged the horse after Brock’s.

“She’s a fine horse, ain’t she, Mama?”

“She’s a he,” Brock told him.

“He is a dandy horse,” Abby replied.

She couldn’t remember the last time she’d ridden. After growing up on a ranch, she found the rhythm came back quite naturally. She had forgotten how much she enjoyed the experience.

Brock guided them toward his family home. “How’s Mr. Waverly?” he asked.

“He seems just fine. He was at the store most of this morning. Told me his nephew actually came and visited him while he was in bed at the boardinghouse.”

“Heard there was a family feud of some sort there,” Brock replied.

“Look at all them baby cowth!” Jonathon cried, pointing with a mittened hand.

“Those are calves,” Brock said. His collar was pulled up over the lower half of his face, but his eyes sparkled with amusement.

“But they’re baby cowth, ain’t they?” Jonathon asked.

“Yes,” Abby explained, “but they’re called calves.”

“How come thome of ’em have tape on their ears?”

“Those are the newest ones,” Brock told him. “The wrap is to keep their ears from freezing and disfiguring them.”

“My ears won’t freeth, will they?”

“That’s why I tell you to wear your cap and scarf,” Abby told him. “Ears and fingers and toes can get frostbite.”

“Noses and cheeks, too,” Brock added. He proceeded to tell Jonathon about the calving season that had just passed, sharing the experience in such a way that even Abby found it fascinating, and she’d grown up with it.

The discussion continued as they neared the house, where steady streams of welcoming smoke spiraled from the chimneys. A ripple of apprehension waffled through Abby’s stomach. What would Caleb and Ruth think of her coming to the ranch with Brock?

“You can head into the kitchen and get warm, while I put up the horses,” he told her.

“Couldn’t we—um—help you with the horses?” she asked.

“Sure.” He led the way to one of the barns, where he did most of the work, while Abby and Jonathon stood by. A ranch hand showed up and offered to finish the task, and after thanking him, Brock guided them to the house.