Page 41 of The Gunslinger’s Bride (Montana Mavericks: Historicals #1)

Abby’s heart fell at his words. She had never wanted him to have thoughts like those, but how could reality be avoided? “Brock is also teaching you that guns are nec essary, but to be used only when there is no other choice, right?”

“He said a smart man knows when to leave his gun in the holster, but a man who fires at everythin’ is marked for death.”

Abby studied the ceiling in the darkness. Like Guy. “He’s a wise man,” she told him. “You pay attention when he tells you things.”

“I’m too big to be thleepin’ with my ma, ain’t I?” Jonathon said a few minutes later.

“Do you think you’re too big?”

“I think I’ll be too big tomorrow. Tonight it’th okay.”

“I think you’re right. You’re doing a lot of growing up tonight.”

He fell still and silent, and his breathing deepened.

Abby released him from her embrace and lay on her back.

Oddly enough, she felt as though an enormous weight had been lifted from her chest. And it wasn’t that circumstances had changed as much as it was that she had changed.

At long last, she had been honest with herself, and with Jonathon.

He deserved to know the truth. She would have chosen another way to tell him, but the end result was what mattered now.

Wondering what would happen with Everett, she knew James Kincaid wasn’t the kind to spread malicious talk. But others would gossip; it was natural. News would spread.

She owed it to Brock to tell him what had happened before he heard it by some other means.

The following morning, she kept Jonathon home from school and took him to Laine’s for the morning.

Leaving Sam in charge of the store, she trudged to the livery.

Surprised to see her, Lionel Briggs rented her a horse and helped her into the saddle by offering her a step up on his laced fingers.

He wiped his palms on his pant legs. “You sure you know how to handle ’im? ”

“I’m a rancher’s daughter, Mr. Briggs,” she assured him.

“I’ve been riding since I was barely able to walk.”

With a shrug, he waved her off.

Her confidence wavered momentarily when she had to get her bearings and assure herself she was headed in the right direction.

She’d been to the Kincaid ranch recently, and she would simply remember to keep the mountains at her left shoulder.

Sure enough, the landmarks were familiar, and before long, she recognized the copse of trees Brock had pointed out as marking their property border.

She thought briefly of the wolves, and decided not to borrow trouble by imagining the worst. The ranch house was a little east of where she thought she’d find it, but the smoke and tracks led her right to it.

John Whitefeather spotted her immediately and rode out to meet her. “Mrs. Watson,” he said politely.

“Good morning, John.”

“Ruth will be pleased to have company.”

“Actually, I’ve come to see Brock.”

John leaned back in the saddle and pointed to a horse and wagon a measurable distance from the corral. “That’s him.”

She thanked him and nudged the horse forward.

Brock was hammering at a section of fence, his coat and hat slung over the back of the wagon. He wore a thick sweater, dungarees and boots, and of course, the ivory-handled revolvers.

Catching sight of her from the corner of his eye, he straightened, the hammer falling still in his gloved hand.

Abby rode close and reined in.

“This is a surprise,” he said.

She was probably the last person he’d expected to see riding here today. She threw her leg over and dismounted, and he dropped the tool to help her.

A line of worry furrowed between his brows. “Is Jonathon all right?”

“Jonathon’s fine.”

Quick as a snap, his expression changed and his whole body seemed to come to attention. His gaze had focused on her face, and he ripped off a glove to cup her chin and tilt her face up. “What the hell happened to you?”

She had forgotten the rows of bruises on her cheeks, which had been barely visible in her mirror in the bleak morning light. If they looked anything like they felt, they had probably turned a vivid purple. “Do I look bad?”

“You look like a prizefighter after a match. What the hell happened? This looks like— Lord, Abby, these look like finger marks!”

“There’s something I have to tell you.”

“Damned right you do.” He released her chin and stepped back. “Did that son of a bitch Matthews do this to you?”

“Yes, but—”

He cursed and punched the air, muttering a string of profanities.

“But he’s in jail,” she assured him, grabbing his arm and silencing him. “The sheriff locked him up.”

Pain was evident in his eyes when he turned them back to her, as though he couldn’t bear to look at her injuries. His tone of voice had softened to one of almost agony. “What did he do to you?”

“He got angry because I told him I wasn’t going to marry him.”

Brock let the words sink in to make sure he got the information right. “You did?”

She nodded. “I made a decision yesterday.”

He inspected the bruises marring her beautiful face and drilled his gaze into hers. His chest grew tight. The sweat under his clothing chilled now that he’d stopped working, but he ignored the cold and hung on to her words.

“I realized that I couldn’t marry him. Actually, I made the decision in my heart a few days before, but it took a while to get to my head. I shared it with Laine, and she encouraged me to go tell him right away—get it over with.”

The joy of knowing she had changed her mind—that she wasn’t going to go through with the wedding—mixed with the fury of knowing the detestable man had harmed her. “And he did this to you?”

“Not right then. I found him at the Double Deuce, told him on the street out front. He came over later—during the night. I wouldn’t have opened the door, but I guess I thought it was you.”

“I told you to ask who it was!”

“I know, I know. But I still wouldn’t have thought him capable of what he did. I probably would have let him in anyway.”

“What else did he do?” A horrible thought crossed his mind, an unacceptable image of Matthews forcing himself on Abby. “Did he—Abby, what did he do?” Waiting was agony.

“He was angry—he’d been drinking. He shouted and said horrible things.”

“What things?”

“Things about you—about us—about Jonathon.”

Her skin was pale in the cold, making the bruising look all the worse. He wanted to pull her close and comfort her, but he didn’t want to stop her talking.

“Jonathon woke up and was scared.” Her chin trembled then.

Brock held himself still and waited.

“Everett told Jonathon that Jed wasn’t his father.”

Brock’s heart hammered against his breastbone.

“He told him that you were—and that you were a murderer.”

Clenching his jaw against the anger and pain, Brock imagined his little boy hearing those hateful words, imagined the confusion he must have felt. “I’m so sorry, Abby.”

It came out a choked whisper.

She blinked. “The blame isn’t yours!”

“I’m responsible. Way back then I made bad choices.”

“Not just you,” she told him sternly. “I blamed you for so long that I never took time to admit my part in what happened. I’m responsible, too.

Maybe more than you. I knew you were unhappy and confused, but I let myself think that I could be the answer to all your problems. What kind of girlish foolishness was that? ”

He shook his head, no reply forming. “What did Jonathon do? What did he say?” He brought a hand to his temple. “I can hardly stand to think of it.”

“It wasn’t so awful,” she told him gently. “Well, Everett was awful. But I knocked him out and—”

“How?”

“With my washbowl.”

He pictured it. Amazement washed over him.

“Asa and Daisy had been knocking on my door. When I was able to let them in, Asa went for help and the sheriff took Everett away. After that Jonathon and I had a long talk and I told him the truth.”

An unexpected satisfaction flooded Brock at the knowledge that his son knew about him now. Now he could be free to love him, to express himself as he hadn’t been able to. “Is he okay?”

“He’s an amazing little man,” she said, pride lacing her tone.

“He accepted the news surprisingly well.” A brisk wind caught Abby’s turned-up collar and blew it against her face.

“I also told him about my part in making you go away. I assured him that you didn’t know about him when you left—and that I made you leave. ”

After all that she’d been through, after condemning and hating him, she’d taken the blame upon herself in Jonathon’s eyes. Had she truly had a change of heart? Refusing to marry Matthews must have been a result of her transformed attitude.

“Why did you take the blame?” he asked.

“Because it’s the truth. And it’s past time that the truth be uncovered.” She explained the remaining details and assured him that Everett hadn’t seriously harmed her. “I think you should talk to him now,” she said, referring to Jonathon.

“When?”

“Whenever you want.”

“How about now?”

“That would be fine.”

He turned, tossed tools and wire on the wagon bed and got his coat and hat. “Let’s get you to the house and warm you up first.”

To his amazement, Abby was frank with Ruth, explaining the situation and the bruises on her face.

Ruth made a poultice and asked Abby to allow her to treat her while they talked.

The hot packs removed much of the pain and swelling from her face and jaw.

Caleb entered the house at eleven, and while they ate, Abby thanked him for his years of silent support and consideration, and explained the situation to him.

“The entire town will be buzzing in no time,” she told them, “so the more people who hear the truth from me or from one of you, the better.”

“This is very brave of you,” Ruth told her.

“Not so brave,” Abby denied. “Just not as cowardly as trying to keep secrets.”

“I’ll ride back to Whitehorn with you,” Brock told her.

“Let me go up and change.” He dipped a bucket of hot water from the well in the stove and left.

Caleb headed back to his work.

“You are free once again,” Ruth said. “Does this mean you will be thinking about marrying Brock?”

No one had mentioned a word about a future for the two of them, least of all Brock. “He’s never spoken of wanting to marry me,” she told her. “And even if he did, I don’t have it in my heart to trust him.”

“There is more trust in your heart than you are willing to look at,” Ruth replied. “You are no longer that wounded girl. Brock is no longer a young boy. Believe in the man he has become.”

Abby thanked her for the healing poultices and the understanding friendship, and joined Brock for the ride back to town.

Etta Larimer was sweeping the boardwalk in front of the newspaper office when they rode past, and she paused in her task to observe.

Brock touched the brim of his hat politely. Abby waved.

Etta waved back hesitantly, then returned to her sweep ing.

Brock met Abby’s gaze. Had news spread already or was she imagining the curious look? Abby out riding of an afternoon instead of at work in the store was probably an oddity in itself.

A loaded wagon sat before the dock, and Mr. Meeks and Sam were unloading the supplies.

“Where are your helpers?” Abby called, dismounting and tying her horse to the rail.

“Boys have a fever,” Meeks told her. “Their mama wanted ’em home today.”

Abby started toward the heavily ladened wagon.

“I’ll help,” Brock offered. “I might as well hang around until you get Jonathon.”

He pitched in and, with his help, the job progressed quickly. Abby checked over the invoice sheet and paid Mr. Meeks for the trip from Butte.

“Sam,” Abby said directly, once the three of them were alone and the door was closed. “You’re going to hear some things, so I want you to hear them from me first. The right way. The truth.”

Her employee and friend looked from Abby to Brock. “All right.”

“Brock is Jonathon’s father,” she said simply, then hated the rush of discomfiture that brought heat to her face.

This was a difficult admission to make so boldly.

“Things didn’t work out for us back then…

A lot of misunderstandings and hurt feelings…

and pride. But Brock has come back to start over in this town, and I want him to be a part of Jonathon’s life. ”

Sam’s expression showed only interest. “Thank you for telling me, Abby. I’ve heard talk, but never gave it much thought.” He and Brock exchanged a look. “Guess we’re both new fathers, huh?”

“Guess so. Congratulations, by the way.”

Sam reached a hand forward and Brock gripped it in a firm shake. “You, too.”

And so it began, this revealing of the truth, and with it a newfound freedom. There would be those who looked down on her or shunned her, but she would deal with them with her head held high.

She went to Laine’s for Jonathon just before it was time for school to get out.

Back at the hardware store, she took their coats and watched the boy scamper toward the rear of the building.

He came to a halt in his tracks before he reached the counter, where Brock stood with a mug of coffee.

Abby noted his hesitation, but trusted Brock to set him at ease.

“Daisy sent cinnamon rolls over this morning,” she said, finessing a measure of privacy for the two of them.

“Jonathon, why don’t you take Brock upstairs and share a couple? Zeke can help me with a few chores when he gets here.”

“Okay.” Quite naturally, Jonathon reached for Brock’s hand.

Abby watched her son and his father head for the back stairs.