The Gunslinger's Bride. Cheryl St.John

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      CHERYL ST.JOHN

      A peacemaker, a romantic, an idealist and a discouraged perfectionist are the words that Cheryl uses to describe herself. The award-winning author of both historical and contemporary novels says she’s been told that she is painfully honest.

      Cheryl admits to being an avid collector, displaying everything from dolls to depression glass, as well as white ironstone, teapots, cups and saucers, old photographs and—most especially—books. When not doing a home improvement project, she and her husband love to browse antiques shops. In her spare time she’s an amateur photographer and a pretty good baker.

      She says that knowing her stories bring hope and pleasure to readers is one of the best parts of being a writer. The other wonderful part is being able to set her own schedule and have time to work around her growing family.

      Cheryl loves to hear from readers! Email her at [email protected].

      This book is dedicated to

       Bernadette Duquette Debra Hines Barb Hunt and Donna Knoell who not only can eat as much chocolate as I can, but always help me write the best possible story. Thanks again. And to our newest baby Jared

      Contents

      Chapter One

      Chapter Two

      Chapter Three

      Chapter Four

      Chapter Five

      Chapter Six

      Chapter Seven

      Chapter Eight

      Chapter Nine

      Chapter Ten

      Chapter Eleven

      Chapter Twelve

      Chapter Thirteen

      Chapter Fourteen

      Chapter Fifteen

      Chapter Sixteen

      Chapter Seventeen

      Chapter Eighteen

      Epilogue

      Chapter One

      January 1897

      Brock Kincaid squinted at the slate-gray clouds that had been shifting down from the Crazy Mountains since he’d broken camp that morning, and pulled his sheepskin collar around his neck against the bitter wind. Born and raised in Montana, he found that seven years away hadn’t dimmed his ability to smell a blizzard coming from the north. He built a fire and melted snow for the horses. There were two: one he rode; the other carried his bedroll and supplies, as well as gifts carefully chosen for the brothers he hadn’t seen since he’d left the Kincaid ranch behind.

      Caleb, the oldest, would be there, running the ranch, but Will had been gone when Brock left, having headed out after repeated disagreements with Caleb. Brock had no idea where he was now, just as they hadn’t a clue where he’d been or what he’d been doing. For their protection, he’d been careful to hide his identity…and his whereabouts.

      Cooling the water with a handful of snow and holding the dented pail for his mount to drink, Brock scratched the animal’s bony forehead and yawned. Imagining his brother’s reaction to his return had kept him awake most of the night, and he’d started out after only a couple hours’ sleep.

      After the horses were finished, he stowed the pail, then bent and scooped snow to scrub across his tired face. A few more hours and he’d reach Whitehorn, where he could board the animals and get a night’s rest before heading to the ranch. He wanted to be alert and prepared before facing Caleb.

      With a creak of cold leather, Brock mounted and let the gray pick his way around overgrown scrub and drifted snow. The packhorse whinnied and shook its head, and Brock paused to gather the slack from the lead rope until it calmed. Wolf tracks and bright red blood spattered on the pristine snow several yards to his right told him he didn’t want to be around after dark. He drew his .44 Winchester from the scabbard on his saddle and rested it across his thighs. Damn, but a warm bed would feel good tonight. It had been a long time since he’d been comfortable.

      A minute later, the crust of snow on the ground crunched beneath the horses’ hooves as he nudged his mount forward, the only sound, save the horses’ snorts in the bitter air.

      He’d cut all ties with his acquaintances of the last few years, transferred funds, changed horses and saddles, bought new clothes and taken a painstakingly slow, roundabout trail to reach Montana. He’d covered his tracks with as much caution as humanly possible.

      The only personal possessions he still owned were the pair of carved, ivory-handled .45 Peacemakers in the holsters strapped to his thighs, as much a living part of him as his arms or his legs. They’d saved his life more times than he could count, and leaving them behind would make him more vulnerable than he could afford to be and still live.

      Brock blinked against the snow glinting pink and gold from the mountains, and adjusted his hat brim to shade his eyes. By late afternoon, he’d skirted the outlying ranches and made his way toward town. With luck, no one would recognize him, СКАЧАТЬ