The Gunslinger's Bride. Cheryl St.John

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      Had she said that? Had that atrocious lie rolled from her tongue? Abby tasted acrid bitterness and decided that, indeed, it had. She couldn’t abide deceptiveness, and here she was lying to the man she was going to marry. Once again, because of Brock Kincaid, she was going against her principles.

      Everett shook his head of thick, neatly trimmed brown hair. One dark brow rose now, and coffee-colored eyes bored into hers in disbelief. “Pinch me to wake me up, because I can’t believe my ears. I must be dreaming, because I thought you just excused the man.”

      “You’re not dreaming, silly. It’s not healthy for a person to go around with hard feelings locked up inside. I’ve decided to let the feud go. That’s all.”

      “That’s all? That’s all, Abby? Did he apologize?” he asked in amazement. “Did Kincaid say he was sorry about your brother?”

      “Oh, yes.” She told the bald-faced lie and turned to carry a lantern back to its shelf. “He regrets that they ever had a misunderstanding and that things got out of control so quickly. He’s a changed man.” Changed from bad to worse, anyway.

      “I never really understood what it was they fought over,” Everett said, following.

      “I don’t think anyone really remembers,” she said dismissively, as though the worst event of her life was of no importance. “It was a long time ago and they were probably too drunk to know what they were doing.”

      “This is quite a change of heart for you,” her fiancé said, still seeming to have trouble understanding.

      “Yes,” she agreed sweetly. “People are allowed to change.”

      Abby glanced aside to note that Mr. Waverly, who still sat by the stove with his cane against his knee, watched her in silence, a shrewd expression on his grizzled face. He couldn’t have overheard her earlier restrained conversation with Brock, but he’d heard their original exchange and was now getting an earful of this one—and the two sure didn’t line up.

      “Do we need a fresh pot of coffee, Mr. Waverly?” she asked.

      “Couldn’t hurt. I lost m’spoon in the last cup.”

      “I’ll get some water.”

      She went about carrying the pot to the back room to rinse and fill. Everett waited while she stoked the fire and set the pot to boiling.

      Taking her elbow, he led her aside, away from the old man’s curious gaze. “This is all such a…a surprise,” he said carefully once they were hidden in an aisle of garden tools. “I’ve never seen anything but scorn from you when the man’s name was mentioned, and now this sudden act of forgiveness.”

      “Don’t concern yourself with it. It was time to lay things aside, that’s all.” She looked up and gave him a warm smile to distract him. She pulled her elbow from his gentle grasp and placed her hand on his forearm. “Have you heard any interesting news?”

      Everett worked at the telegraph office. News passed through his fingers daily, and he loved to share what he’d learned. His curious demeanor seemed to change at her touch. “Seems they have a few cases of measles over toward Billings.”

      Abby pretended interest. “Oh, really?”

      “And the surrounding marshals have been alerted to watch for Jack Spade. No one’s sure where he headed, but he was reported crossing the Missouri at Helena and coming this way.”

      She grew uneasier at that report. “Some are saying he’s the man who’s been in the saloons the last few nights.”

      “I confess I stopped at the Four Kings last night to have a look-see.”

      She cast him a playful frown. “Am I engaged to a drinking man, then?”

      “You know better than that. I had a couple of rounds and a cigar, waiting to see if anything happened.”

      “And what would you have done if it had?” Suddenly genuinely interested, she withdrew her hand and went on. “Those places are nothing but trouble. You could’ve been shot if guns had been fired.”

      Everett didn’t carry a gun, one of the things she appreciated most about him. He didn’t try to charm her or intimidate her, either; in fact, Everett was everything Brock Kincaid wasn’t. Stable, levelheaded, responsible. He would make an adequate husband and a good father for Jonathon.

      Her heart tugged with fresh insecurity at that thought.

      She’d believed for the last year that she was making a wise choice for Jonathon’s well-being by saying she’d marry Everett. “A boy needs a father,” Brock and Laine had both said, and she knew that was a fact. But a father like Everett, not one like Brock.

      “I would never want to worry you,” Everett said with a repentant tilt of his head. Moving forward, he took both her hands and clasped her fingers in his. “I’m looking forward to our dinner tonight. I would like to treat you to a meal at the hotel. You shouldn’t have to cook for me after you’ve worked hard all day.”

      “That’s a tempting offer.”

      “What have you planned for Jonathon?”

      “I’ve planned for him to stay with the Spencers. They love his company.”

      “Then you’ll have dinner with me at the Carlton.”

      Abby didn’t have to think twice about not cooking their meal. “All right,” she agreed with a nod.

      “Very well then.” He leaned forward and brushed a quick kiss against her cheek. Rarely did he kiss her on the lips, and whenever she turned her face to deliberately make that happen, he seemed embarrassed. “I’ll come for you at six-thirty.”

      “I’ll be ready.”

      Everett released her hands and hurried away to get his coat.

      Mr. Waverly eventually headed for home, but not after observing her closely for another hour. He lived alone in a tiny room behind the livery, so he divided his days between watching Lionel Briggs at his forge and drinking coffee at the hardware store. Ordinarily Abby welcomed his presence. Today’s annoyance with his eavesdropping had been unusual.

      She counted the day’s earnings, placed the money in a strongbox in the back room and swept the floor, starting on one side and working her way across the front of the building. The store was too big to do it all at once, so she made a point of cleaning a section each evening.

      The sky had just begun to turn dark when a forceful knock sounded. Running forward, Abby opened the front door. Jonathon stepped in, followed by Brock, who helped the boy remove his neck scarf and hat.

      “Come look, Mama!” Jonathon said, pointing through the windowpanes. “Brock din’t bring the wagon thith time. He rode me on hith horth! Ain’t it big?”

      Abby observed the handsome gray tethered to the dock. “He’s big for sure.”

      “Brock’th gonna teach me to ride all by mythelf. Won’t that be thomethin’?”

      “That’ll be something, СКАЧАТЬ