looked Sam Rowland over—a sturdy enough fellow with a lean face and more than capable demeanor. Working daily with Abby, he was bound to have formed a working relationship with her. Brock wondered if there was anything more to it.
He entered the store and pulled a wrinkled list from his pocket. Caleb had been glad to turn over the run into town, and Brock had a feeling the chore would be his from now on. Harry Talbert called a greeting from his spot beside the stove, and Brock sauntered back to say hello, wondering with amusement how the man ever managed to give a haircut when he was always here.
An elderly gentleman that Brock didn’t recognize sat with a cane leaned against his bony knee and a coffee mug resting on the other. He squinted at Brock from beneath wispy white eyebrows. “Mighty fancy Peacemakers ya got there.”
His interest seemed genuine, not critical. Brock slid one of the ivory-handled six-shooters from its leather sheath and displayed the carved eagle for his inspection.
“Man who carries a gun like that knows how to use it. Them’s either peacemakers or troublemakers.” The old gent ran shaky fingers over the ivory in admiration.
Brock exchanged a look with Harry, but the man seemed more amused than curious. “I’ve done some peacemaking. Marshaled in Nevada, South Dakota.”
“Bringin’ criminals to justice, eh? Meet any of the Earp boys, did ya?”
“Saw them in passing.”
“Mr. Kincaid!”
Brock turned, the gun sliding automatically into his palm.
Abby faced him, her face flushed with anger. She shot her fiery gaze to the revolver in his grip. “I would appreciate it if you would keep your weapons out of sight in my establishment. My customers have no reason to shoot one another.”
“I was just showing the gentleman—”
“Golly!” a child’s voice interrupted. “Can I thee it, Mithter?” Jonathon ran forward, his face alight with admiration.
“No!” Abby shouted, stopping him with a forearm across his upper chest. The length of her thick braid swung forward and draped her arm to her elbow. “You may not.”
“But, Ma!”
“Guns serve only one purpose, Jonathon, and no son of mine will be a killer.”
“Man needs a gun in this country, Miz Watson,” the old man said. “Man can get hisself killed without one.”
“If everyone got along peaceably, there would be no use for violence,” she argued.
“This ain’t fairyland,” the old gent said with a laugh. “Or even Boston. This here’s Montana, and a body needs to protect his home and his family.”
“Killing isn’t a solution to every problem.” Indignant, she straightened and glared from Brock to the old man.
Harry cleared his throat. “I think I have to give a haircut.”
“Might not be a solution to every problem, but it sure shuts up the criminals,” the old man continued with a gleeful cackle.
Harry grabbed his coat, plunged his hat down over his head and bolted for the door.
“Mr. Waverly, please refrain from placing barbarous ideas in my son’s head.”
Brock had holstered his .45, and he removed his coat and hung it up. “Here’s a list of supplies. Jonathon, will you show me the rope, please?”
She took the slip of paper with a frown. “I can show you—”
Brock raised a palm to stop her in her tracks. “Jonathon will show me.”
Her green eyes spat fire, but she bit her tongue. She followed them with a worried frown as Jonathon led Brock to the other side of the store.
“Thith here’th the rope.”
Brock made a choice. “Do you know who I am?” he asked.
Jonathon gazed up with round blue eyes and nodded. “You’re Mithter Brock. Theke’th uncle.”
Brock surveyed the elfin face with a light sprinkling of freckles and let his gaze caress the hair so like his own. The urge to touch that baby-soft skin and wavy hair was so strong, he clamped his hand on the length of rope. “Y-yes,” he said, his voice breaking so that he had to say it again.
“Theke thaid you been gone a long time. You wath off fightin’ bad guyth. That right?”
“Something like that.”
“Did you thoot ’em with your gun?”
Brock understood Abby’s protectiveness. He did. He would rather take a beating than expose this child to the ugliness in the world. If only it were reasonable to think Jonathon could be protected from reality. But that wasn’t possible. Or even wise. He would need to know how to protect himself.
“We all have to do things that we don’t want to do sometimes,” was all he said, and it sounded trite.
When they returned to the stove several minutes later, the old man was sipping coffee. He grunted and shook his head.
Brock followed Jonathon to where Abby stood beside a counter, calculating a stack of figures. “Do you want this on the ranch account?” she asked in a businesslike tone.
“Yes.”
“Sam will help you carry out the kegs.”
“I’d just as soon wait awhile, so I can visit with Jonathon.”
Her hesitation was evident in the way she paused over the numbers, in the way her chin lifted slightly.
“Or I can take him back to the ranch with me, and he can play with Zeke and help me put things away.”
Unfairly, he’d suggested it in front of the boy, and Jonathon shot forward, raising a small hand to place it on the counter by her paper. “Can I, Mama? Can I go play with Theke? Brock wanth me to help him!”
Abby’s gaze lifted and struck Brock with as much force as a bullet. Anger simmered there, but the fear in her eyes took him aback. Why it should bother him, he didn’t know. He had her where he wanted her. She was afraid to let her son go, but she was afraid Brock would tell Jonathon the truth if she didn’t comply.
He looked down. “Let me talk to your ma alone for a minute, okay?”
“Okay!” The child shot away and disappeared into the depths of the store.
“I’m not going to snatch him and ride off,” he assured her. “You don’t have to fear that. I told you I would get to know him. This seems like a good way. He’s used to Zeke and Caleb. What would people think if I sat around your store all day long?”
He had her there. She cared very much what people thought. And she obviously cared very little for his tactics. “If you sank any lower, you wouldn’t have to open the door to slide
