eagerness to see his nephews, he adjusted the heavy bags over his shoulder and hurried through the snow to the hotel.
Abby Watson stared out the window at Brock’s tall, long-legged form retreating through the swirling snow. She bit her lip and pressed a shaky hand to her thundering heart. Surely she’d expected that he’d be back one day. He owned a share of Kincaid land, for heaven’s sake! Both of his brothers were here, Caleb running the ranch, Will having returned and made his amends a year ago. He now ran the bank.
At the time of Will’s return, she’d been forced to think of Brock—to wonder where he was and whether or not he, too, would make his way back to Whitehorn and his family home. She’d considered selling the store and leaving before that became a reality, but her roots had grown deep into this land. Her father and brother were dead now, but Jonathon had family here, even though he didn’t know it. She owned her father’s ranch as well as a thriving business, and she felt good about being a respected citizen.
Caleb couldn’t acknowledge Jonathon publicly without shaming Abby, because Abby had married Jedediah Watson, and the older man had accepted the boy as his own. Caleb had seen to it that Zeke and Jonathon spent plenty of time together, though, especially since Jed’s death two years ago. Zeke coming home with Jonathon after school every day had begun as much to keep the boys together as to spare Zeke the tension of his unhappy home life, Abby suspected. Now that Zeke’s home life had changed for the better, he still came here every day.
Abby glanced back at her handsome, fair-haired son brushing snow from his pants, and a sick feeling curled in her belly. What would happen when Brock learned the truth? Would he even care? He hadn’t seemed to in all these years, so she couldn’t imagine that he’d suddenly develop a conscience.
She brought her worried gaze back to the window. Men like Brock Kincaid thought only of their prowess with a gun, to the exclusion of family and loved ones. Men like him had no loved ones. And they robbed other people of theirs, as well.
A shiver ran through her body.
“What’re you lookin’ at out there, Miz Watson?” Harry Talbert, the barber, called from his favorite chair beside the stove. “That snow is gonna come down whether or not you keep an eye on it.”
More than seven years ago Brock Kincaid had shot and killed her brother, then ridden out of town without a backward glance.
Now he was back. And about to find out he had a son.
Brock awoke at first light, placed his feet on the frigid floorboards and strode naked to the window. From the second story, he could see much of the frozen, rutted street, the shops with mounds of snow drifted across the boardwalk and against their doors, a few animal tracks leading in and out of the alleyways, and smoke drifting from chimneys.
The brick smokestack at Watson’s Hardware belched a steady gray cloud. He’d watched until dark and Abby hadn’t left the place. Caleb had come with a team and wagon and taken one of the boys away. If Abby’d left, it had been late, or she’d exited by a rear door, but Brock couldn’t imagine why she would bother.
He dressed and continued his vigil at the window. One by one, lamps came on in the businesses below. Merchants arrived and shoveled boardwalks. Shades rose. A man with a key entered the hardware store, a man too young and fit to be Jedediah Watson.
A team and buckboard pulled up alongside the dock that fronted the hardware store, and the driver climbed the stairs and tried the door. He knocked. Lights came on and the door opened to admit the customer.
Sometime later, the rancher came out, followed by the man who’d entered earlier, and together they carried boxes, rolled barrels across the dock and loaded the supplies into the wagon bed.
Abby appeared at the doorway, wearing a white apron. She waved as the rancher pulled away. The young man entered the store behind her and the door closed. She looked as though she belonged there. If the man was her husband, why had he just arrived, when it was apparent she’d been there all night? If she worked there, perhaps she had a room over the store. Brock glanced at the lace curtains at the upper windows.
He could stand here supposing all day, but he had business to see to with his brother, so he packed his bags and left.
Lionel had fed and groomed the horses, and Brock paid him an extra dollar for their care, loaded his belongings and rode out. He followed the ice-crusted creek, from time to time spotting wolves sunning themselves on outcroppings that jutted from the rock walls of the foothills. The horses startled an occasional deer or rabbit. He’d missed the wide-open spaces of this country, missed a sense of belonging and of family, more and more as the years passed.
At the time, leaving had seemed like the best thing—the only thing—he could do. Caleb had married Marie, a pampered young woman who’d been expecting his child, and her immediate withdrawal had confused everyone. Unhappy in his marriage, Caleb had turned cold and distant, and Will’s competitive badgering wore on him. Will had resented Caleb being groomed to take over the ranch, and his jealously drove a rift between them.
Brock had been torn between his two older brothers. Though he’d been the troublemaker in his youth, he had kept his tomfoolery away from the ranch, wreaking havoc in the saloons and streets instead. As he’d been the youngest, his irresponsibility had been overlooked. Frustrated by his lack of position in the family and on the ranch, as well as by the constant rivalry between his siblings, Brock had taken a devil-may-care attitude. When Will stole money from Caleb’s safe and headed East, his actions had stabbed Brock like a knife to the heart.
That hadn’t been the final straw, however. He probably could have stuck it out, moved to town perhaps, away from Caleb and Marie, though he adored their fair-haired baby, Zeke. No, the event that had driven him to pack his bags and ride toward the horizon had taken place the day he’d shot and killed the boy—Abby’s brother.
Brock sat his horse in a flurry of swirling spindrift and gazed at his family home, at the well-kept barns and corrals and the cattle on the nearby hills. Caleb had done well. So well that he wouldn’t welcome Brock’s return?
He nudged the gray and headed forward.
A figure on horseback emerged from the concealment of trees to the north and rode swiftly toward the barns. Brock recognized the brown-and-white skewbald and the figure atop as John Whitefeather, half Cheyenne and a friend of Caleb’s.
Before Brock reached the yard, the tall, broad figure of his brother, dressed in denims and a flannel shirt, appeared in the open doorway of the barn. Shaggy, dark blond hair blew back from his face in the cold wind. But despite the wind and the frigid air, he stepped away from the shelter of the building and ran forward.
Brock reined in the gray several yards away and dismounted, closing the final steps that brought him face-to-face with his brother.
Caleb looked older, still muscled from hard work, his gray-blue eyes not revealing the thoughts or feelings behind them. He looked so much like their father that a wave of odd familiarity swept Brock, then disappeared when Caleb’s mouth turned up in a grin. “Little brother,” he said calmly. Those steely eyes scanned the mountains and the sky. “Some time of year you picked for traveling.”
“Yeah, well, you know I never had much sense when it came to practical things.”
Caleb’s gaze moved to Brock and seemed to warm with his assessment of what he saw. “Your room’s still there. Don’t think the shirts are going to fit, though. You’ve grown some.”
Brock
