happened between me and Abby was our business.”
“Something like that becomes family business, Brock. Her father would have come after you himself if he’d known first. But it was Guy who found out and Guy who tried to protect his sister’s honor.”
“I never even had a chance to make it right,” Brock argued.
“What would you have done? Married Abby?”
The question sucked the tension from Brock’s body. He drew a palm over his face, then hung his thumb in his belt. “I don’t know.”
“You wouldn’t have,” Caleb answered for him.
“I was young.”
“You were a hothead.”
“Maybe I was, but I didn’t want to kill Guy.”
“I know that.” Those words were laced with sincerity and regret. “And things were ugly here, too. I knew why you left. I always knew. It wasn’t just the boy. You’d have been found innocent of his death—there were witnesses. You were protecting yourself. Guy was just the last straw.”
“I was all mixed up. You and Will were fighting…and then he left with the gold.”
“Don’t forget Marie,” Caleb added.
“And Marie,” he agreed with a nod. Caleb’s understanding eased away the burden of Brock’s worries. His brother had changed, and it was a change Brock liked. “You’re different now than before I left.”
“Maybe that’s why I understand that you’re different, too. It’s been a long time. We all change. And grow. Thank God.”
“And Zeke is so big, I can hardly believe it. He looks like you did.”
Caleb grinned and agreed.
Brock’s thoughts switched to the other boy he’d seen the day before. “What is Abby doing at Watson’s Hardware, anyway? Working there? Seems like an unlikely place for a female.”
“Might be an unlikely place for a female, but she’s been doing a fine job of running it since Jed passed on.”
“Running it? What for?”
“She owns the store now. She’s Jedediah Watson’s widow.”
Widow. The prickly news didn’t want to settle nicely in Brock’s mind. It poked around nervously, leaving stinging wounds. His breath grew short and he had a difficult time drawing air into his lungs. “She married Jedediah Watson?”
“Yep.”
“He’s an old man.”
“Was. And I don’t think he was over fifty when he died.”
“What the hell did she marry him for?”
“Why do most women marry? Security maybe.”
“She said the other boy is hers—the boy I saw with Zeke.”
“Jonathon. Smart as a whip, that one.”
“I thought he was yours.”
Caleb looked at him in surprise. “Mine? Why would you think that?”
“I saw him with Zeke. The two look like brothers, don’t they?”
Caleb’s expression closed before he pulled out a pocket knife and worked at a sliver in his thumb. “There’s a resemblance.”
“I was sure that boy was a Kincaid.”
“Hmm.”
Brock didn’t like his brother’s avoidance one bit. It made him nervous as hell. “Don’t you think it’s odd?”
“What?”
“That he looks so much like…”
“Like what?”
“Like we did.” His heart kicked in an unsteady rhythm as the pieces came together in his mind. “Caleb, how old is Jonathon?”
His brother folded the blade away and studied his knife. “About seven, I guess.”
Brock took a few frantic steps toward the chair where Caleb sat, the weight of wonder growing heavier on his chest. “When’s his birthday?”
“I don’t remember.”
“Caleb—”
“Brock, these questions are for Abby. Go talk to her.”
The tension inside Brock had built until he felt sick to his stomach. “You know something, don’t you?”
Caleb stood and drilled his blue-gray gaze into Caleb’s. The room around them took on an odd gray-tinged bleakness. “I don’t know any more than you do. Go ask Abby. And that’s all I’m saying about it.”
Brock couldn’t leave the room fast enough.
Abby tied up a brown paper package with a length of twine and handed it to Etta Larimer, her first customer in an hour.
“Did you hear there’s a gunslinger in town?” Etta asked. There was an edge of excitement in the reedy voice of the newspaper man’s wife.
“No, I hadn’t heard.”
“He got off the stage yesterday, all dressed in black. Fancy clothes and fancy guns. Henry Hill saw him and says he wears silver-plated six-shooters in silver-studded holsters and a scarlet silk neckerchief.”
“Henry noticed his neckerchief?”
“Well, it would be a striking contrast to the dress in this town. People are saying he’s that Jack Spade fellow.”
Abby had heard the rumors of the famous Jack Spade being in the area for some time now. Her fiancé, Everett Matthews, worked at the telegraph office, and he’d been seeing conflicting reports of the dime novel hero’s supposed whereabouts. Her immediate thought was of Jonathon at the schoolhouse, but she dismissed her motherly fears as being intensified by the appearance of Brock Kincaid yesterday. “Those kind of men are trouble wherever they go, and I hope Sheriff Kincaid sends him on his way immediately. We don’t need his kind in Whitehorn.”
Etta’s expression grew subdued. “Of course, you’re right, dear.” She lowered her voice. “I just hope I get to see him before he leaves.”
“Not me. I hope I don’t have to set an eye on him or anyone like him.”
The front door opened, and even clear across the cavernous interior of the fully stocked store, Abby could feel the cold snake in and wrap around her ankles. She thanked Etta for her business and moved to add more fuel to the fire in the stove. She was poking the coals with an iron tool when boot heels sounded loudly behind her.
