Mittman, Stephanie (33 page)

"I
want to go myself."

His
eyes were searching her face, trailing down her neck and peeking into the
gaping neckline of her gown as she hovered over him. His Adam's apple bobbed,
and his fingers twitched as he held her forearms.

"Ya
can't, and that's that. You go through Emily's things and take what ya need.
I'll have the rest here before the weddin'."

"What
wedding?"

Mary
Grace jumped off Mason and spun around on the bed, clutching her robe tightly
around her. Wilson stood in the doorway, his arms folded across his chest, his
weight on one leg as if he had been watching them for a long time.

"I'm
marryin' Mary Grace," Mason said to Wilson and then turned to her.
"Get dressed now, girl, and start makin' that list." On his way out
of the room, he tried to put his arm around Wilson, who shrugged it off,
glaring at Mary Grace until Mason shut the door.

For
a minute Mary Grace just stood there, her head in her hands, asking herself
what she had done.

"There's
a basin of water out here for ya, girl. You want I should bring it in?"

"Just
leave it." She had already removed her robe, but Emily's cotton gown
covered her sufficiently. She opened the door and brought the bowl of icy water
into her room, placing it on the dresser.

Then
she began searching through the drawers. Emily must have had some decent
clothes somewhere; she'd attracted Sloan Westin after all. A sudden chill ran
through her. Had Emily been wearing the same
clothes she had when she and Sloan had
lain together? Had he kissed Emily through her blouse, soaking it with his
tongue as he had with her? Had he lifted that very same skirt before, only to
find a different woman's thighs to lie between?

She
put the thought aside. What Sloan had done before he met her didn't matter.
Their pasts were behind them now. At least she hoped they were. She knew she
could forget his, but a man like Sloan Westin—could he forgive her for hers?

She
went through drawer after drawer of pitifully worn-out clothing, throwing
things around the room, holding undergarments to her nose as if she could smell
Sloan's presence on them still. In the bottom drawer she came to a pile of baby
things, too small to fit Ben anymore.

A
tiny cap, embroidered with little flowers lay atop the pile. Inside, the label
was of a shop in France. Beneath it, preserved in thin paper, was a christening
gown, the bodice carefully smocked and set with seed pearls. A tiny cotton
sacque, so small she thought it could fit a doll, stopped her breath, and she
hugged it to her chest.

It
crackled, and she looked down at it, surprised. Buried inside the folds she
found an envelope addressed in a primitive scrawl to Horace Tate.

"You
dressed yet?" Mason's voice boomed through the door. The knob jiggled.

"No,"
she said quickly, putting the note under her pillow and rising to come to the
doorway. Stopping the door with her foot so that it was only open a crack, she
smiled at Mason. "Patience," she said sweetly. "I'll be out when
I'm ready."

He
frowned. "Don't be answerin' the door in your nightdress no more."
Wilson banged around somewhere
in the house, his heavy boots smacking the floor
until the front door slammed behind him.

"All
right," she agreed, and then remembered Harlin's Peeping-Tom performance
from the previous day. "And I'll need a shade on my window, Mason."

He
grunted and stalked away. A few moments later he was standing outside her
window, his back to her, guarding her privacy from his brothers. Whether he
would turn around or not, she wasn't sure. Erring on the side of caution, she
slipped reluctantly into Emily's skirt while staying in her nightgown, and then
made a tent of it, kept her back to the window, and hurried into a blouse.
Looking down, she took a breast in each hand and squeezed them gently. Was this
the blouse Emily was wearing when she'd lain with Sloan? Her hands fell to her
sides. She fingered the fabric of the skirt and knew she was torturing herself.
She just wasn't certain if it was out of guilt, or envy.

Wilson
had found Mason, and the two argued outside her window, neither looking
anywhere but straight out toward the hill where Emily lay buried. Mary Grace
pulled the note out from under the pillow and quickly opened it.

To
my darling son Horace—

I
wish I could be there to tell you this myself, my darling boy, but I guess I've
gone to meet our Maker if you is reading this.

I
love you, son, just like I loved your pa. He was a good man. Don't let nobody
tell you otherwise.

He
done loved me and I know he would have sent for us if he could of from San
Francisco where he went to make some money.

Your
uncles ain't too bright nor too good, and
some stuff they done been bad
and wrong, but they did it cause they love you and me so forgive them and be a
good boy.

I
love you.

Your
mama, Emily Tate

Well,
she couldn't say she was really surprised. She told herself the note didn't
really prove anything either way. Even if Sloan had never been to San
Francisco, he still might have told Emily he was going, in which case this
letter just confirmed the fact that he was Ben's father. She tried, but she
didn't really believe that for a minute. Ben wasn't Sloan's, Sloan wasn't hers.
They both had belonged to Emily Tate. But Emily was dead, she reminded herself.
And she, Sloan, and the baby were all very much alive.

Outside,
the men were shouting loud enough for her to make out most of the words despite
the closed window, even with Dukeboy barking his head off. Mason threw the
first punch, Wilson smacking up against the outside of her bedroom wall with a
thud. Then, like a bull, Wilson went after Mason with his head bent, ramming
him in the stomach, the two of them traveling several feet across the dirt
before falling and tangling with each other on the ground. The dog circled them
wildly, his teeth bared and his one ear bent back.

Groans
rose from the brothers along with clouds of dirt and handfuls of grass. Mason's
head snapped back at a punch to his jaw, and the look on his face ought to have
been enough to stop Wilson, but somehow it was not. Instead, Wilson plowed into
Mason's midsection, one fist following the other until Mason's hand caught
Wilson's face and began to squeeze. Mary Grace thought for sure that freeing
himself could cost Wilson an eye, at least. And it probably would have if Mason
hadn't just
flung him away with a grunt that rattled her window and her nerves. Both men
lay panting, inches from one another.

Wilson's
mouth was bleeding; Mason's shirt was torn. He looked down at the sleeve,
hanging by a thread, and yanked it off, trying to wipe Wilson's lip with it,
but Wilson grabbed it with two hands and pulled it tightly across his brother's
neck. Mason was not only older, but bigger, stronger, and fighting for the
honor of the woman he loved. He put his hand under Wilson's chin and pushed up,
raising Wilson's chest off his, easing the hands from his neck. He slipped his
free hand into the waist of Wilson's pants, and grabbing enough of the
waistband and belt buckle, lifted him into the air. He threw his brother
several feet away, scaring Dukeboy, who ran off with a howl that would have
made a coyote proud.

The
sound of air rushing out of Wilson's lungs carried all the way to the house. If
Mason lost this fight, Mary Grace knew her safety was as doubtful as a tortoise
outrunning a cougar. God! She'd begun to think like Sloan.

Wilson
was back on his feet, though somewhat unsteadily. He was making his way toward
Mason, who was yelling about anyone ever touching Mary Grace. He surged toward
Mason, but the big man shoved him aside, and he tumbled against the woodpile.

"Look
out!" Mary Grace screamed, banging on the window as Wilson picked up the
ax and wobbled toward Mason, his feet going in several directions at once.
Mason looked up at her as she signaled and pointed, and then a gunshot rang out
and Harlin's voice could be heard from the distance.

"What
the fuck're you two doin'?" he yelled. "Drop it Wilson, or you'll
only be grabbin' one tit at a time."

Wilson
dropped the ax, went down on his knees, and then pitched forward in the dirt.

"Shit,"
Mason said. "And it was gonna be such a nice day, too."

Harlin
slid off the horse, Horace strapped to his chest, and pushed Wilson's inert
form with his foot, rolling him over. "What was that all about?"

"I'm
gettin' married," Mason said. When Harlin said nothing, Mason spread his
feet slightly and balled his hands into fists. "You wanna add your
congratulations?" he asked belligerently.

"Oh,
yeah." Harlin laughed, pointing to the baby. "Me and Horace wanna
take you on together. But we figure two on one ain't fair odds."

By
the window Mason called to her. "Open the window, Mary Grace, and give me
your water basin."

Mary
Grace did as she was told, and Mason tossed the dirty water at Wilson's face.
When he sputtered, Mason seemed satisfied that he hadn't done too much damage.
He placed one booted foot on Wilson's chest. "I don't just want yer hands
off her, Wilson. I want your mind off her. I want your eyes off her. You even
dream about her, I'll know."

Wilson
slapped ineffectually at Mason's foot.

"You
want some of my weight behind this, Wilson, or you wanna tell me I ain't got
nothin' to worry about?" Mason asked.

Wilson
spat out some blood.

"Boy,
he sure got you good," Harlin said. "But it's over now, right? Right,
boys?" He looked from one to the other. Mason's boot tip was pressed up
against Wilson's throat.

"I
don't rightly know. Is it over, Wilson?" he asked, rolling his weight forward
toward his toes.

Wilson
nodded as his eyes rolled back in his head.

"Pisshead,"
Mason muttered as he looked down at Wilson's battered body and spat just inches
from his face. Harlin's wide eyes followed his oldest brother until Mason
snapped at him. "What're you lookin' at?"

"Nothin',
Mason. I wasn't lookin' at nothin'." He paused. Then, as if just
remembering something, he asked, "You think Miss O'Reilly knows much about
babies, Mason?"

Mason
smiled with one side of his mouth. "Well, if she don't, she's gonna learn
real quick. I plan to get started on havin' me some before the week's out. I
been waiting a long time to be somebody's first and only. Can't wait much
longer."

Harlin
laughed the guffaw of a young boy being privy to a man's joke. Mary Grace was
sure they had both forgotten she was at the open window.

"What
do you want to know, Harlin?" she asked.

"Horace's
leg don't look so good," he said. "It's real hot, and he don't seem
to be movin' it too good, neither."

Mason,
standing next to Horace, reached out and gently eased the baby's leg from the
sling.

"Shit."
He looked up at Mary Grace and shook his head.

"I'll
explain it to you one
more time," Wilson said out of the side of
his mouth. He had a great deal of difficulty talking, and there was no question
Wilson's mouth would only get worse as more time passed and the swelling
increased. Mary Grace had done what she could for him, but her main concern was
Ben, whose leg was red, tender, and oozing green pus.

"Just
let me take him to the doctor," she begged. "What do you think I'm
going to do? Run away with him? Look at him. He's sick. Do you think I'd risk
his health?"

"Let's
say you go into Jerome with the kid," Mason explained. "The doctor
treats him and you turn around to come home. What's to stop the sheriff from
following you?"

"What's
to stop him your way?" She ran the cool washcloth over the baby's body as
they spoke. This was a waste of time, all this arguing, when the baby needed a
doctor so badly.

"We'll
have the doc with us." Mason put a tiny bit of
whiskey on a
clean piece of cloth, soaked it in water, and gave it to the baby to chew on.
"Emily said it would ease the teethin'."

"Please,"
she begged. "It will get him to the doctor that much sooner if I bring him
into town."

"You'd
be a good part of the way there already, if you'd stop your damn arguing."
Wilson groaned as Mason sunk his fingers into his brother's shoulder.
"Sorry. Look,
Miss
O'Reilly, this is how it goes. Mason'll stay
here with the kid, since he's the one what knows most about cuts and wounds and
stuff. You'll go in the wagon with Harlin, since you ain't too fond of me. I'll
ride separately to keep a watch till we ain't too far from town."

Mason
took over. "Then you'll go into town, get the doc, and bring him back to
where Harlin shows ya. Harlin'll blindfold the doc and bring him back here to
take care of Horace."

"I
don't know how to drive a wagon or buckboard or whatever it's called. This
isn't going to work." The baby was fussing, and she could see she was
getting nowhere. At least she would be in town alone, and maybe she could find
Sloan or get a message to him. "All right. But Mason, can't you take
me?"