Wild Texas Rose (5 page)

“I'd like to help.” She indicated the baskets of food being prepared for the wedding feast. “What may I do?”

Both Lois and Gail peered at Mariah as if she had suggested they step on a puppy.

“You're a guest,” Gail reminded as she poked through a gunnysack of potatoes. “Guests don't work.”

“You're a guest, too. I don't see that stopping you.”

Lois spooned beets into a bowl. “She's kin. She's expected to lend a hand.”

“I see. But I'm not about to sit around that room all afternoon twiddling my thumbs. I'm used to work, and I like pulling my own weight.”

“Well, gal, you've come to the right neck of the woods.” Lois hitched a thumb toward a wreck-pan of dirty dishes. “I was just fixin to tackle those beauties, but if you're serious about that offer, make yourself at home.”

“I am serious.” Mariah grabbed an apron and a quilted hotpad, then went for the kettle of boiling water. “I don't feel right unless I'm up to my elbows in suds.”

“Well, thanks. I'm beholden for the offer, seeing's how my help's out back settin' up the hoedown.”

“I'd better see if Kimble can use some help gettin' dolled up,” Lois added, and stopped short of the door leading into the hallway. “You know, Mariah, I like you. You're the kinda gal I'd love to see my brother hitched to.”

Gail rolled her big blue eyes.

“I'm promised to another,” Mariah reminded.

“Too bad.” Lois waved a goodbye.

Mariah blushed and turned to the dishes. From behind, she heard the peeling and dicing of potatoes. She turned her thoughts to the positive aspects of the future. Within a matter of days she'd be working in her own kitchen, or at least supervising Joseph's cooking staff. And soon, she'd be busy with Trick'em's youngsters, teaching them the rudiments of education. Though she had many reservations about becoming Joseph's wife, Mariah was certain her tomorrows held promise.

She began to hum a tune, an ageless folk song from her homeland. While drying a plate, she put words to the music.

“Is that French?” Gail asked.

“Yes. Mostly we speak Norman French in Guernsey.

“McGuire isn't a Gallic name.”

“My father hails from the north of Ireland,” Mariah explained, swallowing the bad taste in her mouth.

“You don't speak English like the Irish I've met. You sound more like Big Dan Dodson. Well, sorta like his accent, anyway, but yours is kind of Frenchified. He's a Texas Ranger now but was originally from England.”

“The Guernesiais accent resembles our Anglo cousins.” Mariah stopped her explanations to furrow her brows. Since Gail Strickland lived in Trick'em, why didn't she mention Joseph's accent? Surely she was acquainted with him. “Do you know my fiancé?” she asked.

“Oh, no.”

“How strange. I know everyone in my hometown.”

Gail dimpled. “Listen, Coleman County isn't Guernsey. I've seen your country in an atlas–geography's always interested me. I know that island of yours isn't big enough to swing a cat in.” She picked up another potato. “Mr. Jaye lives on the opposite side of Trick'em from my place.”

“But don't the people get together on market days?»

“Yeah.”

“And you've never seen Joseph Jaye?” Mariah asked.

“No.”

“But you've heard of him. You know where he lives.”

Gail grabbed a chicken gizzard, then bent at the waist. “Looky, Fancy. Look what Auntie Gillie has for you.”

“Meooow ... !” The cat swiped the morsel, taking a clawful of her benefactress's finger and drawing a yelp.

“Damn cat!” The annoyed woman flapped her injured hand and shoved Fancy aside with the toe of her slipper. “Whit should've put you out of your misery months ago!”

Mariah laughed as the cat hissed and batted a paw at Gail's hem. “Fancy does seem a bit forceful of spirit, but doesn't she belong to Lois?”

“Nope. She's Whit's. He adopted her as a kitten, but never had a way to carry her over to Crosswind.”

Thinking of Gus, Mariah cringed. “You don't suppose he'll take her with us, do you?”

“I wouldn't put it past him.”

“What does that mean?” Gail asked.

“It's . . . uh ... not very nice for a lady to utter.”

“A cuss word, huh?”

“Yes.”

The lovely brunette cackled. “You're all right, Mariah McGuire. I think you and I will get along just fine.”

“That would be nice, especially if you'll be honest with me. I think you're holding something back.”

Gail laid the knife aside and straightened. “All right. You want the truth, I'll give it to you. Yes, I know Joe Jaye. He's a trouble-making cuss who's stringing barbed wire across the Western Trail. None of us approve. Coleman County is cattle country, not farmland.”

“Guernsey has cattle and farmland. The two are harmonious.”

“Don't be naive, Mariah. We don't graze dairy cows. Our beeves feed the East, as well as provide tallow and hides for the nation. I'm talking thousands upon thousands of beeves, and they've got to be driven to the railhead ... a thousand miles north in Kansas.” Gail took a breath before starting again. “Devil's rope keeps our cattle from grasslands and from water. We ranchers won't stand for it. We'll do whatever it takes to protect our interests.”

Mariah's hackles raised. “This country was based on individual freedoms, am I right?” Not giving Gail a chance to answer, she went on. “Farmers, Joseph included, have a right to protect
their
property.”

“Everyone's entitled to his own opinion, but if I were you, I'd keep those sympathies to myself. You're outnumbered around here.”

“Does Whit share your beliefs?”

“You'll have to ask him.”

Bracing her palms against the drainboard, Mariah said, “He told me they're close–he and Joseph.”

Gail picked up the knife again. “Mr. Jaye has taken advantage of his good nature. Whit's stood up for him on this fencing thing. If push comes to shove, though, things could get nasty, and I'd hate to see Whit on the wrong side of it.”

Busying herself, Mariah ruminated over this statement. Poor Joseph! Whatever possessed him to settle in such a godforsaken place? “I think Whit is to be admired for being a good neighbor.”

“Yes, I can tell you admire him, but not particularly for helping Joe Jaye.” The brunette pointed a potato at Mariah. “Be careful. I saw the way you and Whit were gawking at each other, and–”

“That's not true.” A fruit jar nearly dropped from Mariah's paralyzed grip.

“Okay. But let's take a ‘for instance.' Whit is the best man I've ever known, but he does have his faults. If a woman sets her cap for him, she's liable to get hurt.” Gail tossed a spud into the bowl. “He's after the conquest. Nothing more.”

“You don't have much respect for him.”

“Yes, I do. Loads of it. I adore him. Always have. We're related, you know. When I was a child, he was the one I ran to when my knees were skinned or my feelings were hurt. He's got a big heart, but it doesn't extend to his lady friends. He got trampled on one time, and that one ruined him for other women.”

Mariah did not utter a word. Her heart went out to Whit; she understood how deeply lost love could tear at one's emotions. Of course their situations were different. She had lost out to the grim reaper, while Whit had apparently been cast off by a very alive female.

“I've been around him and his ladies,” Gail continued. “Someone always gets hurt. And it isn't Whit.”

“You may profess to love him, but your harshness speaks another language.”

“I didn't set out to give that impression. I was merely trying to warn you.”

“What Whit Reagor does or doesn't do is none of my concern.” Mariah placed a dish on the table. “I'm in Texas to be with Joseph Jaye, and he's everything I've ever wanted in a husband,” she prevaricated.

Silence stretched before Gail said, “I ... uh... I'd better get back to these potatoes.”

 

 

As the sun settled to resemble a half wheel of yellow cheese on the horizon, church bells chimed at the appointed hour. Mariah followed what seemed to be the whole of Dublin into the little box church. Greenery and beeswax candles decked the altar. An elderly woman wearing a lace cap over white ringlets played wedding music on the tinny piano. Guests crammed into ten rows of pews, Mariah at the end of one. What had started as a chilly morning had turned into a warm afternoon; Texas weather was strange that way.

The minister took his place, followed by Clutch Magee and his best man. The music picked up in tempo, then the maid of honor began her march. Kimble Atherton, dressed in white satin and radiance, started down the aisle on the arm of her uncle Whit, who was frowning. His scowl didn't stop Mariah's heart from taking an extra beat nonetheless. He wore a black wool suit well fitted to his frame, a white shirt, and a string tie. His pitch-black curly hair had lost its slicked-down look of earlier that day. She liked it better this way. And the sheer bigness of him made an overwhelming impression as he filled the church with his presence.

As they approached Mariah, Whit turned his head to her. A smile softened his stern expression.
My,
she thought
he's handsome.

If only Joseph were more pleasing to the eye... Mariah gave herself a mental shake. Looks meant nothing. Joseph loved her, and he was going to allow her to practice her schoolteaching. What more could she ask out of marriage?

“Dearly beloved, we are gathered ...”

Mariah merely half listened. She kept trying to picture herself in Kimble's place, all breathless with love and affection but no matter how hard she tried, the image didn't fit. Nor could she superimpose Joseph's image on Clutch's face. She was quite often able to focus, however, her recalcitrant attention, however on the man who offered his niece in marriage.

Why did he look as if he were ready to flee?

“Do you take this man to be your lawfully wedded husband?”

She watched the bride, her eyes glistening, smile up at her groom. Her breathy “I do” wrenched Mariah. Such a promise lasted a lifetime, and a lifetime lasted the rest of one's life!

“Will you love, honor, and obey him for as long as ye both shall live?”

“I will. Oh, yes, I will!”

Mariah grabbed her hankie. There was nothing unusual about crying at weddings, but the abject seriousness of marriage weighed like a hair shirt upon her shoulders.

Marriage is forever
. Forever! She could expect, if she lived to an old age, to be married at least forty years. Four decades. She gulped. No matter how much she respected and appreciated Joseph, she couldn't imagine spending all those hours, days, years with him.

“I now pronounce you man and wife. What God has joined together, let no man put asunder.”

Her mind raced at the gravity of that pronouncement. The walls seemed to close in on Mariah. Breathing was difficult, for the air had left her lungs. Would it be fair, either to Joseph or to herself, if she promised these vows before God? She didn't love her betrothed, had never loved him–not in the way a wife should adore her mate. It wasn't in her heart to love him, ever. Her head had been turned by grief, not by devotion, understanding, and love.

Her motives, she realized for the first time, were purely selfish. He had offered her a chance to escape from her father's home, the freedom to be a teacher, and he would protect her good name ... but what could she give him in return? Nothing!

She was vaguely aware of the bride and groom as they passed her, but she couldn't bring herself either to stand or to follow the guests from the church.

Mariah kept remembering ... Joseph's kisses had elicited no response within her. From the beginning she had regarded him as a companion, a dependable friend.

He deserved more than she could offer.

She wouldn't marry him–couldn't! She had the uncontrollable urge to run, to get away, to get as far from Trick'em as possible. She rose to her feet, but it wasn't to follow the path the wedding guests had taken up the aisle.

Chapter Four

“I'll be damned if she's not running away,” Whit muttered as he stood on the lawn with the rest of the wedding party and watched Mariah McGuire, cloak on her arm, charge out of the church. She didn't stop to greet the newlyweds, didn't even turn their way. She was walking, fast and with her head down, toward the business section of town.

Had Gail spilled the beans about Joe?

Whit didn't know Mariah's behavior patterns, not to speak of anyway, but he read people's actions well enough to understand something was wrong. Something bad.

He whispered an excuse into Kimble's ear and hot-footed toward Joe's woman. Half a block from the church he caught up with her, falling in step beside the redhead, whose pinned-up hair was a veritable halo in the fading sunlight.

“A lot of us are parched for a snort of Lois's rum punch,” he said, making light and wishing to touch her splendid hair, “but there's no need to rush. She's made enough to drunk-up every cowpoke and cowgal in Texas.”

Increasing her pace, Mariah directed her sight straight ahead. “I ... uh ... need to take care of something.”

“Whoa now, Red.” Whit grabbed her elbow, threw back his head, and chuckled. “There's a privy behind the church. No need to get your drawers in a wad.”

She stopped so fast that dirt stirred around her skirts. “That isn't what I meant.” Her strapped reticule swinging from a forearm, she crossed both arms and twisted around to face Whit. Her eyes speared him, as she suppressed a grin. “And if you're trying to be funny with your uncouth phraseology, you've failed miserably.”

“Then why are you chewing the inside of your cheek?”

She glanced down while drawing in a breath. “To keep from crying,” she whispered, finally, brokenly.

“I didn't mean to insult you.”

“My feelings have nothing to do with you. I–I ... well, I need to be alone. That's all.”

“The wedding got to you,” he surmised.

“Yes.”

“Thinking of
your
upcoming wedding, Mariah?”

She nodded. “I'd like to be alone right now.”

He stepped in front of her, taking her chin within his palm. Her skin was soft as a rose petal and he stroked its bud-smooth texture, knowing that each time he smelled roses he'd always think of Mariah Rose.

“If you've got second thoughts about becoming a missus,” he said hoarsely, “don't marry Joe.”

“Maybe you're–” She moved backward. “Wait a minute. Why are you trying to talk me out of it?”

“Hey.” He waved a hand. “Don't turn the emphasis to me. You're the one who's having second thoughts.”

“I never said that.”

“You didn't have to.”

Neither spoke. Mariah shuffled her feet. No more than three arms' lengths from her, Whit crouched back on his heels, picked up a pebble, then tossed it down Main Street.

An elbow on his knee, he fell to deep thought. Joe Jaye was hardworking, determined, and in love. The last part of Whit's thought jarred his senses. To this point, he had been a little slow on the uptake. Not now. Apparently Joe hadn't been frank in his letters for fear of losing his precious Mariah.

Once Whit had been desperately in love. Love's a funny thing, he thought, feeling more than his years. In most relationships, one person's love was deeper than the other's. Such had been the case with him and Jenny. Back then, he'd been a moonstruck, gullible wet-ears who wouldn't listen to the naysayers' warnings that he was too young and randy to know his mind. Or Jenny's. His wife had married him to get away from her parents; he'd married her because he couldn't live without her. Two years later, she was dead. Time had proved he could live without her ... and live a damned fine life.

He correlated his past troubles to Joe's. Though the Englishman was twenty-four, a couple of years older than Whit had been at the time of Jenny's death, Joe still had a lot to learn from the academy of hard knocks called life.

Glancing up at Mariah, Whit admitted, “Joe reminds me of myself when I was young. So much in love that it overpowers everything and anything, beyond rhyme or reason.”

She gasped. “Don't say that. Please don't.”

“You don't love him, do you?”

She took several pacing steps, then whipped around and squared her shoulders. “Define love.”

He was nonplussed. Whit Reagor was the last person on earth to be asked for such a definition, but Mariah didn't know that. Could he even remember how love felt?

“Can you define true love?” she pressed.

“Love.” His fingers tugged at his suddenly tight shirt collar and he rose to his feet. “Well, I'd say it's desire, passion, probably obsession. Wanting to share your life with another. Needing to be together all your born days ... having the urge to procreate.” He gave a half grin. “Guess the best way to describe it is ... say you haven't eaten in two days, and you're extra sweet on pecan pie. You get a big piece of it, all fresh from the oven and smelling like heaven. Rather than gobble it down yourself, you'd give it to the one you love.”

“I've had those feelings.”

She didn't qualify that statement, Whit noted. Without a doubt, her feelings had been for that other man, not for Joe. But she
had
loved and lost, that was certain, and in the aftermath was bound by the strictures of society to make an honest woman of herself.

Whit suffered under no illusions; it was different for men. He had gotten over Jenny by hellin' and whorin', but respectable women weren't allowed those freedoms.

If he were a woman, he'd damned sure hate having marriage pushed on him. Nonetheless, Mariah
was
bound by society if she wanted a home and a respectable sex life, which his instincts told him appealed to her for sure.

And thinking of sex, Whit stared at the doe-eyed beauty. He imagined what her shapely body must look like in the flesh, yet he couldn't picture her and the sawed-off farmer in a carnal act. For Pete's sake, she was a good two inches taller than Joe, and probably had ten pounds on him. But then again what the hell did that have to do with anything? What he couldn't see was her hair in wild disarray and flowing over Joe's chest as she rode him hard and fast, her face flushed with excitement, her husky voice moaning his name.

Whit had no trouble putting himself in the picture.

What the hell's the matter with you, Reagor? he asked himself. Snap out of it. Mariah Rose McGuire was Joe's woman. Period. And at this point, she needed something different from Whit's sexual musings.

“Look, you've got a case of bridal jitters, that's all. You shouldn't be alone. Come on, Mariah, let's go to the wedding hoedown.” He offered an arm. “If you need a shoulder to cry on, mine's available for you. Okay?”

After a moment she agreed. She slipped her arm through the crook of his and started back toward the churchyard.

She wanted to confide in Whit but wouldn't dare. She couldn't open a vein to this man, who was Joseph's confidant and . . . the object of her fascination.

Furthermore, it wouldn't be right and proper not to explain her decision to Joseph in person. The broken engagement would injure his pride and, with those problems Gail had spoken of involving the barbed wire, Mariah was determined to cushion the blow as best she could. She had to finish her journey.

In the meantime, she'd wrestle with her conscience and prepare for the confrontation. But tonight she simply wanted to blank out thoughts of the heartbreak she would cause in Trick'em. She prayed Whit wouldn't bring up the subject of Joseph again, and her prayers were answered. Wordlessly they rode to the Atherton residence, this time in a sky-blue covered wagon with red spoke wheels.

Buggies and wagons littered the grounds surrounding the Atherton property. Horses were tethered to hitching posts and trees. The barn was freshly mucked out, clean-smelling, and streamers hung from the loft and eaves. A half dozen pot-bellied stoves toasted the air. The sun had set, leaving the barn bathed in the glow of a wealth of hurricane lamps.

Scores of people gathered around the blushing bride and proud groom. A troupe of ladies set food, plus a white, iced cake, on long tables. Cups of pink-tinted rum punch were passed around. Two fiddlers resined their bows, Whit explained to Mariah, and music, helped along by a paunchy dance caller, filled the tall building.

Lois pulled Whit aside, and while he was gone, Mariah's toe tapped to the music. She missed his attention. Her thoughts turned to something he had said outside the church. Joseph reminded him of himself when he was young. “So much in love that it overpowers everything and anything, beyond rhyme or reason.” Who was the woman he'd loved with such abandon? Even Gail had mentioned her, but with no specifics. Was she a blonde, a brunette, or a redhead? Where was she now? Mariah was curious why she had turned her back on such a man. Why hadn't she wanted his love? From all Mariah had gathered, he was a good man, decent and honorable.

“May I have this dance?”

She turned to the deep sound from behind her, turned to Whit Reagor. Again that strange, magical, unexplainable feeling assailed her. Was it his golden voice? Though his inflections were indicative of Texas, she noted–and not for the first time–the special richness imbuing his tone. It should be a sin to be so handsome, she thought while drinking in the sight of his black hair and tanned, olive-toned face, the coloring that complemented and contrasted to his blue eyes. But, it was not those things that were the most appealing aspects of Whit Reagor, but rather the tenderness he tried so hard to hide.

Hitching a thumb at the dance floor, he dimpled a grin. “Well?”

Though the tune held a waltz's tempo and a line about “pretty new shoes” went along with the rhythm, she was unfamiliar with the dance steps. “I'm sorry, Whit, I can't dance to that.”

“I'd be honored to teach you.”

He aligned his right side with her left, then instructed her to bend her elbows up. He grasped her fingers, and she caught the clove scent of bay rum and warm, clean man. Whit's scent.

“Point your left toe,” he instructed, deep and sweet. “Now cross it over your right ankle. That's it, darlin'. Now step forward with your left foot, then your right.”

Mariah tried. Her heel encountered her petticoat and the sound of ripping material caused her to freeze. “I'm no good at this.”

“Just relax. Let yourself go with the feeling.”

That was exactly what she did and within moments she was caught up in the music ... and the grace in which Whit executed the dance. He exuded power and confidence, attributes much admired by his partner.

Whit angled his chin to whisper in her ear, “Farthing for your thoughts.”

“Farthing?” She giggled as the wind of his breath wound down from her earlobe. “How British.”

“Just wanted you to feel at home.” The piece ended, and Whit whirled around to grasp both sides of her waist. They were standing under the loft in a shadowy area well away from the crowd gathered around the bride and groom. “You're wonderful, Mariah.”

“You're pretty nice yourself.”

“I'll bet you're good at everything you do.” His eyes held hers, and his mouth dipped low.

Heart racing, she parted her lips. She welcomed his kiss, had yearned all day for it, even though she hadn't made that inward admission. His warm, punch-scented breath tickled her lips, and the ability to breathe deserted her. Oddly, he changed course, the kiss landing on her cheek. Disappointment grabbed her heart.

“Hullo, you two. Issa beautiful wedding, iz-shn't it?”

They broke apart at Gail's inebriated words.

“Are you all right?” Whit asked the teetering woman.

“Yeah.”

Despite her embarrassment at being caught by the very person who had accused her of being interested in Whit, Mariah was surprised at the brunette's state. Obviously Gail had consumed a great deal of alcohol in a short period of time, and Mariah wondered what had caused her to do so.

“Say, Whit, how's about getting us two little ladies some more hootch. I mean”–she hiccuped–“I mean punch.”

“You're drunk already,” Whit observed.

“So? Go 'way. I wanna tawk to Mariah!”

“Gail Ann Sutherland,” he said sternly, taking her arm, “I'm going to walk you back to the house.”

Yanking away, she demanded, “Lemme tawk to Mariah!”

“You won't have much privacy with the crowd you're gathering.” He gestured to curious the eyes of several onlookers.

Lois stepped through the crowd. “Behave yourself,” she hissed to Gail before turning to the observers. “Haven't you got anything better to do than gawk? There's a bride and groom waitin' to cut the cake. Get goin'!”

The bystanders receded, and Mariah watched Whit take the young woman's arm once more. “Ready to go, honey?”

“Not yet. I said I wanna tawk to Mariah.”

“Leave her be,” Mariah said.

Whit and Lois looked at her, making certain she was sincere, and, satisfied, they retreated. Mariah watched Whit stride through the barn, watched first one guest, then others, stop him to offer back slaps and cups of punch.

“Let's siddown.” Gail plopped down on two bales of hay that were stacked atop each other. She patted the adjacent makeshift chair. “Come on. I won't bite.”

Mariah smoothed her skirts, then eased onto the bale.

“Didn't I warn you today about Wh-Whit?” Gail covered her lips as she hiccupped again. “Better watch out.”