The Outlaw Takes a Bride (24 page)

They both watched him go. When the door shut behind him, Sally squeaked out, “Mark?”

He shoved back his chair and turned to face her. She threw herself against him, and he closed his arms around her. Why did she have to hear? Why couldn’t Jackson have come out to the barn to meet him and tell him in private?

Sally sobbed. Johnny reached up a shaky hand and stroked her golden hair. She lifted her tear-streaked face.

“We should pray for your brother.”

He caught his breath but managed a curt nod.

Sally nestled against his chest and held on to him. “I’m so sorry, Mark.”

He held her another minute, but all he could think of was that she was wearing a brand-new dress—the one she’d sewn from the calico he bought her—and his filthy clothes were getting dust all over it.

Mark stayed away from the house all afternoon. Sally watched for him, even though he’d said he was riding to the high pasture to check on the stock. She couldn’t stop thinking about his reaction when the sheriff produced the wanted poster for his brother. It had been a shock, anyone could see that. Poor, dear man. His own brother!

A shadow of disloyalty hung over her. She wanted to be able to tell Mark that he was right. His brother would never do such a thing. But she didn’t know Johnny, and a lot of men had done murder without the slightest indication in advance that they were capable of the act. Or maybe it wasn’t murder. Maybe he’d accidentally killed someone and run away, and they were looking for him. He would go on trial if he was caught, and the truth would come out. Yes. It could even be self-defense.

As she folded laundry, churned butter, and set out ingredients for a cake, she prayed, sometimes in her heart and sometimes out loud.

“God, You know what really happened in Colorado, and we can’t change it now. Please comfort Mark. Don’t let him grieve so over his brother.” But she knew she would do the same if she got word that one of her brothers was wanted for murder.

A longing came over her to see her family, especially her mother. She would write home again, once this latest business had settled down. Wouldn’t it be wonderful if Ma and Pa could come visit? She clung to that thought. She had no one here to discuss woman talk with. She was getting to know the church ladies, but she wasn’t close enough to any of them to bare her soul. And she wouldn’t, anyway. She couldn’t do that to Mark.

No, even her mother couldn’t know that her husband barely touched her, even in the quiet darkness of their bedroom. Today’s embrace was rare, brought on by a crisis.

Tears poured from her eyes, and she pulled her apron up to wipe her face.

Lord, You know I love him, and I believe he loves me, too. What’s wrong with us? With me? Why won’t he truly make me his wife?

She’d wondered thousands of times in the last month. Mark treated her respectfully and performed countless small kindnesses for her. Now and then she saw a longing in his eyes. It wasn’t the hard, fierce passion David used to turn on her, but a sweet, sad yearning. She had to believe Mark wanted more from their marriage, as much as she did. He could be the kind of husband she’d longed for, she knew he could. Why wouldn’t he act on that desire?

The air was hot and humid—too hot for her to add more heat to the cabin. She would wait and bake after supper. She hung up her apron, donned her bonnet, and carried a basket outside.

She stopped at the well and pulled up a pail of water. Even the well water didn’t get cold on hot days. The heat would get worse as the summer wore on. By the end of July, she would look back on these balmy June days as paradise.

The spring garden was dying, with only a few carrots and a yellow squash or two left. Sally picked them and placed the basket inside the front door. She had forgotten how different the rhythm of life was in Texas, and she had never lived this far south before. She would have to ask the other women what they did to keep cool.

She walked over to the corral fence and leaned on it, thinking about Mark. His arm was better; he had even brought in fuel and water for her the past few days, and he had milked the cow this morning. That was no longer the excuse for the barrier between them, if it had ever been.

They read scripture together every evening and talked about it. Sometimes he read, and Sally sewed while she listened. On other nights, Sally read, and Mark sat in his chair whittling. He’d carved her a wooden spoon during their devotions last week.

She had even heard him pray a few times. True they were not deep, profound prayers, but she didn’t expect him to be a preacher. And today when she had suggested they pray for Johnny, he had agreed, but then, once they’d sat down together, he’d held her hand and said, “You pray, Sally. I can’t.”

So she had asked God to protect his brother and let the truth be told. Mark didn’t seem to take exception to anything she’d said. She’d figured he was just too choked up inside to voice his own prayer. She hoped he was praying now, off on his own someplace, where no one but God would hear him.

David had never prayed to her knowledge, through the entire time of their marriage, and he had disdained her regular reading of the scriptures. She had even hidden her Bible during the last year of David’s life, for fear he would destroy it. He blamed many of her shortcomings on what he called her sanctimoniousness.

Sally let out a big sigh and rested her head on the rail. She had tried to present a calm and cheerful spirit to David and not nag him or sermonize to him, but he had still said she was too religious. For that reason, she had tried to be unobtrusive about her faith with Mark. But he had welcomed her suggestion of Bible reading together, and she didn’t force him to go to church. He seemed to want to be there. From the letters he had sent her in St. Louis, she knew he was a true believer. Maybe she should take those letters out and reread them, to remind her of how strong his faith was.

Because sometimes these days, Mark seemed to falter.

She walked to the barn door and looked in. She seldom entered the barn, because that was Cam’s domain. Just thinking of him cast a pall on her. That first day she’d arrived, she’d found him charming, but the better acquainted she got with him, the less she found to like.

She turned away and walked around the other side of the barn. A slope rose behind it, and she wondered what she’d be able to see from the top. A few trees grew in the pasture, along the creek. Were there any on the other side of that knoll?

She wandered slowly up the low hill through bluestem grass, stopping now and then to pick a wildflower. As she reached the top, she noticed something to one side, among the weeds. She walked toward it, curious at first, then satisfied when she realized what it was, and then curious again.

She stood looking at the three-foot cross, built of pine still fresh and yellow. A vine twined along the crosspiece, and the whole thing had a coat of shellac, but nothing else. The grass in front of it was shorter than that around it, and she could tell someone had been here recently. The stems were bent over around the cross.

Troubled, she walked back down the hill to the cabin.

Mark and Cam arrived home within minutes of each other, though they came from different directions. Sally wished she’d had a chance to talk to her husband alone, but maybe this was part of God’s plan. She waited until they had eaten their first servings of beans, bacon, carrots, and bread and caught each other up on what they’d accomplished that day.

Cam held out his coffee cup expectantly, and she rose to refill it. When she came back to the table, he smiled at her. “Thank you.”

She nodded and resumed her seat. Had Mark told him about the sheriff’s visit? She didn’t think that was possible, unless they had met out on the range somewhere and discussed it, but their talk didn’t hint at such a meeting. She had watched out the window while Cam unharnessed his horse, and Mark hadn’t lingered to talk to him then.

“I was wondering,” she said, and they both stared at her. Sally cleared her throat, suddenly nervous. “There’s a cross on the hill yonder. I wondered what it’s for. It looks like a grave.”

Neither man spoke for a moment, and then Cam said, “That’s a cowhand—the fella who had my job before I got here.”

Sally eyed him with misgivings but tried not to show it in her face. Mark hadn’t mentioned Cam in his letters, and he certainly hadn’t mentioned any previous employees. In fact, in one of his letters Mark had stated that he hadn’t hired anyone yet. If she allowed that he’d taken Cam on in the last few weeks before her arrival, that still didn’t account for the man buried on the knoll.

She looked at Mark, but he looked away and helped himself to another large spoonful of beans. Sally watched him for a moment.

Cam turned back to Mark. “So, next time you go into town, maybe you should talk to that fella at the feed store about getting a windmill. Caxton said he ordered his there.”

“That’d be kind of expensive,” Mark said. “We’ll see how the water in the creek holds out. It looks all right so far.”

“But if you wait until it goes dry, it’ll be too late.”

So that was how it was. Sally stood and carried her dishes to the worktable and poured hot water into her dishpan. Cam, at least, seemed determined to put the subject of the grave behind them. But nighttime was coming, and Cam would be in the barn.

As the time approached, her conscience began to peck away at her resolve. Was it right for a woman to ambush her husband on a touchy topic when he was otherwise good and kind?

She brushed her long hair until it gleamed in the lamplight. Holding up her mirror, she considered the features she was given. She wasn’t the most beautiful woman in Texas, but she certainly wasn’t the homeliest, either, and she was the only one on this ranch. While her twenty-eight years gave her a maturity, that could be an advantage. If she’d married Mark ten years ago, her confusion would have driven her to tears every day.

Besides, Mark was legally bound to her. So what was holding him back?

By the time he knocked on the bedroom door, she had decided not to pounce on him with the question of the cross, but to try to open a general discussion on their marriage.

He entered almost humbly, glancing at her, where she sat on the edge of the bed in her nightdress. He nodded and closed the door then sat down to take off his boots.

“Mark?” she said cautiously.

“Yeah?” His first boot thumped to the floor.

Her heart beat faster. “Is something wrong?”

Silence.

After a long moment, the second boot dropped on the rag rug.

She turned and looked at his back. He was just sitting there. Sally climbed onto her hands and knees and clambered across the bed. She touched his shoulder, and he jerked a little.

She let out a small puff of air, trying not to let the hurt drive her away from him. “I don’t know how to
be
with you,” she whispered. “I thought you wanted a wife, and I’ve tried—”

“You’re a wonderful wife,” Mark said.

Sally let that sink in. “Then why…” She couldn’t say it. Her face flamed just thinking about it. Instead, she blurted out, “I know something’s wrong. Please tell me.
Please
.”

His shoulders trembled. “There’s nothing wrong, Sally.”

Tears sprang into her eyes. “I feel like there is.”

He shook his head.

“There must be. Don’t you trust me?”

“Sure I do.”

“Then what is it? Do you wish you hadn’t brought me to Texas?”

“No! I’m glad you came.”

“Then what is it? I love you so much, but—” She stopped, appalled at what she’d said. Was she turning into a weepy, clinging shrew? The tears flowed freely now, splashing down on her cotton nightdress.

He bent over, and after a moment she realized he was putting his boots on again.

“Mark?” She sat up straight, her heart ripping in two. “Where are you going?”

He shoved his foot down hard and stood. “I’m sorry.”

“For what?”

“I just… I’m not ready, Sally.”

She stared as he walked out of the room without looking her way and shut the door. She pivoted and flopped on her pillow.

“Dear Lord, what is wrong with this man? Does he have some morbid fear of marriage?”

That was crazy. How could he have written those tender letters if he secretly feared intimate contact? There must be some other explanation. Her thoughts swirled, but they always came back to one thing: something about her repulsed Mark, no matter what he said.

She buried her face in the pillow slip, trying to keep her sobs quiet.