Wild Texas Rose (13 page)

“It'll do.” When she cuddled against him, he playfully tapped her behind. “You don't have to guess how I feel. I want you again.”

He caught the wicked gleam in her eyes as she touched his manhood.

“Well, darling, let's do something about it.”

They did.

The rains stopped at a quarter past three, and both Mariah and Whit were famished. Besides feeling hungry, she was a mixture of happiness and dread. Whit made her happy, but not once in their hours of lovemaking had he uttered one word about the future. She didn't take this as a good sign, but why ask for problems?

“How 'bout I fetch our victuals?” he asked after relighting the lamp, the side of his knuckle tenderly chucking her jawline.

“I'll help you.”

“Stay put.” He threw his legs over the edge of the bed and pulled his breeches over his hips. Buttoning up, he said, “No need to get out of the hay.”

“You aren't suggesting we eat in bed, are you?”

“I most certainly am.” He brought the tray of food and drink to the bed, and she threw the sheet aside, meaning to stand, but he shot her a warning look.

Whit sat down, Indian fashion, and served two plates of food. The cold chicken was delicious, as were the crackers, the quarter wheel of hard cheese, and the bottle of elderberry wine. Pickled eggs weren't high on her list of favorites, but they had a pleasing taste right then.

They both made veritable pigs of themselves. Whit picked up his last cracker to study it, then held it to her lips. She bit into the wafer, and crumbs joined many others on her chest.

“This is positively sinful,” she said with a laugh, brushing food particles away. “Positively disgraceful.”

“Aw, now, honeybunch, tell me it's not fun to eat crackers in–Crackers. I knew something was missing. Where's Gus?”

Mariah's eyes widened at the seemingly harmless question. She opened her mouth, then immediately clamped it shut.

Suspicion darkened Whit's intent blue gaze. He unfolded his legs and stood at the foot of the bed. His arms crossed, he asked, “Would that bird happen to be at Joe Jaye's farm?”

The food in her stomach knotted into a lump. “Yes.”

“What exactly does that mean? Have you, or have you not, broken off with Joe?”

“Why were you waiting for me?” she asked in a non sequitur.

The room grew deathly quiet.

“Have you broken off with him?” Whit repeated finally.

“Are you here to offer something better?”

“I don't offer deals. You know my terms.”

Reality dawned on Mariah. Whit hadn't changed. The last hours had been no more than a sham on his part. Pain and fury ripped into her, pride and a broken heart forming her reply.

“I'm not interested in your terms. Joseph has good intentions, and that's fine enough for me.”

“Oh, really?” Whit's expression was murderous. “Good intentions, huh? Well, I wonder if you've thought about what you'll be getting into. There won't be any teaching for the fair Mariah, no sir. She'll be shackled to a dried-out piece of land and a lying numskull who can't even see that pears are a fool's idea of making a living in Coleman County.”

“Don't you dare patronize me, Whit Reagor. Helping Joseph achieve his potential is a challenge, not a detriment.”

“When was the truth ever patronizing?” he questioned, a hard glint in his eyes. “And speaking of the truth, my guileless Mariah, I do believe there's something you haven't thought of. What will you tell your beloved nobleman when he finds out you're already”–he cleared his throat–“broken to a man's saddle?”

Whit's crude question made her realize, suddenly, that in all her decisions and plans of late, she'd never given full thought to sleeping with Joseph. But she'd never make such an admission to Whit Reagor.

“I won't have to tell him anything,” she replied at last, raising her chin in the air. “He'll simply assume that Lawrence had his way with me.”

“And if that doesn't work?” Whit challenged, a wry smile on his granite-edged, handsome face. “What then, my innocent?”

“Well–” she mustered bravado “–if that doesn't work, I'll tell him the truth. I'll tell him it was you.”

“You're bluffing,” he said evenly, his eyes piercing hers.

“What makes you so sure of that, Mr. Reagor?”

“Because it won't be necessary. Because you won't marry him.”

“I will marry him.”

“Is that so? Well, I have a question. If you planned to marry him, why did you sleep with me?”

“I thought you wanted more than a mistress,” she replied through her agony.

“And now you know I don't.”

“Exactly. That's why I'm going to do everything in my power to make Joseph a good wife.”

“Oh, you will, will you? Tell me something, Mariah. Not that I believe you'll go through with the marriage–not for one minute do I believe that!–but let's say you do rise to the challenge.” Whit's gaze raked her body, those intimate places he'd caressed . . . “Can he give you what we just shared? Or will you fall asleep every night hoping Joe Jaye won't touch you?”

She was further angered by his low blow. “Better I should fall asleep than be bothered by the devil himself.”

“Empty words, Mariah. Empty words.”

She used no hollow words while demanding, “Get out.”

Chapter Twelve

Later in that same day, Mariah avoided Joseph and the farm. She couldn't bring herself to leave her room and spent a lonely, mournful day.

As evening fell, Mariah came to the devastating conclusion that because of his past, Whit would never allow himself to have faith in her.

Not ten minutes after she had made this heart-shattering realization, Joseph appeared at the boardinghouse. Concerned over her absence, he was solicitous and fretful ... and quite pleased at the previous evening's rains.

“Every little bit helps,” he said, sitting in one of the parlor chairs. “But enough about the weather. I've brought you some chicken soup Mrs. Lamkin prepared. Shall I warm it?”

For some reason, her sorrowful mood plummeted even lower under his thoughtful attentions.

“I feared you'd changed your mind about our marriage,” Joseph said, his doleful eyes boring into Mariah.

She quit her chair and, turning to the darkened window, tightened the sash of her heavy dressing gown. “Joseph, I ... I ...”

“But then I told myself, ‘Surely she's indisposed, and you must see after her.' Wait here, my dearest. I'll only be a moment.” Before she could protest, he hastened toward the kitchen. “Warm soup will have you feeling better in no time at all. You'll see.”

Joseph served the fare, continuing to watch her attentively while she slowly consumed it. His gaze was openly concerned.

She looked down at herself. Although evening had fallen, here she was still in a dressing gown. With sudden clarity, Mariah realized she had done today what she had vowed never to do. She had taken to a lonely bed to hide her grief instead of throwing herself into the challenges of getting on.

Where was her usual sense of practicality? Unlike Whit Reagor, Joseph Jaye had faith in her. He had accepted her, flaws and all, and she understood why he had lied. He had feared losing her, which was no sin.

On top of this, Mariah realized she must use common sense. Whit had said it himself: “A man's gotta do what a man's gotta do to keep a lady out of trouble.” And the same statement applied to the lady herself. She was without funds and gainful means of support. If she left Trick'em, she'd be forced to meander around Texas, friendless and bereft of family or family connections while searching for employment.

She crossed to the window and gazed at the darkened street. She was in a strange country populated by even stranger people. One of her reasons for being in Texas had been her lost virtue, which, as it had turned out, hadn't been true at all ... until Whit Reagor had changed all that.

If she'd had any hopes for her and Whit's future, they had been shattered in the middle of the night, in an angry exchange of words.

She whipped around to face Joseph, renewing the pledge she'd made, the pledge she'd voiced to Whit only moments before he'd stormed from her room in the wee hours of this very morning.

“No, Joseph, I haven't changed my mind.” She elevated her chin an extra inch. “I will marry you.”

“Bless you.” The tension in his face subsided with the swiftness of an ebbing tide. “Shall we set a date?”

Her chin lowered a fraction. She would keep her vow, both to Joseph and to the stubborn, bitter man who had stolen her heart. But she couldn't bring herself to rush into the marriage.

“Joseph,” she said, her words measured, “I've barely arrived in Trick'em, and I'd prefer to get organized before having to deal with wedding plans.”

“Whatever you wish, dearest.”

Yes, Mariah thought, she would marry Joseph... But as she watched him, Whit's words echoed in her mind. Her body would never catch fire when Joseph touched her, as it had each time in Whit's presence. Nevertheless...

Mariah swallowed the air lodging in her throat. She would simply close her eyes ... and think of England.

 

 

The next morning Mariah felt somewhat better and got on with her business. She and Joseph had a farm to revitalize, and her teaching was ahead of her.

Bathed and dressed, she prepared a basket of sandwiches and a jug of the chilled tea so many Texans enjoyed, and called on the Lamkins. Mud had kept them from the fields, and they were working at their dugout. Three of them enthusiastically greeted their visitor.

Molly had been feeding the chickens. Lisping a mile a minute, she jumped with joy and wound her grubby hands around Mariah's riding skirts. Patsy put down her whetstone, abandoning the plow blade she had been sharpening, and strolled over to chat. A.W., a sickly pallor to his skin, ceased his roof repair. “Soddies leak like a sieve,” he explained, offering a handshake.

Aggie, stopping only a moment for an introduction to Mariah, continued to curry the skinny old calico mule of contrary persuasion.

“I've brought lunch.” Mariah took her basket from the saddlehorn. “Hope you're hungry, because I've fixed plenty.”

“Did you bring candy?” Molly asked, her hazel eyes dancing in expectation.

“Candy? My goodness, no, Molly pie,” Mariah teased. “I won't be responsible for rotting your teeth.”

The young girl tapped a forefinger at the space in her mouth. “I don't have any teeth.”

“Well, in that case, what's the harm?” Adoring this small bundle of strawberry-blond hair and wide, gap-toothed grins, Mariah reached into her pocket. “How about these for dessert?”

Molly squealed in delight over the wrapped hard candies, and Aggie put the currycomb away to take two steps toward Mariah and say thank you. She turned back to the mule.

“Let's go into the house,” Patsy suggested.

Mariah made a detour by Old Glue and fetched a wrapped parcel before following the Lamkins into the soddy. After they sandwiches and drinks were consumed, Mariah picked up the parcel that had been sitting beside her chair.

Molly climbed onto Mariah's lap and, with typical childish curiosity, began to fiddle with the package. “For me?” she asked.

“Yes. For you and for Aggie.”

The older girl, who had been quiet as a church mouse during the meal and had kept her distance, tangled a finger into her hair and eyed the giver of the package suspiciously.

“Aggie, I've brought you your very own
McGuffey's Reader.”

Aggie ducked her chin, accepted the book, and shrank back to run her fingers over the bindings.

“Now, Aggie,” her mother chided, “don't be that way. What do you say to Miss Mariah?”

“Thank you, ma'am” was the weak reply.

“You're welcome.” Obviously, Aggie was shy, but Mariah reasoned that in time she'd bring the girl around.

Her bubbling personality in full display, Molly set to unwrapping the gift. “Oooh, pretty!” She turned the book over and over in her hand, then her big eyes looked up at Mariah. “But I don't know how to read.” Those eyes brightened. “But my daddy doeth. He readth the Bible every night,” she ended, stretching out the last part.

“Well, Molly, soon you and your sister will be reading. I'm going to teach you. Someday you can read the Bible to your father. Would you like that?”

She nodded and began to flip through the pages. “Thank you, Mith Mariah. Will I learn thums, too?”

“Oh, yes. Sums are on the list.”

“Why don't you girls get back to your chores?” A.W. suggested. “Mama and I need to talk with Miss Mariah.”

Molly reached up to hug and kiss her benefactress. She scrambled down from Mariah's lap, skipped over to her mother, and entrusted the reader to Patsy's protection.

Trodding slowly to the right, Aggie tucked her copy of
McGuffey's
into a weathered old trunk.

Once both girls were outside, A. W. said, “We sure do appreciate what you're doing for our younguns, but it'll be a few more weeks afore the lessons can start. We've still got a right smart amount of plowin' and plantin' ahead of us.”

“I know. Patsy told me as much. But I wanted to visit with the girls and give them the books. I hope you don't mind my doing so.”

A.W. and his wife replied in unison, “Of course not!”

“I'm glad. And I must be on my way.” Mariah stood. “I've much to do at the farm.”

There was a lot to be accomplished, and over the next two weeks she gave all her energies. She settled into a routine of days at the farm, evenings in Trick'em. Gradually, the hovel changed into a cozy home with draperies, a door knocker–admittedly ludicrous, considering the hide door–and cherished belongings. Mariah gained a great deal of satisfaction not only from her efforts in the house but also from the noticeable improvements in the farm.

She had help, of course. Joseph worked day and night. Pablo Martinez and his family, as Birdie had promised, proved to be able helpers.

In addition to assisting Joseph repair the fence line and the cabin's roof, Pablo had built a small shack of canvas and wood, thus easing Mariah's concern about their living quarters.

Conchita, the Martinezes' daughter, had displayed efficiency with the housework and with the newly purchased flock of chickens. As an added bonus, the young Mexican girl was interested in furthering her education. She could read Spanish, but not English. During the hours after supper, Mariah had begun tutoring her in reading. Conchita was a quick learner, and her teacher was pleased at the results.

Pablo's wife, Evita, had worked alongside Mariah planting a market garden of corn, greens, squash, onions, beans both of the green and pinto varieties, and love apples–tomatoes they were called here in Texas. Beyond those, Evita had provided seeds for peppers with the strange name of
jalapeños.

Mariah prayed for the garden's success. As far as she was concerned, their livelihood depended on it; she didn't share Joseph's enthusiasm for the profitability of growing pears in Coleman County.

Of course, Mariah had had many thoughts of Gail during those two weeks of activities. She hoped and prayed everything was now fine with the Stricklands.

More often, Mariah had thought of Whit ...

Even now as she drove the cart toward town to purchase supplies on this warm April afternoon, she recalled the many unforgettable hours in his embrace. Did Whit have these same memories? Surely he hadn't forgotten... Cutting across a stretch of the Western Trail that sliced through Crosswind, she yearned to get a glimpse of the ranch's owner.

She saw a few head of cattle, very little grass, a scattering of bluebonnets, and a lot of prickly pears ... but nothing of Whit.

Maybe it was better this way, his keeping his distance. Why torture herself with what-might-have-beens?

She veered her regard to the present, glancing at the man sitting next to her. Pablo Martinez, whose white hair belied his middle years, was a proud and pious man of aristocratic Spanish stock.

Pablo had suffered from his decision to live in the country of his wife's birth, Mariah knew, yet he was determined to have his own land. “Soon,” he'd said many times.

The fine gray horse, one of Whit's gifts, topped a knoll, and an unusual sight came into view. Not ten feet from the roadway and not fifty feet from Mariah and Pablo, a man and two boys were unrolling barbed wire–on Crosswind property!

“Pablo, would you look at that?”

She tapped the whip, meaning to edge the cart nearer for closer scrutiny of the men, but Pablo put a restraining hand across hers. “Keep going, señorita,” he said in his perfect, though accented, English. “Do not get involved.”

“ 'I don't plan to, but I ... well, I never thought Whit Reagor would build a fence.”

“Those are not the men of Señor Reagor.”

Bemused, she asked, “You mean they're squatters?”

“Yes.” As they passed the fence builders, he eyed the oldest of the three. “That one is Spuds O'Brien; the others are his sons.” Pablo turned his head to nod slightly at Mariah. “They will not be squatters on Crosswind for long, not on the property of the rich Señor Reagor.”

“What do you mean?” she asked, hurrying the gray toward town. “Mr. Reagor wouldn't do them harm.”

“Who is to guess the actions of a man whose possessions are threatened? If I were he, I would guard what is mine with all my resources.”

She disregarded Pablo's personal analogy. “He won't resort to violence over the matter,” she stated, believing her words to be true.

“Señor Reagor is a very rich and powerful man, and he is protective of his belongings.” At her visible distress, Pablo backed down. “The law is on his side, and Senor O'Brien is not very smart. Apparently he doesn't know he can lay no claim to owned lands.” He paused. “Did you know the Jaye farm and Crosswind Ranch are the only properties in this county with deeds?”

“No, I wasn't aware of that.”

“It is true.” Pablo thrummed his fingers on a knee. “I should add the Strickland ranch to the list. But, in essence, it is part of Crosswind. Senor Reagor gave that land to the Stricklands as a wedding gift.”

“I've heard that, but I thought most of the land was owned by the various cattlemen.”

“This land had no owner but the Indians until the white man triumphed over those savages. Land and cattle were for the taking, and there was no need for deeds. But times are changing, and that is why so many people such as myself have come here to claim land.”

Mariah felt a sense of security. Legally, the farm was protected. On second thought, she realized, recalling O'Brien and his sons, that being an owner didn't mean freedom from trouble.

“Pablo, should we tell the sheriff about the O'Briens?” Should she get word to Whit?