Wild Texas Rose (14 page)

“Señor Reagor will know soon enough.”

They cleared the edge of Trick'em. She reasoned with herself that Whit's business wasn't her concern. Anyway, she had her own business to tend. As they drew up in front of Dick Cheatham's general store, she said, “Pablo, ask the blacksmith if he can recommend a good riding horse.” She handed him a stack of gold coins. “A mare, preferably.”

Pablo nodded, obviously pleased she trusted his judgment in horses, and accepted the reins.

She started toward the white clapboard building housing the general store. “Mariah.! ” she heard from behind, and turned to Gail Strickland, who wore a smart calico dress of blue and gray, a pert bonnet atop her head of black curls.

Mariah searched for signs of paleness, of unhappiness, and, seeing none, she embraced her friend. “How are you? I've missed you. How long have you been home?”

“So many questions. I'm fine; I've missed you, too; I arrived the day before yesterday.” Gail inclined her head toward the brightly painted building that housed Jackie Jo's Café. “Shall we indulge in a cup of tea?”

Arm in arm they strolled to the eating establishment, which was empty of people save for the proprietress–a stylishly plump woman of about forty with green eyes, a head of rich dark hair braided and fashioned in a cornet, and a bubbling personality.

“I've been wanting to meet you, Miss McGuire.” Jackie Jo Jamerson clutched a piece of chalk to write their order on her slate. “Have you really visited London?”

“Yes.”

“Oh, how nice! What is the latest fashion?”

“Sorry, but I haven't been there in years.”

“That's too bad.” Jackie Jo pursed her lips. “I'm planning to open a ladies' apparel shop, and I'd hoped you could lend an expert opinion.”

“I'm very much a provincial islander, so I'm afraid I would be of no service, but I wish you good luck with your enterprise,” Mariah said sincerely. “Please tell me about your shop.”

Jackie Jo launched into an animated monologue. She planned to import fine silks and the like, and a seamstress would copy fashions from Godey's
Lady's
Book. Shoes and millinery would be featured, as well as a full line of lingerie. “Anything the fashionable woman needs, I'll carry,” Jackie Jo said, winding down. “Stock is arriving already.”

“Could we see it?” Gail asked.

“Well, it's a mite picked over. I had a gentleman customer last evening.”

“Surely you jest,” Gail interjected. “These cowpokes around here don't give a damn what their women wear! Well, except for Whit Reagor, that is.”

“Why, that's exactly who it was! And when I pressed Mr. Reagor about his lady's coloring, he said he was looking for something for a blonde. Wonder who she is?”

Mariah caught her breath, rage was chafing at her high collar. He was up to his old tricks of outfitting the ladies! What had his sister said? As near as Mariah could recall, it was, “He buys 'em clothes just to strip those duds off their backs.” Blast him!

Jackie Jo tucked her slate under her arm, and slapped her forehead with the heel of a hand. “Why, of course! How could I be so dense? I'll bet she's that blonde from Dublin who was in here the other day. Barbara, she called herself.”

Barbara Catley! The blood drained from Mariah's face.

Chapter Thirteen,

“Jackie Jo, we sure could use that tea,” Gail said into the café's stony silence, and the proprietress set to her duties.

There would be no more wondering about Whit's absence, Mariah seethed. He had been dressing–undressing!–Barbara Catley. His womanizing was all the impetus she needed to go on with her wedding plans without regret. Heck,
sans souci . . . !
No, she wouldn't go that far.

Jackie Jo returned with their order. Thankfully she offered no more gossip.

Gail stirred sugar into her beverage. “Are you all right? Your face was positively colorless a minute ago.”

“My pantaloons were crawling up my backside,” she lied.

“I don't think that's the problem at all. You've been acting funny since Whit's name was mentioned.”

Determined to steer the conversation in another direction, Mariah voiced a question that had edged at her thoughts since Gail had confided in her. “Did you have a talk with your husband?”

“You don't want to talk about Whit?”

“Right.”

“Something happened between the two of you,” Gail concluded.

“Did you have a talk with your husband?”

“All right, have it your way.” The heart-faced young woman sighed and placed her spoon on the saucer. “Yes, Ed and I had a talk. A very successful talk. We've both promised to work harder at saying how we feel.”

“Oh, Gail, I'm so pleased.” She reached to squeeze her friend's hand. “I hope everything works out.”

A becoming blush flowered in Gail's cheeks. “I think it will. Oh, Mariah, I'm so happy! The last two nights have been heaven on earth. The days, too, of course. Not once have I had the urge for a drink.”

“That's the ticket!”

“Now let's get back to you,” Gail said, riding the crest of happiness and wanting to infuse it in Mariah. “How was the wagon trip from my brother's ranch?”

Knowing her friend, Mariah was certain that skirting the subject of Whit would be an impossibility, so she gave in to a small degree. “We encountered nary a bull.”

“Damn, you can be so close-mouthed when you're set on it. Evidently you and Whit didn't work out your differences.”

“Exactly.”

“You know, Mariah, nothing pleases me more than to find you here in Trick'em,” she said over the rim of her cup, “but does this mean you're going through with your wedding?”

“Exactly.”

Gail studied her free hand, which rested on the tabletop. “I trust you'll be happy.”

“I plan to.”

“Have you set a date?”

Up to this point Mariah hadn't agreed to anything definite, but, still angered over Whit's quick turn to Barbara, she now came to a decision. “I think this Saturday at noon would be an ideal time.”

“Two days from now.”

“That's right. And I want you to attend.”

Uncertainty passed over the brunette's face. “I can't promise anything. Ed ... well, you know how it is around here, ranchers versus farmers.”

Mariah tried to disguise her hurt as she said, “Then I won't pit you between us and your husband.”

“I appreciate your consideration, and I'm sorry it has to be this way.”

“Think nothing of it. You've only just begun to have a real marriage and you shouldn't be asked to jeopardize it.”

They lapsed into silence, both upset at this test of their friendship. At long last, Gail spoke. “Does Whit know you're getting married?”

“I haven't the foggiest idea, and I care even less.”

“Milady protests too loud.” The younger woman toyed with her spoon, then lifted a brow. “If I were you, I wouldn't put too much stock in idle gossip about Barbara Catley. Whit told me he's through with her, and I believe him. He doesn't lie.” She placed a silver coin on the table. “You know, I haven't called on my Reagor kinsman since I've been home. Think I'll mosey on out there and find out for myself about ... Well, I'll see what he's got to say about your wedding.”

“I'd rather you didn't discuss me with him.”
Let me get through Saturday!

“Mariah, I can see through your story. I know something happened between you and Whit, because your face can't lie. I don't know what happened to cause you that obvious pain, but you're my friend and I don't want you unhappy. Call me a meddler, call me a matchmaker, but I'm going to take the bull by the horns.”

“Please don't. Don't interfere.”

“That, for your sake, I refuse to do.” The chair legs scraped as Gail shot upward. “See you later, Mariah.”

Quicker than lightning, the younger woman departed the café's interior, Mariah on her trail voicing her protests. Gail paid no heed, but in her rush she caught the heel of her boot on the top of the four stairs. Her ankle twisted, and she lost her balance, barreling forward.

Gail sprawled to the dirt street, her screams filling the air as a bone popped. Her bonnet landed a ways from her head. The air whooshed out of her lungs, and her body lay inert–all in the breath of a second!

“Oh, no!” Mariah hurried down the steps and bent to brush her friend's hair away from her dirt-streaked face. Lifting the unmoving head to cradle it in her arms, she spoke to three bystanders who approached the accident. “Someone get a doctor!”

A fresh-faced youth, wearing a large felt hat and suspenders over a crisp white shirt, whipped around and took off in a run. “I'll get 'im!”

Gail stirred. “I'm all right,” she said, her voice faint. “'Cept for my–ooh!–my leg.”

“Lie quiet.” Mariah's ears detected a rattling sound, and she turned her line of sight to a spot under the open porch. “Uh oh.”

A diamond-back viper was coiled not three feet from them. Several bulbous segments grew on the tip of its tail, which was shaking and rattling. Huge fangs glistened in the sunlight as a forked tongue flicked in and out of its mouth.

“Stay back,” Mariah cautioned the crowd that had gathered. She eased her arm from Gail's neck, and with slow motions, picked up her reticule and extracted her six-gun. No more did she tarry. In the blink of an eye, she cocked, aimed, and fired.

The rattlesnake's head blew off, serpent blood flew, and the coiled body collapsed in a heap of scales.

“Did you see that?” a man asked.

“Boy, howdy, that gal's one helluva shot.”

“Oughta put her to clearing out squatters.”

“Careful now, Jiggs. She might be puttin' a hole in yer ranchin' hide, instead. She's the sodbuster Jaye's gal.”

Mariah ignored their comments. Her actions were squarely on helping Gail, who had pulled herself painfully to a seated position.

“This is what I get ... for trying ... to mind your business.” As the town's lone physician arrived, Gail wiped her shaking hand across a smear of dirt on her face. “I ... I'm going to talk to Ed about ... about attending your wedding. Damn you, be easy, Doc!” she demanded, running the last sentence into one word as Dr. John Metcalfe straightened her leg. Gasping, she went on with her halting words to Mariah. “I'll make him understand. Splint or whatever, we'll be at your wedding on Saturday.”

“A weddin'? Well, I'll be danged.” A grizzled old man, who had just joined the others, leaned on his cane. “Gonna invite the town-folks to the doin's, young woman?”

“Don't bother, Smiley, you don't want to attend,” said a large, pale-complected woman with black hair and condescending airs. “The happy couple happens to be of the farming class.”

“Ah, thanks fer tellin' me, Miz Tullos.” He flipped a hand at Mariah. “Never mind, young lady. Never mind.”

Mariah ignored them, and accompanied the doctor and his conscripted assistant when they carried Gail to his office. The lad who had fetched the physician rode the two-mile distance to the Crazy Hoof Ranch and alerted Ed Strickland to his wife's injury. Mariah lent her assistance as Dr. Metcalfe fashioned a cast of bandage and whalebone.

Gail had suffered a broken shinbone, and Mariah castigated herself over the fall. It wouldn't have happened if she hadn't been so sensitive about Whit.

What difference did it make if he knew about the upcoming wedding? No doubt he was too busy with Barbara to care what Mariah McGuire did, or did not, do. Blast him!

 

 

On the second morning after Whit had purchased several items of fine clothing as a peace offering to Mariah, he leaned against the corral, put his foot on the rail, and disregarded the Arabian colt being paraded for his benefit. For reasons he didn't wish to examine, he was aching to see Mariah.

While he had been out on the range supervising the roundup and trying to settle his mind, he had, time after time, gone over their last moments together.

Okay, she had sent him packing, but she'd been seeing red at the time. But then, when wasn't she mad? he asked himself. One thing about Mariah McGuire, she gave better than she got. She was no shrinking violet.

He grinned, recalling the way her newly acquired freckles had stood out and her bosom had jiggled when she was riled. Damn, she was a fetching gal. If only he could get her to listen to reason.

Thankfully, she hadn't made a move toward wedding Joe Jaye; the barkeep Heavy Everett had told Whit as much. That tidbit had reinforced his earlier conclusion. When push came to shove, Mariah would keep a “Miss” in front of her name.

Feeling confident after his talk with Heavy, Whit had visited Jackie Jo for those clothes. Jackie Jo had a way with gossip, and to protect Mariah from wagging tongues, he had told a white lie, that he was dressing a blonde.

His arms piled high with boxes, he had aimed for the back door of Birdie Turner's boardinghouse, but a cowpoke from Crosswind had collared him to say squatters were stringing barbed wire across a stretch of Crosswind.

The duds had had to wait.

It had been late afternoon, yesterday, by the time Spuds O'Brien and his boys were convinced to pull up stakes.

When Whit had arrived home, he was met with bad news. Gail's broken leg and romance had been the last thing on his mind as he had rushed to her side. He had tried to tease her about “shooting horses with broken legs,” but she was too woozy from laudanum to comprehend. Funny, though, she had kept jabbering about a blonde. Opium did strange things to a person's mind.

Maybe Gail had been referring to Barbara, who had turned up on the range one night, wanting ... Well, she had gotten his message, and was long gone.

“Whaddya say, Reagor?”

Whit turned to the familiar voice of Charlie Tullos. Tullos, a bow-legged man of forty-three who wore a rolled-brim felt hat along with new dungarees and a leather vest, alit his paint gelding and wound the reins around the corral rail.

A suspicious eye cast at the bully who, it was common knowledge around Trick'em, took his marital frustrations out on others, Whit frowned. “What do you want, Tullos?”

“A minute of your time.”

Whit's scowl deepened, and he crossed his arms over his chest. “My time's too valuable to waste on you.”

“Is that any way to talk to a neighbor?”

“Get gone, Tullos.”

Tullos rubbed his fingers under his hooked nose. “Hold on now, Reagor. I know you and I haven't seen eye to eye in a long while, what with that Jaye business and all, but I think it's time we settled our differences.”

Whit had two choices: send Tullos packing or try to be reasonable. He decided on the latter. “What's on your mind?”

“I need your help. I've got squatters on my property, and they're stringing fence. Besides that, those no-good sodbusters have filed a claim in the Land Office.”

“Way I see it, you should've bought your land, fair and square. Then you wouldn't be having this trouble.”

“Hell's bells, Reagor, you know nobody but you and Leroy Smith bought land outright. All the ranchers around here, myself included, have been here for years; we should have first claim.” When this got no response, Tullos said, “I hear tell you had a little trouble yourself. Spuds O'Brien and his boys.”

“They're taken care of.”

“Oh, yeah? How's that?”

Whit lit a cigar. Squinting at the smoke, he drawled, “I sent 'em over to your place.”

“Dammit, Reagor, what did you go and do that for?” Tullos's face was tight with fury, but his tension appeared to ease after a few seconds. “Aw, you're just sporting me.”

“Truth be known, I don't know where they've lit, but their hides are long gone from Crosswind.”

“Congratulations. Now put yourself in my place. Don't you think I got a right to what's mine?”

In principle, Whit had to agree. “What do you need my help for? If you're wanting to run them off, you've got your own men.”

“This is bigger than just me and my boys. A few of the ranchers got together last night. We've decided to form a cattlemen's association to show those farmers who's in power around here.”

“And what if you can't get them to leave, peaceful-like?”

“Draw your own conclusions.”

“Fire and bullets.”

Tullos grinned. “Give the man a cigar.”

“Already got one. And you can count me out of killings, Tullos.”

The bully's face twisted into an ugly mask. “Your skin's sure turned a peculiar shade of yellow, Reagor, since you tied up with that Jaye bastard.”

“You lookin' to take me on, Tullos?” Whit took a giant step toward the man who hired out his dirty work, and grabbed him by the vest. “You're getting mighty brave here lately. What's going on? Is Temperence finally allowin' you to wear your balls?”