Wild Texas Rose (15 page)

“Leave my wife out of this.”

“Gladly. Our little chat's over with, anyway.” Whit thrust him backward. “Now, get the hell off my property.”

Tullos got his balance. “All right, Reagor. I'm leaving. But don't say I never gave you the chance to side with your own kind on this fencing thing.”

“I won't lose any sleep over it.”

“That so? Well, I reckon you just might.” Tullos swung onto his gelding, pulling the reins to the left. “Yeah, reckon you might, 'cause my boys are gonna give your
compadre,
Joe Jaye, a right smart wedding present.”

“Wedding present?” Whit echoed, unable to quell his sudden interest. “What do you mean, wedding present?”

“Well, I'll be. You mean Joe Jaye didn't invite you to his wedding? What a shame, you being his pal and all.” Tullos shook his head. “Seeing as how he's keeping you in the dark, I guess I ought to tell you. Jaye and that redhead he imported are getting hitched tomorrow at high noon.”

Chapter 14

Anger formed behind two narrowed eyes. Waiting for her husband to return from his appointed task, Temperence Tullos paced her bedroom floor while ruminating over the recent foil to her scheme. Lord Joe had dropped her when that big-tits snoot had hit town, and Temperence wasn't going to let him get away with it ...

Her gashed pride was secondary to her fury. Both wittingly and unwittingly, Joe had thrown a hitch into the mechanism of her plans. To think she had been on the verge of success in getting Leroy Smith back in Coleman County–and keeping him here! Her trembling hand swept across the perfume bottles that graced her rosewood bureau. Crystal shattered on the floor; scented oils mingled noxiously. The temper tantrum gave her a modicum of relief.

Even though her designs had been thwarted, hers had been a crafty scheme of which she still held marked pride: Lure Leroy back with the promise of “riches.” Rumors had circulated around Coleman County since before the war. Oil was to be had for the digging. Temperence didn't believe it, but she wasn't above using anything to its best advantage.

Thus, because it bordered on the Tullos's Painted Rock Ranch, the Jaye farm held the key. None other was satisfactory, not with Temperence wanting Leroy close to her side ...

And in that vein she had promised Lord Joe another five hundred dollars if he'd sign over the mineral rights to his land. To sweeten the pot, she had suggested he dig a water well, at her benevolence of course, to irrigate his ridiculous saplings. The money-grubbing pipsqueak had shown enthusiasm for financial gain, all the while expressing disbelief at her “wasting money”.

Little did he know. As soon as the hole hit a respectable depth, she figured to seed it with a barrel or two of oil. The county newspaper was certain to pick up the story.

Leroy knew the value of petroleum; he'd gone to Titusville up in Yankee country to explore for it. Lately, though, he had told her through his letters that the big shots had shut him out of making his fortune, and he was scratching to get out of Pennsylvania.

Her plan had been to mail Leroy a copy of the newspaper clipping along with funds for the trip back to her arms, as well as the deed made out in his favor. She knew Leroy, knew he would have landed on the deal like a fly on a cow patty. Before she'd had enough time to acquire those rights, however, Lord Joe had turned his scrawny back on Temperence.

“Bastard,” she uttered through clenched teeth. “You'll pay for doublecrossing me.”

Actually, she had already begun her revenge, and when Charlie returned to the Painted Rock, Temperence cornered him. Pushing a forefinger toward his nose, she asked, “Is the Jaye character dead yet?”

“Now, Shugums honey, be patient. That no-good granger will–”

“Don't you ‘now, Shugums honey' me.”

“These things take time,” Charlie said, using the conciliatory tone he always used with his wife, but his nostrils expanded, and he turned his head from left to right. “What stinks?”

“You stink”–her slippered toe kicked his shin–“you lackadaisical buffoon!”

Rubbing his leg, he explained, “I'm trying to get the other ranchers on my side. I built a fire under 'em last night about all these fences that're cropping up.”

Temperence was unimpressed. “Why is it, Charles Vernon Tullos, that you can't accomplish the simplest little task without dragging your feet?”

“You know I've gotta work around Whit Reagor.”

She was further infuriated at the mention of the one man who was immune to her charms. “Why should he be a problem? Kill him, too.”

“Whoa now.” Charlie patted the air. “I can't do that. Reagor's one of us, and I'd be in more trouble than I could ever get out of.”

“How about I kill him, then?” she asked, extracting a carved-handle pistol from her armoire. “How about I kill the both of them?”

“No, Temperence.” Charlie hated to see his wife all agitated, and he wanted to please her, but he knew she didn't want Reagor dead. Why should she?
He
wasn't the one who was stringing fences. Charlie felt certain that once Jaye was taken care of, Temperence would settle down about this Reagor business.

He cut to her side and took the gun from her hand. “Killing is men's work.”

“Then act like a man instead of a spineless jellyfish. How much longer are you going to let Reagor laugh behind your back? He does, you know, after the way you let his sawed-off farmerfriend get the best of you,” she lied. “For Christ's sake, Charles, ever'body's laughing at you since you let Reagor beat the hell out of you that night at Maudie's.”

Her loathing for Charles had never been as full blown as at this minute. He was such a coward. She was accustomed to this flaw in his character, but what bothered her was, the one time he had shown a little gumption, he'd used it to run off Leroy.

“To think I once thought you had some power around here,” she went on. “Power, ha! You're not worthy to share my bed.”

“Now, Shugums, don't get upset. I'm doing my best, but you ask so much. If you'll give me the chance, I can take care of Joe Jaye. If you could be a little patient–”

“I hate it when you whine.”

Turning to the window and peering out the pane, she composed herself. Lord Joe would soon be pushing up daisies, provided her husband lived up to his promise, but what would she do after that? Those mineral rights still wouldn't be in her name, and no telling what would become of his land. Unless his lordship was married ... ! A new plan formed. That McGuire woman would need money after Lord Joe went to his grave. A sweet deal to the bereaved widow would be in order. A real sweet deal.

Temperence decided to bide her time and wait for the right moment.

Charlie walked up behind her and grasped her buttocks. “Don't be angry with me. I'll put that dirt-turner out of his misery ... tonight.”

“Wait till he's married, then do it.”

“Why did you change your mind?”

“Don't question me, Charles. Do it because I said so.” Her upper lip curled back, and she made for the table beside her bed. Slowly opening the drawer, she extracted a leather whip. “And if you're the least bit squeamish, send to San Antonio for T-Bone Hicks and his partners.”

His eyes widened on the whip, and a grin deepened the furrows of his face. “I'll do anything you say.”

 

 

“But you're asking me to do something that goes against my principles.” Joseph frowned at his intended, then went back to repairing the final cut in his barbed-wire fence. “I'll grow pears, or I'll die trying.”

“Giving more of your time to a cash crop was only a suggestion,” Mariah replied patiently, though inwardly she was frustrated by Joseph's lack of farming sense.

This was his farm, however, not hers and thus, she would not force the issue. But at the same time, she and Evita would continue to concentrate their energies on the market garden.

“I must say, though, dearest,” he admitted, accepting the lunch basket she had brought from the cabin, “with this drought we'll be lucky to keep the pears alive.”

Why mention that they appeared dead already? Joseph was too stubborn to accept the truth. If only he wouldn't be so hardheaded about their crop, they might make something of this farm.

And if only she would quit pining for Whit Reagor ... In her heart of hearts she longed to see him, but she kept envisioning him with his arms wrapped around Barbara Catley. This thought helped her keep her determination to wed Joseph, tomorrow, as scheduled.

Yet . . .

“Did you call on Mrs. Strickland on your way out here this morning?” Joseph asked.

Mariah collected her thoughts. “Yes, I took her some soup and a pudding. She's feeling stronger. Both Stricklands have accepted the invitation to our wedding.”

“Splendid.” His booted foot touched an empty pail. “While you're out here, would you mind filling that for me?”

Eyeing the pitiful saplings ringed by the expensive fence, Mariah railed at his request. “What will we do when the pond goes dry?” No reply was forthcoming. “Joseph, I've been thinking ... We'd have plenty of water, for the pears and for a profitable truck garden, if we dug a well.”

“A ... well?” He blanched. Turning his back to bend over a roll of barbed wire, he said shakily, “Don't you have anything to do to prepare for our nuptials?”

Perplexed at both his reaction, and his reluctance to discuss farming alternatives, Mariah frowned. Why did she get the feeling he was keeping something from her? But she told herself not to make too much of his behavior. What could possibly lurk behind a water well?

Joseph snapped his fingers to catch her attention, and again asked, “Mariah, my dear, are you ready for our wedding?”

“Yes.”

“Excellent,” he said. “And now that we've named a wedding date, I'm going to call on Whitman Reagor. I want him to join us for our happy occasion.”

Her heart raced. How could she get through the wedding with Whit in attendance? “It's your prerogative to invite him.”

“You never speak of Whitman, dearest, and I find that peculiar.” Suspicion drew Joseph's blond brows together. “Didn't you enjoy those days in his company?”

“We didn't talk much. Mrs. Strickland was my companion and chaperone,” she explained for the tenth time since her arrival at the farm.

“Whitman mentioned being fond of you. You must have spent some time chatting.”

And a lot of time making love, she thought. “He is your friend, Joseph, not mine.”

“I should have known he's not your type of chap. Too rough. Too much the frontier man.”

“Exactly,” she lied.

The tension in Joseph's face eased. “But I'm puzzled. You did accept his very generous engagement gift . . .”

“For heaven's sake,
you
accepted the wagon, not me!” She hugged her arms. And I don't feel comfortable about your accepting such a gift from him. I think we should give it back. Pablo found us a fine buckskin mare; we don't need the wagon.”

“Mariah, I can't believe you're so ungrateful.”

“That wagon and team cost a great deal of money. Let's not be beholden, Joseph.”

“Whit would be offended if we shunned his gift.”

“He was giving us charity,” she prevaricated. “Doesn't that offend you?”

Studying the ground, he rubbed his lips. “Now that you put it that way, yes, it doesn't seem right. I'll return the wagon when I call on him.”

“Thank you.”

“Well, that settles that.” Joseph brushed the front of his new workshirt, which had been stitched by Mariah. “Let's talk more about the arrangements. Are you certain you don't mind being married in the cabin?”

“The arrangements suit me fine.”

“How dear you are.” Joseph rushed over to land a kiss on her cheek, an embrace that drew no emotional response. She pulled away. “Why do you always recoil from me?” he asked, his gray eyes worried.

Because you're not Whit.
“There will be plenty of time for kisses after we're married.”

“We'll be doing more than kissing.”

A feeling of dread curled the length of her spine. “We both have chores. I must go.”

Without waiting for him to object, and with her eyes downcast, she hastened along the quarter-mile trail to the cabin. Though Joseph had put forth a large effort to make her happy, she couldn't help being annoyed at him, at herself, at everything.

Raising her eyes as she neared the cabin, she stopped in her tracks. A huge sorrel stallion was tied to the hitching post.

“Bay Fire.” Whit!

She didn't know whether to laugh or to cry, to run or to stay put.

“Señorita”
Conchita Martinez, a teenage girl of tiny stature with olive skin and big dark eyes, lifted the door flap and called across the thirty feet separating Mariah from the cabin, “You have a visitor.”

“I know.” She took a draft of air and forced herself forward. “Leave us, please.

“As you wish,” Conchita replied in her usual timid manner and, ducking her chin, did as bidden.

Mariah moistened her now-dry lips and straightened her shoulders. Lifting the cowhide flap, she entered the small abode. The covering slapped into place, leaving the room shadowed and forbidding. Her eyes adjusting to the change of light, her knees shaking, she took two steps forward but halted as the form of a man came into view.

Whit reared back in a straight chair, one booted foot crossed over a knee and his arms folded over his chest. He said not a word; neither did she. Her starved eyes devoured his image. He wore black breeches, a yoked white shirt with the sleeves rolled up to expose the dark tufts of hair and the hard muscles of his arms. Pulled low on his brow, a gray Stetson did not hide the unreadable expression in his blue eyes.

She watched him ease his angled foot to the floor and spread his legs wide, her pulse racing as the material of those dark breeches cupped his manly lines.

“You never could keep your eyes off me, could you?” he drawled.

“You have that effect on women.”
Including Barbara.
Mariah gathered her wits. “You must leave. If Joseph–”

“Why should Joe mind my being here? I'm just making a neighborly little call.” He lifted a shoulder. “Place looks nice, Red. China, pewter, doodads. Looks like you're planning to stay a spell. That's what I heard, anyhow.” He unfolded his arms, his right hand reaching to the floor behind him to pick up a shirt-size white box with a purple ribbon tied around it. “Brought you a wedding present.”