Wild Texas Rose (4 page)

Whit laughed. Well, at least she was better prepared than her bull-headed future husband for life on the range. “Joe teach you?” Whit asked, knowing that wasn't the case.

“He didn't.”

“Well, who?”

“You're nosy, Mr. Reagor.”

“Right,” he said. “But don't call me mister. Whit'll do. That's my name, and I make it my business to know what's going on.”

“I'll just bet you do.”

He ignored her sarcasm but responded to the subject. “Granted. And I know something about you. I know Joe loves you. A lot.”

She looked away. “Yes.”

Whit noted her lack of “And I love him, too.”

She was trying to hide it, but Whit now felt certain she was smitten with him. Since the moment in the trees when their eyes had locked and he'd detected interest in her gaze, he'd known there was potential for something more than casual friendship between the two of them.

Poor Joe. Whit felt sorry for him, but more for himself. Whit Reagor might be many things, but woman-stealer wasn't among them.

“Mariah, um, do you mind if I call you Mariah?” When she shook her head, he pulled the reticule from beneath his arm and reached around the cage to hand it over. “Mariah, you'd better hold on to this.”

A sudden jolt shot through Whit as their fingers met to exchange the small yet heavy bag. As if in shock, she lifted her soft doe eyes to his face, then dropped lashes that were thick and gold-tipped. The charge he'd felt, the same one she had apparently experienced, could be attributed to the dry air, but Whit pegged it on his earlier conclusion.

He wanted her; she wanted him. Getting to know her in the most satisfying way was impossible. What was he to do? The answer, unfortunately, was simple. Common sense urged a quick retreat, but he couldn't ignore Mariah Rose McGuire, soon to be Mrs. Joe Jaye. After giving the Englishman his oath to see after her welfare, Whit figured it was his duty to escort her to Trick'em safe and sound; and during the trip and afterward, he vowed he'd ignore and deny his hot-blooded desires.

But dammit, he reasoned with himself, that didn't mean he couldn't at least enjoy the pleasure of her company. And if her “company” included a few harmless flirtations, he'd simply enjoy them. For a while.

How far would she go? Plenty far, he'd gamble. Whit frowned. If she went beyond proper, he intended, for poor ole Joe's sake, to show her the wrong of her ways. He decided to test her right then.

“It's gonna be nice having you round Trick'em. You'll pretty up the area. Good thing for me, too, 'cause we'll be seeing a lot of each other.”

“I've seen more of Joseph's neighbor than would be considered proper.”

Whit would be drawn and quartered before backing down. “Yeah, you saw a lot of me.” He glanced down at his spread legs. “Don't let the size of me scare you, Red.”

“Why, you crude, rude, conceited scoundrel!”

Not denying her accuracy, he set the cage to the ground and, splinter ignored, inched closer to Mariah. The bird–Gus, wasn't it?–protested the move. Ignoring squawks and ruffled feathers, Whit eyed her reticule. “You didn't answer my question a minute ago,” he goaded. “Who taught you to handle a gun? I'll bet such a pretty gal like you had a score of admirers willing to show you.”

She shot to her feet and drilled a look of loathing into him. “You despicable snake, I oughtn't to answer your question, but I will to shut you up. My brothers taught me to shoot.” She grabbed her reticule and cage. “This conversation has gone far enough. Thank you for bringing my belongings. Now we're even for favors. Good day.”

Whit watched her stomp toward the Double Inn's rough-hewn door, her derriere twitching. Funny how a lady's rear end could look indignant. He grinned. The smile turned sour as a young cowboy rode into view.

“Whee doggies.” The cowman hauled his black gelding to a dust-stirring halt in front of Mariah, blocking her path. He whipped a battered hat from his wheat-colored hair. “Howdy there, lady. My, my, you sure are a purty filly.”

She whirled around and, with one arm akimbo, glared at the interloper. “I'll thank you to–”

“Make tracks,” Whit interrupted, rising to his feet. “And I do mean now, Culpepper.”

Slim Culpepper patted the air. “Sorry, Reagor. Didn't know she was your woman.”

“Well, she is. And keep that in mind.”

The man headed his mount away.

Mariah rounded on Whit. Her eyes shooting dark sparks, she pointed a shaking finger in his direction. “I'll have you know that I answer to no man–not until I reach my future husband. Furthermore, I am not your woman. And I feel certain Joseph wouldn't appreciate your calling me such!”

“Probably wouldn't.” Whit ran his fingers across his lips. He admired her spirit, but ...

“A man's gotta do what a man's gotta do to keep a lady out of trouble.”

“I've stayed ‘out of trouble' all the way from Guernsey, and I don't need a strapping brute to help me now!”

“Is that so?”

“Yes, that's so,” she spat, pulling herself upright.

Now it was her bosom's turn to look indignant, Whit thought as she shouted, “You're no better than that odious Culpepper person! And I won't put up with it! Understand?
Now leave me alone, Mr. Reagor!”

Her obvious agitation roused Whit's gentler side, and he regretted his actions and words. She'd been right; he had acted as reprehensibly as Culpepper. But, Whit was pleased, for Mariah McGuire had passed the first test. Despite her questionable background, she wasn't an out-and-out floozy.

If there was ever a time to act the gentleman, now was it. “Mariah, I'm sorry. Could we call a truce?”

“Nevert”

“Please.”

“No!”

He gave up gentlemanly behavior. “Have it your way. But you're not getting rid of me.” He strode forward and, trying to ignore the sweet scent of roses, took her elbows. “It's my duty to escort you to Trick'em. You see, I promised your man I'd look out for you in case something ever happened to him. He's okay as far as I know, but–”

She wrenched away and stepped back. “Joseph would never ask the likes of you to see after me!”

“He did. And you're going to accompany me to my sister's boardinghouse, where you'll take a room until tomorrow. My niece is getting hitched tonight, and you're invited to the wedding. We'll strike out for Trick'em in the morning.”

She retreated two steps. “I unequivocably refuse.”

“Don't be too sure of yourself. I intend to see you get to Joe Jaye in one piece.” Determined to use whatever force necessary, Whit
would
accompany her to Trick'em. “If I have to hogtie you and throw your pretty little butt over my saddle, I
will
see that Joe gets his woman. Unharmed.”

“Why, you overbearing–!”

For the second time in one day, Whit Reagor got something thrown at him. This time it was Mariah McGuire's reticule, and damned if the weight of it didn't smart his chest.

Chapter Three

The tapestry reticule bounced off the wall of Whit's chest, then thunked to the brown earth. His eyes turned to blue ice, and Mariah stepped back as he advanced toward her.

Fright tensed her muscles, sent her heart thumping. Would Whit Reagor strike her in retaliation for her actions? Well, if he did, she'd give as good as she took.

She stood her ground in front of the Double Inn. “How dare you order me about as if I'm yours to obey?”

“Order
you?” His voice held an even tone. “I prefer to call it strong suggestion.”

“Order isn't even a strong enough word, Mr. Reagor. You threatened to bind me and throw my person over your saddle. No woman in her right mind would respond to that.”

Contrary to what she had imagined he'd do, Whit took her hand between his callused palms, and after all that had been said between them during the past few minutes, she was astounded at his gentle touch.

“Mariah, you're absolutely right.”

Giving up an argument wasn't her nature. “Of course I'm right. And I won't stand for any more threats. If you–”

“What's the use of fighting?” One roughened hand exerted a slight pressure. “We're adults, not children. Surely we can come to an agreement that'll appeal to your sensitivity.”

Still wary of his motives, she said, “You confuse me.” In more ways than one! “I've traveled a long, long way on my own, and I'm no worse for the wear. Now that I'm within a few days of reaching my destination, I see absolutely no reason to change my travel plans. Yet you're bound and determined to take me under your wing. Or should I say throw me over your saddle? Why are you doing this? For my safety?”

“Exactly.” Whit gave a lopsided grin. “I've told you why this is important to me. I made Joe a promise. Out here in the West, we all depend on our neighbors.” He dropped one hand, rearranging the placement of his fingers so his grip was now a handshake. “I couldn't sleep at night if I thought I hadn't done all I could for Joe. And for you, as well, since you belong to him.”

On a less solemn note, he added, “Besides, you can cut three days off your travel time by not waiting for the stage.”

His statement penetrated her misgivings somewhat. Her hand was still held by his, and despite the honor his words implied, Mariah couldn't help but notice the tightness pressing against her breast and settling below her midriff. She made up her mind to ignore it, however, and to ask the question that had nagged her for the past half hour. “What caused you and Joseph to become friends?”

Whit shrugged. “We're neighbors, that's all. . . but I do respect his determination.”

“I'd like to hear more.”

“For Pete's sake, I don't know how to word it.”

“Try.”

He gave the indications of discomfort–shuffled feet, cleared throat, restless eyes. “We share common interests.”

Baffled by her feelings as well as by the unlikely situation between this rough-and-tumble Texan and the soft-palmed nobleman, Mariah shook her head. “But you and Joseph seem to be opposites.”

“Right.” He offered no further explanation. “Now, what's your answer?”

She was beginning to weaken. “It wouldn't be proper, my accompanying you without a chaperone.”

“No problem, if that's all the bother. There's a gal in town for my niece's wedding. Lives close to Trick'em, you see. I'm sure Gail Strickland can be persuaded to act as your chaperone.”

If Gail was anything akin to the boisterous blonde, Mariah was leery of such a companion. “I've seen one of your gals, and she isn't my cup of tea.”

“Gail is a relative, not just any woman.” A muscle tightened in his cheek. “Furthermore, there's nothing wrong with Barbara Catley. Granted, she's no grand lady marrying a viscount, but she's a hardworking woman who's making the best of what life has to offer.”

“I meant no offense.” Mariah's words were sincere; she hadn't wished to sound snobbish. “Maybe you could tell me more about Gail?”

“She's married to a Coleman County rancher. You might find her a tad sharp-tongued. Sort of vinegar and sugar, if you will. Anyway, I think the world of her. Gail Strickland is ... uh ... rather like the daughter I never had.”

Ignoring an elderly woman with her ear trumpet trained on their conversation as she hobbled by them, Mariah glanced at the ground. She had seen Whit in action with Barbara, had heard tales from his sister, yet his feelings were tender for a sharp-tongued relative. And apparently he was just as loyal to Joseph. Whit Reagor was a more complex man than she had first imagined.

While the issue of propriety was out of the way, what about her improper excitement that wouldn't settle down?

“Will you allow me to escort you to Joe?” he asked.

Wordlessly, she took three steps to the Double Inn's log outer wall. Using it for back support, she leaned against the wood, oblivious to the rough texture and to the slight scent of pine emanating from the building. The road fronting the stagestop that led to the center of town was now alive with wagons and horsemen, yet she took no special note of those activities, either.

She was appraising Whit Reagor. He knew it, and she didn't try to deny it. Nor was a word spoken to ask for her denial or comment.

He strode over to the hitching rail, rested one palm on the cedar post, and hitched a thumb through his belt loop. Less than ten feet separated them. He was studying her but she wouldn't let that get in her way.

Her attention centered on his hands. She knew how they felt, callused and rough and filled with strength, yet with fingers that knew how to be gentle. Her gaze moved. She was well aware of the muscles and sinew that roped his long, long bones. Physical exertion had developed that brawn, and she knew he was proud of his hirsute body, for not once during their first meeting had he displayed modesty. But why should he be anything but proud of his physique? Such a gift, from God and from the toils of labor, was made for appreciation.

But none of that had anything to do with whether she should trust him.

“You can trust me,” he said, as if reading her mind. “I promise.”

Her head cocked to the side, she absorbed the sincerity in his drawling timbre. He continued to look her straight in the eye and she admired that character trait of his.

At that moment he neither laughed nor frowned. Honesty and sincerity lived in his expression. She analyzed the total picture. His was a bony face. All angles and sharp edges sometimes softened by dimples. Though his thick black lashes were long and his eyes matched a moonlit midnight sky, there was raw masculinity to his features. His face was young though old, as if he had lived a thousand years during his short days on earth and had experienced heartbreak and sorrow.

She recalled his smile. When he had grinned at her, there was a boyish charm to his juts and edges, as if he knew happiness and all the good things that could happen to the blessed. Enigmatic. That was Whit Reagor.

She laced her fingers. “I think you're sincere.”

“I am. My word is my bond,” he affirmed.

What should she answer? She had to deal with the situation, but was sooner better than later? Within days they would be neighbors, and Mariah could neither deny nor ignore this fact. As for her unexplainable fits of inner wantonness surely those feelings would pass.

If that didn't happen, however; could she trust herself? the voice of her conscience questioned, but she refused to listen. “I'll go with you, Whit.”

“Thatta girl.” A grin, big and wide, split his face as his hand left the hitching post. “Guess I'd better collect your things and make a few arrangements.”

Making a few arrangements turned out to be a bigger chore than Whit had anticipated. He had heard of wedding trousseaux, but Mariah's ten heavy cases and eight heavier boxes beat all, he groused inwardly while arranging to leave the majority of her luggage at the Double Inn until he could beg, borrow, or buy a wagon.

With Mariah beside him, he headed Lois's buggy toward Comanche Street. He didn't ask about the contents of all those cases and boxes, and she offered no explanations. He figured that whatever she'd brought to her penniless groom, she was going to need ... and need bad!

Whit cast a covert eye at Mariah. She seemed to be studying her hands.

“Thank you,” she whispered, taking him by surprise. “Joseph will be grateful for your kindness.” She tilted her chin Whit's way, and her expression was soft. “We must have you to dinner one night soon. As soon as I can get the staff organized. Is that agreeable?”

Whit offered no reply. It was obvious she didn't know about Joe's circumstances.

Why was honesty so difficult? With one big exception he refused to dwell on, he'd never had this problem before; his honest streak was a source of pride. Yet to hurt Mariah with the truth ... Who could be proud of causing pain? No way would he tell her that Joe's “staff” was Joe.

The red cobbles of O'Neil Street resounded with the click of horses' hooves and wagon wheels, seeming to point out the silence between him and Mariah.

Her arched brows quirked. “Well?”

“Yeah. Okay. Dinner sounds fine.” Why had Joe led her to believe she was arriving to comforts? There was no excuse for it. But he must have his reasons, Whit decided and it wasn't his place to butt in.

Whit pulled the buggy to a halt beside Lois's barn, which had been cleared for the wedding dance. Keeping out of Joe and Mariah's business meant he'd better pull Gail aside, post-haste, and order her to keep mum.

Mariah's mind was put to further ease when Whit introduced her to Gail Strickland. The heart-faced, black-haired young woman of nineteen in no way resembled Barbara Catley; she was effervescent, warm and lovely with no signs of vinegar.

Almost immediately, though, he took her into a back room, clearly for a private chat. Mariah found this peculiar indeed, but wouldn't borrow trouble. A few minutes later, Gail returned to the parlor, saying, “I'm pleased to be a third on your trip to Trick'em, Miss McGuire.”

“Thank you,” she replied. “And I'd be pleased if you'll call me Mariah.”

Whit broke into their friendly chatter. “Excuse me. I've gotta find a wagon for your trousseau.”

Thankfully he didn't question Mariah about the contents of her voluminous stores. All the way from St. Peter Port, she'd offered explanations and paid extra fares for her dowry of farm and home goods. Extra weight had been added in Galveston: schoolbooks and supplies. She was relieved not to be now interrogated further.

Her belongings brought another thought to mind. Mariah had been reared on the fertile loam of an island known for its gardens. Texas, even the lush parts near the Gulf of Mexico, wasn't so blessed by nature. Unless the arid terrain improved, she doubted it could support a grove of pear trees. Yet Joseph had mentioned black land and a ready water source. She had to trust his integrity, just as she trusted Whit Reagor to escort her to Trick'em in all safety.

 

 

That afternoon, Gus's cage was sitting on a table beside Mariah. While he frolicked in a dish of water, she relaxed in her bedchamber's oak rocker. Lois had suggested her boarder nap before the wedding, which was to commence at five sharp, but Mariah was not good at being idle, nor at whiling away afternoons.

Her fingers, holding a crochet hook and thread with the proper amount of tension, were making swift movements around a pristine-white antimassacar. Though she had begun the project some days earlier with the intent of using it in her new home, she'd decided to make it a wedding gift for Kimble Atherton, the future Mrs. Clutch Magee.

From the kitchen Mariah heard the stir of activity, the sound of two female voices chattering and laughing. She felt the urge to join them, but no invitation had been issued.

All of a sudden, a falsetto “Here, kitty, kitty, kitty” filtered around Mariah's closed door.

Gus stopped his bathing. His round eyes blinked twice, then he turned his head from side to side. “Here, ki–”

“Hush up, you crazed bird,” she ordered. “The last thing you need is to summon that cat.”

The last single crochet finished in an edge's shell pattern, Mariah snipped the cotton thread and pulled the loose end through the finished product.

Now what was she going to do? The bureau clock read three
P.M.
, and two hours needed to be killed before the nuptials. Her clothes were unpacked and smoothed of wrinkles; she had freshened up; Gus was fed. An hour ago she'd finished the last page of
Les Travailleurs de la Mer,
Victor Hugo's exciting novel of love, betrayal, and adventure in Guernsey.

Again she heard laughter from the kitchen. So what if she hadn't been asked to join the kitchen crew? Perhaps Lois Atherton had been reluctant to ask her, Mariah being a guest.

She walked to the kitchen, which smelled of just-fried chicken, nut pies, and the piquant aroma of pickles. A kettle whistled on the wood-fed Chandler stove. Fancy, the overweight feline, perched as still as a statue beneath the round table centering the kitchen. No doubt the sharp-eyed tabby was hoping for something edible to drop.

“Hello, there,” Gail said, and Lois echoed the salutation.

“Yes. Hello.”

The room was warm and homey, and though the smells were different from those in Anne du Moulin McGuire's Norman-style
cuisine,
these things still reminded Mariah of home. Guernsey. And of her brothers. And of her mother and grandmother, both now resting in the St. Martin's churchyard, alongside the stone menhir, La Gran'mère de Chimquière. Homesickness and sorrow squeezed her chest. Don't be silly, she warned herself against the inappropriate sentiment. What remained of her family was only a father who offered no sweetness or understanding.