Wild Texas Rose (7 page)

 

 

The next morning as she tried to eat the morning meal at Lois's big round table, Gail was nursing the worst hangover of her life. She yearned for a hair of the dog that bit her last night.

She eyed the only other occupant of the dining room. After asking about her health, which she had glossed over, Whit hadn't said a word all morning. He was devouring a huge plate of steak and eggs. What was wrong with him? Usually he had a disgustingly cheerful morning demeanor.

“Whit, have you got a bottle in your room? I could sure use a drink.”

“No.” He downed a cup of steaming coffee. “And even if I did, I wouldn't give it to you. Your drinking's getting out of hand, Gail Ann.”

When he called her by her full name, she knew he meant business, but she seethed nonetheless. How dare he! Forcing nonchalance, she said, “You're making too much of it.”

“Am I? Ed says you're in the corn every night.”

“If my husband . . .” She clammed up. Her problems with Edward were too painful to admit, especially to Whit.

“If Ed would do what?”

“Nothing.”

“Has he mistreated you?” Worry in his eyes, Whit studied her. “You don't have to put up with any sort of cruelty.”

“Sure am glad that norther's blown over.”

“I get the picture.” He picked up his fork, but set it down again. His worried eyes scrutinized her before he offered, “Gail, remember, you always have a home at Crosswind.”

“Yes, Papa,” she teased. Determined to change the subject, she asked, “Have you seen Mariah this morning?”

“No.” He scowled. “That McGuire woman told me you flapped your mouth about Joe.”

She flushed. “She kept pressing me, and I. . . I–”

“What exactly did you say?”

Ashamed of herself for reneging on her promise, she replied, “I mentioned his trouble-making. About the fences, you know. That sort of thing.”

His blue eyes turned to chipped ice while the muscles of his jaw tightened. He muttered a foul oath.

Her mettle once more intact, she shot back, “Aren't we in a pleasant mood this morning?”

“Drink your coffee.”

She spooned generous portions of raw brown sugar into her cup, adding a goodly amount of milk thereafter, and downed the revolting contents.

“Good morning” came a cheerful, lilting greeting that beat against Gail's head. Mariah McGuire had made her entrance.

Whit didn't say a word to her, and their observer caught the undercurrent of tension flowing between them. “ 'Morning,” Gail replied, watching Whit's jaw work. “Sleep well?”

“Tight as a tick. And you?”

“Fine.”

Mariah turned to Whit. “Good morning.”

He growled something unintelligible to the woman he had gone to such pains to impress yesterday, Gail noted. How could he be unaware of her Wedgwood-green frock or of her thick wavy hair that was pulled to her nape in a loose bun? Okay, some men weren't aware of fashion or hairstyles, but Whit wasn't among them. How could he not notice a creamy complexion or a cameo-lovely face? And where were his manners?

Gail put two and two together. He wasn't oblivious to anything; he was trying to ignore Mariah. They'd had a tiff.

After a moment, Mariah apparently gave up on Whit's manners and seated herself on one of the high-backed oak chairs . . . well away from him.

A serving girl brought forth a platter of fried eggs and burnt-edged sirloin to serve Mariah and to replenish Whit's plate. The smell roiled Gail's stomach. Pouring herself another cup of coffee, she noticed Mariah had barely touched her food. Gail felt sorry for the woman who kept taking covert, though haughty, glances at Ole Tight Jaws.

Join a long line of the brokenhearted, Gail wanted to say.

She watched the redhead dab her lips with a napkin, then take a dainty sip of coffee. Gail's sympathies deepened. The lady was class. Joe Jaye had been some sort of prince or something in England, but he was nothing in Coleman County. Since he'd squandered his money on devil's rope, everyone knew he was as penniless as Pablo Martinez, the poorest Mexican in five counties. Poor Mariah was in for a shock.

Gail laid her spoon on the saucer. “Mariah, I apologize for last night.”

“Think nothing of it. Many people were enjoying Lois's fine punch.”

“I didn't mean that. I meant for what I said.” Doggone it! Why had she alluded to Whit? The subject of her warnings was women-talk and shouldn't be spoken around Ole Tight Jaws. “We can talk about it later, if you'd like.”

“There's no need for further discussion,” Mariah replied, her eyes warm as she smiled at the younger woman. “Think nothing of it. Really.”

Gail's estimation of the redhead rose to an even higher plane. Her curiosity was piqued, though. Why would such a fine lady marry that snoot Joe Jaye? She decided to ease into finding out the answer. “Lois told me you're a schoolteacher...”

“Oh, yes.” Her voice was warm and tender. “I love children.”

“Is Mr. Jaye going to allow you to teach after–” Gail saw the prudence of switching the topic again, seeing as how Whit had warned her against mentioning the farmer's dire straits, and he was turning his head slightly to drill a warning look her way.

On top of that, why point out Coleman County had more than its share of schoolteachers?

Her next question was addressed to Whit. “Ready for the cattle drive up to Dodge City?”

“Just about.” He turned back to his plate.

“When will you leave?” she asked while observing Mariah's closed lips.

“The herd's leaving after roundup. I'm not going.”

“What!” Gail couldn't believe her ears. “You've never missed a trail drive.”

“I am this time.”

“Why?”

“If it's any of your concern, Gail Ann, I've got other things to do. We've got a drought, remember?”

“Well, excuse me, Sour Puss.” She eyed the other woman. “Do you know anything about Longhorns, Mariah?”

“Nothing. But I
am
familiar with Guernseys.”

“Milch cows.” Whit curled his lip. “Sissy cows.”

“I beg your pardon,” Mariah said hotly.

He speared a piece of meat. “You heard me.”

Gail had had enough of his behavior. “I think you owe Mariah an apology!”

He downed another cup of coffee and continued to avert his eyes. “Tell you what, Gail Ann Strickland. I'm gonna put you in charge of heaven and music. When I want your goddamn opinion, I'll whistle.”

“Kiss the south end of a north-bound horse, Whitman Reagor.” She noticed Mariah was chewing her bottom lip to keep from laughing. Gail loved an audience. Her hangover ceased to bother her. Dramatically she brought her hand to her chest. “My, my. Hasn't the conversation deteriorated?”

“Actually,” Mariah replied, “I'm enjoying it. And I'm in total agreement with you.”

“Thank you. And pay no attention to Mr. Reagor. He really can be a bear at times. Let's hope his attitude improves, though, before we have to spend four whole days riding with him in his gaudy new covered wagon!”

She watched Mariah glance at Whit. Neither of them commented. Well, Gail thought, so much for that. She turned serious. “Mariah, are you packed for our journey?”

“All set. Whenever you and Mr. Reagor are ready, so am I.”

The dark head that had been bent over his plate jerked upward. “You're still going?”

“I most certainly am. We made
plans.”
Mariah added emphasis to her last word. “And I'm not one to break
plans.
Are you wanting to welsh on them?”

“Damn.” Holding his arms over his chest, he glowered. “You've got it all
planned
out, don't you?”

Mariah lifted a shoulder while closing her mouth around a bite of egg.

His jaw was rock hard with anger. “Just remember what I said last night. I'm on to your tricks. And if you don't behave yourself, Joe will be the first to find out.”

“My, my, Mr. Reagor. Are you a tale-carrier?”

“I, um, think I'll get packed,” the third party to the argument announced, but no one was listening.

Leaving the dining room, Gail furrowed her brows. She knew Whit and his behavior. Nonchalant detachment was his usual treatment of his ladies. No woman raised his ire, much less got her hook in him–even Gail's mother had tried that. Now Mariah had him on a line, Gail was certain, and all she had to do was reel him in.

“I guess it's about time,” she murmured, and decided to do her part in furthering the match.

Chapter Six

A half hour after the dining-room fiasco, the wagon pulled out of Dublin. Gail led the team, Mariah rode at her side, and Whit was astride Bay Fire. Mariah spent the rest of the day, plus the next two, wondering about her sanity. Why had she insisted on his escort? He alternately ignored or snapped at her, the knave.

The proper course would have been to follow her original plans–Lord, how she hated that word!–and continue on to Trick'em by stagecoach. Of course she had done no such thing. This was a matter of pride.

Though the memory of Whit Reagor's kiss was a force to be reckoned with, her anger boiled each time she remembered his accusations. Apparently he had thought she wouldn't fight for her good name. Ha! No one could tag “ 'Fraidy Cat” behind her name, either. And no arrogant, conceited ... handsome Texan could run her up a tree ...

Which was where Fancy could be found this Wednesday morning. Covers pulled to her chin, Mariah lay on her pallet in the wagon, listening to Whit as he tried to coax his cheeky feline down from a tree adjacent to their campsite.

Naturally he'd brought the cat along, probably to annoy Mariah. And so it had! Fancy had been caged when the Conestoga had rolled, but Whit had insisted on her freedom while they were camped. The feline had made the most of those hours, keeping her fangs trained on Gus, and Mariah had spent a good bit of her time keeping feathers and fur apart.

Her female companion had been helpful in her quest. Initially Mariah had had her doubts about Gail, but she now considered her a friend. On the trail extending westward from Dublin, there had been plenty of opportunity for the two women to begin to understand each other, for Whit, opting to ride his sorrel stallion, had refused to join them in conversation.

“Well, Mariah, reckon we ought to help rescue Fancy?”

She turned to the yawning Gail, who, with sleep filming her dark-blue eyes, stretched her arms above her head.

Propping herself up on an elbow, Mariah frowned. “You can. As far as I'm concerned that cat can stay up a tree.”

“My sentiments exactly.”

“Damn you to hell.” Whit's bellows filled the covered wagon even though he was yards away. “Stay up there. Stay up there all day. Do whatever you please, you wench you, but I'm not gonna stand here, hollering and begging you to get off your high horse.” He shouted a further invective to the cat, then ordered: “Ladies, get your backsides outta that wagon, and get the fire started. I'm going after breakfast.”

Neither woman moved a muscle beyond those utilized to curl their lips. Mariah heard the crackle of twigs and limbs as he stomped away from the campsite. She cupped a hand to the side of her lips, and said in a tone barely above a whisper, “Doesn't he know the first thing about females? Hollering ne'er won the fair kitty. Nor do orders a friendship make.”

Giving Whit a half minute to get out of earshot, Gail spoke. “He knows. There's no excuse for the way he's been acting the last couple of days. But he certainly has it in him to be cordial. Really, he does.”

“You can't prove that by me.”

“You're under his skin, that's why he's short-tempered.”

Mariah threw back the covers and got to her feet. The wagon swayed. Gus squawked. She gathered her clothes.

“He's under your skin, too,” Gail stated, sitting up.

“No, he isn't.”

She lifted Mariah's petticoat a half inch. “Then why are you putting this on inside out?”

The interrogated's shoulders wilted. “I hate him.”

“No, you don't.”

Mariah shot back, “I do.”

“No, you don't.”

“Yes, I do.”

“Lord,” the younger woman said, glancing up and back again, “we sound like a couple of six-year-olds.”

“I agree.” Sitting down on top of a wooden crate, Mariah laced her fingers and squeezed them tight. “I don't hate him. I don't like him, but I don't hate him.”

A knowing expression crossed the brunette's features. “I know it's been rough, his temper and all, but I'll bet you've found a few things to like about Whit.”

Perhaps if she weren't furious with his behavior since the night of Kimble's wedding, Mariah might have remembered a few charming qualities. As it was, she couldn't recall anything remotely nice about him. “Nothing.”

“Try harder.”

“You really can be a pain at times.”

Gail pursed her lips. “That's why you think I'm wonderful.”

“Probably. Okay, yes. I like you for yourself. Vinegar and sugar,” Mariah said, an odd feeling assailing her as she repeated Whit's analogy of the previous Saturday. It was as if there were a bond between herself and Whit. Well, Gail was their mutual interest.

“Since you've mentioned those wonderful particulars about yours truly, humor me,” her companion cajoled. “Tell me three things you admire about Whit.”

Mariah turned away, but her defenses weakened and several pleasant points came to mind. She felt dainty against his height. His dark good looks affected her in a way she didn't care to be affected. His arms were strong, and before he'd become insulting, she had enjoyed his kiss. And his kindness ... Kindness! What made her think that?

Being honest with herself, Mariah realized her self-appointed guardian angel did possess a streak of kindness. How many men would have gone to this much trouble for a neighbor's fiancée? Very few. And Whit
could
be charming, ever so charming. Plus, he had the love and respect of two good women–Lois and Gail. He wasn't all bad.

It was prudent, nonetheless, not to put words to those thoughts. Gail would get the wrong impression.

“He's light on his feet while dancing,” Mariah replied, not as coolly as she intended, “and he chews with his mouth closed.”

“A real swain, hmm?”

“Not hardly.” She wrinkled her nose when Gail reminded her to name a third. “He's got a lot of stamina” was Mariah's response.

Gail winked a sapphire eye. “That's what I've heard.”

“Pardon? What do you mean?”

“Stamina in bed.”

Mariah flushed. “I meant he never seems to tire.”

“Sorry. I forgot you're a maiden.”

Only in name. Peering shyly at her married friend, Mariah had a wealth of unanswered questions. Back home, she'd never found the gumption to ask a contemporary about intimacy, what with the other girls' prim behavior. This, however, was a different time, a different place, and she needed to understand what had happened between herself and Joseph.

“Have you ... Do you en-enjoy . . .” This was hard to put into words! “Do you I-like being married?”

“I think you're asking me if the sex is good.”

Mariah's face went hot; her cheeks flamed. “Yes.”

“I love it. Can never get enough. Unfortunately, the only time Ed and I aren't at each other's throats is in bed.”

“Why don't you get along?” Mariah asked, her own problems pushed aside.

“It's a problem that's gone back a long time.” Gail covered her eyes with a forearm. “A few skeletons rattling in the family closet, you see. Please don't ask me to explain, because I won't! Anyway, I expect Ed to show a little sympathy, and he doesn't. Nor does he have any patience with my, quote, attitude, so he's not above withholding his ‘favors'. He knows that's the best way to aggravate me.”

“Perhaps you should work on your attitude.”

“I've tried, but ... well, it's a complicated situation. Ed doesn't respond to my efforts. He's not perfect, either, I want you to know. Far from it. All he seems to care about is his damned cattle.” Gail took her arm from her eyes. “But I'm handling it in the only way I know how. I've got a whiskey jug to toast my toes.”

If there was one thing troubling Mariah about her newfound friend, it was Gail's drinking. She drank in the evening, when she thought her companions weren't watching, and this indicated real trouble. Mariah had suspected a man was at the bottom of it.

“Do you think spirits might be part of the problem?” Mariah asked hesitantly.

“One part.” Shrugging, Gail went on. “But I'll be fine, once I have kids to keep me occupied. 'Course, at the rate I'm going, I may never have younguns. Well, anyway, I hope you don't ever know how it feels to be rejected.”

“There's not much chance of that.” Shamed at her arrogant-sounding statement, Mariah pulled a copper-hued dress over her head. “I mean, I don't long for the marriage bed.”

“How do you know if you haven't tried it?”

“Believe me, I do not long for the marriage bed!”

“Sounds as if you have tried it.” Gail's face displayed an uncanny awareness, her former doldrums gone. “I don't think you love Joseph Jaye. You haven't mentioned his name, not even once, on this trip.”

Mariah grabbed a hairbrush and began to yank it through her tangled hair. “You're entirely too observant.”

“Are you doing the right thing, marrying Mr. Jaye?”

The tip of her tongue held a lie, but Mariah clamped her teeth around it. Suddenly she felt compelled to confess her soul. “I'm not going to marry him.”

Gail beamed. “That'll leave the field open for Whit!”

“Please get it out of your head I've set my sights on that man.”

“I won't. I think you're just right for each other. He needs someone who'll keep him on his toes, and what woman wouldn't want an attractive man who chewed with his mouth closed? Especially when he's wealthy and generous. Did you know he gave me and Ed our ranch?”

“How nice for you. But, Gail, I'm through chatting about the god of good deeds. You told me you're having personal problems, and I'm concerned about you,” she said. “I'd like to make a suggestion. When you get home, why don't you put away the whiskey jug? Make your husband sit down and listen to you. Make the biggest effort of your life to work through your problems.”

“I've tried all that.”

“Give it one more try.”

“Rowww!”Fancy hissed, interrupting the conversation as she jumped into the wagon. Tail as straight as a dorsal fin, she licked her chops and pranced over to Gus's cage. Eyes dilating, she batted her paw at the hasp.

“Don't you dare!” Mariah grabbed the gray scruff, and the cat went on the defensive. “Ouch!” Pain stabbed through her forearm as she banished the predator outdoors.

Gail sat stock-still. A few seconds later, she raised her eyes. “Listen.”

“To what?”

“Listen. Cattle!”

 

 

Whit heard hooves, thousands of hooves, probably no more than a quarter mile away and to the south, but moving west ... no doubt to the Western Trail. His line of sight turning in that direction, he spied a cloud of dust above the trees. He smiled. A moving herd was manna to a cattleman.

And here he was, crouching on his heels beside the drying-up Pecan Bayou, cleaning a slimy crappie for breakfast. Aggravation gnawed at his gut. He set the fish and his Bowie knife aside, and wiped his hands on a bandanna. His place was with the Crosswind herd.

Whit's ears detected a faint “Hee-yah,” probably from the cowpunch riding drag, and he exhaled. It didn't seem right, him not keeping an eye on his fortune or not being with the Crosswind Cattle Company's men when they and their lifeblood headed into Dodge. He had made the trip seventeen times, each spring since losing Wildwood Plantation to the carpetbaggers. He was acquainted with every turn, every stream, every Indian, along the way to Kansas.

And he knew, really knew, a lot of the women between Trick'em and there. Women! Thankfully, he was free of Barbara, but he'd gotten rid of one problem to take on another. Mariah McGuire. He had made up his mind to ignore the opposite sex for the next few days, thanks to her, and he was proud of himself.

Grimacing and eyeing the cerulean sky, he turned his thoughts back to business. Another damned beautiful day, he thought facetiously.

The ground was so dry he could smell it. The air snapped with static electricity. The sun baked down. Despite the occasional blue norther, March wasn't overly cold in Texas, not like the chill he had felt while fighting for the Confederate cause in Louisiana, but Whit couldn't remember a spring this hot in west central Texas. Or this dry. He hated being a prisoner to forces beyond his control.

 

 

Twenty minutes later, Whit approached the clearing that separated him from the wagon. Raising his gaze from the ground, he rounded a wide pecan tree . . . And his heart jumped into his throat. Fifty feet in the distance, a huge Longhorn bull was cutting a jagged track back and forth
in front of Mariah!

Like a statue with its fists clenched at the sides, she stood at the clearing's edge, a good distance in front of the wagon.

Whit eyed the dunnish brown, white, and rust-colored bull, assessing the wide length of horns, the bulging shoulder muscles, the massive back thews. At least a ton of power, thirsting for blood!

Anger at Mariah forgotten, Whit dropped the crappie and started to run forward to take aim with his rifle, but reason replaced instinct. The trajectory on his brand-new rifle–bought in Dublin for this trip–wasn't up to par, and he couldn't chance a missed shot. Furthermore, if he made his presence known, she might make a quick move, which would provoke the bull to charge her.

At that moment the enraged animal threw back his head, bellowing forth a potent warning, “uh-uh-uh-uh.” Whit didn't stop to wonder what an uncastrated bull was doing with a herd of steers, or how it got away from the drovers. Nor did he ruminate over why Mariah was in the clearing, or about Gail's whereabouts. He took action.