Wild Texas Rose (8 page)

Quiet as an Indian, Whit stole around the clearing's perimeter, shucking his shirt and pushing the collar into the waistband of his breeches, and made for the distressed woman. Soon he was behind Mariah, though partially hidden by a low-growing oak branch.

The Longhorn stopped his pacing to paw and gore the earth, sending up a cloud of dust. His tongue lolled out of his slobbering mouth.

“Mariah,” Whit called in a monotone, hoping she could hear him, “don't move.”

Her shoulders stiffened, but she didn't budge. He exhaled with relief. “Listen to me. Stay calm. I'm going to move away from you, and get his attention. When the bull turns toward me, you back away. Slowly. As soon as you clear the tree behind us, turn and run for the wagon. Understand?”

Mechanically, her head ratcheted, left and right.

“Don't argue with me,” he ordered.

His eyes pinned on the animal, Whit cut twenty feet to the side, to the safety of a low-growing, sturdy live oak branch, which he intended to climb in case his shot missed the bull. He started away from the tree's cover.

“Hey, boy! Lookie here!” Winchester under one arm, he waved his shirt, making taunting passes back and forth a few steps in front of the tree. “Come get me, ole boy!”

Dropping the shirt, he raised the gun and took aim. His trigger finger in place, his right thumb cocked the hammer. “Come on,
toro!”

The bull froze for a moment, then hoisted his front haunches in Whit's direction.

“Go, Mariah! Go now!”

She didn't budge.

His mighty head raised, the bull emitted a succession of excited bellowing cries, alternately sinking into hoarse grunts, then rising to a primitive scream. A huge hoof pawed the ground. The Longhorn jerked and twisted his head, lowering his horns to drop one pointed weapon down for a side entrance. Belying his size, he leaped toward Whit.

“Get gone, Mariah!” Whit shouted as the animal advanced on him. With the rifle's trajectory off, he had to wait until he could feel the heat of fury before firing his one shot. “Go, dammit!”

For the first time, Mariah moved. She whipped the pistol from her skirt pocket. Steadying her right hand with the fingers of her left, she aimed and fired.

Gunfire rent the air, then another, one of the bullets taking its intended mark on the bull, not five feet in front of Whit. One far-carrying bawl shattered the sudden quiet. The animal teetered for an instant caught in time. Bloodshot eyes popped before gushing blood covered its head.

A harsh boom sounded as the mammoth bull plummeted to the ground. His death knell was hoarse and deep, akin to thunder on the prairie.

Mariah squeezed her burning eyes shut. Strong arms wound around her shoulders, pulling her against a wall of hairy, sweat-drenched muscle. A wide hand splayed at her nape, and tender lips touched her forehead.

“Now, now,” Whit whispered, “everything's okay.”

Her nails dug into his upper arms, and she drank in the comfort of his presence. “I know. But I was scared.”

“Believe me, I was scared, too. Scared I couldn't get to ole Toro in time. That was a lotta beef steak after your pretty little hide.”

Mariah tensed. The big man thought he had saved the helpless little woman, and he was crowing about it! She was touchy about these things. Her father had belittled her capabilities, calling her a “typical female”. But her shooting abilities had impressed him. Something deep within her wouldn't allow Whit Reagor, or anyone else, to malign her marksmanship.

She drew back, lifting her narrowed eyes. “I wasn't scared for myself. I've been around cattle all my life, and I knew to stay still until something else got his attention.” She stepped back and parked a fist on her hip. “For heaven's sake, I was scared the bull would gore you.”

Whit's expression turned from protective to pleased. “You were thinking of me? Ah, Red, you're a wonderful gal.”

Before the compliment sank in, she demanded, “If you were so concerned about saving my ‘pretty little hide', what took you so long to fire a shot?”

Whit dropped his arms and stepped back. His eyes turned to the blue steel of a rapier's edge. “Beg to pardon, ma'am. I didn't want to take a chance of missing.”

“Well, you can thank me for taking a chance. I hit him first.”

“That's doubtful. You were a good twenty feet away.”

“What makes you think I can't hit a moving target at twenty measly feet?” she asked, the corner of her eye spying Gail bent over the carcass.

“What makes you think you can?”

“In case you've forgotten, I told you the day we met that I know how to handle firearms. Furthermore, Mr. Whit Reagor, I am an excellent shot.”

“And you're saying I'm not?”

“For all I know”–she flipped a hand in the air–“you couldn't hit the side of a barn.”

His lips curled back over his incredibly white teeth, but Gail spoke up. “Mariah, you killed him.”

She smiled triumphantly as Whit strode to the bull.

“What do you mean, she killed him?” he asked.

Gail dodged the pool of blood as she slid a forefinger across a nick in the horn's hole. “You got his horn, Whit. Wow, Mariah, you're a great shot. You got him square between the ear and the eye.”

“I beg to differ.” Whit rubbed his boot heel across the bull's temple to uncover the wound. “He turned his head just the moment I shot him, undoubtedly from the shock of Mariah's bullet hitting his horn.”

“Not possible,” Mariah protested after walking up to the others. Why didn't Whit put his shirt on? She assembled her wits and, remembering her annoyance, ignored his masculine appeal. “Look at the hole in his horn. His head would've had to turn to the left, turn my way, in order for my bullet to hit at that angle.”

Whit didn't utter a word. Dammit, she was right. He had known it, probably from the moment the bull had fallen. His male pride hadn't wanted him to believe he had been bested, though.

He retreated, but not before placing a gold piece on the bull's rump to placate the drovers who were sure to look for the stray. Stepping over the rifle he'd dropped when flying to Mariah, Whit stomped away. “I'm not going to argue with the two of you,” he threw over his shoulder. “We need to get going. The whole herd will be here before long. They can smell water a mile away, which no doubt is why that poor bastard was headed this way. Thirst got him killed.”

He stopped in his tracks, swinging around. “Why, Miss Crack Shot McGuire, were you in the clearing when any thinking woman would've stayed in the wagon?”

“I was trying to save your cat from certain death!”

“And you think Fancy doesn't have enough sense to climb a tree to get away from danger?”

He had a point, but no admission was going to pass Mariah's lips. She flounced over to face Whit. “I don't know Fancy's capabilities, but I can tell you one thing. This whole situation could've been avoided if you'd caged her!”

“Cat hater.”

“I love cats. Nice cats that curl in my lap when they aren't earning their keep by catching mice. Fancy fits neither bill. Your cat is not nice!”

“Maybe she's a good judge of character. Who'd want to curl in a shrew's lap?” His upper lip quivered. “And–who knows?–maybe she prefers ... parrots!”

“Oh, my God!” Mariah ran toward the wagon. “Gus!”

Chapter Seven

Whit was now contrite for participating in a ridiculous argument. Ready not only to admit Mariah's shot had felled the bull but also to apologize for his remarks, he hot-footed toward her swaying derriere. “Mariah!” he called, but she continued toward the wagon.

She couldn't have been more than ten feet from her destination, Whit about five from his, when a series of sounds emitted from the Conestoga's interior. Bass squawks. High-pitched yowls. Damn! Fancy had hold of Gus.

“No-o-o-o!” Mariah screamed, jumping up and diving inside the covered wagon. “Let go of him!”

Whit leaped in. In the center of the narrow aisle, Mariah had Fancy by the scruff; Fancy had Gus by the neck. Green feathers and gray cat hair were flying. Whit took a giant step in the narrow confines, going for the feline's mouth. Prying it open, he pulled the parrot free.

In midair the fat tabby, a feather dangling from her mouth, her claws unsheathed, flipped sideways and raked a paw across Mariah's face, drawing a pain-filled cry. Blood rose from the wound and Mariah's palm went to her cheek.

Wings flapped against Whit's arm. He placed Gus gently in his cage and fastened the hasp that the cat had pawed open. None too gently he then grabbed a hissing Fancy, thrust her hackled body into her wooden box, and secured the clasp.

Wiping a feather from his chin, Whit said, “I was wrong. Your shot got the bull.”

Mariah's tear-glistening eyes focused on a spot to his right before she turned her back and bent down to push her finger through the birdcage. Stroking the distressed parrot, who appeared to be in one piece except for a slew of missing feathers, she cooed, “Poor Gussie, are you all right? Don't worry. I'll make certain you're protected.” She took a small wafer from a nearby tin and offered the treat. “Biscuit?”

“ 'Scuit, 'scuit?” The bird turned his head to the side, one round brown eye surveying the wafer. A ragged wing flapped before his three-toed claws edged to the far side of his perch.

“Everything will be okay.” Once more Mariah guided the morsel to a spot beneath his beak. “Gussie want a biscuit?”

Gus blinked twice, pulled himself up as if he were the proudest of fowl, and responded to her tender loving care by devouring the palliative and trilling a two-note song.

“Looks like he's all right,” Whit commented, and edged between Mariah and a wooden crate to seat himself. Lifting her chin with the crook of a finger, he asked, “Will you listen to me? We need to talk.”

“I don't see the point.”

“I
do. I want to apologize for being hardheaded about that bull ... and for making those remarks about you.”

“We were both being a bit stubborn, I suppose.” She glanced at the bald-spotted Gus.

“Believe me,” he said, “I didn't want anything to happen to your parrot.”

“I never thought you did, not really ... Whit, I realize this is your wagon, but it would make the trip more pleasant for all of us if you would keep Fancy caged.”

“All right. Except for her necessary times.”

“Thank you.” She handed her pet another wafer. “And he thanks you, too.”

Curiosity got to Whit. “You're sure attached to ole Gus there. Any particular reason?”

“He was a gift from my brother,” she answered hesitantly, and wiped her scratched face with the back of her hand. “Dirk's a sailor. He brought Gus from South America.”

“So when you're around the parrot”–Whit stood, and took a clean handkerchief from his pocket–“you feel you have a small part of your brother?”

She nodded at his wisdom, and Whit wiped the blood from her cheek. “I guess it's hard, leaving your family in a faraway place.”

“Life's challenges don't frighten me.”

“Brave lady.” For some odd reason he couldn't remove his hand from the smooth skin of her jaw, nor could he stop his little finger from sliding beneath her earlobe. He heard her sudden intake of breath, and saw her dark eyes widen. Whit's heart hammered against his chest.
Back
off,
Reagor.

“We'd ... uh ... better hit the trail,” he said, yanking his hand to his side and doing an about-face to alight the wagon.

Ten minutes later they were headed westward again. For two hours they traveled, bypassing the herd from which the bull had strayed. Neither of the women spoke a word in all that time.

Finally Gail broke the silence. “I hope you noticed I kept my distance when you and Whit went after Gus and Fancy. I take it, though, you two didn't get anything worked out.”

“He did admit my shot was the fatal one.”

Gail nearly dropped the reins. “He did?”

“You seem astounded.”

“I am. Whit isn't one to apologize.”

“But he has,” Mariah said. “More than once.”

“Well, I'll be dipped in bat guano.” The heart-faced Gail tilted her bonneted head. “Since you're not going to marry Mr. Jaye, why don't you set your cap for Whit?”

Not really seeing, Mariah studied the scruffy low hills, the parched terrain they were rolling past. “Don't start that again.”

The wagon lurched to the side as a wheel hit one of the many ruts, but neither Mariah's request nor the jolt hindered Gail from pursuing the topic dear to her heart. “You can't keep your eyes off him, and he has to sit on his hands to keep 'em off you. If you'd give each other a chance, I'd bet money, marbles, or salt that you'd find a lot of things to cherish in each other. For a long time.”

Mariah wasn't ready to acknowledge her fascination with Whit, but she had, days before, realized the emotions he roused in her. Nonetheless, she was free for the first time in her life to do as she pleased–or would be as soon as she disentangled herself from Joseph. Why would she want to muddy up the future with another romantic involvement?

“I don't mean to sound cruel,” she said, confused by her own emotions as well as by Gail's ardent campaign, “but I find it strange, your promoting a match between me and Whit. With your own words you've said your marriage isn't happy. It seems to me you'd be reluctant where romance is concerned.”

“I'm not soured on men. I'm sure my problems with Ed are my fault. Furthermore, I want to see Whit happy.”

“If you feel so strongly about him, why didn't you set your own sights on him? Before you married, of course.”

“Me and Whit? Goodness, no.” The young woman blushed. “He's family!”

“Cousins have been known to wed.”

“I assure you my love for Whit is entirely platonic.” Whit's champion finished her match-making a few minutes later with, “... and he's quite well fixed, too. His ranch is the biggest one in west central Texas, and his home is the most luxurious I've ever seen.”

“How nice for him. But I think you're prejudiced where Whit is concerned. He's not the gallant you believe him to be. He accused me of being after him, Gail. So he did a quick retreat.”

“He doesn't scare easily. He may have backed off, but you're not out of his mind. And he's not out of yours.” A finger pointed at Mariah. “Now patch up your differences.”

“Why start something just to end it?”

“All romances start at the beginning.”

“Truth be known, Gail, he doesn't fit into my plans.” Mariah studied the sky. “I can't live in Trick'em. Not with Joseph there.”

“Hogwash. All's fair in love and war ... So says the Bard. Mr. Jaye will recover.”

Shaking her head with vehemence, Mariah crossed her arms. “I wouldn't do that to Joseph.

I don't love him, but do respect him and his feelings.”

“Give the girl a crown of thorns.”

“I'm not a martyr!”

“Okay, Mariah, what are you, then?”

“Confused. Unsettled. Scared.”

“I think I understand. You've come a helluva long way just to break an engagement.” Gail looked down at the reins in her hands. “Will you sail back to Guernsey?”

“No. There's nothing for me there.”

“No family?” Gail asked.

“Only a father who hates me.” Mariah recalled the night she found out why. His tongue loosened by apple brandy after an evening of dancing and merrymaking, he had pounded on his wife's locked bedchamber door, his shouts filling the loft where his only daughter had been sleeping. At ten, she had been too young to understand the meaning of his anger, but now she understood his words.

“My mother never slept with him after I was born,” she explained quietly. “She refused to bear more children and he blames me for it. He made my life miserable.”

“I can see why you don't want to go back.”

“Exactly. That's why I must make a new start, and find a teaching position.” Mariah paused. “Somewhere.”

“Teaching will take care of your days,” the brunette said. “But what about your nights?”

“I'll sleep.”

Gail's face pulled into a mask of disgust. “You'll moulder away to a shriveled old school-teacher who raps younguns' knuckles because she's sour at the world for not taking opportunities when they came along. Do those poor children a favor, give yourself a chance.”

The discourse on what her future might hold took Mariah aback. Would she become old and bitter and alone? Though her dreams for a career had been paramount in her plannings, she also yearned for a home and children.

“Since you haven't answered me, I take it you're weakening,” Gail said. “Listen, I've got something brewing in my ole noggin. My older brother and his family live a few miles from here. I'm overdue for a visit. Sharon's with child, you see, and Raymond left with his herd for Dodge last month. I'm going to tell Whit to leave me at their ranch. You two need some time alone.”

Mariah considered her offer. “You, my dear Gail, are a real friend.”

 

 

Whit knew it was a mistake leaving Gail behind at the Chapman Ranch this afternoon, but he hadn't voiced an objection. Right now, as the sun began to sink over the horizon and as the land grew progressively more desolate, he wished he had protested.

Mariah was driving him insane.

He had little control over his wits, with her sitting close to him as he led the team of grays along the rutted trail to Trick'em. She hadn't been invited to ride shotgun. Gus, whose cage was shoved behind her feet to protect him from the now caged Fancy, had been the excuse she'd used to park her delectable rear next to Whit–so near he could feel the warmth of her body, could smell the rose perfume that drove him wild, could hear the sweet tones of her soprano as she sang a French melody. It was all her fault, his tangled temper . . . his taut nerves... his obsession.

Would he make it to Trick'em without losing all control? Get a grip on your reins! He told himself.

The left front wheel hit a rut, throwing her against his shoulder. Instantly he took both reins in one hand and steadied her with the other.

“Thank you,” she murmured.

As he'd done since they had left Gail with Sharon Chapman, Whit didn't look at Mariah. Through clouds of dust, they had traveled miles and miles without a word passing his thinned lips.

“You're welcome, Mariah,” she said, obviously mocking his inattention.

He clicked his tongue, snapped the reins, and relented. “You're welcome, Mariah.”

Taking a sidelong look her way, he sucked in his breath. Her chocolate-brown eyes were troubled, and when she caught his stare, she averted those big beautiful mirrors of unhappiness. Making certain the wagon was still on course, he prolonged studying her profile. Freckles had popped out on her blistered and scratched cheek.

When she brought her hand to her face, he eyed the little felt hat she wore. “Haven't you got a bonnet to wear?”

“It's packed.”

“You'd better fetch it. Your skin ... well, that hat you're wearing was made for beauty, not practicality. The Texas sun's brutal, you know.”

“My bonnet case is surrounded by boxes.”

“Now that you mention it, what is in all those boxes and crates?” Whit voiced the question that had come to mind on several occasions. “They're mighty heavy for a trousseau.”

Her thumbs sliding beneath her chin, she steepled her fingers across her nose. “Household goods. School supplies. But for the most part, they're packed with seeds. Guernsey seeds are nonpareil, you see, and Joseph requested them for the vegetable garden.”

Pity came over Whit, and he couldn't help think that when she married the farmer, it wouldn't be long before her sensitive skin would be blackened by the sun. How long would it take for work to melt the softness from her curves, drawing her into gauntness? Such a shame. A woman of her beauty ought to have a man to provide, and provide well, for her. A man who would clothe her in silks and velvets and soft satins, and protect her from the rough frontier.

Joseph could offer no such luxuries.
But you could, Reagor.
His home was a haven from the wilds of west central Texas, and money was no problem. Whit warned himself against his thoughts of setting up Joe's woman.

He had to get away from her, and quick. “There's a creek over there.” He steered the heavily weighted wagon to the right. “Night's on its way. Might as well make camp.”

She smiled. “Wonderful!”

The minute he brought the team to a halt, she grabbed the wicker cage and jumped down. “Oh, it's lovely to have our feet on the ground, isn't it?”

She made for the gurgling stream and bent over the water's edge. Untying Bay Fire from the wagon's rear and unharnessing the horses to allow them to crop the meager grass, Whit watched as she bathed her face, then opened the cage to offer a palmful of water to that blasted parrot. Exasperated, Whit wished she'd offer him a sip of water.