by Wynne Roman
“Christ!”
Nathan began to thrust, pulling back and surging into her again and again. She willed her body to cooperate, to move with him as best she could, to adjust to his intrusion and take whatever he had to give her.
This is your obligation as his wife, insisted a commanding voice of instruction, and Mariah knew it was true.
Slowly, as her body struggled to accommodate him, the initial anguish became more of an aching discomfort than actual pain. Even that became tolerable when he continued to drive in and out of her body. His movements came harder, faster, and then he slammed into her with renewed fury. His strength shoved her across the mattress, making every part of him a part of her. A sharp, shattered cry was torn from him, and with another deep, punishing thrust, he collapsed on her.
Clearly spent, he gasped for air. She lay quietly, almost afraid to move. Gradually, she discovered that holding her breath made the pain easier to bear, and she exhaled only when necessary. Even then, she kept her breathing soft and shallow. Anything that allowed her to escape his notice.
She understood things so much better now. What men expected of their wives, and what Nathan’s mother wouldn’t speak of. What he had understood all along. What was inevitable.
What he didn’t want with her.
It came as a relief then when Nathan pushed away, but a brief spike of pain snatched a hiss from her lips. She flinched as he pulled that male part of himself from her body, and he stopped for a heartbeat of a moment. She blew out a soft breath, and he surged completely from the bed.
“Nathan . . .”
She’d said his name so often that evening, and he hadn’t answered. Not even once. No words of understanding, no endearment or hint of tenderness. Nothing.
She shouldn’t be hurt, told herself she wasn’t, but deep in her heart she knew that she was lying. She couldn’t help it. She understood the significance of what happened that night and why. More important was that she accepted one final truth.
This act of—what? Copulation?—meant nothing to him. Changed nothing.
Nathan stepped back, his movements defined and deliberate. After a moment, she realized he was fastening his trousers, and the implication struck her as strong as the force of his hand. Though he demanded her nudity, this final act of claiming her meant so little to him that he hadn’t even removed his trousers.
Mariah’s breathing caught as she considered how he had degraded her place as his wife. His head came up when he heard the sound.
“I screwed you,” he said bleakly, disgust clear in his tone. “Consummated this goddamned farce of a marriage. May God have mercy on both our souls.”
1
November 1865
The cemetery sat on a small plot of land, surrounded by nothing more than a whitewashed picket fence. Three graves consecrated the ground, graves that Mariah Fairchild had tended with quiet devotion. She had done so for years, but today was different.
Today, she prayed that this would be the time that created some semblance of comfort for her weary heart.
It didn’t. The opposite effect took over, allowing thoughts and emotions to crash through her and prey even more heavily on her heart.
In retrospect, she shouldn’t have been so surprised by her failure. She had been too eager when she set out today. She let the calendar make her anxious and uneasy, allowed it to drive her from the house and away from Carolyn and her frenetic plans. Her mother-in-law’s mania had made her careless; Mariah could see that now.
How could she have convinced herself that a few hours at the Rancho de Sangre Real cemetery would ease the memories?
Nowhere else on the ranch would the reminders be so strong.
Mariah released a weary sigh and dropped to her knees before the first marker. Richard Fairchild. The uncle-in-law who had died well before her marriage to his nephew. Killed by the jealous husband of a woman with whom he’d dallied quite scandalously, or so gossip claimed.
No one she knew had ever doubted the rumors.
They meant nothing to her, and so she worked with quiet diligence until Richard’s final resting place was tidy and weed-free. The labor was too mindless, however, and that allowed her thoughts to wander toward dangerous territory more than once. No green girl, she knew how to counter temptation. Her soft, breathy rendition of The Yellow Rose of Texas had often provided distraction and comfort.
Next was Jordan Fairchild’s grave. Mariah’s father-in-law, and a philanderer in his own right, had been gone for more than two years now. Some said his death had come after years of too much alcohol, rich food, and womanizing. Others claimed his uncontrolled fury over the Confederacy’s increasing struggles had become too much for him to bear. She suspected it was any and all of those things, separately and together and eating away at him until a severe attack of apoplexy had ended his life.
He hadn’t even lived to see the worst of it all.
A small sensation of relief wafted through her, as unfitting as it might have been. Though her mother-in-law’s grief survived to this day, Mariah gave thanks with every prayer that they were finally free of Jordan’s hard ruthlessness and thoughtless cruelty. She knew she should feel guilty for those emotions—the man was dead—but she didn’t. For that reason, she neatened his marker and gravesite with the same care that she showed for Richard’s. It changed nothing about her thoughts or memories of the man, but Carolyn would like it. That would be enough for now.
Her mother-in-law struggled this time of year. As did Mariah herself.
Finishing, she turned to the last marker. The newest one. The one that broke her heart every time she saw it. The one that paid tribute to a man who wasn’t actually interred within this hallowed ground.
His remains lay buried in the wilds of Virginia, resting in an unmarked grave somewhere near the Spotsylvania Courthouse battlefield. He was her husband, Nathan Fairchild.
The stone marker was plain and simple, merely listing his name and the dates. Nathan Austin Fairchild. Born: November 13, 1837. Died: May 12, 1864.
He had lived for twenty-six years and six months, but that fact said nothing about the man himself or the life he led. Then again, she reminded herself severely, even as his wife, she couldn’t claim to have known him any better. Nothing about their marriage had ever allowed for true intimacy. Not in those first, early weeks, and certainly not during the years he spent away in the Confederate army.
And now? Years later and even after his death, why did she still allow such feelings of loss, betrayal, and anger to plague her? How could she recover when there was no chance to heal whatever misguided bitterness she and Nathan had shared between them?
No, that stupid war had robbed them of their future. Cheated thousands upon thousands of men, women, and children. Left them all to face sorrow and isolation and deprivation, all in the name of southern independence.
Southern independence? Mariah repeated the sad, worthless claim in her mind, scoffing bitterly as she pressed her fingers against the cool headstone that marked Nathan’s supposed resting place. She hated everything about what her father had called Mr. Lincoln’s War and the god-damned Confederacy.
She didn’t even flinch as the curse tore through her mind. It was true. God had damned the Confederacy, leaving them broken and maimed and defenseless. They had been vanquished, and now they must pay the price for their foolish rebellion.
Some said they deserved whatever the victors deemed as the proper cost.
“You shouldn’t be here alone.”
Mariah started as a voice came from behind her, and she turned so quickly that she almost lost her footing. Catching sight of the man, she steadied herself with a tiny, relieved sigh.
“Gabriel.”
Standing before her was Gabriel Bonham, the Segundo—second in command—of the Rancho de Sangre Real. He had become so only six months ago, arriving with Tristan when he had returned from the fighting. Gabriel had stayed, become her brother-in-law’s right-hand man . . . and Mariah’s fri
end.
Any surprised uneasiness disappeared, and she found herself quickly comforted by his presence. Yes, a certain anxiety rose inside her, but that was because Gabriel Bonham was a man of contradictions. He worked hard and yet took time to cheer her. By all accounts, he seemed trustworthy and reliable, while maintaining a tight rein on his own privacy. He was relaxed and fit in well with the rest of the men, but still kept the others at arm’s length.
Except Mariah.
Gabriel opened the gate, stepped inside the confines of the small cemetery, and held her gaze with one severe blue eye. The other was covered by a black leather eyepatch. The ridges of a long pink scar rose above his brow and snaked down to the middle of his cheek. He looked hard and fierce, exactly as he’d appeared the first day she met him.
“Why didn’t you tell me you wanted to visit? I would have accompanied you.”
She smoothed her hands over her skirt, brushing away a nonexistent speck of dirt. “It was an impulse.”
He stared at her for a heartbeat, two, as though gauging her sincerity, and then he looked at the marker behind her. He didn’t move again, didn’t flinch, didn’t even blink until finally he nodded.
“His birthday is coming soon.”
“The anniversary of his birthday,” she corrected. “Though Carolyn claims differently, I no longer find it proper to celebrate the date as an actual birthday.”
“Will she do that?”
Mariah made no attempt to disguise her weary sigh. “She’s already planning it. Dinner, a tearful session of remembering his life, and then—” she closed her eyes briefly “—a period of mourning that will confine her to bed.”
“And you?”
Gabriel took a step closer. He was one of the tallest men she’d ever met, standing at least two inches over six feet, or so she guessed. He was dressed all in black, head to toe, with only his wheat blond hair standing out in an almost shocking contrast. The muscles of his arms and chest showed a robust display of strength, power, and masculinity that warmed her somehow.
She hadn’t truly looked at a man other than Nathan in all her life. Certainly, she’d never considered another’s physical attractiveness. That is, until she met Gabriel Bonham. He’d turned her world topsy-turvy from the moment they were first introduced.
Admitting that confused her. Upset her. Excited her. And that made it so much worse.
I can’t allow myself to entertain such thoughts! Not now, she insisted, and most especially not here.
Mariah forced herself to lift one shoulder in a casual shrug, as though Gabriel and his question were simple enough to consider. “I won’t take to my bed for days, if that’s what you’re asking.” She tried to smile but knew it came out sadder, wearier than she would have liked. “I won’t deny that I have regrets, but I can’t dwell on them.” She shook her head. “That’s too . . . painful.”
He moved again, another step and then another, until he stood hip-to-hip with her. His arm slipped lightly, easily around her waist. It was a tender gesture, reassuring, although not overly so, but still it comforted her.
It isn’t proper, a stiff voice of caution disapproved. And that was entirely true. But then, nothing about Gabriel Bonham had ever seemed to be quite proper to her.
“You don’t talk about him,” he said with no apparent inflection in his voice.
She darted a quick glance at his expression. His features were calm and placid, allowing her to take his aloofness at face value. And why not? He and Nathan had never been acquainted, so any grief would seem far-fetched at best. Any other emotion—anger or jealousy—would be wholly unnecessary.
After all, it had been one year, five months, and twenty-six days since her husband had died.
“No,” she admitted, “I don’t suppose I do.” It was easier that way, but she kept that observation to herself.
“Neither does Tristan.”
“What can either of us say?” Her question was rhetorical. “The facts are simple enough. Nathan was my husband and Tristan’s older brother. He died at the Battle of Spotsylvania Courthouse in Virginia. And though he is buried there, his mother insisted on erecting a marker here as well.”
Even as she stated those very simple facts, they didn’t seem like enough. Too much remained unfinished and would always be so because of Nathan’s death. She’d known it since word came of his loss, so why couldn’t she find any peace over it?
“You loved him.” Gabriel continued to stare at the gravestone.
Mariah considered the idea of loving Nathan. Yes, she had loved him. She loved him still and always would. But that had never brought her anything other than heartbreak. Tristan and Carolyn knew that her feelings for Nathan had remained unrequited throughout every day of their marriage. Pretending otherwise was disingenuous on her part.
So why didn’t she admit the truth to Gabriel? He was, after all, the one man to turn her head away from memories of her husband.
The only man to ever make love to her.
Embarrassment warmed her as memories crowded her consciousness. Nathan Fairchild had asserted his husbandly rights and taken her virginity on their wedding night. He’d taken her whenever he chose, and rarely had more than a night or two passed between his visits to her bed. She’d never denied her husband his place there, nor had she resisted his advances. Neither had she ever enjoyed their time together.
Gabriel had changed everything about that.
“I did love him,” she admitted softly, reaching for Nathan’s marker and brushing her fingertips over the top. She pulled back quickly, hoping that Gabriel hadn’t noticed her obvious trembling. “I loved him from the time I was a child. He never loved me in return.”
The weight of Gabriel’s stare leveled her, but she forced herself to look into his bemused face.
“I find that very difficult to believe, beautiful.”
She lifted a shoulder, softening at the endearment that only he ever used for her. The only endearment that anyone had ever used.
“It’s true.”
“You’re a lovely woman who gives so much of herself to others. I see it every day, and I admire your generous spirit.”
“Thank you.” She dropped her gaze when heat warmed her cheeks. “But that doesn’t necessarily recommend me as someone worthy of being loved. Nathan didn’t seem to think so.”
“He was a fool.”
“No.” She almost smiled, but the expression wouldn’t quite settle on her lips. “He was a man who was in love with someone else.”
“In love?”
“Yes.”
“Mariah.” Gabriel’s voice remained soft as he said her name, but she recognized a new uncertainty there. She regretted any awkwardness he might feel; she simply wouldn’t hide the truth. Now not, when Nathan’s animosity over their marriage had always been an open secret.
She looked back at the tombstone. Somehow, she didn’t want to see Gabriel’s face when she admitted the truth. “Nathan loved Susannah Reade. He’d always loved her. They were engaged to be married, but she was killed in a riding accident a few weeks before the wedding.”
“What happened?”
Mariah couldn’t say for sure that Gabriel actually cared how Susannah died, but it felt right to tell him, all the same. “She was riding alone. Something must have spooked the horse. No one knows exactly what. She was thrown, and her neck was broken.”
As was Nathan’s heart, Mariah added, but only to herself. She shouldn’t need to say those particular words. Even a blind man could have seen how things had deteriorated from there.
Gabriel didn’t respond.
“Jordan—Nathan’s father—then arranged for Nathan to marry me,” she added after another moment of silence.
“How long were you married?”
“Three years,” she answered, relieved that Gabriel had asked for no other details. “But he was away fighting during most of that time.”
“And you’ve been a widow—” He broke off and shot a glare at the
grave marker. She didn’t need for him to read the dates again.
“Eighteen months.”
“Not long.”
“Not long,” she agreed, “and yet a lifetime. I hadn’t seen Nathan in more than two years when he died, so other than my wardrobe—” she pulled weakly at her black gaberdine skirt “—his death changed little in my life.”
“He never came home on a furlough?”
“No. We were married in June of sixty-one. He remained at home until September, when he went to Austin to enlist. The day he rode out to take his place with the Confederacy was the last time I ever saw him.”
For so long, Mariah had been unable to say those words without tears, but no more. She liked to think she’d come to terms with her place in this life, learned to accept her past, and given up questioning her future. The good Lord had given her life, a roof over her head, and enough worldly comforts to satisfy most needs. She neither asked for nor expected anything more.
“You’ve been alone a long time.” Gabriel’s voice sounded oddly husky, and the arm still held loosely around her waist tightened almost imperceptibly. His presence gave her unexpected comfort.
“Yes,” she agreed. “I have.” She turned slightly and tilted her head back to look up into his face. Really look, appreciating anew that he was as handsome as he was rugged. As gentle as he was hard. As light as he was dark. “But now . . .” She allowed her voice to trail off with deliberate suggestion.
“Now?”
She dropped her gaze and forced herself to think seriously about the question. “Now, I don’t know. You came into my life and changed me, Gabriel. Made me feel things that I don’t understand.”
“Is that a bad thing?”
“No! Of course not. But—” she took a deep breath “—I don’t know what it means, either.”
His smile was soft as he bent down to drop a gentle kiss on top of her head. “You don’t have to know what it means, beautiful. You only have to feel.”