by Wynne Roman
2
The night surrounded Nathan Fairchild with quiet darkness. The fire was banked to little more than a glow, and his solitary bedroll was placed strategically to give him the best view of the immediate countryside. Every night, he arranged his campsite in exactly the same way, and after two months, it had become a comforting habit. He’d learned the intricacies of sleeping out in the open during the long months of war, but in those days, he’d been surrounded by men and animals and all the equipment of an army. Now, his only companion was a four-year-old chestnut quarter horse named Clancy.
That was about to change. He was on Sangre Real land again, having crossed the farthest property boundary late in the afternoon. He would reach the ranch house the following day, something he dreaded as much as anticipated. Not that those emotions were anything new. He’d been fighting them since the day he’d left Illinois for Texas.
Once he’d gotten closer, near Austin at the very least, he could have started to push himself to ride harder. Spend longer days in the saddle. Take shortcuts. He hadn’t.
As ironic as it may sound, particularly at the end of a two-month trip, he still needed time. Time to accept that he was well and truly home—and how he felt about that.
Swallowing a weary sigh, he pushed himself from where he reclined into a seated position. His legs bent into an inverted V, he crossed his arms and propped them on his knees. The darkness called to him, and he stared into the shadows, avoiding the glow of the fire to protect his night vision. Beyond that was the Rancho de Sangre Real in all its glory, the Fairchild family home for three decades now. He was the heir to that dynasty, and as much as he craved the obligation it brought, he hated it.
Too much had happened; the world around him had changed, and nothing would ever be the same. Still, there was one undeniable truth that his father had beat into his head and heart and body: his first duty, forever and always, was the Rancho de Sangre Real. Family came second, and there would never be a time when he could allow himself to shirk either duty.
Even now, four years of bloody destruction and conflict could not change that.
Arriving at the outer reaches of the Sangre Real that afternoon, memories had begun to crowd over him like a shroud. Then and now, they assailed him with the good, the bad, the love, the hate, and he couldn’t quite comprehend the flood of emotion. He’d put all that behind him the day he rode off to join the Fourth Texas Regiment, spending the following years avoiding the slightest memory until it was all but stripped from him.
Now? Well, now he was confused, overcome, as angry as he’d ever been. “And what do you think you can do about it?” he muttered to himself.
Nathan frowned as the image of his father, loud and arrogant and cruel, rose up in his mind’s eye. He could see Jordan Fairchild standing before him, the man’s hands heavy with their promised beatings, his expression dark with disappointment and rage. Nathan could almost catch a glimpse of his mother cowering behind her husband, weak and frivolous and all but useless.
It was a damn ugly way to grow into manhood.
He hadn’t survived it alone, which brought up thoughts of his brother. Younger than Nathan by two years, Tristan looked and was built just like their father. They were rival hotheads, living the same ugly life and learning the same pitiful lessons. Their father had pitted them against each other, dominated them with his iron fists, and controlled them with his own personal brand of hostility.
They’d fought each other first, and then, conditioned by Jordan’s bullying, the Fairchild brothers were among the first to sign up to fight for the Confederacy. It had seemed like such a lark back then, a legitimate way to indulge their aggression and show each other up by becoming a true hero.
To that end, they had enlisted separately. Their mutual dislike had sent Nathan up north, near Austin, while Tristan had gone east to Galveston. It was the last communication the brothers had.
“Did you survive the war, Tris?” Nathan asked the darkness. If he had, how well? Whole and complete and a better man than when the fighting started? Or was he regretful and bitter like so many others? Like Nathan himself. Was he back at the Sangre Real where he belonged, or off roaming the countryside like so many men who found themselves lost now that the battles were done?
The ranch . . . Jordan . . . Tristan. The burdens weighed heavily on Nathan, but they weren’t the real reason he continued to dawdle. No, he was avoiding the future that waited just beyond the horizon for one more reason.
Mariah. Sweet, devoted Mariah, née Carpenter. The girl he’d known since childhood. The woman who had never pretended her feelings for him were anything less than love.
Mariah. His wife.
Her image rose sharply in his mind’s eye. It wasn’t a specific memory, not a time or place or an event, but as he’d seen her perhaps a hundred times over the years. Her raven-black hair coiled at the back of her head in a feminine, intricate knot, her oddly colored, violet eyes shining with clear honesty in her flawless face. Her clothing, well-made and demure, but enhancing the lure of her generous hips and full breasts.
One of the most beautiful women he’d ever seen.
As her husband he’d seen and taken it all. His duty as her bridegroom had been to consummate their marriage, or so Jordan had reminded him in the last moments before they’d departed for their wedding night in Brownsville. His heart still broken, longing for a woman who would never be his again, Nathan had complied with his father’s command. A part of him had always known he would.
Are you trying to pretend that screwing your wife is some kind of hardship? a disbelieving voice scoffed.
It wasn’t. Ever. Physically, he had found solace in Mariah’s arms, those slender legs, her curvaceous body. Emotionally, he’d hungered for some magical transformation through which it would be Susannah in his arms. Whose body he joined. Whose lips he allowed himself to kiss and taste and enjoy.
But that had been only a painful tease, a fairy tale that had no chance of ever being real. In retaliation, he had resorted to thinking of his time with Mariah in the crudest of terms. “You are my wife,” he had told her coldly. “I’ll take you whenever and however I want, and you will obey.”
Why had it been so important that he poison everything between them?
And now? How did he mean to go forward with this reunion that was upon them? How was it that, among all the churned-up anger and frustration and disappointment which coursed through him, he still had some softness when he thought of Mariah? Even worse were the other emotions that wouldn’t release him.
Which of those emotions tore through him the strongest? He had asked himself the question repeatedly. Regret or guilt or shame?
He couldn’t pretend any one of them carried more weight than the other. He deserved them all. Mariah may not have been Susannah and would never be the woman who was his first love, but she wasn’t to blame for the debacle they had lived through, either. He couldn’t see through his pain in those early years; he’d only known that Mariah had become his wife, a poor substitute forced upon him by his father’s scheming avarice, while Susannah’s corpse lay rotting in the ground. He’d found himself tied to another woman for the rest of his godforsaken life, and so he’d consummated the goddamned deal.
He’d bedded Mariah Carpenter, and made it clear to anyone who cared to know—and especially Mariah herself—just how much he hated the burden she had become.
Circumstances had changed him. Time had worn him down. Hopelessness had destroyed the strong emotions that had once consumed him. His already tarnished honor demanded succor, and he knew of only one way to go forward.
You are married to a beautiful woman. She loves you and always has, no matter how you’ve tried to destroy it. She’s kind and giving and acquiescent. Why can’t you give her what she wants?
“What she deserves,” he said, as though hearing the words would give them greater impact.
She loves you, repeated that wretched part of him. The mere idea had infuriat
ed him at the time. How could she be the woman who was alive and beautiful and waiting in his bed when his heart belonged to Susannah? He’d hated everything about Mariah, most especially her love for him and the lust for her that consumed him.
And so, he had taken advantage of her feelings at every opportunity. He’d used her, discarded her, and then walked away without a backward glance.
Now, it was time to pay the piper.
But what, exactly, did that mean? After everything he’d gone to fight for—and lost—was he prepared to spend the rest of his married life in undeclared warfare with the woman who was his wife through no fault of her own? She was the most innocent of anyone involved, and she’d paid a price higher than any other.
Could he continue to embrace the obscene order of things that Jordan Fairchild had put into place? Was that the ideal for which he’d fought and watched men die? Could he accept losing his mind and heart over it?
Or was it time to face the future and whatever was left of the man known as Nathan Fairchild?
Sunrise came as something of a relief. The pale morning light had extinguished the questions from the night before. He’d awoken with no real clarity, no relief or answers, but he could claim a new determination to face whatever awaited his homecoming.
He took care of his morning routine, readied Clancy, and then the two began the last leg of their journey. Nathan didn’t hesitate, but neither did he hurry. The future would come up to meet him soon enough, and he knew it very well.
Clancy’s long legs put mile after mile behind them with nerve-wracking ease. Nathan allowed himself a few moments of distraction, embracing the sight of the surrounding landscape. Tall, windswept grasses waved in the breeze; prickly pear cactus stood as squat, thorny sentries; and a scattered collection of mesquite, huisache, and ebony trees raised bony branches to the sky. They were no longer images printed indelibly on his memory. Rather, they surrounded him with apparent welcome.
The prodigal son had returned.
He was Nathan Fairchild, he insisted to himself somewhat self-righteously. Heir to the Rancho de Sangre Real in south Texas. Six feet tall, and still too thin after a year in that hell hole of a prisoner of war camp called Camp Douglas. He stifled the urge to remember more about those particular days, something he’d been studiously avoiding at every opportunity. Instead, he reminded himself that his hair was too long, his beard too unkempt, his clothes too well-worn.
And you are one of the vanquished, returning home with your tail between your legs.
He hated the resolute warning. Not that he’d give in to self-pity over it, and particularly not after the pathetic meandering of his mind the night before. He’d decided in those moments to consider his arrival as a fresh start, and he wasn’t going to lose track of his plan already.
Clancy was equally anxious—or was he picking up the tension radiating through Nathan? His head swung from side to side, and his gait hit the ground rhythmic with anticipation. His instincts had become well-honed by their days on the trail, and Nathan was relieved that they didn’t fail him now, this close to his destination.
With a grunt, he pulled his wide-brimmed hat from his head and shoved his hands into his hair. He reckoned he must be a sight. Dirty, smelly, and exhausted, he needed a bath, a hot meal, and a good night’s sleep in an actual bed.
It wouldn’t be long now. He knew it when he spotted the ranch cemetery in the far distance. It was located nearly a mile from the house, a plot chosen by Jordan as the last resting place for his brother Richard. Nathan had visited as a child but couldn’t remember much about his uncle except for a jovial voice and deep laugh.
Strangely, he noticed a man and woman standing within the rickety pickets that surrounded the plot. He didn’t recognize either of them, although it was hard to see much of the woman. She was tucked too closely to the man to get a clear view, which was made more difficult by the man’s arm around her and the heavy disguise of her black widow’s weeds.
Nathan looked closer, searching for some recognition as he scanned the surrounding area. He found . . . nothing. The man was neither Tristan nor Jordan; there could be no question of that. No, this man was perhaps Nathan’s age and much taller than the woman. He was blond-haired, dressed all in black, and held his hat in one hand. A moment later he bent down to drop a tender kiss on the top of the woman’s head.
Instinct, awareness, and something else Nathan couldn’t quite name all gnawed at him. Any or all of them urged him to look closer, and it was then that he noticed the final detail.
There were three graves.
Three graves. The absolute certainty of what that meant struck a blow to his heart, and he drove Clancy forward. Someone else had passed on since he’d left the Rancho de Sangre Real all those years ago—but who? When? How? And who were the mourners?
Nathan reared Clancy to a stop as close to the cemetery as he dared, while the strange man turned to face him at almost the same moment. The woman followed suit, and then Nathan could only stare. The graves, the cemetery, the ranch, all were forgotten as he looked upon the beautiful, sad, and astonished face of his wife.
Mariah. In another man’s arms.
3
The sound of an approaching horse wasn’t surprising, nor did Gabriel show any anxiety. It was an ordinary sound of life on the Rancho de Sangre Real. Vaqueros and other workers traversed the countryside daily, particularly with the barn and corral less than a mile away. Mariah knew the importance of remaining vigilant and aware of her surroundings, but merely hearing the sound of hoofbeats or creaking leather had long ago lost the ability to unnerve her.
Even so, she was always curious. She turned to investigate the disruption and—stared. Unmoving, uncertain, disbelieving. Lost to complete and total confusion.
In one instant, she had known what she was about. What her life had been and a general assumption of what she might expect of the future. The next, she knew nothing.
“Nathan?”
The name came out as an incredulous whisper that seemed to fall from her lips with no awareness on her part. It was a plea, an appeal, a prayer to the good Lord above. Or had she somehow died, gone ahead to the great beyond, and discovered that her husband waited for her arrival?
She’d always thought he would be with Susannah in the next life.
Mariah closed her eyes, opened them, looked again with equal parts fear and desperation, and still couldn’t quite comprehend what she saw. Man and horse remained standing just beyond the cemetery fence.
Bewilderment robbed her of breath, while her heart pounded so hard that her knees went suddenly weak. She stumbled, reached around her until one hand found purchase on the edge of a tombstone—his tombstone—and then her knees began to buckle as she went down. Gabriel tightened his arm around her waist, holding her close enough to keep her on her feet.
She blinked quickly, muddled and apprehensive as her thoughts skittered like butter in a hot pan. Trying to swallow, she couldn’t quite manage even that because of the ragged panting that was supposed to be her breathing. She stared dumbly at the apparition before her.
Nathan? Was it him? It wasn’t. It couldn’t be. How could it be possible? Was this her husband? A man who was . . . dead?
“Nathan?” she said once more, because no other words would come. Only his name, over and over again like a frenetic chant.
He didn’t speak, simply stared with his expression reflecting virtually no emotion at all. His handsome face had revealed the same distant expression hundreds of times, but now it seemed so very wrong. He couldn’t react in the same detached way in this instance. Not when everything was so . . . extraordinary.
What was this? What had happened? How and why? Questions flowed around her like waves against the shore, but she couldn’t seem to grasp any one of them long enough to sort through the confusion. Was this a dream? A nightmare? Had she lost her mind?
Her stomach heaved, and for a few seconds, she thought she might actually be sick. Sick to he
r stomach, sick at heart, sick in every part of her mind and body. Sick enough that she didn’t remember lifting a hand to reach for him.
“Nathan?” She shook her head, still not able to comprehend what she was seeing.
“Hello, wife.”
It seemed almost as though the sound of his voice startled her into some overactive attentiveness, and she was suddenly aware of everything around her. A soft breeze caressed her face, teased her hair, brought a bit of the November chill to the air. Next to her, Gabriel’s body offered a solid strength that kept her on her feet, but she couldn’t stay. Not when Nathan was there and so close, his tone so harsh.
She started toward him, not quite realizing at first that she’d actually begun to move. Only when she noticed the loss of Gabriel’s embrace, when her limbs began to tremble and go weak, did she become aware of her physical movements. That didn’t stop her; she couldn’t even consider it. She could only continue with one shaky step after the other. Her gaze never left Nathan’s, and he watched her with a hard intensity that was so familiar, it nearly robbed her of breath.
Any attention he’d ever paid to her had always been like that.
He sat high above her, as confident in the saddle as she’d ever seen him. His clothes were worn, a mix of dark trousers and a Confederate coat, and he was dusty from the trail. His boots were scuffed but sturdy, his saddle plain and basic, and he carried only a bedroll with a small pack tied behind it. It constituted so little for a man who’d been gone from home for so many years, and yet his mere presence made his very life seem wildly extravagant.
“You’re alive,” Mariah breathed. He didn’t answer.
She blinked, searching his face and form for details that would reassure her. Perhaps reveal some hidden truth. Certainly, explain how it was possible that he was there.
He looked wonderfully familiar and yet completely different. His reddish-brown beard was more unkempt than she had ever seen, while his sandy brown hair fell all the way to his shoulders. His wide-brimmed hat shielded the normally sharp gray eyes that she’d seen so often, and Mariah could only guess at the emotion there. He was worn and weary, thinner than before, and as handsome now as he’d been the day they married.