A Husband Returned: Men of Wicked Sorrow, Book One

by Wynne Roman

  And now? Since he’d been gone? Her bedroom and hers alone.

  The ranch house was large and spacious, more so than many others on the Texas frontier, but that didn’t mean there were an unlimited number of bedrooms from which to choose. There weren’t. There were four: one for Jordan and Carolyn, and one for each of their sons. The fourth was Carolyn’s boudoir, as she called it. A private parlor for . . . well, whatever goddamn reason a woman might claim a whole room for herself.

  Nathan had never looked inside the open doorway of his mother’s secret chamber, never even wanted to get near it, and he wasn’t going to look now. Unless something completely foreign had happened and his mother had altered the way in which she—how had Mariah described it?—pampered herself, the boudoir remained hers. Based on the few minutes they’d spent together thus far, Nathan hadn’t witnessed any great transformation.

  As a younger man, he hadn’t cared in the least about bedrooms or the layout of the house. It hadn’t even mattered to any great degree when he’d married Mariah; he hadn’t spent many nights sleeping with her there. He would come in late, most often after spending a few hours drinking. It would be dark, she would be almost asleep, he’d take his fill of her, and then spend the rest of the night in the bunkhouse.

  Night after night. She had never, ever mentioned it in the light of day.

  Nathan frowned to himself. He’d been a selfish, whiny bastard to behave that way, and he’d been taken to task for it. God had enacted His word very clearly.

  An eye for an eye, as the Bible said. Nathan hadn’t cared for the woman he’d been given, so he couldn’t have the one he wanted now. It mattered nothing in God’s eyes that losing yet another woman—Susannah—had started it all in the first place.

  Mariah was his wife in every way, and he would be her husband.

  Standing in the bedroom doorway, he peered into each corner of the room. It hadn’t changed much, if at all. Even their wedding photograph remained, displayed on the dresser in an ornate silver frame. The only things missing were possessions belonging to a man. A husband.

  To Nathan himself.

  Automatically, and knowing it was useless even as he did it, he looked in the dresser drawers and the wardrobe. Nothing. Drawers that had held his clothes were empty, and only a few dresses hung in the wooden cupboard. That was all of it.

  Had they discarded his things? Given them away? Packed them up? Nathan knew he could ask the questions and the answers would be forthcoming readily enough, but did he care to ask? How much did any of it matter? They were just things. Belongings of a man who no longer existed. He couldn’t even remember what he’d left behind.

  It was a good thing a man didn’t need much to get by.

  Impulse urged him into the room, next to the bed, and he followed the need to sit down. Living by his wits through battle after battle, he’d learned to trust his instincts, and something deep within him wanted to rest here. To absorb this place and this life. To bring it to his very core and. . . embrace it?

  Nathan shook his head as he pulled off his boots and placed them side by side, out of the way. He stretched out on top of the bedcovers on his back and stared at the ceiling.

  No, he couldn’t embrace his return to the Sangre Real and his place here; he had left too much of himself elsewhere for that. And yet, the life he’d had up north, the one he’d thought he was building for the future, had never been his. He hadn’t understood it at first, but once clarity returned, he’d recognized exactly what he needed to do.

  Not that he hadn’t fought the idea of giving up the fledgling existence that he’d begun to craft there, because he had. With everything inside him. He’d struggled with the knowledge that he could stay and be happy—and dishonored as a son, a husband, and a man.

  She had known what he should do. What he would do. What he must do if he were to call himself a man. And so, finally, when he could no longer ignore the truth he hated to acknowledge, he had understood the only path available to him.

  He had exchanged his happiness to satisfy honor and obligation, much as he’d done once before in his life. This time, he couldn’t blame another soul. This time, the choice had been his. The Rancho de Sangre Real was his home, and his place was there, with his family and his wife.

  Nathan shifted his body uneasily, but he forced himself to settle down quietly again. Lounging in bed during the middle of the afternoon didn’t sit right with him, but he didn’t allow himself to get up, either. He had to think, to sort through the conflicting thoughts and memories and emotions roiling through him, and he needed privacy for that. Two months on a horse kept him from wanting the release of riding out again, and so he accepted the bedroom as his safest bet. After her shyness in the bathing room, Nathan guessed that Mariah wouldn’t willingly join him in the confines of their bedroom.

  Mariah.

  Her name came to him again. She remained firmly in the forefront of his mind, and the knowledge surprised him. He’d expected to be overrun by thoughts of his father and Tristan and the Sangre Real, much like he’d been consumed during the many miles between Illinois and Texas. Discovering the truth of Jordan’s death and his own reported demise, Nathan could now only wait for Tristan’s return.

  At the same time, he couldn’t forget the look on his wife’s face when she’d seen him. Confusion, fear, and then that moment of unmistakable joy. It had fallen away under the turmoil of so many churning emotions, but he hadn’t missed it. His stomach had clenched and . . .

  What? he asked himself now. Mariah was his wife, not the woman he loved. She was also his future, whatever the hell that meant.

  He rubbed weary fingers over his eyes, as though that would give him the ability to understand. To see things clearly and reach some unexpected and wondrous conclusions that would enable him to make everyone happy. Even himself.

  But Nathan knew better. He dropped his hand. Life—his life—was not meant for happiness or contentment. It was meant to be survived. To repay the debt of his sins and see if he could redeem his soul.

  Dinner was an awkward affair. Tristan, it seemed, had only just ridden in, and he was holed up in the bunkhouse with Gabriel. Nathan knew his brother had been told of what Carolyn kept calling the family miracle, but it hadn’t brought Tristan running.

  In all honesty, he hadn’t expected it would.

  They ate mostly in silence, Carolyn, Mariah, and Nathan. His mother sat at the foot of the table, dressed in her Sunday best, and acting strangely euphoric. She looked all distant and dreamy, as though his return had put her in some otherworldly trance. It made him uncomfortable, but he held his tongue. As long as she merely alternated between vaguely staring at her plate and then looking at him with a soft, wistful expression, he counted her behavior as harmless.

  Mariah sat across from him. She remained clothed in the modest black dress she’d worn earlier, but tendrils of hair had pulled from her severe hairstyle and clung damply to her temples. She’d gone quiet after she’d announced that Tristan would eat with the men and return to the house only when the evening’s business was completed.

  “Does he do that often?” Nathan asked now, aiming to sound more curious than probing.

  “On occasion.” Mariah nodded easily. “If there’s trouble.”

  Nathan blinked and then forked a piece of ham into his mouth. Trouble? The word circled in his mind like an uneasy echo. What would Tristan consider trouble serious enough that it would keep him away from the house? Enough that he was—what? Planning some sort of strategy with his Segundo?

  Instinct warned him it could it be the simple fact that he suddenly found himself with a brother who had returned from the dead. He slanted his gaze from side to side as though looking for something suspicious.

  Don’t be a fool, injected a voice of reason. It could be something completely unrelated that had happened at the ranch. There could be a reason Tristan had ridden out today.

  Nathan glanced at Mariah and saw that her face remained ligh
tly flushed. Was it his presence or something else? He hadn’t seen her since she’d returned, ever so briefly, with the two kettles of hot water intended for him to rinse his hair. How had she spent her afternoon?

  “And is there?” he asked, returning to the more pressing question but only because he knew he must. “Trouble, I mean?”

  She shook her head. “I don’t know. I’ve noticed some hushed conversations, and Tristan’s temper gets away from him at times, but he doesn’t tell me anything.”

  Nathan nodded easily enough. Her answer didn’t surprise him. Jordan had never confided ranch business—or anything else, for that matter—to Carolyn, and he didn’t imagine Tristan would behave any differently. Besides, Mariah was Nathan’s wife, or widow, as she had been known until a few hours ago. She would mean little to Tristan. At least, he’d never spared much interest in that direction before.

  Nathan’s thoughts curled around inside his mind, rising up like a sudden flame and then dying back down again. They made little sense, flickering high and low, clear and ragged, but they refused to leave him in peace. The instinct he’d honed as a soldier warned him there was something to know.

  “How is dinner, Carolyn?” Mariah asked, and Nathan was grateful for the distraction.

  “It’s fine, dear.” Carolyn gave a clearly disappointed sigh, despite her words. “I only wish you could have made something special for my boy’s first night home.” She sent an adoring gaze in his direction.

  “I know.” Regret softened Mariah’s voice. “I’m afraid it wasn’t possible, but I’ll do something tomorrow night.” She turned to him. “Roasted beef or chicken, Nathan? I remember you liked both.”

  He stared at her and then down at his plate. The food was plain but plentiful, which he knew was something many couldn’t boast. The Sangre Real had always been self-sufficient, and tonight that meant they ate ham, potato pudding, red-eye gravy, cornbread, and black-eyed peas.

  “You cooked?” He pinned Mariah with a sharp gaze.

  “Yes.”

  “But where is Rosa?”

  Mariah offered up a sad half-smile. “She went back to Mexico. After the battles at Galveston and then the Yankees invaded Fort Brown, she said she’d had enough of this American war, she called it. She taught me what she could, and then one morning she was gone.”

  Nathan stared at his wife. At the pink cheeks he now guessed came from a hot stove, at the wisps of hair falling from her temples, and at nervousness in those violet-blue eyes. She had cooked this meal like an ordinary wife. Not a pampered daughter of a somewhat wealthy family or the coveted wife of a well-off husband, the role she’d married into. No, she’d done it as a woman who had witnessed her share of heartache and loss and now turned to her domestic chores without complaint.

  “And do you do the cleaning?”

  “Yes.” She held his gaze.

  Nathan stared back, surprised when he saw nothing but strength. In those long-gone days surrounding their marriage, his wife would have never looked back at him with such unflinching determination.

  Circumstances had changed, and Mariah had taken the responsibility on as her own. Matriarch of the family or not, he knew Carolyn never would have. But his Rye? She was made of sterner stuff.

  A surge of pride surprised him just as a snooty voice patronized him. She had to be. How else would she have survived marriage to you?

  The question both angered and shamed him, but he shoved the emotions back. The anger could come later, when he was more equipped to deal with it. And the shame? It would be another drop in the bucket of all the guilt and dishonor that would follow him for the rest of his life. He’d given up hoping for anything different.

  Swallowing a sigh, Nathan picked up his fork and finished eating.

  7

  Nathan cradled a crystal tumbler between his palms and stared at the clear, amber-colored liquid. Whiskey. It had been his father’s drink, and so it had become his favorite, too. It would be Tristan’s, as well, if Nathan recalled anything about his brother’s faithful imitation of Jordan’s likes and dislikes. The fact that their father’s study remained stocked with the stuff provided evidence enough.

  Over the years, Nathan had imbibed more than his share of spirits; he’d indulged in whatever vices had been available to him. Alcohol, tobacco, women—all of them. Prison camp had changed that. Anything was available for a price, demanding money that he didn’t have and favors he didn’t want to exchange. For him, the cost had never been worth the commodity returned, and so he had learned to abstain.

  Tonight, he welcomed the taste of alcohol.

  His mother had perched herself on the familiar settee, placed across the parlor from where he sat. Oil lamps brightened the room enough that he could see her childlike expression as she chattered endlessly about something. Nathan didn’t know or care what she said; he’d given up listening somewhere between her ghoulishly detailed description of his father’s death and her tearful lament over how difficult the last four years had been for her.

  For her. Nathan held the frown that wanted to furrow his brow, resisting all emotion at the moment. He should be used to his mother’s constant complaints, as though others hadn’t suffered in much the same way. In many cases, it had been even worse, but that had never mattered to Carolyn. Her primary concern had always been for herself.

  Clearly, that hadn’t changed. Nathan didn’t begrudge her or any other civilian for lamenting the pain and sorrow that came from the trials and deprivation caused by the war. Life had been difficult for so many, especially in the South. He simply couldn’t fathom that her sympathy ended at her own doorstep.

  Rather than point out his mother’s selfishness, however, he merely swallowed a drink of whiskey. He knew damned well that a reprimand would either send her off on a defensive tirade or she would collapse in a torrent of tears. Either one would stretch his temper to breaking tonight.

  Instead, he tried to blink away his frustration, flicking a disinterested gaze anywhere but at his mother. He glanced with interest toward the doorway, and finally he stared back at the whiskey in his glass. Mariah had shooed him into the parlor with Carolyn, while his wife cleaned up the dinner dishes. He wished now he were almost anywhere else and doing any other thing.

  “Well, well, well.” A dark, cynical voice drew Nathan’s gaze to the threshold. “If it isn’t the prodigal son, returning from the dead.”

  Tristan.

  His brother lounged casually in the doorway, one shoulder leaning against the wooden frame. He’d crossed an ankle over the other, looking much like the arrogant Fairchild son he’d always been. Except for his eyes.

  Tristan’s eyes were angry, bleak, and dead.

  Prodigal son. Nathan’s lips twisted in a bitter half-smile. Leave it to Tristan to describe his arrival in exactly the same way he himself had come to think of it. Jordan’s teachings had taken root in them both, it seemed.

  Slowly, silently, Nathan placed his drink on the small, spindly table next to his chair. He stood, remembering that he and Tristan were so close in height that any difference was negligible. Tristan’s hair was perhaps a shade lighter, his eyes more blue than gray, and his features were cut more precisely. They were dressed similarly in wool shirts, trousers with suspenders, and wore heavy work boots on their feet.

  A familiar sensation of déjà vu shivered through Nathan, one that always marked the times when he compared himself to his brother. He looked now at a refined version of himself, seeing again how he always fell short. He was the clumsy first edition that could never have been good enough, so Jordan had needed a better model who looked exactly like him.

  “Brother,” Nathan said, exchanging the same probing stare they had perfected as adolescents.

  Tristan straightened from his seemingly relaxed pose and stepped farther into the room. Nathan moved forward a heartbeat later, extended a hand, waited with exaggerated patience, well past his brother’s hesitation, until finally the men shook.

  “
You survived.” Tristan’s tone revealed nothing.

  Nathan nodded once. “As did you.”

  “So it seems.”

  The room fell silent after even Carolyn ceased her endless prattle. Nathan caught her curious expression from the corner of his eye, but otherwise he ignored her. Not now! He shot up a quick prayer for respite on the odd chance that the Lord had started listening to him again. His mother’s thoughtless interference would be more than unwelcome right now.

  “I understand my arrival comes as something of a shock,” he said when nothing else seemed to be forthcoming.

  “Tristan!” Mariah had slipped into the room. She scooted around behind her brother-in-law and headed straight for Nathan’s side.

  Ever the dutiful wife, he thought, old sarcasm scraping through him, though he tried to wrestle it back. His attitude wasn’t fair, and he knew it. She deserved so much better than anything he’d ever given her. Especially now, when she looked between his brother and him, her mouth gone flat and her gaze uneasy. She held her shoulders straight, her head back proudly, and a flicker of satisfaction warmed him despite his attitude.

  “I see you finally came indoors to welcome your brother home.” Her tone was meant to chastise Tristan, and they all knew it.

  The other man stared at them both, unblinking. Seconds passed too slowly to be real before he spun on the ball of one foot and stalked out of the room.

  Nathan watched the empty doorway silently, his temper building. How many ways can I beat my brother to a bloody pulp for being a disrespectful ass? He set his teeth against saying the words aloud.

  Tristan returned before Nathan could begin to answer the question, even to himself. He carried Jordan’s whiskey decanter in one hand, an empty glass in the other, and deposited both on the small table next to Nathan. He poured a hefty splash of alcohol into the tumbler, tossed it back, poured another, and then carried his glass over to an empty chair that faced into the room.