A Husband Returned: Men of Wicked Sorrow, Book One

by Wynne Roman

  “So you won’t mind if I look into it.” Nathan didn’t ask but managed to match his brother’s tone.

  “Earl Porter in Justo won’t help you.” Tristan shrugged again. “He’s still the ranch’s lawyer.”

  Nathan nodded, all he could manage. He hadn’t had time to think much about it yet, but he knew better than to expect Porter or anyone in Justo to help. It was a small town that wouldn’t exist without the Sangre Real, and everyone there knew where their fortunes lay.

  It wouldn’t be with the prodigal son.

  He managed to keep hold of his slowly growing anger by a thread. Like he’d told Mariah last night, he was no longer the young hothead his father had raised him to be. He’d learned the folly of that by Second Manassas, and then South Mountain, Sharpsburg, Fredericksburg, and certainly Gettysburg had all reinforced the lesson. He wouldn’t let Tristan or anything at the ranch steal that from him.

  If he meant to wrest any control of the situation, he couldn’t let his brother see one speck of emotion.

  He went to stand without a word just as Tristan said, “You should know that Mariah’s father is dead. The Carpenter land is part of the Sangre Real now.”

  Nathan held himself steady. “When?”

  “Sometime before Jordan.”

  “What happened?”

  “The grippe. It was going around. Jordan and Carolyn both caught it. By the time Carolyn quit fussing enough so Mariah could see to her father, it was too late.”

  Nathan nodded. He could imagine his mother demanding enough of Rye’s attention that she couldn’t get away to check on Alden Carpenter. Not that it caused Nathan any heartache; old man Carpenter had never treated his daughter any better than he had to. Whatever he did for her always had a personal motive. Something meant to satisfy himself.

  Just like you. A sarcastic voice laughed at him.

  “The house was set aside for her.” Tristan snorted. “I can’t imagine what Alden was thinking, but his will stated that the house would be preserved for her throughout her lifetime.”

  Nathan stood. “Maybe he had a premonition.”

  “Or maybe he knew what a son of a bitch you are and wanted her to have a place to go when you finally broke her heart enough that she couldn’t stand to live with you anymore.”

  12

  Mariah awoke with a sudden awareness that made her instantly anxious. She had felt like that at only one other time in her life: the days immediately after Nathan had been reported killed in action. Then, it had seemed almost like the heavens and earth had shuddered in anger—or was it sorrow? It had left her panting and apprehensive and not at all certain about what she should to do next.

  She managed her emotions much better today. This morning, she merely turned her head to one side and looked. She had known that she would find herself alone in the bed and her disappointment was minimal.

  Even so, after the way Nathan had been with her on his first night home, she felt his absence more keenly.

  He had made love to her. Not that other word he’d sometimes used. It was an awful, horrible word, one that had always made her feel dirty. Used and discarded. Just as he’d meant her to. She hadn’t needed him to tell her that to know.

  But that first night home, he’d treated her differently than ever before. He’d kissed her. Held her. Taken his time with her. He hadn’t been put off by her body’s strange reactions to his touch, and then he’d done something magical to her. She didn’t know exactly what had happened, but he’d turned her world on its axis with his amazing hands, mouth, and cock.

  She blushed, even alone in the room. His coarse words had embarrassed her and yet, intermingled with what he’d done to her the other night, they’d excited her, too. How could that be? Didn’t that make her loose and wanton and morally corrupted?

  Of course you are loose and wanton and morally corrupt! announced a tight, disapproving voice.

  What good woman allowed herself to feel the kind of ecstasy that Nathan had wrung from her body? She knew that not one of the respectable ladies of Reverend Samuels’s church would allow themselves to be used in that way. Mariah had.

  She’d done something worse. Far, far worse.

  She’d lain with Gabriel.

  Tears prickled behind her eyelids, and she choked back a small sob. Oh, God. How ever could she have done such a thing?

  Granted, she had believed herself to be a widow at the time. Still, that didn’t absolve her from the sin of having been intimate with a man who was not her husband. His warmth, his touch, his soft words had swayed her from her better sense. She’d been seduced by her despicable feminine need to be held, and Satan had tricked her into agreeing to almost anything Gabriel had requested.

  He hadn’t pushed herself to reveal too much of her body to him, nor had he shown her his. They had found privacy near the creek, lain on a blanket in the darkness, and come together in a tender union that had warmed her with a closeness she’d never known.

  Now, she had to admit the truth, at least to herself. She was an adulteress, and she deserved hatred from her husband, the scorn of her family and friends, and even the disappointment of Gabriel himself.

  She held her body stiffly and closed her mind against the sordid images that tried to press through. Yes, she may well deserve those things, and more, but she would do everything in her power to protect herself and her reputation. To protect Gabriel from gossip and rumors. And mostly, to protect Nathan from anything that would hurt, anger, or shame him.

  After everything he’d been through—Susannah’s death, the war, his injuries, and his imprisonment—Mariah wouldn’t burden him with one more disappointment.

  He deserved a loving, dutiful wife.

  Thinking back over all the trials he’d faced in the last few years, she knew it was no wonder that he hadn’t returned during the night. In her heart of hearts, she hadn’t really expected him. After meeting with Tristan the day before, he’d stormed from the ranch house, and she hadn’t seen him since.

  She hadn’t needed to ask her brother-in-law why.

  He’d told Nathan the truth about who owned the ranch—and who didn’t.

  Her heart sank with the knowledge of the way in which she had betrayed her husband. Though she’d known the most basic facts, she hadn’t said anything that would prepare him for what he would face. She’d been holding out the hope that Tristan would find the brotherly love to do the right thing and offer Nathan something.

  She should have known better. Her brother-in-law hadn’t done anything of the sort. He’d told her so when he’d come for breakfast.

  “I told Nathan about the inheritance. He wasn’t happy.”

  “Did you think he would be?”

  “I didn’t have much time to consider it.”

  “You had plenty of time,” she had snapped furiously as she dropped his plate on the large kitchen worktable. It had rattled with a clang but didn’t spill a drop of the biscuits and gravy she had prepared. “You just made the choice I hoped you wouldn’t.”

  Tristan had scowled at her. “If he’d inherited, he wouldn’t have shared it with me.”

  “You don’t know that.”

  “Yes. I do.”

  “Did you even offer him work? A place to stay?”

  “Told him your pa set aside a house for you.”

  Mariah had stopped in her tracks and stared at the cast iron pan that held the beef roast she had been planning to slow-roast for dinner. Slowly she turned to face Tristan and the wickedly careless expression he wore.

  “You’ll have to find someone else to cook tonight. I’m suddenly feeling under the weather.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  She wanted to slap him; he looked and sounded unforgivably brash.

  “I just realized how much like your father you really are.”

  She’d stormed from the kitchen then, gratified to see a faint flash of self-disgust before Tristan could shutter his emotions. Yes, it had been wrong to feel that way, bu
t some admittedly callous place inside her had been glad she’d hit her mark. Twenty-four hours later, she still felt no remorse.

  How could she even consider regret over her condemnation? She’d spent the rest of yesterday and all of last night hoping for Nathan’s return. No, she hadn’t expected to see him, but she hadn’t allowed herself to completely give up hope, either. In all honesty, she didn’t know her husband well enough to predict what he might do.

  He’d always kept so much of himself from her. As a young bride, she’d never have been brave enough to question him about anything. Now? Well, now everything had changed, most certainly Mariah herself. Nathan was in no way the same man. But what did that mean?

  For her, for him . . . for them?

  And what are you accomplishing at this moment, lazing in bed like a slattern? How will that help? demanded an impatient inner voice.

  Mariah sat then. Her conscience was right. She pushed purposefully from the mattress and performed her morning toilette with easy concentration. She dressed, made the bed, folded her nightgown to slip it under the pillow, and finally took a fortifying breath before she left the room.

  In the kitchen, she stayed long enough to brew dandelion tea for Carolyn and herself, put together a breakfast of bacon and sweetbread for the two of them, and quietly delivered a tray to her mother-in-law’s room. She escaped again before the older woman could form even the most basic question.

  Eating in the privacy of her bedroom, Mariah considered her past, her current circumstances, and perhaps the fabric of her very life. The naïve innocent she’d been as a young bride had disappeared on her wedding night. The daily challenges that followed had changed her even more. Now, with Nathan’s miraculous return and Tristan’s sadly typical behavior, the structure of her mind and heart had been forever altered.

  No, it was more than that. She considered the possibilities. Her very soul had been damaged. Ravaged. Her love for Tristan and Carolyn severed, and permanently so. That willingness to turn the other cheek, as Reverend Samuels always preached, suddenly no longer existed within her.

  It had been inevitable. Jordan’s death had given her a certain freedom she’d never before known. Tristan’s return had made little difference in her life; he hadn’t paid her enough attention to notice what she did. She’d grown and matured as a woman. Nathan’s seeming resurrection from the dead had been the catalyst to completely transform everything.

  Now, finally—finally!—she found she’d had enough. Enough of allowing others beyond her husband to guide her. To influence her. To command her. She had a purpose, and there would be no more pretending.

  Mariah straightened her shoulders, strode from the bedroom, and went straight for the attic. The rickety stairs creaked under even her slight weight, but she didn’t stop until she reached the top.

  The attic was a large, open room with windows on two walls. Enough dull, murky light filtered in that she could see her way around well enough to find two dome-topped trunks. One held her wedding gown and the remainder of her pre-mourning wardrobe, while the other held all of the things that Nathan had left behind.

  The windows provided just enough light that she could sort through the contents of Nathan’s trunk with relative ease. She had selected several shirts and a pair of pants when a voice interrupted.

  “Mariah?”

  It seemed Nathan had returned.

  Her heart pounded, but she took a breath and responded with strength. “Up here. In the attic.”

  The dull thud of boot heels striking wood announced his presence, and she straightened, clutching his clothes to her bosom. He stared back.

  “What are you doing?”

  “I, ahh, packed your things away after . . . when I thought you were, that you wouldn’t come home again.” Why was she so nervous again? He knew what had happened as well as she did.

  She tried to fortify herself with a deep breath and tried again. “I wanted to find a few things for you.” She gestured with her arms.

  He looked past her, no doubt spotting the open trunk. He nodded. “I’ll carry it downstairs.”

  She scooted to one side when he stepped forward, and then she led the way to the second floor. He strode past her and the open door to their bedroom, depositing the oversized trunk at the top of the staircase.

  Before she could question him, he pierced her with a critical eye. “Where are your other dresses?”

  “What?” Mariah swallowed and would have spread a hand over her skirt if she hadn’t been holding his clothes. Instead, she peered down at herself, then looked back at him.

  “Anything besides those goddamned widow’s weeds,” he growled. “Do you still have them?”

  “Well, yes, but—”

  “No more black.”

  She blinked. “But Jordan—”

  “No more black,” he repeated with a scowl. “And especially not for that son of a bitch.”

  No more black.

  “Half-mourning—” she began, but he cut her off again.

  “No. Nothing. I’m alive, and you owe that old man nothing.”

  Mariah took a few seconds to really look at Nathan. He appeared no worse for the wear after being gone for twenty-four hours. He was hatless at the moment, his hair tangled around his neck, while he watched her with a sharp gray intensity.

  He had reached a decision. She knew without asking that, like her, he’d found a purpose of some sort.

  “The trunk next to yours,” she said finally. “That has all my other clothes.”

  He spun on his heel and stalked back toward the still-open attic door. Moments later, he returned with her trunk and placed it in the hall next to his.

  “Nathan?” She could read nothing on his mostly impassive face. “Why put the trunks—”

  “Pack up the rest of our things. I’ll get the wagon.”

  “What?”

  She angled her head, as though looking for some sort of understanding. And maybe she was, because what he said made no sense.

  She tried again. “What are you talking about?”

  “We’re leaving.”

  “Leaving?” She blinked, looked at the trunks, and then back at Nathan. “Where are we going?”

  “To your house.”

  “My house?”

  “The house your father kept for you.”

  Mariah stared at her husband, but she didn’t really see him. Rather, she thought back to her conversation with Tristan.

  Did you even offer him work? A place to stay? she’d asked him.

  Told him your pa set aside a house for you.

  He had all but evicted them.

  “All right.” She straightened her spine. “It should be ready for us. I tend to it monthly.”

  Nathan nodded. “I spent the night there.”

  So, he hadn’t spent the night out in the open. She offered a small smile of relief and assured him, “I won’t be long.”

  13

  Nathan pulled the cinch around Clancy’s belly, tightening it with expert hands. He’d saddled horses so often in his life, he no longer thought much about what it required. It was a good thing, too, because his mind had wandered elsewhere.

  He’d taken Mariah, a wagon full of supplies and their personal belongings, and deposited everything at her father’s house. The Carpenter Casa, Alden had always joked, after one of the Mexican cowboys had called it that.

  Maybe he’d call it the Double C, Nathan thought with as much irritation as amusement. A house needed a name—but what good was the goddamned place without any land to go with it?

  One step at a time, he reminded himself, his attempt at patience flimsy at best. Tolerance had never been his strong suit, and if he was going to find a way through this new sense of defeat created by Tristan’s—Jordan’s—bombshell, he needed to become an expert at it. And damn fast, too.

  He knew better than to waste his time looking for help in Justo; Tristan would have that place locked up tight. No, he’d have to go to Brownsville or Co
rpus Christi to look for legal assistance, and that wasn’t going to happen quickly. He needed time, money, and a plan.

  Nothing in Nathan Fairchild would allow him to just walk away from the inheritance that had always been his legacy. As frustrating as it might be, he had the time to wait. Now he needed the money and a plan.

  A noise from the shadows stopped him, and Gabriel stepped from the back of the barn into the faded light. “Where did you take her?”

  Nathan stared at the other man and considered the impertinence of the question. When he answered, it was with only, “Segundo.”

  Gabriel’s one-eyed glare pierced the gloom with all the intensity of ten men. Nathan had little trouble remaining immune to the implied threat. Or was it a promise? It didn’t matter; staring down a Yankee in hand-to-hand combat had shown him far worse.

  “I saw you with the wagon.”

  Nathan allowed himself a small shrug but said nothing for a few seconds. He’d made no effort to hide what he was doing—borrowing a ranch wagon, delivering Mariah and their belongings to the Double C, and then returning the wagon in exchange for Clancy—but none of that was Gabriel Bonham’s business.

  The man wanted her.

  The certainty repeated itself, just as it had in the bunkhouse the other day. So much had gone on immediately after that, Nathan hadn’t had a chance to remind anyone of his claim on Mariah. That changed now.

  “I took her home.” He turned back to Clancy, as though dismissing the other man. “Her home,” he clarified somewhat carelessly. “Our home.”

  “And where is that?”

  Bonham was pushing, and Nathan didn’t like it. Not one goddamn bit.

  “The Double C.” The more he used it, the more he decided he liked the name. It had nothing to do with Tristan or Jordan or the Sangre Real. It was unique to Mariah and him, and because of that, he added, “The house where she grew up.”

  Gabriel took a step closer. “You took her away from the ranch?”

  It was a rhetorical question, or it should be, Nathan decided shortly. He’d already stated as much. That was hardly the issue at hand, however.