A Husband Returned: Men of Wicked Sorrow, Book One

by Wynne Roman

  Her conscience shouted the belated advice at every opportunity. She made no attempt to deny the wisdom in the suggestion, but in her heart, she knew there was little chance she would ever do it.

  He’d been through too much. Survived too much. Lost too much. She had wanted to be his greatest protector; instead, she had become his worst punishment.

  Mariah sipped her tea, but it had gone cold. She pushed the cup aside, tired of food and drink and everything else. Most especially, she was tired of thinking. Why couldn’t she stop herself? If she wasn’t busy lamenting the past, she spent her time worrying over the future. And to what end?

  Did you actually expect that you could simply give your body to Nathan again and everything would be all right?

  The answer was simple enough: No. She hadn’t. Not in her heart. It had merely been easy. Hopeful. It had given her a place to start over with him when she’d been so lost and confused. He’d led them in a certain direction, and she’d followed. Willingly.

  But now? What would happen when he arrived home again? Tears prickled behind her eyelids. She couldn’t begin to guess how Nathan would behave or how she would respond. She could only hope that he would allow her the chance to explain. And apologize.

  Apologize? Demanded a small but outraged voice that shouted deep within her from time to time. Why must you apologize? Why must you always be the one to apologize?

  Yes, apologize, she insisted. While a part of her may hate the idea, she had wronged him in a deep and profound way. And while her mistaken belief that he was dead might allay the circumstances somewhat, her time with Gabriel now seemed too . . . sinful.

  She might have gone on then, thinking and remembering and planning as uselessly as she’d done for the last three nights if it hadn’t been for an odd, out-of-place noise that disrupted her thoughts. She even welcomed the interruption, she told herself half-heartedly as she pushed to her feet. Going over the same tired ground again changed nothing.

  She hurried to the kitchen window, purpose in her step as she tightened the sash of her dressing gown. The waning moon left the night too dark for her to see much, but she needed no assistance to hear the squawk of disapproval coming from the chickens. It sounded like nothing she’d ever heard from them before.

  “We need a dog,” she muttered as she searched vainly through the heavy shadows. A canine to bark and warn her before her limited senses could recognize the danger.

  “And barn cats,” she added sullenly, “to keep the rats out.”

  Why that worried her now, she couldn’t quite say, except it was a distraction from whatever might be out there. Her nerves had suddenly ratcheted up to sharp anxiety. Here she was, a woman alone with no weapon and no way to escape, should the need arise.

  Don’t be silly, a brave if wavering voice encouraged her. It may be nothing.

  On the other hand, it may be something or someone. Man or an animal, did it matter? Cougars, bobcats, and even mountain lions prowled the area from time to time. Any one of them could do serious damage to her or her chickens.

  What are you going to do about it? that same valiant if uncertain voice demanded. You are a Texan, my girl. Born and bred. Are you going to simply hide out in the house and pray for morning?

  She knew the answer in that moment. She refused to allow herself to be weaker or more fearful than she’d been already. Nathan’s miraculous return had thrown her into a tizzy, pushing her to watch and wait and hope in uncertainty. Her responses had come from a deplorable weakness, but no longer.

  The time had come for her to come out fighting. For her home, her family, her husband.

  For herself.

  Silently, she slipped from the house, wishing suddenly that she was dressed in something sturdier than her nightclothes and slippers. It couldn’t be helped; the ruckus demanded her attention now.

  She moved with an economy of motion, pleased with her stealthy movements as she snuck up to the barn. The door sagged open slightly, leaving room for her to slither inside. Her eyesight had adjusted to the darkness well enough that she could grab the first thing she could lay her hands on—a shovel—and shimmied back out into the yard.

  It wasn’t much as weapons went, but it would do. She would make it so. What other choice did she have?

  I don’t care how angry you are, Nathan Fairchild. She shouted at him in the privacy of her own mind. Never again will you leave me defenseless like this.

  She tiptoed across the front of the barn until she reached the chicken coop. Her hens fluttered and cackled and scolded, but she ignored the fuss as she inspected the enclosure. Nothing seemed amiss. No ghostly eyes peered back at her; no furry body lurked, indicating that an animal had worked its way inside.

  What if it still tried? Had Nathan secured the back fencing as she’d asked? The chickens remained agitated, producing a dozen possibilities to race through her mind.

  Mariah skirted the side fencing, peeked around the corner, and jerked herself to utter stillness. She didn’t blink, didn’t breathe, didn’t move in any way at all. She could only stand and stare.

  What on God’s green earth was happening?

  Two men loitered behind the barn, one on horseback and the other crouched near the back wall. The one kneeling tore at something, digging and scraping and making other short movements that she couldn’t see in the heavy shadows.

  Who were these men and what did they think were they doing? She could see well enough to guess at their mischief, but why? Did this have something to do with the rustling of which Nathan had warned her? Was it true they targeted the Sangre Real—and, by association, the Double C?

  But why here and why now? The Double C had no cattle of its own, and the herd was God knew where on the range. With the vaqueros.

  And she was here alone.

  A sudden flare lit up the night, and an arc of flames jumped from the kneeling man’s hands to the barn. One moment it was simply a small flash of light, and then it was a bright, brilliant blaze. The once-crouched man jumped back with a soft, satisfied laugh.

  The other man joined him, the sounds of their ugly amusement mingling horrifically with the soft crackle of the fire. Mariah had seconds to look for scars, marks, details—anything she might recognize that would identify the men—but disappointment washed over her. The heavy shadows revealed nothing but dark clothes, wide-brimmed hats, and broad, expansive movements.

  Should she scream? Shout at them? Threaten them? Confront them in some defiant way?

  What good will that accomplish? Until this moment, she thought she’d understood the threat very clearly. A woman alone and armed with nothing more than a shovel, she had no power against these men.

  “There.”

  She couldn’t tell which of the men spoke, but the unmounted man strode to his horse and swung up into the saddle with one powerful lunge. The shadows closed in on him with greater protection. No matter how hard she looked, she recognized nothing about either of them.

  “Deja que Fairchild se preocupe por eso por un tiempo.”

  Spanish. At least one of the men was Mexican. She couldn’t speak the language fluently, but she’d managed to pick up a few words over the years. Preocupe and tiempo. Worry and time. And, of course, Fairchild.

  What did that mean?

  It was cowardly, she knew, but she continued to hold herself steady. She blocked out everything else around her, simply waiting and watching as the men rode off. The horses trotted in a slow, deliberate pace for the first few yards. So quiet and stealthy, she wouldn’t have heard them if she hadn’t already been awake. Finally, when they apparently deemed themselves far enough away, both kicked their horses into a gallop and disappeared into the night.

  She waited a bit longer, perhaps another minute or so, but no more. Flames had begun to lick their way along the vast barn wall, and she could waste no more time.

  Wielding her shovel before her like a weapon, Mariah ran toward the fire. Instinct guided her as a vague memory of her father flick
ered back into her consciousness. He had used dirt to smother a fire more than once, and her chest heaved in relief.

  She had a plan.

  She jabbed the tip of the shovel into the ground, scooped up a shovelful of dirt, and threw it wildly at the burning wood. Caution warned her to slow down, dig deeply, aim carefully, and make every action count.

  Mariah forced herself to breathe. She shoveled again and again, tossing each scoop of dirt where it could do the most good. Her arms, legs, and chest began to ache, but she ignored the pain. She allowed herself no thoughts except to force the same deliberate actions over and over.

  Slowly, gradually, she noticed that the flames had begun to die down. She renewed her efforts with greater determination, telling herself that the burn of her muscles was a good thing. She took only vague notice of any of it until the moment came when she realized that the fire was out.

  Mariah dropped to her knees, panting as her lungs demanded air. Her arms and legs screamed from overuse, but she paid her body’s protests scant attention. Rather, she shoved her hands into the dirt and ash. She scattered it all around her, searching for places that might still contain a lively ember.

  She found nothing.

  Finally, she pushed to her feet and took up her shovel once more. She poked at the charred wood, and a bit of wall collapsed into a pile of rubble at her feet. She raked the ashes all around with the tip of her shovel, dispersing them to wide and harmless debris. Her need to be certain still strong, she scooped more dirt over the ashes, spread the whole thing all around again, and then repeated it all.

  She kept at it until the sunrise finally peeked over the horizon. Only then did she stop long enough to twist her torso from side to side. She arched her back, bent forward to stretch her muscles, and spent every moment of that time searching the debris for a spark or flicker of anything that might remain hazardous. She was covered from head to toe in soot, ash, and dirt, and she didn’t care. Not as long as it meant that the fire was out.

  Mariah looked around, finally able to take stock of the damage. A hole gaped in the back wall of the barn, big enough for a large man to crawl through. Honestly, the damage didn’t appear all that bad, considering what it could have been. She’d probably spent far too much time dealing with it, but the reality of her isolation had never left her. She simply hadn’t been willing to take a chance that she wasn’t thorough enough.

  What would have happened if she hadn’t been awake? Hadn’t heard the chickens fussing? Hadn’t decided to take a look? The barn could easily have been engulfed in flames before she realized anything was amiss. It could have grown and perhaps even reached the house itself.

  Instinct warned that it may well have been planned that way.

  Fairchild. One of the arsonists had said the family name. She’d known from the instant she’d seen the men that the fire was deliberate. Now, though, she wondered something more.

  Was it personal, as well?

  21

  Nathan rode into the yard at the Double C, Luis next to him. It was late morning, far earlier in the day than he’d intended to return. Or much later, if he admitted the truth. He’d wanted to come home for the last two days, but it was only this morning when he’d finally given up the internal fight. He’d called Luis to mount up, and they’d left Harley with the herd. Luis would gather provisions to resupply the camp and ride out again in the morning.

  Nathan pulled Clancy to a slow, deliberate walk for the last few paces until they stopped completely. They stood closer to the house than the barn, but he’d done that deliberately. He wanted to see if Mariah would come out to greet him.

  His answer came quickly enough. There was no movement at all from the house.

  Was she sulking? Angry? Embarrassed?

  A flush of irritation heated his skin. She had no right to those feelings, he reminded himself with deep, masculine irritation. She was the adulterer.

  And, yes, in the strictest sense of the word, that much was true. Still, he was being unfair to her, and he damn well knew it. One truth remained unchangeable, and it shuddered through him again and again.

  She’d thought he was dead.

  The goddamn Confederate army had told her so. Why wouldn’t she believe them? They were the authority that had guided all their lives. Nathan himself had done his own part making the misinformation believable. He’d rarely written to her before that time and then seemingly disappeared from the face of the earth after. As an experienced soldier’s wife by then, she’d had no reason question the official report.

  As far as she’d known, he was dead, and she was alone. Perhaps frightened and grief-stricken. Nathan glared at the ranch house. Then Gabriel Bonham had arrived. The one-eyed son of a bitch had charmed her, seduced her, taken advantage of her.

  If the Segundo is more to blame than Mariah, why am I still so angry with her? He hated the question almost as much as he hated the answer.

  Because he was a selfish, perverted son of a bitch. He wanted to take whatever he desired from his wife and give nothing in return. The idea that another man had touched her tore through him like a bellyful of grapeshot. She belonged to him, and he would take everything she had to give.

  Her mouth, her body, her love.

  It was a glaring truth, and he hated every single bit of it.

  Nathan dismounted, and Luis followed suit as they walked the horses to the barn. Nathan used the moments to form his plan for seeing Mariah again. She might be hurt, perhaps angry, or even pouting. He didn’t care. As he’d done since he’d returned to this nightmare, he would choose his path and go forward with purpose.

  If that meant reminding Mariah that she was his—and teaching her exactly what that meant—so be it.

  Nathan shoved the barn door open, and the smell of smoke drifted over him almost immediately. It wasn’t strong or pervasive, but it was there nonetheless—and it didn’t belong.

  He stepped inside and realized two things simultaneously. Too much daylight flooded the interior from the back of the structure, and a hole the size of a man gaped open in the rear wall.

  Without a word, Nathan tossed Clancy’s reins to Luis, stalked across the room, and carefully inspected the charred edges of the wood. Looking outside through the hole, he saw streamers of dirt and ash spread out all around the ground.

  What the hell had happened here?

  “Take care of Clancy,” he snapped as he spun on the ball of his foot and headed for the door again.

  “Si, Mister Nathan.”

  Nathan strode from the barn, purpose in every step. First, he circled around to the back of the building, where he inspected the damage more openly. He checked the ragged, burned wood and dragged his boot through the ash-and-dirt debris where it was spread out all over the ground.

  Fire. He frowned and looked at the evidence a second time. A goddamned fire. How had it started? Apparently, it had it gone out fairly quickly. How?

  More specifically, had someone put it out?

  He shot to his feet and stalked with a new determination toward the house. He flung the back door wide open, strode into the house, and almost immediately noticed the almost unnatural quiet.

  He stopped in the kitchen, looked around, found nothing. The room was tidy but empty. The dining room had much the same look, except for a teacup that sat abandoned on the table. The front parlor was empty, as well. Uneasiness built up within him as he turned toward the bedroom.

  Mariah lay stretched out across the mattress. She wore her nightgown and robe, and her slippers tilted crookedly on the floor. She was filthy from head to toe, with black smudges streaking across her skin and clothes. Her legs dangled over the side of the bed, as though she had stumbled into the room and simply collapsed onto the bed.

  “Mariah.” He said her name with little patience. “Wake up.”

  She didn’t respond. She didn’t move or make even the softest noise. She remained blissfully asleep and unmoving.

  Exhausted and as dirty as he’d ever see
n her, she also looked more beautiful than he could remember. Strands of that glorious black hair pulled haphazardly from her once-tidy braid, and he almost smiled to himself. He’d told her not to pull her hair back at night, but she’d done so, anyway.

  Because he hadn’t been there.

  His absence and the reasons for it settled over him like an accusing weight once more.

  “Mariah.” He said her name again, sharper and louder this time.

  “Hmmm?”

  His body responded immediately to that little humming noise. His blood heated, and his cock grew hard.

  He scowled. Dammit. Cuckhold or not, he still wanted her.

  “Mariah.” He lowered his voice to a harsh lash that snapped through the air. “Wake up.”

  She moved then, blinking as she shifted awkwardly on the bed. “Hmmm,” she said again, but this time she opened her eyes wide. “Nathan?”

  “Were you expecting someone else?”

  Hurt darkened her eyes, and she stiffened. With a blink, all emotion left her.

  She pushed herself up to sit on the side of the bed. “No, of course I wasn’t. But I didn’t know when to expect you, either.”

  He accepted the explanation without comment; he should have never asked the question in the first place. He’d been cruel and unfair because he’d wanted to hurt her.

  “What happened?” He gestured in her direction.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Have you looked in the mirror?”

  She glanced down at herself, as though she couldn’t begin to guess what he meant. With a sigh, she looked back at him. “Some men tried to start the barn on fire.”

  He took a short step in her direction but stopped himself. “Some men?”

  “There were two of them—”

  “How do you know that?”

  “That there were two men?”

  He gave her a short, staccato nod but said nothing.

  “I was hiding around the corner of the henhouse.”

  “Hiding—” He cut the rest of the words off.

  Hiding? Next to the chicken coop? While there were two men starting a fire behind the barn?