by Wynne Roman
Nathan clenched his jaw against saying a rash of curses that even he didn’t understand. Would they be directed at his wife or himself?
“Holy hell, Mariah,” he snapped. “Are you telling me that two men lurked behind the barn to start a fire, you watched from a corner of the henhouse, and then decided to try to put it out?”
“I did put it out.”
She stood, stepped around him, and headed straight for the wash basin. She picked up the waiting pitcher, peered inside, sighed, and scurried from the room. He followed.
“Mariah!” She didn’t stop and had nearly reached the stove when he bit off the next word. “Wife.”
She hesitated long enough to slow and then finally turn to face him. “What?”
“Sit.” He pointed behind him to the dining room table.
“Why?”
“Sit.”
With a sigh, she did as he asked. She plunked the pitcher onto the table, as though to make a point. He ignored it, as he did the dirt and soot and smoky smell that clung to her, and seated himself across from her.
“Now, tell me what happened.”
“I told you,” she snapped, revealing her frustration. It apparently matched his.
“Tell me again.”
She blew out a labored breath that might have made him laugh under other circumstances. Most women would be crying and afraid after having been forced to put out a fire. She behaved as though she were angry.
“I heard a noise in the middle of the night. I went to investigate. I couldn’t find anything in the barn, and the chickens were disturbed but not hurt. When I looked around back, I saw two men. I waited until they left and—”
He couldn’t stand it anymore. “So, you went outdoors in the dark, unarmed, and watched two men start the barn on fire.”
“I was armed.” She bit off the words.
“With what?”
“A shovel.”
“Jesus Christ!” The curse erupted from him.
“What was I supposed to use? I was alone, I didn’t have a rifle or many other choices.”
He set his jaw. “Then what happened?”
She shrugged. “I waited. They didn’t stay around long after the fire was started. As soon as I could, I took care of things.”
“By putting out the fire.”
“Yes.” She nodded. “I remembered my father had used dirt to smother several fires, so I used the shovel for that.”
Nathan stared at her. His hand itched to spank her for being so reckless, and his mouth was dying to taste her. He did neither.
He stood and forced himself to take a long, slow breath. “Get cleaned up. Luis rode in with me. I’ll send him for Tristan.”
She nodded but didn’t move. “I did the best I could, Nathan. You—I wasn’t left with many choices.”
His gut clenched and his breathing went ragged. No, she hadn’t been. He’d left her far more vulnerable than any husband should, and he should be beaten for it. His goddamn pride had gotten the best of him, and it could have been so much worse.
She could have been raped or killed.
He stood. “You did fine, honey. Thank you.”
The endearment slipped out, but he let it go. He turned for the door instead. “Take care of yourself now. I’ve got a hole to patch.”
22
Life at the Double C changed after the fire. Nathan disclosed only the smallest of details regarding what he was doing and why, but Mariah noticed the differences all the same. Tristan had indeed arrived the following day with Gabriel in tow. She had assumed both men’s presence indicated the importance of the issues facing the ranch. That brought up another question, however.
Other than the fire, what could be driving their concern? The rustling, of course, but was that all of it? She didn’t have enough information to form her own answers, and her curiosity seemed doomed to remain unsatisfied. None of the men spoke to her.
That wasn’t such a bad thing, she told herself irritably. She was unhappy with every one of them. Particularly Nathan and Gabriel. They had betrayed her.
A few days later, Mariah was surprised by the arrival of a milk cow. Along with some other supplies, Dora, as Mariah had always called her, was delivered by the man she’d only heard about until then. Weston Montgomery. He was kind and helpful, and far stronger than she would have expected of a man with one arm. He used his elbow and stump in ingenious ways that shamed her.
How could she indulge in bouts of pessimism that teetered between making her angry and upset? West faced real, daily challenges created by his handicap, and her hurt feelings were inconsequential in comparison.
The time to wallow in self-pity had long passed. She was an adult. A wife. She had no excuse not to pull herself together and behave like the woman that life, love, and experience should have made her.
A few days later, a cowboy she didn’t recognize delivered a small buggy and horse, and that evening Nathan offered to teach her how to shoot.
“I know how to shoot,” she’d told him stiffly. “My father taught me.”
“Then we’ll refresh your memory. There are times when you may be here alone again, and you should be able to defend yourself.”
“Nathan—”
“I won’t be gone overnight,” he interrupted, “but we don’t have enough men to post someone here every day.”
She had blinked. He was thinking of keeping a man at the ranch at all times?
“That seems quite protective of you,” she’d said carefully.
He’d leveled a flat, no-nonsense gaze on her. “I am protective of you. You’re my wife.”
That had been the last he would speak of it. Mariah hadn’t been able to let it go so easily. Honestly, she’d wondered if he didn’t want to turn his back on her completely.
Don’t read too much into it, her better judgment warned. Tristan and the others at the Sangre Real have certain expectations of him. He’s behaving as a husband should because of that.
She’d known it was true, told herself to accept it with more grace than she might have felt, especially when he’d been as good as his word. He remained at the ranch most days and, when he was gone, returned home every night. They ate supper, he spent parts of each evening in the barn while she kept up with their household chores, and she went to bed alone every night.
He would come in later, undress down to his drawers, and crawl into bed next to her. He would lie there without touching her, and so she held herself still, as well. There were no kisses, no caresses, no lovemaking. No words and most definitely no affection.
Apparently, knowing that she had been with another man had completely destroyed even his desire for her.
They carried on in the same uneasy way for several weeks, until the tension between them had almost begun to seem normal. They didn’t argue, and their conversations seemed harmless. They discussed coordinating between the two ranches, the unseasonable coolness of recent days, and the news reported by the Brownsville Sentinel. Nathan had gotten hold of a copy of the newspaper, and Mariah had enjoyed catching up with the world.
“I read that President Lincoln declared a national day of Thanksgiving after the Battle of Gettysburg,” she mentioned one quiet evening.
Nathan looked at her with predictable disinterest in his dull gray eyes. “Is that so?”
“Yes.” She chose her words carefully before she continued. “This is the first I’ve heard of it. We didn’t get much news during the war. Only battles and casualties.”
He nodded once.
“I would like to celebrate. I think we have much to be thankful for.”
The room fell almost unnaturally silent. “Do you?” he finally asked when she thought he wouldn’t.
“Yes.” She pulled in a long, deep breath. “The end of the war is a blessing, even if it went against us. And your return is a miracle by any definition of the word.” She would hear no argument about that. “We have much to be grateful for, and I would like to commemorate it with a day.�
�
“Even a day decreed by a Yankee president?”
She took a breath. As a soldier, she could understand if Nathan felt differently, but as his wife, she only wanted peace. “The Confederate states rejoined the Union. We’re supposed to be all one country again. It isn’t simple or easy, I know, but—Lincoln’s dead. I think he would have liked the idea that everyone acknowledged our blessings.”
Nathan stared at her as though looking past her outer person and seeing right through to her heart and soul.
Lord, I hope not. Her sins were many and not very pretty.
“All right.”
“Good.” She smiled in relief. “I planned a special meal. Roast chicken, baked sweet potatoes, sourdough biscuits, and buttermilk pie. Oh, and I sent word to West for apples from the Sangre Real’s root cellar. I’m going to make a salad of apples and nuts.”
“And who will be at this dinner?”
She tilted her head to one side and looked at him, surprised by the question. “Whoever you want to invite, I suppose. I hadn’t thought much beyond it being a day of thanksgiving that you and I would share.”
He blinked and stared at her with that unreadable gaze he had begun to wear so effortlessly. “We’ll keep it at that,” he finally agreed. “The men are needed with the herd, and I can’t imagine feeling grateful to have Tristan and my mother here.”
There had been a time right after his return when his observation might have made her laugh. Now, she merely nodded in agreement. Still, she had a question.
“Nathan?”
He pinned her with a dark gaze that seemed to say, Go on. He didn’t say it aloud, so she took the chance that this was one expression she could read.
“You haven’t said much about the ranch since the fire. I’ve tried to respect that, but—”
“Tristan and I are handling it.”
“Has anything else happened? I don’t hear things anymore.”
Only recently had she realized how isolating living at the Double C could be. Life at the Sangre Real had always been filled with gossip, rumors, and innuendo. Any of that might have helped her piece together some idea of what was happening around her.
Instead, she had nothing.
Nathan stared at her a moment, two, and then he lifted a shoulder as though deciding whether he could trust her with the information. “We’ve tightened the operation,” he finally said without offering any detail. His hard voice didn’t invite further question. “Only a few head have been taken in the last two weeks. Strays. And Jorge was winged as he chased one down.”
“Shot?” She stiffened and stared. “Jorge was shot?”
“The bullet went straight through.” Nathan hesitated as though considering his next words. “Tristan hired a new man who had some surgery training in the army,” he disclosed after another moment. “He patched Jorge up.”
Mariah breathed easier. “Thank goodness.” She meant the words, but she felt the weakness in her smile. “It’s good to have a medical man nearby. Doc Parker can’t always make it from Justo when we need him.”
“Ethan will be a good addition.”
“So . . .” She dared one more cautious question. “Are you closer to finding out who’s doing this?”
“No.” Nathan spoke stiffly and stood. “Tristan is being very cautious. Now.” His tone indicated quite clearly that he was done talking. “I’m going to check around one more time. You can go on to bed.” He strode from the room without another word.
And that night ended exactly like the last fourteen.
Two days later, West arrived with the provisions Mariah had requested. Vaqueros regularly circulated back and forth between the Double C and the Sangre Real, and she had been able to send a message that way.
Initially, they had agreed on a normal supply schedule of every two weeks. The Double C needed provisions to care for the four Sangre Real cowboys that rotated between the ranches weekly. Unless the Fairchild brothers negotiated a settlement to make the Double C an independent, fully functioning ranch again, Tristan remained responsible for providing for his men.
“Special delivery,” West called out, smiling as he pulled the wagon to a stop behind the house.
Standing on the back stoop, she returned the grin. Smiling felt good for a change, reminding her how rarely she’d done so in recent weeks. “I’m sorry about the extra trip,” she apologized, “but thank you. I want to make an apple salad.”
“Why are you making a special salad?” he asked easily as he swung down from the wagon. He circled around the back and began to unload the things he’d brought.
“Thanksgiving.”
He stopped and looked at her. Mariah took a moment to look back. Every time she saw him, she marveled at his muscular fitness and his handsome good looks. Light brown hair fell over his forehead and into his eyes, giving him a boyish look that didn’t quite suit the rest of him, and yet it added to his perfection.
How could he seem so flawless in every way except that one? The missing part of his arm and his hand.
“Isn’t that a Northern holiday?”
“Yes.” She couldn’t pretend otherwise. “But I wanted to do something special. I know life isn’t perfect, but I have been blessed this year.”
His gaze softened. “Nathan’s return.”
“Yes.”
Something flickered in his eyes, pain or grief or something she couldn’t quite read, but then he blinked, and it was gone. “I’m happy for you. You deserve a special day of thanksgiving.”
“Thank you.”
He turned back to the wagon. “Let’s get this wagon unloaded, ma’am, so I can have a cup of coffee.”
She snorted a laugh at his formal-sounding ma’am. His light and playful side, even after all he’d been through, humbled her.
“I made a special cinnamon coffee cake just for you, sir.”
His face lit up. “Ah, Mariah, you are too good to me.”
They shared another smile, finished up their work, and finally settled in at the dining room table for coffee and a breakfast snack. West caught her up on the Sangre Real gossip. Carolyn continued to fuss at Tristan, insisting that she needed a maid or a companion, but she had managed to take care of herself remarkably well thus far. Carlos and Juan had gotten into a fistfight over a pretty senorita who worked at the saloon in Justo. Word had it that Eduardo had several cousins on the way from Mexico who were experienced vaqueros.
Once he’d imparted the important news, West’s expression settled into something far more serious. Mariah blinked and looked at him curiously.
He shrugged. “I keep wondering, what if this whole rustling thing is—I don’t know. More of a ruse. A cover up for something else.”
“Something more personal?” she asked, remembering how she’d asked herself the same question the night of the fire. The arsonists had said Fairchild. Their very presence in setting the fire spoke of how deliberate their actions were.
What did it all mean?
If her question startled him, West didn’t show it. He simply nodded and said, “There have been several other incidences, but in the end, they proved to be mostly just a nuisance.”
“Like what?”
“A small grass fire behind the garden, but it was located so near the creek, it wouldn’t have become anything more. A laughably disorganized attempt at getting the herd to stampede. Theft from some of the line shacks.”
She took a slow breath, thinking. “Do you think it’s someone who hates Jordan?” Or Tristan, for that matter. Her brother-in-law hadn’t gone out of his way to make friends since he’d returned from the fighting.
West shrugged. “I don’t know. I wasn’t around then. I know Tristan is sorting through ideas. Considering ranch hands and—” He paused and then shook his head, as though deciding he could speak freely. “Enemies, I suppose.”
“Jordan had them,” she agreed with easy emphasis. “Before and during the war. He seemed to cultivate them. He enjoyed making people angry.�
��
“So I understand.”
“Has Tristan spoken with Nathan? They knew their father in ways that no one else could have.”
West shook his head. “I don’t know, and I haven’t been in a position to suggest it. Tris has been as ornery as a bear with a thorn in its paw.”
Mariah found herself laughing. She understood her brother-in-law’s behavior precisely. She’d seen it often enough in all the Fairchild men. “You’re a smart man, West Montgomery,” she agreed.
They finished their coffee and breakfast pastry, and then West was ready to go. It was all too soon for Mariah’s taste. She enjoyed the man’s easy company and appreciated the recipes and baking tips he shared. He’d even promised to teach her how to make something he called a kolache, which was a yeasty bread dough filled with meat, eggs, or fruit.
“Oh, I almost forgot.” He stopped long enough to grab his hat from the hook located just inside the back door and turned back to her. “I have this for Nathan.” He reached into his pocket and fished out a letter. “It came with the ranch mail last week.”
She took the envelope and looked at it. The handwriting was small, elegant, and very feminine. Immediately, Mariah looked at the return address.
Wren Gardner
Gardner Farm
Kramer,
Illinois
Wren Gardner? Gardner Farm? Mariah considered the information. Was that the woman who’d provided Nathan with work and a place to stay after he’d been released from prison camp?
She looked up at West with a genuine smile. “Thank you,” she said but refrained from adding anything more. Did West even know about Nathan’s memory loss and the time he’d spent in prison camp? It didn’t feel right that she should be the one to say something.
“I’ll make sure he gets it,” she called as West walked away. A great wave of thanksgiving for the Gardners of Kramer, Illinois warmed her clear through. They had been a wonderful, caring family to help a Confederate soldier after four years of bloody conflict. They had no obligation to him, and yet they’d helped Nathan find his way home.
For that alone, Mariah would always be grateful to Wren Gardner and her family. In fact . . .