A Husband Returned: Men of Wicked Sorrow, Book One

by Wynne Roman

  Mariah’s smile widened. She would write her own letter in reply. If any angel deserved a thank-you, it must be Wren Gardner.

  23

  Nathan had nearly left through the back door when Mariah called his name. Distracted by thoughts of his plan for the day, he turned silently to face his wife.

  “I forgot to give you this last night.” She held out a small white envelope.

  Mail.

  “Where did you get that?”

  “West brought it yesterday. It came to the Sangre Real.”

  Mail, he thought again. He hadn’t had a letter in years. Not since his last days with his regiment. Thinking about it, he recalled that his last letter had been from Mariah herself.

  She was smiling now as she offered him the envelope, and so he took it curiously. She hadn’t smiled much in the last few weeks and that had been his fault. He sure as hell hadn’t felt the impetus for anything lighthearted.

  “Is it from the family that helped you in Illinois?” Mariah asked, sounding oddly cheerful.

  He looked down. He held a small white square addressed to Mr. Nathan Fairchild. It had been mailed by Wren Gardner in Kramer, Illinois.

  The name tore through him like a ricocheted bullet.

  She had written to him.

  He couldn’t look away from the envelope, couldn’t seem to find an answer to Mariah’s question. He could see her in his peripheral vision, however, and he couldn’t help wondering about her reaction. She was happy, cheerful, almost excited.

  She couldn’t know anything about what Wren had meant to him.

  She hadn’t meant to withhold the letter from him; everything about her bearing told him so. He understood why she’d forgotten. He’d come in very late last night, far past what had become normal for him. He’d been delayed when Harley and Luis had found an animal carcass.

  It had been a longhorn with the Sangre Real brand.

  Mariah had been in bed when he’d come in. She’d left him a cold dinner, which he’d promptly eaten, and then he’d fallen into bed without a word. Had she already been asleep? He’d thought so, but the emotional distance he’d forced between them could have meant anything. Last night, he hadn’t given it a second thought.

  This morning, she’d already been up preparing breakfast when he’d awoken. He hadn’t spoken much, still tired and thinking about going to Tristan, trying to convince him to lay a trap for these thieving scoundrels.

  Now he held a letter. From Wren.

  “Nathan?”

  He blinked and took a quick breath. “Yes.” He waved the letter slightly. “That’s where I stayed.”

  Her smile widened with satisfaction. “Good. I want to write to them. Tell them how grateful I am for all they did for you. And for helping you return to us.”

  “No.” Everything about him stiffened, but he tried to keep his voice even. “You don’t have to do that.”

  “Maybe not,” she agreed, her violet eyes sparkling with kindness. “But I want to. Despite the way things are right now,” her cheer fell away, “your return is a miracle. No one can deny that, and I will always sing the praises of anyone who helped you.”

  “Mariah . . .” What could he say?

  “Maybe you’d like to include a short note, as well. We can send them together.”

  “Err—yes,” he agreed, if only to end the conversation. He needed to get away suddenly. To read this letter where he could be alone. He stuffed the thing in his shirt pocket. “We’ll talk more tonight. I’m on my way to the Sangre Real today. I have to talk to Tristan.”

  She sobered immediately. “Is everything all right?”

  Somehow, Nathan managed to nod easily enough, although his mind raced like a litter of pups chasing their tails. “Fine,” he said shortly, in no mood to discuss the wasted longhorn kill. “We share information regularly.”

  “All right. Don’t forget. Tomorrow is our special Thanksgiving dinner.”

  Her smile had returned with relative ease, and something clenched within him. Shame. Despite the way he’d treated her these last few weeks, Mariah had always treated him in a caring way.

  He nodded, hearing her only distantly, and escaped the kitchen without a word. He saddled Clancy and headed out toward the Sangre Real, moving easily and with an economy of time and movement. He maintained every action with single-minded purpose, refusing to pause until he reached a quiet copse of mesquite trees that grew near a small, meandering creek. It was located several miles from the Double C and provided the privacy he craved.

  He pulled Clancy to a halt but remained sitting stiffly in the saddle. He waited there a moment, two, and then finally pulled the letter from his shirt pocket. He stared at it.

  Mr. Nathan Fairchild from Wren Gardner.

  His heart surprised him, pounding like it did. He couldn’t quite pinpoint how he felt. Holding it, knowing it came from Wren, uncertainty gnawed at him.

  Ignore it, he told himself. It doesn’t matter.

  But it did, and so he unfolded the missive.

  My dearest Nathan,

  I have debated writing to you for several weeks. A part of me believes I should have the wisdom to leave well enough alone, but I also worry about you. There were so many things we didn’t talk about before you left. There wasn’t time — or perhaps the time wasn’t right. After the night of the storm, things happened so quickly that I couldn’t comprehend any of it. One night I was in your arms and you loved me so completely, and the next day your life changed just as completely. Again.

  You lived those moments with me, so I needn’t belabor the events. I must admit, however, that I wasn’t thinking clearly then. That said, I want you to know there were no consequences of our night together. You left so quickly, only a few days after our time together, that it didn’t occur to me to worry it until long after you were gone. I’ve wondered since then if the possibility of a baby ever occurred to you, and that is why I finally decided to write.

  As I said, you need not worry on that point. My body gave me the answer I needed several weeks after you left. You left no reminders behind you, except for the memories I have of your presence in my life. I will treasure them always.

  I pray that you found the life you left behind, that all is well, and that you are happy. Your wife is a very lucky woman to have you with her, and I know that she treasures your return.

  Please, my dear Nathan, take good care of yourself and always know that you have my love.

  With all my heart,

  Wren

  Nathan stared at the letter in his hands almost as though it had been written in Latin or Greek or some other language he didn’t understand. Or perhaps it was meant for another man. He knew it was intended for him; he had the memories to prove it. But it seemed wrong somehow.

  Wren had written to him, reminding him of her love for him, and reassuring him that there had been no consequences of their one night together.

  Consequences. She had underlined the word. She meant that he hadn’t left her with child.

  The thought of a pregnancy had never occurred to him. Not once.

  They’d had their one night together, he’d suffered the accident and regained a part of his memory the next day, and, as she had said, his life had changed. With an odd combination of slow abruptness, he’d remembered his wife, his family, the Sangre Real, and he’d known within days where his obligations lay.

  Honor and morality demanded that he return to Mariah and Tristan and his ranch family. He could never stay with Wren Gardner and her sweet kindness.

  He hadn’t touched Wren again, except for a very tender goodbye kiss. He hadn’t been able to, knowing he had a wife in Texas. Oh, he’d known even then that he’d never carried a torch for Mariah or even felt any great tender emotion where his wife was concerned. That didn’t matter.

  She was his wife. She loved him, always had, and pursuing anything with Wren would only hurt them all.

  Never once had he considered that the woman he might have lov
ed, if given the time and circumstances—the woman with whom he spent that one stormy night—might find herself in the family way after their lovemaking.

  He should be relieved by the news—and he was. He was also frustrated that she had inserted herself into the reality of his life now. Until this letter, she’d been a gentle memory, a dream of what might have been in another life.

  Now, her intrusion seemed somehow very wrong.

  He’d admitted to himself over the last few weeks that, while life in Texas wasn’t quite what he’d expected, he’d been able to settle in with an acceptance of his familiar surroundings. And people.

  Yes, circumstances had changed, and drastically in some cases, but he understood it all. It was his past, his history, and he knew how to respond. He might feel equal parts awkward and at home here, but having settled in, he’d discovered he was also more comfortable here than anywhere else.

  And what about Mariah? demanded an unforgiving voice he’d hoped to avoid. How can you continue to hold a grudge against her for doing something that you did, too?

  Nathan scowled, refolded the letter, and shoved it into his shirt pocket. He couldn’t think about any of this now. He shook his head as though to scatter his thoughts. He had too much else to concern himself with at the moment. Namely, convincing Tristan that it was time for the Fairchild brothers to show a united front against whatever this threat against the Rancho de Sangre Real might prove to be.

  Yes, that was it. He’d think about the ranch and the trouble they faced and finding a way to make his brother see the best and safest way forward. The rest of it—the women—would just have to wait.

  Mariah had convinced Nathan that their thanksgiving celebration could be accommodated by an early dinner. They would eat at five o’clock, and she had timed her meal perfectly. She had even convinced him to dress in a clean shirt and trousers to mark the occasion, despite the fact that he would be working around the ranch during the day.

  She took a little extra care in setting the table, using the special china her mother had collected before Mariah had even been born. Her father had allowed them to use the dishes rarely, but this occasion seemed like the perfect time to break that habit. They would start a new tradition, with Lucy Carpenter’s dishes serving as the centerpiece.

  As the day progressed, Mariah dusted furniture that didn’t need dusting, straightened trinkets that didn’t need straightening, and tidied rooms that were already perfectly tidy. This was a special day, or she desperately wanted it to be. Somehow, she was going to convince Nathan that today they would give thanks for the blessings in their lives, and they would turn over a new leaf in their relationship and their marriage.

  They would start over.

  Mariah went into the bedroom, smoothed a hopeful hand over the bedspread, and plumped the pillows. If she could convince Nathan that their relationship deserved a fresh start, perhaps he would take her again. It shouldn’t shock her to realize it, but she missed the closeness and affection that intimacy with him brought.

  Turning back to the doorway, she noticed his dirty clothes piled near the wardrobe. It had taken a bit of coaxing on her part to get him to put on clean clothes in the “middle of the week,” as he’d called it, and now she discovered he must have indulged in a final protest by leaving his dirty things in a heap.

  She checked his pockets, as she always did, and found the letter from Wren Gardner in his shirt pocket. She’d forgotten about it after she’d handed it over yesterday, but now she wondered what the Gardner family had written.

  Did they miss Nathan? Did they wish him well? Would this be a long-distance friendship he would like to maintain as a part of his thanks?

  Would he mind if she read the letter?

  She should ask, she knew, but her communication with Nathan had been difficult these last few weeks. She’d just take a quick peek, and then she could ask for permission to read the whole thing later.

  Mariah opened the letter and began to read.

  My dearest Nathan . . .

  24

  Nathan strode into the house before Mariah had dinner ready. She’d lost her concentration more than once during the day, and it had taken everything within her to get herself back into the proper mood to finish cooking their thanksgiving dinner. Even with that, it had taken her an extra twenty minutes to get the chicken prepared and into the oven for roasting.

  The tasks had been good for her; they had kept her mind focused on nothing more than the next step, the next, and then the next, until finally the chore was completed.

  The activity had been over far too soon, however, taking with it the distraction she’d so desperately needed. She’d escaped into the bedroom to change. Nathan had continued to insist that she no longer wear mourning black, and she’d honored his wishes. Her lavender half-mourning gown seemed far more appropriate for the day, and wearing it made her feel a bit reckless.

  Her bravado wavered when her husband commented, “It smells good,” in such a conversational tone.

  Mariah stared at him, lips parted and eyes wide. She felt every physical reaction of her body, inside and out, and she welcomed them. She deserved them. This man baffled her with his nonsense. Why had he suddenly lost the cool evasiveness that had marked his behavior for the last several weeks?

  With his back toward the center of the room, he seemed to ignore her. He stood at the dry sink, washing his hands in the pan of lukewarm water she’d left there. He seemed fully committed to rubbing one powerful hand over the other, as though nothing else in the world mattered.

  And why should she expect anything different from him? He’d been lying to her for weeks—years, if she wanted to admit the truth of it—and she’d never guessed it. She’d never even looked beyond the surface. In all her naïveté and despite knowing he begrudged every demand she’d ever made on him, she’d trusted him.

  How silly she’d been.

  Her lack of an answer to his comment must have made an impression on him. He turned his head to glance back over his shoulder. “Mariah?”

  “I’m sorry.” She blinked and shook her head. “I put the chicken in a little later than I meant to. I was distracted.”

  “Did something happen?” He turned to face her fully then.

  “What do you mean?” She knew what he was asking, but she played for time.

  “What distracted you?”

  Her potential answer came no more easily. In all truth, what could she say? I read your love letter, and now I’m not sure how I should feel.

  I’m not even sure how I actually feel.

  In the end, she decided against using words at all. Rather, she spun on the ball of her foot, stalked into the bedroom, and retrieved the letter. She’d left it on the bed, open and glaring brazenly up from the patchwork quilt her father had always claimed had been a wedding gift from her grandmother Carpenter. Using the quilt as their bedspread had always seemed like a blessing from generations past.

  She knew now how completely she and Nathan had desecrated it.

  Back in the kitchen, Mariah handed the letter to him. He glanced at the paper in his hand, up at her, and then back at the letter again. “Where did you get this?” he asked with no emotion at all.

  “I found it in your shirt pocket.” She wouldn’t lie.

  Another moment of silence shimmered around them. “You went through my things?”

  She might have shrugged or frowned or responded with any number of physical cues. She couldn’t seem to bring herself to do any of those things. Instead, she remained distant and unmoving.

  “Not at all,” she said evenly. “I sorted through your pockets before I put your clothes in with the washing. I do it with all the dirty clothes.”

  “And you found this.” He waved the letter jerkily.

  “Yes.” She smoothed her suddenly damp palms over her skirt. Nathan didn’t make her nervous or even anxious, she told herself. Nor could she find the edge of her emotions cleanly enough to locate anger or hurt. She sim
ply hated knowing this conflict would never go away on its own.

  “I did,” she added a moment later, when Nathan said nothing. “I found it, and I read it.”

  He stared at her, his cool gray eyes so very bleak and distant. She couldn’t begin to guess what he might be thinking. She waited for him to speak but said nothing. He simply watched her, waited, and seemed to hardly breathe.

  She was the first to break. “Were you ever going to tell me?”

  “Tell you what?”

  “Don’t try to make this into a game, Nathan. You know what I’m asking. Were you ever going to tell me that you had a lover—or lovers—of your own?”

  He waited again, stretching the silence out to until the air around them became so thick with tension, she thought she might choke. Only then did he shake his head. “No. I would never have told you.”

  She nodded. It was just as she expected. Nathan had never respected her, never cared for her in any way except to slake his lust. He’d used her because his father had forced him to marry her, and now they were bound together with no other choice. He didn’t want her. He wanted someone else—anyone else, apparently, as long as she wasn’t Mariah Carpenter—but he was trapped with her in a marriage he hated.

  She should feel something, shouldn’t she? She’d been in this position before. He’d hurt her, she’d cried, pulled herself up by sheer strength of will, and she’d gone on. But not this time.

  Now, she had nothing left.

  He’d shamed her for taking a lover when she’d believed he was dead. Now, as it turned out, he wasn’t without his own sins. Apparently, he had decided that she was the only one who had to pay the price for any indiscretion.

  “Let me ask you something,” she said in a deceptively low voice. Did he hear the underlying strength? She doubted it. He’d never seen her that clearly. “I think you asked me something similar.”

  “What?” He must have sensed something, because he snapped the word impatiently.