A Husband Returned: Men of Wicked Sorrow, Book One

by Wynne Roman

  He’d warned her before this new activity had begun. He’d also promised to return home every night, though she would be alone at the house for most of the day. Everything had run smoothly, and he’d kept his word.

  That didn’t entirely put her at ease, however. Her nerves had gone all a jangle, and she knew something was happening. Nathan would tell her nothing, but that didn’t relieve her mind at all.

  “Don’t fret,” he’d said with a quick kiss as he’d left the house after breakfast that morning. “We’re just doing a little investigating. Planning. Tristan has agreed it’s time to put an end to all this trouble.”

  He made it sound trivial. Mariah knew better. She’d experienced it herself when those men had set fire to the barn, and so much else had happened! Cattle stolen and carcasses left dead. Vaqueros shot and injured. Theft and damage at the line shacks. It all seemed far more than trivial.

  She hadn’t pushed to express her opinion this morning; she knew better than to think it would change anything. But tonight? Tonight they were going to have what Nathan called a come-to-Jesus talk, and she intended to wring every bit of information from him that she could.

  Even if she had to seduce him for it.

  Mariah smiled to herself, liking the idea. She hadn’t taken the lead in their lovemaking, preferring to let her husband do so. Perhaps she could surprise him and catch him unaware enough to get her way.

  Turning back to the task at hand, she discovered one tray of cookies had cooled enough to be placed in a Mason jar for storage. She scooped the next batch onto a rack for cooling, and then did a quick cleanup of the baking mess she’d made. Finally, when the last pan was out of the oven, she was ready for a cup of tea and a warm cookie as her reward.

  She took them into the dining room, sitting long enough to rest her feet, she told herself. Truly, she recognized her ploy for what it was: the chance to marvel once again at the changes the last week had brought to her life and her marriage.

  Nathan had surprised her with his ability to extend her a sweet tenderness that she had never guessed he might possess. He made love to her every night, held her as they slept, and simply touched and kissed her frequently. They talked about all manner of things, shared stories and memories, and even laughed together.

  It was the kind of marriage she’d always dreamed of—if only he loved her, of course.

  They hadn’t spoken of love or forgiveness or past mistakes since the day Nathan had revealed secrets of his time away fighting and its aftermath. Mariah wasn’t naïve enough to think they would never return to the topic; she thought, in fact, that they should. For the moment, however, they needed some time to discover each other again. To put each day’s moments first, to look to the future as they put the past behind them.

  Apologies had been made. Now it was time for understanding and acceptance. A respite, she had come to think of it. A calm period during which they could learn each other’s truths.

  Mariah finished her cookies and tea, remembering the magic of Nathan’s body, his hands, his mouth. He had shown her an ecstasy that she hadn’t dreamed existed. Definitely not in those early days of marriage, and not in the tender encounters with Gabriel.

  No, her husband made her forget all other men and all other moments except the ones she shared with him. He displayed a masterful touch that both tormented and pleased and being with him meant the world to her.

  Her smile proved it.

  Unable to stop herself, she slipped into the bedroom for a bit of daydreaming. She stood in the doorway, eyed the deceptively pristine, tidy-looking bed, and remembered Nathan’s inventive prowess of the night before.

  “Do you trust me?” he’d asked in that dark, sexy voice that sent her knees weak and shot a flurry of butterflies clear through her.

  She’d searched his gaze with hers, the gray steely with need but guileless all the same. With a slow nod, she’d admitted, “Yes.”

  “All right, then, honey.” He’d given her a quick, hard kiss. “Get on your knees.”

  He’d helped her to kneel then, facing her away from him and bending her forward on the bed. On her hands and knees, he’d entered her from behind—and introduced her to a world of entirely new sensations.

  He knew how to coax more than one orgasm from her body, and she could do nothing except respond to his every touch.

  Warmth spread clear through Mariah’s body again as her memories coalesced with dreams for the future. Tonight, perhaps? She felt the heat in her face as her cheeks flushed, and her breasts and other feminine places went heavy with anticipation.

  Would Nathan want her like that again tonight? Did he have other positions to teach her?

  Her dreaminess lost some of its hold on her when sounds from outside the house filtered in. She cocked her head, listening, identifying the unmistakable sound of horses and men.

  Why had Nathan and the others returned early? He hadn’t mentioned anything of the sort when he’d left. Or could it be West or vaqueros from the Sangre Real?

  Still smiling, she made her way across the hall, through the dining room, and into the kitchen. She reached only the middle of the room when the back door flew open, and a stranger stalked inside.

  He was tall, easily Nathan’s height, with wide shoulders and muscular arms. His hair was long, to his shoulders, and the darkest brown she’d ever seen without it being black. His eyes were a deep brown, as well, and trained on her with every bit of his attention.

  She had stumbled to a halt the instant he’d stepped into the house, and now she simply stared. He stared back, and his eyes flared with awareness when he read the growing recognition. Her eyes grew wide before she blinked, and then she had to look again.

  Who was he? He looked like —

  “Hello, Missus Fairchild.”

  29

  Mariah continued to stare. She couldn’t seem to make herself do anything else. She had no response for his greeting, couldn’t move forward or back. She could only stand motionless as she looked and wondered so many things.

  “Who are you?” she finally asked in a deliberately careful voice when he didn’t say anything else.

  “You don’t recognize me?” he demanded in a rough, silky tone.

  “Should I?” She played for time. “I’m sure we’ve never met before.”

  “No. We haven’t.”

  “You look like . . .”

  Intensity radiated from him. “Yes?”

  Could she say it? Dare she even think it?

  “Well, you look like my husband. Or my brother-in-law.”

  “Do I, now?” he demanded, the force of his gaze lessened by the question. Still, his tone remained harsh, oddly sounding both surprised and satisfied at the same time.

  Mariah knew better. Not only were those reactions too disparate, but everything about him screamed of an overwhelming certainty.

  He knew who he was, where he belonged, and what he wanted.

  She, on the other hand, knew nothing.

  “Who are you?” she repeated, managing to make it more of a demand this time.

  He waited to answer, instead watching her with confident if curious eyes. “Cruz,” he finally offered.

  “Cruz what?”

  “Cruz Pecado.” He answered immediately.

  The name meant nothing to her. Her expression must have given her away, because he tossed her a mocking smile. “Do you know what that means?” he asked casually.

  “No.”

  “My mother named me Cruz. It means cross. I took Pecado for myself.”

  He continued to smirk at her, his dark eyes flashing and daring her to ask the question. She did.

  “What does Pecado mean?”

  “Sin.”

  She knew then. “You’re Jordan’s son, aren’t you?”

  “What makes you say that?”

  She shook her head dismissively, as much disrespect as she dared at the moment. This man—Cruz—stood close to a foot taller than she, outweighed her by as much as a
hundred pounds, and, unless her ears deceived her, he wasn’t alone. She heard the telltale sounds of men and horses in the yard, and that told her all she needed to know.

  True insolence was simply too risky under the circumstances.

  “There’s no mistaking it,” she finally offered, her voice as disinterested as she could make it. “No one can deny that you have Fairchild blood running through your veins.”

  His expression went dark and hard. It startled her how quickly and completely it occurred, like slamming a door closed. “Fairchild blood,” he snarled. “La ruina de mi existencia.”

  Spanish. The language gave her a knowledge that settled over her in a moment of certainty. That explained the darker coloring from Nathan’s, as well as other slight differences she noticed about Cruz Pecado.

  His mother must be Mexican.

  “I’m sorry,” Mariah said carefully, keeping her discovery to herself. “I don’t speak very much Spanish.”

  He shook his head, as though disappointed by her admission. His hair shifted over his shoulders much like Nathan’s. In fact, the whole action evoked memories of the way she’d seen both Fairchild brothers move.

  “La ruina de mi existencia.” Cruz repeated the words. “Fairchild blood. The bane of my existence.”

  “You don’t want to be—”

  “What I want,” he interrupted sounding suddenly angry, “is trouble for the Fairchilds until the end of their days.”

  Something was wrong.

  Uneasiness had been prickling over Nathan’s nerves all day. It warned him that something about their plan wasn’t right. But what, exactly, was it? What had gone awry, and how had it happened?

  The men from the Sangre Real had been in place for more than twenty-four hours, and nothing of any consequence had happened. Nathan himself had taken up a place in a copse of ebony and mesquite trees, prickly pear cactus, and other assorted brush. They clustered near a curve in the creek that provided water for the Sangre Real herd, a perfect place to stage an ambush. They had all agreed.

  What, then, had gone wrong?

  Whatever explained it, Nathan felt it clear through to his bones. He’d learned his lessons at Jordan Fairchild’s knees: Trust your instincts. Later, his time with the Fourth Texas had honed his skill to razor sharp. He trusted his intuition implicitly; it had never led him astray.

  Today was not the time to question himself.

  Nathan glanced all around him, checking to see that the men remained hidden at various places around the watering hole. One man perched high in a leafy tree, another crouched behind some brush, while still others lingered at a distance as though looking for the “missing” cattle. Gabriel had taken up a position on the other side of the creek, blending in there well enough Nathan couldn’t see him even knowing the man was there. Most effective of the disguise was the milling herd that stretched along the creek in a deliberately deceptive spread of apparent vulnerability.

  The ruse should have worked.

  The vaqueros had spent a full day shifting cattle to this new location and putting the deception into place. They had separated a fair number of longhorns from the main herd to leave them seemingly vulnerable and ready for the plucking. West had even made a special trip into Justo to spread rumors about the Sangre Real’s struggle with strays. The offending band of rustlers should have made a move by now.

  There had been nothing.

  “How long we gonna wait like this?” asked Harley as he rode up next to Nathan, who sat astride Clancy.

  “I don’t know.” He shook his head. “Something’s wrong.” He said the words aloud finally, hating the sound of them. “As soon as Tristan gets back, I’ll talk to him.”

  “You don’t think—” Harley broke off and shook his head. “Nah.”

  “What?” Nathan demanded immediately, his attention deadly sharp and his spine stiffening. “Don’t think what?”

  “Maybe they’d strike somewhere else. Someplace that looks weak. Like when they set the barn on fire.”

  They set the barn on fire.

  Someplace that looks weak. The words echoed through his mind and body like an unholy pronouncement of doom. Like when they set the barn on fire.

  “Son of a bitch,” he muttered in growing horror. A premonition—no, more than that, a certainty—rushed through him, and his thoughts raced like a runaway horse.

  Aside from the very natural exposure of a herd of longhorns spread across the broad grazing range of the Sangre Real, the most vulnerable part of the ranch operation was the Double C. It was smaller, less populated, more remote. The thieves had already identified it as such. Any manner of surveillance would reveal just how often he’d left Mariah alone there. That could mean anything, and a band of thieves would recognize their best target without a qualm.

  Son of a bitch!

  “Harley,” he snapped. “Follow me. We need to check the Double C!”

  “You think—”

  “Tell Wylie.” Nathan didn’t have time to explain the growing panic that had begun to churn in his gut. “Then come.”

  He urged Clancy out of the cover of the trees, and then into a gallop toward the Double C. Harley caught up a few minutes later, gamely keeping pace with Nathan. He didn’t ask another question, and Nathan spared the other man little attention. His thoughts were all on his wife.

  Mariah.

  His heart clenched when he thought of her being alone at the Double C. She’d been so willing to shoulder her share of the burden of life on the ranch. Her portion, she’d called it in such a reverent voice, and had seemed proud to take her place alongside him.

  But now? Had anything happened to her? Was she safe? Afraid? Or was he simply borrowing trouble where there was none? Anxious after everything he’d seen and done in those years with the army?

  Hope flared, but he knew better. No. Every fiber of his being warned him. Something had gone wrong with their planning, perhaps terribly so, and Mariah was the easiest, most vulnerable target.

  Why hadn’t he seen it before?

  These rustlers had violence in them. The fire, the thefts, the gunfire they exchanged with the Sangre Real vaqueros proved it. So why had he put his wife in such danger by leaving her alone? He cared too much to risk her safety. Even when he’d been angry over Bonham, he would never have deliberately taken any chance when it came to protecting her.

  Where had his better judgment gone?

  The ride to the Double C seemed interminable. It shouldn’t have; the small ranch house was less than an hour distant. Ensuring the perfect location had been imperative to Nathan as they’d planned the details of the raid. Tristan had insisted on a place that was far enough from the Sangre Real ranch house to be believable, while Nathan had fought to keep the action close enough to the Double C in order to protect Mariah.

  Had they made the right choice? Frustrated regret tore through him. He should have sent her to stay with Carolyn until the activity was over, but he’d wanted to keep her close so he could hold her at night. Kiss her, touch her, make love to her.

  How damned selfish could he have been?

  Now, he simply needed to be with her. To see her, hold her, guarantee that she was safe.

  Warmth spread through his insides as he saw her in his mind’s eye. Waiting at the back door, exactly as she’d done every night for the past week or so. Smiling, waiting until he opened the damned squeaky screen door, going up on her tiptoes for his kiss.

  Everything in him tightened, wanting her, needing her, and desperate to assure himself that she was safe.

  When they were perhaps no more than a mile from the house, Nathan slowed Clancy to a trot. He embraced the caution he’d learned during sentry duty and front-line fighting, letting the urge for discretion guide him. Harley pulled up beside him.

  “Not sure what we’ll find.” Nathan kept his voice low, devoid of emotion. He trusted nothing else.

  “Want me to circle around behind the house? Come in a different way?”

 
Nathan considered the idea but ultimately rejected it. “No. Can’t risk it. There are only the two of us. If anything is wrong . . .” He paused as the words trailed off. “We need a show of strength.” Even a small bit of power.

  Harley nodded.

  Instinct warned Nathan when to slow his horse to a walk, and moments later the Double C ranch house appeared in the far distance. He and Harley had targeted their approach carefully, coming in from the west side and the best vantage point to see the house, the outbuildings, and the yard.

  The truth spread out before him.

  Nathan’s gut tightened like a fist had grabbed his entrails, and he stared angrily. Four or five men milled about in the yard between the house and the barn. They were mounted and moving enough to disguise their numbers, preventing him from seeing exactly how many there were.

  An icy chill ran down his spine when one man shifted enough that Nathan could see a sickening sight. One saddle was empty. He grunted with sudden awareness. A horse with no rider could mean one of two things: at least one man was dismounted, or the men intended to take a hostage.

  Mariah.

  Nathan spurred Clancy forward without another thought or a word to Harley. They rode forward with all the fury of the four horsemen of the Apocalypse, Nathan thought distantly, as he wheeled the horse to a stop only feet from the waiting men. He may not be riding a pale horse, but if these outlaws had harmed Mariah, they would certainly come to know him as Death.

  He shot them all a seething scowl. “Who are you, and what do you want?”

  “Hola, amigo,” said one of the men in return. He was small, dirty looking, his words marking him as Mexican. His gap-toothed grin taunted.

  “I am not your friend.”

  “Too bad,” the man muttered in heavily accented English.

  “What do you want?” Nathan demanded again.

  “Nada.” The other man shrugged. “Just waiting on the jefe.”

  Jefe. Nathan wracked his brain, searching for the Spanish he’d picked up over the years. Jefe . . . boss.

  “Who is that?” he demanded.