by Wynne Roman
“Dressed as you are?”
His smirk looked so much like Tristan’s, she wanted to smack him. Instead, she looked down at herself.
She wore a chemise with the strap cut loose on one side. The modification was meant to protect the wounded area from being irritated if the fastening rubbed or chafed, according to Nathan. Honestly, she wouldn’t have minded so much if he’d allowed her to wear something else.
Anything else.
Her nerves soared sky high whenever Ethan came to check on her, and she would hold on to Nathan’s hand like a woman drowning during the visits. The man treated her with complete professional kindness, much like old Doc Parker always had. That didn’t change the fact that Ethan Powell was a young and handsome man—and she wore no nightgown or drawers.
She pursed her lips in a more pronounced pout, and Nathan laughed. He actually laughed and bent down to drop a quick kiss onto her lips. “Would you like some soup?” he asked as he straightened.
“Do you know how to cook?” She narrowed her eyes and inspected him distrustfully.
Nathan laughed again. “No. West stopped by on his way to Justo. He put together a nice hearty chicken soup and brought bread he baked fresh yesterday.”
The soup did sound good, but Mariah couldn’t quite be certain of her stomach right now. It didn’t always feel completely settled. Was it the injury or the laudanum?
She couldn’t decide and so suggested, “Just some broth today. Soup tomorrow.”
He nodded and turned away, presumably to tidy the room. It wasn’t actually messy, but a sickroom always seemed to fill with healing paraphernalia and the like. It apparently concerned her husband. Nathan took his nursing duties seriously, caring for her as though she were made of the finest crystal or spun gold.
Mariah smiled to herself as she accepted his tender care. Once he finished putting the bedroom in order, he fed her the broth, provided water and tea, teased her with a thin slice of bread streaked with honey. Lastly, he wiped her brow and cheeks with a damp cloth.
Once he had satisfied himself that she’d eaten and drunk enough, he returned to his more serious nursing duties. He bathed her injury with warm, soapy water, replaced the poultice with a fresh clammy-feeling mixture, and then covered it with a bandage that he tied on.
“You pamper me.”
“You deserve it.”
She disagreed, but she did feel better. Somewhat more alert than she had been in days, she eyed him with a narrow gaze. “When was the last time you slept?”
He blinked and glanced away, a sure sign he didn’t want to answer her question. “What?”
“Have you been sleeping at night?”
He looked somewhat confused. “No.” He shook his head but didn’t avoid answering. “I’ll sleep later. Right now, I need to keep an eye on you.”
“No. Not anymore.”
“Yes.” He nodded, unmoved and emphatic. “Infection is still a threat.”
“It won’t flare up so quickly that you aren’t entitled to a few hours of sleep.”
He looked unconvinced.
“Come.” She patted the bed next to her uninjured side.
“What?” he demanded in clear horror.
“Get into bed with me.”
“No! Absolutely not! You might need me for something else. Or I’ll hurt you. Or —”
“Nathan.”
“What?”
“I want you to lay down with me.”
“But —”
“Listen to me.” She wished he were close enough that she could touch him. Alas, he remained on the other side of the room. “I want to snuggle against you, and I want you to hold me. I want your warmth and your comfort. If you do that for me, then I’ll rest. I might even go back to sleep—if you sleep beside me.”
Nathan lay next to Mariah, watching her sleep. He had promised that he would stay beside her, but he couldn’t quite relax in the way that she wanted him to. It had taken him some time to fall asleep when he’d first stretched out beside her. The need to remain awake and vigilant had been clawing through him since the very first night, and he couldn’t afford to drop his guard now.
Still, lying next to her soothed him clear through to his soul. He’d undressed—but only down to his drawers, much to Mariah’s disappointment. It was still mid-afternoon, after all, and full nudity carried too much carelessness under the circumstances. She’d whispered, “Closer, closer,” until he was turned on one side, one arm across her middle and his leg thrown over hers. Her hip had pressed intimately against his hard if tightly controlled cock, and he’d waited far past her breathing to fall into an even rhythm for his body to relax.
He wanted her, just as he had since the day he’d ridden back onto Sangre Real land.
No, that wasn’t true. Deep down, in his heart of hearts, he’d finally accepted the truth. He’d wanted her since the day he’d married her. He’d taken her like it had meant nothing to him, kept her at arm’s length by continuing to treat what they had like a tryst with some ill-used whore, and then played with her like she was an amusement that he brought out on occasion for his pleasure.
Seeing her brought down by another man’s gun, collapsed on the porch in Gabriel’s hands, and with blood staining her dress, he’d known the truth.
He loved her, he wanted her like no other, and he was going to find a way to make up for his careless, hurtful mistakes.
Despite knowing he shouldn’t, Nathan leaned over and dropped a soft kiss on Mariah’s lips. She smiled, shifted just slightly to press herself more tightly against him, and opened her eyes.
“Did you sleep?”
“Yes,” he admitted. “A little.”
“Good. I did, too.”
“I know.” He gave her another tiny little kiss. “You snored.”
“What!” She stiffened but almost immediately relaxed her posture. It must have been enough movement to send a twinge of pain through her shoulder.
“Are you all right?”
“I do not snore,” she said, ignoring his question.
“Yes, you do.” He had to smile at her childlike pique.
“Ladies never snore.”
“Sweetheart, I would never say you aren’t a lady, but—”
“I think there was a time when you would have called me anything but a lady.”
His heart sank into his belly, and he had to close his eyes against the shadowy teasing in hers. He couldn’t argue with her; he had treated her exactly that way in the early days.
“That may be,” his voice was heavy with his shame, “but I was wrong. You never deserved the way I treated you.”
“Nathan.” She searched for his hand with hers. “Please don’t. I was teasing.”
“Were you?”
“Yes. I’ve long since put that time out of my mind.”
“How can you?”
She tangled their fingers and squeezed. “How can I not?” Her head turned on the pillow, as though she wanted him to understand that she was giving him her undivided attention. “We were young. You were heartbroken. I knew it at the time, and I hoped that the time would come when you would allow me to help you heal from Susannah’s loss.”
It was a healing he had fought every step of the way.
“Rye, sweetheart . . .” His voice dried up.
“It’s all right, Nathan. Everything is going to be fine.”
She humbled him. “You sound so certain.”
Her smile was soft and . . . loving? “I am. Of course, I am. Over these last years, God has exacted a terrible price from us. From all of us, North and South. How could He not reward us with a new happiness?”
He blinked, narrowed his eyes, and searched her gaze with his. “You sound as though you might have forgiven me.”
Her expression went soft and tender. “Oh, my love. Yes. I have forgiven you. The mistakes of the past don’t seem so important anymore.”
“How can you?” he demanded again, hopeful and yet almost angry at the same time. “I hurt you.
Deliberately. I knew the things I was doing would cause you pain. I allowed other women—”
“And we’ve gone over this.” She interrupted softly but with a firm tone that brooked no argument. “You confessed, and you know my sins, as well. We made mistakes, and we may have made some of them for the wrong reasons, but that’s behind us now. I am your wife, and I want only you.”
“And I have no desire to touch another woman. Ever. No other woman would ever be my wife.”
A bit of moisture—tears — gathered in the corners of Mariah’s eyes. “Not even Susannah?”
“Not even Susannah,” he repeated solemnly. He scooted so close that their heads rested together on the same pillow, their noses touched, and their breathing mingled. The intimacy of it soothed him.
“Never Susannah,” he continued. “Only you. I may have denied it, but I realized long ago how lucky I was that you became my wife.”
“Nathan . . .”
“I love you, Mariah Carpenter Fairchild. I think I have loved you for so long, I didn’t know what I was feeling. But losing you the first time, when I couldn’t remember, and then almost again the other day . . .” The words faded under the weight of a ragged sigh. “I finally saw the lies I’d been telling myself. The selfish game of hiding from my true feelings at your expense. I won’t do it anymore. I can’t.”
“Nathan—” she started, but he hadn’t the patience or courage for her to continue.
“I love you,” he said again, “and I will spend the rest of my life trying to make up for all the mistakes and pain I’ve caused.”
“Oh, Nathan.” Their mouths were close enough that she could press her lips against his in an almost sacred kiss. “I love you, too. You know I do. I always have.”
“I never deserved it.”
“I don’t know about that, but it was always yours.”
“And my heart is yours, if you’ll have it.”
“I will treasure it, my love. You needn’t ever worry over that.”
33
Mariah hadn’t slept so well in years. Undrugged sleep, that is, since she’d refused more laudanum. It had been simply the warm, secure sleep of a woman who knew she was loved.
Nathan loved her!
For years, she had prayed to hear those words from him someday. She had never known when, where, or even if they would ever come at all. She’d lost hope only during those awful months when she’d thought him dead. Her faith had been rewarded, and now, finally, he’d said the treasured words.
I love you, Mariah Carpenter Fairchild. I think I have loved you for so long, I didn’t know what I was feeling.
She believed him. Every word. He had bared his soul to her, made apologies that couldn’t have been more heartfelt, and then, when she’d been shot, he had been more than devoted to her care.
Anything else must remain in the past. True forgiveness meant they couldn’t keep tearing apart the healing of old wounds and mistakes that couldn’t be changed. True forgiveness meant leaving the hurtful things behind and looking forward, only to the future. She was determined to see it so.
“Are you comfortable?”
Nathan stood in the doorway of the parlor, a tender look giving him a bright, loving expression. She sat in a comfortable stuffed chair, her feet up on a small footstool, and a knitted shawl pulled around her shoulders. A small quilt covered her lap and feet.
“Yes. Thank you.” Her tone sounded a bit stiff, but she couldn’t help it. She was just fine, thank you, but she hated feeling like an invalid.
“Getting dressed didn’t tire you too much?”
She smiled softly. “You did most of the work.”
He had. She wore a skirt, blouse, and stockings, all fitted onto her body by Nathan’s skillful hands. The blouse had been the most difficult, but he’d smartly pulled it over her wounded side first. He’d left her single-shoulder chemise to cover her breasts, but he’d refused her request for petticoats or drawers.
“They’re too hard to put on and take off,” he’d claimed, but she’d seen the devil dancing in his eyes. “You don’t need them, anyway.”
She’d given in because of the love he showed her so clearly.
Now, he crossed the room and squatted down to meet her gaze directly. “You have a visitor.”
“A what?”
She blinked and shook her head shortly; she wasn’t dressed to receive company. She reached up to the back of her head, where Nathan had braided her hair. There had been no possibility of her right arm and shoulder allowing her to style her hair as usual, and so he had been her ladies’ maid in all ways.
“A visitor.”
“Who?”
His expression hardened. “Cruz.”
Mariah’s eyes popped wide, and she stared at Nathan. “But I thought he was—you said—”
“That he was in jail, yes. He was and is. But Sheriff Barstow agreed to bring him here for a visit.”
“Really?” The idea surprised her. Barstow had never been a particularly kind or generous man in her experience.
Nathan’s grin was cynical. “For the right price, he’ll do just about anything. Tristan made a deal with him. Thirty days in jail for Cruz, the boy gets to see you this once, and Barstow gets a sizeable donation to his reelection campaign.”
“I see.” She might have smiled at Tristan’s high handedness, but her nerves got the better of her. “All right then.” She patted her hair at the start of her braid. “I wouldn’t want to disappoint anyone.”
He reached for her, stroked his fingertips lightly over her cheek to her jaw, and then brushed his thumb over her bottom lip. “Are you all right? Can you do this?”
“Of course!” She kissed his thumb. “I honestly don’t blame Cruz for anything that happened. Well, not for my being shot. He made some very poor choices, and the situation got completely away from him. But—” she shook her head “—haven’t we—I—done the same?”
“Perhaps. But the circumstances weren’t nearly so drastic.”
“That may be true, but Cruz hasn’t had an easy road of it.”
Nathan stood, dropped a quick kiss on her lips, and gave her a smile that spoke clearly of his love for her. “You are an amazing woman.”
“I am your woman.”
He smiled again. “Yes. You are. And you’re beautiful.”
He turned toward the door, presumably to fetch Cruz. “And your hair looks nice,” he tossed over his shoulder. “You should have let me brush it and leave it loose, though.”
Cruz Pecado sat on the settee across from her, looking as uncomfortable as Mariah had ever seen a man. His too-familiar face was bruised, and his knuckles were scraped, but otherwise he seemed fit and healthy. His tight expression revealed nothing.
“How are you?” she asked when he didn’t speak.
He narrowed his eyes. “I should be asking you that.”
“I’m fine.” She lifted her good shoulder. “Ethan, one of Tristan’s men, took the bullet out, and Nathan has cared for me better than any nurse.”
Cruz nodded as though the information meant something to him, and perhaps it did. In all honesty, she doubted he’d wanted her injured or worse. He’d wanted . . . something, something she wasn’t sure even he understood, and she had been just a pawn as he’d struggled.
The truth of it was, the Fairchilds were his family. He may not have found any comfort in the knowledge—had any of them, really?—but the truth remained certain.
“I . . . it shouldn’t have happened,” he admitted a moment later. “I never meant for you to be hurt.”
“I know.” She gave him a somewhat tender smile that she hoped he recognized as one of forgiveness, that of a sister to a brother. “You tried to pull me down to safety. It happened very fast, and I’m not clear on all the details, but I believe that Gabriel and the other man reacted in ways you didn’t expect.”
Cruz nodded but didn’t respond, and so she added, “Nathan agrees with me.”
Cruz stared at her, h
is eyes so bleak and cold, Mariah’s heart broke for him. “Pedro was always a lousy shot.”
“Pedro? That was your friend’s name?”
Cruz nodded. “Nathan shot him.”
Mariah weighed her words carefully before she spoke. Yes, it was true, but it had been necessary. If Nathan hadn’t killed Pedro, the other man wouldn’t have hesitated to turn on any one of them. She’d known that from the instant she’d recognized the angry lust for violence in his eyes.
It had been a very different look than she’d seen in Cruz.
“I’m sorry for your loss.” She could offer nothing more.
Cruz shook his head, indicating anything from dismissing the words to deeming them completely unnecessary. Mariah took the sentiment no further. Her new brother-in-law likely still had very conflicting feelings over everything that had happened. She had one question remaining, however.
“Was he involved in setting the barn on fire?”
“Yes.” Cruz didn’t hesitate. “I was with him, but he set the fire.”
She nodded. “I saw you.”
He twitched, clearly startled. “What?”
“That night of the fire. I was here alone, as I’m sure you knew. I heard something and went to investigate. I saw two men in the darkness, waited until you rode off, and then I put the fire out.”
He stood abruptly as though suddenly unable to stay still. “I’m sorry. It all became so . . .” The words faded and he shook his head, as though he couldn’t think well enough to complete the sentence.
“Cruz.” She held out a hand, but he shook his head and backed away. “Cruz,” she repeated, firmer this time, and gestured with her extended hand to come closer.
Still he hesitated, reluctance in the very way he held his body. She waited patiently, her offered hand unmoving until finally he came closer. He accepted her touch awkwardly, but she closed her fingers over the back of his hand with as much of a kind welcome as she could muster.
“I’m sure this is all very confusing for you. It’s difficult for everyone. But you are a Fairchild, and you have two brothers who may be more welcoming than you expect.”
“Not with Jordan for a father. And not after everything I’ve done.”