Mary

by Raine Cantrell

  He came out of the protective shadows and went to his horse.

  The drizzle had let up. Rafe quickly tightened the cinch.

  “Hey, mister.” The kid stepped out of the saloon.

  Rafe lowered the saddle skirt. He didn’t betray the tension running through him. He knew how bad his position was to get off a clean shot. Caught as he was between the horses, his right side to the street, he would have to lose seconds to turn and fire.

  Seconds cost men their lives.

  “You could’ve killed me,” the kid said. “I should have known you were handy with a gun.”

  “Likely.”

  “Well? Why didn’t you do it? I didn’t read you right off. Guess I was too busy talking, when I should’ve been looking you over. Careless of me.”

  “I didn’t come hunting trouble. Still don’t want any. But I won’t run from it.”

  “Ain’t gonna have any from me. Just wanted to set things right betwixt us. You should know, a man in there earlier—” he hitched his thumb over his shoulder at the saloon doors “—he was asking questions if a man rode in with a kid. That you?”

  “Could be.”

  “You don’t give away much, do you?”

  Rafe caught the grin on the kid’s lips, and for a second fought his own.

  “Sometimes it’s safer that way.”

  “I’m Shell Lundy. If you ain’t interested in fighting wages and you’re hunting a cowhand’s job, get yourself north of Socorro, to the Rafter D. Food’s good, pay’s thirty a month, and you keep one horse from the remuda you help break.”

  “Keep it in mind.” The offer of a job would indicate that Shell Lundy didn’t know who he was. Rafe thought about that. He stepped into the saddle. Time to make his decision. Turn and ride out, offering his back as a target, or sit there and wait for Shell to make the first move.

  “Ain’t never shot a man in the back,” came Shell’s soft declaration. “Never had to.”

  Shell knew when a man had someone hunting him. He would be leery of strangers, especially those men who attempted friendship.

  Like him. But this man had already shown his hand. Shell started to turn toward the saloon doors, leaving his own back exposed.

  “Mister, you never said your name.”

  “McCade. Rafe McCade.”

  “McCade? Why, you’re—” Shell stopped and spun around.

  Rafe set his heels to the horse and rode hard on the road south of town.

  Shell thumbed his hat back. He wasn’t sure if he should give way to the laughter bubbling inside him or the rumble of fear that twisted his gut.

  Shell stood there, his thoughts racing. He could ride out and hunt up the very job he had offered McCade. He could walk away.

  “Loco fool,” he whispered under his breath.

  No one had told him the man’s name, only where to find him. Rafe McCade owned a piece of the Cañón del Agua mine.

  But where did Shell draw the line? He had accepted fighting wages, and a bonus on the side from the man’s partners. Some of the money came from McCade’s pocket, and McCade was the man he’d been hired to kill.

  Chapter Ten

  Yesterday’s promised storm broke across the land. The rumbles of thunder rattled the windowpanes in Mary’s room.

  Mary stood watching the storm, and thought of the old Indian woman who had helped her around the house. Storms like this one brought forth the Apache saying that the Thunder People thudded their drums in the canyons and along the dark hills.

  Eerie sheet lightning flickered bluish tongues of light against the blackened sky. The sight struck a wild responding chord within Mary.

  A harsh wind had risen before the dawn, and brought with it blinding curtains of rain that swept the county with a liquid broom, from the Black Range eastward toward the Rio Grande, in successive blanketing gusts that filled the watercourses brim-full and then flowed over their banks.

  Earlier, when she went down to the kitchen to replenish Beth’s tea, she could barely make out the looming dark mass of their barn. Streams of water poured from the roof of the barn and the house. The yard was one big mud hole, and the lower half of the pasture always flooded.

  She worried. Sarah and Catherine were still out in the storm. They had gone to bring the horses to shelter in the barn and move their few head of cattle into the corral, where the two-sided shed offered the animals some protection.

  Mary rubbed her arms. Despite the woolen shawl wrapped around her, she was chilled from her own foray into the rain.

  After she made tea and another pot of coffee, she had mixed a batch of biscuits. While they baked, she thought of Beth and the others needing something warm to eat. It prompted her to shred the leftover stew meat and vegetables and add beans and water to the pot. She soon had the hearty soup simmering on the wood stove.

  She had learned to make do with every scrap of food, for Harry had been a tightfisted man with his money. He had never heard of taking food to sickly neighbors, and when he did, he had forbidden her to do it. Acts of charity had been as foreign to Harry’s nature as they were familiar to Mary.

  How could she have been so blind?

  She dismissed the question, and thought instead of stretching the soup to feed a hungry man.

  A few feet from the back door stood her garden. There were still carrots and onions in plentiful supply, and the herbs planted between the spokes of the old wagon wheels she had found. Adding those and dumplings would provide hearty fare for them all.

  But her slicker proved to be little protection from the wind and slashing rain as she snipped herbs, bent low, and pulled root vegetables from thick mud. The fernlike leaves of chamomile were nearly buried as she replenished her supply for Beth’s tea.

  With her shoes covered in mud and water seeping into the leather, she cut parsley, rosemary and dill, then took the last of the chili peppers for the soup.

  She had left her shoes drying by the wood stove after stuffing them with the smallest lengths of kindling to prevent them from shrinking.

  Drinking the last of her coffee, Mary glanced at the pallet where Rafe slept at the foot of the bed. He had refused to use the spare room, where Sarah had fixed the cot for him.

  Rafe insisted on remaining near his daughter.

  Mary stayed near the window. She did not want to wake him. His rest was as well deserved as his child’s. Rafe had remained awake most of the night with her to help bathe Beth and keep her fever down.

  Mary was unaware of the softening of her mouth and her gaze as she looked at Beth. She still held the topsy-turvy doll. Her cheeks held a fever flush, but the tea appeared to be working. The child no longer tossed restlessly and whimpered in her sleep.

  Despite Mary’s best intention not to do it, her gaze strayed back to Rafe.

  He had not said a word about what news, if any, he had heard in town. She was sure that if there was danger to any of them, Rafe would have said so.

  She was not certain where the thought that she was right had come from. Saying as much aloud would sound foolish. How could she know what another person would do or think on such short acquaintance?

  After all, she reminded herself, what did she really know about Rafe?

  He was gentle with his child. Tender and patient by turns. A man unashamed to reveal, by act and word, his love for his daughter.

  This in a time when men set great store by the sons who would carry on after them.

  She could almost envy the child.

  Sleep did nothing to soften the strong, clean-cut lines of his handsome features. The dark growth of beard stubble intensified the impression of Rafe being a lone wolf.

  He lay on his back, his left hand flung above his head. Earlier she had drawn the blanket up to his shoulders, but now it was pushed down to his hips.

  On his right side, she saw his gun in its holster.

  Even asleep, his right hand lay only inches from the butt.

  Mary hesitated, then stepped closer. What was there a
bout this man that drew her? She didn’t know. Even in sleep, he appeared coiled tight as a bull-whacker’s whip and just as ready to lash out.

  She found herself looking at the back of her hand. The image of Rafe holding it, then pressing his lips against her flesh, rose in her mind. The heated touch of his lips had lingered long after he left her last night.

  Looking at his hard, lean, muscled body aroused every feminine nerve.

  It was too long since she had been held and kissed, since she had felt the quickening excitement of making love.

  Shocked at her thoughts, Mary raised her hand to her cheek. Such shameful musings.

  Shameful? Why should she condemn herself? She had needs, too.

  She couldn’t forget his kiss, or the few moments when her body had betrayed her.

  And he had been aware of her reaction to him.

  What would happen to her with his prolonged stay?

  The mere thought was unsettling. But it couldn’t stop her from imagining what his lips would feel like against her own.

  What was wrong with her? She had met a few nice men in town. One had appeared interested in coming to call on her. Mary had discouraged him. She had never speculated about his kisses.

  The sound of the back door slamming closed carried up the stairs. Her hand fell with guilty haste from her cheek to her heart.

  She looked over her shoulder at the empty doorway. When she looked back, she found Rafe’s penetrating gray eyes watching her.

  “You’re awake.”

  “Lord, I needed to hear your confirmation. For a minute there, I thought I was still dreaming. You’re the prettiest sight I’ve awakened to in a long time. Pity if you weren’t real.”

  It wasn’t a lie. Her hair was softly pulled back from her delicate, cameolike features. The high neckline of her pale blue gown emphasized her slender neck.

  The look in her eyes, radiant with sensuality and speculation, was enough for him to think of what it would be like to get beneath the buttons and cloth, to the sultry feminine flesh hidden from sight.

  “Like I said, real pretty.”

  Gritty with sleep, his voice washed through her. The frank male appreciation trailed heat in its wake.

  Mary couldn’t respond. She wouldn’t dare allow herself to think he meant a word of it.

  But Rafe was waiting for her to say something.

  “It’s a wonder you slept at all on the floor. You couldn’t have been comfortable. You should have taken the spare room across the hall.”

  “Bed’s dry. Roof’s snug against the rain. Smells like spring in here. And I’ve slept on harder places without half the comfort.”

  The look in his eyes wasn’t hard. If anything, it was soft and heated. She admonished herself. Most likely it was a trick of the dim light.

  But she could not pull her gaze from his, or think of one sensible thing to say to put him in his place.

  “It’s storming outside,” she blurted out, motioning toward the window. Mary, what is wrong with you? He can hear the rain for himself.

  The corner of Rafe’s mouth kicked up. “It’s not the only one. Or am I alone in feeling there’s a storm every bit as strong brewing in here?”

  Warmth shimmered and spread inside her, sending a sizzle through her blood strong enough to curl her stocking-clad toes.

  “I am sure,” she said, pulling her shawl tighter around her, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  Rafe’s grin became a full-fledged smile. “That coffee for me?”

  Mary was so rattled it took her a few seconds to understand his gesture toward the empty cup she still held.

  She shook her head. The spare motion sent her thick single braid sliding across the cloth covering her suddenly sensitive skin.

  Wind sent rain beating against the windows. All Mary heard was the pounding of her heart and the mingled sounds of their breathing. All she could feel was the heat of his gaze.

  The room seemed to shrink around them, as if they were the only two people there.

  It could have lasted for seconds or minutes. Mary was not sure. With a start, she drew one deep, ragged breath, released it, then repeated the simple act to break the sensual snare surrounding her.

  “I’ll…” Her mouth was so dry she had to swallow a few times. “I’ll fetch your coffee. Breakfast, too,” she added. She backed away from him toward the door.

  “Mary, wait.”

  Just the sound of her name spoken in his black-velvet voice stopped her flight.

  “I don’t want you waiting on me.” He propped himself up on one elbow. “I never meant to sleep so long. How is—”

  “You’re exhausted. You needed the sleep. And you seem to forget that you were wounded. I’d like to—” Touch you. “You should let someone look at those wounds.”

  It would be so easy to ask her to touch him. He could imagine those lovely hands on his skin.

  Abruptly Rafe looked away from her. “Just skin scratches. Nothing for you to worry about. I’ve had worse. But tell me, how is Beth doing?”

  “Still sleeping. More comfortably, I believe. I’ve already changed her bandage. There’s swelling and redness, but nothing more to indicate that infection has set in. It is still too soon for you to consider moving her.”

  Mary reminded him of the brown tabby he had discovered protecting her litter in the hayloft of the barn. All hiss and spit, ready to defend her own against a larger adversary.

  Mary was not hissing or spitting at him. Not one bared claw in sight. But the tigerish light in her green eyes and the firm conviction in her voice warned of the fight he might have if he attempted to move his daughter before Mary thought the time was right.

  If he had not been so touched by the depth of her caring for his lonely, wounded child, Rafe might have laughed.

  Mary’s fragile appearance was like that of one of the kittens. Fragile-looking, yes, but brave nonetheless. He hunkered down, hand extended to the kitten. He talked softly. Curiosity had drawn the kitten from the protection of his mama. Then, ears flat, the kitten had dared him to touch.

  Out of respect for the tiny animal’s courage, Rafe had backed away.

  Mary deserved nothing less, but all he could do was to allow the intense arousal she caused to retreat before she became aware of it.

  “Mary, I wasn’t going to ask you about moving her.”

  “Yesterday, you couldn’t wait—”

  “Yesterday is gone, Mary. I can’t go back and undo what’s past.” Rafe winced as he shifted his weight and felt the pull on his wounds.

  “If I could go back, I’d know who was behind that attack. I’d know what I’d done to make someone hate me so much that they’d kill my child, too.

  “No excuses. Guess I was more tired than I could admit to you or myself when I asked that foolish question about moving Beth.”

  “It wasn’t foolish. I could see you only wanted your daughter to be safe.”

  “You do a little thought reading of your own? That was exactly what I wanted. Still do. I can keep Beth from any harm at my home. And I don’t want the trouble that’s dogging me to follow me here. I don’t need another death on my conscience.”

  An odd look went over Rafe’s face. Mary saw it as a shadow that she named grief. She wondered if he spoke of his wife’s death.

  Had Rafe somehow been responsible?

  In the next breath, Mary recalled his hard, cold voice answering her few questions about Beth’s mother. She thought then that her feeling of envy for the woman had been misplaced.

  “No, Mary. I didn’t kill my wife. For what she did to our child, I could have. But I didn’t.”

  “I wasn’t accusing you!”

  “Weren’t you?”

  “No. I—”

  “Papa?”

  Beth’s weak voice ended Mary’s attempt to explain.

  “He’s right here, lamb. And I’ll be back in a bit with some warm soup for you.”

  “And coffee for me?” Rafe asked,
already at his daughter’s side. “We’re a matched pair, Beth and I.”

  Mary flung back her head and shot him a defiant look. “Don’t remind me.”

  But she hurried away, still wanting the child and still very much afraid to want the man.

  Chapter Eleven

  “Tell me more,” Beth pleaded.

  Rafe, seated on the rocking chair, cuddled Beth closer. He was running out of stories suitable for a child’s ears. He looked at Mary, who was busy changing the sheets on the bed. She nodded encouragement for him to continue.

  “All right, one more. There was a white man who traded with the Sioux. Many of the Indians warned him to stop his cheating ways, but he wouldn’t listen to them. One day, this trader was told there was someone who could cheat better than him. The trader didn’t believe it. He demanded to see who it was.

  “The Sioux at his store brought him outside and pointed to Coyote. Him, they said. He is a tricky-looking one. The trader thought he was the best cheater of all and went to talk to Coyote. The Sioux say you can outsmart me. Let me see you try. Well, Coyote told him he couldn’t outsmart him. He didn’t have his cheating medicine with him.

  “Now the trader was excited. He wanted to be named the best cheater of all. He told Coyote to get his medicine. But Coyote said that he lived too far and had no horse. He asked if the trader would lend him his horse. And the trader agreed.

  “Then Coyote said that the horse was afraid of him. If he had the trader’s clothes, the horse would think Coyote was his owner and let him ride swiftly home. And once again the trader agreed. He was so sure he could beat Coyote’s cheating medicine.”

  Rafe was distracted by a muffled sound. He glanced at Mary. She held her hand to her mouth. He grinned, then finished the story.

  “Well, there the trader stood in his union suit, while Coyote made off with his clothes and his horse. There’s a lesson here for—”

  “Mustn’t cheat, Papa?”

  “That’s right.” Rafe smoothed back her hair. “Mustn’t be greedy, either.”

  “Tell me more.”

  “Beth, honey, your tea’s cool enough to drink.” Mary saw the shadows beneath Rafe’s eyes, heard the hoarseness of his voice. He’d been telling Beth stories for almost two hours, ever since they finished supper.