Mary

by Raine Cantrell

  Mary stumbled backward. She raised shaking fingertips to her mouth. He had brought to life a passion she had never known. She wanted more.

  And it terrified her.

  “Beth,” she managed to whisper. “She needs me.”

  Need. The woman didn’t know what the word meant. But Rafe did.

  It was running inside him, heating his blood, leaving him poised on a blade’s edge when she turned away from him.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Early the next afternoon, Rafe carried Beth down to the parlor. Catherine was going to amuse her while Mary cleaned her room.

  Rafe had just settled his daughter on the settee when Sarah sought him out.

  “I’d like you to come outside with me, Rafe. There is something you need to see.”

  “Go on,” Catherine urged from where she sat on a stool near Beth. String lay in her lap. “Cat’s cradles,” she said to Rafe’s questioning look. “Beth and I will be just fine.” She smiled at the child, who lay wrapped in a quilt, clutching one of Mary’s dolls. Beth tired easily, but Mary wasn’t worried. She said the little girl would be weak after the bout of fever.

  “And,” Catherine added, with an imp of mischief dancing in her blue eyes, “we are going to sing nursery rhymes. I intend to teach her ‘Mary, Mary, quite contrary.’ Remember, Sarah, how we teased her with that one? And it came true, for she loves to grow things.” Catherine faced Beth. “It will be a surprise for Mary.”

  “I can see I’m going to have a spoiled little girl on my hands.”

  “No, Papa. No more.”

  “Seems like you’ve had a talk about this already,” Sarah remarked.

  “Once, it wasn’t enough. If she gets out of hand, don’t forget the word no. Beth is learning she’ll be hearing it.”

  “Often, to judge by your expression. But she’s a little sweetie with me. Aren’t you, love?” Catherine asked.

  “Promised Mary to be good.”

  Rafe smiled to hear that, and Catherine laughed. Sarah touched his arm and left the room.

  “Beth,” Rafe explained to Sarah, “had an army of servants catering to her wants. A few more no’s in her life will build character. At least that’s what I tell myself until it’s time for me to say it.”

  “That was never a problem for my cousin. Saying no, that is.” Sarah opened the kitchen door and stepped outside. The wind was soft as a woman’s sigh, and the air dry as a kiva oven. False summer weather, before the true start of fall.

  “When we were little, Mary kept me and Catherine out of trouble. She never broke the rules.”

  “Why does that sound like a warning? And where are you taking me, Sarah?”

  “Over to the other side of the pasture fence. And maybe I am warning you. Be careful of my cousin. Mary’s strong, despite her delicate appearance. But don’t be fooled. Inside, Mary’s as fragile as a desert flower. There are some flowers that bloom but once.

  “Do you have any notion of how much water it takes for the desert to bloom? Gallons, and what’s more, everything has to be perfect before that flowering happens.”

  Rafe didn’t pretend not to understand Sarah. He wasn’t going to deny his attraction to Mary. But perfect? And he said so.

  “Perfect, Sarah? I don’t know anything that happens between a man and a woman can ever be that way.”

  Sarah tossed him a look beneath the brim of her hat. Rafe had taken her warning, but issued one in return. He was right, she supposed. Whatever happened was between him and Mary.

  As they rounded the pasture fence, Sarah noticed the dust kicked up by their boots. For all the heavy rains, the earth had soaked up the water and was already thirsty.

  “There’s a spot over here you need to see.”

  Rafe followed Sarah to a clump of cottonwood saplings. Long-tailed magpies flitted about. In the distance Rafe saw the bronze-red hills, and the green clouds of leaves that seemed to float above their base. The rich color of the hills reminded him of the lovely shades in Mary’s hair. And thoughts of Mary reminded him of the guarded manner she had adopted with him ever since he kissed her.

  “Well, Rafe, what do you think it is?”

  Rafe set aside his musings about Mary. It was hard to do. She confused him. He looked at where Sarah pointed.

  The dried clumps of churned-up mud didn’t appear to be much of anything to him. Then he spied the broken matches.

  He stepped closer, but didn’t touch, just stared down at the matches. They hadn’t been cleanly broken, merely bent in half, with a sliver of wood holding the ends together.

  It was an odd thing for a man to do.

  But not odd for a nervous man, one bored with waiting and feeling the weight of time passing.

  Rafe hunkered down. He closed his eyes for a few seconds and blanked his mind.

  There was no question the disturbed earth pointed to the night of the storm. He picked up one chunk, and it crumbled in his hand.

  “Rafe?”

  He looked up. Sarah’s face was a study of concern. He grinned at her. “It’s a good thing for me you’re not a screaming lily.”

  “I don’t scare easy, Rafe. But I won’t ignore this. Someone waited here. A good long while.”

  “Yeah. I figure this was done while it rained. Not after the storm.”

  “And there’s more, Rafe. Something was dragged away from here. I started to follow the tracks—”

  “Not a good idea to do it alone, Sarah.” He came to his feet.

  “McCade, what do you think I did before my cousin came to live with me? What do you think I’ll do when you’re gone?”

  “When I’m gone, Sarah, you won’t have this kind of trouble to worry about.”

  She shook her head. “Rafe, as long as men walk this land, women have trouble to worry about.”

  But Rafe didn’t respond. He was thinking about that night after the storm. Mary, his daughter and himself, exposed as targets. His rage was building, hot and furious.

  Turning at an angle to Sarah, Rafe stretched out his arm, pointed his index finger with his thumb extended upward. Rafe then sighted the length of his arm as if it were a rifle barrel.

  His targeted projection centered on the back door of the house.

  Ghostly fingers raced up his spine. He dropped his arm. “Go back to the house, Sarah.”

  “Pardon?”

  “I said go back.”

  Boots planted slightly apart, Sarah stood her ground. “McCade, no one hearing you could deny you’re a man accustomed to giving orders and having them obeyed. But if I’ve got a copper-colored snake hiding under a rock out here, I not only want to know where it’s hiding, but I aim to—”

  “You won’t do anything, or put yourself at risk, Sarah. This isn’t your fight.”

  The cold, deadly tone of his voice was reinforced by the hard look in his eyes. Sarah had no trouble believing Rafe meant every word. She dug her bootheels in a little deeper.

  “No way, McCade. We had a mule once that could be reasoned with a heck of a lot easier than you. But this isn’t a question of whose fight it is. Since you brought it up, I’m going to tell you a few home truths.”

  “Now, Sarah—”

  “Now button your lip, McCade and listen. We’re talking about fear. Not the kind a man like you, or any man, could ever understand. But women would. Especially those women who live alone. The three of us made a choice. We live alone, but we are not going to live scared of shadows. Real or imagined.

  “If one hombre—just one, mind you—figures he can get this close to the house and watch us, the wind can have all the reasons why. It’s trespassing, and it’s a violation against us. If he did it once and got away with it, tell me what’s going to stop him or the next man from thinking he can come inside?

  “We don’t have a town sheriff yet. Hillsboro still has growing pains. And if there’s a county marshal within hailing distance, I haven’t heard about him. Wouldn’t do us a lick of good, anyway. By the time someone fetched the law,
it would be all over except for the burying.”

  “Sarah, I hear—”

  “No, you don’t hear me. Or if you do, McCade, you’re not ready to believe me. Don’t deny it. Your eyes make potent silent talk. Look at my rifle. I don’t carry this or a sidearm with me everywhere for show. I can and will use it. I’ve run a few varmints off, and it’s likely I’ll do it again.”

  Sarah shifted her weight and braced herself for their silent clash of wills.

  Rafe thought Mary a warrior angel, soft and womanly, but strong. Looking at Sarah’s slim form put in his mind a very stubborn, prideful one.

  If the matter before them wasn’t so serious, Rafe might have been amused at her attempt to stare him down. Well, he had to admit it to himself, it went beyond an attempt. Those black eyes of hers didn’t waver once.

  And her reasoning made sense. He was learning more about women in these few days than he had in half a lifetime. And he wasn’t ashamed to admit it.

  “Tell me, Sarah, do you play poker?”

  “Not lately.”

  “That’s real good to know. Sets a man’s mind at ease. Should I ever be so foolish to suggest a game between us, don’t accept and play.”

  “Why?” Her brow wrinkled with confusion.

  “You’d likely win.”

  Sarah inclined her head as graciously as any gowned lady accepting a pleasing compliment.

  “McCade, you’ll do. It’s a rare man who admits a woman is right.” She peered up at him, thumbing back the hat’s brim. “You’re not afraid of a strong woman.”

  “No. Should I be?”

  “Most men are.”

  “I’m not most men. I do try to keep an open mind. But I’ll tell you something I’ve never told anyone. I learned what real courage and strength are. The kind most women are born with. Beth taught it to me when she was a baby starting to crawl.

  “She’d be moving along when her arms and knees gave way, and she’d get this surprised look. I’d want to rush over and pick her up to set her world right again. Even when she didn’t cry. I stopped myself when I realized the generations of women who stood by while a child learned for themselves to crawl, walk and stand tall. That’s when an understanding of the different kinds of strength came to me. Can’t measure them.

  “This fever of Beth’s taught me more. I could’ve faced an armed man with nothing but watching, being helpless.” He shook his head. “I don’t know if I’m explaining this right. But women have lived with that kind of fear, too. For their children, their men, and, as you said, for themselves.”

  “And find the strength to do it?”

  “Yeah, Sarah, they do. So, show me the rest of the tracks.”

  And where was your wife, McCade? Sarah bit the words off before she asked him. She led off toward rocky soil that held a sparse growth of creosote bushes and grass.

  Inwardly she heaved a sigh. Rafe wasn’t the first man she had had to prove herself against. But she wished, for her peace of mind, that he would be the last.

  Sure, and wish the rifle you’re toting was a parasol, while you’re at it.

  On the one hand, Rafe’s admission disturbed her, for it was so rare to hear a man speak of such things. On the other hand, Sarah had to admit that it comforted her a great deal. Mary, if Catherine was right, might find what she longed for with him.

  By the thick trunk of an ancient cottonwood tree, Sarah stopped.

  “Whatever was dragged stopped here. The bark of this branch is scraped. The horse was tied for a while and shied. But there’s tracks of a second horse. I don’t think it was here too long.”

  Sarah turned around and saw that Rafe wasn’t with her. She took off her hat and fanned herself. Something had caught his interest in the tracks that were clearly visible in the mud.

  Rafe lingered behind. He studied the tracks, several times bending low to look at them closer. He had learned his tracking from a variety of men. Two of the best there were at hunting game or men. One had scouted with the army for almost twenty years. Staying alive for that long proved the man’s ability to survive. The other man had been a Pima Indian. He could tell how heavy a man was and which side of his body he wore his gun on, and come within a quarter of an inch, using only his eyes, of telling how long a man’s stride was and thereby judging his height. Uncanny how many times the Pima had been right.

  What Rafe read bothered him. The man dragged had been heavier than the one pulling him. Heavier, and either dead or out cold. His boots were worn, but the other man was of slighter build, and had nearly new boots. Boots and a pair of fancy spurs. The thin, sliced depression had dried clearly in the mud. Rafe knew he wasn’t mistaken.

  He thought one man waited with the horses and the other snuck up to the house. Nervous while waiting, he had a habit of breaking matches. There had been no signs of lightning strikes anywhere nearby.

  Puzzled, he looked back to where Sarah patiently waited.

  Maybe it wasn’t two men. It could have been the man who had ducked out of the saloon. That kid Lundy had warned that he was asking questions. But who had removed him?

  “Rafe? Rafe, what’s wrong? Did you find something?” Sarah asked her questions as she walked back to join him.

  “You were right. There were two men here. Not much more to tell. We’d better get back. I’ve been thinking today would be a good day to go into town and do some shopping for Beth and myself. We both need clothes. I’ll look down at the livery for a few packhorses, too.”

  “That’s it? You go into a brown study over these tracks, and that’s all you have to say?”

  Rafe tugged on his hat brim. The move concealed his wry smile. “That’s about it.”

  “McCade, remind me never to play poker with you.”

  Near the house, Sarah turned off toward the barn. Rafe went into the kitchen, thinking that he would ask Mary to ride into town with him. She needed to get out of the house and, selfishly, he wanted some time alone with her. He’d hold out the lure—a most truthful one—that he needed her advice about what clothes to buy for Beth. He’d never known a woman who could resist shopping. Especially when a man was paying the bills.

  The parlor was deserted. He went upstairs.

  Catherine sat in the rocking chair, mending a froth of something white. Beth lay on the bed, sound asleep. There was no sign of Mary.

  Rafe motioned to Catherine. She rose quickly and joined him in the hallway.

  “Beth,” she said in a whisper, “grew tired. Mary and I thought she would sleep better up here. You’ll be pleased to know she ate almost a full cup of maple custard, too.”

  “Any sign of appetite is good.” Rafe’s gaze drifted to Beth. Earlier, when her bandage was changed, he had seen less swelling and redness around the still-open wound. He should stay with her, but the matter of their clothing was a pressing need.

  And he wanted to send a few telegrams.

  “Something smells like spring in here,” he remarked.

  “Oh, Mary freshened the bowl of potpourri she makes. She trades with everyone who grows something she doesn’t. Or for treats like maple syrup.”

  “Where is Mary?”

  “Oh, she had to go into town. She promised Mrs. Mullin—that’s the owner of the dress shop—one of her dolls for Nita’s granddaughter’s birthday. Only Mary didn’t have the doll to give her.”

  “It’s the one she gave Beth.”

  “Yes. But not to worry. She’s going to buy one of the dolls back from Mr. Crabtree.”

  “The owner of the emporium?”

  “Hmmm…That’s him.”

  “Something wrong, Catherine?”

  “Oh, you’d understand if you met the man. He’s so tight-fisted, he would squeeze water from rock if there was a profit to be made. Mary has a problem dealing with him. Her husband—Oh, I’ve said too much.”

  “Tell me. Please. I’d really like to know.”

  “I’ve said all I’m going to, Rafe. But if you were going into town yourself, Nita Mu
llins’s dress shop is two doors down from the emporium.” Catherine looked right into his eyes and winked.

  “I can’t impose on your good nature, to say nothing of your time—”

  “Rafe McCade, do you play poker?”

  “Funny you should ask. It’s the second time someone has mentioned poker to me today.”

  “Really? Who asked first?”

  “Sarah.”

  “Oh, I would love to know why she did. Of course, being a gentleman, you wouldn’t tell me. But you haven’t answered me. About poker?”

  “Something tells me I may regret admitting that I do play.”

  “Don’t regret it. But you should never play while thinking or talking about Mary, much less if she’s anywhere near you. You get this gleam in your eyes that reminds me of the funny look my rooster gets when I introduce a new hen to the flock.”

  Rafe had to smile. Catherine’s pert grin and the sparkle in her eyes allowed no offense to be taken at her observation.

  “I will keep your sage advice in mind.”

  “Now, before you ask me,” she began, straightening away from the wall, “Beth is no trouble. And if you hurry, you can catch up with Mary. She’s walking.”

  “Walking into town? Why? Can’t she ride?”

  “Mary? Her father was a blacksmith. She grew up around horses, and could ride just as soon as she found something high enough to climb on a horse’s back.

  “No,” she continued thoughtfully, “Mary said she had to walk to sort through a host of things that needed to be put in their proper places.”

  “I see.” Rafe looked away from her.

  “Ah, I hoped you would. So, what are you waiting for?”

  “But Beth—”

  “Rafe, you’ll be back. After all, it’s not as if you were planning to run off with Mary. Your daughter will be all right.”

  Catherine wasn’t about to give him time to argue with her. She shooed him toward the stairs.

  “Can I bring you something from town?”

  “Surprise me, Rafe. I love surprises.”