Claiming Mariah

by Pam Hillman

  She studied his hands. Strong and capable, as she’d known they would be. He gripped his spoon before lifting a bite of the thick stew. He kept his attention focused on his plate, and Mariah jerked her gaze back to her own meal, heat suffusing her face.

  Would every night seated across from him be as torturous as this one? They had nothing to talk about, no common interests, other than ranching. And talking about the Lazy M didn’t seem to be the best topic to settle on under the circumstances. The soft clink of spoons against bowls and the rustle of their movements filled the room, but the lack of conversation started to grate on her nerves.

  Please, Lord, just let this meal be over.

  Her grandmother broke the silence. “Where did you say you were from, Mr. Donovan?”

  “I’d prefer Slade, ma’am.”

  Mariah glanced at her grandmother and caught a speculative gleam in her eyes. After a moment, her grandmother nodded. “All right. Slade it is.”

  “I grew up around Galveston, ma’am, but I’ve traveled here and there over the years. Working cattle mostly.”

  “So you know a good deal about cattle, then?” A definite edge laced her grandmother’s voice. Sarah Malone might be feeble, but her mind remained as feisty as ever.

  “I reckon.”

  “Hmph. You think you can turn a profit here?”

  “Grandma . . .” Mariah bit back her response. The very topic she wanted to avoid. If she didn’t watch out, her grandmother would have both of them thrown out on their ear, money or no money.

  Slade shifted in his chair. “I don’t see why not. Good grazing land around these parts. And the cows seem to have fared all right through the winter.”

  “Our cows are the finest in this part of the country, mark my words,” her grandmother replied with a proud tilt to her chin.

  Slade lifted his coffee cup to his mouth, but not before Mariah caught a glimpse of a slight smile. The upward quirk of his lips created deeply slashed lines beside his mouth.

  He was laughing. She glared at him, but he ignored her.

  “I’m sure they are, ma’am.”

  “More coffee, Grandma?” Mariah stood and lifted the coffeepot from the stove.

  Her grandmother held up a hand, halting her at half a cup. “No more. I don’t want to stay awake all night.”

  Mariah turned to Slade, frowning at the hint of amusement lingering on his face. She topped off his cup and moved away. She didn’t know whether to be glad or angry he found her grandmother amusing.

  “What about the hands? What do you intend to do about them?” Her grandmother continued her verbal sparring regardless of Mariah’s subtle hints that they’d finished supper.

  One by one, the old hands had drifted away, until Mariah didn’t know any of the ranch workers anymore. Cookie was the only one who’d been around for any length of time. And he really couldn’t be counted as a hand. Cookie just sort of came with the bunkhouse.

  The uneasy silence following her grandmother’s question magnified Mariah’s worries.

  “What do you think I should do?” Slade sat forward, his attention trained on her grandmother. He didn’t look angry, but curious and slightly wary.

  Her grandmother paused, taking her time before she answered. “You’ll know—if you know men and if you want this ranch to succeed.” She sat back in her chair, a pleased expression on her face.

  Mariah watched as her grandmother and Slade sized each other up. He drained his coffee cup and stood. “I’ll keep that in mind. Thanks for supper, Mariah.” He nodded at her grandmother. “Good night, ma’am. Pleasure talking to you.”

  “Good night.”

  He stepped out into the night and left them alone.

  Mariah stared at her grandmother. “What was that all about?”

  “I just wanted to see if he had any smarts about him.” Her grandmother gave her an innocent look. “I’ve never had any use for some of the men Red has hired.”

  “Everybody makes mistakes.” But Red seemed to make more than most when it came to hiring dependable hands.

  “You know, Mariah, I think that young man just might be what the Lazy M needs. Too bad we won’t be here to see him make a go of it.” She pursed her lips. “I wish . . .”

  “What?” Mariah prompted.

  “Nothing.” Her grandmother stood, groaning with the effort of getting to her feet. “Here, child, help me to bed. It’s time for my prayers. Me and the Lord have some serious business to attend to.”

  Mariah laughed as she took her grandmother’s arm. “You and the Lord always have serious business.”

  “And who better to talk to when things get serious?”

  “I can’t think of anyone better, Grandma.”

  Once she settled her grandmother in for the night, she returned to the kitchen, pondering the conversation over dinner. Her grandmother had taken a liking to Slade Donovan, of all people.

  And by his reaction to her questions, the feeling seemed mutual. Too bad he didn’t care one whit for Mariah. Still, she supposed it might be a good thing her grandmother intrigued him. Maybe he’d think twice about forcing them to leave before she saved enough money to get them to Philadelphia.

  She made quick work of washing the dishes, then gathered the leftover scraps in a bowl and stepped outside. Daylight gave way to a pink-and-yellow sunset as the sun sank toward the horizon. A slight wintry nip remained in the air, but the heat of summer would be here soon enough. The cats twined themselves around her skirts as she picked her way to the woodpile at the edge of the yard, careful to avoid puddles left by the rain.

  “Hello there, Prissy.” Bending down, she scratched a calico cat behind the ears. Prissy arched her back into the gesture. A rotund black-and-white cat waddled toward them.

  Mariah laughed as she ran her hand down the expectant feline’s back, the feel of her soft, silky fur soothing. “So you want a little petting too, do you?”

  The cat purred with pleasure.

  Mariah poured out the scraps, saving a small portion in the bottom of the bowl. She squinted into the fading light, trying to get a glimpse of the half-wild tomcat that shared the others’ meals. A movement past the smokehouse caught her attention.

  “Hey, Yellow,” she crooned, easing toward him.

  She stopped within a few feet of the tomcat, scraped out the remains of the stew, and backed away. He sidled toward the offering and started eating, his yellow eyes darting in her direction every few bites, keeping a careful watch on her movements.

  Taking care not to startle him, she whispered, “Hey, boy, what you been doing today, hmm?”

  She inched closer. They played this game night after night. She moved another inch and waited. He’d grown more used to her, letting her draw nearer over the last several weeks, and she knew she’d eventually tame him.

  Suddenly his ears perked, his head jerked toward the porch, and he darted into the shadows. Mariah turned and caught a glimpse of Slade beside the porch.

  “Sorry.” His voice drifted to her on the evening breeze. “Didn’t mean to scare him away.”

  “It’s all right. He wouldn’t have let me touch him anyway.”

  “You think he’ll let you pet him someday?”

  She wished she could hightail it back to the house. He probably thought her childish, wasting her time trying to tame a half-wild tomcat. Being a man, he wouldn’t have time for such silliness. But what did his opinion matter? She didn’t have to explain her actions to him.

  “I hope so.” Lifting her chin, she headed toward the house.

  “You’re a lot like my brother.” A deep chuckle rumbled out of him, the sound catching her off guard. “You’d better be careful, or he’s liable to give you a run for your money and try to tame that tomcat himself. He’s got the patience of Job when it comes to animals and such.”

  “And you don’t?” She couldn’t see Slade Donovan being patient about much of anything.

  “I’m not as patient as Buck, but I have my moment
s.” A faint smile lifted one corner of his mouth.

  “Not many, I would imagine,” she quipped, desperately trying to break the spell woven by the encroaching darkness and his amused drawl.

  “You’d be surprised at the level of patience I can muster when the need arises.”

  Shadows cast by the evening sun danced across his features, and the tiny smile on his face faded away. She forced her attention from his mouth to his eyes, squinted against the light of the lantern on the porch. What was it about the evening breeze and lengthening shadows that made him seem more approachable, more relaxed, concerned even?

  An owl hooted, and she jumped. What was she thinking? “I’m sorry; did you want something?”

  “I’m heading into town in the morning now that the rain’s let up. I’d like you to ride along, and we’ll sign over the deed.” The words came out in a hushed tone, flat and emotionless. His gaze bored into her, serious, unblinking.

  But his demand, couched as a polite request, wasn’t lost on Mariah. They’d come to an uneasy truce this morning, and she could agree quietly or let loose her temper and start another argument. But what good would that do?

  An argument wouldn’t change the inevitable.

  The next morning dawned bright and clear. Mariah hurried out to gather the eggs while her grandmother stoked the fire in the old woodstove. She didn’t know what time Slade wanted to leave, but she’d be ready. She didn’t want to keep him waiting.

  Halfway across the barnyard, she decided to check on the mare due to foal in a couple of weeks. She entered the barn, blinking in the dim interior. The scent of fresh hay, leather, and horses swirled around her. Someone had been hard at work organizing the tack along the wall to her left. Slade? She doubted it. Maybe his brother had a penchant for organization.

  Across the open area in the middle of the barn stood Slade’s brother. His rail-thin body made his height more pronounced. His shirt hung loosely from his shoulders, and the threadbare pair of breeches belted at his waist looked a couple of sizes too big. Had he been sick?

  She watched as he brushed the pregnant mare, his attention focused on the animal, murmuring as he worked. Dusty’s ears twitched toward the sound, showing her pleasure at the attention.

  Mariah smiled. Yes, she and Buck were much alike. She stepped closer and he glanced up, his face shadowed by the brim of a floppy hat pulled low over his brow.

  “Good morning. I’m Mariah. You must be Buck.”

  He nodded but didn’t face her. “Yes, ma’am.”

  His voice sounded like a faint imitation of Slade’s deep baritone. A little less worn and trail-weary, but the determination she’d heard in Slade’s voice resided in Buck’s as well.

  “Her name’s Dusty.” She motioned toward the mare. “It’s her first foal, so we thought we’d better keep a close watch on her.”

  He nodded again.

  “I don’t know if Slade mentioned it, but he’ll be eating supper in the house every night.” She moved closer, surprised and pleased Buck wasn’t as gruff as his brother. His bashful nature made her want to befriend him as she’d befriended the yellow cat. “You’re welcome to join us.”

  He glanced sideways in her direction and then jerked his head down in another nod and brushed Dusty with quick, sure strokes. “Thank you, ma’am, but I’ll eat with the others, if it’s all the same to you.”

  Mariah shifted her feet, moving some hay back and forth, and looked over at the next stall. What should she say? She’d never met anyone as shy as Buck. He wouldn’t even look at her here in the dim interior of the barn. No wonder he didn’t want to come to the house and sit with strangers at the supper table. Now she wished she hadn’t embarrassed him by asking.

  “Well,” she said with forced cheerfulness, “if you change your mind, you’re always welcome.”

  She beat a hasty retreat to the henhouse and gathered the eggs, her mind straying to the Donovan brothers. For siblings, they acted nothing alike. Slade plowed in and got what he wanted by being downright overbearing, while Buck’s shy and unassuming personality made her wonder if he had any backbone at all. She frowned. What if Slade ran roughshod over his brother like he’d done over her?

  Mariah reached for another egg and pondered the situation. The sound of raised voices from the other side of the barn wafted toward her as she placed the last egg in her basket.

  “What’s the matter, Bucky-boy; don’t you like us?” The mocking voice belonged to Giff Kerchen.

  She heard the taunt clearly, and her heart lurched. Red had definitely made a mistake when he hired Giff a few months ago. The man made her uneasy. At first, he’d come to the house offering to fill the wood box, start the fire in the kitchen, even volunteered to drive her and her grandmother into town on occasion. And she’d done nothing to encourage him.

  Come to think of it, he hadn’t bothered her since the day Frederick had stopped by and Mariah had told him how uncomfortable the man made her feel. Maybe Frederick had said something to Red. Regardless, Mariah was glad of the reprieve from Giff’s unwanted attentions.

  “. . . where I please.” Buck’s answer was broken up by a muffled cough.

  “Now, that ain’t friendly, is it, boys?”

  She gritted her teeth. Giff’s tone was anything but friendly. It was downright hostile.

  “Not a bit, Giff,” someone else answered. A low rumble of laughter followed.

  “Big brother ain’t here to take care of you now, Bucky-boy, so I’ll just have to do it myself. What say we just mosey on over to the cook shack and all have a nice little breakfast together?”

  “No thanks.”

  Mariah had heard enough. Maybe if the men saw her coming out of the chicken coop, they’d leave Buck alone. She hurried to the hinged gate, latching it on her way out.

  The sight that greeted her as she rounded the corner of the barn put a knot of fear in her stomach. But the wave of anger and protectiveness swelling up inside overrode her anxiety.

  Giff and another burly cowboy grabbed Buck, each holding an arm while dragging him toward the cookhouse. Buck’s reed-thin frame bowed as he dug in his heels and resisted the men. He jerked away, the buttons on his shirt ripped free, and he lurched back toward the barn.

  In that instant, Mariah saw the scar racing down one side of his pale face and the misshapen jaw that pulled his mouth down on one side. She caught a glimpse of puckered flesh on his rib cage and torso just before he sprawled into the dirt, his stricken gaze caught in hers. But the raw pain she saw in his face had nothing to do with the scars he carried on the outside.

  Giff bent over, clutching his stomach, laughing.

  White-hot rage overtook her, and before she realized what she was doing, she stomped behind him and dumped the entire contents of the basket over his head. Fresh eggs cracked and dripped in thick rivulets onto his shoulders and arms.

  He whirled to face her. “What the—?”

  “You should be ashamed. Can’t you see he’s been hurt enough?” She swung the basket at him, uncaring how ineffective the weapon was. He backpedaled, the sudden attack catching him by surprise. But he recovered quickly. Anger flashed across his face, and he ripped the basket out of her hand and tossed it away. The basket bounced on the ground and tumbled to rest against the watering trough a few feet away.

  “Why, you—” He took a step toward her, the slimy yellow egg yolks oozing down his shirt.

  Dread snaked up her spine. But she stood her ground. If she backed down, he’d do as he pleased.

  Buck, pale as death, stepped in front of her. She bit her lip. What had she done? Giff probably wouldn’t actually hit her, but he wouldn’t think twice about taking his anger out on Buck, even if it was obvious he’d been hurt bad and recently.

  “Giff! That’s enough,” Red called from the bunkhouse. “Get yourself cleaned up and get on over to the north pasture. That water hole needs cleaning out.”

  The ranch hand’s angry glare shifted between Mariah and Buck. He turn
ed and stalked away, the others following.

  A wave of relief rolled over Mariah.

  “You shouldn’t have done that, ma’am.” Buck’s quiet voice broke across her relief.

  “I know.” She sighed and squinted at him. He still looked pale and weak, emphasizing the crescent-shaped scar covering the entire left side of his face. “I wasted all my eggs.”

  Shock registered on his face before an amused little smile lifted one corner of his mouth. If not for the scars and his thin frame, he’d be a handsome young man. His lips twitched as he fought to contain the grin. “What a sight to see. A big man like that stopped dead in his tracks by a basket of raw eggs.”

  Mariah giggled.

  He bent down to pick up her basket, turning the scarred side of his face away from her, the movement so smooth and practiced she knew he’d done it hundreds of times before. A muscle twitched in his jaw, reminding her of Slade.

  “I guess I should be mad at you for stepping in. No man likes to think he can’t take care of himself.”

  “It’s no shame to have been hurt, Buck.” What had happened to him? She wouldn’t humiliate him more by asking.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  His defeated tone told her he didn’t believe the words he’d uttered. “Well, you just come on over to the house with Slade tonight. A few good meals will help you build your strength up.”

  He threw a glance in her direction, and a grin crossed his uneven features. “Thank you, ma’am. I might do that.”

  Mariah smiled back at him as he handed her the empty basket.

  Soon after breakfast, the lumbering sound of the wagon drew Mariah to the front porch. Slade sat atop the buckboard, the reins clasped loosely in both hands. He set the brake, jumped down, and faced her, hands on his hips.

  “Do we have to take the buckboard?” Mariah finished pinning on her hat, studying the narrow seat. “I wouldn’t mind riding.”

  “Got to pick up a few things.”

  She started to pull herself up, but he held out a large, work-roughened hand. She stared at it for a moment. How could the man be so considerate and so coldhearted at the same time?