Calico

by Raine Cantrell

  Smoke stung her eyes. Built without windows, the interior of the Rawhider would have been near dark but for the round coal oil fixtures suspended from the raw wood beams overhead. The bar, no more than three twelve-foot planks supported by empty upended flour barrels, ran the length of the left wall and stopped short of the corner, where a few steps led to McCready’s rooms. Four tables filled the right side of the saloon. Against the back wall was McCready’s pride and joy, a piano.

  The man himself was hunched over at the far end of the bar, his hands wrapped around a glass, his eyes focused on whatever liquor the glass held. The flickering light from the fixtures cast shadows on his shoulder-length brown hair.

  Maggie’s distaste for his totally black-garbed figure was echoed in Satin’s growling. With a back kick Maggie slammed the door closed. She knew that McCready was aware of her standing there, watching him. He didn’t turn, didn’t say a word or make a move to indicate that he cared.

  Patience was not one of Maggie’s virtues. But she tried. She counted all the way to ten and faltered. McCready’s action had upset her plans. Anger forced her to act.

  McCready lifted the glass to his lips, and Maggie drew her gun. She fired, shooting the glass from his hand.

  Liquor and glass splattered over the planks of the bar. McCready’s swearing, aimed at the ceiling, was drowned in the roar Dutch cut loose as he burst inside behind her.

  “Maggie! Damn, you promised me!”

  She didn’t bother to turn. “Look for yourself. Didn’t harm one hair on his proud head.”

  “Boss?”

  “You can leave, Dutch. I’ll take the price of that drink out of the miscreant’s hide. Just make sure no one else comes in. This is between the Irish barbarian and me.”

  “Irish barbarian!” The words exploded from Maggie, and Satin howled. She didn’t dare ask what the other word he called her meant. McCready would only laugh at her.

  “Shut her up and yourself as well, Maggie.”

  “Don’t be givin’ me orders.”

  “Do it.”

  “Look me in the eye an’ say that, McCready.” Maggie knew Dutch left them; she felt the draft caused by the closing of the door across her bare back. Hushing the dog, not on McCready’s order, but for herself, she stepped closer to the end of the bar.

  “Have you any idea how much that fine liquor cost by the glass?” McCready didn’t expect an answer. He slowly brushed the shards of glass from his vest and shirt, refusing to look at Maggie. His breathing was deep and even, his control barely stretched. But he really didn’t trust himself around Maggie. Actually he had to thank the most merciful saints that she had not decided to shoot at any part of his anatomy. Maggie never missed what she aimed at. His best panama hat had the bullet holes to prove it.

  “Turn around, coward.”

  “Ah, there’s men that would be calling you out for saying as much. But I’m in a generous mood and more than willing to forgive your asperity. Holster your gun, Maggie, I’ll not be fighting with you. In honor of your wedding my shirt’s new, and I’ll not have you spoil it with blood. It’s detriment enough that you have me reeking of damn expensive whiskey. In addition, my dear termagant, I’m unarmed.”

  “If someone cut out that silver tongue, you would be.” Maggie refused to ask what he had called her. McCready was always using words she didn’t understand. But she holstered her gun, not on his order, nor out of fear of him, but simply because she knew she could outdraw him if the need arose.

  Still not turning to face her, McCready sniffed the air in a loud, exaggerated manner. “Violets?” he murmured. “Am I truly in the august presence of O’Roarke and smelling sweet violets?” A quick shake of his head was followed by denial. “It simply cannot be.” A frown denoted the serious nature of his own query.

  There was no help for it. McCready straightened to his full height and faced her. His breath lodged somewhere in his throat. “Oh, my,” he managed to say and barely that.

  Each of his muscles tensed, and his silver tongue deserted him. “By the bones of the bonny prince!” he uttered as both oath and prayer. “Miss Mary Margaret O’Roarke’s a woman and surely a sight to tempt a saint.”

  “Since you’d be kin to the devil himself, McCready, I won’t be worryin’ about temptin’ you.” But she was struck by the strange way he continued to stare at her. McCready never had looked this way. Maggie frowned, her eyes narrowed in concentration. She felt as if she were a honeycomb he was thinking of stealing without getting stung.

  “My own eyes can’t be lying,” he murmured.

  Maggie no longer cared. She reminded herself of why she was here. “What did you do with Quincy?” To show she meant business, Maggie spread her legs in an aggressive stance.

  McCready groaned and closed his eyes for a moment. If Maggie knew what he was thinking, she would shoot him one inch at a time. It took strength of will not to cover that most vulnerable rising pillar of masculine pride.

  “McCready,” she warned.

  “I never touched him. Never mind that mealy-mouth. He is—”

  “Don’t be callin’ Quincy names.”

  “He’s no more a pilgrim needing your protection than I am, Maggie.” His gaze targeted hers, believing her eyes were the safest place for him to look. “You’ve had yourself a bath. I can finally see the color of your hair isn’t the grand shade of a mud slide. It’s shiny copper with gold ribboning through. Now, if you would take pity on these starved senses of mine and let it grow—”

  “Long? Like yours?” Maggie couldn’t help the unladylike snort. McCready was always going on about what was wrong with her, but for an unexplained reason she found his bantering exciting.

  “Ah, Maggie mine, you’ve a nasty sting to your voice. It wounds me something fierce.” With a flourish he placed one hand over his heart. The racing beat beneath his fingers confirmed the feeling of being poleaxed. McCready could find no other way to describe what Maggie had done to him. She remained unmoved by his gesture, squinting owlishly at him, but her mongrel shook her head as if to tell him his ploy was not going to gain him the sympathy he sought.

  “Where is Quincy?”

  “Quincy?” His hand dropped to rest elbow up on the bar, his palm cupping his chin. “Ah, yes, Quincy. The illustrious supposed-to-be-groom,” he drawled, his smile then framed by deep creases.

  “Faith and begorra, McCready! Take that whiskey-smooth drawl and drown it in the fancy liquor you’re so fond of.”

  “If you speak to Quincy as you do to me, Maggie mine, it’s no wonder the man ran off.”

  “Quincy didn’t run off, you loggerhead. He was kidnapped. And you,” she admonished, pointing one finger at him, “you put those men up to it.”

  “Now, Maggie, don’t be accusing—”

  “Enough!” Dropping her hand to her side, she gazed up at the ceiling, fighting not to shoot him and be done.

  Cocking his head to the left, McCready’s smile deepened. Maggie’s skirt trailed crookedly behind her. “Did you forget your bustle?”

  “Me what?”

  “The bustle, Maggie,” he explained with patience. “You tie it over your petticoats—you are wearing petticoats, aren’t you? Not that it matters to me, you understand, but Quincy would certainly care.” Her blank stare had him adding, “That little rounded-shaped cage lifts up the train of your gown that’s dragging behind you. Didn’t anyone come to help you get dressed?”

  “Didn’t want anyone,” she snapped, stung by his pity. “An’ never mind what I’m wearin’ or not. It’ll be off in a thrice once I’m married.” She ignored his choking. “If you don’t tell me where you hid me groom—”

  “You know,” he continued in a soft voice, as if she had never answered him, “I’ve heard of a jealous suitor stealing off with the bride on her wedding day, and seeing you, believe it, but never did I hear of someone stealing the groom.”

  “It wasn’t someone, as you well
know, McCready. There were five of them. Five men that you paid.”

  “I’ll admit I was there. The man didn’t put up a fight, Maggie. Didn’t protest a bit at being stolen from his own wedding. Can’t understand that,” he said with another quick shake of his head that lifted his shoulder-length hair. “Do you think the man reconsidered and believed he was being saved from a fate worse than death?”

  “Is that the choice you offered him?” Maggie hid the hurt his stinging question caused her. Her chin angled up. She knew she was not the sort of woman a man wanted for a wife. If she had not known, McCready had made it his sworn, solemn duty to point it out to her at least once a day for the past few months.

  “Since you’re upset, let me atone. Share a drink with me, Maggie. It’ll calm your bridal nerves.”

  “Ain’t got them.”

  “Well, then, have a drink with me so I can mourn the passing of Czar Alexander. That’s who I was drinking to when you shot the glass out of my hand.”

  “Zar Alexander? Don’t recall the name. He be one of the tinhorns you knew?”

  McCready had to swallow his laughter. “No, Maggie. He wasn’t even a friend, but the Czar of Russia.” At her confused look, he added, “He was like a king. The man was assassinated last month, and I’ve only learned of it. His dying marks—ah, never mind.”

  Shifting her weight, Maggie stilled her impatience. She had a healthy respect for grief, even if she didn’t quite understand McCready’s.

  “Sorry as I am to hear his dyin’, I won’t be drinkin’ with you over someone I couldn’t be knowin’.”

  McCready knew he had touched her stiff-necked pride, and strangely the baiting game lost its appeal. “Well, there’s happier things to drink to. Garfield’s inauguration as our president. Or the completion of the second transcontinental railroad right in our territory of New Mexico.” Maggie shook her head, but he wasn’t giving up. “If you’d like, we could have a drink of commiseration for those poor souls in Kansas whose legislature passed a law prohibiting the sale of liquor except for medical or scientific purposes.”

  “None of them are a reason to drink with the likes of you.”

  McCready’s tone became serious. “Then a last offer. Have a drink with me as a toast from one old friend to another.”

  Maggie grinned and glanced around the empty saloon. She needed a bit of her own back. “Don’t see any old friends or any new ones.”

  “You’ve wounded me to the quick.”

  “I’ll do more than wound you. I promised Dutch I wouldn’t kill you right off. But I’m slowly regretting that rash promise, McCready. If you had brains beneath that mop of hair you’re so vain over, you’d know that I won’t rest till I find out what you’ve done with Quincy.”

  His answer was to walk around the end of the bar to fetch himself a new glass and the bottle. Pouring out a stiff belt, he sniffed the bottle and then held it high to check the level. Half-full. The amount reassured him that he had enough to fortify himself for what was coming. But as he sipped his drink, McCready found his gaze drawn back to Maggie. He couldn’t seem to stop himself.

  She waited for him to answer, sliding her hand up to rest on the protruding butt of her gun. Moments went by and she wondered if he had heard her declaration. She stepped closer to the bar, a frown once more marring her forehead. McCready was staring at her, his dark blue eyes intense, his thin lips compressed, his breathing labored, and a dark flush creeping up to color his clean-shaven cheeks. Maybe all the wicked living he had done was catching up with him. Maggie studied him as she would a new rock sample, looking for clues to its composition. In seconds the color deepened over his cheekbones, and she wondered if he was about to have a fit like the miner who up and died in the street two days ago.

  Most puzzling of all was why that should alarm her.

  “What’s bedevilin’ you, McCready?”

  “You don’t want to know.” His words crackled with tension.

  Maggie stiffened her back. “You haven’t been dippin’ into that bug-juice you serve to the go-backers?”

  With a visible shudder McCready muttered, “Heaven and saints forbid.”

  “Well, it don’t take much to see that somethin’ is wrong with you. Wouldn’t be havin’ an attack of conscience for ruinin’ me weddin’ day?”

  “No,” he managed to choke out, shifting his stance, only to change his mind and come out from behind the bar. He wanted to get closer to Maggie.

  “You’re lookin’ mighty hot and sweaty all of a sudden,” she observed, narrowing her eyes. She didn’t know what to make of his strange look and strange behavior. Never once had his silver tongue deserted him. Not even when Mica Bob hit his strike and brought his mule into the Rawhider for drinks. Unable to put a name to what it was that exactly bothered her, Maggie shrugged it off. McCready with his fancy words and dark moods made her uncomfortable. But he sure did look hot and sweaty.

  Hot and sweaty didn’t come close to what McCready was feeling. He was fighting his own reaction to seeing Maggie dressed for the first time as a woman. He knew she was tall, barely four inches shorter than his own near six-foot height. He knew and filed that fact away because he liked his women petite and cuddlesome. He just never realized that Maggie had a small waist, or gently flaring hips that could cushion a man’s ride with ease, or breasts so lushly full they would fill his hands, along with skin that rivaled the color of sweet cream. The corner of his mouth twisted with sheer exasperation.

  How dare Mary Margaret O’Roarke keep herself hidden away beneath baggy pants, shirts, and a jacket that would easily stand on their own, plus mud and a stench that would curl a mule’s ears?

  Just how dare she!

  All this time he had been regretting his promise to Mohawk Pete. He had waited, hoping and praying—for he did believe the Lord indulged his sinner’s prayers—that the good Lord was going to take pity on him as a reward for his costly sacrifice. And what did he get, aside from the laughter that was likely shaking the heavens? Maggie slicked up with bows and lace for Quincy Kessnick. Maggie—a woman.

  He moved with an unfocused gaze and slow deliberation to stand tall and started toward her.

  Satin’s hair rose. Growling at the danger McCready presented, she moved to stand in front of Maggie.

  “Satan hates me.”

  “Her name is Satin, McCready. You know, just like the fancy goods your ladies wear.”

  Leaning down to caress the dog’s head, Maggie whispered her praise. “Good, good girl.” And to him, “How many times do you need to be reminded of her name? Much as it irks me to be admittin’ it, you’re right. She does hate you. Almost as much as me an’ with less reason. Since you won’t tell me where Quincy is hid, I’ll go lookin’ for him meself.”

  Standing straight again, Maggie glared at him. “I’ll give you a last warnin’. Nothin’ you do will stop me from marryin’ him. I’m gonna have the money I need to open those mines.”

  “Maggie, you can’t. The claims belong to me.”

  “Don’t be startin’ with your lies again. Me uncle wouldn’t gamble one claim away, much less all of them. And if he did, the only way you won was to cheat him.”

  Shaking his head, needing the abrupt motion to clear his thoughts, McCready drawled, “Maggie mine, not again. You’ve left me no choice. I’ve tried to tell you since Pete died that the claims belong to me. Not only the claims—but you do, too.”

  “What devil’s tale are you stirrin’ up now?”

  Her reaction was less than he hoped for. Struck with lightning inspiration, McCready reached inside his vest pocket and pulled out a folded piece of paper. Holding it to the side by two fingers, in case Maggie took it in mind to shoot at it, he nevertheless waved the paper. “This is no tale.”

  Firmly then, he stated his case. “You forced my hand by pushing for this marriage when you learned that the circuit preacher would pass through. You can’t marry Quincy Kessnick. You, Maggie min
e, can’t marry anyone.”

  The wicked laughter was long gone from his eyes, and his gaze was most certainly focused. On her. Only her. Maggie squinted at him through the smoky haze drifting down from the overhead fixtures. She couldn’t utter a sound. There was a rising lump in her throat that wouldn’t allow her to swallow, and her breath seemed twisted inside, unable to get out. Now it was McCready who stood with his legs spread, sure and arrogant that he held a winning hand.

  “Did you understand me, Maggie? You can’t get married today or any other day.”

  “The hell I can’t!”

  Shooting a look at the blackened ceiling, McCready asked for guidance. Looking back at Maggie, he whispered, “I’m trying my best to prevent you from committing a sin.”

  “Sin?” she repeated softly, sensing that he was taunting her but unable to walk away until he showed his full hand.

  “Bigamy, Maggie. That’s what sin I’m talking about. I had to save you. Someone did, and the good Lord and Pete chose me. I had to get rid of Quincy before you did something that would make you burn in hell. Seeing you now makes the mere thought a sin of its own. And,” he added, grinning, “we have to come to an understanding.”

  “Understandin’?” she parroted, swallowing past the thick lump that was choking her.

  “Yeah, Maggie. Between you and me. This most valuable and treasured piece of paper, duly signed and recorded in the county records, is for a proxy marriage between one Mary Margaret O’Roarke and C. V. McCready.”

  Chapter 2

  “Liar!”

  “Not about this, Maggie mine.”

  “Give it to me.”

  McCready glanced at the paper he held as if giving consideration to her demand, then glanced back to Maggie’s blanching face. “Don’t take offense, lass, but I’d be a fool to trust you near this. Besides, Maggie, you can’t read it, can you?”