by Martha Hix
The nightmare hadn’t been a dream. It was reality.
His eyes burned with tears, tears quickly blinked away and forgotten when heavy footsteps approached from behind and a forearm whipped around his neck, jerking him backward.
“Last night was just a warning from Mr. Tulos, Jaye. You string your fences agin and we’re gonna kill ya.”
Joseph was scared witless. Texas law didn’t protect him against fence cutting, yet through his fright he made a frantic oath to himself that he’d extract his vengeance. Someway, somehow, the lowlife Charlie Tullos was going to pay for sicking his pack of brigands on him!
He needed help and where was Whitman when he needed him?
Whit approached Miss McGuire. She was sitting pencil-straight on a bench in front of the Double Inn, the rectangular log building that served as the small town’s stagecoach stop. Gnawing at the underside of a wing, the caged parrot sat next to her.
Lois had given Whit a blow-by-blow account of the redhead’s visit, including her change of heart over accommodations and her hasty departure from the boardinghouse.
Damned if she wasn’t avoiding his eyes. Damned if he didn’t guess why. He had been a little slow earlier this morning, what with dodging Barbara’s skillet and his parading naked in front of Miss McGuire, but now Whit suspected she was in fact Joe Jaye’s Mariah Rose.
Trick’em was a dot on the map, a typical small town. Word got around on who was marrying whom, and only one man expected a foreign bride, though no one had known the particulars of her arrival.
“You left something at my sister’s place,” Whit informed her. Now fully clothed, hatless, with his hair slicked back by pomade and his clean-shaven cheeks reeking of bay rum, he tucked her cape and needlepoint handbag under his arm. “Thought you might be needing your reticule.”
“I ... I was”–she moistened her lips, an obvious gesture of agitation–“was planning to fetch it in a few minutes.” She didn’t reach for the handbag. “Thank you.”
Whit swung around to seat himself on the bench with the bird between them. Except for the occasional buggy passing by on this quiet Saturday morning, they were alone on the tree-lined street. While eyeing the parched cottonwoods across the gritty road, he extended his long legs, leaned back, and settled his elbows on the bench top.
Joe Jaye must be an idiot to let this high-toned beauty out of his sight, he decided. A man, Whit being no exception if he weren’t the careful type, would be perfectly willing to make a fool of himself over her.
So what was her story? he wondered. What about that first lover of hers? The fellow must have been daft to let her go. But maybe he was akin to Whit, only interested in women on a temporary basis.
And who said she was pure as the driven snow before meeting the fellow? Certainly not Joe. Whit knew, real well, that women couldn’t be trusted.
Distrust pushed aside for the moment, he stole a glance across the wicker cage’s top, taking in her perfect profile, her pinned-up auburn hair. Just looking at the enticing Miss McGuire warmed places inside him that ought not to be warmed by someone else’s woman. Joe’s woman.
Whit couldn’t imagine her in that runt’s arms. Somehow neither could he imagine her living in the shack her future husband called home, nor picture her holed up in some musty schoolhouse. There were a lot of things beyond Whit’s ken.
Funny, though. Joe had failed to mention either her last name or her beauty. What else had he kept to himself? For the first time Whit questioned the dandy’s honesty.
On top of these suspicions, aggravation set in. That title-born farmer had left his future wife to her own devices in a state chock full of horny cowboys on the lookout for females of the available, or at least persuadable, variety. If a man–even one from the lowest rung on society’s ladder, much less from Joe’s former station–offered for a lady’s hand, he ought to take proper care of her.
Was she a lady? No highfalutin woman with the sense God gave a buffalo would consent to what Joe offered, unless she lacked looks or character. And this one surely didn’t lack for looks!
At a loss for words, Whit settled on a compliment. “This reticule of yours is pretty.”
“Thank you. I stitched it myself,” she offered. “On the journey across the Atlantic.”
Her reply was issued in a soft tone, like the tinkling of water in a calm brook, and he appreciated the sweet sound.
“Must be good with your hands.” What would it be like to have those fine-boned fingers caress him, to have them prove their dexterity? A horny cowpoke himself and making no inward apology for the fact, he fidgeted on the bench and gained a splinter in the posterior, which pride forced him to ignore.
Thinking back on his concerns for her welfare, he said, “You needed a room. Why didn’t you take one at Lois’s?”
“I decided ...” Her nervous fingers laced together. “To tell the truth, I was a bit unsettled.”
That made two of them. He took a slow gander at the woman he had wrongly conjured up to be a soap-ugly, shrill-voiced schoolmarm. “Mariah, you’re not what I expected.”
“How did you know my name!” She slumped back in the seat. “Never mind. Being from Trick’em, I imagine you know.”
“Yeah, reckon I do.”
“I’m Miss Mariah McGuire. Lord Desmont’s intended. I assume you’re acquainted with him.”
“I know Joe all right. We’re neighbors. My main ranch lies north and west of his farm,” he said. “I knew he was expecting a bride, but I never thought he wouldn’t meet your boat in Galveston.”
“If that’s an insult to Lord Desmont, I’ll thank you to keep your opinions to yourself. And furthermore”–she shot him a withering glare–“if you’re implying I can’t take care of myself, you’re mistaken.”
“Oh, I’ll bet you can.” He chuckled. The bulging reticule under his arm drew his next comment. “Any woman known to tote a gun is the take-care-of-herself kind.”
Her arms crossed over her full bosom, Mariah twisted around to face him. Indignation was written on each of her pretty features.
“You ... you snooped in my reticule!”
“Don’t jump to conclusions, Red. I didn’t mill through your belongings. That satchel of yours is as heavy as a chunk of lead, and I couldn’t help but feel the outline. That’s all.” He paused. “Know how to use firearms?”
Her arms lowered. With a wide swipe she brushed a piece of lint from her gray skirts. “Don’t tempt me to demonstrate my prowess. That is, if you’re partial to your toes.”
Whit laughed. Well, at least she was better prepared than her bull-headed future husband for life on the range. “Joe teach you?” Whit asked, knowing that wasn’t the case.
“He didn’t.”
“Well, who?”
“You’re nosy, Mr. Reagor.”
“Right,” he said. “But don’t call me mister. Whit’ll do. That’s my name, and I make it my business to know what’s going on.”
“I’ll just bet you do.”
He ignored her sarcasm but responded to the subject. “Granted. And I know something about you. I know Joe loves you. A lot.”
She looked away. “Yes.”
Whit noted her lack of “And I love him, too.”
She was trying to hide it, but Whit now felt certain she was smitten with him. Since the moment in the trees when their eyes had locked and he’d detected interest in her gaze, he’d known there was potential for something more than casual friendship between the two of them.
Poor Joe. Whit felt sorry for him, but more for himself. Whit Reagor might be many things, but woman-stealer wasn’t among them.
“Mariah, um, do you mind if I call you Mariah?” When she shook her head, he pulled the reticule from beneath his arm and reached around the cage to hand it over. “Mariah, you’d better hold on to this.”
A sudden jolt shot through Whit as their fingers met to exchange the small yet heavy bag. As if in shock, she lifted her soft doe eyes to his face, then droppe
d lashes that were thick and gold-tipped. The charge he’d felt, the same one she had apparently experienced, could be attributed to the dry air, but Whit pegged it on his earlier conclusion.
He wanted her; she wanted him. Getting to know her in the most satisfying way was impossible. What was he to do? The answer, unfortunately, was simple. Common sense urged a quick retreat, but he couldn’t ignore Mariah Rose McGuire, soon to be Mrs. Joe Jaye. After giving the Englishman his oath to see after her welfare, Whit figured it was his duty to escort her to Trick’em safe and sound; and during the trip and afterward, he vowed he’d ignore and deny his hot-blooded desires.
But dammit, he reasoned with himself, that didn’t mean he couldn’t at least enjoy the pleasure of her company. And if her “company” included a few harmless flirtations, he’d simply enjoy them. For a while.
How far would she go? Plenty far, he’d gamble. Whit frowned. If she went beyond proper, he intended, for poor ole Joe’s sake, to show her the wrong of her ways. He decided to test her right then.
“It’s gonna be nice having you round Trick’em. You’ll pretty up the area. Good thing for me, too, ’cause we’ll be seeing a lot of each other.”
“I’ve seen more of Joseph’s neighbor than would be considered proper.”
Whit would be drawn and quartered before backing down. “Yeah, you saw a lot of me.” He glanced down at his spread legs. “Don’t let the size of me scare you, Red.”
“Why, you crude, rude, conceited scoundrel!”
Not denying her accuracy, he set the cage to the ground and, splinter ignored, inched closer to Mariah. The bird–Gus, wasn’t it?–protested the move. Ignoring squawks and ruffled feathers, Whit eyed her reticule. “You didn’t answer my question a minute ago,” he goaded. “Who taught you to handle a gun? I’ll bet such a pretty gal like you had a score of admirers willing to show you.”
She shot to her feet and drilled a look of loathing into him. “You despicable snake, I oughtn’t to answer your question, but I will to shut you up. My brothers taught me to shoot.” She grabbed her reticule and cage. “This conversation has gone far enough. Thank you for bringing my belongings. Now we’re even for favors. Good day.”
Whit watched her stomp toward the Double Inn’s rough-hewn door, her derriere twitching. Funny how a lady’s rear end could look indignant. He grinned. The smile turned sour as a young cowboy rode into view.
“Whee doggies.” The cowman hauled his black gelding to a dust-stirring halt in front of Mariah, blocking her path. He whipped a battered hat from his wheat-colored hair. “Howdy there, lady. My, my, you sure are a purty filly.”
She whirled around and, with one arm akimbo, glared at the interloper. “I’ll thank you to–”
“Make tracks,” Whit interrupted, rising to his feet. “And I do mean now, Culpepper.”
Slim Culpepper patted the air. “Sorry, Reagor. Didn’t know she was your woman.”
“Well, she is. And keep that in mind.”
The man headed his mount away.
Mariah rounded on Whit. Her eyes shooting dark sparks, she pointed a shaking finger in his direction. “I’ll have you know that I answer to no man–not until I reach my future husband. Furthermore, I am not your woman. And I feel certain Joseph wouldn’t appreciate your calling me such!”
“Probably wouldn’t.” Whit ran his fingers across his lips. He admired her spirit, but ...
“A man’s gotta do what a man’s gotta do to keep a lady out of trouble.”
“I’ve stayed ‘out of trouble’ all the way from Guernsey, and I don’t need a strapping brute to help me now!”
“Is that so?”
“Yes, that’s so,” she spat, pulling herself upright.
Now it was her bosom’s turn to look indignant, Whit thought as she shouted, “You’re no better than that odious Culpepper person! And I won’t put up with it! Understand? Now leave me alone, Mr. Reagor!”
Her obvious agitation roused Whit’s gentler side, and he regretted his actions and words. She’d been right; he had acted as reprehensibly as Culpepper. But, Whit was pleased, for Mariah McGuire had passed the first test. Despite her questionable background, she wasn’t an out-and-out floozy.
If there was ever a time to act the gentleman, now was it. “Mariah, I’m sorry. Could we call a truce?”
“Nevert”
“Please.”
“No!”
He gave up gentlemanly behavior. “Have it your way. But you’re not getting rid of me.” He strode forward and, trying to ignore the sweet scent of roses, took her elbows. “It’s my duty to escort you to Trick’em. You see, I promised your man I’d look out for you in case something ever happened to him. He’s okay as far as I know, but–”
She wrenched away and stepped back. “Joseph would never ask the likes of you to see after me!”
“He did. And you’re going to accompany me to my sister’s boardinghouse, where you’ll take a room until tomorrow. My niece is getting hitched tonight, and you’re invited to the wedding. We’ll strike out for Trick’em in the morning.”
She retreated two steps. “I unequivocably refuse.”
“Don’t be too sure of yourself. I intend to see you get to Joe Jaye in one piece.” Determined to use whatever force necessary, Whit would accompany her to Trick’em. “If I have to hogtie you and throw your pretty little butt over my saddle, I will see that Joe gets his woman. Unharmed.”
“Why, you overbearing–!”
For the second time in one day, Whit Reagor got something thrown at him. This time it was Mariah McGuire’s reticule, and damned if the weight of it didn’t smart his chest.
Chapter Three
The tapestry reticule bounced off the wall of Whit’s chest, then thunked to the brown earth. His eyes turned to blue ice, and Mariah stepped back as he advanced toward her.
Fright tensed her muscles, sent her heart thumping. Would Whit Reagor strike her in retaliation for her actions? Well, if he did, she’d give as good as she took.
She stood her ground in front of the Double Inn. “How dare you order me about as if I’m yours to obey?”
“Order you?” His voice held an even tone. “I prefer to call it strong suggestion.”
“Order isn’t even a strong enough word, Mr. Reagor. You threatened to bind me and throw my person over your saddle. No woman in her right mind would respond to that.”
Contrary to what she had imagined he’d do, Whit took her hand between his callused palms, and after all that had been said between them during the past few minutes, she was astounded at his gentle touch.
“Mariah, you’re absolutely right.”
Giving up an argument wasn’t her nature. “Of course I’m right. And I won’t stand for any more threats. If you–”
“What’s the use of fighting?” One roughened hand exerted a slight pressure. “We’re adults, not children. Surely we can come to an agreement that’ll appeal to your sensitivity.”
Still wary of his motives, she said, “You confuse me.” In more ways than one! “I’ve traveled a long, long way on my own, and I’m no worse for the wear. Now that I’m within a few days of reaching my destination, I see absolutely no reason to change my travel plans. Yet you’re bound and determined to take me under your wing. Or should I say throw me over your saddle? Why are you doing this? For my safety?”
“Exactly.” Whit gave a lopsided grin. “I’ve told you why this is important to me. I made Joe a promise. Out here in the West, we all depend on our neighbors.” He dropped one hand, rearranging the placement of his fingers so his grip was now a handshake. “I couldn’t sleep at night if I thought I hadn’t done all I could for Joe. And for you, as well, since you belong to him.”
On a less solemn note, he added, “Besides, you can cut three days off your travel time by not waiting for the stage.”
His statement penetrated her misgivings somewhat. Her hand was still held by his, and despite the honor his words implied, Mariah couldn’t help but n
otice the tightness pressing against her breast and settling below her midriff. She made up her mind to ignore it, however, and to ask the question that had nagged her for the past half hour. “What caused you and Joseph to become friends?”
Whit shrugged. “We’re neighbors, that’s all. . . but I do respect his determination.”
“I’d like to hear more.”
“For Pete’s sake, I don’t know how to word it.”
“Try.”
He gave the indications of discomfort–shuffled feet, cleared throat, restless eyes. “We share common interests.”
Baffled by her feelings as well as by the unlikely situation between this rough-and-tumble Texan and the soft-palmed nobleman, Mariah shook her head. “But you and Joseph seem to be opposites.”
“Right.” He offered no further explanation. “Now, what’s your answer?”
She was beginning to weaken. “It wouldn’t be proper, my accompanying you without a chaperone.”
“No problem, if that’s all the bother. There’s a gal in town for my niece’s wedding. Lives close to Trick’em, you see. I’m sure Gail Strickland can be persuaded to act as your chaperone.”
If Gail was anything akin to the boisterous blonde, Mariah was leery of such a companion. “I’ve seen one of your gals, and she isn’t my cup of tea.”
“Gail is a relative, not just any woman.” A muscle tightened in his cheek. “Furthermore, there’s nothing wrong with Barbara Catley. Granted, she’s no grand lady marrying a viscount, but she’s a hardworking woman who’s making the best of what life has to offer.”
“I meant no offense.” Mariah’s words were sincere; she hadn’t wished to sound snobbish. “Maybe you could tell me more about Gail?”
“She’s married to a Coleman County rancher. You might find her a tad sharp-tongued. Sort of vinegar and sugar, if you will. Anyway, I think the world of her. Gail Strickland is ... uh ... rather like the daughter I never had.”