by Martha Hix
Ignoring an elderly woman with her ear trumpet trained on their conversation as she hobbled by them, Mariah glanced at the ground. She had seen Whit in action with Barbara, had heard tales from his sister, yet his feelings were tender for a sharp-tongued relative. And apparently he was just as loyal to Joseph. Whit Reagor was a more complex man than she had first imagined.
While the issue of propriety was out of the way, what about her improper excitement that wouldn’t settle down?
“Will you allow me to escort you to Joe?” he asked.
Wordlessly, she took three steps to the Double Inn’s log outer wall. Using it for back support, she leaned against the wood, oblivious to the rough texture and to the slight scent of pine emanating from the building. The road fronting the stagestop that led to the center of town was now alive with wagons and horsemen, yet she took no special note of those activities, either.
She was appraising Whit Reagor. He knew it, and she didn’t try to deny it. Nor was a word spoken to ask for her denial or comment.
He strode over to the hitching rail, rested one palm on the cedar post, and hitched a thumb through his belt loop. Less than ten feet separated them. He was studying her but she wouldn’t let that get in her way.
Her attention centered on his hands. She knew how they felt, callused and rough and filled with strength, yet with fingers that knew how to be gentle. Her gaze moved. She was well aware of the muscles and sinew that roped his long, long bones. Physical exertion had developed that brawn, and she knew he was proud of his hirsute body, for not once during their first meeting had he displayed modesty. But why should he be anything but proud of his physique? Such a gift, from God and from the toils of labor, was made for appreciation.
But none of that had anything to do with whether she should trust him.
“You can trust me,” he said, as if reading her mind. “I promise.”
Her head cocked to the side, she absorbed the sincerity in his drawling timbre. He continued to look her straight in the eye and she admired that character trait of his.
At that moment he neither laughed nor frowned. Honesty and sincerity lived in his expression. She analyzed the total picture. His was a bony face. All angles and sharp edges sometimes softened by dimples. Though his thick black lashes were long and his eyes matched a moonlit midnight sky, there was raw masculinity to his features. His face was young though old, as if he had lived a thousand years during his short days on earth and had experienced heartbreak and sorrow.
She recalled his smile. When he had grinned at her, there was a boyish charm to his juts and edges, as if he knew happiness and all the good things that could happen to the blessed. Enigmatic. That was Whit Reagor.
She laced her fingers. “I think you’re sincere.”
“I am. My word is my bond,” he affirmed.
What should she answer? She had to deal with the situation, but was sooner better than later? Within days they would be neighbors, and Mariah could neither deny nor ignore this fact. As for her unexplainable fits of inner wantonness surely those feelings would pass.
If that didn’t happen, however; could she trust herself? the voice of her conscience questioned, but she refused to listen. “I’ll go with you, Whit.”
“Thatta girl.” A grin, big and wide, split his face as his hand left the hitching post. “Guess I’d better collect your things and make a few arrangements.”
Making a few arrangements turned out to be a bigger chore than Whit had anticipated. He had heard of wedding trousseaux, but Mariah’s ten heavy cases and eight heavier boxes beat all, he groused inwardly while arranging to leave the majority of her luggage at the Double Inn until he could beg, borrow, or buy a wagon.
With Mariah beside him, he headed Lois’s buggy toward Comanche Street. He didn’t ask about the contents of all those cases and boxes, and she offered no explanations. He figured that whatever she’d brought to her penniless groom, she was going to need ... and need bad!
Whit cast a covert eye at Mariah. She seemed to be studying her hands.
“Thank you,” she whispered, taking him by surprise. “Joseph will be grateful for your kindness.” She tilted her chin Whit’s way, and her expression was soft. “We must have you to dinner one night soon. As soon as I can get the staff organized. Is that agreeable?”
Whit offered no reply. It was obvious she didn’t know about Joe’s circumstances.
Why was honesty so difficult? With one big exception he refused to dwell on, he’d never had this problem before; his honest streak was a source of pride. Yet to hurt Mariah with the truth ... Who could be proud of causing pain? No way would he tell her that Joe’s “staff” was Joe.
The red cobbles of O’Neil Street resounded with the click of horses’ hooves and wagon wheels, seeming to point out the silence between him and Mariah.
Her arched brows quirked. “Well?”
“Yeah. Okay. Dinner sounds fine.” Why had Joe led her to believe she was arriving to comforts? There was no excuse for it. But he must have his reasons, Whit decided and it wasn’t his place to butt in.
Whit pulled the buggy to a halt beside Lois’s barn, which had been cleared for the wedding dance. Keeping out of Joe and Mariah’s business meant he’d better pull Gail aside, post-haste, and order her to keep mum.
Mariah’s mind was put to further ease when Whit introduced her to Gail Strickland. The heart-faced, black-haired young woman of nineteen in no way resembled Barbara Catley; she was effervescent, warm and lovely with no signs of vinegar.
Almost immediately, though, he took her into a back room, clearly for a private chat. Mariah found this peculiar indeed, but wouldn’t borrow trouble. A few minutes later, Gail returned to the parlor, saying, “I’m pleased to be a third on your trip to Trick’em, Miss McGuire.”
“Thank you,” she replied. “And I’d be pleased if you’ll call me Mariah.”
Whit broke into their friendly chatter. “Excuse me. I’ve gotta find a wagon for your trousseau.”
Thankfully he didn’t question Mariah about the contents of her voluminous stores. All the way from St. Peter Port, she’d offered explanations and paid extra fares for her dowry of farm and home goods. Extra weight had been added in Galveston: schoolbooks and supplies. She was relieved not to be now interrogated further.
Her belongings brought another thought to mind. Mariah had been reared on the fertile loam of an island known for its gardens. Texas, even the lush parts near the Gulf of Mexico, wasn’t so blessed by nature. Unless the arid terrain improved, she doubted it could support a grove of pear trees. Yet Joseph had mentioned black land and a ready water source. She had to trust his integrity, just as she trusted Whit Reagor to escort her to Trick’em in all safety.
That afternoon, Gus’s cage was sitting on a table beside Mariah. While he frolicked in a dish of water, she relaxed in her bedchamber’s oak rocker. Lois had suggested her boarder nap before the wedding, which was to commence at five sharp, but Mariah was not good at being idle, nor at whiling away afternoons.
Her fingers, holding a crochet hook and thread with the proper amount of tension, were making swift movements around a pristine-white antimassacar. Though she had begun the project some days earlier with the intent of using it in her new home, she’d decided to make it a wedding gift for Kimble Atherton, the future Mrs. Clutch Magee.
From the kitchen Mariah heard the stir of activity, the sound of two female voices chattering and laughing. She felt the urge to join them, but no invitation had been issued.
All of a sudden, a falsetto “Here, kitty, kitty, kitty” filtered around Mariah’s closed door.
Gus stopped his bathing. His round eyes blinked twice, then he turned his head from side to side. “Here, ki–”
“Hush up, you crazed bird,” she ordered. “The last thing you need is to summon that cat.”
The last single crochet finished in an edge’s shell pattern, Mariah snipped the cotton thread and pulled the loose end through the finished product.<
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Now what was she going to do? The bureau clock read three P.M., and two hours needed to be killed before the nuptials. Her clothes were unpacked and smoothed of wrinkles; she had freshened up; Gus was fed. An hour ago she’d finished the last page of Les Travailleurs de la Mer, Victor Hugo’s exciting novel of love, betrayal, and adventure in Guernsey.
Again she heard laughter from the kitchen. So what if she hadn’t been asked to join the kitchen crew? Perhaps Lois Atherton had been reluctant to ask her, Mariah being a guest.
She walked to the kitchen, which smelled of just-fried chicken, nut pies, and the piquant aroma of pickles. A kettle whistled on the wood-fed Chandler stove. Fancy, the overweight feline, perched as still as a statue beneath the round table centering the kitchen. No doubt the sharp-eyed tabby was hoping for something edible to drop.
“Hello, there,” Gail said, and Lois echoed the salutation.
“Yes. Hello.”
The room was warm and homey, and though the smells were different from those in Anne du Moulin McGuire’s Norman-style cuisine, these things still reminded Mariah of home. Guernsey. And of her brothers. And of her mother and grandmother, both now resting in the St. Martin’s churchyard, alongside the stone menhir, La Gran’mère de Chimquière. Homesickness and sorrow squeezed her chest. Don’t be silly, she warned herself against the inappropriate sentiment. What remained of her family was only a father who offered no sweetness or understanding.
“I’d like to help.” She indicated the baskets of food being prepared for the wedding feast. “What may I do?”
Both Lois and Gail peered at Mariah as if she had suggested they step on a puppy.
“You’re a guest,” Gail reminded as she poked through a gunnysack of potatoes. “Guests don’t work.”
“You’re a guest, too. I don’t see that stopping you.”
Lois spooned beets into a bowl. “She’s kin. She’s expected to lend a hand.”
“I see. But I’m not about to sit around that room all afternoon twiddling my thumbs. I’m used to work, and I like pulling my own weight.”
“Well, gal, you’ve come to the right neck of the woods.” Lois hitched a thumb toward a wreck-pan of dirty dishes. “I was just fixin to tackle those beauties, but if you’re serious about that offer, make yourself at home.”
“I am serious.” Mariah grabbed an apron and a quilted hotpad, then went for the kettle of boiling water. “I don’t feel right unless I’m up to my elbows in suds.”
“Well, thanks. I’m beholden for the offer, seeing’s how my help’s out back settin’ up the hoedown.”
“I’d better see if Kimble can use some help gettin’ dolled up,” Lois added, and stopped short of the door leading into the hallway. “You know, Mariah, I like you. You’re the kinda gal I’d love to see my brother hitched to.”
Gail rolled her big blue eyes.
“I’m promised to another,” Mariah reminded.
“Too bad.” Lois waved a goodbye.
Mariah blushed and turned to the dishes. From behind, she heard the peeling and dicing of potatoes. She turned her thoughts to the positive aspects of the future. Within a matter of days she’d be working in her own kitchen, or at least supervising Joseph’s cooking staff. And soon, she’d be busy with Trick’em’s youngsters, teaching them the rudiments of education. Though she had many reservations about becoming Joseph’s wife, Mariah was certain her tomorrows held promise.
She began to hum a tune, an ageless folk song from her homeland. While drying a plate, she put words to the music.
“Is that French?” Gail asked.
“Yes. Mostly we speak Norman French in Guernsey.
“McGuire isn’t a Gallic name.”
“My father hails from the north of Ireland,” Mariah explained, swallowing the bad taste in her mouth.
“You don’t speak English like the Irish I’ve met. You sound more like Big Dan Dodson. Well, sorta like his accent, anyway, but yours is kind of Frenchified. He’s a Texas Ranger now but was originally from England.”
“The Guernesiais accent resembles our Anglo cousins.” Mariah stopped her explanations to furrow her brows. Since Gail Strickland lived in Trick’em, why didn’t she mention Joseph’s accent? Surely she was acquainted with him. “Do you know my fiancé?” she asked.
“Oh, no.”
“How strange. I know everyone in my hometown.”
Gail dimpled. “Listen, Coleman County isn’t Guernsey. I’ve seen your country in an atlas–geography’s always interested me. I know that island of yours isn’t big enough to swing a cat in.” She picked up another potato. “Mr. Jaye lives on the opposite side of Trick’em from my place.”
“But don’t the people get together on market days?»
“Yeah.”
“And you’ve never seen Joseph Jaye?” Mariah asked.
“No.”
“But you’ve heard of him. You know where he lives.”
Gail grabbed a chicken gizzard, then bent at the waist. “Looky, Fancy. Look what Auntie Gillie has for you.”
“Meooow ... !” The cat swiped the morsel, taking a clawful of her benefactress’s finger and drawing a yelp.
“Damn cat!” The annoyed woman flapped her injured hand and shoved Fancy aside with the toe of her slipper. “Whit should’ve put you out of your misery months ago!”
Mariah laughed as the cat hissed and batted a paw at Gail’s hem. “Fancy does seem a bit forceful of spirit, but doesn’t she belong to Lois?”
“Nope. She’s Whit’s. He adopted her as a kitten, but never had a way to carry her over to Crosswind.”
Thinking of Gus, Mariah cringed. “You don’t suppose he’ll take her with us, do you?”
“I wouldn’t put it past him.”
“Sacrebleu.”
“What does that mean?” Gail asked.
“It’s . . . uh ... not very nice for a lady to utter.”
“A cuss word, huh?”
“Yes.”
The lovely brunette cackled. “You’re all right, Mariah McGuire. I think you and I will get along just fine.”
“That would be nice, especially if you’ll be honest with me. I think you’re holding something back.”
Gail laid the knife aside and straightened. “All right. You want the truth, I’ll give it to you. Yes, I know Joe Jaye. He’s a trouble-making cuss who’s stringing barbed wire across the Western Trail. None of us approve. Coleman County is cattle country, not farmland.”
“Guernsey has cattle and farmland. The two are harmonious.”
“Don’t be naive, Mariah. We don’t graze dairy cows. Our beeves feed the East, as well as provide tallow and hides for the nation. I’m talking thousands upon thousands of beeves, and they’ve got to be driven to the railhead ... a thousand miles north in Kansas.” Gail took a breath before starting again. “Devil’s rope keeps our cattle from grasslands and from water. We ranchers won’t stand for it. We’ll do whatever it takes to protect our interests.”
Mariah’s hackles raised. “This country was based on individual freedoms, am I right?” Not giving Gail a chance to answer, she went on. “Farmers, Joseph included, have a right to protect their property.”
“Everyone’s entitled to his own opinion, but if I were you, I’d keep those sympathies to myself. You’re outnumbered around here.”
“Does Whit share your beliefs?”
“You’ll have to ask him.”
Bracing her palms against the drainboard, Mariah said, “He told me they’re close–he and Joseph.”
Gail picked up the knife again. “Mr. Jaye has taken advantage of his good nature. Whit’s stood up for him on this fencing thing. If push comes to shove, though, things could get nasty, and I’d hate to see Whit on the wrong side of it.”
Busying herself, Mariah ruminated over this statement. Poor Joseph! Whatever possessed him to settle in such a godforsaken place? “I think Whit is to be admired for being a good neighbor.”
“Yes, I can tell you admire h
im, but not particularly for helping Joe Jaye.” The brunette pointed a potato at Mariah. “Be careful. I saw the way you and Whit were gawking at each other, and–”
“That’s not true.” A fruit jar nearly dropped from Mariah’s paralyzed grip.
“Okay. But let’s take a ‘for instance.’ Whit is the best man I’ve ever known, but he does have his faults. If a woman sets her cap for him, she’s liable to get hurt.” Gail tossed a spud into the bowl. “He’s after the conquest. Nothing more.”
“You don’t have much respect for him.”
“Yes, I do. Loads of it. I adore him. Always have. We’re related, you know. When I was a child, he was the one I ran to when my knees were skinned or my feelings were hurt. He’s got a big heart, but it doesn’t extend to his lady friends. He got trampled on one time, and that one ruined him for other women.”
Mariah did not utter a word. Her heart went out to Whit; she understood how deeply lost love could tear at one’s emotions. Of course their situations were different. She had lost out to the grim reaper, while Whit had apparently been cast off by a very alive female.
“I’ve been around him and his ladies,” Gail continued. “Someone always gets hurt. And it isn’t Whit.”
“You may profess to love him, but your harshness speaks another language.”
“I didn’t set out to give that impression. I was merely trying to warn you.”
“What Whit Reagor does or doesn’t do is none of my concern.” Mariah placed a dish on the table. “I’m in Texas to be with Joseph Jaye, and he’s everything I’ve ever wanted in a husband,” she prevaricated.
Silence stretched before Gail said, “I ... uh... I’d better get back to these potatoes.”
As the sun settled to resemble a half wheel of yellow cheese on the horizon, church bells chimed at the appointed hour. Mariah followed what seemed to be the whole of Dublin into the little box church. Greenery and beeswax candles decked the altar. An elderly woman wearing a lace cap over white ringlets played wedding music on the tinny piano. Guests crammed into ten rows of pews, Mariah at the end of one. What had started as a chilly morning had turned into a warm afternoon; Texas weather was strange that way.