by Martha Hix
“Why don’t you get along?” Mariah asked, her own problems pushed aside.
“It’s a problem that’s gone back a long time.” Gail covered her eyes with a forearm. “A few skeletons rattling in the family closet, you see. Please don’t ask me to explain, because I won’t! Anyway, I expect Ed to show a little sympathy, and he doesn’t. Nor does he have any patience with my, quote, attitude, so he’s not above withholding his ‘favors’. He knows that’s the best way to aggravate me.”
“Perhaps you should work on your attitude.”
“I’ve tried, but ... well, it’s a complicated situation. Ed doesn’t respond to my efforts. He’s not perfect, either, I want you to know. Far from it. All he seems to care about is his damned cattle.” Gail took her arm from her eyes. “But I’m handling it in the only way I know how. I’ve got a whiskey jug to toast my toes.”
If there was one thing troubling Mariah about her newfound friend, it was Gail’s drinking. She drank in the evening, when she thought her companions weren’t watching, and this indicated real trouble. Mariah had suspected a man was at the bottom of it.
“Do you think spirits might be part of the problem?” Mariah asked hesitantly.
“One part.” Shrugging, Gail went on. “But I’ll be fine, once I have kids to keep me occupied. ’Course, at the rate I’m going, I may never have younguns. Well, anyway, I hope you don’t ever know how it feels to be rejected.”
“There’s not much chance of that.” Shamed at her arrogant-sounding statement, Mariah pulled a copper-hued dress over her head. “I mean, I don’t long for the marriage bed.”
“How do you know if you haven’t tried it?”
“Believe me, I do not long for the marriage bed!”
“Sounds as if you have tried it.” Gail’s face displayed an uncanny awareness, her former doldrums gone. “I don’t think you love Joseph Jaye. You haven’t mentioned his name, not even once, on this trip.”
Mariah grabbed a hairbrush and began to yank it through her tangled hair. “You’re entirely too observant.”
“Are you doing the right thing, marrying Mr. Jaye?”
The tip of her tongue held a lie, but Mariah clamped her teeth around it. Suddenly she felt compelled to confess her soul. “I’m not going to marry him.”
Gail beamed. “That’ll leave the field open for Whit!”
“Please get it out of your head I’ve set my sights on that man.”
“I won’t. I think you’re just right for each other. He needs someone who’ll keep him on his toes, and what woman wouldn’t want an attractive man who chewed with his mouth closed? Especially when he’s wealthy and generous. Did you know he gave me and Ed our ranch?”
“How nice for you. But, Gail, I’m through chatting about the god of good deeds. You told me you’re having personal problems, and I’m concerned about you,” she said. “I’d like to make a suggestion. When you get home, why don’t you put away the whiskey jug? Make your husband sit down and listen to you. Make the biggest effort of your life to work through your problems.”
“I’ve tried all that.”
“Give it one more try.”
“Rowww!”Fancy hissed, interrupting the conversation as she jumped into the wagon. Tail as straight as a dorsal fin, she licked her chops and pranced over to Gus’s cage. Eyes dilating, she batted her paw at the hasp.
“Don’t you dare!” Mariah grabbed the gray scruff, and the cat went on the defensive. “Ouch!” Pain stabbed through her forearm as she banished the predator outdoors.
Gail sat stock-still. A few seconds later, she raised her eyes. “Listen.”
“To what?”
“Listen. Cattle!”
Whit heard hooves, thousands of hooves, probably no more than a quarter mile away and to the south, but moving west ... no doubt to the Western Trail. His line of sight turning in that direction, he spied a cloud of dust above the trees. He smiled. A moving herd was manna to a cattleman.
And here he was, crouching on his heels beside the drying-up Pecan Bayou, cleaning a slimy crappie for breakfast. Aggravation gnawed at his gut. He set the fish and his Bowie knife aside, and wiped his hands on a bandanna. His place was with the Crosswind herd.
Whit’s ears detected a faint “Hee-yah,” probably from the cowpunch riding drag, and he exhaled. It didn’t seem right, him not keeping an eye on his fortune or not being with the Crosswind Cattle Company’s men when they and their lifeblood headed into Dodge. He had made the trip seventeen times, each spring since losing Wildwood Plantation to the carpetbaggers. He was acquainted with every turn, every stream, every Indian, along the way to Kansas.
And he knew, really knew, a lot of the women between Trick’em and there. Women! Thankfully, he was free of Barbara, but he’d gotten rid of one problem to take on another. Mariah McGuire. He had made up his mind to ignore the opposite sex for the next few days, thanks to her, and he was proud of himself.
Grimacing and eyeing the cerulean sky, he turned his thoughts back to business. Another damned beautiful day, he thought facetiously.
The ground was so dry he could smell it. The air snapped with static electricity. The sun baked down. Despite the occasional blue norther, March wasn’t overly cold in Texas, not like the chill he had felt while fighting for the Confederate cause in Louisiana, but Whit couldn’t remember a spring this hot in west central Texas. Or this dry. He hated being a prisoner to forces beyond his control.
Twenty minutes later, Whit approached the clearing that separated him from the wagon. Raising his gaze from the ground, he rounded a wide pecan tree . . . And his heart jumped into his throat. Fifty feet in the distance, a huge Longhorn bull was cutting a jagged track back and forth in front of Mariah!
Like a statue with its fists clenched at the sides, she stood at the clearing’s edge, a good distance in front of the wagon.
Whit eyed the dunnish brown, white, and rust-colored bull, assessing the wide length of horns, the bulging shoulder muscles, the massive back thews. At least a ton of power, thirsting for blood!
Anger at Mariah forgotten, Whit dropped the crappie and started to run forward to take aim with his rifle, but reason replaced instinct. The trajectory on his brand-new rifle–bought in Dublin for this trip–wasn’t up to par, and he couldn’t chance a missed shot. Furthermore, if he made his presence known, she might make a quick move, which would provoke the bull to charge her.
At that moment the enraged animal threw back his head, bellowing forth a potent warning, “uh-uh-uh-uh.” Whit didn’t stop to wonder what an uncastrated bull was doing with a herd of steers, or how it got away from the drovers. Nor did he ruminate over why Mariah was in the clearing, or about Gail’s whereabouts. He took action.
Quiet as an Indian, Whit stole around the clearing’s perimeter, shucking his shirt and pushing the collar into the waistband of his breeches, and made for the distressed woman. Soon he was behind Mariah, though partially hidden by a low-growing oak branch.
The Longhorn stopped his pacing to paw and gore the earth, sending up a cloud of dust. His tongue lolled out of his slobbering mouth.
“Mariah,” Whit called in a monotone, hoping she could hear him, “don’t move.”
Her shoulders stiffened, but she didn’t budge. He exhaled with relief. “Listen to me. Stay calm. I’m going to move away from you, and get his attention. When the bull turns toward me, you back away. Slowly. As soon as you clear the tree behind us, turn and run for the wagon. Understand?”
Mechanically, her head ratcheted, left and right.
“Don’t argue with me,” he ordered.
His eyes pinned on the animal, Whit cut twenty feet to the side, to the safety of a low-growing, sturdy live oak branch, which he intended to climb in case his shot missed the bull. He started away from the tree’s cover.
“Hey, boy! Lookie here!” Winchester under one arm, he waved his shirt, making taunting passes back and forth a few steps in front of the tree. “Come get me, ole boy!”
&nbs
p; Dropping the shirt, he raised the gun and took aim. His trigger finger in place, his right thumb cocked the hammer. “Come on, toro!”
The bull froze for a moment, then hoisted his front haunches in Whit’s direction.
“Go, Mariah! Go now!”
She didn’t budge.
His mighty head raised, the bull emitted a succession of excited bellowing cries, alternately sinking into hoarse grunts, then rising to a primitive scream. A huge hoof pawed the ground. The Longhorn jerked and twisted his head, lowering his horns to drop one pointed weapon down for a side entrance. Belying his size, he leaped toward Whit.
“Get gone, Mariah!” Whit shouted as the animal advanced on him. With the rifle’s trajectory off, he had to wait until he could feel the heat of fury before firing his one shot. “Go, dammit!”
For the first time, Mariah moved. She whipped the pistol from her skirt pocket. Steadying her right hand with the fingers of her left, she aimed and fired.
Gunfire rent the air, then another, one of the bullets taking its intended mark on the bull, not five feet in front of Whit. One far-carrying bawl shattered the sudden quiet. The animal teetered for an instant caught in time. Bloodshot eyes popped before gushing blood covered its head.
A harsh boom sounded as the mammoth bull plummeted to the ground. His death knell was hoarse and deep, akin to thunder on the prairie.
Mariah squeezed her burning eyes shut. Strong arms wound around her shoulders, pulling her against a wall of hairy, sweat-drenched muscle. A wide hand splayed at her nape, and tender lips touched her forehead.
“Now, now,” Whit whispered, “everything’s okay.”
Her nails dug into his upper arms, and she drank in the comfort of his presence. “I know. But I was scared.”
“Believe me, I was scared, too. Scared I couldn’t get to ole Toro in time. That was a lotta beef steak after your pretty little hide.”
Mariah tensed. The big man thought he had saved the helpless little woman, and he was crowing about it! She was touchy about these things. Her father had belittled her capabilities, calling her a “typical female”. But her shooting abilities had impressed him. Something deep within her wouldn’t allow Whit Reagor, or anyone else, to malign her marksmanship.
She drew back, lifting her narrowed eyes. “I wasn’t scared for myself. I’ve been around cattle all my life, and I knew to stay still until something else got his attention.” She stepped back and parked a fist on her hip. “For heaven’s sake, I was scared the bull would gore you.”
Whit’s expression turned from protective to pleased. “You were thinking of me? Ah, Red, you’re a wonderful gal.”
Before the compliment sank in, she demanded, “If you were so concerned about saving my ‘pretty little hide’, what took you so long to fire a shot?”
Whit dropped his arms and stepped back. His eyes turned to the blue steel of a rapier’s edge. “Beg to pardon, ma’am. I didn’t want to take a chance of missing.”
“Well, you can thank me for taking a chance. I hit him first.”
“That’s doubtful. You were a good twenty feet away.”
“What makes you think I can’t hit a moving target at twenty measly feet?” she asked, the corner of her eye spying Gail bent over the carcass.
“What makes you think you can?”
“In case you’ve forgotten, I told you the day we met that I know how to handle firearms. Furthermore, Mr. Whit Reagor, I am an excellent shot.”
“And you’re saying I’m not?”
“For all I know”–she flipped a hand in the air–“you couldn’t hit the side of a barn.”
His lips curled back over his incredibly white teeth, but Gail spoke up. “Mariah, you killed him.”
She smiled triumphantly as Whit strode to the bull.
“What do you mean, she killed him?” he asked.
Gail dodged the pool of blood as she slid a forefinger across a nick in the horn’s hole. “You got his horn, Whit. Wow, Mariah, you’re a great shot. You got him square between the ear and the eye.”
“I beg to differ.” Whit rubbed his boot heel across the bull’s temple to uncover the wound. “He turned his head just the moment I shot him, undoubtedly from the shock of Mariah’s bullet hitting his horn.”
“Not possible,” Mariah protested after walking up to the others. Why didn’t Whit put his shirt on? She assembled her wits and, remembering her annoyance, ignored his masculine appeal. “Look at the hole in his horn. His head would’ve had to turn to the left, turn my way, in order for my bullet to hit at that angle.”
Whit didn’t utter a word. Dammit, she was right. He had known it, probably from the moment the bull had fallen. His male pride hadn’t wanted him to believe he had been bested, though.
He retreated, but not before placing a gold piece on the bull’s rump to placate the drovers who were sure to look for the stray. Stepping over the rifle he’d dropped when flying to Mariah, Whit stomped away. “I’m not going to argue with the two of you,” he threw over his shoulder. “We need to get going. The whole herd will be here before long. They can smell water a mile away, which no doubt is why that poor bastard was headed this way. Thirst got him killed.”
He stopped in his tracks, swinging around. “Why, Miss Crack Shot McGuire, were you in the clearing when any thinking woman would’ve stayed in the wagon?”
“I was trying to save your cat from certain death!”
“And you think Fancy doesn’t have enough sense to climb a tree to get away from danger?”
He had a point, but no admission was going to pass Mariah’s lips. She flounced over to face Whit. “I don’t know Fancy’s capabilities, but I can tell you one thing. This whole situation could’ve been avoided if you’d caged her!”
“Cat hater.”
“I love cats. Nice cats that curl in my lap when they aren’t earning their keep by catching mice. Fancy fits neither bill. Your cat is not nice!”
“Maybe she’s a good judge of character. Who’d want to curl in a shrew’s lap?” His upper lip quivered. “And–who knows?–maybe she prefers ... parrots!”
“Oh, my God!” Mariah ran toward the wagon. “Gus!”
Chapter Seven
Whit was now contrite for participating in a ridiculous argument. Ready not only to admit Mariah’s shot had felled the bull but also to apologize for his remarks, he hot-footed toward her swaying derriere. “Mariah!” he called, but she continued toward the wagon.
She couldn’t have been more than ten feet from her destination, Whit about five from his, when a series of sounds emitted from the Conestoga’s interior. Bass squawks. High-pitched yowls. Damn! Fancy had hold of Gus.
“No-o-o-o!” Mariah screamed, jumping up and diving inside the covered wagon. “Let go of him!”
Whit leaped in. In the center of the narrow aisle, Mariah had Fancy by the scruff; Fancy had Gus by the neck. Green feathers and gray cat hair were flying. Whit took a giant step in the narrow confines, going for the feline’s mouth. Prying it open, he pulled the parrot free.
In midair the fat tabby, a feather dangling from her mouth, her claws unsheathed, flipped sideways and raked a paw across Mariah’s face, drawing a pain-filled cry. Blood rose from the wound and Mariah’s palm went to her cheek.
Wings flapped against Whit’s arm. He placed Gus gently in his cage and fastened the hasp that the cat had pawed open. None too gently he then grabbed a hissing Fancy, thrust her hackled body into her wooden box, and secured the clasp.
Wiping a feather from his chin, Whit said, “I was wrong. Your shot got the bull.”
Mariah’s tear-glistening eyes focused on a spot to his right before she turned her back and bent down to push her finger through the birdcage. Stroking the distressed parrot, who appeared to be in one piece except for a slew of missing feathers, she cooed, “Poor Gussie, are you all right? Don’t worry. I’ll make certain you’re protected.” She took a small wafer from a nearby tin and offered the treat. “Biscuit?”
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nbsp; “ ’Scuit, ’scuit?” The bird turned his head to the side, one round brown eye surveying the wafer. A ragged wing flapped before his three-toed claws edged to the far side of his perch.
“Everything will be okay.” Once more Mariah guided the morsel to a spot beneath his beak. “Gussie want a biscuit?”
Gus blinked twice, pulled himself up as if he were the proudest of fowl, and responded to her tender loving care by devouring the palliative and trilling a two-note song.
“Looks like he’s all right,” Whit commented, and edged between Mariah and a wooden crate to seat himself. Lifting her chin with the crook of a finger, he asked, “Will you listen to me? We need to talk.”
“I don’t see the point.”
“I do. I want to apologize for being hardheaded about that bull ... and for making those remarks about you.”
“We were both being a bit stubborn, I suppose.” She glanced at the bald-spotted Gus.
“Believe me,” he said, “I didn’t want anything to happen to your parrot.”
“I never thought you did, not really ... Whit, I realize this is your wagon, but it would make the trip more pleasant for all of us if you would keep Fancy caged.”
“All right. Except for her necessary times.”
“Thank you.” She handed her pet another wafer. “And he thanks you, too.”
Curiosity got to Whit. “You’re sure attached to ole Gus there. Any particular reason?”
“He was a gift from my brother,” she answered hesitantly, and wiped her scratched face with the back of her hand. “Dirk’s a sailor. He brought Gus from South America.”
“So when you’re around the parrot”–Whit stood, and took a clean handkerchief from his pocket–“you feel you have a small part of your brother?”
She nodded at his wisdom, and Whit wiped the blood from her cheek. “I guess it’s hard, leaving your family in a faraway place.”
“Life’s challenges don’t frighten me.”
“Brave lady.” For some odd reason he couldn’t remove his hand from the smooth skin of her jaw, nor could he stop his little finger from sliding beneath her earlobe. He heard her sudden intake of breath, and saw her dark eyes widen. Whit’s heart hammered against his chest. Back off, Reagor.