Wild Texas Rose

by Martha Hix

  “We’d ... uh ... better hit the trail,” he said, yanking his hand to his side and doing an about-face to alight the wagon.

  Ten minutes later they were headed westward again. For two hours they traveled, bypassing the herd from which the bull had strayed. Neither of the women spoke a word in all that time.

  Finally Gail broke the silence. “I hope you noticed I kept my distance when you and Whit went after Gus and Fancy. I take it, though, you two didn’t get anything worked out.”

  “He did admit my shot was the fatal one.”

  Gail nearly dropped the reins. “He did?”

  “You seem astounded.”

  “I am. Whit isn’t one to apologize.”

  “But he has,” Mariah said. “More than once.”

  “Well, I’ll be dipped in bat guano.” The heart-faced Gail tilted her bonneted head. “Since you’re not going to marry Mr. Jaye, why don’t you set your cap for Whit?”

  Not really seeing, Mariah studied the scruffy low hills, the parched terrain they were rolling past. “Don’t start that again.”

  The wagon lurched to the side as a wheel hit one of the many ruts, but neither Mariah’s request nor the jolt hindered Gail from pursuing the topic dear to her heart. “You can’t keep your eyes off him, and he has to sit on his hands to keep ’em off you. If you’d give each other a chance, I’d bet money, marbles, or salt that you’d find a lot of things to cherish in each other. For a long time.”

  Mariah wasn’t ready to acknowledge her fascination with Whit, but she had, days before, realized the emotions he roused in her. Nonetheless, she was free for the first time in her life to do as she pleased–or would be as soon as she disentangled herself from Joseph. Why would she want to muddy up the future with another romantic involvement?

  “I don’t mean to sound cruel,” she said, confused by her own emotions as well as by Gail’s ardent campaign, “but I find it strange, your promoting a match between me and Whit. With your own words you’ve said your marriage isn’t happy. It seems to me you’d be reluctant where romance is concerned.”

  “I’m not soured on men. I’m sure my problems with Ed are my fault. Furthermore, I want to see Whit happy.”

  “If you feel so strongly about him, why didn’t you set your own sights on him? Before you married, of course.”

  “Me and Whit? Goodness, no.” The young woman blushed. “He’s family!”

  “Cousins have been known to wed.”

  “I assure you my love for Whit is entirely platonic.” Whit’s champion finished her match-making a few minutes later with, “... and he’s quite well fixed, too. His ranch is the biggest one in west central Texas, and his home is the most luxurious I’ve ever seen.”

  “How nice for him. But I think you’re prejudiced where Whit is concerned. He’s not the gallant you believe him to be. He accused me of being after him, Gail. So he did a quick retreat.”

  “He doesn’t scare easily. He may have backed off, but you’re not out of his mind. And he’s not out of yours.” A finger pointed at Mariah. “Now patch up your differences.”

  “Why start something just to end it?”

  “All romances start at the beginning.”

  “Truth be known, Gail, he doesn’t fit into my plans.” Mariah studied the sky. “I can’t live in Trick’em. Not with Joseph there.”

  “Hogwash. All’s fair in love and war ... So says the Bard. Mr. Jaye will recover.”

  Shaking her head with vehemence, Mariah crossed her arms. “I wouldn’t do that to Joseph.

  I don’t love him, but do respect him and his feelings.”

  “Give the girl a crown of thorns.”

  “I’m not a martyr!”

  “Okay, Mariah, what are you, then?”

  “Confused. Unsettled. Scared.”

  “I think I understand. You’ve come a helluva long way just to break an engagement.” Gail looked down at the reins in her hands. “Will you sail back to Guernsey?”

  “No. There’s nothing for me there.”

  “No family?” Gail asked.

  “Only a father who hates me.” Mariah recalled the night she found out why. His tongue loosened by apple brandy after an evening of dancing and merrymaking, he had pounded on his wife’s locked bedchamber door, his shouts filling the loft where his only daughter had been sleeping. At ten, she had been too young to understand the meaning of his anger, but now she understood his words.

  “My mother never slept with him after I was born,” she explained quietly. “She refused to bear more children and he blames me for it. He made my life miserable.”

  “I can see why you don’t want to go back.”

  “Exactly. That’s why I must make a new start, and find a teaching position.” Mariah paused. “Somewhere.”

  “Teaching will take care of your days,” the brunette said. “But what about your nights?”

  “I’ll sleep.”

  Gail’s face pulled into a mask of disgust. “You’ll moulder away to a shriveled old school-teacher who raps younguns’ knuckles because she’s sour at the world for not taking opportunities when they came along. Do those poor children a favor, give yourself a chance.”

  The discourse on what her future might hold took Mariah aback. Would she become old and bitter and alone? Though her dreams for a career had been paramount in her plannings, she also yearned for a home and children.

  “Since you haven’t answered me, I take it you’re weakening,” Gail said. “Listen, I’ve got something brewing in my ole noggin. My older brother and his family live a few miles from here. I’m overdue for a visit. Sharon’s with child, you see, and Raymond left with his herd for Dodge last month. I’m going to tell Whit to leave me at their ranch. You two need some time alone.”

  Mariah considered her offer. “You, my dear Gail, are a real friend.”

  Whit knew it was a mistake leaving Gail behind at the Chapman Ranch this afternoon, but he hadn’t voiced an objection. Right now, as the sun began to sink over the horizon and as the land grew progressively more desolate, he wished he had protested.

  Mariah was driving him insane.

  He had little control over his wits, with her sitting close to him as he led the team of grays along the rutted trail to Trick’em. She hadn’t been invited to ride shotgun. Gus, whose cage was shoved behind her feet to protect him from the now caged Fancy, had been the excuse she’d used to park her delectable rear next to Whit–so near he could feel the warmth of her body, could smell the rose perfume that drove him wild, could hear the sweet tones of her soprano as she sang a French melody. It was all her fault, his tangled temper . . . his taut nerves... his obsession.

  Would he make it to Trick’em without losing all control? Get a grip on your reins! He told himself.

  The left front wheel hit a rut, throwing her against his shoulder. Instantly he took both reins in one hand and steadied her with the other.

  “Thank you,” she murmured.

  As he’d done since they had left Gail with Sharon Chapman, Whit didn’t look at Mariah. Through clouds of dust, they had traveled miles and miles without a word passing his thinned lips.

  “You’re welcome, Mariah,” she said, obviously mocking his inattention.

  He clicked his tongue, snapped the reins, and relented. “You’re welcome, Mariah.”

  Taking a sidelong look her way, he sucked in his breath. Her chocolate-brown eyes were troubled, and when she caught his stare, she averted those big beautiful mirrors of unhappiness. Making certain the wagon was still on course, he prolonged studying her profile. Freckles had popped out on her blistered and scratched cheek.

  When she brought her hand to her face, he eyed the little felt hat she wore. “Haven’t you got a bonnet to wear?”

  “It’s packed.”

  “You’d better fetch it. Your skin ... well, that hat you’re wearing was made for beauty, not practicality. The Texas sun’s brutal, you know.”

  “My bonnet case is surrounded by boxes.�
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  “Now that you mention it, what is in all those boxes and crates?” Whit voiced the question that had come to mind on several occasions. “They’re mighty heavy for a trousseau.”

  Her thumbs sliding beneath her chin, she steepled her fingers across her nose. “Household goods. School supplies. But for the most part, they’re packed with seeds. Guernsey seeds are nonpareil, you see, and Joseph requested them for the vegetable garden.”

  Pity came over Whit, and he couldn’t help think that when she married the farmer, it wouldn’t be long before her sensitive skin would be blackened by the sun. How long would it take for work to melt the softness from her curves, drawing her into gauntness? Such a shame. A woman of her beauty ought to have a man to provide, and provide well, for her. A man who would clothe her in silks and velvets and soft satins, and protect her from the rough frontier.

  Joseph could offer no such luxuries. But you could, Reagor. His home was a haven from the wilds of west central Texas, and money was no problem. Whit warned himself against his thoughts of setting up Joe’s woman.

  He had to get away from her, and quick. “There’s a creek over there.” He steered the heavily weighted wagon to the right. “Night’s on its way. Might as well make camp.”

  She smiled. “Wonderful!”

  The minute he brought the team to a halt, she grabbed the wicker cage and jumped down. “Oh, it’s lovely to have our feet on the ground, isn’t it?”

  She made for the gurgling stream and bent over the water’s edge. Untying Bay Fire from the wagon’s rear and unharnessing the horses to allow them to crop the meager grass, Whit watched as she bathed her face, then opened the cage to offer a palmful of water to that blasted parrot. Exasperated, Whit wished she’d offer him a sip of water.

  He grimaced and set to finishing the chores. If he could just get through this night ... Come hell or high water, they were going to make Joe’s farm tomorrow. Then he could deal with her twitching behind and bewitching presence.

  If Whit could make it through the night.

  But that was not to be. When she returned from the stream, he saw how raw her face was from the blisters. Finding an aloe vera plant, he sliced one of the spicate leaves lengthwise and brushed the medicinal juice on her reddened face. His hand shook and he took his leave. Fast. Using his Colt, he bagged dinner. She prepared the rabbit, plus a salad of wild greens and a pot of delicious coffee. In addition to her intriguing physical attributes, Mariah was a helluva good cook.

  Darkness fell. He tried to bank his fires with a plunge in the cold stream. Beside the campfire, he crouched back on his heels, and she sat on the ground, hugging her knees and staring into the orange glow. Theirs was an uneasy silence.

  “Any coffee left?” she asked.

  “Yeah.” He reached for the pot to refill her cup. Their fingers brushed as he handed it over. A jolt shot up his arm, passed by his heart, and landed in his groin. He jerked away.

  “No matter what you think of me, you don’t have to treat me as if I’m belladonna.” Hurt was in her voice. “You were wrong the other night. I never set out to entice you.”

  “You did a pretty damned good job of it though.”

  Her eyes leveled with his. “So did you.”

  Nipping the end off a cigar, he struck an acrid-smelling sulphur match to the tip. The cigar glowed orange as he ruminated over the situation. A puff of smoke rose in front of his face as he rested an elbow on his knee. “Before I knew who you were, I decided to go after you.”

  “Then your conscience took over?”

  “Right.” He pitched the cigar into the fire. “I don’t believe in stealing another man’s woman.” His gaze settling on Mariah, he said, “You’re Joe’s fiancée.”

  Truth was on the tip of her tongue, but before she could utter a word, Whit said, “You’re more than his intended. You’re a two-man woman, and that gets me in the craw.”

  “Dash it, I don’t know where you get your ideas!” She wanted to continue of her tirade, but on second thought, she cooled her temper. It did appear she was playing Joseph false. Beyond that, his were the words of a jaded man hurt by love. She yearned to know about the woman in his past. “Who made you lose your faith in women?”

  “My dead wife.” He drained his tin coffee cup, and with measured words Whit told her about the ending of his marriage. “Now you know why I don’t trust unfaithful women.”

  Astounded at his admission, and her heart going out to his suffering, she said, “I’m not like Jenny.”

  “Think Joe would agree?”

  Mariah stretched her legs before drawing them to her chin once more. “Probably not.”

  “I respect your honesty.”

  “Thank you for that.” Her voice was devoid of self-pity “I was beginning to think you couldn’t find anything to respect about me.”

  Whit stared at her. Rising to his feet, he rounded the campfire and squatted down beside her. He wrapped his fingers around her cold hand. “I admire a lot of things about you. You’re a fine shot; kept me from getting killed this morning. You’re a good cook, and a fine hand to have along on a campout.” On a lighter note, he added, “Except when it comes to Fancy, you’ve got a tender heart.”

  Her free hand playfully thumped his rock-hard shoulder. “Leave that cat out of this,” she warned, grinning.

  “Fine with me. As I was saying, it takes guts to leave your home and family to follow a man to the wilds of Texas. Who wouldn’t admire your spirit?”

  When she glanced away, as if uncomfortable with his statement, Whit went on. “I understand why Joe loves you. I ... I . . . oh, God!”

  Suddenly he was holding her. Burying his face in her hair, he groaned. “Too bad we had to meet. Too bad for all of us. You, me, Joe. Oh, Mariah, beautiful lady, the temptations ... temptations that can only bring heartbreak to your man.”

  These words, a mirror into Whit’s soul, brought Mariah to her senses. Though it was unfair to Joseph, she needed to tell him about her decision, but first she must be honest about herself.

  Pulling free from his warmth, she began the truth. “The other night when you kissed me, I wanted that kiss. And I’ve thought of it since. You are a temptation the likes of which I never dreamed possible. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. My mother taught me to be a lady, but I seem to be a prisoner of my ... of my . . .”

  “Needs of the body,” he finished for her.

  “Yes.”

  “Marriage ought to fix that.”

  She picked up a twig to break it in two. Aligning her gaze with his, she admitted, “Marriage won’t fix what’s wrong with me. I don’t want the marriage bed.”

  He drew back. “Why not?”

  “I ... I d-don’t like it.”

  “Maybe you didn’t pick the right partners.”

  “Partners! There haven’t been partners.”

  Was she telling the truth? Somehow Whit believed her. “Okay. Partner.”

  Whit tensed, thinking of Joe. Had he been gentle with her? Whatever the Englishman had done, it hadn’t satisfied her needs. Beyond that, why had he lied about her past? “You’ve never been with anyone but Joe?”

  “Never. What makes you think I have?”

  “Ah ... um ... he mentioned someone else.”

  “How dare he gossip and imply that I–!”

  “Great Scott, Mariah, I probably made too much of it.”

  “Maybe.” With the remaining piece of twig she drew small circles in the dirt. “There was a man in my life. I loved Lawrence Rogers with all my heart, you see. We were engaged to be married, but he d-died.”

  Near tears at those remembrances, she could speak no more of dear Lawrence–of anything! “Excuse me,” she said. “I’m going to turn in.” She jumped to her feet, took a lantern, and stepped toward the wagon. “Good night.”

  “Good night,” Whit echoed, issuing no protest and allowing her to cut the evening short. Her admissions had been difficult, and she needed time to collect herself
. Whit realized Mariah had turned to Joe in grief, and he understood the pain of loss.

  He unrolled his bedding, drew off his boots, and stretched out, using his saddle for a pillow. Her silhouette against the wagon’s canvas cover drew his attention. He prayed she wouldn’t undress within his sight, for how much tantalization could he endure? Her vulnerability made her no less desirable.

  She didn’t doff her clothes in the wagon. He watched her alight from the Conestoga and disappear into the darkness. Her ablutions, he figured. Closing his eyes, he tried to sleep. Impossible. He craved what the scrawny Englishman had had a taste of.

  “Damn you, Joe.” Whit yanked his Indian blanket over his legs to ward off the night’s biting air.

  Ever since he had discovered Mariah’s identity, he’d been eaten up with doing right by the erstwhile viscount. Why should he feel honor-bound to a liar? What kind of man gave the impression his intended had known more than one man?

  A sidewinder undeserving of either loyalty or a beautiful intriguing woman like Mariah, that was who.

  Should he go after her? Some measure of sanity warned him against such a move. Your justifications don’t mean a damn, Reagor, he told himself. She’s still Joe’s woman.

  His ears trained on the night sounds, he listened to crickets, cicadas, a wolf’s bayings. Where was she? A panther screamed its womanlike cry. Or was it a panther?

  “Mariah?” he called, uneasy. No answer. Damn, he shouldn’t have let her go out by herself! Whit jackknifed to his feet. “Mariah!”

  Twenty feet away, she stepped from behind a wide pecan tree, a hairbrush in her hand. The moon lit her in beautiful relief. “No need to shout. I’m right here.”

  “Don’t scare me like that.” He forced those words past his frozen throat. “Didn’t you hear that panther?”

  She glided toward him, but halted. A wool shawl around her shoulders, she wore a white flannel nightgown that was buttoned up to her chin. The scantest of women’s undergarments had never aroused Whit the way this sturdy nightgown did now.