by Martha Hix
“Sounds as if you’re lonely, Molly. Tell me, don’t you go to school?”
“No.” A thumb went to her mouth.
“A. W. and I wish our girls could get an education, but I can’t read and my husband is too poorly for lessons after a day’s work, so we’re in a pickle. I’m afraid Trick’em’s school isn’t for squatters’ kids,” Patsy said sadly.
An idea germinated in Mariah’s mind. Why not form a free academy for farm children? Of course, she wouldn’t be able to organize it right away, not with so much to be done at the farm, but ... “I’m a teacher, and I’d be more than happy to tutor your girls.”
“No, thank you.”
“If it’s a matter of money–”
“Everything is a matter of money, Mariah.” She held her chin level. “We’re poor folks.”
“I wouldn’t charge for the tutoring. I need to teach, need it as much as your children need my services.”
“But you’re not settled in yet.”
“The school will have to wait for a while. My calling won’t. Let me tutor your girls.”
A half minute later, Patsy nodded. “Okay, yes. And I’m much obliged.”
“When may I start the lessons? How about tomorrow?”
“That could be a problem. A. W. needs all the hands he can get for the plowing and planting. Both of the girls do their share of the chores. I’m afraid until after the fields are in, we can’t accept your offer.”
Mariah thought it was a shame, young children laboring at farm work, but she shouldn’t be judgmental. No doubt the Lamkins were doing their best and she’d take her victories as she got them.
“All right,” she said. “After the planting is over, Molly and Aggie will be my students.”
A half hour later, Patsy and Molly took their leave. Mariah was jubilant. Soon she’d be teaching. Singing a merry tune, she set to tidying the cabin. Her mood changed, though, when she put the bowl of peach cobbler aside.
Whit’s peaches. Whit. Once he discovered her marriage plans, would he be sending her his canned goods?
For the second time since he and his cats had left her at the farm, Mariah had an awful thought. As Joseph’s wife, she and Whit would be neighbors. How could she live in his shadow and ignore him? How would he behave in her presence? Would he remember their hours together?
His eyes red from imbibing more alcohol than was his habit, Whit stared at the nude woman. She reposed on a tufted fainting couch, a thin swatch of material draped across her shapely hips. Her forefinger was touching the nipple of a full yet pert breast. Her hair was a mass of red curls, her big brown eyes half lidded with obvious desire.
The painting that hung on the wall behind the bar of Maudie’s saloon reminded Whit of Mariah.
“Damn you to hell,” he muttered, tossing down yet another shot of bourbon.
Standing with a boot cocked on the brass rail, Whit was alone at the bar, alone in his disappointment. Behind the far end of the massive walnut bar, the barkeep, Roy Everett, better known as Heavy, polished glasses and held them up to the fading light of dusk that streamed through the windows. Behind Whit, in a corner of the watering hole, a cardsharp was fleecing three locals of their wages. By the swinging doors, the lazy sheriff snoozed over a table laid with dominoes.
Whit was aware of the activities, but he couldn’t have cared less.
Again, he eyed the canvas redhead. “I waited up all night for you.”
Yesterday, when he left Mariah at the farm, Whit had been confident he’d hear from her right after she bid Joe her so-long’s. He hadn’t.
Maybe she hadn’t lowered the boom on Joe. Yet.
“Heavy!” he bellowed. “Gimme another drink.”
The portly son of a gun who doubled as ticket agent for the stageline shoved the whiskey to Whit and wiped a hand down the front of his white apron. “Two bits.”
“Have a shot on me, buddy.” Whit tossed a half dollar on the bar. Though he wasn’t a man to ask for advice, he felt the loosening effects of the amber spirits. “Say, Heavy, a woman ever been under your skin?”
“I reckon. Slip of a gal named Ernestine be one I’ll never forget.” The bartender, chuckling and shaking his head, pulled cigarette papers and a pouch of tobacco from his pocket. “A man can’t live with ’em, and he can’t live without ’em.”
“I’ve done a good job of living without them.”
“Oh, yeah?” One of Heavy’s bushy gray brows hitched up his forehead. “Whaddya doing holding up this bar, then?”
“Just having a friendly drink.”
“Your face is longer than an old horse’s teeth, Reagor, so I’d be guessing you’re drowning your troubles in rotgut. Ain’t nothing wrong with that,” he added. “And you ain’t alone in your miseries. This place does a right handy business on fellers that be needing a little consoling.”
Wordlessly Whit quaffed his drink, and Heavy’s speculative eyes watched his every move.
“You never was one to moon over the gals,” the bartender commented. “Your lady friend must be real special, ‘cause she’s plumb got you in the gettin’ place.”
Mariah was special, and Whit was got in the gettin’ place. The hardest thought was if she left town without seeking him out, he’d never see her again!
Had she left?
“Say, Heavy, how’s the stage business? Have many customers today?”
“Not a one.”
Whit relaxed. She hadn’t left Trick’em. “Next stage isn’t due for another couple of weeks, right?”
“At least.” The barkeep nodded. “Anyone I should be looking for?”
“A redhead. New in town. Tall and good-looking. Mariah McGuire’s her name.”
Heavy Everett rubbed his stubbled chin. “Redhead, you say?”
“You got it.”
“I believe I’ve seen the lady you be looking for. Staying up to Birdie Turner’s she is. Tall gal, no lil ’un for sure, but purty as a speckled pup.”
A grin split Whit’s face. If she was staying at Birdie’s, Mariah had done it, had made her break with Joe. There was nothing to keep him from calling on her.
Hold your horses, Reagor.
What had happened to his determination of yesterday? Then he had told himself she’d have to make the next move.
Besides, he couldn’t let her see him in this condition. Whit decided to sober himself up and think on whether he’d be making the right move.
“Brew up a pot of coffee, Heavy.”
Chapter Eleven
Sobered, Whit bribed Birdie’s kitchen maid out of a tray of foodstuff and drink ... and the key to Mariah’s quarters. As the horse-faced young servant had warned, however, the renter wasn’t on the premises.
The second-floor bedroom had a woman’s touch, he noted while pacing the confines. Knickknacks, brushes, combs, and the like. He halted to unstopper a glass vial of cologne. She ought to own crystal and perfume. Roses wafted to his nostrils, yet the aroma lacked something–the mingling womanly scent of Mariah!
The wardrobe held a collection of frocks, most of them dated and threadbare. The old outfits would have to go. He made up his mind to clothe her in the finery befitting her beauty. That would please her. What woman didn’t want the finer things in life? Mariah was surely no exception. After all, she had a few nice ensembles, and had dressed herself in them after Kimble’s wedding. The Wedgwood-green gown she had worn on the morning they had left Dublin had held his attention. It was a beautiful dress, sheer and soft. He had been loath to admit how, back on that day he’d seen her wear the batiste, but he’d admired this frock and the beauty of its owner.
So much had transpired since then. Arguments, understanding, plus undeniable and insatiable desires. He regretted their last day together–not the passion, but the difference of opinion that had spoiled their final hours together. But he hadn’t changed. Mariah wanted more out of him than he was able to offer.
He closed the wardrobe and brushed his hand down his face. He still
couldn’t give her his heart. Who’d want the damn battle-scarred thing, anyhow? In light of his bitterness, marriage would be a miserable undertaking.
Perhaps he should leave. No. He wanted one more chance to talk, and caress sense into Mariah.
He strode to the bureau, taking a piece of cold chicken from the tray of food. Again, his eyes swept over the room. An odd feeling ran through his veins. Something was missing, but he scoffed away his uneasiness. Mariah’s presence was missing.
For hours he waited in the night’s deepening dark for her return, not bothering to light the lamp. Finally, he shucked his shirt, boots, and socks to stretch out on her bed. The bedclothes held her scent, and he swallowed. Closing his eyes, he silently rehearsed the words he’d say to Mariah, a speech that would, hopefully, keep his ego intact.
But concentration became impossible. Wind gusted through the trees, the howl penetrating the walls. Over and over again, the spring leaves quaked. A flash of lightning opened his eyes, and thunder clapped.
“Please let that rain fall on Crosswind,” he said aloud in an invocation to Providence.
No rain fell on Birdie Turner’s boardinghouse. Another streak of lightning illuminated the bureau clock, which read ten P.M. Where was Mariah? Another twenty minutes passed before he heard her footsteps in the hall.
The hinges creaked as she opened the door. A shaft of light from the hallway outlined her form, and it was a lovely, lovely shape. He smiled. His memorized speech departed him. She was there, and a fist of emotion seized his chest, a strange mixture of happiness, longing, and pain not often experienced by Whit Reagor.
She turned to fasten the lock and he realized she hadn’t seen him. Just laying eyes on the woman who dominated his thoughts, senses, and passions softened his resolve. He was on the verge of throwing himself at her feet to tell her whatever she wanted was fine with him. Don’t be a sap, Reagor. Don’t give her any quarter. Make her your mistress, and that’s that.
Reaching back with a fist to plump the pillow, Whit said, “So, how’s the world–”
She shrieked, and jumped.
“No need to be scared.”
“Whit, what are you doing here!”
“Oh, I don’t know. Any takers for a quilting bee?”
“Sarcasm hasn’t deserted you,” she said, as if gritting her teeth. “Get out before Birdie finds you.”
“Birdie went to bed with the chickens.”
“Well, I suppose her whereabouts are neither here nor there. You have no business in my room.”
She’s upset at being startled, he figured. He lit a match and reached to light the kerosene lamp. Now that he could easily see her, he read anger in her milk-chocolate eyes. “Does it rile you, my being here?”
“You could say that.”
He pushed himself to a standing position and walked slowly toward her. “I’m a bit riled myself. Why haven’t you brought yourself to Crosswind?”
“Why should I?”
“I won’t dignify that with an answer.”
Hugging her arms, she spun away from him. “Why can’t you leave me alone?”
“Is that what you want, Mariah?”
She didn’t reply, and kept her back to him.
He took three more steps, lessening the space between them. His fingers wrapped around the angle of her shoulders, and he leaned to kiss her petal-scented neck. Heat leaped into his loins at her nearness. She shivered, and it wasn’t from the dislike of him, he figured.
Weakened in resolve not to show any mercy, he said in a low tone, “Let me take you to Crosswind, baby. Now.”
“No. And I’m not your baby.”
Stung, he asked, “Have you forgotten our trip to Trick’em?” He turned her around and brought her into his arms, lifting her off her feet to the heat of his hips. “Have you forgotten the way you melted into my arms, the way you–Aw, hell, baby, when we’re together, we’re both hotter than a chili pepper, and you know it.”
Swept off her feet, both physically and emotionally, she trembled and swallowed. She wanted him. He had the wicked ability to arouse her with no more than a touch. She couldn’t deny it, at least to herself, but what about Joseph?
Not to tell Whit the truth about her marriage plans would be dishonest and it would be disloyal to the man who offered her his name.
“Go away, Whit,” she whispered.
He set her down and retreated one step. The room went aglow with lightning; thunder cracked almost simultaneously. Whit’s gaze welded to hers.
Rain pelted the tin roof.
“I won’t leave, Mariah, not unless you tell me, straight out, that you don’t want any part of me. But be true to yourself and honest with me. Say you don’t want me to go.”
Her conscience warred with her desires. It was wrong, being affianced to another while wanting Whit so. But she was aching for more of Whit’s touch, and no matter how hard she had tried over the past days to convince her heart to the contrary, she had ached for the loss of his presence. She loved him, and to deny that love was impossible.
Suddenly another thought occurred to her. Whit’s presence made its own statement. She had made her stand perfectly clear before he’d left her with Joseph. He wanted, she was certain, more than a mistress.
But what about Joseph and his sacrifices? Twice she had promised to be his wife. Twice. Was she strong enough to repay him? If she found this strength, she would lose a second chance at love and happiness. With Lawrence she’d had no choice. With Whit she’d be the one to make the decision.
By going with her principles, her conscience, she would sacrifice everything, but her honor would be intact. All she had to do was turn her back on Whit. That was a simple enough thing to do. Just turn her back ...
So she moved away in the darkness, away from Whit. There, she’d done it! Her insides contracted in pain. “I ... I want you to ...”
Whit stepped to her, his fingers touching her shoulders and his breath caressing her cheek, and she lost all strength of will. Somehow she’d make Joseph understand, somehow she’d reconcile with herself.
She turned into Whit’s arms. “I want you to stay.”
“Thank God.”
His work-roughened hand found the softness of hers, and he carried her palm to his lips. Gentling a kiss to the salt-tinged center, he slid his free arm around her waist. The hand at her back smoothed over the swell of her derriere and, a groan of desire vibrating in his throat, he took her lips with a kiss of passion. Beneath his mouth, hers opened. His tongue slid past her teeth to taste the yielding softness of the candy-flavored interior.
“Candy?” he murmured, pulling away only slightly.
“Toffee.”
“Give me another taste.”
And she did.
Savoring the sweetness of her lips, he felt her fingers curl into his hair. The ache in his loins cried out for release, but he was determined to take his time, no matter how difficult the effort. His palm canvassed the rise of her breast, and she was shuddering with life beneath his questing fingers.
“I’m going to undress you,” he whispered.
“Turn out the light” was her murmured response.
He yearned to see her beauty in the full bloom of lamplight, but the intermittent glow of lightning had its rewards, too. Making love within the sounds and sights of driving, blessed rain ... ah, the pleasures of it. The wick was extinguished.
Sitting down on the edge of the bed, he spread his knees and extended a hand in the near darkness. “Come here, Mariah. Let me finish what I started.”
She bided his words.
“Rest your hands on my shoulders,” he urged, and proceeded to fumble with the elastic bands of her gaiter shoes. Mission accomplished, he tugged the footwear from her narrow feet.
The pads of his fingers slid across the incredibly long toes of her right foot, and she giggled a “Stop ... I’m ticklish.”
He’d allow nothing to spoil the mood, and set to a different course. His fingers reach
ed up to work the small mother-of-pearl buttons at her throat. He was engulfed by a tumult of feelings–anticipation and fervor and restraint–as he spread the frock and placed his lips on the swell of her lawn-covered bosom.
With unsteady fingers he slipped the dress to her feet and helped her step out of it. In an upward motion, he divested her of the thin chemise. Cupping her heavy breasts in his palms, he circled her nipple with his mouth, and the peak hardened under the ardent worship of his tongue. Her hands combed into his hair, and she held him fast. He felt her quivers, and realized his own.
“Oh, darling, please ... Can’t take any more . . .” Her head dropped forward, her lips touching the top of his head. “Whit,” she said, his name trembling on her lips.
He was on the verge of giving in. His manhood, swollen painfully in his now tight breeches, needed release, but ... “I won’t stop. Not yet. I want you mindless when I take you.”
“I ... I already am.”
Sudden blue light allowed him to gaze upon her desire-ridden features. His hands spanned her narrow waist. “Before this is over, you’ll be more mindless.”
To the staccato beat of rain on the tin roof, he inched forward, guiding her a step backward, and dropped to his knees. Plucking the drawstring of her pantaloons, he rid her of that barrier and of her stockings. His face went to her tummy. Her scent, so womanly and uniquely Mariah, wreaked havoc with his control.
He laved the skin surrounding her navel, then slipped his tongue into the indentation. She moaned, and her fingers wrapped into his hair, tugging. His lips moved lower, and he enjoined her to spread her silky thighs. Finding the honeyed center of her passion, he flicked his tongue in a gentle rhythm of arousal. She swayed. He felt her spasms, heard her moans and cries, and his hands tightened on her buttocks. It pleased him to please her.
Then, he stood. “Now you’re ready for the next step, my sweet.”
He unbuttoned his breeches, his hands moving downward to rid himself of the tight barrier to his own satisfaction. Taking her fingers, he guided her to bed. The mattress sagged under their weights. Mariah took a series of deep, ragged breaths, and he braced himself on a forearm. His eager hands explored her curvaceous form while he delved into her sweet mouth. A primal groan vibrated in his throat as his fingers thrummed her breast once more. Later, his palm moved past her waist, past her hips, charting a rapturous course for the warmth that beckoned him.