by Martha Hix
“That woman has nothing to do with our problems,” Mariah shot back, though she was somewhat relieved. “You’ve got to leave, and I do mean now–before Joseph sees us!”
“Not until I get what I’m here for.” He turned her to face him, drawing her to his tensed body. His mouth dipped to nuzzle her neck. “I want to hear it from your lips. Tell me you’re going to marry Joe Jaye.”
“I am going to marry Joe Jaye,” she replied defiantly.
Whit dropped his arms and stepped back. Damn her mulishness. Damn her defiance! Well, he wasn’t leaving until she was hurting as bad as he did at this moment ... Or at least realized what she would be missing.
“Fare-thee-well then, little darlin’. All the best to ya. And keep my present.” He got no satisfaction from the pain in her eyes.
Once more he pulled her to him. “You’re gonna look gorgeous in it. It’ll drive Joe wild, I’ll betcha. Think you’ll squirm in his arms like you squirm in mine?”
She was squirming. “Don’t torture me like this, Whit. Please don’t torture me.”
“What do you think you’re doing to me?” he returned, pushing them both to the bed, the box crushed beneath them. His body covering hers, he grasped her face between his palms. “Do you realize what you’re doing to yourself? You’re a fake. You said you wanted to be rid of Joe, wanted your freedom, but what do you do? You stay here with him, and tomorrow you’ll-before God!–promise him abiding faith and everlasting love. Will you give Joe Jaye either one?”
Turning cold at Whit’s words, Mariah tried to move her head to the side. “Yes,” she hissed.
“Liar. You’ll be in my bed before the ink is dry on your marriage license.”
“Never!”
“Never is a long, long time.”
Again, his mouth swooped down to hers, taking her lips in a kiss that punished and tantalized and left both of them yearning for satisfaction.
“I won’t beg you again to be my mistress,” he said, hugging her to him and wedging his leg between her thighs. “I’ll let you marry Joe, and I won’t say a damned word. I won’t listen to my conscience when you come begging for the relief only I can give you. I’ll take you. Then. And now.”
She couldn’t allow this to go on. “No. I won’t let you hurt me and Joseph. Never again!” She pounded her fists against his arms. “Get away from me!”
The doorflap opened, then dropped quickly, but not before Pablo Martinez’s hoarse cry of “Madre de Dios!” filled the cabin.
“Sacrebleu!” Again, Mariah pounded a fist against Whit’s shoulder. “You knew something like this would happen!”
He rolled away from her. His hand reached under her hips for the box, and he tossed a purple petticoat across her stomach. “Wouldn’t you agree that some things need to happen?”
Chapter Fifteen
“Madre de Dios.” Pablo Martinez paced the earthen floor of his casa and continued speaking in Spanish to his wife. “All my life I have revered the virtue of women, and believed I would defend such honor, but now I am shamed at my cowardice. I should have dragged the evil rancher from the señorita’s body.”
Evita stopped mashing the pinto beans she was preparing for their dinner. “Did he not stop his rape?”
“Yes.”
“Then you should feel no guilt.”
“But I do,” he replied. “And I feel it is my duty to tell el patrón he’s been betrayed by the man he admires. You know how Señor Jaye feels about that rancher. ‘Whitman this’ and ‘Whitman that’ are forever on his tongue. To think what Senor Reagor has done to him! I must tell.”
“Say nada, Pablo. Nothing! Think of the consequences if you cleanse your own conscience. El patrón may blame the sweet señorita for the rancher’s actions, and she would be the one to suffer. We cannot take this chance. She has been too dear and good to us.”
“Sin should not go unpunished.”
“Do not be so stubborn, my husband. It is not our right as mortals to pass judgment on others.”
Incredulous, he asked, “Are you condoning such behavior?”
“You know that is not true, but I feel in my heart that all isn’t as it seems.”
“You feel too much in your heart. You are soft.”
Coyly she gazed at him. “Do you not like my softness?”
He touched her cheek. “I do. For all of our twenty years together, since I stole you from the convent, I have loved your softness ... and everything about you.”
“And I love everything about you.”
“We have no money, no land–nothing! How can you love such a man as I?” he asked.
“We have a beautiful daughter, and–”
“–and four sons who lie in a potter’s field.”
“Why allow the sadness of our past to blight our today? We have a roof over our heads, and our bellies are full. Smell those tortillas and refritos,” she said, sniffing the fragrant air. “The señorita has been kind to us. She brought us from Home Creek and gave us shelter. And now Conchita is learning to read English. Are we not lucky?”
“Yes, God is with us, mi querida esposa,” he conceded. “If only he would grant me the wisdom... What do I do about the evil Whitman Reagor?”
“Pablo, were you not listening to me at all?”
At this moment, Conchita Martinez entered the canvas-and-wood house. Wordlessly the frail girl carried a basket of laundry, which she began to fold.
Evita said to their daughter, “You are very quiet. For two days you have been this way. Are you unwell?”
“I am fine,” she replied, unable to tell the truth.
How could she tell her parents the terrible, shameful truth? If her father knew el patrón had defiled her, she feared he would demand they leave this farm. Conchita had no wish to stay here; she yearned to leave, in fact. But for so many days they had been hungry and without shelter, and never again did she want to see her father’s eyes clouded with the defeat and humiliation of abject poverty. Never again.
But how could she protect herself from el patrón?
From a corner of her downcast eyes, Conchita observed her father as he started to leave their house. Her mother’s touch stopped him.
“Pablo, promise me you will leave it in God’s hands.”
“Dearly beloved, we are gathered together in the presence of God and these witnesses ...”
At high noon, Mariah stared at the black-robed minister who stood in front of the cabin’s fireplace. To her right was Joseph. Gail, in light of her broken leg, lay propped up in the bed; her husband, a stolid and square-jawed man of medium height, stood next to her. Birdie Turner sat in the rocker. The Martinezes were notably absent, and Mariah didn’t have to guess why ... but, thankfully, Pablo hadn’t said a word to Joseph about the previous afternoon.
Another guest stood behind the bridal couple. That scoundrel Whit Reagor!
This was the most miserable moment of Mariah’s life.
Yesterday, he’d taken the wagon with him upon leaving. The petticoat had gone with him, too. Small comforts to Mariah’s broken heart. He was after nothing beyond trouble-making. Since he didn’t want to make her his wife, why wouldn’t he leave her in peace so she could become Joseph’s?
Actually, she wasn’t surprised Whit was attending her wedding. The troublemaker’s stare, which she detected as surely as if there were eyes behind her head, drilled into her back. If he spoiled the nuptials, she’d strangle him.
The minister said something, then cleared his throat.
Joseph’s elbow nudged her silk-draped arm. “Mariah,” he whispered. “Mariiiahhh.”
“If any man can show just cause . . ”
Mariah held her breath.
“Ouch!”
All eyes turned to Gail.
“Something stuck my arse, ’scuse me, Reverend, my sit-upon.” She fished behind her, and held up a gold hairpin. “Oh, sorry. It was just this. Carry on.”
Mariah gasped. She owned no such fastener. Her face pivoted
toward Joseph, and his face was as gray as his eyes. He’s had a woman! Mariah was shocked, dismayed, stymied.
The bridegroom collected himself, raised his aristocratic nose, and ordered the minister to continue. Reverend Pickle began the vows again, but Mariah’s bouquet of wildflowers slipped from her paralyzed grasp.
“D-don’t. Don’t say any more, Reverend,” she said in a stammer, her voice sounding as if it were coming from far away. I have to think, to think straight.
Two faces–Gail’s and Whit’s–brightened at her words, but Birdie, Ed, and the preacher showed true shock. Joseph grabbed Mariah’s arm and urged her to be sensible.
“Please, please, Joseph, let go.” Forcing her wits together, she turned to the assemblage and stared into Whit’s amused eyes. “I’d appreciate it if all of you will leave. Surely you can understand that Joseph and I must talk.”
Whit winked boldly at Mariah, but to her relief he helped Gail to her crutches, then followed the others as they departed the fiasco.
A couple of minutes after the cabin had filled with tomblike silence, the erstwhile bridegroom got the nerve to speak. “Dearest, what is the matter?”
His attempt at innocence roused a small laugh of hysteria in Mariah. Though she didn’t love Joseph, she had respected and cared for him, had considered him as her dear and dependable friend. It hurt to know she wasn’t the only woman in his life. He’d let her down. He’d lied to her.
But she had her own sins to account for. She and Joseph had both made mistakes, and that was no way to start a marriage. She supposed she should be thankful for the hairpin’s omen of doom, but it still hurt. And now she’d even lost the man who had been her friend.
Joseph tugged at his waistcoat’s hem. “I can explain that hairpin. I got a bit lonely before you arrived, but she means nothing to me.”
“The bed had fresh bedclothes yesterday morning. You had a woman here last night,” Mariah said calmly, dully. “I had to stop the wedding before there was no turning back.”
“I understand your anger, but I promise I won’t see her again if you’ll let me call back Reverend Pickle.”
She tugged the simple lace veil from her head. “Oh, Joseph, your mistress doesn’t matter. Not really. You see, that hairpin was just a catalyst. Our engagement shouldn’t have progressed to the wedding stage. There’s someone. . . There’s something I must tell you.”
“Don’t. Please don’t.”
“I must. Our marriage would have been the biggest mistake of our lives, because–”
“About time she got smart.”
The male voice came from outside the hide door. Half a second later, Whit entered the cabin. “Hi.”
Rolling her eyes, Mariah refused to take more than a glance at the infuriating man. “Get out.”
“Not a chance, darlin’.”
Realization broke on Joseph’s face. His expression hardened. Parking his fists on his hips, he glared at Whit. “I had my suspicions about the two of you, and never more than yesterday when you left without bidding me so much as a fare-thee-well.” Joseph’s accusation was directed at Mariah as he said, “He’s why you’ve been cold to me.”
“You got that right, pahdner.”
Joseph’s face crumbled. “When I asked for your vow of honor, Whitman, it didn’t include stealing her from me.”
Mariah studied Whit. He had the grace to look abashed but was fast on the uptake.
“Yeah, well, that was before I figured out the true Joe Jaye. I owe you nothing.” He settled his dark blue gaze on Mariah. “Why don’t you let her decide which one of us she wants?”
“You’re wanting to take her to wife?” Joseph asked, his voice strangled.
“Marry her! Hell, no. But I am willing to give her a better deal than you’re offering, Joe Jaye.”
“You callous–!” Joseph’s ashen face turned livid with rage. “Is this the type of man you want in your life?” he asked Mariah. “Or is this simply a case of birds of a feather flocking together?”
She understood Joseph’s anger and realized the truth in his last question, but she could take no more of either man. “I don’t want either of you.”
Ashamed and hurt, she rushed outside. As soon as the next stage hit Trick’em, Texas, she was leaving this place–for wherever the stage might take her.
Standing under the mesquite tree that grew next to el patrón’s cabin, Pablo held his wife and daughter’s hands and watched Mariah McGuire burst out of the cabin and away from the male shouts coming from it.
Without so much as one glance backward, she grabbed the buckskin mare’s reins from the hitching post, pulled the silk wedding dress’s hem between her legs to tuck it into her bodice, and climbed into Joseph Jaye’s saddle. The obviously angry woman sitting astride, the mare took off in a gallop, headed in the vicinity of town.
Pablo concluded Mariah McGuire’s secret had been discovered and she was suffering the price of Whit Reagor’s mortal sin. The poor señorita.
Last evening Pablo had made two decisions. He wouldn’t chance turning Joseph Jaye against his bride, who could not be blamed for her heinous treatment. Also, Pablo had made a vow to God. He had promised to protect the virtue of women.
“I must help her.”
“She does not need your help,” Conchita stated.
“How can you say this?” he chided.
“Padre, many times I have seen her staring across the valley to the land of Crosswind. I believe she loves the man you would harm. She will not welcome your interference.”
Shocked, Pablo stared at his daughter. She was too young for such understanding. But he realized, after recalling the actions of Mariah McGuire, his daughter was correct. Pious indignation directed at their protectress stiffened his shoulders.
At that moment, Whit Reagor barged out of the log cabin, Joseph Jaye behind him.
“You turned her against me,” the smaller man accused, sneering and balling his hand into a fist. “I’ll warrant you slept with her, too.”
“Watch what you say, Joe.”
“Who are you to tell me what to say? All the time you were supposedly protecting her during your journey, was she spreading her thighs for you?” He slammed his fist into the bigger man’s jaw, but his blow was puny. “Damn you, Whitman!”
“Get ahold of yourself, Joe.”
“May your black heart burn in hell.” A shaking hand raked through the light-colored hair that had fallen over the maligned man’s forehead. “Hers, too. She spread her legs for me, too, didn’t you know?”
“Yeah, I know all about it.” The rancher grimaced. “But before you say anything more in front of these good people”–he motioned toward the three Martinezes–“maybe you ought to give some thought to yourself. Any fool would have known that hairpin doesn’t belong to Mariah.”
Joseph Jaye’s mien changed to defiant satisfaction. “It doesn’t. It belongs to one of my mistresses. Which one shall remain my secret.”
A strangled gasp escaped Conchita’s lips, and Evita whispered a prayer, crossing herself.
“There is evil all around us,” Pablo uttered in maligned ethos. “And we were wrong to put our faith in Señor Jaye. I will not trust a fornicator in the presence of my innocent women.”
“Pablo,” Evita asked, “are you suggesting we leave?”
“We are leaving,” he stated, brooking no argument. “I will not expose my wife and daughter to the lusts of Joseph Jaye nor the lusts of his neighbor, Señor Reagor.”
Already Conchita had left for the casa when Pablo conducted his wife toward their abode. They hadn’t gotten far when he heard Joseph Jaye shout.
“You can have Mariah for all I care. I don’t want her! She’s trash. She isn’t worthy to wipe my feet. She’s nothing but a whore!”
“That’s enough!”
Pablo turned to glance at the man whose voice was raised for the first time.
Whit Reagor had the smaller man by the lapels. “I’d hate to have to kill you, you s
on of a bitch, but if you call her one more filthy name, I’ll do that very thing!”
Chapter Sixteen
Before the crack of dawn on the morning after the aborted wedding, Mariah dispatched Birdie and her middle-aged cattleman son, George, to pack her belongings at Joseph’s farm and bring them into town. The stage was due in Trick’em this afternoon, and she was anxious to be on it.
When Whit had showed up at Birdie’s house the previous afternoon and evening, Mariah had refused to see him. With all the happenings of late she had been in no mood to deal with him–or with anyone else except for Birdie, who had provided several hankerchiefs, endless cups of tea, and a friendly ear for Mariah’s troubles.
Now, as a rooster crowed at the bright light of day, she paced her boardinghouse room, waiting for the Turners to return. Her eyes were scratchy and dry; a muscle twinged in her neck. Just as she brought her hand up to rub her aches away, she heard Birdie’s scullery maid shout up the stairs, “Miss McGuire, come quick. It’s bad!”
Within moments, Mariah left the house and ran to the lawn, coming upon Birdie and George, who stood on the other side of the white picket fence, their backs to her. They faced a buckboard that was parked on the quiet street . . . the unusually quiet street.
Hesitantly and with dread she approached the open carriage. It did not hold her belongings, and chilblains overtook her. What was obviously a body covered by a large piece of canvas lay prone on the bed’s rough boards.
“Who . . . ?”
“Mr. Jaye.”
“I ...” Her voice choked, and she dropped her chin. “I didn’t want him dead.”
“I know,” Birdie murmured. “But try not to take it too hard. Remember how he hurt you.”
The older woman’s reminder didn’t register in Mariah’s shocked brain. Shaking despite the warm morning, she asked, “What happened to him?”