Wild Texas Rose

by Martha Hix

  “Nope.” Whit scrutinized her. Young and beautiful, she had snapping dark eyes and a wealth of raven-black hair. Before he had met Mariah, he might have pursued this gal, but now his desires ran only to one woman: Mariah McGuire.

  “What makes you think I’m the sheriff?” he asked.

  The raven-haired beauty laughed. “Mr. Reagor, I know you’re not Wilburn Taft. I was looking for an excuse to introduce myself.” She extended her hand. “I’m Lydia Farrell, on assignment with the Austin Statesman.”

  “You’re a reporter?” he asked incredulously. “Didn’t think there was such a thing as a newspaperwoman.”

  “I’m the first.” Lydia’s hand touched the empty chair at Whit’s right. “Do you mind if I sit down?” she asked.

  Unless it was Mariah, company of the female variety was the last thing on Whit’s mind. Remembering his manners though, he said, “Please do,” and got up to seat her. “Care for a drink?”

  She nodded assent. “So tell me, Mr. Reagor,” she said as he poured her a shot from his bottle of bourbon, “how have you been affected by the fencing war?”

  “I’d rather not discuss it.”

  “I’ve been told you lost your finest bull, and a dozen or more cows. Not to mention your stable burning to the ground. Was it six Arabians you lost?”

  Basically, she had her facts right, and Whit grimaced. “I lost five horses.”

  “What a shame.” Lydia shook her head. “Are you confident Sheriff Taft will be able to find the perpetrators?”

  “That’s what he gets paid for.” Whit was fed up with the lily-livered Wilburn Taft, but why trust a stranger–especially a reporter–with the truth?

  “Yes, but is he earning his salary?” Lydia asked. “I find it hard to believe you’re not livid with rage over the sheriffs indifference.”

  Whit shrugged.

  “He’s a disgrace to his badge,” she said. “He’s not a bit interested in keeping the peace. Right now he’s sleeping off the effects of alcohol.”

  “It’s nighttime, Miss Farrell. Everyone’s got a right to sleep.”

  “Well, I’m not the only person who thinks he’s slacking off in his job. I’ve yet to meet her, but there’s a lady here in Trick’em who has her complaints. Miss Mariah McGuire. Do you know her?”

  He took a sip of whiskey, then replaced the glass. “Yeah, I know her.”

  He heard a commotion near the saloon doors, and his gaze moved in that direction. Those doors slapped shut, and Mariah entered Maudie’s Saloon. Oh, shit. She’ll think I’m with this Lydia gal!

  As he unfolded his frame from the chair, Mariah caught sight of him. He tipped his black Stetson. She was a distance away, but not so far he couldn’t read the fury on her face as she continued her visual scrutiny.

  “Hate to be rude, Miss Farrell, but I’ve gotta be shoving off.”

  His spurs clicking, he navigated around the tables and over the sawdust floor. Mariah’s hair was swept into curls on the crown of her head, he noted. She wore a simple brown riding habit, its only adornment the beauty of the wearer. She was trying to ignore him and he didn’t have to guess why.

  Damn, she was beautiful, and he hadn’t realized just how very much he’d missed her. While looking down at the brown eyes that refused to rise, he cocked a thumb against his silver gunbelt buckle. What was she doing in a place like Maudie’s?

  Wanting to whisk her into his arms and out of the saloon that, before tonight, had been frequented only by women of ill repute, he drawled, “Buy you a drink?”

  “No. I’m looking for the sheriff.”

  “You’re about an hour too late, Red. He’s gone. Will I do?”

  “For what? Target practice?”

  “I can explain–”

  “Say, Reagor,” someone at the bar said, “don’t be hogging that beauty.”

  “Yeah, look at that purty red hair!”

  “Let her come on in and make her own choice!”

  “Let’s get out of here.” Whit grabbed her arm to direct her out the swinging doors. The night breeze ruffled the hair at his collar as he said, “We need to talk.”

  “You beast! Didn’t anyone ever tell you it isn’t polite to abandon a lady friend?”

  He wheeled around to look Mariah straight on. Light from a saloon window cast a halo on her thick, wavy hair, and he touched the beautiful locks. “I just met that woman. We were discussing business.”

  “Isn’t the price usually set beforehand?”

  “Sheath your claws, Mariah. I told you she’s nothing to me and, by damn, I mean it. She’s a newspaper reporter.”

  “And I’m Victoria, Queen of Great Brit–”

  “Lydia Farrell was after a story, that’s all. And for your information, I don’t want any woman but you, and haven’t since the day we met.”

  Mariah’s gaze flew to his. She blinked. “For some strange reason, probably daft, I believe you.”

  He was struck by the realization that, after the many times he had disappointed and hurt her, she was still able to trust him, Whit Reagor, a callous, bitter, conceited scoundrel and beast–all the deserved names she had called him over their acquaintance. This was one helluva woman. And he didn’t deserve her, much less another chance, but ...

  “Let’s go.” He steered her past a watering trough and to the ever-dusty street.

  “Aren’t you being a bit presumptuous?” she asked.

  “Probably. But the outside of a saloon is no place for talking.” He smiled. “You got a horse at that hitching post?”

  “Yes. The buckskin,” she sputtered, “but–”

  “Let’s go.”

  His free hand unlooped the mare’s reins, and he gave Mariah a small shove. “We’re going to my place.”

  “I’m not going to your ranch.”

  “My place here in Trick’em,” he amended.

  Mariah had had no idea that Whit owned a townhouse, but there were a lot of things she neither knew nor understood about him. Unlike his sister’s large home in Dublin, Whit’s cottage was small. The clapboard dwelling was situated across from the blacksmith’s shop, several hundred yards east of the Turner boarding establishment.

  As Mariah entered his quarters, her nose picked up mingled scents–leather, tobacco, and a slight hint of bay rum. The front room bore an aura of masculinity: heavy chairs covered in cowhide; tables and cabinets of no-frills lines; a leather sofa long enough for him to stretch out. On the wall hung a gun rack with two rifles and a shotgun, and bull horns measuring at least nine feet across.

  Mariah, sitting down on the cool leather sofa, watched Whit fling his hat to one of the horn’s pointed ends, then run his hand through his hair and turn to a sideboard. He extracted a bottle of whiskey and poured two squat glasses half full. Save for his spurs and the big silver buckle of his gunbelt, his narrow-hipped frame was clad in black, the shirt and breeches close-fitting. Around his neck was a black bandanna and shadows of a beard darkened his lean cheeks. He looked like an outlaw. A very handsome, intriguing badman.

  “You’ve been retaliating against the farmers,” she stated without preamble. “Cutting fences.”

  He handed her a glass of whiskey. “Who told you that?”

  “It matters not who told me. But I firmly believe it’s deplorable to–”

  “Before you start the schoolteacher lecture, may I say a word? Yeah, I ride with the rest of my kind–cattlemen protecting their property and rights and I make no apology for it.”

  She couldn’t believing her ears and in light of his words she had to pose a question for her own peace of mind. “I didn’t think I’d be asking this, Whit, but did you kill the O’Brien men?”

  “No.”

  “Are you responsible for any of the recent murders?”

  “No. In retribution for my own losses I’ve scared a few farmers, but that’s all.”

  She believed him. “Does vengeance give you satisfaction?”

  “You could say that. I protect what’s m
ine and as I told you, I make no apology.”

  She understood his motives, though agreeing with them was another matter. Her faith in his innocence was firm nonetheless. He had said he’d had no part in the murder, so he hadn’t. Whit Reagor might be many things, but his honesty had always been close to brutal. And after Joseph, she found this character trait especially appealing.

  Whit hoisted his drink and took a short draw of the amber liquid before setting his glass on the table. “I hear tell you’ve been badmouthing the sheriff.”

  “Sheriff Taft is a blight on the name of law enforcement.”

  “All these things you mentioned, do they have anything to do with why you’re still in town?” he asked. “Or are you here because of us?”

  “The last time I saw you I was determined to be on the next stage, and if Joseph hadn’t been murdered, I would be gone.”

  Whit unbuckled his gunbelt and laid it beside his glass. His eyes riveted to hers. “I’m glad you aren’t.”

  She couldn’t control the wild beat of her heart, but she would not be deterred from her purpose. “I won’t leave until Joseph’s killer is found.”

  “That so?”

  “Yes.”

  “Rustlers did him in.” Whit shrugged.

  “They’re long gone by now.”

  His stock answer was the same as Taft’s. “What makes you so certain?” she asked, gritting her teeth.

  “I’m not, but it’s as good a guess as any.”

  “You know he didn’t have any cattle to steal,” she exclaimed. “Someone killed him over his fences.

  “What makes you so certain?” Whit asked, repeating her question of a moment earlier.

  “It makes more sense than rustlers. Barbed wire was the means of his death, and I take that as an obvious warning sign from ranchers. Besides, Joseph wasn’t the only farmer to die. Ranchers started this war, not rustlers or farmers.”

  “Well, Mariah, if you want the truth, I don’t give a damn who killed him.”

  “Why?”

  “You ought to know why. My eyes were opened . . . real wide ... when I saw what he was trying to pull on you. The last straw–Let’s just say that in the end I had no use for him.” Whit folded his long frame into a chair. Unfastening one spur, then the other, he let both fall to the floor and lifted his booted feet to the table. Propping an elbow on the chair arm, he rubbed his stubbled jaw. “Seems to me, you wouldn’t give a damn who killed him.”

  “Then you don’t know me!”

  A lopsided chin deepened his right dimple. “You’re saying that to me of all people? I know you, all right. I know every hill and valley of your body. I know what it feels like to . . .” His voice grew hoarse, his eyes flicking up and down her form. “I know what it’s like to be buried deep within you.”

  Her rush of excitement at these remembrances did strange things to her wits. She swallowed. She fidgeted. She wanted ... Don’t let him do this to you!

  Taking a swallow of the fiery whiskey, she thought about the real meaning of his words. “You know what I am, but you have no earthly idea who I am.”

  “I could if you’d give me the chance,” he said. “Tell me about the woman inside the beautiful redhead. I want to know what makes her tick, what makes her so damned loyal to the man who mistreated her.”

  His blue, blue eyes were honest, sincere, and she was glad for the five feet separating them. Space gave her a certain strength. In halting tones she began to tell Whit about her childhood, her family, her heartaches and hopes. Even about the silly letter she’d left for her father.

  Whit showed rapt interest in her background and prompted her with questions whenever she faltered. As the hours wore on, her already weary body became even more tired. The midnight hour approached, and she began to wind down. “... and the lawyer told me Joseph willed me his farm.”

  “Will you take up farming?”

  “I don’t imagine so. Right now, I must keep trying to make the sheriff do his job. When I’m successful at that I can continue with the rest of my life. Teaching, not tilling,” she added on a lighter note. “I’ll sell the property and move on.”

  “You know, Mariah, my offer’s still good. You don’t have to depend on that sorry excuse for a farm. I can take care of you.”

  “How many times do I have to tell you? I don’t want to be taken care of. God gifted me with the brains to teach, and I–”

  “Why is teaching so important to you?”

  “I guess I need to be needed,” she admitted quietly.

  “I need you.”

  “That is a different sort of need,” she whispered. “Could we leave our relationship out of this?”

  “If that pleases you.

  “Yes.” Her head nodded in fatigue. “And thanks for listening.”

  “No problem.” He smiled. “But there’s one more thing I’d like to–” Whit shut his mouth. There would be no more questions tonight, for Mariah’s gold-tipped lashes had dropped to her cheeks, and she curled against the sofa’s arm. An angel asleep.

  His angel.

  Whit thanked his lucky stars she wouldn’t be leaving Trick’em any time soon. He wanted Mariah to stay here close to him.

  A band squeezed at Whit’s chest as he continued to watch her sleep. Life hadn’t been easy for Mariah, and he admired her spirit. Closing his eyes, he recalled her words of this evening. She hadn’t wanted his pity and he didn’t pity her. Matter of fact, he understood a lot of her pains.

  Funny how one’s past messes up the present, he thought. His actions since Jenny had made him a cuckold were all motivated by the hurt she’d inflicted and he balked at trust and faith and love.

  Mariah, on the other hand, was scared to death not to love. She needed to love and be loved. He figured something deep within her heart told her that if she gave all of herself, the object of her affection wouldn’t turn away from that devotion.

  Yet too many people had abandoned her, each in their own way. Her father had been cruel; her mother and grandmother had left her through death; her brothers had lives of their own.

  Once, Mariah had had a chance at the love of giving and taking and sharing with that lieutenant fellow, but fate had intervened. After his death, she had tried to transfer that same affection to Joe but he had used her insecurities, guilt, and need to love to his best advantage. Even from the grave he held her within his grasp.

  Damn him to hell.

  Whit was almost certain that Charlie Tullos was behind Joe’s death, though he hadn’t mentioned his suspicions to Mariah. He couldn’t prove anything. Nonetheless ...

  Threatening Joe had been a passion with Tullos, but bloody his hands? No. That kind of dirty work the hooked-nose bully left to a trio of hired guns, his ranch hands not being loyal enough to kill for him, but Whit had seen or heard nothing of T-Bone Hicks and the two others in quite a while. If Hicks and party weren’t responsible, who was? And what difference did it make anyhow? The world wasn’t worse off for the loss of Joe Jaye. No one gave a tinker’s damn.

  Except for Mariah.

  Whit’s eyes settled on her sleeping form, and he had better things to think about than murder. He was drawn to everything about her–her thick cloud of auburn hair, her oval face, her shapely body ... the list went on and on. Yes, he was drawn to what she was, but he felt a more powerful emotion: The who she was was even more appealing than her breathtaking outer beauty.

  She was none of the things he had first imagined. She was honorable and good and true of heart. Could anyone blame her for almost marrying a rascal who had, for the most part, put her on a pedestal?

  Whit had never treated her right, except in passion. He could, and would, change ... given the opportunity. A lump rose in his throat. Was there a chance she could be as devoted to a lanky, bitter cowpoke as she was to the memory of a no-good viscount? Time would tell.

  Watching this adored woman, he mouthed the words, “I love you, Mariah.”

  It shocked him to realize he meant
it. Shocked him, and scared him witless. Love made a fool out of a man.

  He felt that wouldn’t be the case this time, but he was going to make damned sure Mariah returned his love before he made any sort of commitment for the future.

  He prayed she would love him, forever and ever and ever, and if she did, Whit Reagor would never, ever, do her wrong. Never would she find a gold hairpin in his bed.

  Mariah, wake up and smell the coffee about Joe.

  That Englishman had duped everyone he had come into contact with. Whatever the case, Mariah was stalwart in her belief that Joe’s death had been unpardonable, and she was a woman who stood up for her idea of right.

  Whit pushed himself up from the chair to reach for the glass of whiskey he’d deserted hours earlier. While quaffing his drink, he heard a feminine sigh. Mariah had turned to her back on the sofa, her forearm covering her eyes. Her breasts thrust against the material of her bodice, and he had the urge to stretch out beside her.

  Not tonight, he told himself. She needed her rest. Walking into the bedroom, he pulled back the crazy quilt, smoothed the sheets, and plumped the pillows, just like his mother had taught him as a lad.

  Ida Reagor had been calm as a glassy lake, her patient love extending not only to her family but also to anyone who needed a bite to eat, a place to sleep, or a friendly ear. She had adored his father, and Will Reagor had been just as enthralled with her.

  Whit started. In all those years of his bitterness toward marriage, why hadn’t he thought of the good life his parents had shared?

  He turned his thoughts and his feet to the front room, to the present. To Mariah. Would she balk at his insisting she spend the night? Probably. But he wasn’t going to take no for an answer.

  He didn’t have to. She barely moved when he unfastened her buttons and unlaced her ugly brown shoes. His lips touched her long toes, and he warned himself to stop while stopping was possible. The riding habit slipped off with relative ease. And she didn’t seem to notice when he carried her to the iron bed. Okay, so his hand lingered too long on her creamy skin. He wasn’t a saint.

  Dropping a kiss on the top of her head, he retreated to the sofa and stretched out. Tomorrow he wouldn’t be such a gentleman.