by Martha Hix
“Let’s send for him.”
“Hold your horses, Mariah. We have to think this thing through. After Dan and his men settled things down, they’d ride on to the next problem, and where would that leave Coleman County? Without a lawman and with a bunch of folks harboring anger. In no time at all trouble would start up again.”
“That’s why we need a law against fence cutting. And people to enforce it, too. Whit, that woman you met last night. Didn’t you say she was a reporter?”
“Yeah, but what does she have to do with this?”
“The printed word is powerful. If we can get her on our side, Whit, she could be of help.”
“Lydia Farrell did mention being fed up with Taft.”
“Where is she from?” Mariah asked.
“Austin.”
“The capital. Perfect. Her articles might catch a lawmaker’s eye, and we’d get some legislation.”
“You’re getting a step ahead of yourself. Laws and Rangers are fine, but you’re forgetting something, Red. The folks round here would still be looking for trouble.”
Her shoulders wilted. “Oh, this hellish place.” She elevated her mulish chin. “There has to be a way to change their way of thinking. Has to be.”
Whit stretched out on the bed, and Mariah turned to face him. “Thing about it is,” he said, “if you’re wanting to change men’s hearts, you change their women’s. A man listens to his woman.” Whit fixed his eyes meaningfully on Mariah’s. “Case in point, me and you. I’m on your side.”
“I like that about you.” She smiled. “I like being your woman.”
“And I like being your man.” His palm curved over her thigh. “What do you think about–”
“Heavens, let’s not get sidetracked.”
“What’s wrong with sidetracked?”
“Nothing ... absolutely nothing. But while we’re on the subject of how people behave, I’d like to know something about those men you rode with, against the farmers. Tell me about your partners.”
Uneasiness niggled at Whit. Here he’d been talking to Mariah as if she were a man, as if the two of them were set to charge off after the enemy. What sort of fellow let his gal do that sort of thing? Oh, she was capable and intelligent and fearless, but she was still a woman. Whit’s woman.
“Mariah, I don’t want you mixed up in this range war business. I’ll take care of it, and Taft, myself.”
“I started this fight.”
“And I’m taking up where you’re leaving off.”
She jumped to her feet. The sheet started to slip, and she yanked it back into place. “I want your help, not your protection.”
Exasperated, he said, “Look, Mariah ... I want to show you my ranch. Today. Right now.”
“You’re trying to change the subject.”
“Would be nice. Why yammer about murders or sheriffs or barbed wire? You and I have been too long gettin’ to a point of understanding.” He moved to cup her chin. “I’d like to have some more of that me-and-you talk. Go with me to Crosswind.”
Mariah looked into Whit’s intense blue eyes. When it came to a choice between her cause and her man, there was no contest. “I’ll go with you.”
Chapter Nineteen
Was it wrong to go with her heart and neglect her quest? Mariah wondered a moment after giving Whit her assurance of visiting his ranch. But she’d made her decision and would stick to it.
“Get dressed,” he said and retreated to the front room of his town cottage, allowing her privacy for ablutions.
Ten minutes later, Mariah frowned at her undergarments and wished for fresh ones. She shrugged into the black shirt Whit had worn the previous night. Drawing the material to her nose, she inhaled the lingering scent of him, and smiled. So much had happened between them since she’d found Whit at the public house. She had never imagined he could be so understanding.
He tapped on the closed door, then cracked it. “You decent?”
“And just when did that become a major concern?” she teased.
“Tart.” Now fully dressed in denim breeches and chambray shirt, he stepped into the bedroom. The dimple in his right cheek deepened as he assessed her state of dress. He gave a low whistle. “You look good in my shirt.”
She rubbed the lapel against her cheek. “Your shirt feels good, too.”
“Well, you can’t wear it to Crosswind.” He strode to her, taking her elbows. “Mariah, there’s something I’ve been meaning to talk to you about. Clothes. Some of those things I bought from Jackie Jo are in the wardrobe. Don’t look at me like that. Listen to what I’ve got to say before you get your back up. I want you to have, and enjoy them.”
Mariah recalled the day Jackie Jo had mentioned his purchases, remembered her anger, replayed Gail’s terrible accident. More than anything, Lois Atherton’s comment about Whit’s penchant for clothing his women was fresh in Mariah’s mind. What motivated Whit to give gifts rather than himself?
“I don’t want things, Whit.”
“Why not?”
“I’d rather have you.” With bated breath she waited for his response.
“You’ve got me. So take the clothes, too.”
“No.”
His spurs clicking, he strode to the wardrobe and began to place frocks on the bed. A kaleidoscope of colors brightened the masculine room: emerald and jade green, turquoise, black, rust, peach, red, peacock blue, yellow. . . purple. After that horrendous day when Whit had tried to foil her wedding plans, Mariah wanted no part of anything purple. But those clothes were so pretty, so pretty.
He held aloft a lacy black camisole and, sighing with regret, tossed it atop the other garments. “Since you don’t want them, I guess I’ll give the lot to Gail.”
“They won’t fit her. She’s a slip of a woman.”
“No problem. Jackie Jo’s seamstress can take ’em in.”
“Oh.”
He studied a pair of dancing slippers. “Guess I’ll have to toss these out. They’ll be too big for Gail.”
Mariah said, “Don’t throw them away.”
“You’ve changed your mind?”
“Yes.”
A triumphant grin stole across his face. “Good.”
How easily Whit had turned the tide against Mariah, and she ... Heavens, why had she been pigheaded about his gifts? Why should he be faulted for spending his money?
She dressed in a cotton twill riding habit of emerald green and, at his urging, twirled around for an inspection. He voiced approval and gave her a kiss.
“Thank you, Whit.”
“I like a gal who’s appreciative of my kisses.”
“Silly goose, I meant for the clothes.” Her nose nuzzled against his broad, chambray-covered chest. “You are a very generous man.”
“Let’s not go overboard.”
“Well, why not? I’ve heard stories about you. I’ve been told you even went so far as to give the Stricklands their ranch.”
“I take care of my kin,” he said evenly. “What’s wrong with that?”
“Nothing. Did you buy your sister her boardinghouse?”
“Yes.”
“Why didn’t you give her a ranch?” Mariah asked impulsively.
Thunder clouded Whit’s face, and he stepped back to light a cigar. “She’s a widow who’s set on making her own way. And she’s in her element around other people. Why would I want to saddle her to a ranch?”
“I didn’t mean to offend you. It just struck me funny, I guess, the difference between what you’d do for your sister as opposed to a ... What is Gail to you? A cousin?”
“Yeah.”
Whit turned quiet. Too quiet. He seemed troubled as he announced, “I’ll saddle the horses. Meet me outside.”
Mariah wondered what she’d said wrong. Well, she had pried. Nonetheless, she had an uneasy feeling. There was something between Whit and Gail, something strange. Don’t be a ninny. Who shouldn’t he spend his money, in whatever amounts, on his cousin? He told you a long ti
me ago he views her as the daughter he never had.
Daughter. Could it be possible ... ? Now that Mariah thought about it, Gail resembled Whit more closely than his sister or his niece. He loved the dimpled brunette; she loved him. And Gail had been embarrassed when asked, “Why didn’t you set your cap for Whit?”
If these suspicions were true, why had the Reagors hidden the truth? “Because if they are fact,” Mariah mumbled to herself, “that means Gail is his illegitimate daughter.”
An invisible fist clutched at Mariah’s stomach. If he had denied one child, what would he do if he were faced with another? She realized it had been foolish not to consider the possible consequences of her passions with Whit.
But she had another realization. If their lovemaking resulted in a babe, she would welcome it, even though her life would be radically changed. Why wouldn’t she want Whit’s child? Furthermore, why borrow trouble right now?
And if Whit was Gail’s father, what was the crime in that? Mariah saw one more reason for closeness with her friend.
Mariah was astounded at the sight before her dazed eyes, and halted the buckskin Susie at the foot of the rise leading to Whit’s home. A strange feeling assailed her, akin to déjà vu. Never before had she seen this place, but it seemed somehow familiar. Familiar, yet ...
“Well, Red, that’s my home,” he said, riding a few feet ahead of her and smiling with pride of ownership. Bay Fire pranced and whinnied, champing at his bit to gallop, but the high-strung stallion’s master brought him under control. “What do you think of it?”
Her hand tightened on the saddle horn. “I’m not sure.”
Many times she had drawn mental pictures of where Whit lived and in what degree of comfort, yet while she’d figured there would be a certain amount of luxury, none of her imaginings came near the reality.
The one-story house, built of limestone and roofed with red tiles, topped an incline. At least ten mammoth cottonwood trees shaded the lawn, which was green with grass. Shrubs lined the flagstone path leading from two hitching posts to the arched porch that surrounded the spacious residence.
She touched her heel to Susie’s flank and began to ascend the slight grade. Off to her right was a carriage house of two stories. How long had it been since she had seen a carriage house? Several outbuildings and bunkhouses, plus a barn, stood at least a hundred yards from the main house, and she observed a crew at work on a new structure.
Her eyes cut back to Whit’s home. Why did she continue to feel a sense of familiarity? Though rock houses were common in Guernsey, and somewhat common in Texas, she had never seen one of this rather Moorish style. It came to her. Moorish ... Spanish! This was the home of Joseph’s letters.
“Something wrong?” Whit brought Bay Fire abreast of her mount, and he leaned to pat the buckskin’s withers. “You’re awful quiet, Mariah.”
“Nothing’s wrong,” she replied, saying no more.
In truth, nothing was wrong, but she was saddened for the departed Joseph. How he must have envied Whit. Joseph had been accustomed to high living, and it must have been difficult for him–more difficult than she’d ever guessed–to adjust to his lot in Texas.
Whit led her to his home, but she could not stop making comparisons between what he possessed and the lives of people like Joseph, the farmers who lived such a miserable existence in Coleman County.
“Buenos tardes, Señor Whit.” A Mexican lad of about ten, who wore a loose-fitting outfit of white and a wide hat, waved a brown hand and hurried to gather Bay Fire’s reins.
“Good afternoon to you, too, but where are your manners, muchacho?” Whit spoke in Spanish, but did a quick translation for Mariah. “Greet the señorita, Carlos. In English.”
Tipping his hat, he displayed a toothy smile. “Hello, missus I am pleased very to meet me. Your name is Carlos.”
Whit winked at Mariah. “You’ll have to excuse my young friend, and include me in the pardon. ’Fraid my coaching leaves something to be desired, but we’re working on it.”
He was teaching Carlos to speak English? She smiled. The more she knew this man she loved, the more she was pleased at the many facets to his character. She placed her hand in the grubby brown one and said, “I’m pleased to meet you, Carlos. My name is Mariah.”
He said to Whit, “She is ...” Carlos fought for the phrase. “Maria, she is muy pretty.”
“I agree,” Whit said. “But her name is Mariah.
“Mari-huh.”
Whit patted the lad’s shoulder and said something in Spanish, which gained a beaming smile. Carlos started walking the horses away, but turned back to say, “See you later, Mariah.”
“He’s precious,” she murmured to Whit.
“I don’t know about precious, but he is a good boy.”
“It’s wonderful you’re teaching him English.”
“If he’s going to survive in Texas,” Whit said, “he needs to learn the language.”
Though her mind had been occupied of late with other matters, first and foremost Whit, Mariah hadn’t forgotten about her plans to teach. No more did she have any ideas of leaving Trick’em, though, for she couldn’t leave Whit. Of course, the school for squatters’ children would have to wait. And with Conchita gone and the Lamkin children leaving soon, Mariah had no promises of tutoring.
“Whit, are there others such as Carlos here at Crosswind? Children needing an education, I mean.”
“Most of my men are single. Cowpokes aren’t a marrying lot, generally.”
“None of your employees are family men?”
“I didn’t say ‘none.’ I said ‘most.’ There are a few families.”
“Who teaches the children?”
“Their mothers.”
“And if their mothers are illiterate?” When he shot her a warning look, she ignored it. “Why don’t you build a schoolhouse? I know where you can find an absolutely wonderful and dedicated teacher.”
“Great Scott, Mariah. If it’s not one cause with you, it’s another.” Whit shook his head in exasperation, then he turned serious. “When my men marry they move away from headquarters. In exchange for keeping the outreaches of Crosswind free of ... of, well–whatever!–I allow them to ranch a patch of their own, and run a few head of cattle. Those families are scattered over a hundred-mile stretch. Surely you can see the impracticality of one schoolhouse.”
“What a shame.”
“A lot of things are shameful out here in the West, but that’s the price one has to pay for settling a new land.”
“I suppose.” She glanced at the walk, then up at Whit. “I think you’re a good boy for helping Carlos.”
“Boy?” A black brow climbed upward. “Shall I direct you to the master suite, and prove I’m a man? Again.”
“Oh, you. I’m starved, Whit Reagor, simply famished. What about that food you promised me?”
A late luncheon was served in the long, rectangular dining room situated in the house’s west wing. Two crystal chandeliers hung from the raised ceiling, though no artificial light was needed; the sun streamed through four tall windows. The table, carved from mahogany in the Directoire style, could have seated twenty, but two place settings of platinum-edged china and ornate silver flatware were set, Whit’s at one end of the table, Mariah’s at the opposite.
“Life on the frontier,” she murmured after taking a sip of the delicate consommé.
“What did you say, darlin’?”
“Nothing,” she answered, but wondered why a frontiersman felt the need to surround himself with such luxuries.
Whit picked up his soup bowl and took himself to the chair to her right. Sitting down, he said, “Damn fool idea of mine, buying this table.”
“It’s lovely.”
“I reckon. But impractical when it keeps me away from my woman.”
Pleased, she smiled. “How you do go on.”
“I want you to–”
The swinging door opened, cutting off Whit’s words, and a serving gir
l brought a covered silver platter. Her homely face registered surprise at Whit’s change of seating, but she schooled her expression and placed the main course on the buffet.
She removed the soup bowls, served portions of a joint of beef and its accompaniments of roasted potatoes and boiled carrots, and retreated to the cooking quarters, but not before a small black furry thing stole around her legs. Barely missing the door as it slapped closed, the kitten padded under the table and batted at the hem of Mariah’s riding skirts.
Laughing, she reached for the bundle, bringing the mewing feline baby to her arms. Her fingers scratched behind its ear, and an amazingly strong purr filled her ears.
“Oh, Whit, isn’t he adorable?”
“She. She’s adorable.” He, too, began to scratch the kitten, his fingers working on the underside of her chin. “I’d better take her back to her mama. Fancy will be looking for her, and you know how that one gets.”
Mariah cuddled the half-pint to the cleft between her breasts. “Can’t I hold her for just a couple more minutes?”
“Well, all right.”
“What’s her name?”
“Haven’t named her.” Whit winked at Mariah and said, “I was waiting for you to do that.”
His gently ardent voice caused Mariah’s gaze to fly to him. His eyes were unusually soft, and delightful gooseflesh rose on her arms. She adored this sentimental, tender, sweet, hardheaded, obstinate, aggravating, rough-and-tumble man!
“Well, Red, can’t you think of an appropriate name?”
“Wonderful,” she murmured, caught up in her musings.
“That’s a sorry name for a cat. What happened to Puss or Boots or Beelzebub?”
Mariah held the nearing-four-weeks kitty aloft, and wrinkled her nose. “The first two don’t strike me right. Of course, she is black as the devil, but she’s a female–and she’s going to be sweet, I can tell!–so Beelzebub won’t do.” Again cuddling the black ball of fur, she lifted a brow at Whit. “Any more suggestions?”