by Martha Hix
“Maybe you ought to tell me.”
She explained the events that had happened after he’d left to see after the herd. “I didn’t want to go back on my promise to you, but I had to take action. Put yourself in my place, Whit. What would you have done in the same situation?”
“Sent for the Martinezes, and so on,” he admitted grudgingly. “But then, I didn’t give you my word I wouldn’t do anything to stir up trouble.”
“I’m sorry, so sorry, at least for letting you down. But my conscience wouldn’t allow me to do nothing.”
Whit traced the pad of his thumb across the bow of her lips. “I know you’re sorry. And I know about your ways. I’m just sorry your ways don’t coincide with mine.”
A shudder wracked her shoulders, and Whit hated to see her so troubled. “Aw, baby, don’t cry.”
“Could you just hold me a minute? Just hold me, and let me pretend ... pretend we’re at your cottage again?”
Through the bars, they embraced, though their kiss was not without tension. Whit couldn’t quit worrying about her well-being. As he reared his head away, he said, “Take care of yourself, baby. Don’t put yourself in peril.”
“Peril comes with my job.”
Whit decided she was in her element, tempting the cutting edge of danger. How much longer would it be before she faced it? Despite his disappointment and anger at Mariah, he knew that losing her would be a thousand times worse than the pain he had suffered over Jenny. But he wouldn’t ask Mariah to make any more empty promises. What was the use?
“I almost forgot to tell you,” he said. “There’s a package for you on your desk.”
She retrieved the brown envelope, extracting a sheaf of paper and a newspaper. She smiled. Her palm went to her mouth and the papers shook. Whit figured the news was good.
“Don’t keep me in suspense. What’s up?”
She turned to him, and there were tears of joy in her eyes. “We have a message from Lydia Farrell. Texas law has been changed. Fence-cutting is now illegal!”
“Good show, Sheriff McGuire,” he said gently, proud for her in spite of himself.
Twirling around, she shook Gus’s cage. As he squawked disapproval, she beamed. “Oh, Gussie, isn’t this wonderful? Now we can put Charlie Tullos where he belongs. Behind bars!”
“Great. Just the cellmate I’ve always wanted.”
“Oh, silly goose,” she admonished, blowing Whit a kiss. “You’ll be free in no time.”
A man wearing ducking and a striped knit shirt stepped into the office. In her glee, Mariah didn’t hear him, but Whit noted the young man’s appearance. Tall and burly, he had a thick head of long, fire-red hair tied at his nape, and brown eyes. His regard on Mariah, the stranger’s expression showed familiarity and affection.
Jealousy ate at Whit like a hungry lobo. “Sheriff,” he said, “you’ve got a visitor.”
The stranger widened his arms. “Lovey.”
Papers fell from her grasp, and she whirled to face him. Her lovely oval face was a wreath of surprise ... and delight. “Dirk! What are you doing here?”
“I had to find out how you’re getting on.”
Like jubilant children, Mariah and Big Red clasped each other. He lifted her from her feet, and she covered his face with kisses. What’s going on? Whit asked himself.
Feeling completely abandoned, he stuck his face between the bars. “Don’t mean to intrude, Sheriff, but how ’bout getting the prisoner a drink of water?”
“Put me down, Dirk. There’s someone very, very special I want you to meet.” Holding his hand, she led him to the cell. “Whit, may I present my sailor brother, Dirk McGuire.”
A couple of minutes after introducing her favorite sibling to the man she loved, Mariah got a bigger surprise.
“I’m not alone. I’ve got traveling companions.” Dirk walked to the office window, leaned out, and cupped a hand to the side of his mouth. “Ahoy, mates! Come topside!”
Her surprise and good cheer were palled by apprehension when a flaxen-haired man and a fifty-year-old version of Dirk stepped inside. The Viscount Atterley followed Logan McGuire. What had brought Joseph’s half brother and the father who despised her to Trick’em?
Whatever the case, this was an awkward situation. She realized the sad news that must be conveyed to Reginald; she didn’t know how to approach her father.
“Reggie, welcome. Father, how are you?” Next, she addressed her brother, giving him a sisterly look he was certain to comprehend. “I’m afraid I can’t offer accommodations, but there’s a respectable boardinghouse here in town. Perhaps you and Father should secure the rooms. I’ll meet you there.”
Logan–who was often called “Mack”–grimaced, but followed his son. Lord Reginald launched into greetings and questions. The last man, her own father, she avoided.
Mariah turned another look on Whit, one akin to the expression she had used with Dirk. Thankfully, he nodded in understanding and retreated to the shadows of his cell.
“Reggie,” she said softly, “perhaps we should go for a walk.”
“Heavenly days, Mariah. The dust would fairly choke me ... and the heat!” In a gesture of impatience, he touched the nick on his ear. “I must preserve myself for the journey to Joseph’s farm. Let’s do sit down, though. You must tell me how you came to be sheriff of this wretched town. And about how my brother is faring, naturally.”
She sat in her desk chair, Reginald in the one next to it. “Reggie, there’s no easy way to say this. Joseph was murdered last month.”
His handsome, aristocratic face grew solemn. “The family feared . . .” He took a breath. “I trust the poor soul’s end was quick.”
She reached for a bottle of rye Taft had forgotten, poured a stiff shot, and handed it to Reginald. In halting words, she told him the truth about Joseph, and about their estrangement.
“May he rest in peace.” The nobleman downed the strong spirits in one swallow. A moment later, he patted his lips with a handkerchief. “My condolences to you, too, Mariah, even though you decided not to become my brother’s bride. Dear girl, how frightful your situation! You mustn’t fret, though. I brought your salvation. As you know, Joseph appointed me to sell the London townhouse, and the proceeds are in my care. I’m sure he’d want you to have the monies. If you’re careful with budgeting, your finances are assured.”
“I appreciate your understanding and kindness.”
“It’s the least I can do.” He took her hand. “And I trust you’ll return with us. You mustn’t stay in this horrid place.”
She glanced at Whit, who was dealing a deck of cards onto the cot, but had stopped to lift his head and meet her gaze. She realized he was waiting with bated breath for her reply.
“Many things hold me here, Reggie,” she answered finally, watching Whit frown and take up his cards again. He’s angry because I didn’t say he held me here, she thought. “For one special reason, I won’t be leaving Trick’em.
Whit avoided her eyes as Reginald exclaimed, “Surely you’re joking!”
She hastened to end the conversation. Later she would speak with Whit and try to appease his anger, but right now she had work to do: Charlie Tullos’s arrest. And the questioning of his wife. Now, she must face Logan McGuire.
The sun was setting on the dusty streets of Trick’em when, Reggie at her heels, she ascended the steps leading to Birdie’s front porch. Dirk lounged against the rail. Logan quit the rocking chair and started toward his daughter.
She detected something in her father’s eyes, a softness never before directed at her. Could it be possible he loved her?
“Hello, Daughter,” he said in French, his voice rough with emotion. In English, he admitted, “I’ve missed ye.”
Did she dare to hope ... ?
She barely noticed as Dirk took Reggie’s shoulder, steering him from the porch and saying, “Reg, ol’ mate, let’s go have a pint.”
She sat down on the steps, as did her father. For a long mome
nt, neither spoke. Birds flew to the trees, nesting for night. A buckboard rolled down the dirt street. Roasting meat wafted through the air, superceding the smells of horses and cattle that permeated the town of Trick’em.
Mack McGuire took a pipe from his pocket, and she turned slightly to observe him. Sucking on his smoke, he stared straight ahead. The aroma of cherry-wood tobacco brought vivid memories to Mariah, few of them good.
Running a hand through his faded red hair, Mack met his daughter’s eyes. “I read your note.”
Dropping her chin, she bit her lower lip. It had been days since she’d thought about leaving that letter for him to read after her departure from Guernsey. Surely he wasn’t here to chastise her for expressing her feelings! “And what did you think?”
“ ’Tis difficult for an old man to admit the error of his ways.” He paused, waiting for Mariah to retort, but she didn’t. “I realized what a bloody fool I’ve been all these years,” he went on in the Norman French and English mélange of a typical Guernseyman. “Le Bon Dieu gave me a sweet daughter, but I was too blind to appreciate ye. I blamed ye for yer mère’s indifference, and that is unforgivable, but I do want ye to know I’m sorry for all I’ve done.”
The hostility of twenty-three years formed into one small tear, and it rolled down her cheek. She brushed it away, and her animosity was gone forever.
“I can forgive you. I do forgive you. I ... Je t’aime, Papa. I love you.”
“Je t’aime, ma fille.” Joyfully he wrapped his beefy arms around his youngest child. For the first time since Anne McGuire had died, he cried.
Mariah’s tears of felicity mingled with his, and she gave a prayer of thanksgiving.
“I wish maman could know about this,” she whispered. “She’d be so happy.”
He pulled back to grasp Mariah’s shoulders. “I want ye to know, I loved your mère. For all our arguments, I did adore her. If I could have her back, I would mend my ways.”
Mariah recalled days gone by. Her father was of the rascal sort, and despite the strict Calvinism of his faith, he had always been ready for dancing and merrymaking. And for his wife.
“Papa, you’re not old. Why don’t you marry again?”
His cheeks turned red. “Well, m’girl,” he said, changing the subject, “tell me about yerself.”
She gave him a summary, emphasizing her love for Whit and the trouble besieging Trick’em. “I must get back to my duties, Papa.”
“Aye. And I want ye to know I’m proud of what ye’re doing for this town.”
“I never thought I’d hear you say that.”
“Ye’ve heard it.” Mack frowned. “But those Tullos people sound dangerous, Daughter. Ye’ll need all the men ye can get. Now, ’tisn’t my custom as a connétable to carry a gun, but ye know I’m a good marksman. Almost as good as ye! Let me go with ye and the Rangers.”
“D’accord!” She gave him a smacking kiss on the cheek. “Papa, you’re splendid!”
“I’ll fetch the lads from the public house, and we’ll collect our horses from the livery and meet you back at the sheriffs office.”
Back at the jail, Whit reclined on his cot and thought about Mariah and her visitors. He knew she had been happy to see her brother, but what about her father? The old man had given her hell in the past, Whit recalled. Since he had traveled across the Atlantic to see her, though, the elder McGuire must want a reconciliation. For her sake, I hope so, he thought.
As for Joe Jaye’s brother, Whit had mixed feelings. The fellow, unlike his brother, seemed to be the decent type, but on the snooty side, which was to be expected. Near as Whit could recall from bull sessions with Joe, Reginald was a viscount, too, through some connection with a grandfather.
Personalities aside, Whit was troubled. The nobleman wanted to bundle Mariah across the Atlantic. Although she had declined, Whit wondered if civilization wasn’t the best place for her. This thought clawed at his heart. He didn’t want to lose her, but if she stayed around Trick’em, she was liable to get into more trouble than she could handle.
Caught between a rock and a hard place, he raked his fingers through his hair. Would he lose her, anyway?
Mariah returned to the jail five minutes later and came to Whit’s cell. From the beaming expression on her face, Whit concluded–correctly–that she and her father had patched up their differences.
“All my life I’ve yearned for his acceptance.” She reached through the bars for Whit’s hand. “I feel as if a burden has been lifted from my shoulders.”
“I’m happy for you,” he replied. “Wish I could do something about this weight on my shoulders.”
“Trust me, Whit. I’ll find Joseph’s killer.”
“That wasn’t what I meant. Mariah ... go back to Guernsey.”
The stubborn look he had come to know settled in her features, but this one held hurt, too.
“I’m not going anywhere,” she stated flatly.
Whit’s speech of persuasion died in his throat, for the McGuire men, Reginald Atterly between them, entered the office. Dirk McGuire ambled over to give his sister a kiss. Logan McGuire, one eye closed, puffed on a pipe and kept his distance while assessing Whit. Joseph’s brother poured himself a shot of rye.
“While we were refreshing ourselves, we heard some disturbing news. You’re in this jail for the murder of my brother.”
All eyes turned to Lord Atterly.
“Reggie ...” Mariah rushed over to him. “He’s innocent.”
Suddenly, Slim Culpepper burst through the door. His cheeks were red, and he was breathless. “Miz Mariah,” he said, huffing and puffing, “we’ve got trouble! Dodson and his men are headed for . . .”
Slim paused to suck in a draft of air, and Whit froze. Don’t let her get involved! he prayed.
“Dirk and I will help you, Daughter.”
Mariah rushed to the gun cabinet, retrieving rifles and ammunition. “Slim, talk! Where are the Rangers?”
The deputy formed words, but no sound left his throat. He reached for a pitcher of water and guzzled a drink, but still couldn’t speak. Reaching for a pencil, he scratched something on a scrap of paper, handing it to Mariah.
Her back was to Whit, so he couldn’t see her expression. “Mariah, what does it say?” he asked.
She didn’t answer.
After taking another swallow of water, Slim croaked, “We’d better hurry.”
Dirk took a rifle. “Will you help, Reggie?”
He waved a palm, then dropped into a chair. “I won’t follow my brother to be buried in this godforsaken place. I’ll stay here.” He imparted a look of disdain at Whit. “I’ll keep an eye on my brother’s killer.”
“Mariah,” Whit said. “Come here. Please.”
“Wait for me outside,” she told her posse. A rifle on one arm, she hurried to Whit.
“Don’t go,” Whit demanded in desperation, ignoring Atterly’s arch look. “Let the men handle it.”
For a moment he thought she would consent, but she squared her shoulders and said, “I have to do my part.”
He grabbed those shoulders, trying to shake sense into her. “No, dammit, no!”
“Whit, listen to me. Tullos and his gang are raiding . . . I’m sorry, but it’s Gail.”
Gail! Fear gripped Whit with a strangling hold as his hands dropped to the sides. He was torn, ripped to shreds, by conflicting loyalties. Gail needed to be saved. Mariah was an excellent shot, and zeal spurred her toward Tullos. Which one did he sacrifice, the woman he loved or the daughter he had never been able to claim?
“Whit? I know it’s an awful shock. To me, too. Gail is my dearest friend, and I promised to look out for her. I won’t desert her.”
Forcing rational thought, he came to another solution. “Unlock the cell, Mariah. I’m taking your place.”
“Heaven forbid,” Reginald put in, but was ignored.
Mariah said to Whit, “I won’t. You won’t. We can’t break the law.”
He had ne
ver been more furious than at this moment. Futilely trying to spread the bars, he raged, “To hell with the law! Open this goddamn door. Now!”
Mariah opened her mouth to speak but thought better of it and whirled away. “We’ll discuss this after she’s safe. Right now, I’m wasting precious time.”
“If you walk out of here, it’s over between you and me. Over. And I’ve never been more serious in my life.”
“Fine.” Again, Mariah spun around. “You ought to know by now ultimatums don’t work with me.”
Chapter Twenty-five
The night was moonless, crosswinds were blowing. Mariah, her kinsmen, and the deputy had to advance slowly lest their mounts lose footing in the rocky, cactus-dotted terrain leading to the Crazy Hoof Ranch.
She refused to grant self-pity free rein, for there would be time for heartbreak after Gail was saved and Tullos and his outlaws were brought to heel.
At long last, the journey ended. It seemed as though eons had passed since leaving Whit behind, but in reality the trek had taken no more than an hour.
She ordered her companions to stay back while she found Big Dan Dodson. “You know my whistle, Papa ... Dirk. Wait for it.”
“Aye, Daughter.”
Creeping forward, she discovered the Ranger captain crouched behind a wagon which stood about thirty feet from the two-story rock house. Except for intermittent explosions of gunfire, not a light brightened the palpable blackness.
“It’s bad, Miss Mariah,” Big Dan said.
“What happened?”
“I was told by the cook ... she found me and my men, you see. Well, anyway, Mrs. Tullos wormed her way into the house on some sort of pretext. She pulled a gun on Mrs. Strickland, and the poor woman’s leg prevented her from fleeing. As near as I can figure, Tullos and two others were lying in the weeds when Ed got home. Strickland is wounded.” Big Dan pointed toward the house. “Six of his hands are dead between here and there.”
Now wasn’t the time for emotions, yet Mariah was gripped by the hand of dread. “Is... Gail still in the house?”
“Yes. They’re holding her hostage.”