by Martha Hix
Mariah’s hand tightened on the Winchester as she agonized over her friend. Whit’s daughter. But she couldn’t allow agony to last, not now. “What about Tullos?”
“He’s in there with the rest of them.”
Think. Mariah. Think. “How many men do you have, Captain Dodson?”
“Three, including myself. Reimschissel and his partner took bullets.”
“I’ve brought three more men, plus myself. We have them outnumbered.” She paused. “We’ll have to get into the house.”
“Too dangerous. Mrs. Strickland’s life is at stake.”
“I’m aware of the risk.” She whistled. Quick as a flash, her posse gathered around. “Here’s the plan. Inch closer to the house, all of you, including your men, Captain. Keep me covered while I go in.”
“Daughter, you can’t do that alone.”
“I didn’t plan to, Papa. You’re light on your feet. I was hoping you’d go with me.”
He clasped her shoulder. “I’m with ye,” he said.
Pleased, she smiled. “Keep me covered.”
To a round of gunfire, she and Mack made an arc, rushing to the side of the house. A sharp sound from the east wing, like a woman’s laugh, reached her ears as she came to the rear corner. Temperence Tullos, no doubt.
Mariah and Mack moved carefully, more by feel than by sight, around to the back. They stepped onto the porch, and the boards creaked. She stiffened. Again guns fired, and she took advantage of those sounds to open the door. The acrid smell of gunpowder bit her nose as she entered the kitchen.
“The bastards have reinforcements!”
Mariah recognized Charlie Tullos’s voice from the study.
“I told you you wouldn’t get away with this,” Gail said.
“Shut up!” Temperence Tullos ordered.
A slap resounded, and Gail cried out in pain.
Mariah gritted her teeth. The rifle that had hung at arm’s length was at once high against her chest, the thumb of her right hand tightening on the hammer. Slowly, she and her partner made it to the uncarpeted dining room. Keeping tight against the wall so the boards wouldn’t creak, they started into the study.
But her elbow encountered an object, and it crashed to the floor.
“They’ve gotten in,” Temperence Tullos cried.
A match flared.
Whit didn’t allow the moonless night to slow him. He and Bay Fire knew every rock, every plant, every twist and turn of the trail leading to his daughter. He rode hell for leather.
A half mile from his destination, he caught sight of an orange glow. Fire!
Fear sent arrows through Whit’s veins as he rode closer. Gail’s house was ablaze! Fed by the wind, tongues of flames licked the windows, the fiery incandescence eclipsing the dark night. Flames popped. The incendiary stench burned his nostrils. Terrified for what lay ahead, Whit charged on.
Please don’t let Gail be in there! He made a vow to himself. If she got through this, he’d make her understand why he hadn’t been able to claim her, let her know how much he loved her and always had!
His concerns weren’t solely for his daughter. Mercilessly, he dug his spurs into Bay Fire’s flanks. “Oh, God, don’t let Mariah be in that house!”
He was through with Mariah, but never would he cease being concerned about her. He appeased himself with the rationalization that she had no earthly cause to gain entry. But knowing Mariah ...
Arriving at the house, he yanked in the sorrel’s reins, and Bay Fire came to a dirt-grinding halt. Whit jumped from the saddle, drawing the pistol that had been purloined from the sheriffs gun cabinet, and ran forward.
“You won’t need a gun,” Big Dan Dodson called out in the agony of physical pain. “Tullos... They’re all dead.”
Nonplussed, Whit eyed the Ranger, who was clutching his middle. Around him was a battlefield of felled men. Then Big Dan’s body slackened. He was dead.
Saddened for his old friend, Whit grimaced. At the same moment, Gail hobbled over to Whit and tugged on his arm. “Thank God,” he uttered raggedly.
“Not yet,” she cried, “Mariah and her father went back for Temperence. They’re still in there.”
A strangled cry vibrated Whit’s chest, his worst fear confirmed. Devastated, but not to the extent he couldn’t act, he charged into the house. Smoke clogged his lungs, and he whipped a bandanna up over his nose. He had to hope he wasn’t too late and could save her.
“Pull harder, Papa! She’s still alive.”
About ten feet ahead of him, Mariah and her father were tugging on the inert form of Temperence Tullos. A sheet of fire rolled toward them. Right then Whit would have gladly murdered Mariah McGuire for her misplaced priorities.
Instead, he ignored the oven of heat and the asphyxiating smoke to stomp ahead.
“Help us get her out, Whit!” Mariah shouted.
He lunged on the heavy Tullos woman and hauled her over his shoulder. “Make a run for it, dammit!”
For once, Mariah obeyed, and he gained a modicum of satisfaction. Swaying under his burden and sidestepping the flames, he made it outside and placed Temperence on the ground. Then, straightening up, he faced Mariah. For a second captured in time they stared at each other. Her soot-covered features were cast in orange relief, and there was pain in her brown eyes. Well, he thought, she made her decision back at the jail, and I made mine.
“How did you get out of jail?” she asked quietly.
“Ole Reg helped me break through the bars on the windows.”
“Sacrebleu.”
“Whatever. You know, you’re not the only stubborn person in this world, Sheriff. You ought to know that when I make up my mind, nothing stops me. And I’ve made up my mind ... about several things.”
A boom rent the air as the roof caved in, that sound echoing the end of Whit and Mariah’s relationship. He read sorrow in her features, and knew the same was reflected in his.
Mariah bent over the bleeding woman. He started to turn away, but her, “At least hear what Mrs. Tullos has to say,” stopped him.
“You’re not going to make it, lady,” Mariah said. “Save your soul. Did you kill Joseph Jaye?”
“No.”
“The devil will take you for lying,” Mariah promised.
“Didn’t . . . kill . . . him.”
“Do you know who did?”
Temperence Tullos shook her head weakly, and her eyes closed for the last time, the words “Oh, Leroy ... my Le–” on her dying lips.
His spirit lost, Whit turned on his heels, and went back to Gail.
Loss. It weighed heavy in Mariah’s heart throughout the next week. Whit was lost to her forever.
Oh, he had gallantly returned to the wrecked jail, of which he and Reginald had agreed to pay for repairing, but Whit was stalwart in his determination not to reconcile with her.
Mariah now sat, alone, in Jackie Jo’s Café. She neglected her dinner. How could she eat?
She agonized over the decisions that had torn Whit away from her. On top of her broken vow, she had denied him his freedom to take her place and save his daughter. At the time, Mariah had decided not to compound an alleged crime with a real one. She had chosen her badge over her man’s feelings.
Mariah wasn’t sure what was worse, her speculations over what might have been or the agony of knowing she could never undo the past. Her emotions were in wrack and ruin.
Her sole thread of hope for emotional salvation was to free Whit of the charges against him and she was back to the beginning. She had been certain Temperence Tullos would clear Whit, but the woman was dead.
Mariah shuddered, recalling that chaotic night. After she and Mack had been discovered in Gail’s house, she’d shouldered her rifle to kill T-Bone Hicks. Mack had felled Hicks’s partner. Dropping her match, Temperence Tullos had known it was over, even before flames had leaped from the table skirting. Screams of hatred directed at her husband, she’d turned her pistol on him and then on herself.
If
the Tullos woman had been truthful, then who had killed Joseph?
Mariah pushed the plate of food to the center of the table. So many people had lost their lives, and others had suffered and sacrificed.
Only Friederich Reimschissel remained of the Rangers who’d garrisoned the Strickland home, and he carried a wound in the leg. Slim Culpepper had received a flesh wound in the arm. Six of his ranch hands gone, Edward Strickland was abed at Crosswind, a piece torn from his left hip.
But in all this darkness there was also light. The remainder of the cattlemen’s association had disbanded and for this blessing, Mariah was thankful.
The now-tepid tea brought to her lips, she spied Dirk entering the eating establishment. Smiling, he wended his way through the tables.
“Ahoy, lovey. I bring news. That fille Conchita Martinez was found in a convent, and she’s waiting for you at Judge McCracken’s house.”
Mariah closed her eyes, both in relief and uncertainty. By the time they reached T. Jeff McCracken’s parlor, though, she had collected herself and her strategies.
Deceptively gathered as if for no more than a friendly chat, two Texas Rangers and the judge were seated in the wing chairs. Conchita, wringing her hands, huddled against the Victorian sofa.
“I’d like a moment alone with Conchita,” Mariah said, and the men exited.
Already Mariah regretted the things she must say. She had always liked her former student and didn’t want to cause her suffering, but this was the crucial matter of Whit’s very life.
After several attempts at putting the girl at ease, Mariah asked, “What do you think of Mr. Reagor?”
“I do not know him but to see him.”
I believe her, Mariah thought. Why, then, was so much of her father’s anger directed against Whit? Or was it? Maybe Pablo had used Whit as an excuse.
Mariah walked to a table, picking up a figurine to study it. “I spoke with your father, and he told me he’d do anything to protect his family.”
The girl brought a hand to her mouth and chewed a fingernail.
“He’s sorry he bode Mr. Jaye so much hatred,” Mariah lied.
Much more pliable than her father, Conchita took the bait. “Mi padre had his reasons.”
Ah, ha! “Do you think it’s right to take another person’s life?”
“No, senorita.”
Mariah swallowed, then glanced at the pressed-tin ceiling. She hated to ask her next questions, they were so cruel. “Do you resent your father for killing Mr. Jaye? Will you forgive him when he hangs?”
“No! Don’t say that!” Conchita jumped to her feet, bumping her shins against the coffee table. “Papa didn’t do it. I killed him!”
“Oh, my God,” Mariah whispered, moving to comfort the stricken girl. Yet she couldn’t help the selfish thought that Whit would be free!
For several minutes Mariah rocked Conchita until the tears subsided to hiccups. She handed the fourteen-year-old a handkerchief and a glass of water, prompting her to drink. The hiccups turned to shuddering wails.
“It’s okay, sweeting. I don’t want to hurt you. I want to help you,” Mariah said truthfully, dabbing the handkerchief under the girl’s tear-swollen eyes. “You’re a sweet, fine young lady, Conchita, and I know you must’ve had your reasons for what you did.”
“So awful” was her mournful, wrenching reply.
Conchita drew herself into a protective ball, and Mariah’s arm went around her shoulders.
“Tell me what happened, sweeting.”
“Señor Jaye, he ... he did awful things to me. It h-hurt so b-bad.”
Mariah clenched her teeth. May that rapist’s soul burn in hell!
Again, tears washed down Conchita’s cheeks. “I was sc-scared he’d do it again, and I put a knife in my p-pocket. I did not think I would have to use it, because we were going to leave the farm. But Senor Jaye c-cornered me that night you were to marry him. After Señora Tullos had left. He was very angry, and ... he had some b-barbed wire in his hand. He p-pushed me to the ground. I ... I stabbed him, but he still ... Mi padre heard my screams, and h-he hit el patrón and grabbed the wire.”
Conchita lifted her eyes to the sheriff. “I was the one who stabbed Senor Jaye. I am responsible, not mi padre. I will not let him hang for me.”
“I promise you no one is going to hang. You acted in self-defense, and your father was protecting his child. No one will blame either of you.”
The local citizenry, as Mariah had predicted, understood the motives behind Joseph Jaye’s death, and they rallied around the pitiable girl. The evening after Conchita’s confession, her parents were brought back to Trick’em, and Pablo was formally exonerated of the crime.
Many people stepped forth and donated money to the Martinezes. The fund was augmented by the very generous donation of Reginald, the Viscount Atterley, who was ashamed of his half brother’s wickedness.
Rued by her past actions toward Pablo, Mariah apologized to him for her verbal barrage, and he was graceful in the acceptance.
The Mexican family set out for San Antonio to make a new start.
Reginald took guest quarters at the home of his newfound friend, Whit Reagor. Gail Strickland was there, too, nursing her injured husband back to health.
A week later, and after much grousing about his landlocked state, Dirk McGuire left for Galveston, where he planned to secure a job as a boatswain’s mate.
Not once since that night of the Strickland’s fire had Whit spoken to Mariah, not even when she’d unlocked his cell for the last time. He had simply turned his back and left the jail. Left Mariah alone with her self-recriminations.
She knew her loss was of her own making. And forever would she pay.
Mariah faced the future without Whit. There was nothing left for her in Trick’em. Mariah had no desire to farm Joseph Jaye’s land; the fewer reminders she had of that debaucher, the better. She’d refused the proceeds of his London townhouse, and as for schoolteaching, she could do that anywhere. With her heart so empty, though, she did not even have the desire to follow her calling.
And now, on a Saturday night, she sat in the porch swing at Birdie Turner’s boarding establishment. She turned to Mack and said dully, “Reggie is leaving tomorrow for England.”
Mack stopped cleaning his newly purchased six-shooter. “I’ll miss him.”
“I was thinking we should go with him.”
“What about your job? That Slim homme is still recovering from his wound and isn’t able to take over for you. And didn’t he say he wanted to go back to ranching?”
“He’s able to carry out the duties; he had but a minor wound, for heaven’s sake. And he did say he’d wear the badge until someone else is hired.”
“I wouldn’t mind having the job meself. It appeals to this aged lawman’s spirit of adventure.”
“You want to stay here?” she asked incredulously.
“Oui. As Sheriff of Coleman County.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” she said. “I was hoping you’d go home with me. To Guernsey.”
“Why Guernsey? I thought you hated it there.”
“No, I don’t,” she answered. “It’s home.”
“Will ye leave without telling yer man ‘God be with ye’?”
“He doesn’t want my goodbye.”
“Do ye have so little faith in him?”
Faith. That ragged word. “I have all the faith in the world in him. He has none in me. Deservedly so.”
“Ye’re wallowing in self-pity, girl.” Mack arched a russet brow. “And ye’re too easily defeated.”
She lifted her chin. “I am not.”
Whit Reagor should have been happy. He had his freedom, but freedom to do what? Mope around the ranch, shouting at his employees, friends, and family? Although he and Gail had never been closer since their heart-to-heart talk on the night of the fire, Whit was lost without Mariah.
Sitting behind the desk in his book-lined study, he half listened to Gail as she harangue
d him about his foolishness.
Her injured leg healed, she perched easily on the edge of his desk, her arms crossed. “Well, are you or are you not going to swallowed that damned pride of yours, and apologize to Mariah?”
“I’m not.”
“You should see yourself when you tighten your jaw like that. Pigheadedness is written all over your face. So what if she broke her word? You’re no paragon of virtue, Whit Reagor. You’ve broken a few promises along the way.”
The truth of her words chafed at his collar. “Don’t you have anything better to do than harass me?”
Not to be deterred from her purpose, Gail replied, “Not at the moment. We owe Mariah a debt of gratitude for saving my life. That Hicks character was fixing to kill me, you know.”
“I know. You’ve told me so a thousand times. But I don’t want to see her again.”
“For crying out loud, Whit Reagor, someone ought to take a peach-tree switch to your ankles.”
He forced humor. “Yes, and someone ought to paddle you for lack of respect.”
She stuck her tongue out.
“Gail ... are you sure it doesn’t bother you, my taking so long to tell you the truth?” They had had this conversation before, but Whit needed one last reassurance.
Her demeanor turned solemn. “It doesn’t trouble me now, but I was ... Well, after Lilibet told me about you, I was hurt. I was pretty awful about it until lately. Here was this man who gave me attention and affection but never said the words I wanted to hear.”
“And you took it out on Ed and on the bottle.”
“Right. But that’s in the past, where it belongs. My husband opened my eyes to many things that were blinding me.” Circling the desk to drop a kiss on the top of Whit’s head, she continued. “And speaking of my husband, I’d better check on him.”
Whit squeezed her hand. “Thank you.”
“For what?”
“For finding the strength I always knew you had. And for being you.”
She scoffed at him. “Aw, get outta here with that mush stuff. Use it on someone who’d appreciate it ... like Mariah.”
Gail departed the study.