by Martha Hix
Alone once more, Whit listened to the grandfather clock strike nine. Over and over, he thought about his foibles. Yes, he’d broken his promise to Lilibet. All these years he’d kept his oath, only to learn she had told Gail the truth. Yes, he’d betrayed Joe by stealing his woman. Whit didn’t regret that. Yes, he had done Mariah wrong by demanding she be something she wasn’t. She would never be anything but her own woman.
But, down deep, he loved her for what she was. Independent, spirited, practical. Was it too late to swallow his pride? Would she forgive him, and let him make amends for the past?
A knock sounded at his door and Mariah glided in. His heart pounding against his chest, he stood. She had never looked so beautiful ... nor her eyes so unreadable.
Wearing a peach-hued frock of crossbar lawn, she had styled her rich burnt-auburn hair atop her head in a mass of curls. Roses, soft and sweet, wafted to him as she approached.
“Hello, Mariah.”
“Whit,” she said with a nod. “I’m here to say goodbye. I’m leaving for Guernsey tomorrow.”
No!
“That one time I was here,” she said, “we never made it to your study.” Her hand swept in the direction of the lined shelves. “Books?” “Where do you think I learned about Thomas More and Prester John? I like to read.”
“Do you still tutor Carlos?”
“Yeah. It’s rewarding.”
“I’m on to those same rewards. In St. Peter Port, of course.”
“Is that all you want out of life, teaching?”
“No. I’m hoping for a husband and children.”
“Just any husband and children?”
She moistened her lips. “Of course not.”
“How many children?”
“Several.” Mariah glanced away, then back at Whit. “Well, I really must be going.”
“Before you do ...” He took a step toward her. “I want to thank you for saving Gail’s life.”
“I did it as a labor of love. She’s my friend. And I know about ... Whit, why haven’t you been honest with her?”
He blanched. “You know?”
“I do. She told me.”
“And you’re not bothered by it?” he asked.
“Why should I be? I see it as all the more reason to love her.”
Mariah’s compassion was all the more reason to love her. He decided to take the biggest gamble of his life. Now was the moment he’d draw the line ... and hope she’d step over to his side by refusing his offer.
His thumb at the sensitive point behind her ear, he said, “I owe you a debt of gratitude. If you’ll accept it, I’d like very much to give you the money for your own schoolhouse in Guernsey.”
She moved away, turning to the bookshelves. “All right. I accept. On two conditions.”
His hopes plunged to the soles of his boots. “Which are?”
“One, that you forgive me for being such a terrible thorn in your side.”
“You have been, but there’s nothing to forgive.” Whit took a step toward her. “Unless you can see your way clear to forgive me ... for a lot of things.”
“There’s nothing to forgive. You expected something from me I wasn’t able to give,” she said. “I’ve never been biddable.”
“I know.”
“You’re hardheaded, too, cowboy.”
He touched a lock of the hair that had always fascinated him. “Never said I wasn’t.”
“You asked me to choose between saving Gail’s life and coddling myself, and I still think I made the right decision.”
“Well, Red, you’ve never been biddable.”
“And you’ve always been a bitter, irritating man who can’t forget yesterdays and get on with today.”
“Hardheaded and irritating, I can’t do anything about. But I can work on changing the bitter part. I don’t want to live in the past. I’d like to have one more chance for today.”
“Would you like to hear my second condition for the schoolhouse?” she asked as she closed the scant distance between them. He reveled in her petal-scented skin, her nearness, her presence.
Her dark eyes locked with the blue of his, and her fingers twined into the black curls at the back of his head. “I’ll accept if you’ll build it on Crosswind.”
By damn, it wasn’t too late! He caressed the curve of her slim waist. “Well, there is a small plot of ground I could spare,” he teased.
“Whit Reagor, are you going to force me to my knee to ask for your hand in marriage?”
“Absolutely not. Marry me, Red.”
“It’s about time you asked.”
“Shall we seal it with a kiss?”
She cuddled against him. “I have something better in mind.”
“Brazen hussy.”
“Insatiable beast, lock the door.”
Epilogue
Spring 1884
All of Coleman County was green. Rains had healed the wounds caused by the previous year’s drought. Bluebonnets blanketed the hills and dales, the stock ponds brimmed with water. Barbed wire cordoned off farm land but now in deference to the Western Trail and to the local ranchers.
No more did raiders set fires. No more were cattle slaughtered or fences snipped. Peace reigned in Trick’em.
On this bright April day, Mariah Reagor gave her students early dismissal. She hurried to her husband. Whit was supposed to be overseeing a well-digging project adjacent to the little red schoolhouse, but he wielded a shovel with the rest of the men.
He stopped his toil when Mariah approached, and climbed out of the hole to try to wrap his arms around her waist, then settled his big hand on her stomach.
“How’s he doin’?”
“She’s doing fine.”
“Glad to hear she is doing fine,” Whit replied.
“And I’m glad you finally agree with me.” Her hands on her hips, Mariah looked down into in the hole being dug. “Darling, with all the rain we’ve had, you’re daft to dig this well.”
“I promised you a well, and you’re getting it. You know I don’t usually break my word. Besides, why not dig for water? It won’t go to waste.”
He started to bend over and nuzzle his wife’s neck, but the sheriffs throat-clearing stopped him.
“Are ye trying to embarrass me?” Mack asked, balancing young Edward Strickland on his hip.
The baby reached for his badge and began to gum it.
“Don’t let him put that nasty thing in his mouth,” Mariah said. “You really should take him back to his mother.”
“But I love the wee lad, and I need something to hold till yer babe is born.”
“The ladies aren’t enough?” Mariah asked, a brow lifted.
Since taking permanent residence in Trick’em and freeing up Slim Culpepper’s return to Crosswind, Mack had made a hit with the widow women and not only for his light step on the dance floor, Mariah knew. Birdie Turner was especially fond of ... dancing.
“Why don’t you remarry and have more children?” Mariah asked.
The lawman patted young Edward’s behind. “Birdie’s a wee bit old for bairns.”
“Are you trying to tell us something, Mack?” Whit asked lightly. “Isn’t she too old for you?”
“Aye, and nay. I’m going to marry the Widow Turner. She’s a few years my senior, ’tis true, but she’s a good cook and likes to dance.”
“Congratulations,” Mariah said honestly. “She’s a dear person.”
“Aye, and she’s biddable.”
“This one”–Whit put his arm around his wife’s shoulder–“will never be that.”
No, his wife would never be biddable. She was as mulish as ever. Forever she’d be chasing after windmills. Her latest cause was to bring the railroad to Coleman County. Whit accepted the fact that a rail line would mean no more cattle drives, but he wouldn’t miss them. Matter of fact, he had chosen to stay at Crosswind this spring with Mariah.
During all their time together, Whit had never experienced a dull mome
nt. He had managed to survive some few firecracker-hot arguments, too.
“Mack,” he said, “you’ll be bored to tears with a malleable woman.”
The sheriff tickled the baby’s chin, drawing a coo and a smile. “Birdie isn’t all that docile.”
“Mr. Reagor!” a worker shouted from the hole. “We’ve hit something.”
Whit leaned over the water well. Black oil oozed at the bottom. He grimaced. “Damn.”
“Such a shame,” Mariah said. “What now?”
“Cover up that useless goo.”
Special thanks to my dear and true friend, BARBARA CATLIN
ZEBRA BOOKS
are published by
Kensington Publishing Corp.
475 Park Avenue South
New York, NY 10016
Copyright @ 1990 by Martha Hix
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.
ISBN: 978-0-8217-2882-6