“Oh, Mary, you know we love you,” her mother hurriedly attempted to assure her. She walked up to the girl and embraced her, but Mary felt stiff and oddly out of place. “We will always, always love you,” her mother continued. “I just…we have to discuss what we will tell others, how to approach Rafe…”
“I’ll talk to him first myself,” Sage told the woman.
James St. Claire continued to weep while Charlet pulled away from Mary. She looked up at Sage indignantly. “And why should it be you? Just what is your interest in my daughter, Mr. MacKenzie? Did you take advantage of her helplessness? Do we add you to the list of men who used her?”
“Mother!” Mary drew back, grasping Sage’s arm and sensing his anger.
“I happen to love your daughter, Mrs. St. Claire,” Sage answered boldly. “As much as any man can love a woman. She’s the finest woman I’ve ever known, and she’s very courageous. It took a lot of strength and guts to live through what she’s been through, and for a while she didn’t even know who she was. Even when she did remember, she was sure her husband was dead. She saw him go down with an arrow in his back. I’ve spent nearly a year with Mary, and considering the feelings we have for each other, I think it’s my place to go talk to her husband first and get things straight between us.”
Charlet looked at her daughter with terrible hurt and near shame in her eyes. “Oh, Mary! The other things, those I can understand. But to…to willingly take another man when you didn’t even know if your husband was dead or alive! Mary, what has happened to you?”
Tears began streaming down Mary’s face. “Haven’t you been listening, Mother? My God, I’ve been to hell and back! Did you think if I was ever found alive that I would be the same when I came home? It took Sage months to help me understand I don’t have to be ashamed of anything that happened to me. I couldn’t help what happened, Mother, and I couldn’t help falling in love with this man who saved my sanity and my life! Sage is a wonderful person—a kind, devoted, generous man.” Her voice began to waver as more tears came. “What we have together has nothing to do with me and Rafe. The last few months of my life have been as far removed from Rafe and from how I lived here as they could be.”
She sniffed and swallowed, and Sage kept a firm arm around her. “Now I need you more than ever…you and Father…your understanding and support,” Mary sobbed. “I happen to love Sage, Mother, for the wonderful man that he is. He has taught me so many things—about survival, about real life! I’m not going to just cast him aside and send him back to the mountains with a simple ‘thank you.’ There are some very important…decisions to be made here…and it would be a lot easier to make them if you acted like you understand the hell I have been through, understand why I love Sage MacKenzie. Don’t you dare insult him or suggest he took advantage of me!”
Myriad feelings seemed to move through her mother’s eyes. “Are you telling me you two…you two…slept together?”
“Charlet, for God’s sake!” James St. Claire almost groaned.
Mary broke into more tears and turned to Sage, who embraced her, keeping hard eyes on Charlet St. Claire. “Yes, we slept together,” he told the woman calmly. “And if you knew anything about that country up there, you’d know why we couldn’t find a preacher to marry us. If we could have, we probably would have done it legally. But in my heart Mary is my wife. It wasn’t until several weeks ago she remembered Rafe, and even then she was certain he must be dead. Your daughter is a good girl, a loving, generous person. I am beginning to wonder how she got that way.”
Charlet stiffened, her eyes moving over Sage then, taking inventory. “And what do you do for a living, Mr. MacKenzie? Where are you from?”
“Oh, Mother, stop it!” Mary cried. “What difference do those things make right now?”
Sage kept his arms around her. “I lived most of my life as a trapper, after I was orphaned by a fire in Missouri,” he told Mary’s mother. “Now a man can’t really make a living that way anymore. So I am going to have to find something else. But your daughter is right. It doesn’t matter at the moment. All that matters is that she is home and well—and the next step is to talk to her husband. I am going to ride into town and look him up at the bank.”
James St. Claire coughed and tried to rise. “I should…go with you, Mr. MacKenzie.”
“No, Father.” Mary turned away from Sage and put her hands on the man’s shoulders. “You stay right there. You never should have let yourself believe you were to blame, Father. I’m home now and I’m all right. I want you to get well.”
“But…my poor Mary…and what about Rafe? We both…searched and searched, Mary. Rafe was like a crazy man at first.” He wiped at his eyes with a shaking hand. Mary had been shocked when she had first seen him. He had aged considerably. Before she had been stolen away, James St. Claire had been a vital, energetic, solidly built man. Now he seemed crumbled and shaky. She looked up at her mother’s accusing eyes, then rose.
“Mother, why? You made sure he felt fully to blame, didn’t you?”
The woman wiped at more tears. “He is to blame—and so is Rafe, taking you on that ridiculous buggy ride! He should have known better than to go so far!”
Mary studied her, suddenly feeling more sorry for Rafe. “You said when I got here that Rafe wasn’t here anymore. Did you make him move out, Mother?”
The woman sighed deeply. “I didn’t ask him directly. I think he left because of the tension in the house. Your father was getting sicker, and Rafe had to be at the bank more and more. It was more convenient for him to take a room in town.”
Mary closed her eyes to gain self-control, then met her mother’s gaze. “Why do I suddenly feel more sorry for Rafe and Father than I do for myself or for you?” she asked the woman. “You seemed so glad to see me at first. But now I see what you have done to Father, and I know what you did to Rafe. And I see that look in your eyes, Mother.” The tears came again. “You almost wish I hadn’t returned. Are you worrying about what to tell our friends?”
“Oh, Mary, don’t put it that way,” the woman cried. “You’re my daughter, my precious, beautiful Marietta. It’s hard…to think of any of those things happening to you. I just need…time. It isn’t me I’m think of, it’s you. I don’t want people…being cruel to my darling Mary. People say and think the worst in situations like this. I don’t want you hurt.”
Mary turned away. “I know what they’ll think and say, Mother. That’s why I first have to get things straight with Rafe—and then I will probably have to leave here.”
“Leave? With Rafe?”
Mary looked up at Sage, seeing tears in his eyes. “I don’t know. It depends on what Rafe wants to do. I only know neither of us can stay here now, and we probably can’t even go back to New Orleans.” She looked at her mother. “And if Rafe doesn’t want me at all anymore, I will leave with Sage.”
Charlet St. Claire looked up at Sage again. “He’s a mountain man—a man with no job and no education, and no money,” she sobbed.
“My God, Mother, don’t you understand I don’t care about those things anymore? I’ve been happy with Sage. I couldn’t care less how we live.”
“And what about poor Rafe! He searched and searched! He’s been sick with grief and guilt. You can’t come home and show him you’re still alive, and then turn around and tell him you love someone else and want to leave again!”
Mary shook her head. “Mother, I have no idea what I’m going to do. First we just have to talk. If Rafe still loves me, wants me to remain his wife, then Rafe and Sage and I have to make some decisions.”
She looked up at Sage again, then hugged him and wept. His own heart ached fiercely, and he struggled against the tears. If Rafe Cousteau really loved this woman, he would most certainly want her back. What man wouldn’t? And Mary would feel it was her duty to go with her legal husband. He would not blame her for it. He understood why she would believe that would be the only right thing to do. But it tore at him to think of the lon
eliness, the utter loneliness he would suffer in riding off without her. How could he do it? Yet do it he must if it came to that. There was no sense in drawing things out and making it even harder on Mary. At least supposedly this Rafe was a good man. He would not be cruel to her.
He squeezed her more tightly. Rafe Cousteau was her husband. He would make love to her! No, not his Mary. She belonged to Sage MacKenzie now. Yet she didn’t belong to him at all and never had, not legally. It was as though he had borrowed another man’s wife, and it brought a sick jealousy, a painful stab of love and sorrow.
“You rest, Mary,” he told her then. “Stay here and eat something and lie down a while. Talk some more to your folks and get things straightened out here at home. I’ll go see Rafe right now.”
She clung to him more tightly. “Sage, what will he do? What will he think?”
“He’ll think the right thing and no less of you, unless he wants my fist in his face. If he really loves you, he’ll understand. We’ve got no choice now but to go talk to him and get it done with. You stay here and talk to your pa—get him settled down.” He patted her shoulder and led her over to a velvet settee. “Sit down here now and relax. Whatever happens, we don’t want you slipping into that other world I found you in. Show me how strong you can be, Mary.”
Charlet St. Claire watched them with a mixture of thankfulness and disgust. If only the girl hadn’t come back with this uneducated mountain man, spouting that she loved him, had slept with him! The other things were forgivable, but this! Still, at least her precious little girl was home and safe. The woman walked over to her, kneeling in front of her.
“Oh, Mary, please understand. We have to have time to comprehend all this. It’s been such a shock. All I can do right now is thank God my Mary is home.” She grasped the girl’s hands. “Maybe you and Rafe will get back together now; and maybe you’ll even have another child. I pray you’ll find the happiness the two of you once shared.” The woman hung her head, weeping. “Thank God! Thank God! This is such a miracle!”
Mary looked at Sage, who still sat beside her. “Sage performed the miracle, Mother,” she said softly.
Sage leaned forward and kissed her cheek. “I might as well get this over with,” he told her.
He started to rise. “Sage!” Mary whimpered.
He sat back down, holding her eyes.
“We might never”—she whispered the words—“never…be together again.”
He felt the old, burning desire; felt almost crazy with the reality of her words. Never make love with his Mary again? Death would be more acceptable. And that was what he would be living in if Rafe Cousteau wanted his wife back for himself. He would be living in the world of the dead, a world devoid of all feeling.
A tear slipped down his cheek and he kissed her gently on the lips. “There is nothing we can do,” he told her. “We can only remember the love we’ve shared—enjoy secret memories of those months in the cabin.”
“Sage…” More tears spilled down her cheeks. He wiped at them with his fingers.
“Come on, now. Don’t you spoil all my hard work at making you well. You show them how proud and strong you are. You show them, Mary—for me. Show them the stuff Marietta St. Claire is made of.” He grasped her face between his hands and kissed her once more. “God be with you, Mary,” he whispered.
He quickly rose then, going to the door. She called out to him again, but he did not stop. He walked outside, thinking of the time he had left her at the fort and she had called out to him in much the same way. He had promised once never to leave her again. But now there was a new obstacle to overcome—and there would be no fighting this one. Mary St. Claire Cousteau’s husband was still alive. The man had to be told.
A clerk led Sage into the office of Rafe Cousteau. “Mr. Cousteau will be with you in just a moment,” the young man told Sage. He closed the door behind Sage and left him standing there alone.
Sage looked around the room, which contained several shelves of books, as well as some wooden file cabinets. Potted plants sat here and there, and expensive-looking curtains hung over a tall window behind the desk. The desk itself was an expensive piece of furniture, which was obvious even to Sage’s untrained eye. It was made of oak, and the chair behind it was covered in a shiny black leather and looked quite comfortable.
The guest chairs on Sage’s side of the desk looked too homey for an office. They were two huge velvet overstuffed chairs, pale green in color. The floor of the office was hardwood, polished to an incredible shine. A gold box sat on top of the desk, and Sage walked closer, peeking inside to see that it held expensive cigars.
Sage sighed deeply, stepping back again, studying a room that smelled of money. He wondered how many of the books on the shelves Rafe Cousteau had read, and he wished he could read better himself. He was feeling more and more out of place, and realizing with greater clarity that he did not fit into the style of life to which Mary Cousteau was accustomed. Surely after months or years of living with Sage MacKenzie, she would long for this life again. She probably would be better off if her husband wanted her back, but the thought of it still brought a stabbing pain to Sage’s heart.
Mary! He felt like he had walked out of a wonderful dream to find that none of it had even happened. How could he ever catch hold of that dream again? Maybe he should have stayed with her on the mountain, never to come down to this real world. What he would give for just one more day alone in the cabin with Mary.
The door opened, and he turned, his heart leaping with jealousy and a feeling of inadequacy when an extremely handsome young man came inside, putting out his hand. “Mr. MacKenzie, I’m told?”
Sage took his hand, nodding. The man’s grip was firm and strong. He was nearly as tall as Sage, built well but not quite as big. His hair was very dark, as were his eyes. His bright smile showed white, even teeth. He was every bit the handsome Frenchman, though he had no French accent, and he appeared no more than twenty-six or twenty-seven years old. At the moment Sage couldn’t remember how old Mary had said he was. His mind was too full of the fact that the man was Mary’s husband, and Sage was more certain he was going to lose the woman he loved to the man who legally owned her.
He thought about what a magnificent-looking couple this man and Mary must have made on their wedding day. How tragic that it had all been ruined. Their baby girl must have been beautiful.
“I’m Rafe Cousteau,” the man was saying. “A clerk outside said you wanted to see me in private. What can I do for you?” He moved away and around behind his desk. “Do you need a loan?”
Sage swallowed. “No. I…uh…I think you had better sit down, Mister Cousteau. It’s about your wife.”
Rafe’s smile faded, and Sage saw love and concern in the man’s eyes. It was a relief, but it also hurt. Yes. He would want her back.
“My wife! You’ve found her? You have a body?”
Sage toyed with the hat in his hand. “She’s alive, Mr. Cousteau. She’s at your in-laws right now.”
Rafe paled, clinging to the edge of his desk. He still had not sat down. His eyes teared. “Mary? Alive?” He let out a little gasp that seemed to be a mixture of agony and joy. “Are you sure it’s my Mary? Who are you? How did she get here?” He seemed to ask the questions absently, turning suddenly to come back around the desk. “I’ll go over there right now! My God!”
Sage grasped his arm. “Wait, Mr. Cousteau. We…we have to talk first.”
Rafe halted, meeting his eyes. He stepped back then, looking Sage over, suddenly seeming to realize there was more to the story than his wife’s suddenly showing up alive. He turned away then, taking deep breaths against an urge to cry.
“Of course. I guess I should know…what happened to her…before I go running over there.” He walked back to his desk, his back still to Sage. “It’s true though? Mary’s alive?”
“Yes. And she’s all right. She’s not…not disfigured or anything like that—at least not physically. She’s still not strong
mentally, though. She’ll need a lot of understanding and support.”
Rafe nodded, suddenly hanging his head, his shoulders shaking. Sage sighed, moved to sit down in one of the chairs, giving Cousteau a moment to compose himself.
“I’m…sorry,” Rafe said, his voice choked. “This is such a shock.”
“I know. It’s all right.”
Rafe took a handkerchief from the pocket of his pants, and Sage noticed that the suit he wore looked very expensive. Rafe blew his nose and walked to look out the window, his back still to Sage. “I want to know…all of it,” the man said then. “The Comanche. I suppose they…raped her.”
Sage recounted the story, amid groaning “My God’s” from Rafe, who finally came around to sit down wearily in his chair when Sage got to the part about his finding her and taking her to Fort Bridger. He did not tell Rafe he had already made love to her by then. How could the man understand fully what her mental state had been? How could Sage explain she had come to him, undressed in front of him, wanted to make love? Sage realized now that Mary must have been thinking of her husband then, thinking she was with him. He would leave out those first few times. But he couldn’t leave it all out.
“I rode off, and the next day a man from the fort came to tell me she had run off looking for me,” Sage continued. “She was in a real bad state mentally. Maybe she thought I was you, I don’t know. But she was afraid without me. We searched for her—found her real bad sick. Ute Indian friends of mine had found her and they were helping her.”
“Indians! Helping her?”
“Yes, sir. There are some mighty good Indians, Mr. Cousteau. Believe it or not, there are even some good ones among the Comanche. My best friend is an Indian—Red Dog. His wife is the one who nursed Mary.”
Rafe shook his head and closed his eyes. “Indians. How ironic!” He looked at Sage again. “I’m sorry, Mr. MacKenzie, but I have a hard time thinking of any Indians as good. I have a gnawing pain in my back night and day to remind me of it—and I visit my baby girl’s grave every day. I don’t want to hear about good Indians.”
Sweet Mountain Magic Page 33