Only in My Arms

by Jo Goodman

  She was sitting on the sun-baked slab of stone wearing a plain white cotton shift. Her knees were drawn toward her chest, and she hugged them with her arms. The shift was damp in places as it absorbed the water she hadn't had time to towel off. "You could have surfaced with your back to me," she told him. "How could you know I'd be covered?"

  "I trusted you to be quick about it even if it meant diving into the brush." He realized she was feeling a little more confident now that she was clothed. He was not going to disabuse her of that notion by pointing out that the sunlight made her shift an ephemeral covering at best. If she stood up now she would be more exposed to him than she had been in the water. "Is the house I passed on the way here yours?"

  "No," she said truthfully.

  "You're a guest?"

  In her parents' home? Hardly. "No," she said. "Not a guest."

  "A servant, then."

  She had a serenely quiet smile, and she graced him with it. "No. But it's a mistake that's been made before in my family." She saw him working out another question and saved him the trouble by asking one of her own. "What's your business with Walker Caide?"

  "No business. Just reestablishing an old acquaintance."

  She regarded him steadily, weighing his words. "Walker Caide has enemies. How do I know you're not one of them?"

  "You don't."

  She considered that. Her sigh was audible as she came to a decision. "Walker Caide is my brother-in-law."

  One of his dark brows arched slightly. "Then Mary Schyler is—"

  "My sister."

  His eyes narrowed now as he studied her, and he felt his skin prickle with the sensation of wariness. "And you're... Mary Michael?"

  The serene smile returned. She shook her head. "In Denver."

  The water seemed several degrees colder than it had moments before. "Mary Renee?"

  "Laying track for Northeast Rail somewhere in the Rockies." The smile had now reached her forest green eyes.

  "Mary Margaret?"

  It seemed that Walker had written to his friend about the whole family. She cautioned herself that she shouldn't be enjoying this stranger's comeuppance quite so much. "Recently graduated from the Philadelphia Women's College of Medicine and back home on the Double H in Colorado."

  "I see."

  She gave him credit for masking his discomfort so well. She smoothed her cotton shift over her knees and looked at him expectantly.

  "That makes you Mary Francis," he said finally.

  She couldn't help it that her smile widened. "That's right."

  "The nun."

  "The nun," she confirmed. He surprised her again by turning the tables. In spite of the fact that she now commanded the high ground, had solid footing, and was wearing the clothes this time, he was able to stare her down.

  "I don't think you have any shame," he said. Turning in the water, he swam with strong but awkward strokes toward the opposite bank.

  Mary Francis sat as still as stone. Several moments passed before she got to her feet. She was reaching for her own clothing when she heard him climb out of the water. Knowing that he wasn't looking in her direction now, she began to dress. The black habit was creased by her earlier carelessness, and she made a halfhearted attempt to smooth it. She adjusted the stiff white collar. Out of her pocket she pulled her rosary and attached it to her waist. She did not have her cornet or veil and her red-gold hair was incongruently bright against the severity of her habit. She threaded her fingers through it quickly, squeezing out the last of the water droplets.

  He was fastening his gun belt when he heard her voice coming to him quietly from across the water hole. He paused, raising his head, and looked at her. She was standing there in her plain black gown, both somber and simple, and he was thinking about a flash of rose-tipped breasts. She was standing there with the serene features of an angel, and he was thinking about kissing that mouth. She took a step closer to the water, the movement making the habit shift against her legs. Suddenly he was remembering the undulating rhythm of hips and thighs and calves as she parted the water with her body.

  "Did you hear me?" she asked.

  His eyes never leaving hers, he shook his head.

  "You're welcome to come to breakfast at the house. If you're hungry, that is."

  He was. The train from West Point had deposited him in Baileyboro long before any boarding house was serving a meal. He'd chosen to walk the five miles to the Granville mansion rather than cool his heels at the station. Now, not only was he hungry, it seemed he hadn't walked far enough. "No, thank you," he said. "I think I'll go straight to Walker's."

  She could have said, "Suit yourself." God knew as well as she did that it was what she wanted to say. Mary didn't, however, believing she might as well behave with charity in her heart right now rather than confess a lack of it later. "Walker and Skye have returned to China," she said. "They left soon after Maggie's graduation. There's no one at the mansion except the groundskeeper and his wife." She took the path that led into the forest and then to the summerhouse, leaving it to Walker's friend to follow her or not.

  He drew abreast of her more quickly than she would have thought possible. His passage was both swift and silent. She made no comment about his decision to join her. The fingers of her right hand ran absently along the length of her rosary.

  "My name's McKay," he said. "Ryder McKay."

  Mary acknowledged the introduction with a brief nod. "I don't recall Walker mentioning you, but then I haven't spent much time with him. It's unfortunate he's not here to greet you."

  "I doubt he'll think so," Ryder said. "He wanted to return to China."

  "My sister was excited as well. Skye imagines herself to be some sort of adventuress."

  "Then she married the right man."

  Mary glanced at him sideways. "Yes," she said quietly. "I think she did." They walked along in silence, their path shaded by the sweeping boughs of pine and oak and hickory. When it rose more steeply, she raised her gown and revealed she was still barefooted. She had no difficulty crossing the uneven ground. "What led you to the pool?" she asked as they came over the rise. The summerhouse was in front of them now, a hundred yards distant across an open field. Black-eyed Susans, columbine, and daylilies dotted the green. "Why didn't you come to the house if you thought Walker lived there?"

  "It was too early. I looked around, but no one was up. It seemed more polite to wait."

  "But what led you to the pool?"

  "The scent of water."

  "The scent? But—"

  He shrugged, cutting off her question. It wasn't something he could explain and it wasn't something she could understand. She probably wondered why he hadn't gone directly to the river, but that had a different scent than the place she called the pool and he called a watering hole.

  Mary didn't pursue her question. The summer home beckoned her, its newly painted, white wooden frame gleaming in the sunshine. The windows winked at her. At the entrance to the enclosed back porch, she wiped her feet on the hemp mat and then slipped them into a pair of soft black leather slippers. She picked up a pail of raspberries she had picked earlier in the morning. Raising it in front of her, she said, "I was already up when you came by. I just wasn't home."

  "I stand corrected," he said somewhat stiffly.

  She hesitated a beat, fighting the urge to look away. "I'm sorry about what happened at the pool," she said quickly, before the apology stuck in her throat. "I should have told you at the beginning. I knew it would make a difference."

  There was a hint of roughness in his voice and an intensity about his light gray eyes. "Why didn't you?"

  Mary didn't respond. She preceded him into the kitchen, knowing it would take a lot of soul-searching to answer that question honestly.

  The kitchen of the summerhouse was spacious. A large, solid rectangular pine table dominated the center of the room. Kettles and skillets and cooking utensils dangled from iron hooks on a wooden frame that was suspended from the ceiling.
One of her sisters—she couldn't say now which one—had christened it the pan chandelier and the name had stuck.

  "Will pancakes be all right?" she asked, reaching for one of the cast iron skillets.

  He nodded shortly and looked around for something that he might do. Her hospitality confused him. Ryder McKay wasn't used to a welcome mat. An invitation into any home was rare, and the circumstances of this invitation were most unusual.

  "Just have a seat," she said, pointing to one of the six chairs gathered around the table. "Unless you'd rather eat in the dining room? You could wait in the parlor while I cook."

  He nudged one of the chairs out with the toe of his boot. "No," he said. "This is fine." More than fine, he thought, but he didn't say the words. He was conscious of his dusty boots, of his clothes that looked as if he'd slept in them, of his dark, damp hair that was just beginning to dry at the back of his neck.

  "You can hang your duster on that hook by the back door," she told him when she saw him hesitate. Mary glanced at his empty hands. "You don't have a hat?"

  Ryder shook his head. Most often he wore a bandana tied around his forehead and hair. He had one in the pocket of his duster, but he hadn't worn it since leaving Fort Apache two weeks ago. He touched the back of his neck again. It was when he had cut his hair. He was aware suddenly that Mary was looking at him expectantly, and Ryder realized he'd still made no move to take off his coat. He did so now, hanging up not only the coat but his gun belt as well. Although his hostess made no comment, he could sense her relief.

  The black iron stove was a monstrous contraption that generally needed more coaxing than a contentious child. On this occasion it fired up easily, and Mary set the skillet, adding a dollop of butter to heat. She quickly put the pancake ingredients in a bowl and placed it in front of Ryder along with a wooden whisk. "You mix this while I clean the berries."

  Welcoming something to do, Ryder didn't object. Butter was sizzling on the skillet by the time he had a smooth batter, and without direction from Mary, he left the table and began pouring the first cakes.

  At the sink Mary paused and glanced over her shoulder to where Ryder was working. He was intent on his task and didn't appear to sense her interest. There was nothing tentative about his work. His movements were crisp and efficient as he measured out the batter and, later, when he flipped the saucer-sized cakes. She turned back to her own work, finished rinsing the berries, and sugared them lightly to bring out their own juice.

  "Do you want coffee?" she asked, realizing she was remiss in not thinking of it earlier.

  "Are you having it?"

  "No. I'm drinking milk."

  "Milk will be fine." Better than fine, he thought, trying to recall when he'd last had a glass of cold, sweet milk. It wasn't as long ago as the last time he'd been swimming, it only seemed that way. He expertly flipped another cake and placed it on a warming plate. "Do you want me to get it?" he asked before he poured more batter. "I saw the cooler on the back porch."

  Mary accepted his offer, reasoning he wouldn't have made it if he minded. It gave her the opportunity to set the table. In a matter of minutes they were sitting at a right angle to one another, unfolding their napkins. Ryder started to pick up his fork when he saw Mary bow her head. His lean fingers released the fork and his hand slid onto his lap. He lowered his head but didn't close his eyes, watching Mary instead as she said the blessing quietly. When she was finished, she smiled encouragingly in his direction.

  "Please help yourself."

  For a moment he couldn't think what she meant. He was staring at her mouth, at the smile that had some extraordinary power to tilt him off center. He blinked. His world was righted as her smile slowly faded under his penetrating stare. He looked away abruptly, picked up his fork, and stabbed at the pile of pancakes.

  Out of the corner of her eye Mary watched Ryder stack his cakes, spread them with butter, and add the sweetened raspberries. She appreciated his appetite and wondered when he'd last eaten, though good manners dictated she couldn't ask. "How do you know Walker?" she said, lifting two pancakes to her own plate.

  "We met at West Point." He saw her startled pause. The reaction didn't surprise him. "I was two years older than Walker, but we began at the same time. He finished. I didn't." She resumed preparing her pancakes. "But then that's probably more in line with what you'd expect of me."

  Mary's red-gold brows arched. "I don't believe I've formed any expectations regarding you, Mr. McKay. We've only just met."

  He said nothing and applied himself to his meal.

  She was silent for a few minutes and then asked, "How is it that you came to go to West Point?"

  Ryder looked at her frankly. "How is it that you came to go to the convent?"

  Mary's head jerked a fraction in response to his candor. He couldn't have let her know any more clearly that she was intruding upon his privacy.

  "Look, ma'am," he said. "If the price of breakfast is having to answer your list of questions, I think I'll pass." Waiting for her reply, Ryder leaned back in his chair and pushed away his half-eaten plate of food.

  Mary found herself apologizing for the second time that morning. "You're right," she said softly. "I was being unconscionably rude. There are no strings to breakfast." She pushed his plate toward him again, even as she felt her own appetite fading. "Eat your fill. I won't bother you again." She noticed he did not require a second invitation. He tucked into his food with relish while she mostly pushed hers around her plate.

  "This is a big house for just you," he said, looking around the kitchen again. "Are you here alone?"

  "Right now I am. Jay Mac and Mama were up here for most of June and they'll return again next month. They hire some help in Baileyboro to maintain the house. I didn't want anyone here, so I sent them away." Her sigh was a trifle wistful. "But you're right, it's a big house to ramble in alone. Every room has memories, this one perhaps more than any other. Sometimes I can almost believe I hear the Marys laughing and bickering and chattering." She smiled gently now, thinking about squabbles at the kitchen table over who would clean the berries and who would make the piecrust, who would set the table and who would pour the milk. "There were too many of us and not always enough jobs."

  "The Marys," he said thoughtfully, interested. "Is that what you call yourselves?"

  Her smile deepened to a grin. "No. My father called us that. He came up with it after we started calling him Jay Mac. He mostly used it when he was thinking of some collective punishment."

  "Collective punishment?"

  "You know, when one of us had done something wrong and wouldn't admit to it. Jay Mac would line us up, oldest to youngest, and pace the floor in front of us, speaking to our mother as if we weren't in the room at all." Mary's voice deepened, her brow furrowed, and she tucked her chin lower and looked up, as if she were looking over the rim of invisible spectacles.

  Ryder watched, fascinated by this imitation of John MacKenzie Worth. The man was a leader of industry, the owner of one of the most powerful and successful rail lines in the nation, a personal friend of presidents and generals. He was not a man to be taken lightly or to be made light of. Yet his daughter showed no compunction about sharing this intimate glimpse into their family life.

  " 'Moira,' he'd say, 'the Marys have perpetrated a most heinous crime. I count two of my cigars missing from the humidor on my desk. Not one Mary will admit to it, so all the Marys must bear the responsibility.' " The impression she gave of Jay Mac was quite credible, but then all her sisters agreed she'd had more years to practice it. Mary straightened and resumed her own sweetly melodious voice. "He'd go on for a few minutes, hoping to wear us down, I think, but he never did. Being one of the Marys made us stronger. Against a force like Jay Mac, it was necessary to band together." Half her mouth curved in a quick smile that also lighted her eyes. "Poor Papa, he's smart about so many things, but he's never quite learned how to divide and conquer his five Marys."

  If only a third of what Walker had
written him about the family was true, Ryder imagined that five young Marys were a force to be reckoned with. "Why were you all named Mary?"

  "Mother's idea." She took a sip of milk. "Tradition, I suppose. She's Irish, you know. And Catholic, of course. But Jay Mac's a thorough Presbyterian, and then there's the problem of us all being bastards because Jay Mac didn't marry my mother until a few years ago." She glanced at him, wondering what Walker had revealed to him. "Did you follow that?"

  He nodded, but he was paying more attention to the fact that she had a milk mustache on her upper lip. Her youthful smile, the odd cropping of her red-gold hair, and now the milk outlining the shape of her upper lip made her seem as young as a schoolgirl. As innocent as one, too. He needed to remind himself of that. He cleared his throat and touched his own lip. "Milk."

  She understood immediately. "Oh," she said a bit self-consciously. She dabbed at her mouth with her linen napkin and then looked to him. "Better?"

  "You got it all," he said, not quite answering her question. "So you were all Marys."

  "Well, yes," she said, picking up the threads of her story. "But not really. I'm called Mary. Sometimes Mary Francis. My sisters were always Michael, Rennie, Maggie, and Skye. They only heard Mary precede their name if they were in serious trouble."

  Which sounded as if it had been rather frequent, he thought. "Who stole the cigars from the humidor?"

  "What? Oh, the cigars." Mary gave up any pretense of eating. She carried her plate to the sink and scraped the uneaten pancakes into a pail. "It was Michael. She actually liked the smell of cigar smoke."

  "What was your father's punishment?"

  Turning to face him, she leaned back against the sink. Her nose wrinkled with the power of the memory. "We smoked until our faces were the color of pea soup."

  "Michael, too?"

  "Michael, too. She lasted longer than the rest of us—which of course confirmed her as the perpetrator of the heinous crime in Jay Mac's eyes—but eventually she succumbed. Jay Mac was pretty certain she'd never pick up another cigar as long as she lived."

  "Did she?"

  Mary shook her head. "Not that I know." She gave Ryder a dead-on look and added dryly, "She gave them up for cigarettes."