Her Colorado Man

by Cheryl St. John

John James set down the bag and walked up beside the bed. “You helped tuck me in all the other nights. I can tuck you in this time.”

  He climbed on the side of the bed to lean over and give Wes a hug. “Aren’t you gonna take off your trousers and shirt?”

  “In a bit. Good night, John James.”

  The boy pulled up the sheet and blanket over Wes’s clothed form. “Good night, Papa.”

  He grabbed his bag, patted his thigh so Felix would follow and scurried from the room, Mariah close behind.

  The warmth seeping from the hot rice into his leg had relieved the ache. Wes hadn’t felt so relaxed in a long time. He missed Yuri’s company at night, but his own presence alone was enough imposition; he could hardly bring the dog in, as well. Besides, Yuri wasn’t used to sleeping in warm temperatures.

  Neither was he, Wes thought, but he was adjusting just fine.

  He closed his eyes to rest in comfort a moment longer.

  Felix settled down right beside John James, the dog’s chin resting on its paws. The animal gave Mariah a beseeching blue-eyed stare, and she petted its furry head. Between Wes and this dog, she’d never seen John James so animated or content.

  “It’s sad Papa didn’t have a family, isn’t it?” John James asked, his lips turned downward in sympathy. “I never knew anybody what din’t have a family.”

  Mariah had to agree that if that story was true, it was indeed sad that the man had grown up alone and unwanted. “A lot of people have to deal with things that aren’t perfect in their lives,” she told him. “He grew up just fine.”

  “But he doesn’t have to be alone any again,” he told her. “He has us now.”

  She smoothed his hair and kissed his forehead. “Indeed.”

  If his story had been intended to work on their sympathies, it had worked on John James. She would reserve her judgment about the sincerity of his youthful plight.

  A minute later, Mariah closed John James’s door. She slipped down the back stairs to dip a pitcher of water before returning to her own room. Or rather the room that should have been her own. How she’d ended up sharing it with a stranger was incomprehensible.

  Wes’s eyes were closed and his features relaxed in peaceful comfort. Setting down the pitcher on the washstand, she steeled herself against having sympathy for his pain. He shouldn’t have been here in the first place. He’d horned his way into this house and into her family—and even her room—without any rights whatsoever.

  His presence was a blackmail of sorts. He held her over a barrel because she couldn’t deny him or discredit him without exposing her life as a monumental lie.

  Looking at him lying in her bed, a quivering unease gripped her. She closed her eyes and took several deep breaths to fight off the panicky, trapped feeling.

  Her life was a monumental lie.

  As long as she never had to think about it—admit it—she scurried from day to day, handling the tasks that needed to be done, losing herself in caring for the son she loved beyond life itself, staying busy with work…

  But coming face-to-face with the harsh truth—having this stranger encroach upon her privacy—knowing that he had discovered a small part of her lie and was using that knowledge for his own purpose…this was unbearable.

  If it weren’t for her child lying in bed across the hall, she would pack a bag and run as far away as she could. Her hands were shaking and clammy when she raised them to her cheeks.

  Mariah opened her eyes and looked at her trembling hands. She would not give him the power to do this to her.

  She stomped behind the dressing screen and changed into her cotton nightdress, then washed and dried her face and hands. She unrolled the comforter and blanket he stored in the armoire each night and spread them on the floor. Her mother would heartily disapprove, but then her mother didn’t know Mariah had never seen this man before he’d arrived a little over a week ago.

  “Please move from my bed now,” she said from a safe distance.

  He didn’t flicker an eyelash.

  She took a step forward and poked his shoulder. “Please move from my bed now.”

  Still he remained unmoving.

  She grabbed one of the pillows from beneath his head and batted him with it. “Get out!”

  Chapter Seven

  She’d startled him, and Wes shot to a sitting position, instinctively snatching the pillow. Mariah didn’t let go quickly enough, so the momentum jerked her toward him.

  She fell across his lengthy form. Thankfully the pillow wedged between them, but she was too close. He clamped a hand on her upper arm to steady her. Instinctive panic fogged her vision and blocked rational thought. She clawed his hand away to escape his hold.

  “What the hell, woman?”

  Jerking from his grip and struggling to stand, she got to her feet and threw the pillow at his pallet. Out of breath, she backed away, and then pointed at the floor.

  Warily eyeballing her, he ran a hand down his jaw, and swung his legs over the side of the bed. The sock with the rice fell upon the covers with a tiny swish.

  She took another step away.

  “You might’ve tried to wake me gentle-like.”

  “Might have,” she said, mocking what he’d said to her about looking away the night her sisters and cousins had shoved her in the door nearly naked.

  He cast his penetrating dark gaze her way.

  A minute passed during which she speculated whether or not he could hear her heart pounding. What would he do now, this man she didn’t know? She hadn’t yet seen him get angry. How safe was it for her to be in this room with him night after night? Her panic was justified. Finally he turned to extinguish the lamp and then, by the sounds of it, fumbled with his clothing.

  She picked up another pillow and clutched it to her chest until she could tell he’d lain down and intended to stay there. Mariah padded to the other side of her bed and got between the sheets. The first thing she noticed was the unfamiliar spicy scent that lingered. She rolled to find a comfortable position and her toes touched a warm place where he’d lain. She jerked her foot back and turned the opposite way.

  She would not give Wesley Burrows any more power over her.

  Even as she made the silent vow, her resolution was weak. He already had the ability to toss her world into upheaval.

  And he’d done it.

  Philo Ulrich didn’t have much use for him; it had been plain from the start. Wes guessed that Friederick was well aware of Philo’s lordly attitude and had deliberately sent Wes to the mash house as a trial by fire.

  Keeping fires lit beneath huge vats of wort, mashed grain mixed with hot water, was one of the hottest, most physical chores at the plant. This process, which released the flavor of the hops, created yet another sweet, pungent aroma.

  Friederick believed Wes was a man who would leave his wife and child to go seek his fortune; and he believed, too, that Wes had only sought out Mariah when a fortune hadn’t been gained.

  For the past week Wes hadn’t minded laboring alongside fellows ten years younger than him; he was up to the task. Nor did he mind sweating or getting calluses on his hands. This work might be as far from driving sleds through the Yukon as one could get, but he’d never shirked a hard day’s work in his life. In fact, he enjoyed the change of venue and learning about the beer-making process.

  Wes had tried his hand at mining for gold, but he’d soon decided striking it rich that way was a gamble. There had been money to be made by other means—money that was a sure thing. People paid up to fifty cents or more apiece to have mail carried to remote locations. The challenges of travel and severe weather had suited him just fine. He’d never spent much, so he’d built quite a tidy savings, part of which he’d invested.

  What he did mind was Philo’s constant harangue. “If a grizzly comes at us, you’ll be the first one we call.” The contempt in Philo’s tone was unmistakable. “But until then, just stick to your job and let me do the thinking.”

  Wes had mere
ly asked if it wouldn’t be a good idea to use a larger wheelbarrow for the wood. He exchanged a glance with his soot-faced companion and went back to work. If Philo thought he could break him, he was mistaken.

  Another worker came from the back room, waving papers at Philo. Philo made a dismissive gesture as though he was too busy to deal with whatever it was and pointed to Wes before stomping away.

  A minute later the man approached Wes. “Would you mind finding your wife and giving her these?”

  Wes wiped his hands on his trousers and accepted the invoices. The open courtyard was refreshingly cool, and a pine-scented breeze swept down from the mountainside. He raised his face to the sun and breathed deeply.

  After checking the office and one other building, he headed for the bottling barn. The interior of the building was even noisier than the one he worked in. Steam engines powered conveyors that carried clanking crates of bottles to the machines that filled them.

  He located Mariah in an aisle between two conveyors, where she carried on a conversation with a woman wearing a red kerchief over her hair. The employee saw him and smiled, then excused herself and left.

  “These are for you, ma’am,” he said and handed Mariah the sheaf of papers.

  She glanced through them before letting her gaze touch his face and hair. “How’s the boil coming along?”

  “I’m doing my part.”

  She slipped the papers into a file she held and tucked it under her arm. “There’s something I need to mention.”

  “Here?”

  She glanced at the bottles rattling past on a conveyor. “I guess it’s a little loud.” She gestured with her free hand. “Let’s go outside for a minute.”

  She turned and led him toward the back of the building. Just as they reached the end of an aisle, a loud ping sounded and an object shot from the conveyor and struck a beam above them. The flying bottle ricocheted off the wood and walloped Mariah in the head, knocking her flat.

  To his right, bottles crashed onto the wood floor, rolling, splintering, creating a racket above all the others.

  Immediately Wes knelt at her side and tugged a handkerchief from his rear pocket. “Let me press this against your forehead.”

  She took the cloth from his fingers. “I’ll do it. Stop the belt! The switch is under that big fan.”

  She was coherent enough to issue orders, and her concern was clearly about the bottles being broken, not the condition of her bleeding head. He jumped up and did as she asked, flipping the motor into silence.

  He returned to her side. “Let me look at it.”

  She struggled to a sitting position. “I’m all right.”

  “I’m going for ice. Stay right there.” He shot out of the building toward the icehouse. There was probably another place he could’ve grabbed a bag, but he’d find a ready supply from the ice machine.

  He rushed into the frigid building and glanced around. Quickly he stripped out of his shirt and scooped a handful of chunks, wrapped them in the fabric and returned to Mariah.

  She had gotten to her feet, which he could have figured on, but she didn’t look too steady.

  Shoving the ice into her hands, he scooped her up and carried her toward the door. “Put that on your head.”

  Mariah’s first instinct when Wes picked her up and crushed her against his warm, bare chest was to twist away. He held on, but she straightened her body and kicked.

  “What the—Mariah, let me help you.”

  “Let go of me!”

  “Stop being ridiculous.”

  “Put me down!” With a final jerk, she twisted out of his arms and he was forced to release her. She landed on her rump in the packed dirt in the courtyard.

  The anger on her face took him aback, but blood trickled along her eyebrow to her temple and dripped on her shirt. “Why don’t we just get you to the office, where you can lie down and we can wash that cut?”

  The ruckus had garnered attention, and half a dozen workers crowded around them. Those clustered around spoke to Mariah and each other.

  “Are you all right?”

  “What happened?”

  “Did he have something to do with this?”

  Wes forced the ice back into her hand and pushed it up to her head. Why someone with such a stable life and a loving family would behave so skittishly raised a question in his mind.

  Mariah didn’t want any of them staring at her. She felt foolish enough as it was. All the attention was making things worse. “All of you, back up.” She raised her other hand in emphasis. “I’m okay. Just give me some air.”

  Gerd knelt down beside her. “What happened?”

  “I’m not sure how, but a bottle popped out of the line.”

  “Thank God it hit a beam first.” The knot already forming above her eyebrow alarmed Wes. “You could’ve been killed if that initial force had hit you.”

  Gerd insisted Mariah hold the shirt-wrapped ice away so he could look at the wound. “You need stitches.” He glanced at Wes. “Take her to the doctor.”

  Mariah grimaced. “I don’t want to go into town.”

  “Want to or not, you’re going.”

  Gerd turned to one of the young fellows. “Roth, run over and let Philo know Wes will be taking Mariah to the doctor.” He shot his gaze back to Wes. “You have time to wash up while I get a wagon. There are shirts in the big cupboard on the back of this building.”

  Wes took off around the corner. He’d used the washing area before. Pipes had been run from the metal sluices that carried water to the mash house to an outdoor spigot, and bars of grimy soap sat in wooden containers.

  By the time he’d washed and found a shirt, Mariah was seated on the bench of a wagon hitched to a harnessed team. He climbed up, flicked the reins over the horses’ backs and lit out.

  “Haven’t seen you here for a long while.” Dr. Carter cut the thread he’d used to put four stitches in Mariah’s forehead and dabbed the area with alcohol.

  Lying on her back with her eyes closed, she winced. “Being a supervisor is supposed to be safer.”

  The doctor gave Wes a sidelong look. “Bought myself a microscope last year, I did. With the earnings from treatin’ Spanglers.”

  Mariah sat up on the examining table. “Not everyone at the brewery is a Spangler.”

  “No, some are in-laws.” He chuckled.

  “Can I go back to work now?”

  “You need to take the rest of the afternoon off and rest.” He washed his hands in a basin. “Someone should stay with you and keep an eye on you. Head injuries are nothing to fool with.”

  “I feel fine,” she argued, but when she stood and took a step, she swayed.

  Wes and the doctor each took one of her arms and steadied her.

  She pulled away from Wes’s touch first, and then the other man’s. “All right. I’ll go home.”

  “Come back in a couple of weeks to have those stitches taken out,” he said.

  By now Wes knew well enough to stand aside and let her climb up to the wagon seat on her own. She didn’t take to coddling, and she sure didn’t like his help.

  At the big house, he insisted she take his hand as she got down, but then she walked ahead and into the house independently. He walked behind her to the room he’d been sharing with her, and stood back as she entered and closed the door.

  “I’ll tell your mother you’re here,” he said through the barrier. He stood with a hand on each side of the doorframe, confused about her stubborn refusal to allow him an inch of leeway. She didn’t know him, he reminded himself. She had no reason to trust him yet. She didn’t reply, so he backed away and headed downstairs to find Henrietta.

  Mariah’s mother was seated on a sofa before the west-facing windows, basking in the afternoon sun. At the sound of his footsteps, she turned her head. “Wesley?”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Naturally she recognized his clumsy gait. “Mariah is upstairs resting.” He explained what had happened.

  “The doctor said sh
e’d be fine,” she repeated.

  “Perfectly fine after she gets a little rest.”

  “You have to go?” she asked.

  “She doesn’t want me staying with her.” It was easy to be frank with Mariah’s mother. The tension between the two of them seemed no surprise to Henrietta. She picked up on things below the surface.

  “Give her time,” she said. “You were gone for many years. She’s headstrong and self-reliant. It won’t be an easy task for her to ignore her feelings of abandonment and learn to trust you.”

  “I understand that.”

  She stood. “Walk me to the stairs.”

  “I’ll walk up with you.”

  “You’re a gentleman, Wesley. But a confusing one.”

  He left her at the top of the stairs and limped back down and out to the wagon.

  Mariah had a whopping headache. Her mother sat with her while she slept, later leaving to prepare food. Hildy brought Mariah a covered tray and set it on the nightstand. “How are you doing?”

  Mariah sat up, her palm covering her eye. “I’m good.”

  She lowered her hand.

  “Oh my! Mariah!” Hildy darted forward and wrung her hands as she stood in front of her. “I’m dreadfully sorry.”

  “It’s not that bad.” Mariah leaned out so her cousin could wedge a couple of pillows behind her.

  “You haven’t looked at it, have you?”

  Mariah shook her head gently.

  Hildy brought the silver hand mirror from her dressing table.

  “Oh my was right.” A good-size bump remained on her forehead above her right eye, stretching her eyebrow out of proportion. The surrounding bruised skin had turned an unbecoming shade of purple.

  “Aunt Henny made you soup.” Hildy brought the tray of food, so Mariah laid down the mirror.

  “Mama believes there’s a food cure for everything.”

  Hildy spread a red-and-white-checkered napkin across Mariah’s chest. Mariah picked up the spoon. Her mother made beef and barley soup to cure any ill.

  Her cousin perched on the end of the bed.

  “When John James comes home, will you tell him I had to get stitches and bring him up to see me? I don’t want him to hear about this from someone else and be frightened.”