Mariah moved to the other doorway to watch her offer one of the dishes to Philo where he sat in a gathering of men, including Grandfather, Dutch and Gerd. When he took the plate she handed him, Philo looked at his wife, but she didn’t meet his eyes. He pointed to the chair beside him, and she took a seat.
Mariah never entertained the feelings that threatened to ricochet in her gut when she observed them together. Those were walls that needed to stay in place. After a few minutes, she stepped into the room and called to her cousin. “Hildy. Will you help me for a few minutes?”
Hildy glanced at Philo. He met Mariah’s gaze almost defiantly, but then nodded and turned back to the men’s conversation. Hildy got up and joined Mariah. “What is it?”
“Nothing important. I thought we could slip out for a few minutes and talk about the next couple of weeks.”
It was cooler out of doors, where the summer breeze lifted wisps of their hair. Yuri and Felix got up from a nap on the back porch to sniff at their skirt hems. Felix swatted at Yuri, and the bigger dog gently nipped the pup. They took off across the yard, romping in the sunlight. Mariah couldn’t contain a laugh at their playful antics.
She turned to Hildy, but the other girl’s expression held no amusement. A hank of her dark hair hung over the corner of her eye, and Mariah reached to smooth it back.
Hildy flinched.
Their eyes met.
Mariah held the tress between her first and second fingers, revealing a bruise as discolored as the one she’d had a few weeks ago. It was plain that Hildy had tried to cover it with rice powder. “What happened to you?”
Her cousin took a step back and readjusted her hair to the way it had been. “It was silly actually. A stack of jars toppled in the fruit cellar. One of them hit me squarely.”
“Believe me, I know how much that must hurt.”
“It’s not that bad, really. I wasn’t being careful.”
Mariah didn’t like the feeling that Hildy wasn’t being truthful. Hildy’s question when she’d seen Mariah’s face after the accident had raised a nagging thought. None of the women in the Spangler family adhered to trend by corseting themselves or avoiding food. But Hildy was thinner than even fashion called for. If Mariah allowed her suspicions to form, she’d be forced to question whether or not Philo had done this to her. But if she didn’t ask, she’d never forgive herself. “Are you telling the truth? This was an accident?”
“Yes, of course.”
“Your husband didn’t have anything to do with it?”
Hildy’s already pale complexion blanched. She grabbed Mariah’s hand and squeezed it hard. “No. It was my own clumsiness. Don’t suggest such a thing again.”
“I’m just concerned for you.”
“Please don’t say that to anyone else.”
If anything, Hildy’s swift denial had fueled her suspicions, but Mariah wanted to believe her. Mariah had to believe her. She couldn’t face anything different. “All right, I won’t.”
“You’re heading out early tomorrow?”
“Yes. A dozen or so of us will be there a week ahead of opening day. I’m grateful that you and Mama and Sylvie will be watching over John James until you follow us. I’ll miss him terribly.”
“Of course you will. But he’ll be fine here with us. I love him like he’s my own, you know.”
“I know you do.” Hildy’s attachment to John James had never been a secret. After losing two infants of her own, she had lavished John James, Emma and Paul with her affection. Caring for the children had helped her cope. No one begrudged her that bond.
Hildy’s gaze lifted to Mariah’s. “Your husband is kind to him, isn’t he?”
Mariah couldn’t disagree. “Yes.”
“And to you? Does he treat you well?”
He would if I’d let him. Another undeniable fact. “Yes. He’s respectful and kind.”
“You are fortunate that he returned, Mariah. It’s curious, the relationship you have. You seemed content all those years without him, but now, when I look at you…when I watch you…Well, I don’t know, but I envy your ability to forgive.”
Hildy watched her with Wes the way Mariah looked at the others? And what had she seen between them? Mariah turned away as though to study the mountains in the distance, but she wasn’t seeing forested hillsides. Her capacity to absolve had nothing to do with this. Her refusal to be taken in by a stranger was wisdom at work, not forgiveness.
A realization came to her on the warm currents of honeysuckle-scented air. During the weeks that had passed so quickly, her anger had dissolved. When she thought about Wes, when she sat across the table from him, watched him kiss John James’s head and tuck him into bed, she was no longer angry.
That crucial part of her armor had been misplaced somewhere between stories of treks through the frozen wilderness and nights of listening to his even breathing across the darkened room.
With that barrier down, her remaining emotions were left painfully sensitive and defenseless.
Wesley Burrows’s presence had cut a chink in her armor, and Mariah didn’t know if she’d be able to repair it quickly enough to save herself.
The Spanglers were among the first to arrive in force to work in their building and create their displays. Of course the railroads and mining companies took over the handsome pavilion made of solid masonry and iron that covered four acres. Puffing steam engines pulled in railcars and workers unloaded their riches at all hours of the day and night.
What was by all purposes a little town of western character had sprung up around the main building. The Spanglers had been fortunate to secure a location along the main concourse. Beside them a plump German man had opened a bakery and confectionary. According to information in the guide, he owned a store ten minutes away in the city.
How fortunate that his offerings of ice cream, candies, cakes and other creamy, sugary treats would complement the Spangler’s lager and old country dishes. Visitors could eat, drink and have dessert, all in the outdoor courtyard, where they’d be shaded from the July sun by colorful canvas tarps.
On the other side, according to their map, a tribe of Navajo and their agent would be displaying blankets and weaving implements.
Wes studied the map. “We’re the only brewery.”
Mariah grinned. “Yup.”
He squinted up at the vivid sky. “Mid-July and throngs of hot, thirsty visitors.”
“Now you know what all the fuss has been about.” She gestured to Mr. Baur, painting the sign for his bakery. “And ice cream right next door.”
Wes chuckled. “I’m wishing he was set up now.”
“We can always visit his shop in town this evening.”
“I like your ideas, ma’am.” He winked at her.
A soft flutter, like the beating of butterfly wings, tickled her stomach. “Let’s go make sure the ice machines are working before it gets any hotter today.”
By the time the sun edged toward the horizon, they were exhausted, their clothing soaked with perspiration. Arlen and Wilhelm, who hadn’t started to work until noon, convinced Mariah to go eat and rest. “We’ve got it,” Wilhelm told her. “And then Roth and Uncle Gerd will be here for the overnight shift.”
Now that their machinery and products were on the premises, and even though there was a fence and a military guard at the entrance, someone would be present in their building at all times.
Wes picked up Mariah’s leather case. “See you tomorrow.”
It was a stroll to the livery, but Mariah declined his offer to wait while he fetched a buggy and accompanied him.
As night descended on the mountains and the temperature dropped, the ride to the center of town was peaceful. The sky was awash with striations of oranges and purples and there was very little traffic on the streets.
Wes halted in front of the hotel. By the time he came around to her side, Mariah had already stepped to the ground. “Go on up. I’ll take the buggy to the livery.”
She tha
nked him. On her way through the lobby, she stopped at the desk to request hot water. The fourth and fifth floors of the Centennial Hotel had been reserved for their family, but there still hadn’t been an extra room available. Family members would have noticed if she and Wes had slept separately anyway. They’d made do this far; they could handle these few weeks.
The bath chamber was blessedly empty. Even though there were three tubs with partitions dividing them, Mariah was glad for the solitude. She undressed and soaked in the steaming water. By the time she’d finished and pulled her wrapper around her, Wes had returned. They passed in the hallway. His appreciative gaze took in her robe and bare feet. “I ordered dinner sent up,” he said. “Or we can go to the dining room if you’d rather.”
“That’s fine. I don’t want to get dressed.” She heard her words too late. “Dressed up, I meant.”
He chuckled. “I knew what you meant.”
Hurrying on, she donned clean trousers and a shirt. She took time to brush out her hair and braid it.
Several minutes later, a knock sounded at the door, and she opened it. Wes entered, a towel slung around his neck. His chest and shoulders were bare, and glistening drips fell from his dark hair across his skin.
Mariah backed away, but her attention remained on him. The day he’d brought her ice wrapped in his shirt, she’d noticed he was all wiry, ropy muscle, expected from someone who had lived a harsh life in the wilderness and traveled hundreds of miles with only dogs and his wits.
But five weeks of enjoying Mama and Aunt Ina’s cooking three times a day had filled him out. His arms and shoulders were solid, the contours breathtakingly defined. He raised his arm to towel-dry his hair, and she was transfixed.
He turned away to pick up his comb and bent his knees so he could see himself in the mirror on the bureau. His back was as lean and sculpted as the rest of him.
She’d noticed him without his shirt before, of course, on those occasional mornings when John James pounded on the door—he’d been strictly forbidden not to enter without permission, and Wes quickly rolled up his palette and opened the door. But she’d never really looked.
Not like this.
He levered his gaze to hers in the mirror.
“You’ve gained weight,” she said.
He combed his hair. “I’d been down with a fever for weeks before I came to the States. I was probably a little scrawny.”
“Well, you’re not scrawny now.”
After laying down the comb, he turned to face her and dried his shoulders. His chest was covered with a dark sprinkling of soft-looking curly hair that arrowed down into his waistband. He tossed the towel toward the hook beside the bureau where it caught. “I hope you like rainbow trout.”
“What?”
“I haven’t had fish for a while, and mountain trout are my favorite.” He looked at her. “That’s what I ordered. For dinner.”
“Oh. Yes, I like trout just fine. Trout are delicious.”
Their luggage had been piled against a wall, so he rearranged the cases to find what he wanted. Securing his satchel, he carried it to the bed, then opened it and arranged his clothing in the bureau drawers.
All the while Mariah watched him, the play of muscle, his fluid grace of movement. “You’re not limping much anymore.”
“No.” He closed a drawer. “Leg’s a little stiff in the morning and sometimes it aches during the night, but it’s healed real well.” He snapped open a folded shirt and slid his arms into it. He buttoned it with nimble fingers. “You all right?”
Mariah blinked. “Fine. Great. I’m hungry.”
A knock sounded at the door. Wes grinned and went to open it.
The trout was indeed delicious, as was the wild rice and creamed peas. He’d ordered her a pot of tea, as well, and she enjoyed two cups.
“Did you save room for ice cream?”
She’d forgotten all about it. “Do you still want to go out?”
“If you do. You don’t have to change on my account.”
They left their dinner tray in the hall and locked their door. Baur’s Bakery wasn’t difficult to find. Apparently everyone knew about the place, and the confectionary was a popular gathering place for everyone with a sweet tooth or a hankering for a refreshing dessert.
A few interested gazes turned Mariah’s way. “Maybe I should have put on a skirt.”
“Let ’em look.” He led her to a table out of doors. A young woman served them generous scoops in blue-and-white china dishes. Mariah had chosen chocolate with sprinkled almonds while Wes ate vanilla and crushed peppermint.
“Want a taste?” He pushed his bowl toward her.
It looked tempting, so she dipped her spoon and tasted the cold minty flavors. Then she gestured to hers. “Go ahead.”
Wes took a generous spoonful of her ice cream and his eyes closed as he let it melt on his tongue. He opened his eyes and looked straight at her as though something earth-shattering had just occurred to him.
“What?” she asked.
“Mr. Baur will be our neighbor for the next two—wait—three weeks.”
His delight with that childlike realization struck her as wildly funny. She laughed out loud and grabbed her napkin to cover her mouth. Still, more uncharacteristic giggles erupted. She calmed herself to say, “I wonder if he and his family are equally excited about our beer!”
That struck Wes as humorous, and they laughed until noticing people at other tables staring at them.
It had been a good day, and Mariah felt as though they were on track with the tasks that needed to be accomplished by next week.
“John James will like this place,” she said.
Wes agreed. “I miss him already.”
She studied him for any sign of teasing, but read none. She’d no more than had the thought when he’d voiced it.
“He’s such a clever boy,” Wes continued. “He catches new concepts, and his questions show how quickly his mind works. I don’t know how to explain it, but he thinks beyond the confines of what is. He thinks more broadly. He thinks in possibilities.”
“I know exactly what you mean,” she replied, amazed at his perceptiveness. “He asked so many questions about those infernal steam engines in that book you sent. I couldn’t answer half of them.”
“He’ll likely invent something new and amazing one of these days.” His tone could have been mistaken for pride.
Arlen had always been good with John James, but Wes took more than an interest. He behaved as though he had something at stake, like a parent would. Like a real father.
They finished eating and he paid. It was full dark, and traffic was still moving along at a clip. Wes extended a hand to Mariah.
His face was illuminated by the light from the plate-glass window on the business beside them. Her heart hammered as though she’d run five miles in skirts and petticoats. Instead she stood on a Denver street wearing trousers like a boy, afraid to place her hand in Wesley’s for fear of—what?
She wasn’t coy or feminine. She’d done nothing to attract his attention or encourage him. She’d gone out of her way, in fact, to discourage him at every angle. And yet she hadn’t. And yet he still treated her like a lady, ordering her tea, buying her ice cream, asking silent permission to hold her hand.
Tears stung her eyes and her heart slowed to an unsteadily painful beat.
Wesley Burrows loved her son. He played with him, told him stories, read to him, helped him learn his numbers and listened to his dreams and ideas as though they were the most fascinating philosophies of the day.
He was a good man. A man who wanted a family.
When she reached to place her hand in his, the sounds of horses and a distant saloon faded. His skin was warm, his hand strong and solid. He smiled as though she’d just offered him the deed to a gold mine.
She smiled back. Perhaps she had.
He turned, tucking her hand into the crook of his arm and covering it with his other. They strolled along the brick wa
lkway. She hadn’t paid attention to where they were headed and wondered if he had, but it didn’t really matter.
He paused, and they came to a halt. “Mariah.”
She glanced up, her heart thundering.
Wes glanced over his shoulder, and then walked backward, tugging her with him into the sheltered alcove of a darkened shop’s doorway. He raised his hand to skim her cheek with the backs of his fingers, and her vision blurred. She almost panicked. But then she recognized his unique scent and the moment cleared. She grounded herself in the place and time and raised her hand to the front of his shirt, where his heart beat strong and rhythmically.
She closed her eyes and visualized him carrying her son to his bed. Pictured him carrying a puppy in the crook of his arm and telling stories to her nieces and nephews. She remembered him as he’d been earlier, bare chested and robust with his dark hair dripping on muscled shoulders.
It definitely wasn’t panic or fear that throbbed in secret places or radiated warmth throughout her body now.
“Yes,” she told him with a hoarse whisper.
Chapter Twelve
Though he hadn’t asked for permission, she’d given it all the same.
One strong arm banded across her back, drawing her flat against the long, hard length of him. Her boots grated on the paving stones in that one step. She exhaled an audible gasp.
She waited for a red cloud of alarm to fill her head, but instead a thrill of sensation and expectation tingled along her nerve endings, setting her senses on glorious alert. This wouldn’t be a tentative kiss with her son held protectively between them; this would be deliberate and needful. Oddly enough, she felt unexplainably safe in his arms—a security she couldn’t fathom or explain.
Her palm grew damp against the front of his shirt, so she pressed it flat and smoothed it across the fabric, feeling his muscles tense.
He simply touched the corner of her mouth with his lips. She almost wept with the rightness of the gentle contact. But it was insufficient, and she tilted her head to aid a deeper, more satisfying union, and he groaned.
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