Just a Little Lie (Shades of Deception, Book 1)

by Mallory Rush

  "Vegetable beef," Sol corrected. "You've got it, baby. But once all that nonsense is past, it's time to get to the meat of the matter. Kinda like foreplay before making love. Oh, that's another thing—never go to bed mad. And never bring up the tacky present you hated but didn't say anything about."

  Making mental notations for any future confrontation, Mariah said, "Okay, no slurs on—"

  "In-laws. Especially in-laws."

  "Gifts, In-laws: taboo. Check. So then what?"

  "Then someone—whoever feels he or she has been wronged—has to take the first bite. Just a nip to begin with usually—to test the waters, so to speak, to find out what's going to hit home and what's going to go splat."

  "But what if it's something really important? Something that could have far-reaching effects?"

  Sol was quiet for a moment. "That's different. One of those matters that people who love each other have to discuss at length behind closed doors. No one can solve something difficult overnight. I think that's where trust and loyalty and commitment come in. But nothing's insurmountable, Mariah. Not when two people really care."

  Sol cared. She cared... too much. Afraid he would see her internal struggle, she looked down.

  "And how do the little issues finally get resolved?"

  "The same way the big ones should. Like this." He pressed his palm to her chin, his fingertips spreading on either side of her jaw, then lifted her face and demanded a straight gaze. The brush of his lips against hers followed. "The best part of all, Mariah. Kiss and make up."

  The kiss they shared was hot and sweet, everything any woman could possibly want. His embrace was urgent and gentle, sweeping her away from the ceaseless gnaw of worry and doubt.

  "Happy?" His evening beard grazed her head, prickling her scalp and sending a ripple of gooseflesh down her arms.

  Was she happy? No—she was ecstatic. And miserable. Trust. Loyalty. How they haunted her, kept her awake even when his lessening pain allowed him to sleep. LaVerne was right: Borrowed time was one thing, but like milk, it could sour if left on the shelf too long.

  Three weeks and no more, she vowed. Three weeks to come to terms with herself, find her guts, then take on one of those arguments with Sol, and expose all. She would be exposed, stripped of all pretense and pride, because there was nothing to be proud about in perpetuating deceit, even for the best of reasons.

  Content with her decision, but less than ever with herself, Mariah relished the moment. She relished life, and she relished this complex man.

  "Am I happy?" she said. "Right now, I'm happier than I've ever been in my life. And that's the truth."

  "Me too." He rubbed his chin against her hair. "By the way, happy anniversary. Five weeks and two days since I got off that plane and you told me to get my crutch myself."

  Mariah chuckled. "I wasn't very gracious about it."

  "Thank God. I have to say that incident made me realize that marrying you was the smartest thing I'd ever done in my life. I shudder every time I remember telling Turns that if I had it to do over again I wouldn't repeat my vows."

  The laughter died in her throat. "You told him that?"

  "I was recuperating, Mariah, and feeling pretty bad about life in general, I didn't want to drag you down with me. Turns was quick to point out that he hoped you gave me a reason to get back on my feet—to run in the opposite direction, if nothing else."

  "I should send Turns a thank-you note, I guess. That's a left-handed compliment if I ever heard one."

  Sol ruffled her hair and laughed. "He's a smart bastard, all right. But if that marriage certificate doesn't show in the mail soon, I'm going to light into him like a lit stick of dynamite."

  Her birth certificate! How could she have forgotten, even if she had been lulled into feeling that nothing could touch her here, that she was protected from reality by the security of "home, sweet home." Sol had to know before she sent it. Suddenly, three weeks seemed as unrealistic as a year.

  "Did, um..." Mariah nervously wet her lips. "Did Turns say what was holding things up?"

  Sol eyed her curiously. "Yeah. The certificate has to go through certain channels with the government so you're recognized as my wife and can share my benefits. Just a formality, and I know the government can be slow, but this is ridiculous. In fact, I'll give him a call tomorrow and find out what's going on."

  "No!" Mariah managed a convincing smile while dealing with the urge to throw up. "I mean really, Sol, he's a trusted friend. I'm sure he's taking care of everything as fast as he can. Wait a few more weeks. It's probably already in the mail."

  How could she have been so shortsighted, frittering away the days as if paradise had no end? Five weeks of nirvana and a crash course in solving marital problems was all she had, except for a husband who invoked trust and honesty like a litany and—Oh God, please, just a little more time before the walls come tumbling down and bury her underneath.

  "You and I both know letters can get lost in the mail," Mariah said quickly. Calm, stay calm, she frantically ordered herself. "I remember one that took a month to reach me."

  "I still have all the ones you sent me. Sometimes I reread them." Sol fanned his face. "Whew, baby. Some of those things are scorchers. I'm surprised they didn't ignite in transit."

  Heaving an inner sigh of relief that she'd apparently changed his mind about calling Turns immediately, Mariah allowed herself a shaky laugh.

  "How about I go round up dinner?" Sol reached past her and gave Besse a pat. "I'll bring it back to the barn and we can have a picnic. Sound good?"

  The fluorescent glow of the barn light blended with the shaft of moonlight piercing through the far rafters and reflected off his gold wedding band. Mariah laid her hand over his, and their rings met. This was hers; Sol was hers. A knot of determination took hold. Two weeks, no more.

  "Think you could smuggle in a bottle of wine?" she suggested with a lightness she didn't feel.

  "Maybe I'll bring two. An extra one to share once Besse has that calf so we can sleep in our bed instead of a pile of hay." With a quick, parting kiss, Sol turned to go, then stopped. "About Desiree... she means nothing to me, Mariah. Less than nothing. You mean everything she could never be."

  "But she meant a lot to you at one time, didn't she?"

  "I thought she did. But I was in lust, not in love. Actually, it took some miles between Desiree and me for me to put her in her proper perspective."

  "And what is Desiree's proper perspective?"

  "That's a complicated answer. We went through a lot together when we were much younger. After my last visit, though, something happened that got her out of my system for good. But... we'll talk about it another time." His smile didn't reach his eye. "We have an anniversary to celebrate."

  Remembering her vow not to pry, and unsure if she was equipped to handle Sol's past when she was struggling with her own, Mariah touched his cheek. She felt empathy with whatever pain Desiree had brought him. But it also frightened her, because if Desiree had been capable of hurting him once, she might still have access to his heart.

  "I know what it's like to want to forget things that won't go away, no matter how hard you try to pretend they don't exist." At least they could connect in this, and any connection they had strengthened their bonds.

  "Yes, Mariah," he said softly, "I imagine that you, more than anyone, do."

  Chapter 12

  As Sol exited the barn, Mariah's cooing to Besse wisped through his ears and touched a gentle chord deep inside him.

  Where Desiree was conniving and self-centered, Mariah was caring and good and compassionate, qualities she extended even to a dumb cow—and to a sometimes even dumber husband, one dumb enough to have almost married the wrong woman.

  As he neared the house, an uneasy sensation stitched through his vitals. His sweet wife had actually come face-to-face with Desiree, the black widow spider that could have killed him in bed any number of times; a woman he'd known since childhood, to whom he'd be married now
if she hadn't so cold-heartedly erased his only reason for proposing less than two years ago.

  He hadn't seen Desiree since he'd returned, but she was due a visit and a warning. The woman wouldn't think twice about getting back at him by boasting to Mariah about their short-term engagement and slanting the facts.

  Sol muttered a vile word. The thought of touching Desiree again left him cold, after the ecstasy of holding Mariah. What he and Mariah had was almost too good—except for her continued silence, which was as much his fault as hers. But one direct accusation and she'd fold like a matchstick house hit by a gust of wind. He wanted her to confess of her volition—a sign of the trust he'd been doing his damnedest to earn and to convey she could rely on.

  The cattle run came into his view—two parallel bars with enough space between them to pin a cow... or to accommodate him.

  As he contemplated it, his mind drew a picture: Mariah flipping through a book on the porch swing. Her attention suddenly drawn away as he ran up the steps and threw his crutches at her feet. The wooden planks solid beneath him as he picked her up and carried her, amazed and crying, over the threshold.

  Sol set his crutches aside. His private, strenuous workouts had resulted in physical anguish and an encouraging amount of progress. Now was as good a time as any to test himself.

  After assuring himself the area was deserted, he stood in the cattle run and held on to the bars. He looked straight ahead, but rather than seeing the impossible distance to the end of the run, he saw The Vision through the camera of his mind.

  Sol released the bars, his palms hovering over the metal. Holding his breath, he willed his right leg to take a single step. He teetered, but refused the ready help of the bars. Next came the left foot. The few inches were a slow, agonizing journey, and only sheer will got him through.

  "Did it," he whispered triumphantly. "Now take another... That's it, another... Walk to Mariah. You can do—aghh!" Sol nearly bit off his tongue to keep from screaming. His knees were bent almost to the ground, but he held his weight up by clutching the bars.

  The sweat bathing his brow had cooled by the time he reached the farmhouse. Twenty minutes later, he was gripping a picnic basket.

  Sol bid his parents good night, feeling an unmistakable satisfaction in being home, looking forward to the romantic night ahead with his wife, and still feeling pride over his earlier accomplishment. From here on, he and the cattle run had a daily date of an hour in the dark.

  His gaze was fixed on the muted light seeping from the open barn door when he heard a high-pitched wail. Stopping dead in his tracks, he waited on edge, then heard it again.

  "Mariah!" Sol dropped the picnic basket and took off across the seemingly endless yard. He almost fell on his face as his instincts rushed ahead of his body. God, how he hated this. Cursing his legs, he heard his wife screaming, screaming.

  And he couldn't run.

  The night became a full-moon howl. Mariah's wretched sobs laced with the eerie tendrils of black clouds obscuring the pale moonlight. A whistling wind seemed to taunt his ears as his racing heart pounded to the beat of his crutches striking the ground. Sol was filled with a sense of unreality, as if he were in a slow-motion ride that suddenly speeded up, when he caught sight of the horrific scene in the barn.

  "Mariah! Mariah, what—oh, dear God..." He went to her, his vision locked on the blood-streaked arm that was stretched out to him. Blood dripped through her fingers.

  "S-Sol." She got up from Besse's stall and half wove, half stumbled toward him while he hurried to catch her in his arms. "Besse... Besse's dead."

  Unable to take his gaze off her blood-soaked blouse and the red-streaked hand tearing at his shirt, he gripped her arms firmly and assured himself she was still whole.

  "You're covered with blood," he said with a harshness born of panic. "Why the hell are you covered with blood?"

  "Besse's dead... Besse's dead," she chanted. Sol shook her until she fell silent and merely stared at him.

  "Okay, baby, Besse's dead. Now, please, just tell me why this blood is all over you."

  "Prolapsed uterus ruptured... hemorrhaging... ovarian vessels... must be internal bleeding too... then Besse's down. Finally my arm's inside, have to find the vessel and pinch it, but it's too late, the blood won't stop... ruptured uterus and Besse's dead... Besse's—"

  Her voice broke and she wept with the tears of the bereaved. Sol gathered her to him and rocked her against his chest, stroked his fingers through her hair while he murmured words and sounds of comfort.

  After she'd cried so long her sobs were reduced to dry heaves and then silence, Sol held her away. His voice was kind, but firm.

  "I'm sorry, Mariah, because I know you loved Besse. But this is a farm, and animals dying is a fact of life. You have no choice but to accept that. You have to accept it now."

  Her nod was jerky, and his heart gave a lurch when she stoically lifted her trembling chin. She impatiently scrubbed her cheeks and wiped her nose against her arm, smearing the blood over her face, like lipstick. He tried to rub it off, but she shoved his hand away.

  Her eyes shone with understanding, with a maturity that came from hardening oneself against a devastating blow. And a touch of humiliation for such abject loss of control, which he derisively attributed to her proper upbringing.

  "You're right, of course," she said in a raw voice. "How silly of me. Why, it's ridiculous, isn't it, falling to—to pieces over a dumb cow?"

  "She wasn't a dumb cow to you, and I'd thank you never to be embarrassed in front of me for exposing any strong emotion. I know how you feel—the same way I felt when I was a kid and saw my dog get hit by a car. Cried every night for a month. It tore me up so bad I swore I'd never own another one."

  "Sounds like good advice, Sol. No more pets for me, not after this. Excuse me, I—"

  "Wait." He stilled her with an iron-tight grip. "Your feelings could change. Mine did. Three months after Raja died, a stray decided to adopt me. I ended up calling him Dog because I didn't want to get too attached. Funny thing about Dog, I got attached anyway."

  Mariah studied her bloodstained blouse, examined her crimson hand as if it weren't a part of her. "The calf lived," she said distantly. "I guess you should check on it. I need to wash myself."

  "Is it cute?"

  She shrugged. "I don't know and I don't care. It got up on its legs just before Besse fell on hers."

  "You shouldn't blame the calf for Besse's death."

  "I blame myself, not the calf," she snapped, glaring at him. "If I'd run to call the vet instead of trying to save her myself, she might be alive right now." Her lips were pinched as she whispered, "'Meant to be a surgeon.' What a crock of—"

  "Who's meant to be a surgeon—you?"

  "Never," she said flatly, and spun on her heel.

  "Mariah, stop." She did, but didn't turn to face him. "You actually performed a lifesaving technique on Besse?" She nodded curtly, and he saw her fist clench, the dried blood on it verifying what he could hardly believe. "You did the right thing. The vet never would have made it in time. You gave her a chance, and you're wrong not to give yourself one too." No comment. He sighed heavily, then said, "When you're through washing up, I could use your help."

  Sol watched her stiff retreat. She went to the far end of the barn and mechanically began to soap her arms at the washbasin. She could have passed for a surgeon cleaning up after a machine-gun party. Another piece to fit into the puzzle of Mariah.

  With a perplexed shake of his head, Sol went to the pen.

  "Lord," he groaned. Besse was lying in her own blood; the tinny smell filled his nostrils. In his mind he saw Mariah performing the crude procedure, then hugging her dead cow, heedless of the foul matter beneath her. His anger was swift—anger at himself for not being there, and at Mariah for blaming herself for a tragedy she'd done her damnedest to avert yet believed herself responsible for.

  Her reaction told him a lot, and it disturbed him deeply. The Marines had ta
ught him plenty about training people until they fit into a certain mold. Mariah had been conditioned to perform, and failure wasn't an option. Neither was a healthy venting of emotion. It was twisted, unhealthy, and he was sure it all came compliments of her uppity parents. They were almost certain to try to take their daughter back. Just let 'em try.

  His disgusted snort coincided with a tiny, pitiful mooo.

  "You poor little dogie," he said to the calf. "Mariah can't miss your mama half as much as you're going to."

  Unlike many dairy farmers, the Standishes didn't immediately separate calves from their mothers to nurse a bottle, choosing instead to let nature take its course. Not necessarily sensible, but in his mind, right.

  A slow smile tugged at his lips. No need for Mariah to know that the calf didn't need Besse to survive just fine.

  The calf stared myopically at Sol with big brown eyes, then looked down at its deceased mother before nudging her with a little black nose. All wobbly legs and matted hair, since Besse hadn't been alive to clean it up.

  Leaning his crutches against the stall, Sol got down painfully on his knees and examined the calf's head. A fine specimen, thanks to a breeding catalogue and artificial insemination.

  "You about done, Mariah?" Sol called, deciding the best thing he could do was to put her to work.

  "Yes," she said behind him.

  "Got you a job, baby. You clean up the orphan while I do what I can with this mess."

  "I'll take care of Besse," she said adamantly.

  "Besse's gone, love. If you really want to do something for her, you'll see to her youngun. I'm afraid I can't pick it up and..." He raised the tail and determined the gender. "It's a heifer. She doesn't want to leave. Go get a rope, okay?"

  "I'll get Dad. He can help."

  "Everyone's asleep by now since milking time comes early. We'll see to this by ourselves." When she didn't move, he reverted to the tone he'd used to say "Frog!" and make his men jump without asking how high.