by Mallory Rush
All this hit him with a jolt that came closer to a sickening thud. Obsessed by his gnawing concerns, Sol was hardly aware of the miles sliding beneath the truck.
Mariah rolled down her window and nuzzled close to his side. "Ah, smell this air," she said. "I feel high. High and free enough to spread my arms and coast on the wind."
Sol kept a possessive arm wrapped around her shoulders. When they pulled into the dance hall parking lot, he tightened his grip.
Music spilled from the open doors.
It taunted his ears and played havoc with his new awareness. The song summed up his inner distress: "They Call the Wind Maria."
Chapter 18
"Long time no see, Sol. Heard you got married, but no one said you had such a foxy wife. She's beautiful."
"How're you doing, Hank? Meet Mariah." Sol reached for his beer and guzzled the brew while Mariah glanced uncertainly from his brooding scowl to Hank.
"How do you do, Hank?" she said as graciously as she'd greeted the other men she'd been introduced to. "Would you care to join us?" It seemed the polite thing to say, she thought, and maybe Sol would change his strange behavior if they had company. At least she'd have someone to talk to. Since they'd walked in, he'd hardly said anything, besides telling her to pull down her skirt and push up her top. She'd just as soon forget him snapping that she ought to go wash her face.
"Thanks," Hank said, "but my favorite polka just started. Sol, you mind if I ask your lady to dance?"
"Go ahead," he said curtly. "She's been tapping her foot since we got here, and she hasn't hit the dance floor yet. Not that she hasn't had every Tom, Dick, and hairy stud in town asking her to boogie."
Hank took a step back, his friendly smile wavering.
"Thanks anyway, Hank, but I'll sit this one out," Mariah told him. "Maybe another time." As soon as he was gone, Mariah gripped Sol's wrist as he reached for the nearly empty pitcher. "What is the matter with you?" she hissed.
"What's the matter with me?" he hissed back. "I'll tell you what is the matter with me. My wife's got every damn male hormone in the joint dancing a jig in his pants instead of on the dance floor, when she's supposedly with me."
"I am with you, though Hilda would be better company than you've been the last hour."
"Maybe all that lash-batting and 'Oh, so delighted to meet you, won't you please join us' flirting you've been so generous with has a bit to do with it."
"Flirting? Flirting! I've been polite and gracious, that's all. Mostly to make up for your lack thereof. You've embarrassed me, Sol, acting so abrupt and sulking in your beer. I'd hoped we could have a good time."
"Yeah? Well, while we're on the topic of alcohol consumption, what about the fact that you're underage but you've got so much makeup on you haven't been carded? And you've been slamming down that wine like a Frenchie on a binge."
Mariah could barely contain her anger. "I wouldn't exactly call two glasses in nearly as many hours 'slamming it down.' And since when was the way I wear my makeup a concern of yours?"
"Since you started dressing like a vamp who's advertising her wares and giving it away for free."
"What? Your mother made this dress for me and I wore it to look nice for you—"
"Nice? You call that nice? I like your jeans ten times better and your face scrubbed clean."
Mariah's jaw worked back and forth as if she were chewing nails. She was furious and absolutely dumbfounded by Sol's ridiculous behavior. This wasn't working out at all the way it was supposed to. She was hurt and so disappointed she wanted to cry, hit something, especially him, for destroying what was meant to be special and to mend their bridges, which were crumbling before her disbelieving eyes.
"I know what your problem is." Mariah was suffering, and she wanted him to feel the pain he'd caused. "You're jealous. You're jealous because everyone's asking me to dance and you can't. The truth is, if you wanted to, you could. You're just too proud to do it with your crutches and let me lead. Now, we can either leave or start the night from scratch. Take your pick because—"
"Miss?" A cocktail waitress extended a glass of wine. "This was sent from that gentleman at the bar, miss."
"Mrs." Sol's lips barely moved.
Mariah looked from the glass to Sol's sullen expression, then to the handsome stranger waving from the bar. Sol said nothing more. Mariah debated her answer while the barmaid set a cocktail napkin on the table.
Sol had promised her the night of her life, and it was a night she needed. For once in her life, she wanted to feel like the homecoming queen with her king. He'd given Desiree that; didn't she deserve as much? Or at least more than him glaring at her while other couples hugged at tables, clung to each other on the dance floor, toasted with frothy mugs in the muted glow of candlelight.
"Thank you," Mariah said to the waitress. "And please, thank the sender."
She took a sip, fully aware of the challenge in her small action. Other men wanted to treat her nicely; maybe it would rub off on her husband.
Mariah studied him over the rim of her glass. Surely Sol had enough sense to realize that women responded best to a show of respect, manners, and courtesy. If Sol was too dense for her words to sink in, surely this action should tell him to set aside his peeves and to act as maturely as he'd insisted she should.
When his glare intensified to a seething stare, Mariah decided that making her point wasn't worth it. As much as she hated it, she'd stoop to placating him to salvage the night.
"Come on, Sol," she said. Putting down her glass, Mariah gestured to the dance floor. "Dance with me. Please?"
Sol lowered his mug between them with a thud.
"Enjoy your drink, Miss Manners. I need to go to the can, then get a little fresh air. The stuff I'm breathing in here isn't as fresh and pure as I'm used to." Grabbing his crutches, he was out of his chair before she could blink. "Your not-so-secret admirer's on his way over, no doubt to ask you to dance. Don't let me cramp your style."
Mariah stared after Sol's retreating back, her mouth agape. What was the matter with him? And what was the matter with her, letting him treat her so horribly? She deserved better than this. She deserved all the dances Desiree had enjoyed with him and she'd never had. Even one would—
"Care to dance?"
Mariah looked up into the stranger's face, then at the hand he extended. He was a little flushed, maybe from the heat, maybe from the alcohol.
Either way, she didn't care. Not when Sol expected her to kowtow to his ego even though her own was in a shambles. Maybe a little competition wouldn't hurt, would shake him out of his stupid and juvenile pettiness. Maybe he'd even be jealous enough to break in.
"Would I like to dance?" she repeated with a forced smile. "No, I'd love to dance."
Mariah took her partner's hand and flew with bitter wings that flapped upon a dying wind.
*
Sol took a breath of fresh air and checked his watch. He'd been gone twenty minutes—long enough to get a grip on the frustration and the fear gnawing at his gut.
And long enough for Mariah to have a few dances with some men, the kind of experience she should have had before hooking up with him. She'd never even been to a prom, she'd confided on the drive over. Never had more than a few dates with some other "eggheads," she'd said. He'd known she was inexperienced, but not to that extent.
His heartbeat swished dully between his ears as he opened the door to the dance hall. He was testing her, he supposed, pushing and bullying, acting like a total jerk. A jerk who was afraid of losing her, now that she'd grown into her new skin, afraid she would realize there were better bargains than him out there. He'd deliberately given her the chance to spread her wings without him around. Noble?
No. Selfish. He'd wanted to assure himself she'd still be waiting for him, that even at his worst she wouldn't want anyone but him. If she was still at the table he would apologize. Hell, he'd even ask her to dance and make an ass of himself with his crutches on the dance floor. If he wer
e just a little more confident of his strength, he'd ditch them and sweep her off her feet, the way he'd been dreaming of doing all night.
When their table came into sight, Sol's heart plummeted. His mother was sitting where Mariah had been.
"Where is she?" Sol demanded.
"And just where the hell have you been, young man?"
"Outside. Now where is she?"
"Sit down," LaVerne snapped. "There's something I want you to watch until you can learn some manners and the proper way a man should treat his wife."
Sol sat, knowing he wouldn't get any answers out of his mother until he did. "Did Dad take her home?"
"Why should he when she's having a good time? No thanks to you. That poor girl was practically in tears by the time you left. Shame on you."
"I'm ashamed enough of myself, Ma. Now where is she?"
He stopped searching the crowd long enough to glance at his mother, and saw a hint of pleasure in her face.
"She's dancing, son. Tore up the floor with a polka and three different partners. I believe the one she started out with just broke in again for a waltz." Sol shoved his seat back, but LaVerne gripped his arm. "Oh, no you don't. You're going to sit here and watch just a bit. You've poured enough castor oil down her throat; now let her enjoy herself before you decide to ruin the fun she'd expected from you."
LaVerne pointed her finger at the crowd, and Sol zeroed in on a glimpse of Mariah's face, her cheeks rosy from exertion, her lips tilted coyly as she smiled at her partner. When he suddenly dipped her, she laughed with delight.
Sol's heart dipped along with her body. In reflex, he reached for his crutches, but LaVerne intercepted.
"Stay put, son. The next dance just got started."
The minutes ticked by leadenly while Sol strained to keep his gaze locked on Mariah as she swayed through the crowd. With each glimpse of her passing from one partner to another, his insides squeezed until they felt like pulp.
Mariah was the wind. Mariah was spreading her wings.
Mariah was his wife. His wife, dammit. She didn't want to go to med school? Fine. She wanted to dress herself up like a model and work a crowd? Fine. He'd give her whatever freedom she wanted.
Any freedom at all, except freedom from him.
"I've seen enough," Sol gritted out. This time when he reached for his crutches, LaVerne only shrugged.
"If you plan to break in, you'd better hurry. It's a slow dance, so maybe you'll get there in time to finish it and treat her as nice as the partner she's got now."
Sol was already elbowing his way forward. Ignoring the shouts of "Hey, watch where you're going!" and "Where you been, Sol? Buy you a beer?" and "Ain't that your wife kicking up her heels? I get the next dance after you!" thrown his way, Sol pushed and shoved without so much as an "Excuse me."
All he could see was the top of Mariah's head; she'd rested her face on another man's shoulder. Sol felt himself filling up with so much possessiveness and self-reproach he couldn't think beyond getting to her and tearing her away from the lech's hands that were straying down her back to the rise of her buttocks.
In a minute that seemed like an hour, Sol broke through the dancing couples and clamped a hand on a broad shoulder.
"Hey, go break in on someone else," his rival growled, without bothering to turn around. When he tried to shake off Sol's iron-tight grip, Sol practically knocked him to the floor. The action sent Mariah stumbling against a nearby couple while her partner jumped to his feet, whirled around, and raised a fist.
With lightning-quick reflexes, Sol caught and twisted it. His gaze was a menacing, lethal, pinpoint glare.
"Unless you want a broken arm, you'd better clear this floor and never even think about laying a hand on my wife again. That behind you were feeling up belongs to me."
"Your wife?" The loudly spoken words rose over the music. Several heads turned as murmurs rippled through the crowd. Dancers backed up and started clearing the floor. The singer's voice trailed off, followed by the guitar, then the drum. The piano ended in mid-chord.
Silence. Except for the rasp of Mariah's uneven breathing and the drunken chuckle of Sol's opponent, whom Sol was glad he didn't know.
"You heard me," Sol said between clenched teeth. "My wife." He wanted nothing more than to break the jerk's arm in two, but the guy was drunk, and it wouldn't be a fair fight. Deciding he'd made his point, Sol let go. "Go find another partner. The one you had is taken—she's mine."
The other man looked around and grew red in the face, obviously humiliated and unwilling to give Sol the last word.
"Then take her," he announced to the crowd more than Sol. Gesturing to the crutches, he challenged, "Why don't you dance with her yourself? Oughta take better care of your woman, if you ask me." Then, jabbing a finger in the direction of Sol's patch, he bellowed, "Or can't you see for yourself you've got a good thing in this little missy?"
Sol looked past him to Mariah's stricken face. "I see exactly what I've got. And as for suggesting that dance, I've never heard such a smart idea come out of any drunk's mouth."
He thrust his crutches at the drunk, who caught them as he weaved his way off the floor. Sol heard him slur, "Hey, man, you're gonna need these to dance with your lady."
"Keep 'em. I've got a wedding dance that's long past due." With his eye locked on Mariah, he took a single step forward, and then another. Her expression of disbelief, of wonder at seeing a miracle, kept him going. Her moist eyes blinked, then blinked again, as if she couldn't trust what she was seeing. With tears on her lashes, she held out her arms. Whether she was asking him in or wanting to catch him should he fall, he wasn't sure.
What he was sure of was this: Even if he fell on his face before the dance was through, he would rather crawl on hands and knees than depend on his crutches again.
"You can kill me later, and I'll even give you the gun." His hands grasped hers. "But dance with me first."
Her hands were shaking and damp, but so were his. His need for her was too strong. He wanted to hold and love her forever, not just for the duration of a song.
She opened her mouth to speak, but no words came, only a gasp of joy that might have been his name. And then her arms were hugging his waist tightly and he was cupping her face, tracing her tears, and pressing his lips to her forehead.
"You can walk." She was crying openly, clutching at him, moving back to stare disbelievingly at his legs planted firmly on the floor with no crutches in sight. "My God, my God. I can't believe it. My prayers... answered."
"We need a wedding dance," he shouted to the band.
"Name your tune, mister," the singer called back.
"'Lady' by Kenny Rogers." As the piano began the intro, Sol whispered, "Because you're my lady, Mariah."
Taking the lead, Sol drew her close and pressed her against him, then moved with heavy feet, his dance steps an uneven shuffle that felt as liberating as if he had sprouted the wings he'd feared she would spread to leave him behind.
Mariah caught his left hand and kissed his wedding ring. "I love you," she whispered hoarsely.
"Don't ever stop believing in me, baby, or in us. I'm sorry for—"
"Hush." She pressed her fingers to his lips. "Nothing is worth spoiling this." She laid her cheek against his chest as the music played on.
"You're my lady," Sol repeated when the song was over. His voice was rough with emotion and fatigue made his knees shake.
In the silence that followed, they stared at each other as if they were the only two people in the room, in the world. Then a clap sounded from the crowd. It was followed by another and then another until they were surrounded by applause and whistles. They shared a passionate kiss before turning from the dance floor.
With shouts of congratulations, the crowd parted for them. Sol couldn't take his gaze off Mariah, or she him, even though people were reaching out to pat them on the back or grasping their hands for a quick shake.
Many of the people were strangers, but even stra
ngers knew the language of love and rejoiced in miracles.
Chapter 19
"Sol! Sol, stop it," Mariah squealed. She squirmed under his tongue, which was busy lapping up the last drop of champagne in her navel. "That tickles!"
"Yeah? Well, just try to run away, now that I can keep up," he growled. Splashing a generous amount of the bubbly liquid onto her abdomen, he made her squeal some more.
"You're wasting the champagne." She giggled when it rolled down her stomach and trickled between her thighs.
"It's never been put to better use, lady." As he set about tracing the liquid's path, Mariah decided Sol definitely had a point.
Sighing languorously, she reached down to sift her fingertips through his hair. Snowflakes drifted past the window, and the glow of the moon reflected brightly off the land covered in white. Candle flames danced from all corners of the room, gilding sprays of mistletoe and other signs of Christmas drawing near.
Sol kissed his way up and she embraced him, wondering if any woman had the right to feel so complete, so blissful. Their bed shifted as he drank from the bottle and then passed it from his lips to hers.
Feeling delirious with delight, Mariah gave in to silliness and gargled, then swallowed.
"Mrs. Standish, I am shocked." Sol took another swig and imitated her. "You are no lady."
"Not tonight, I'm not. Hand over that bottle, and—oh no, last drop."
"Got another bottle chilling, baby. A marriage certificate coming by special delivery tomorrow is at least a two-bottle occasion. Especially when we waited long enough for most folks to split up and get married again."
"Sure we shouldn't save that bottle to share with Turns? After all, he is flying an awfully long way to make sure we get this one, since the first got lost in the mail."
"Hell no. Not after all his hemming and hawing and losing forms and more craziness going on at his end than sense. I wonder how he'd like it if our positions were switched." After nipping Mariah's neck with a lusty growl, Sol chuckled. "Of course, in our current position, he'd probably like it just fine. Except I'd hate to end a long-standing friendship, so maybe he'd settle for... Beth? She'll be here with your parents tomorrow night. Maybe we could make the sleigh ride a foursome."