by Yvonne Jocks
Finally Stuart did turn and deliberately looked at her again, intent. For a moment, Mariah thought he'd read her mind—that the power of their love had carried her thoughts to him.
Instead, with a grim shake of his head, her prince turned and left through one of the pairs of double doors that flanked the ballroom, out onto the Inn's wide verandah.
Mariah had to school her expression into something more pleasant than a scowl herself as she moved to the refreshment table, ladled some punch into a glass for little Elise, made sure Kitty was enjoying herself. After delaying several minutes, for discretion's sake, she then slipped through a different set of double doors to go find him.
She'd never known Stuart to be cowardly or rude.
Something must be wrong.
“Are you angry with me?”
At the familiar voice, Stuart spun. Faced with Mariah up close—all that skin milky in the moonlight—he swallowed, hard.
She'd asked him a question? He could barely think past the shocking need to pull her to him, cover her bared skin with ... with himself.
He gritted his teeth and tried to think of hoof rot.
“Or are you being rude for no reason?” she prompted, which drew his gaze to her pretty face, to the uncharacteristic little line between her finely shaped brows.
Stuart forgot hoof rot. If one more person cal ed him rude tonight...
“It's not the MacCallums' behavior that lacks,” he assured her. "My sisters stood ignored for half the night until you made your brother dance with them. And the only men who've asked since are likely after more than dancing."
Her gray eyes widened. “Someone insulted your sisters? Here?”
Her blindness to it was so typical y Mariah that his own irritation—with her, anyway—softened.
She so rarely saw the worst in people, even with it right under her pretty nose.
“Nobody has done enough to merit calling him out,” he reassured her grudgingly. Good women were sacred out here—even sheepherder's daughters. The cowboys' disrespect lay more in the proprietary way they seemed to hold his sisters while dancing, the way they sneaked looks toward the front of the girls' dresses. Nobody ought to be looking at his sisters that way.
Mariah let out an impatient sigh, with enough fervor that Stuart's gaze landed in exactly the same territory he'd wanted to kill the cowboys for surveying.
He shut his eyes. Hoof rot. Bloat. Sheep dip.
“Then what is wrong?” she demanded, innocent as a lamb.
“We do not belong here,” he said, eyes still shut. “It helps nothing, for us to have come.”
“You've hardly made an effort!” she protested, as if he were at fault. “You haven't said a thing to my parents, not even to thank them for the invitation.”
'They did not invite us," he pointed out, opening his eyes again.
“But they gave the party.”
Paid for it, you mean, thought Stuart, jaw tight. Her father's riches had paid for the ridiculously dainty food, the small orchestra, the rental of the hall , and that dress.
Frowning with obstinacy, Mariah folded her arms in front of her to hug herself against the chill night air. The posture plumped her bodice enticingly.
“Go inside,” Stuart said, looking away, toward the mountains. Distant snowcaps caught and reflected moonlight. “You'll catch your death, without a wrap.”
“Come inside with me and introduce yourself to Papa. We have to start somewhere.”
He almost choked. “In a room crowded with cattlemen?”
“Well it seemed less obvious than inviting you to tea,” she pointed out. “And they aren't all cattlemen. Some are storekeeps and ... and bankers....”
Al of whom earned far more off the cattle barons than they ever would off sheep farmers. "I won't test their loyalties with my sisters here."
“You're talking as if you expect trouble!” Now he had to look at her again, to truly believe her innocence. Of course. Mariah could no more imagine her family or friends turning on Stuart than she could imagine them turning on her.
Her illusions made him ache in a completely different way than did her revealing dress. What was he asking of her?
“You ought not be out here,” he chided softly, again. “It's not proper.”
“Yes,” said Mariah—without making a move to go in.
Was it any worse to let the woman he loved catch a chill than to meet her without her family knowing? Defeated, Stuart put a hand on the silkiness of Mariah's gloved elbow and drew her off the wide porch, into the shadows beyond, where he felt safe enough to shrug off his Sunday coat and drape it over her too-bare shoulders. There. Now she seemed more like his Mariah, neither shivering in the cold nor luring him toward forgetting himself.
“Perhaps there will be no trouble, at that,” he supposed, trying with words what he'd done with his coat. He wished he had half the confidence she clearly did, but perhaps it was just as well he did not. One of them ought to remain pragmatic, even wary. Best that it be him.
Her gaze gentled at that, dawn-gray eyes filling with moonlight and hope.
“But I'll not risk my sisters by challenging your father's authority here,” Stuart continued. “Nor will I risk you. You are too important to me.”
She smiled then, no longer so set against him, even though he had not given in.
“Will you at least thank my parents before you go?” she asked softly. “Will you do that for me?”
Knowing she'd wanted so much more from this party—how could he deny her yet again? Besides, he did owe her parents. Without them, he should not know this fine woman.
Surely a thank-you could not annoy even the most hostile of cattlemen. And if it did ...
“Yes, Mariah,” he agreed, taking her hands despite his best intentions. Her silk-gloved fingers felt fragile, cold beneath his big, working hands. “I will do that.”
“Thank you.” She tipped her face up toward him, and the love in her gaze made his throat hurt with gratitude.
“You ...” He felt her shiver, through the link of their hands. “You'd best go inside.”
Inside, where he would not feel so compel ed to kiss her. Stepping onto the verandah together was not quite so scandalous as meeting at the Kissing Bridge, but...
“Not yet,” she protested. “There's so much to talk about! I've missed you, and I see you so rarely.”
Then let me court you formal y. But he had agreed to wait. So he looked at her, admiring her, and the longer he did, the more he wondered if perhaps she was right. Perhaps he was being too careful.
Then, with the metallic “chink” of spurs on the wooden verandah behind them, the ugly truth arrived to speak for itself.
“If you're MacCallum,” drawled the intruder, “you're dumber than I figured.”
Stu turned, instinctively drawing Mariah behind him— and recognized the gunman from the depot earlier that week. The one who'd nodded knowingly to her father. The one who'd smelled of danger.
Trouble had found them at last.
Chapter Five
Everything inside Stuart went deathly still .
“Mariah,” he said quietly. “Go inside.”
But Mariah did not move from where she stood behind him, lightly holding his left arm. He should have realized that a girl who would go against her father's wishes would be unlikely to obey her—
Her what? He had no official claim on her for the gunman to observe, so why should she?
“You're MacCallum, ain't you?” demanded the stranger. “The sheep lover?” His tone made a particularly nasty implication of that last word.
Stuart grasped at a careful stillness inside him, used it as a shield against the ugliness this man taunted from him: the insult, the injustice ... and yes, some healthy fear. Plenty of men wore guns—but not at parties. This one had tied down his holster for a faster draw.
And here stood Mariah, too close to the line of fire. For the first time ever, Stuart felt tempted to deny his identity, if only
for her safety.
The temptation passed. “I am,” he agreed. Then he growled, toward her, “Inside.”
Mariah said, “No,” and stepped out from behind Stuart. “We haven't met, Mr ... ?”
Stuart put a hand on her arm, but felt no trembling. Did she not understand the ful threat here?
Women might be sacred—but accidents happened! “I will handle this,” he murmured.
Meanwhile the gunman studied her, his eyes shadowed. He did not tip his hat.
“Johnson,” he said finally. “The name's Johnson.” He did not call her “ma'am”—but neither did he insult her outright. Her rich gown, visible beneath Stuart's Sunday coat, probably had him suspecting her class and its implicit, extra protection.
Much as Stuart resented the gulf between his and Mariah's worlds, he found himself counting on it now. Don't trifle with her, Johnson. Even if I cannot destroy you for it, the rest of the town will .
Mariah said, “You're not from around here, Mr. Johnson.”
“I hail from Idaho.” Now the gunman, perhaps noting her cultured speech, added, “ma'am.”
But he was squinting from Mariah to Stuart, calculating.
“I do not know how such things are done in Idaho, but here in Wyoming—”
“Here in Wyoming,” interrupted Johnson, “folks hate sheep. And sheepers.”
Now Stuart pulled Mariah bodily behind him. It was the first time he'd ever overpowered her for any reason, and he did not like doing it—even before her eyes flared startled accusation at him.
But he did.
Johnson added, “And those what keep company with sheepers.”
Stuart said, “You came looking for me, Idaho. Say your piece.”
It might already be too late. Folks attracted by the confrontation drifted onto the verandah. Most, being cowboys, set themselves just behind Johnson. A few, recognizing Mariah Garrison under Stu's coat, stayed neutral.
Johnson said, “I got a message for you from the local ranchers, sheeper.”
The last time Stuart had gotten a “message” from cattlemen, the bruises had lasted almost a month. He lifted his chin and waited—and sorely wished Mariah were not here. He could take Johnson, were the man not armed. But the men behind him ...
To his surprise, this message consisted only of words. "Your kind ain't welcome on this range anymore,“ drawled Johnson. Anymore? ”Herding them hooved locusts south of Montana is fixing to get... unhealthy."
It's happening again. Stuart wondered just who had sent this particular threat. Was it Irvine, or Wright... or Garrison? Maybe the three of them together, splitting this man's salary?
Or maybe the whole Wyoming Stock Grower's Association. Again.
But Marian's nearness still warmed his shirt back. He would not risk unmasking her father in front of her. Some illusions were best left intact—better she learn that truth for herself, if ever. And from the source.
Stuart said, “My stock has the same right to the grasslands as anyone's, Idaho.”
Behind Johnson, several cowboys muttered protests at that. One even swore.
Johnson said, “Plenty of folks 'round here would disagree.”
Stuart said, “They'd be wrong.”
Johnson took a threatening step closer. “I'm thinking you'll change your mind.”
Stuart set himself for whatever meant to happen. “No,” he said steadily. “I will not.”
“Stuart,” whispered Mariah. “Don't...”
Johnson's shoulders seemed to be tensing, and Stuart knew he meant to argue with more than words. “Could be I'll change it for you.”
Stuart set his heels. “Could be you'll try.”
“Stop it!” To his horror, Mariah darted in front of him again, between the two men. “Stop it right now!”
Johnson took a startled step back. Stuart reached automatically to again sweep Mariah out of harm's way—
One of the cowboys snarled, “Keep your oily hands off her, you son of a bitch!” And the night shattered.
Someone yanked Mariah safely away while cowboys surged forward. Stuart lowered his head and met their charge. He bowled at least one man over, hit two more and took a blow to the jaw himself. He barely felt it, just kept swinging. They might outnumber him, but he would damned well hurt as many of them as he could before—
A pistol exploded, too close. Stuart and everyone else went completely still .
Every instinct in him wanted to stay still—moving animals drew predators, after all—but concern for Mariah overrode it. Stuart turned to seek her out, fearing, praying-----
She stood, wide-eyed, with her gloved hands covering her mouth. At some point in the scuffle she'd lost his coat, and her nearly bare shoulders in the cold night added to her fragility. But she did not appear hurt.
Too bone-deep relieved to fear his own safety now, Stuart sought out the source of the gunshot—and faced the rancher himself.
Old Man Garrison stood beside Johnson, smoking six-gun in hand. As always, he'd gotten folks' attention.
“Best get now,” the cattle baron drawled to al and sundry. His stern gaze settled on Stuart as he added, dangerous, “You boys just wore out your welcome.”
As if they'd heard from God Himself, the cowboys started to collect their scattered hats and back away.
“Papa—” started Mariah, but Garrison silenced her with a glare.
Johnson said, “Nobody touches my gun, mister,” and Stuart saw that the stranger's holster hung, snug and empty, against his thigh.
Garrison looked at the revolver in his hand, then lifted his gaze back to Johnson. Someone, said his impassive expression, just did.
Stuart looked at Mariah again, at her stricken expression. He took a step toward her—
Only to be stopped by her father's low drawl. “You heard me.”
Stuart met the cattle baron's steely glare with his own. Maybe Old Man Garrison hadn't seen Mariah wearing his coat, hadn't yet put the pieces together, but other folks had. Would it even be days before the questions started, the whispering ... the very scandal he and Mariah had hoped to avoid?
Time had come to speak, whether they were ready for it or not.
Emily arrived beside him, then Bonny, each clinging to one of his arms as if they'd feared him dead—or feared he'd get himself killed, if they weren't hobbling him. “Let's go home, Stuart,” whispered Bonny. “Please. You were right. Let's go home.”
Stuart looked from her desperation to Mariah's, feeling the weight of her father's glare on him as he did. He could still smell the gunsmoke from the pistol in Garrison's hand. His jaw hurt.
“Tomorrow,” he promised, low.
Mariah nodded, miserable.
Only with effort did Stuart drop his gaze from hers and scan the ground for his once-good coat, now trodden into the dust. He reclaimed it before collecting his sisters again.
But despite the girls' hurried tugs, Stuart walked slowly, his head high. And he stopped beside Jacob Garrison and Idaho Johnson—the cattleman's hired gun— one more time, just to prove he wasn't running.
“Thank you for the hospitality,” Stuart said evenly.
Garrison's eyes sharpened at the perceived sarcasm, and Johnson's lip curled, but Stuart continued toward the buckboard, a sister on each side and Mariah's anxious gaze burning a spot between his shoulder blades.
Stuart, at least, kept his promises.
Mariah said, “Papa, that Mr. Johnson is the one who—”
But her father glared her into silence. There was a time and a place to talk to him, of course. The verandah of the Sheridan Inn, surrounded by half the town, was neither.
At least Papa's partner, Uncle Benj, showed up to smooth the waters. "There you go callin' attention to yourself again, Jacob,“ he chided jokingly. ”How about you let me take that Johnson fellow's hog's-leg to the sheriff. Seein' as he's the only feller ought to be carrying one at this shindig anyhow?" Sheridan did have firearms regulations, after all .
Even once Ben
j took the gun, folks made way for Papa as he stepped back onto the verandah. He stopped just inside the double doors. “Mariah,” he commanded without turning around.
“Victoria.”
Only then did Mariah notice her younger sister amidst the cluster of bystanders, clutching the hand of a wide-eyed Evangeline Taylor. She knew now who had alerted her family to the confrontation outside—and wasn't sure whether to resent the interference or appreciate it.
How much danger had Stuart been in?
And how much of it was because of her?
After driving the family home, Papa had words with Mariah in his den. But his disapproval stemmed from her endangering herself, not from going onto the verandah with a MacCallum. He did not know, then, and Mariah should be the one to tel him. She should tel him a lot of things before tomorrow.
And oh, she did try. "Stuart MacCallum didn't do anything wrong, Papa. Mr. Johnson just walked right up to him—"
To us...
Her father stared at her with disbelief, having just told her not to interfere in men's doings. “Get on to bed, Mariah Lynn.”
“But Papa ...”
He waited, arms folded, his most forbidding.
To her dismay, Mariah could not force the words out her throat. She tried. She even opened her mouth. I love Stuart MacCallum, would be too direct, too shocking. We mean to marry stuck in her throat as well . Perhaps she should ease him into the idea of her wanting to keep company with anybody at all , before she told him who ...
Papa scowled and looked away. “Weren't nobody hurt,” he reassured her awkwardly, voice rough.
“Just remember yourself, in the future.”
Mariah tried to swallow, but her throat hurt too badly from all those unsaid words.
Papa's gaze slid back to her, then veered away. “You get on to bed, now,” he repeated.
And Mariah, defeated, said, “Yessir.” She kissed his whiskered cheek, loving him so much that she ached with it. Stuart had been right all along.
Papa was not going to take this well .
She closed the den door behind her, to give him his privacy, then paused in the foyer at the sight of Victoria sitting on the stairs.