by Yvonne Jocks
“Before your father comes gunning for me.”
“He won't come gunning for you, Stuart,” Mariah laughed. “He's an honorable— Are you all right?”
For someone who could not see the truth about Wyoming's beef empire, she had no problem noticing his slight wince at the effort of standing again, and then straightening up.
“I'm fine.” But his words came out a touch more guttural than he'd meant.
Mariah held his arm. “Does your tummy hurt? Mama makes a peppermint tea...”
As if he would be allowed to drink her mother's tea! “I am fine,” he started to insist, but her hand on his chest, so gentle that his still-bruised ribs did not twinge, distracted him in a different way. He raised his face to hers, even if he was still wincing. The wince did not last long. Her honest worry caught and held him
The Goose Creek, which had serenaded every kiss they'd ever shared, swirled noisily past. And they were engaged now! How could they not lean nearer each other? Mariah's wide, fine eyes held Stuart's gaze with a visible adoration, a trust he could only pray he would someday earn.
Somehow her concerned fingers touched him more deeply than just his coat. Her full, sweet lips parted in soundless invitation. Past the chill smell of snow he tasted the warm scent of lavender and soap off her as he closed the distance between them, accepted her invitation....
Then straightened, angrier than ever, when hoofbeats drummed the bridge.
“Somethin' wrong, Miss Garrison? This sheepherder of yourn ain't sick, is he?” From his superior perch in the saddle, the cowboy's eyes laughed knowingly at Stuart's stiff posture.
“Everything is fine, Mr. Dawson.” Mariah pointed firmly back behind them. “Now leave us alone.”
Touching his hat, Dawson wheeled his horse around right there on the bridge and rode away perhaps a quarter block ... then resumed his watch, visibly amused. Were Stuart a swearing man, he would have sworn then, and loudly.
Instead he muttered, “An honorable man would do his own 'chaperoning.' ”
Mariah patted his arm as she took it again, more innocently. "But that would mean condoning our relationship, and Papa's not ready to do that. Yet. He will ."
Stuart stared down at her, incredulous, as they began to walk again. “He wants me dead.”
“Papa?” As if he'd meant Dawson, the lackey. “Oh no, Stuart! True, Papa said some things he didn't mean after you left last week.” He could only imagine what. "But if he wanted you dead, he certainly would not hide it."
They rounded the corner onto Elizabeth Street.
There stood the subject of their conversation at the foot of the walk, waiting for them. Old Man Garrison could easily have been a marshal standing off the outlaws. This time, the rancher wore his gun—and he'd tied down his holster.
Mariah's tone held less confidence as she challenged, “See?”
It would certainly help her courtship, thought Mariah, if her father and her beau did not bristle like rival bulls every time they caught wind of each other. But since she could not possibly understand the depths of their animosity, all she could do to diffuse it was to ignore it as best she could.
“Papa, look what Stuart gave me.” As soon as they got close enough, she extended her exposed hand. It was an amazingly beautiful ring—nicer, in truth, than she'd expect a homesteader could manage. Perhaps it would ease Papa's worries.
But Papa just said, “Get inside, Mariah Lynn.” And he glared at Stuart as he said it.
“Then come inside with me.” Giving Stuart's hand a final squeeze—still wishing she could kiss him instead— Mariah stepped onto Garrison property and took her father's gun arm.
His gaze, when it lowered briefly to hers, told her she had not fooled him. “Get,” he repeated, more low than soft.
When she glanced back at Stuart, he looked none too pleased by her interference himself. As if anything between these two men were not her doing and thus her concern.
“Promise not to argue,” she instructed, and now both men stared at her, their expressions mutual y unbelieving.
“Then I'm not going anywhere,” she declared with feigned confidence. She tried not to remember the time Papa bodily carried Laurel away from a roundup she refused to leave. In front of Stuart, such a thing would be mortifying.
“I'll go,” declared Stuart. “For now. Anything your father has to say to me, Mariah, he knows where to send his messengers.”
His messengers? Mariah did not understand—but she understood how the two men glared at each other well enough
“Stay out of my way, MacCallum,” warned Papa, more dangerous than Mariah had ever heard him ... before he'd met Stuart, anyway.
“Stay off my land, Garrison,” countered her betrothed.
“What?” Mariah looked from one man to the other. Papa had been on Stuart's land?
“Stay away from my daughter,” insisted her father.
And Stuart said, “No.”
It did not soften the answer that he added, “Not unless she tel s me to.”
“What is it you want?” Her father's arm remained steely beneath her grasp. Mariah knew that if he real y wanted to shrug her off, he could. “Money? Grazing rights?”
“Papa!” she protested, unsure whether to feel more insulted for Stuart or for herself.
Stuart said, “Good day, Miss Garrison,” and turned away, not deigning to answer.
“You'd take her today,” challenged Papa, obviously unconvinced. “With just the clothes on her back.”
“I'd take her to my folks' ranch for a respectable engagement,” Stuart countered, unable to resist the bait. “None of your kind will say we did not behave ourselves.”
“Stuart!”
“Too late for that,” accused her father, and Mariah gave up. Perhaps her presence merely egged them on.
“Thank you for the walk and the beautiful ring, Mr. MacCallum,” she told him, her tone nowhere near as dulcet as a lady's should be when saying that. “I hope to see you soon.”
“After church next week,” Stuart offered—or dared. “Send for me if you need anything sooner.”
“I look forward to it. Papa?”
When her father did not turn to walk her in, Mariah took a deep breath and went on her own.
Papa wouldn't real y shoot Stuart—she would stake her life on it.
In fact, reaching the verandah, she peeked back with less confidence than she liked. As deeply as she loved Stuart, she was staking her life on it. Worse, she was staking his.
If either her father or her beau said anything else, it was too low and too terse for Mariah to see. In only a moment, Stuart had turned to walk away, in the direction of the church, where he had left his saddle horse. Her father watched him go until he vanished around the corner, then said something to Dawson and turned to fol ow Mariah in. He hesitated only a moment when he saw her on the verandah, then continued toward her, his usual, silent, force-of-nature self.
His hand when he gripped her shoulder, to herd her inside, felt particularly disapproving.
Mariah's sisters had of course been watching—some clustered on the stairway by the door, while others peered in from the parlor. But when Papa said, “Get,” they— unlike Mariah—got.
Unlike Mariah—and her mother, who stood quietly in the hallway from the kitchen. Apparently he'd meant her as well , to judge from his glare, but Mama just lifted her chin, folded her arms, and waited. So Papa ignored her and asked what he'd meant to ask.
“Why are you doin' this?”
Despite the raw undercurrent of his voice, Mariah took hope. For a week, her father had barely spoken to her, much less all owed her to explain.
"Because I love him, Papa! I understand that you're angry at us, so you don't see it yet, but once you get to know Stuart, you'll understand! He's good and decent and hardworking and honorable
—"
“Like me.” So he'd been listening outside of church after all . But he parroted back her words with sarcasm.
/> "Yes, like you. I know you hate that he's a sheep farmer, but as long as he stays on his part of the range, why should that bother you? At least it's honest work. He's such a good man, Papa. Truly!
And ..."
Papa did not look to be softening—nor did his grip.
“And I do love him,” she repeated, faltering. “I would never, never defy you like this if I were not certain of it. I have loved Stuart for years.”
For a moment, just a moment, she took hope from his silence. But his next, low words came out more accusation than question.
“Just how'd you manage that, Mariah Lynn?”
Which did complicate things. How much of his anger rested on Stuart's vocation, and how much on their secrecy?
“I regret that we went behind your back, Papa,” she admitted again, her heart aching. “But I was so certain you would disapprove. I was correct about that, wasn't I?”
He stared at her as if he had never real y seen her before and did not like what he saw. The difference between the self she saw reflected in his steely eyes, and that happy girl she'd seen reflected in Stuart's earlier, felt humbling.
Then his gaze fell to her engagement ring, and he released her shoulder. “Still are.”
And he walked away, stiffly circling her mother as if she, too, held blame, and out the back of the house. He would ride to the ranch again, Mariah knew. Papa always rode back to the ranch when he felt upset. On purpose or not, Mariah had been sending him there a lot lately.
Her shoulder seemed cold now. Her whole body felt cold, and not just because of the November chill.
Swallowing around her disappointment, she extended her left hand toward her mother. But instead of the joyful announcement it should have been, her words only strained out.
“Stuart gave me a ring.”
Chapter Nine
Before he got to see Mariah again the next Sunday, Stuart stayed up with his brother three nights while the dogs warned of something that never quite showed itself. He found a dead antelope on his land—gutted by human hands. And he lost credit at almost every store in town.
At least nobody beat him up again. But he'd rather take another beating than learn that his father's credit had fallen under equal suspicion. Stuart spent all day Thursday in town, going from store to store, arguing for equal treatment. "We just paid off everything we owed with our fall lambs—and we'll do it again after spring shearing! The ranchers and farmers won't make any more payments until harvest!"
Most storekeeps dismissed him with the cryptic, “Let's not have trouble, MacCallum.”
Only Crazy Pete of the Big Goose Hardware store, who had incurred his own trouble through pro-granger politics, dared confirm what Stuart had already guessed.
"Word is, Old Man Garrison's been asking questions about your resources. It's scared a lot of folks."
“And you?” challenged Stuart through gritted teeth.
Pete grinned gap-toothed and said, “Hell, boy, bring 'em on.”
So at least as long as Pete held fast, the MacCallums had credit through the winter.
And still Stuart shined his boots and pressed his good shirt Saturday night, and Sunday he met with Mariah after church to walk her home. Everyone still watched them—including their mounted guard—but Stuart could hardly blame them. He liked watching Mariah, too. She chatted about what she would plant in her garden once they married, and what color material Stuart liked for shirts, and dozens of other little, personal things that made her eyes shine as she strolled, bold as ever, holding his arm. Snow fell , and she tried to catch snowflakes on her tongue but caught them on her lashes instead, laughing her joy up at him. He wanted to kiss her then....
But cowboy Dawson rode behind them, and Old Man Garrison waited for them down the street.
Though he hated to admit it, Stuart had a limit to his courage.
He'd already lost some dignity and a great deal of credit. So instead of kissing Mariah, he just held her arm and said, “I wish it were spring.”
She glowed at him as if he'd kissed her anyway. “I do too.”
But in the meantime, at least she wasn't dealing with beatings, threats, and lost business.
At least one of them was allright.
Before Mariah got to see Stuart, the Sunday after that, she was snubbed by two school friends at the millinery, received an insultingly fatty cut of pork at the butcher's, and sat up two nights with her little sister. Kitty was sleeping badly and throwing up every other meal. Mariah took turns with her exhausted mother, playing nursemaid.
The doctor could find nothing wrong, as the eight-year-old was neither feverish nor in pain. But Mother had limited confidence in the medical profession, and her apprehension proved contagious.
Then on Friday evening, while Mariah sat in the younger girls' bedroom with both Kitty and a bowl of chicken broth balanced on her lap, their father knocked softly.
“Your mother says you're still feelin' poorly, Kathryn May,” he offered, standing uncomfortably in the doorway. Papa had never seemed quite so at ease in the fine town house as he did at the ranch, much less in his daughters' frilly bedrooms. His presence there just wasn't proper, in his view; he preferred to kiss the girls good night in the hall way. But even he would risk impropriety for the sake of a sick daughter. He always had.
Still , with his effort not to look at Mariah while facing the daughter in Mariah's arms, he'd clearly taken on extra discomfort.
“I'm better, real y,” insisted Kitty—as she had all week. But there was truth when she added, “I haven't thrown up today.”
“Well that's fine.” Papa hesitated. “Is there aught I can do for you?”
To Mariah's surprise, Kitty asked, “Would you please read to us?”
Papa nodded, then scanned the room for a book, which Kitty slid off Mariah's lap to fetch. In a few moments, she was happily cuddled on her father's lap, readying for another chapter of Little Women and giggling softly because his clothes and hands and whiskers were still cold—-he'd come straight up after arriving home from the ranch.
Remembering that kind of attention, Mariah tried not to feel jealous as she collected the soup tray and readied to leave. Then Kitty said, “Don't go, Mariah, please? Stay and listen!”
Mariah hesitated in the doorway. Papa avoided her nowadays, except at family meals. Even then he seemed to talk to her sisters, but not her. Still , Kitty had been worrisomely ill ....
“May I?” she asked warily.
Carefully not looking at her, Papa drawled, “Ain't disowned you yet.”
So Mariah put down the tray, draped an extra blanket over Kitty's shoulders, and settled at her father's booted feet to hear him read a story he clearly would not have chosen on his own. As he continued, Elise and Audra came by to check on Kitty. Since it was their room too, they stayed, Elise crawling into Mariah's lap. Victoria crept in, then even Laurel, though she pretended boredom. Soon Mother was standing in the doorway, leaning against the doorjamb and hugging herself as she watched everyone, and Kitty had fallen asleep.
Papa finished the chapter he'd been reading, then quietly cleared his throat with something like embarrassment and put the book down. “Reckon it's past dinnertime,” he announced to the girls with his gravel y version of a whisper.
“Dinner's keeping just fine,” assured Mother. “But everyone should wash their hands.” And she herded the other girls from the room, leaving Papa and Mariah to put Kitty to bed.
Mariah liked watching her father tuck Kitty in so careful y, brushing back her fine, little-girl hair with his big, outdoorsy hands. Stuart, she thought, had hands remarkably like that.
Papa eyed her warily as he straightened. “You got something on your mind?”
Foolishly, she told him. “I was just hoping Stuart will be as good a father as you are.”
As Papa's expression chilled, she realized her mistake. Bad enough to mention Stuart to him—but to mention having children by Stuart?
“Not if I've got say in it
.” And he strode past her.
“Papa! I didn't mean—it's just that you're so good with us, even if you are real y an old cowboy at heart, and—”
But when she grabbed at his arm, he just kept walking, so she had to let go. “Papa?”
Behind her, Kitty made a whimpering sound—and threw up. And it was Mariah's fault.
And still , by Sunday morning, Mariah rolled her hair and tightened her corset and chose her best dress and boots for walking in the melting slush. When Stuart came to stand beside her after church, she took firm hold of his arm. Her mother had insisted on being the one to stay home with Kitty, saying “Either you see this through, or you don't.”
And it wasn't as if Mariah did not want to be with Stuart!
In fact, Stuart seemed so constant and solid, in contrast to the upheaval she'd helped create at home, she wished she could hold onto his sturdy arm for more than just the walk from church. He listened to her concerns about upsetting the household, his head bowed in thought and his eyes as warm a brown as ever, and after she'd finished he asked, “Are you thinking to leave, then?”
“Leave? Where would I go?”
“You can live with my folks,” he said—not the first time he'd made the offer. "It would get you out of that house, maybe take our courtship off your folks' minds some. I could come by for dinners, some nights. You could get to know my family."
Mariah did want to formal y meet his family. And she wanted to sit in a parlor with him, take a meal with him ... behave as other engaged couples were allowed to behave.
But to leave her home again, after being away all summer? She shook her head. “I'm sorry, Stuart.”
“It was just an idea,” he assured her.
“I do want to spend more time with you, truly, but—”
“Mariah.” He stopped, brushed her cheek with his fingers. “Just know that you have someplace to go.”
And she nodded, and oh she loved him, and as his strong fingers slid away, she wished more than anything at that moment that he would kiss her.
Behind them, Dawson cal ed, “Whoa there, you old nag. Whoa.” When Mariah peeked over her shoulder, his horse had done nothing more unruly than turn in several tight circles, and that was because he was turning her.