by Yvonne Jocks
Did she miss beef? She smiled at Bonny and said, “Likely I will after a few months!”
When she and the others smiled together, it felt almost as good as laughing with her own sisters.
In spring they would be her sisters. And by spring, surely Papa would have mended the rift between them and she would have her own sisters back as well .
Then she could be happy without trying so hard.
By lamplight, spring seemed forever away. But Stuart's presence brought it closer.
As if drawn, Stuart turned his head and caught her gaze, smiled that quiet, heavy-lidded half-smile of his. Then, with a few more words to his father and to Kevin— who scurried quickly out the door —he straightened and strode back toward her. Almost every man in Mariah's life was a cowboy, and cowboys had notoriously awkward walks. Stuart walked with easy grace.
His walk made Mariah go warm all over, like sunshine on an August afternoon, despite the cold wind that shook the MacCallums' windows.
“I'd best be going soon,” he admitted as he reached them. “The sky's clouding. I'll want for moonlight as I ride home, if I'm not careful.”
“You don't want to ride home in the dark,” agreed Mariah faintly, caught by the nearness of him.
He seemed more confident here than he ever had in town, her Stuart—and he'd not lacked there.
She liked the strength his confidence implied.
“Pooka could likely find the way blindfolded,” he reassured her, hooking a thumb in his pants pocket. “But just the same ...”
“Just the same ...” Mariah repeated.
Behind her, Emily or Bonny giggled. Stuart's eyes gleamed at her as he offered his free hand. "Will you see me out, lass?"
She began to feel even hotter than sunshine on an August afternoon—and not, she suspected, because of the close proximity of the pot-bellied stove. The sensation intrigued and somehow alarmed her ... but as long as she was with Stuart, she felt safe enough to welcome the discomfort.
She put her hand in his, marveled at how soft his strong hand was—from the lanolin, she knew— as his fingers closed around hers and he drew her toward the door.
His easy, confident walk looked even better when she. was closely fol owing him.
“Take a lantern and stay on the stoop,” warned Mr. MacCallum around his pipe, which made Mariah blush. “Don't forget that you're both from respectable families.”
Emily and Bonny giggled again, and Mariah flushed even worse than when she'd been helping with the dishes. Did everyone realize that she and Stuart were going outside to kiss?
As Stuart shrugged on his coat, then helped her into her own, she stole a peek over her collar and realized from the brown-eyed stares that, indeed, everyone did. Even Stuart's mother watched from the girl's room, her expression unreadable and yet still , somehow, disapproving. It reminded Mariah of the inscrutable look her father got when he objected to what he was seeing.
Papa would most certainly disapprove of her going out onto the stoop to kiss Stuart—even if they took a lantern and stayed within view of the MacCallums' front window. Even if they were engaged. More than anything else, that knowledge unbalanced her while Stuart shouldered open the door and drew her outside into the cold night, hung the lantern as agreed. Papa would not approve.
Then again, she did not approve of some of Papa's behavior either....
Pooka greeted them with a whinny from the yard and Kevin greeted them with more smooching sounds. “Ready to go, Stu,” he said, looping the reins around a post by the stoop.
“Thank you,” said Stuart absently, staring down at Mariah. “Now go inside.”
“So that you can kiss your sweetheart?”
Stuart said, “So that I can kiss my sweetheart?”
Kevin made a gagging noise, but went inside, only to reappear in the window, freckled nose mashed against the glass.
Stuart said, “It's the best we'll manage until springtime.”
I wish it were springtime, she meant to say. And oh, she did want that. Surely, by the time spring came, the ill feelings between their families, between herself and her father, would have somehow been resolved. She longed for that day. She should tel Stuart that.
But he brushed his knuckles lightly over her cheek, gazed solemnly into her eyes, began to lean nearer her— and Mariah instead said, “I don't think your mother likes me.”
Stuart stopped, blinked. “My mother?” He straightened again as he said that. “Why not?”
“I don't know. I just...”
“Shall we go ask her?” suggested Stuart, brows leveling into a frown.
“No! I mean ...” To question Mrs. MacCallum would seem unforgivably rude, after everything the woman had done. “I'm sure I'm imagining it.”
After all , she was a different kind of woman than Mariah's outspoken, affectionate mother. Not everyone could or should be Elizabeth Garrison.
“Has she been uncivil to you?”
“No, of course she hasn't. I'm sorry, Stuart. I ought not have mentioned it.”
He searched her face. “You're sure all's well with you, then?”
She nodded, increasingly aware of his hand holding hers. “This is what courting should be like,” she said, by way of changing the subject. Except that they should be on her parent's stoop, not his....
“You have the right of it there,” agreed Stuart thickly, leaning nearer her again.
She half expected cowboy Dawson to ride out of the shadows and challenge them, so much so that when Stuart's lips brushed hers, the easy completion of his kiss startled her. Then, as she adjusted to the reality of it, to the way warmth spilled through her at his touch, Stuart was already straightening, squinting at her. “Something's wrong.”
Mariah quickly looked down at her feet, blushed. Here she stood, alone in the night with her beau, and she could not concentrate on his kiss? Something must be wrong, were that so!
“I'm just... just not used to being allowed to do this,” she admitted shyly to her feet. “Papa would disapprove ...”
“He disapproves of our engagement as well ,” Stuart reminded her, and now he sounded annoyed.
Her shoulders tensed defensively—but she quickly reminded herself that Stuart was the one who'd taken a beating on her behalf. If anybody had the right to be annoyed ...
“I'm sorry,” she said again, and laid a hand on the lapel of his coat. “Don't go yet.”
His warm, brown gaze lifted from her touch to caress her face. “I've no intention of going yet,” he murmured, seeming pleased.
“You haven't?” Mariah felt flushed, despite how the wind tugged at her hair. They both knew what he'd do if he did not leave....
Then Stuart closed the distance between them and did just that.
This time as his lips pressed to hers, Stuart parted them slightly so that they caught hers, held her captive as surely as the arms that encircled her. He sighed, as if at the sheer heaven of the sensation. The warmth of his breath all but scalded her. Melting under his kiss, Mariah sank into him, trusting him to hold her up. Then his arms tightened around her, and his lips grazed across hers, and the little flames that Stuart's lovemaking somehow ignited in her shivered into deeper places than she knew she had, made her ache for ... for something, something more, something even hotter....
He kissed down her jaw, his strong arms holding her tight against him so that even if she'd wanted to, she could not have escaped him without effort. Mariah wondered if she were a wanton for not desiring escape. On the contrary, trembling as if with fever, she pressed herself eagerly against him, but that didn't cool her at all . His lips on her throat made her squirm happily. Before she knew what she was doing Mariah was kissing the side of Stuart's throat in return, sandpapery and salty and wonderful, and she was all but burning up....
Something—a noise—tried to distract her, but Mariah was too busy seeking Stuart's lips again. His mouth fastened onto hers, open now, and they drew at each other, clutched at each other....
<
br /> The distraction got louder, more insistent. With a gasp, Stuart pulled back, stepped back, then quickly drew his hand across his mouth, either to wipe away the trail of her lips or to muffle something that sounded suspiciously like a bad word. But Stuart never swore.
The insistent distraction, Mariah realized, was the sound of Mr. MacCallum knocking on the window. She tucked her head quickly against Stuart's chest to hide her face, mortified to have been seen forgetting herself so thoroughly as she and Stuart ...
As they ...
Mortified.
Stuart kissed the top of her head, far more gentlemanly. 'The benefit of chaperones," he suggested in a low voice.
“How can I face him?” she whispered into his lapel.
“By remembering the ring on your finger.” Stuart caught her chin, gently lifted it so that she faced him— his pride in her, his affection.
“I love you, Stuart MacCallum,” she told him earnestly. And oh, she did. Her love for him seemed to thrum through her entire body, like joy on a cloudless spring day. Surely, with a love like theirs, everything would work out fine.
“And I love you, Mariah,” he assured her. By spring, she would be a MacCallum as well . So why did she find herself wishing he'd cal ed her Mariah Garrison?
Chapter Twelve
Evangeline Taylor sat very, very small on the edge of her pew as the Garrison family filed into the church. Though the generous greetings from Victoria and Mrs. Garrison flattered her, it would not do to be noticed again by Victoria's father! So she hunched her shoulders and focused her attention on her lap, her bare and carefully scrubbed hands clenched tightly, until the cattle baron's firm boot-tread passed her as he herded his family toward their pew up front.
Up where the respectable folks sat.
Only then did Evangeline dare peek at the rancher's retreating back, his shoulders set under a dark frock coat, his distinguished white hair, the way he held his black hat in one hand. He looked disapproving and unapproachable even from behind, and not just because of Mariah's desertion last week. Mr. Jacob Garrison, one of the town founders, always looked that way.
Not for the first time, Evangeline wished he were her father.
Of course, for that to be true, the distinguished cattle rancher would need to have lain with Evangeline's mother. That was impossible. Jacob Garrison did not sin. Mrs. Garrison occasional y caused a stir, with her newfangled ideas and outspoken ways, but the rancher had so high a moral standing, folks tended to dismiss even his wife's brushes with recklessness.
“The Boss will straighten her out,” they would say, leaving the wife's character to her husband's capable hands. They said the same thing when Laurel got into a fight at school, or when Kitty did poorly in class, or little Elise caused a fuss at the store. “Garrison will see to it.”
The few times Evangeline had even been suspected of wrongdoing, folks said, “It's no surprise,” and “What do you expect from a Taylor?”
Evangeline did not even know who her father was. She could imagine nothing better than a father who would speak for her, care for her, keep her in line. It made Mariah Garrison's abdication even harder for Evangeline to understand.
When the MacCallums arrived, they made their way to a pew only a few benches ahead of where Evangeline sat—well in front of the repentant gamblers and whores, but behind even the farmers.
Stuart and Mariah followed them, a surprisingly handsome couple.
Mariah held Stuart's arm as if drawing strength from it, and he led her to the bench behind his large family and stood until she sat. Then he settled himself beside her, solid and steady, his hat in his hands and his hands between his knees.
Mariah touched his arm with gloved fingers. Stuart turned his head to look at her. From where she sat, Evangeline could see his expression soften, see them exchange a glance full of...
Of yearning. Of hope. Of promise.
Mariah and Stuart were clearly sweet on each other. But when Evangeline peeked back toward the front of the church and Jacob Garrison's dark, stiff back, she still could not understand. Stuart MacCallum was a fine enough man, for a sheep farmer—better than Evangeline could ever merit.
Despite cruel rumors about town that Mariah had been disowned, or was living on Stuart's claim instead of rooming with his family, most folks accepted that the MacCallums were near about as principled as Garrison himself.
Except for raising sheep, of course.
But Mariah could have any number of fine men to marry, men with money, men her father would approve of. Surely she could learn to like one of them too, if only to have her father and brother to speak for her, protect her, keep her in line. If only to guarantee that protection for her own future daughters. Instead, she was spurning a safe place in society that Evangeline could only dream of.
Could love blind someone to reality so thoroughly as that?
The congregation stood to sing their first hymn. Halfway through the song, Evangeline felt a rush of cold air through her thin, knitted shawl. She glanced toward the open door—
And froze in a completely different way when Thaddeas Garrison, closing the door, momentarily caught her gaze and winced embarrassment at his tardiness.
Before Evangeline could even blink, the cattle baron's only son had gone ahead to his family's pew, borne the look of dark censure his father cast at his late arrival, taken his place beside Victoria.
Evangeline could no longer breathe deeply enough to finish the hymn. In fact, her heart beat so quickly that she barely remembered to sit when the singing stopped.
He'd looked at her! Not in any special way, of course—unlike Mariah, Evangeline had eyes long adapted to reality. But that he had met her gaze instead of avoiding it, had clearly recognized her, warmed her more thoroughly than her charity-barrel shawl. Thaddeas Garrison was a lawyer, college-educated and respected, with almost as clean a reputation as his father ...
Which of course made any doings between him and Evangeline as unlikely as doings between his father and her mother.
Impossible. More than impossible—insulting, to entertain even the wisp of a dream. Evangeline looked back down at her clean, bare hands and wished she were the sort of lady who could wear fine gloves to church.
Then she thought to look at Mariah Garrison again, sitting beside Stuart MacCallum and watching her brother's set shoulders and straight back. When Stuart turned his attention to her, Mariah bowed her head as if in thought or prayer.
Stuart looked toward the Garrisons, his jaw tight.
Evangeline's stomach cramped as she watched them. She stil did not agree. But for a forbidden glance into an inappropriate man's eyes ... Perhaps she could understand the temptation to pretend away reality after al .
To Stuart's relief, Mariah's family did not shun her after services. He stood back while her sisters clustered around her, giving her hugs and vying for her attention. Her brother draped an arm over her shoulder and kissed her cheek before strolling past her to where her father stood glowering behind the others, waiting. And her mother not only spoke to Mariah—but to him.
“Stuart MacCallum,” she greeted. Of course they'd been introduced when she brought Mariah to his family's home; now he scrambled to remember his manners, take her hand.
“Mrs. Garrison.” But his gaze crept over her shoulder toward her husband's obvious displeasure.
His mother would never do something his father so clearly disapproved of.
“I'm down here,” confided Mrs. Garrison, startling his attention back to her. "That's better. I love my husband dearly, but I speak for myself. And speaking as myself, I miss my oldest daughter and would like to invite you both to lunch."
Mariah gasped with pleasure. “Lunch? At... at home?”
The difference between the hope that glowed from her at the idea of going “home” and her stoic good cheer about his family's hospitality couldn't be more apparent to Stuart. The reality that his family could not so easily replace hers bothered him almost as much as the
disappointment on her earnest face when her mother dashed those hopes, too.
“No, honey. I'm sorry. Your father still disapproves of your fiancé. I thought to take you both to eat at the restaurant in the Helvey Hotel.”
The hotel, while not as fine as the Sheridan Inn, boasted an opera house on its third floor. Nobody in Stuart's family had ever eaten there, not even flush with shearing profits.
“I cannot afford restaurant lunches just now,” Stuart admitted sharply. Especial y not after most of the stores in town had cancel ed his credit! Before Mrs. Garrison could protest, he added, “and I'll not eat on a cattleman's tab, though I thank you for the offer.”
“Despite rumors to the contrary, I do have my own money,” said Mrs. Garrison. “Your acceptance need hold no political implications whatsoever.”
Even as Stuart wondered if that could in fact be true, Mariah put a tentative hand on his arm.
"Could we, Stuart? Mother and I have so much to talk about and I'd love for you to get to know each other better!"
By allowing a rancher's wife to pay for his meal? Stuart thought of everything the ranchers had said, done, been to him over the years and he could not do it, not even for Mariah. Especial y not with her father still glowering at them both from the road, much less with his own family waiting by their wagon. “Perhaps after shearing,” he suggested, uncomfortable with disappointing two women at once. “I could treat the both of you ...”
Mariah's face fell . Her mother's, however, seemed more calculating than downcast—as if she had expected as much and had more than enough arguments. But all she said was, "I should like that very much, Mr. MacCallum . Shearing time is spring, isn't it?"
Stuart nodded stubbornly—but could not ignore Mariah's dejection. It weighed on him, like a responsibility unmet. She'd given up so much for him already.
His brothers and sisters were in the wagon bed, waiting for her....
“Perhaps Mariah could stay for lunch on her own,” he suggested then, reluctantly. “Even had we both stayed, we would have needed a chaperone back to Da's place. Could you... ?”