by Yvonne Jocks
“We would be happy to see her safely back to you, Mr. MacCallum,” promised Mariah's mother—
at least, he hoped it was a promise. Even as the suggestion left his lips, he'd wondered if he would ever get Mariah back.
That possibility scared him more than he would like to admit, and he turned quickly to Mariah to remind himself of the way she looked at him, the fact that she wore his ring. ...
She'd glanced toward his family's wagon, conflicted.
“Mariah?” her mother prompted. “It's your decision.”
But it was Stuart Mariah turned to, his arm she pressed her delicate hand against. "Are you sure your mother won't take offense? I won't be there to help with Sunday dinner."
Considering that his mother never asked her to help anyway, he couldn't see why that would be a problem. “Visit with your family,” he insisted, trying to sound more confident than he felt. “You saw me once a week before now; why not give your family the same courtesy?”
Marian bit her lip, considering, and Stuart risked a little more honesty. “Just tel me you'll be back before nightfall , lass. Or I'll come looking for you.”
At that, she smiled up at him, a smile worth ten times the uncertainty he felt at this turn of events.
“Wild horses couldn't keep me away, Stuart MacCallum!”
He nodded, pleased to have managed to win that smile, much less the woman who wielded it. To his surprise, she even stood on her toes and kissed him on the cheek, right there in front of the church and her parents. “I love you, Stuart,” she whispered in his ear.
His face felt warm as he nodded again, unable to find the voice to repeat the sentiment. Especial y not in front of her mother!
Instead he said, after a confused moment, “My family's waiting.”
“Go on then,” insisted Mrs. Garrison. “We'll bring her back to you safe and sound.”
But Stuart backed away, instead of turning his back on the squeals and hugs of Mariah rejoining her sisters, telling them she'd be visiting for the afternoon. She would have left them when he married her anyway, he reminded himself. Girls grew up and left home all the time.
But he was scowling when he finally reached his family and made her excuses for her.
Stuart was the one Papa would not allow under his roof. Since Stuart had left with his family, Mariah got to have dinner with her family after all— and she savored every moment of it. Her sisters clamored to share all the minutiae of their week, from school to Christmas preparations to a new litter of kittens in the stables. Kitty was feeling better, thank heavens. Papa had confiscated Laurel's cowboy boots until she earned them back with proper, ladylike behavior—which, to Mariah's way of thinking, would take some time. Thaddeas came to lunch, too, and the contrast of the MacCallums' silent meals against the bright gas lighting and china and, most of all, the conversation of home felt conspicuous.
Not, Mariah told herself firmly, that there was anything wrong with the MacCallums' meals. But perhaps she could find a way to make them a tad more cheery . .. ?
Only Papa seemed immune to the festive atmosphere of her temporary homecoming. And even he had nodded to her and said, “Good day, Mariah Lynn,” before helping her into the surrey. That he sat silent through dinner, watching her darkly from his end of the table, she simply had to accept as him being Papa.
She had, after all, gone directly against his wishes. Most fathers would not allow their daughter back at all, after being rejected for a forbidden suitor—not even for lunch!
She was enjoying her brief homecoming far too much to darken it by worrying over what she could not control.
But Papa certainly did seem to be staring at her a lot.
Mariah told her family about the MacCallums' drinking goat's milk, and how the goats would eat near about anything, and about their old, white-muzzled dog Bruce, who could not work anymore and so lived in the house, but was the best-trained dog she'd ever met. Only over dessert did Elise ask Mariah the question she'd dreaded:
“Why don't you live here anymore, Mariah?” the four-year-old demanded. “Don't you love us anymore?”
Again, she felt the weight of her father's stare.
“Of course I do! I will always love my family. I just don't...” Carefully, she chose her words. "I don't live here anymore, because my fiancé isn't welcome here. As my future husband, he deserves a loyalty from me that is easier for me to give by living with his family."
Elise pouted, obviously unconvinced.
Papa stood and went outside.
After lunch—and a visit to see the kittens in the stable— Mariah visited her room. Despite that she'd left only a week ago, she half-feared to find things changed. They were not. Since she'd only taken one trunk, the rest of her dresses still hung in her wardrobe and her gewgaws still filled her drawers. Now that she'd experienced life at the MacCallum homestead, she had a better idea what might come in useful. So she packed a valise full of such luxuries as more long underwear, leather gloves to protect her hands during chores, and ribbons that she could wear without drawing attention by fussing to curl her hair. She also cajoled her mother out of some of the nicest pieces from her rag bag, for making quilt squares and doll clothes. Then it occurred to Mariah that, while Mrs. MacCallum had not yet let her help prepare a dinner, perhaps she could make Christmas cookies for her hosts—and Stuart. She fol owed her mother downstairs to gather any special ingredients that Mrs. MacCallum might not have, or want to spare.
To her surprise, while Mariah copied the recipe, her mother sent the other girls from the kitchen.
“I want to speak with Mariah alone, please,” she insisted.
Sometimes when their mother demanded private time, it meant an embarrassingly personal
discussion of topics ladies would prefer to avoid—such things as why women bled once a month, or where babies came from. So Mariah waited for this afternoon's topic with some wariness.
Surely Mother did not think that she and Stuart...
That they ...
Well , Mariah did know where babies came from, in theory anyway, but it sounded terribly ...
drastic. She and Stuart had done no more than kiss.
But instead, Mother simply asked, “Are you happy living with the MacCallums?”
Mariah said, “They have been marvelously hospitable.”
“I'm glad to hear that. Are you happy?” Mariah's mother had odd priorities that way. Papa focused on keeping them safe, warm, fed, acceptable—the essential things, but Mother seemed to feel happiness and joy, instead of being icing on the cake, were just as important.
“I would be happier if Papa and Stuart could resolve their differences,” Mariah admitted finally.
Despite her longing to see better at night, to sing or laugh more often, to feel wanted—to feel useful—that one wish outweighed al the rest. "I never wanted to upset everyone so badly, Mother. You have to believe that."
“Of course I believe it. Your father knows it too.”
Of that, Mariah was not so certain. "I just want to marry the man I love—and he's a good man!
Stuart's honest, and hardworking, and gentle, and strong ..." And handsome, and so very solid under her hand, and he could make her feel feverish with his intense, heavy-lidded stare—but she could not tel her mother that. “That's all any girl wants, isn't it? To marry a good man?”
Mother paused in scooping white sugar into a sack and raised her eyebrows at her oldest daughter, blue eyes amused. She was clearly feeling progressive again.
“Any normal girl,” clarified Mariah hopeful y. “You did, didn't you?”
"I was twenty-six when I married, darling, and almost balked then. There's nothing abnormal in wanting other things. But yes, neither is wanting a good husband wrong, either."
"But Papa's so unhappy with me now. The girls are being teased at school, I'm sure—the MacCallums, too. Stuart was threatened, even hurt because of me. While I lived here, Kitty made herself sick over it. Now that I'm with the
MacCallums, Elise thinks I don't love her."
“Elise claims she isn't loved if she doesn't get an extra piece of candy,” Mother warned, which made Mariah smile. Just.
“I hope that at least now everyone can accustom themselves to my choice,” she finished, staring down at the piece of paper she'd been writing on.
Mother said, “And what about Mariah?”
Mariah looked up at her, confused.
“You forgot yourself,” Mother prodded. “What's best for Mariah?”
Mariah sighed. “What's best for me is whatever's best for the people I love.”
Mother looked unconvinced. "Be careful not to give too much power away, darling. If you believe in your decisions, the people you love, including your father and I, must find our own peace with it.
If you start sacrificing Mariah this early on, you may never get her back."
“Didn't you sacrifice to marry Papa?” Though her mother rarely spoke of her youth, the girls knew she'd led a privileged life before marrying a rancher on the Wyoming frontier.
“It didn't feel like a sacrifice,” said her mother now. “It rarely ever has.”
And Mariah firmly said, “Neither will this. Not once I grow accustomed to it, anyway.”
Maybe if she said it often enough, she could make it even more true.
As she finished writing out the cookie recipe, the clock in the parlor struck three. For Mother to drive her all the way out to the MacCallum homestead and still make it back before sundown, they would need to be leaving.
Only the thought of Stuart, waiting for her, made that thought bearable.
The back door opened and Papa stepped in, wiping his feet. “Hitched the roan mare to the buggy,” he announced, careful y not looking at Mariah. “Packed the storm curtain, lest the weather turns.”
Had he been in such a hurry to see her go?
“Thank you, Jacob,” said Mother, putting the extra ingredients into a large flour bag for Mariah to carry back with her. “I'll go get our coats while Mariah says her good-byes.”
Then Papa met Mariah's gaze, more command than offer. “I'll drive her.”
It surprised her so, she barely heard her mother saying, “Why don't you do that, dear?”
Chapter Thirteen
Mariah felt nowhere near as comfortable with her father's close-mouthed silence as she had on drives past. She drew the lap-robe around her, tried not to think about the rifle under the seat, and said nothing until they'd left town—and the blatant stares of the townsfolk they passed.
Then she offered, “You'll keep on this road until just after Cut-Creek Gulch.”
“I know where they live,” drawled Papa.
So she said nothing again, merely watched the endless white plains stretching for what seemed like forever ahead of them, until she could hardly tel where the rolling prairie stopped and the winter-gray sky started. The buggy had just crossed the sturdy bridge over the gulch—the halfway point—when Papa asked, almost reluctantly, “You warm enough?”
“Yessir.” His consideration gave Mariah the grit to attempt further conversation. “Papa?”
He grunted acknowledgment.
“I'm not sorry for loving Stuart MacCallum, Papa, but I'm sorry for disappointing you.”
Remembering her conversation with her mother she thought, what would make her truly happy at this moment was for her father to say that she hadn't disappointed him.
But he chewed on the idea and finally said, “Likely you don't remember the bear cub.”
It wasn't what she'd expected. “Bear cub?”
“Feller got between a black bear and her cub one spring, back when we still lived in the cabin; let her spook him into shooting her. Then he felt bad fer the cub, and roped it.”
Thinking far, far back—they hadn't lived in Papa's claim cabin since she was four years old, except for the winter of the Big Die-up—Mariah did remember something about a cub. "You brought Mother and Laurel and me to see it, before you made him turn it loose,“ she said slowly. ”Mama wanted to feed it milk, but you showed us it could already eat berries and grubs."
Papa nodded once. “You wanted that cub somethin' fierce.”
She remembered that, too. The cub's roly-poly antics, its round ears and button eyes, and the way it cried “maa-aa-aa” for its dead mother had stolen her heart. Papa had let her pet it, crouching over her, guarding her from its already long, sharp claws. Its thick black fur felt somehow coarse and soft at the same time.
“I wanted it for a pet,” she said. She'd cried for days after Papa let the bear go, sure that if he just saw how badly she wanted that cub, he would relent and go find it for her. But he hadn't.
“You recall why I said no, Mariah Lynn?” he prodded.
"You said that no matter how much I loved it, a bear couldn't help but be a bear, sooner or later. And that bears hurt little girls."
Papa nodded. He'd also said that if it hurt her, he reckoned he'd have to kill it, and that would be her doing for not leaving it be.
She tried not to think of the rifle under the seat, hoped Papa wasn't saying what she feared.
“Why'd you think of that now, Papa?”
“A sheep farmer can't help but be a sheep farmer.” No matter how much she loved him?
“Sheep farmers aren't bears,” she said. “Stuart MacCallum will not suddenly turn on me.”
“Bad blood with the cattlemen, even so.”
“You have no right to hurt Stuart, either—or to have Hank Schmidt beat him!”
“That so?” challenged her father, handling the buggy horse with practiced ease.
“That's so,” she insisted boldly. Then she thought about it. “Papa?”
He grunted again.
“I know you mean well . I love you whether you agree with me or not.”
He said, “Good. Because I am dead set against this marriage.”
“Because you think they'll hurt me?”
“Could be not on purpose. But they'll hurt you, one way or t'other, jest by what they are.”
She could see she wouldn't change his mind, and resolved to be thankful that he'd even said this much on the topic. “That's my risk to take, isn't it? Now that I'm a woman grown?”
“Don't mean you'll have my blessing,” he warned, still not looking at her.
“Yessir,” said Mariah. “I realize that.”
But at least he was driving her back to the MacCallum homestead himself. And when she leaned gingerly against his arm, cuddling up to his warmth under the lap blanket, Papa did not shrug her off.
It wasn't what she wanted. But it was far, far better than she'd expected.
To Mariah's supreme disappointment, Stuart was not one of the four MacCallums who stepped outside to greet her arrival. Mrs. MacCallum stood in the doorway of the cabin, beside twelve-year-old Kevin. In front of them, in the yard with old Bruce, stood Mr. MacCallum and his second-oldest son, Douglas—Stuart's herder.
Dougie's presence could only mean that Stuart had returned to his claim already. Mariah remembered his promise to come for her, were she not home by sunset, and felt confused.
“The house looks nicer from the inside,” she whispered nervously to her father, as he scanned the welcome party with steely eyes.
Papa drew the roan mare to a halt. Mr. MacCallum stepped forward to help Mariah down, then col ect the valise and flour sack she'd brought with her. Papa all owed it.
After that, the MacCallums simply stared at her father, and he at them.
“Mr. and Mrs. MacCallum,” said Mariah, "this is my father, Jacob Garrison. Papa, these are Stuart's parents— Gavin and Margaret MacCallum—and two of his brothers. This is his partner, Douglas, and that's Kevin. And that's Brace."
She could not tel who acknowledged the introduction first. The MacCallums and her father seemed to nod in stiff unison, as if nobody meant to be the first to lower his head.
Then Papa, focusing over the sheep farmers' heads, grudgingly said, "Obliged for your kind
ness to my girl."
Mariah's hosts said nothing at all . Papa had not, after all , shown their son similar kindness. But Mariah recognized the concession her father had made, to even recognize their courtesy, and felt especial y proud of him as she came around the buggy to stand by his side.
“Thank you for the ride, Papa,” she said. “And for talking with me.”
He looked at her from under the shadow of his hat, then nodded once, curt. That was his way of saying she was welcome.
“If you're obliged,” challenged Dougie, "maybe you can keep your cows off MacCallum land. They're eating our grass."
“Douglas!” Mariah protested, as surprised by his claim as by his rudeness in making it.
Papa turned slowly and drilled the boy with his intense stare. “Not likely,” he drawled.
Mr. MacCallum folded his arms in front of him. “You're calling my lad a liar, then?”
“I'm sayin' your land ain't much to tempt my cattle,” Papa returned. Mariah knew she had no hope of interfering now. She could only watch—watch, and feel sicker by the minute.
“You cattlemen are the ones what set the deadline,” insisted Mr. MacCallum. “The least you can do is respect it.”
Papa said, “You sayin' I don't?”
“We're saying that your cows—”
“Mr. MacCallum!” interrupted his wife. “Douglas! There will be no business on the Sabbath.”
All three men fell silent at that, and even Papa nodded recognition of Mrs. MacCallum's argument.
“Overstayed my welcome,” he announced shortly. “Mariah.”
“Good-bye, Papa,” she said quickly, embarrassed that his first meeting with Stuart's family had so quickly degenerated into an argument—and over grass! If only Stuart had been here to help ... but he wasn't. “I'll see you next week, at church.”
He nodded at her, stoical y ignored the MacCallums, and clucked to the mare. The buggy started off with a lurch, moving rapidly away in the direction of town and the mountain range beyond, leaving Mariah feeling alone and somehow exposed in its absence. Vulnerable.
Almost as if she were surrounded by ... bears.