Forgetting Herself

by Yvonne Jocks

  She firmly told herself not to be silly, pasted a determined smile to her face before she turned back to her hosts. The MacCallums had been nothing but kind.

  “Did you have an enjoyable Sunday?” she asked.

  “We didna make it the holiday you did,” answered Stuart's mother, glancing with disapproval at Mariah's latest luggage before she went back inside.

  At least Dougie picked up her flour sack, and his father her valise, before they fol owed.

  “It's nice to see you again, Douglas,” continued Mariah determinedly as she followed him in—since Dougie kept the flock while Stuart was with Mariah, she only saw him on Wednesday evenings, when he came to dine with his parents like Stuart did on Thursdays. Apparently, they alternated Sunday afternoons. “Where... I mean, Stuart's back at the claim, then?”

  “He said to come get him if you weren't back, if that's what has your back arched,” said Dougie.

  “He's still putting you ahead of his sheep.”

  Whether she deserved to be ahead of them or not?

  “It shouldn't be a contest between me and the sheep,” Mariah reminded him, smiling a determined hello to the other MacCallums who were seated about the main room, taking turns reading from what was likely the Bible. “I want Stuart to make a success as much as anybody.”

  Dougie snorted. Mr. MacCallum ignored her to go sit with his children. Mrs. MacCallum turned her back to start preparing supper, and Mariah felt more separate, more useless than ever.

  Because she'd spent the day with her family, she wondered? Or because her father had driven her home?

  Bad blood between the sheep men and the cattlemen, Papa had said. But surely he and the

  MacCallums could see each other as more than their livelihoods, if only for her sake. Someday, God willing, these two families would share grandchildren!

  Sooner or later, someone had to mend their differences.

  “What did you mean about Papa's cattle getting on MacCallum land?” she asked Dougie.

  But Mrs. MacCallum turned sharply. "No business on the Sabbath! Mind my rules or leave my house."

  Bonny, who'd been taking her turn reading aloud, fel silent.

  Mariah felt slapped. Her “Yes ma'am” wobbled out of her from pure instinct.

  “Yes, Ma,” said Dougie, with her, and Bonny began to read again.

  But as the shock of Mrs. MacCallum's reproach wore off, defensiveness crept into its place. Marian felt in herself the most rebellious urge to choose leaving. You don't want me here anyway, do you? she thought darkly. At least at home, she was wanted, loved....

  She made herself remember Stuart. Stuart wanted and loved her. She was here for him, to spend more time with him and show loyalty to him, just as she'd explained to Elise ... and perhaps, just perhaps, to protect him. For Stuart, she could bear anything ... couldn't she?

  At least until spring.

  When Stuart saw something lying in the distance, a half-week later, he expected the worst. Instead of simply hiking out to investigate, he mounted Pooka. He wanted to be able to ride fast, if he needed—and it was easier to keep his shotgun on Pooka's saddle than to carry it.

  “Stay here and guard,” he warned Buster.

  Pooka began to toss his head and shudder with displeasure, the nearer they rode. A closer look at the lump in the frozen grass drew a curse from Stuart's lips. “Damn.”

  A dead ewe, white fleece matted with blood, stared sightlessly upward at the man who'd failed to protect her.

  Stuart closed his eyes, swallowed hard, then opened them and dismounted to examine this ... this thing ... as dispassionately as possible. No animal had done this. Someone—not something, but someone—had killed the ewe, and not here. Despite multiple cuts, including a slit throat, not enough blood stained the grass beneath the ewe, not even its snowy roots—far less blood than the cold accounted for. Besides, a corpse could not lie here for very long without attracting varmints, even in the winter.

  Like several antelope before it, someone had caught one of his sheep away from the flock, killed it, cut it up so that Stuart could not even save the fleece. Then he had left it on the stony stretch of free range where he'd been grazing his flock all week.

  People did not let good meat go to waste for no reason, certainly not antelope, and not even mutton. These were warnings—gory sort of “no trespassing” signs, as if the public grasslands belonged to anybody in particular, as if free range was meant to be free only to the cattlemen ... even on the MacCallum side of the deadline.

  Walking in slow circles from the dead ewe, Stuart found the U-shaped hoofprints of the horses that had left the gory remains. No great tracker, Stuart could still tel that they'd ridden away toward the southeast, and the deadline.

  He thought briefly of the three Circle-T riders who'd crossed the line to deliver a beating, barely a month ago. He thought of Mariah's father who, Dougie had reported, outright denied his cattle were grazing their land. Whoever had left this particular warning obviously meant to push the sheep farther toward Montana. How could it be anybody but cattlemen?

  Stuart glanced back toward his flock, which the dogs were tending just fine—one of the many benefits of herding domesticated sheep instead of balky, wild cattle. Making up his mind, he drew a rope from his saddle and tied the ewe's feet. A cowboy, he knew, could have made a better show of that, especial y what with Pooka balking. But Stuart need not be showy to get the job done ... whether Mariah was more used to cowboys or not.

  With one last glance toward the sheep, Stuart clucked Pooka into a trot, then a canter, dragging the dead animal behind them until they reached the ravine that marked the deadline. He had to dismount in order to kick the corpse in—likely a cowboy could have done that with more style as well—but the ewe ended up in the ravine either way. It was a sorry end to all the wool and lambs he would have gotten off her over the years, much less to a sweet, dumb animal who wouldn't harm a bug. But at least when the wolves and coyotes came after it, they'd be less tempted by the close proximity of the rest of his flock.

  As a bonus, thought Stuart grimly, maybe the smell of blood would spook off any straying cattle.

  He returned to his flock, wondering. After what Da had told him last week about other sheep farmers receiving threats from the rancher's hired gun, Stuart little doubted that the gunman was responsible. But nobody knew who was paying him—beyond “the cattlemen.”

  How far would the ranchers go this time to clear the range of sheep ... or herders?

  And on top of all those questions, as Stuart reached his flock and saw another rider approaching from the direction of his father's ranch, Stuart wondered what in the name of all that was holy Mariah could be doing here.

  Alone.

  Everything, Mariah repeated to herself to the beat of the draft-horse's hooves, is going to be all right.

  Halfway out to Stuart's flock, the words became less a prayer and more a comfort.

  It was a beautiful December day. The wind had swept away the previous night's dusting of snow until it collected in cracks and coulees and at the base of rocks, but otherwise seemed to have vanished. Frost sparkled occasional y in the dry grass. And the air smelled ...

  Fresh. Wild. Free. Full of promise.

  That was the very reason Mariah had embarked on this shocking ride: promise. After over a week of uncomplaining chores, sleeping three to a bed with Stuart's sisters, and dining on mutton in respectful silence, she felt more like a foreigner at the MacCallum home than ever. In fact, she felt like a frivolous foreigner, purposeless and useless, despite having packed only the most serviceable of her gowns and one good church dress. And then yesterday ...

  It would turn out all right, Mariah reminded herself desperately. But she also knew, with a need that went beyond thought to instinct, that she had to see Stuart to remind herself of that. She would marry into the MacCallum family, but she would in fact marry Stuart.

  So she rode the heavy-footed wagon horse across bare prairie, a
lmost as free as the wind. She'd fashioned a simple hackamore from rope and, as the MacCallums had no spare saddles, much less a sidesaddle, she'd even straddled the beast with a leg on each side, her skirt drawn scandalously up near her knees. Nobody would see her but Stuart, and Stuart ...

  Well , it embarrassed Mariah even to know that he might catch glimpse of her stockinged legs, but it was a warm embarrassment. When she reminded herself that he would likely see them sooner or later, once they married, the December wind felt sharp against her flushed cheeks.

  She recognized Stuart, on horseback, from a long way out, and not just from the white bits of cotton near him that were his sheep. Whenever she descended into a snowy gutter of the rolling grassland, she would lose sight of him, but each time she topped another rise, he would be even closer. Soon she could make out his broad shoulders and his hat, his winter coat and his horse. He drew his piebald gelding to a halt, staring at her approach, and she barely kept herself from urging the draft horse into a trot—a foolish move, bareback. Instead, she enjoyed the picture Stuart made against the frosty Wyoming range. He looked as if he owned the prairie.

  Stuart would make everything all right.

  But when Stuart rode forward to meet her, catching her rope bridle with one bare hand, his words of greeting were, “What can you be thinking?”

  Chapter Fourteen

  It was hardly the welcome Mariah had hoped for. “What?”

  “You rode all the way out here alone ?”

  “All the way? It's barely two miles from your parents' claim!”

  “Anything could have happened to you,” insisted Stuart, glancing out across the prairie at his sheep.

  Now Mariah could see several darker shapes amidst them— two black-and-white dogs, a few goats, and what looked like ... a burro? “Snakes, or wolves, or ... or a blizzard.”

  When Stuart frowned at her, his brows leveled out in anger. Mariah usually liked how that made him look, strong and solemn.

  But she knew blizzard signs as well as anyone raised in Wyoming. Wolves would not likely bother so large a horse, especial y not this early in December. She ran more of a chance of finding a snake in his family's outhouse than on the winter prairie.

  And Stuart took similar risks daily, without anybody scolding him.

  Normal y he had enough sense to have figured that out himself. So Mariah wove her fingers into the draft horse's mane and asked, “Why are you being like this? What's wrong?”

  Stuart looked back at his flock and bit off a single word. “Nothing.”

  He wasn't... he wouldn't lie to her. Would he?

  “What aren't you telling me?”

  He sighed before he swung his attention back to her, but at least some of the tension eased from his big shoulders, and his face softened back into its usual calm—outward-slanting eyebrows and all . “Sheep business, that's all ,” he dismissed firmly. “No need to worry yourself about it. Unless ...”

  Now a humor even warmed his solemn brown eyes. "Unless you're anxious to learn of hoof rot and such."

  When she made a face at the very idea, he even smiled, and everything felt better between them again. Then he sobered and asked, “Why are you here, Mariah?” Squinting, he even echoed her question. “What's wrong?”

  Being with him for the first time since Sunday made her latest run-in with Mrs. MacCallum seem petty. “Oh ... nothing to worry you either,” she admitted. “Just a little disagreement with your mother. I... I wanted to see you, to remember why I'm out here.”

  She'd needed to remember why she was out here, instead of happily at home being coddled and loved. She'd needed to see Stuart with a desperation usual y saved for ... for breathing. The solidity of him, sitting Pooka beside her, made everything all right.

  “You rode all this way,” he reminded her. “And I'll not let you ride back alone. You might as well tel me while we get the sheep back to Dougie.”

  His gaze slipped momentarily to those daring inches of her stockinged calves, beneath the flounces of her skirt and her high-topped shoes, before he turned his piebald back toward the flock. But his eyes gleamed with something other than disapproval. Fol owing, Mariah tugged the skirt as low as it would go, seated straddle. That Stuart would escort her back, on Dougie's night to go home, made her tiff with his mother seem even more trivial.

  But it hadn't felt that way yesterday. Nor last night, when the memory of it kept her awake, all but trembling. Nor this morning, when what little Mrs. MacCallum said to her seemed to echo further criticisms of Mariah's upbringing. It had upset her enough that she'd risked even more criticism to flee to Stuart.

  If she could not tel him, whom could she tell?

  “Your mother won't let me bake Christmas cookies,” she admitted, wishing she did not feel so silly as she said it.

  Stuart's quick glance over his shoulder at her did nothing to contradict that feeling. “Cookies,” he echoed.

  "I wanted to do something nice for your family, something cheerful, so I asked to make Christmas cookies."

  Worse, since she'd wanted it to be a surprise, she'd waited until she and Mrs. MacCallum were alone in the house, the children either at school or out with Emily.

  Maggie MacCallum's protests still rang in Mariah's ears. Is that all our Savior's birth means to you, Miss Garrison? Cookies?

  You canna win my children over to you with bribery.

  And, I'm sure you get cookies all you want at home, Miss, but this is my home.

  Mariah ducked her head, so that Stuart couldn't see when her eyes began to sting. Apparently she still felt upset after all , even in his steady presence.

  “Perhaps she wanted to save her sugar for other things,” Stuart suggested, after some consideration. “We're being especial y careful with our supplies this winter.”

  For a moment, Mariah heard an implied, unlike your family. She rejected the thought with a hard swallow. His mother might make such an accusation, but not Stuart.

  "That's why I brought the sugar from home, and white flour, too. Al I needed were eggs and some baking powder." And the MacCallums had good laying hens. Eggs weren't too dear.

  Stuart winced. “And Ma wouldn't accept them, is it?”

  The MacCallums have never yet taken Garrison charity, and we 're not starting now just because you have a taste for sweets!

  “I meant it as a gift,” Mariah insisted. “Not as charity.” Although she was not sure at what point either wealth or charity work had become such a terrible crime.

  Stuart glanced at her—then again, without even looking at her legs. He edged his gelding closer to her tall draft horse and reached out his right hand. Transferring her reins temporarily to her other hand, she reached out for him, and his fingers curled firmly around hers.

  “I am sure your intentions were good,” Stuart said— and somehow, just that made everything feel so much better. “I would have liked to taste your cookies.”

  “Perhaps I can make some at home, next Sunday,” she suggested hopefully—-but when his eyes flared, she said, “Or we can wait until we're married, I suppose.” Just to keep the peace.

  Stuart squeezed her hand, then reclaimed his to focus on his work.

  Watching his competence, Mariah fell in love with him all over again.

  Though sheep apparently lacked the intelligence of even cattle, they had sweet natures. She would never be alllowed to ride so near to big, sharp-horned, unruly cows ... though her sister Laurel had been known to risk it. But the wool y sheep, no larger than big dogs, seemed either content with or even ignorant of their numerous protectors. They meandered back toward their home grounds in starts and stops, like distracted children. Marian rode peacefully beside them and Stuart both, pleased that Stuart worked them so easily that he could still chat with her.

  “Does anybody even know you took Jughead?” he asked first.

  “I'm no horse thief, Stuart MacCallum! I asked your father just this morning if I might go riding, and he said he wouldn't be using the
horses today.”

  “Did you tel him you meant to ride here instead of just... about?”

  She had not. Mr. MacCallum was a sweet man, far more so than his wife, but even he would likely have protested this particular outing. “No. I hope to show your parents more respect than to reject their counsel, and... and I would have had to reject his counsel to come see you.”

  Stuart shook his head, sighed—and, eyes warm, whistled at his dogs.

  Beauty and Buster, his sleek border collies, moved in and out of the flock as smoothly as trout cut through river water. Sometimes they nipped at a laggard's heels until it bounced back to its brethren; sometimes they dropped low into the dead winter grass, ears alert but chin on the ground, to await further instructions from Stuart. Two goats also moved along with the flock, collar-bells tinkling out into the crisp air, eyes bright and heads high. They, Stuart explained as they rode, were there as guardians. Sheep, when eating, would keep their heads down and concentrate only on the grass, despite a coyote moving right up beside them. Goats, however, would take a bite and then watch their surroundings as they chewed. Sheep, when frightened, went completely still and silent, but goats would bleat and run. Their job was to sound the alarm should something go awry—and the burro's job was to fight away predators.

  “She's very good at it,” Stuart assured Mariah, and even smiled his quiet, warm smile. “You should have seen what she did to Buster, before I had him fully trained.”

  “Poor Buster,” commiserated Mariah. The larger of the two dogs paused and glanced in her direction, clearly aware that he was the subject of conversation. Stuart whistled sharply. With an expression that seemed almost abashed, Buster quickly resumed his herding duties.

  “Do you think...” she ventured, wary not to win another accusation of being selfish. “Would it be all right for me to bring a cat with me, once we marry?” Her mother had always kept housecats, yet another small luxury that she'd missed these last weeks.

  “Don't see why not,” said Stuart, easy as that. With the sweep of an arm, he directed Beauty to go after a cluster of sheep who had fallen behind. She immediately did.