by Yvonne Jocks
“Come on,” she said, low, and purposeful y took Evangeline's hand again.
The temperature was dropping considerably—Mariah felt even more glad for having convinced Evangeline to take the mittens—but Mr. MacCallum stood outside the store. He was not alone.
Another man, his back to Mariah, was talking to him.
“—be a sight safer in Montana, is all I'm sayin',” the stranger was saying, with an eerie, mean sound to his words. “Could be you will , too.”
“I'll not be leaving,” said Mr. MacCallum, his voice tense. “Nor wil my sons.”
Then he stepped around the other gentleman to meet Mariah, without a good-day or an excuse me. Only when the second man turned did Mariah see why.
It was Idaho Johnson, the man who'd taunted Stuart at her party. She had not recognized him, with his long coat hiding his sidearm.
Since Mr. MacCallum seemed upset, Mariah let him help her brusquely into his now-loaded wagon, then climb up himself before she dared attempt an introduction. "Mr. MacCallum, have you met Miss Evangeline Taylor? She's—"
“I know of her,” said her host shortly, picking up the reins.
He knew of her?
She looked quickly to Evangeline, thinking perhaps she would introduce them anyway. But the Taylor girl shook her head, an imploring look in her pale eyes. Then the wagon lurched as Mr.
MacCallum shook the reins, urged the team forward.
For Evangeline, Mariah would hold her tongue. Al she asked Mr. MacCallum, on the long drive back, was what Mr. Johnson had been saying to him.
“‘Tis nothing for you to worry about, lass," he told her—almost as firmly as his wife might have. So she sat silently beside him on the wagon, watching the town ease slowly away from her again, and thought, about Evangeline Taylor.
And she decided, as it started to snow, that she would simply ask Stuart.
By time they reached the MacCallum homestead, it was snowing fairly hard.
Stuart had never minded snowstorms so much, before. Before Mariah and the engagement, that is. Before he took on responsibility for far more than sheep.
Now, instead of being satisfied that he and Dougie had managed to herd their flock back to the wagon and safely against a cut in the land, where the beasts could huddle protected from the wind, Stuart had to worry about other things. Seemingly petty things.
He knew Mariah would not have gone out in the storm herself; surely she was as safe with his parents as she would be with hers. But when the storm stayed through all of Sunday, the wind wailing and the snow turning the night a strange kind of white, Stuart found himself worrying about not seeing her for church.
He worried about her not visiting her family—and he did not even like her family.
Compared to the physical challenge of continual y checking on over four hundred snowbound Merinos, such thoughts ought not have carried such weight. But they did.
Monday never did dawn; instead, the storm continued to howl around the wagon, and Stuart's concerns continued to howl around his head. Mariah had not seemed completely happy with his parents even when she could regularly step outside—could ride away on her own. He did not want to imagine how they were wearing on each other's nerves now.
“You're making me tired,” muttered Dougie, bundling up to go outside again. “I think I prefer the sheep.”
The storm broke Monday night, but of course the sheep had to be seen to before Stuart could consider Mariah....
Well , before be could do anything about Mariah.
The beasties had become little more than discolored breath holes atop drifted snow. They'd managed well enough, with plenty to drink, but the cut-bank had not offered good grazing even before their confinement against it. So Stuart and Dougie had to fork enough hay from one of their stacks to sate two days' worth of appetite.
“Go see her, for mercy's sake,” said Dougie, once the sheep were eating. “You'll be no good around here until you do.”
That he wanted to do just that did not surprise Stuart; the need to see Mariah felt as strong as back when they'd been meeting in secret under the bridge. His blood pounding in him, impatient to be away to her. But...
But the sheep.
“It's too easy to lose one, with the snow this deep.” He disliked the sound of his own voice, through an old muffler of his, for saying it, but it was true enough. “Best that we both keep watch.”
“Suit yourself,” said Dougie with a shrug.
And Stuart did—until that afternoon when, echoing sharply across the snow-drifted prairie, he heard gunshots from the direction of his parents' homestead.
Chapter Sixteen
Like Stuart's sisters, Mariah enjoyed nothing about gunfire in “play.” She did not put her fingers in her ears, as nine-year-old Caroline did. But she did stay inside to distract the youngest children while Mr. MacCallum was out teaching Kevin the finer points of using his new Winchester rifle.
This did little to improve her mood after three days of incarceration with Stuart's family.
Then Jenny, drawing pictures on the frosted windows, cal ed, “Stuart's here!”
And Mariah had on her coat and muffler—Stuart's muffler—before Mrs. MacCallum had reached the window long enough to say, “Why is he walking?” Mariah did not wait for anyone to venture a guess before she'd rushed out into the freezing December cold to greet him, either
Stuart, looking broad and healthy beside his slimmer father as they hiked back to the homestead together, was not so rude as to rush forward himself. But he did raise a hand to greet Marian's approach and even briefly showed his teeth in a smile, despite the cold. And when she'd floundered near enough, snow powdering her skirts and packing into the tops of her shoes, Stuart opened his arms wide. She hurled herself against his chest, almost falling the last foot or so, and he scooped her up in a great bear hug and spun her around, her knees bent and her feet etching a half-circle in the snow.
Then she ducked under his hat brim and they kissed. His face felt scratchy against hers— apparently he'd not shaved in several days—and Mariah's love for him felt bigger than the sky.
“What are you doing here?” she gasped as he set her back down. “Why are you walking—is Pooka all right? Where's Kevin?”
“Do you never button your coat, lass?” Stuart demanded back, yanking the two halves of the garment together for her while she obediently fastened the buttons with quickly numbing hands.
“I'm here because I forgot about the new rifles. And I'm walking because I sent Kevin to tel Dougie not to come riding to our rescue as well .”
“Our rescue?” Mariah laughed at so gal ant an idea, huddling happily against him for warmth as she dug her mittens from her pockets. "What did you think we needed rescuing from—wild animals or bandits? Or Indians?"
Stuart looked down for a moment, where she could not see his expression, but Mr. MacCallum suggested, “Rival suitors, perhaps?”
That made Mariah laugh again—not just his joke, but that he'd apparently forgiven her keeping company with “that Taylor girl” enough to make it.
Not that she needed forgiveness for being seen in public with Evangeline. But apparently Stuart's parents thought she did, and ... Oh! it all seemed so trivial and unnecessary now that Stuart was here. She refused to dwell on any of it.
At least she thought so until the three of them got inside and shed their coats, Stuart particularly hampered by the welcome of his younger siblings. Then, even as Mariah dodged little MacCallums to step nearer Stuart herself—to hold his arm, to ask him how his flock weathered the storm, to just be close to him for the first time in almost a week—his mother called him across the room. Of course Stuart went to her, bent his rather shaggy head to hers....
And from the way they both glanced up toward Mariah at the same time, .Stuart's brown gaze surprised and Mrs. MacCallum's caustic, Mariah did not have to be a spiritualist to guess what he was hearing. She'd certainly heard enough of it herself since her return from Sherida
n.
What could you have been thinking? But they never real y wanted her to answer. Your family may tolerate ne'er-do-wells in the name of charity, but our charity begins at home.
Righteous indignation stiffening her spine, Mariah stared right back at the both of them.
Stuart closed his eyes and, for a moment, looked very tired.
At that, Mariah made herself take a deep breath and relax her own posture. It was not fair to put him between his mother and his bride-to-be. If his mother could not honor that, at least Mariah could try to make it easier for Stuart from her own side. When Stuart opened his eyes into a wince, Mariah smiled a tiny, hopeful smile toward him.
And subtly, so quickly that she wasn't quite sure she saw it, Stuart winked at her before turning back to his mother and solemnly nodding at whatever else she said.
Mariah ducked her own head, then, lest her smile give Stuart away. But the relief that eased through her shoulders and back as she sank onto the bench by the fireplace surprised her. She hadn't thought Stuart would side with his mother ... had she? Against her?
Then again....
“Granted, Ma has strong opinions,” he admitted to her, once he finally made his way back to her side. He had to add, “Get on with you, this is private,” to Caroline before continuing. “But Mariah, surely you didn't go to town only to spend your time with the Taylor girl?”
Stuart wasn't sitting on the bench beside her. Instead, he'd propped one booted foot on it, so he could lean his elbow on his knee—lean over her—as he warmed himself by the fire. Mariah had to concentrate very hard not to be distracted by his thick leg or, when she looked respectful y up, his thick eyelashes as he squinted at her with just the right mixture of confusion and concern.
“I did not go looking for Evangeline,” she admitted ... then felt guilty for even admitting that, as friendless as the poor girl seemed. "But nobody else would walk with me, and when I met her, I was not about to ... to shun her. She's Victoria's friend, after all. And have you noticed that she attends our church?"
Stuart had started to frown—but not at her. His brown eyes seemed unfocused.
“Stuart?”
When his eyes focused again, on her face, they looked pained. "Nobody else would walk with you?" he repeated—
And she realized just what she'd foolishly said.
“Oh! I didn't mean it that way, silly! My family was out at the ranch, and ...”
But she did not sound convincing even to herself, even before she realized that she was, in fact, lying. Charity Wills would not see her because of Stuart, she felt sure. And she'd not bothered stopping to see any of her other old friends. They had begun to avoid her ever since her engagement, even before she moved in with the MacCallums.
Stuart stood, startling old Bruce awake from his nap by the fire, and strode across the room. He waved her back as she started to follow, grabbed his coat, and stepped outside. He closed the door index more firmly than necessary.
Marian saw his sisters staring at her, wide-eyed—his mother with her usual disapproval—before she pulled on her wet shoes, grabbed her coat, and followed Stuart anyway.
He stood not too far from the house, scowling out at the snowy horizon. When Mariah pulled on her coat and came to stand beside him, he dipped his gaze angrily toward her once, then sighed as he looked away and muttered, “For mercy's sake, Mariah, button your coat.”
Mariah buttoned. "You're the one who kept warning me how poorly people would take to our engagement."
“It doesna mean I should like it.” The words came out thick, and he scowled out at the nothingness even more fiercely.
She caught his hard arm with both of hers, hugged it. "What do I care what those people think?
Obviously they aren't very good judges of character!"
His jaw tight, Stuart looked upward at the sky, trying very hard, Mariah thought, not to say or do or show more than he already had.
She could point out how this was why she would not shun someone like little Evangeline Taylor.
Instinctively, she knew to stay silent. Then Stuart said, “If you married any other man ...”
And his voice shook, even before he bit off his words mid-sentence.
His apparent guilt made her ache, deep inside, and she instinctively put her bare hand on his rough cheek, felt how he was gritting his teeth. "I don't want any other man, Stuart MacCallum! I want you. Don't you dare get al noble, this far down the road!"
For a long moment he did not move, and she wondered if he'd heard her. Then . ..
When he suddenly turned and yanked her against him, for a moment it frightened her. She'd had no warning, this time—he just sort of surrounded her with his body, too big and strong to be checked, and crushed her to him, and covered her mouth with his, open and needy. His kiss pressed her Ups hard against her teeth, but somehow even in her surprise she didn't mind. His groan against her could have been a growl. And yes, it frightened her—for a moment.
But then she thought: Stuart. And resistance melted from her. She let her body mold against his in ways she'd not realized it could, let her head fall limply back so that he could do whatever he wanted to her, her mouth, her throat... anything. It was, after all , Stuart.
And once she relaxed into his strength and control, what he did to her, his tongue bold and his cheek rasping hard on hers—oh!—it felt sinful and bestial and so shockingly good. ...
“Stuart!” called a voice from the house. Emily? Bonny? “Ma says that dinner's ready!”
Stuart stiffened, as if only finding his senses then. Mariah wasn't sure she'd found hers even yet.
Shouldn't she feel mortified? And yet... when Stuart straightened and cradled her against his shoulder then, his face catching on her hair as he whispered something, Mariah only felt pleasantly dizzy—and so feverish that the snow at her feet should have melted into a puddle of hot water.
She nuzzled her face into Stuart's coat, breathed the smell of him, luxuriated in his embrace ... finally heard what he was saying, over and over.
“I'm sorry. I'm sorry, lass. I didna mean ... I'm so sorry.”
Dazed, she tipped her face up toward his. When he lifted his own, strands of her hair still draped to his stubbled cheek until she wiped them free.
He looked stricken, and she had to ask, “Why?”
He closed his eyes then, as if in prayer, and his posture eased. Eyes closed, he kissed Marian's forehead, then her eyelids...... then her throat....
Marian began to feel even hotter, even more dizzy!
“Stuart Andrew MacCallum!”
At his mother's voice they bolted apart as if doused with ice water. In fact, Mariah seemed to remember her mother throwing water on a pair of cats that were behaving very rudely ... and oh, she wished she could vanish under the snowbank!
Especial y since his mother seemed to be glaring at her far more than at him.
“I... ” Stuart seemed to be trying to form a sentence, low enough that it was surely meant for Mariah alone. “I never meant to hurt you, lass,” he murmured.
Mariah turned back to him, just in time to see him wince at his mother's, “Inside!”
“You haven't hurt me, Stuart,” she whispered back— taking a step toward the house, just to show how obedient she meant to be.
Without opening his eyes, he shook his head. “You dinna ken ...” Then he groaned again. “You go ahead, Mariah. I'll be with you in a moment.”
Something felt wrong about going without him. But she'd already disobeyed him by fol owing him out in the first place. And he would be her husband ... come spring.
So Mariah hurried meekly by his mother and sat at the table. She kept her head down even as she heard Mr. MacCallum go close the door. “It's cold, Maggie,” he chided gently.
“Then he ought not be gallivanting about out there,” his wife said.
Somehow even without looking, Mariah felt the woman's disapproval—and it did not bother her.
Her amazement over w
hat had just happened in Stuart's arms, how very unrestrained her normal y steady, solid beau had behaved, and how very imprudently she'd responded...
Well , that easily distracted her from something so trivial as Mrs. MacCallum.
“He's fine, Maggie,” soothed Stuart's father, and apparently he led his wife to the table, because they both sat as well. “Let us say grace.”
Mariah felt downright blasphemous, listening to his solemn prayer with her heart still pounding as it did, her skin still tingling from more than the cold weather, her pulse skittering about like water on a hot skillet. She doubted even God would approve of such behavior.
Certainly her father would not!
But when the door opened and Stuart came back in, gruffly excused his tardiness and sat at the table, she could not quite suppress a smile of sheer pleasure at his return, even so.
Al she could do was not look at him.
Stuart did not dare look at Mariah for half the dinner through, and even then he risked only quick, tentative glances. He'd never imagined kissing her like that—
Did that even stil qualify as kissing?!
Even husbands ought not treat their wives that way, so ... so desperate. So needy ...
And yet he had been both. Desperate and needy. Though he had warned Mariah of what she
risked in yoking her future to his, he'd never dreamed the reality of it would pierce so deeply. It hurt worse than any beating— and this was just the start. Once she married him, her entire life would be that of a sheeper's wife. Her children—their children—would face the same abuse and discrimination he'd suffered. He was doing that to her, in the meager name of love....
Briefly, he'd hated himself for it.
But Mariah insisted on loving him, even so—and then Stuart had needed her love more than he needed her respect or even his own. At that moment, he'd turned to her, clung to her ...
And somehow, his need for her had then degenerated into a blinding hunger to somehow brand her as his, irrevocably and fully, before common sense could drive him to do the right thing by ever, ever giving her up....