by Yvonne Jocks
His kiss had not been gentle. Now, peeking across the table, he noticed that her cheeks weren't just pink from cold or embarrassment. Something had scraped her jaw.
Stuart remembered that he had not shaved during the storm, and he was almost sick, right there.
And yet, when Mariah final y touched his gaze with her own—timid, blushing—her predawn eyes held no accusation. They held the same love they always had....
Albeit shadowed with a modest self-consciousness that pinkened her cheeks even more.
Just as wel that she could distract herself by helping with the dishes, that Stuart could distract himself with Kevin's return. The twelve-year-old announced that the snow made the evening bright as afternoon, that Dougie had fed him beans for dinner, and that the Winchester was surely the best rifle ever made.
“Wait until you try yours, Stu!” the boy enthused. “You'l be glad Da bought them then!”
When they'd agreed to better arm themselves, just in case, Stuart's had been the only voice of hesitation— because of Mariah.
Now Mariah turned from his sisters at the stove and cocked her pretty head, quizzical. "You bought Stuart a Winchester, too?" she asked his father.
The way Da ducked his head belied his firm, “I did.”
Stuart only stared at her, stil feeling guilty for more than he could even understand, none of it involving firearms.
“Oh.” Mariah turned back to drying dishes—but only for a moment. Then she let Bonny have al of the dish-towel and crossed the room, her pretty brow furrowed. "I don't understand. I thought Stuart had a rifle."
“I have a shotgun,” Stuart clarified for her. “And Dougie only a sidearm.”
She nodded, her brow smoothing. “And now Dougie gets the shotgun.”
Kevin, far too proud, announced, "Dougie gets his own Winchester! You can't fight a war with shotguns!"
Stu said, “Whist!” But too late—Kevin had just used the worst possible word, and it hung in the room, blatant as a pig in a parlor.
“A war?” repeated Mariah carefully—and she looked to Stuart to clarify. She trusted Stuart. If he had not believed that before their behavior this evening ...
Perhaps she trusted him too much?
“A range war,” he clarified, as gently as he could. “Not that there is one,” he added quickly, for his sisters' sake as wel as hers.
“A range war,” Mariah echoed, like a child learning new words.
“The rifles are merely a caution,” assured Da. “None of it should concern you ladies.”
Mariah said, stil sounding simple, “A range war with whom?”
When Kevin drew breath to answer, Stuart whacked him in the stomach, just hard enough to make him catch that breath back. Kevin had never seen a true fight, after al . He did not understand what it could cost, not even with Mariah standing right there in front of him, vulnerable and confused.
Deliberately confused at that, thought Stuart. He hated to hurt her with clarification. But she was his betrothed. That made her his responsibility.
“With the ranchers, Mariah,” he said. “If it came to a fight, 'twould be a fight with the cattlemen.”
Chapter Seventeen
“You bought rifles to fight the cattlemen.” Mariah knew very wel how daft she sounded, repeating everything. But she could not sound as ludicrous as the MacCal um men. War? Wars were fought for independence, for freedom, for states' rights or, conversely, for abolition.
Wars were not fought over grass.
“Only if it comes to that,” Stuart assured her mildly, as if addressing someone deathly sick or badly frightened. She was neither.
“If what comes to that?” she asked. When he put a steadying hand on her shoulder, brown eyes concerned, she realized this question too closely echoed the others. "Something must have happened, to compel you al to buy ... three rifles?"
One for Kevin, one for Douglas—and one for Stuart. Her Stuart.
“Tis a matter for the menfolk,“ insisted Mr. MacCal um, while Kevin helpfully clarified, ”Four. And ammunition."
The image of herself riding back from Sheridan beside Mr. MacCal um, with an armory loaded in the wagon behind her, Mariah stored away for another time.
“I don't understand,” she said instead, “what could have changed? Was it—?” A horrible thought occurred to her. “Oh Stuart, is this because of what Hank Schmidt did?”
Because of her papa?
“No,” said Stuart, while his mother asked, “Schmidt? Who is this Schmidt?”
Stuart closed his eyes in resignation. “Nobody, Ma.”
Mrs. MacCal um glared at them both.
"Then what? There must have been a reason. If we're being careful not to waste money on lamplight, or sugar and flour, the purchase of four brand-new rifles seems rather extreme."
“Enough!” The usual y soft-spoken Mr. MacCal um strode to the fireplace before facing Mariah.
"Miss Garrison, this concerns me and my sons alone. We've no reason to explain ourselves to our wives, daughters, or fiancées."
Then, as if unsettled by his own sternness, he ducked his head as he added, "You and the girls had best retire, while we discuss this proper."
The others, even Emily, obediently started for the bedroom they al shared. Mariah did not. Even on a normal evening she would stay up long enough to see Stuart off. But now ...
“It does concern me,” she reminded Mr. MacCal um— and, lest he needed it, Stuart. “Don't forget, my father is a cattle rancher.”
Mrs. MacCal um snorted, as if to imply that such transgressions were impossible to overlook. Mr.
MacCal um snatched his pipe off the mantle, but did not light it. Kevin watched with wide eyes, as did Bruce the dog, whom the argument had woken.
Mariah continued watching Stuart. “It does concern me,” she repeated—and for once, she
understood how her spirited mother must sometimes feel. She did not mean to be quarrelsome.
But how could she ignore something like this? "I want to understand, Stuart. Make me understand."
“Is this how you mean to let her behave?” demanded his mother.
Ignoring his mother as he gazed steadily back at Mariah—tired, it seemed extraordinarily so, but steady— Stuart said, “I do not think you want to hear these things, lass.”
“If it has to do with you or my father, how could I not?”
Stuart ducked his head, dragged a hand over his face, then peeked back up at Mariah over the hand while it stil covered his mouth. Only when his mother drew breath to say something else did he raise the hand, palm out, and say, "It's my affair, Ma. Mine and Mariah's. Thank you for your concern,“ he added, belatedly softening his voice. ”But you're nae helping."
“I said from the start...” his mother muttered.
Stuart scowled and took Mariah by the hand. “We're going to the barn to talk,” he announced and strode toward the door, her scrambling to fol ow. They stopped only for coats.
“Not without a chaperone,” interceded his father. “Not while she lives here.”
“Then send Kevin. I'l not have the two of you ...” Stuart searched for the right word before wincing at his inability to find it. “It's not that I dinna appreciate your wisdom,” he offered awkwardly. "But it's Mariah I intend to marry. It's Mariah whose da is a cattle rancher. I need to talk to her alone, without your ..."
Criticism? thought Mariah. Judgments? Biases?
“Without your help,” Stuart tried. "Either she and I discuss this in the barn or in the boys'
bedroom." And of course the idea of them going into a bedroom together, even a boys' bedroom with little six-year-old Ian already asleep there, was out of the question.
Mr. MacCal um compromised with, “Kevin goes with you, then.”
Stuart said, “As long as he keeps his tongue. You mind me, Kevin?”
Kevin nodded quickly and, proud at such responsibility—chaperoning his older brother!—hurried to grab his own coat. Mariah had already
put hers on, even buttoned it.
Together, by the light of a single lantern, the three of them strode out to the barn, worn snow barely crunching beneath their boots. To Mariah, everything from the moment Kevin had said
“war” seemed unreal. It was one thing to agree that the cattlemen and sheep farmers had, as her father put it, “bad blood” between them. But to speak of war—to buy the guns for it!
Mariah did not fear guns. But she'd feared the MacCal um s' suddenly deciding they al needed new rifles, even before war with the cattlemen came into the discussion.
And she feared the possibility that something bad might have happened with nobody, nobody deigning to tel her. So after Stuart hung the lantern on its hook, and shooed Kevin off to the other side of the barn where he could watch quietly, Mariah took his soft, strong hand.
Next to her father, Stuart was the best person to be with when she felt fear.
But when he said, “It's not so extreme as Kevin made it out,” a shiver of uncertainty ran through her despite his steadiness. If it were not extreme, why buy four rifles?
She did not ask that. She said, “Make me understand. Please.”
Stuart drew a wooden crate closer to the light, brushed it off before letting Mariah settle onto it...
then stood there and stared at her, wordless.
Mariah waited, even glanced toward Kevin, lying casual y in the hay. He shrugged.
Final y, Stuart said, “You've known al along that the cattlemen hate the sheep farmers.”
“I've known they strongly dislike sheep, yes,” she admitted. “But why should that require new rifles?” She forced the harder question out. “You don't mean to shoot cattlemen, do you?”
Stuart said, “Not unless they start shooting at us first.”
“Wel , they won't,” she said, greatly relieved.
But Stuart continued to regard her solemnly. He folded his arms, then shifted his balance and unfolded his arms, obviously uncomfortable. And his family had bought rifles....
“You truly think they might?”
“It's happened before,” said Stuart.
“Cattlemen have shot at you?”
“Not recently.” But he said that so quickly, Mariah had the sudden and completely distressing sense that he'd just lied to her.
“Stuart... ?” she asked, desperate for him to disprove that thought.
“But when I was younger,” Stuart continued, not obliging, “not long after we moved here, there was a lot of shooting against homesteaders, smal ranchers, and sheep farmers.”
Why did you just lie to me? thought Mariah, her throat constricted. But had he? She must concentrate on what he was tel ing her, not what he might not be saying.
So she asked, “Cattlemen shot at you?”
With a deep sigh, Stuart stepped closer and sank onto the box beside Mariah, took her hand in his again. "With the smal ranchers, the cattle barons usual y trumped up an accusation of rustling.
Not ten years ago, in the Sweetwater Val ey, they hanged Jim Averel and El a Watson on false charges. And you remember the Johnson County War."
He'd used that word again. War...
Mariah said, slowly, "I remember that Papa made Mother take al of us on the train to Denver that week, until he telegraphed her to come home. She wouldn't tel us why. When we got back, the army had already captured the gunmen from Texas. Papa said ..." It sounded damning, but she couldn't lie to him. “He said those men kil ed two rustlers.”
Stuart said, "They kil ed two innocent homesteaders, Mariah—surrounded their cabin and gunned them down, with the governor paid to not interfere. If someone hadn't gone for help, they would've cleaned out three counties. Everyone knows it was the cattlemen who hired them."
“But.. .” But—her father wouldn't unfairly cal someone a rustler. But— everyone couldn't know, if she did not. But—how could Stuart accuse cattle barons who'd not even stood trial?
Unwil ing to argue any of that, she said, “That was Johnson County.”
Stuart said, “And not a day's ride from here.” And in fact, when she was very young, her parents used to drive with her to Buffalo, the county seat, several times a year for supplies.
Mariah said, “But you raise sheep! Sheep and cattle can't even use the same range!”
Stuart frowned at her then. It did not last very long—but Mariah felt certain she'd not imagined it.
Stuart did not like what she'd just said, and he would not tel her why.
He looked down at their joined hands and said, "No, they don't general y accuse us of rustling.
They go after our sheep. Sometimes men shoot them. Sometimes they rush the sheep off a cliff; more often the sheep bunch up, but then it's just as easy to set them afire."
Mariah bolted off the crate, even if it meant snatching her hand from Stuart's, and she held herself very tight against such pictures. “People couldn't do something so terrible as that!”
Stuart looked at her very steadily and said, “They do.”
“No.”
“They have.”
“No!”
Stuart's tone did not falter. “They've done it to my da.”
Mariah shook her head.
And Stuart said, “I've seen it.”
Then Mariah could only stand, her arms wrapped about her middle, staring at him.
"When I was twelve, Da took me to check on a new herder he'd hired, and we camped there that night. We woke when six gunmen rode in and began to shoot the flock. They shot the herder, Mariah, and the dog, and they may wel have shot me if my Da hadna had his rifle to chase them off. I was there, and I saw it."
Mariah wanted to shake her head but couldn't manage it. As if realizing that he'd remained seated while she stood, Stuart found his feet and came to her again, claimed her hand again. "It's real, lass."
She tipped her face up toward his, imploring him to fix it. “They real y shot the dog?”
He traced some hair from her face and, for a moment, almost smiled. But it was a sad smile, and he stil seemed somehow far away. “Aye. And the herder. And almost twenty sheep.”
So much horror. So many questions. She settled for, “The sheriff...?”
“They hid their faces under gunnysacks; he said he couldna do anything.”
“Then how do you know it was cattlemen?”
Stuart bowed his head until he was able to rest it atop hers. “Oh lass ...”
Who else would it be? he meant. And she had no suggestions. But to assume the ranchers seemed wrong—it seemed un-American!
She concentrated to manage another question. “You think it's going to happen again?”
With Stuart's face so close to hers, she saw when his eyes closed. He drew a deep breath as he straightened, patted and released her hand. He walked to the crate before turning back to her.
“We do. Johnson County cost some ranchers their reputations, if little else, but that was over five years ago. Folks are forgetting, and the intimidation is starting again.”
“But how?”
“Someone's hired another outside man.” At her confusion, Stuart clarified, "A gunman, hired from outside the area so that nobody local need claim responsibility for his actions. The ranchers cal them 'range detectives.' Johnson's trying to push back the deadline and scare us away. He's done little to take to the sheriff,“ he assured her, before she could ask. ”As if the law would help. But cattle are being driven onto our land, chal enging our claim to it. Someone even slaughtered one of my ewes and left it as a warning. Maybe things won't get any worse, but likely they wil . And if they
do, we mean to fight back."
Mariah slowly nodded. If someone threatened to shoot her animals, much less set them on fire, she would want to be wel armed too. And yet...
“Stuart? Why didn't you tel me any of this.”
He frowned, though more in thought than anger. After having said so uncharacteristical y much, he now chose his words very carefully. “You don't much talk of the sheep, Mari
ah.”
She waited.
“And I didna wish to worry you.”
She shivered. Papa would say that someone walked over her grave. But it felt more like Stuart lying to her— again. She'd rejected the thought as almost blasphemous. But now .. .
Stuart had warned her that the townsfolk would not accept their engagement. He'd warned her about how vehemently her papa would protest. He'd even warned her about blizzards and
rattlesnakes, on that beautiful afternoon when he showed her their claim, and never once had he seemed concerned with worrying her.
But with this, he had?
Perhaps he'd been right in the house, and she did not wish to know any of this. But if wishes were horses ...
The only way out was through the truth. So she asked softly, “What else, Stuart?”
He just stared back at her. And final y, horribly, she realized why he'd kept silent.
“You think my father is involved?”
“I didna say that,” he protested quickly.
"But that's why you haven't told me any of this before. You think my father hired that nasty Idaho Johnson. You think my father wants to start a range war with you!"
Stuart said nothing.
"Do you even think he's one of the men who shot your papa's herder, and sheep ... and dog? How
—how could you possibly think something so horrible about my father?"
As her voice faded, she realized she'd yel ed. At Stuart. The man she loved. She wanted to apologize for forgetting herself—but not as much as she wanted him to tel her she was wrong.
To his credit, Stuart said, "Could be he's innocent. Could be the other ranchers are doing it al without his help—maybe even without his knowledge."
At least he made that effort. But Mariah felt cold, despite the barn's toasty warmth. When she reached for Stuart, he quickly met her, wrapped his arms comfortingly around her, eased her back down onto the crate. Almost on his lap, she curled against the breadth and warmth of him—and thought of her father, and felt progressively colder.
Papa's own men—his own nephew!—had hurt Stuart. On purpose.
Papa had sent Mother and al his daughters away the very week of the Johnson County War, before anything bad had happened.