by Yvonne Jocks
He was beautiful, all solid skin and muscle—and not so hairy after all . His forearms had more hair than his upper arms, and his wide shoulders were smooth. The outside of his chest wasn't hairy, but the middle of it was, all the way down from his neck to his ridged stomach to—
Despite the ache that still twisted through her, hot and anxious, Mariah felt suddenly scared of hurting again.
Stuart stared down at the naked beauty of his wife, shuddering with a barely checked need. Her golden hair spilled over the pillow, her skin dewy from their lovemaking—
And her round, tempting breasts.
He needed her. His whole being reeled with the need to take her, to bury himself in her, to have her, final y, final y, no more waiting—
Until he saw the fear in her eyes, and where she was looking. And she wasn't just his wife, but Mariah. Cursing his own lust—and how desperately he longed to slake it even now—Stuart
somehow curled back onto his side again, drew up one leg to protect her from the sight....
From him. No wonder wise couples probably did this clothed and under covers.
Despite a need burning through his lower back—and other places—to get on with it, Stuart cupped Mariah's beautiful face. “Whist,” he managed to gasp. “Whist, lass. I am ... trying ...”
In fact, he'd never put more effort into anything in his life.
Mariah cuddled up against him, naked and round and soft, and his body almost finished things against the flannel skirt of her nightgown as she whispered, “Can't we kiss some more first? Just a little?”
Stuart closed his eyes to keep from embarrassing himself. He wanted ...
Needed. ..
He opened his eyes and looked into Mariah's.
“As long as I can stand it,” he groaned. But when he kissed her, his mouth and tongue mimicked what his body burned to do..
That did not seem to frighten her. In fact, Mariah responded enthusiastically, held him even more tightly, arched into his touch when he reclaimed her breasts, even when he slid his hand down her back again, to parts lower. He did not mean to be obscene with her, of course, but when his fingers accidental y slipped between her legs, she felt so hot, wet. ..
His eyes burned with tears of real pain. He groaned into her hair. Mariah, he kept telling himself.
This is Mariah. . .
“Stuart,” she gasped, squirming against him. She even touched him softly, tentatively—there. And she did not snatch her hand away.
He grit his teeth in a desperate bid of self-control. He'd stood the pain of being beaten. Surely he could stand this.
“What do the ewes do when they're ... amenable?”
He drew his face away from her flushed neck and looked into her eyes, but this time he wasn't about to ask if she was al right. This time, he would take it on faith. He needed her too badly. He tugged away the last of her nightgown, quickly readjusted himself between her legs to make sure ...
Stared into her wild yet trusting gray eyes and prayed he was doing this right....
As he began to press into her, wet and hot and more blissfully welcoming than heaven surely could be, Mariah gasped quietly. But God help him, he couldn't stop. Holding her with his gaze, Stuart's prayer became: It will be all right.
He moaned with the ecstasy of joining himself with her. But the joy of seeing Mariah smile up at him in surprised delight, arch her back with obvious pleasure, somehow equaled it....
If not in such pressing ways.
Kissing her worshipful y, Stuart fol owed his body's need to move inside of the tight welcome that was his wife, pushing and holding her, losing himself in her, in her gasps and smiles both. Then he lost everything else, too, released his world into a final, thrusting explosion that poured into her, possessed her in every way a man could... .
And he didn't lose his world at all . She was it.
He hoped he did not crush her beneath him, did not hurt her. His thoughts blurred then—
shudders, completion, exhaustion—until he was lying on his side again, holding Mariah perhaps too tightly against him, both of them sweated and panting great, heaving breaths. Between gasps, he kissed weakly at whatever part of her was nearest his mouth. She obligingly snuggled in and tipped her face to his, so that part would be her sweet lips.
“Oh lass,” he gasped, between kisses.
“It didn't hurt!” she whispered happily. “It just... surprised me. Then it was wonderful.”
“I love you.” He'd thought he loved her more than possible, from the start. But now ...
Now he knew he couldn't live without her. The thought frightened him, just a little. But with her safe in his arms, he couldn't worry for long.
“I love you, too,” she whispered, pillowing her head more comfortably on his upper arm, playing with his chest hair. She still smelled like springtime. His springtime.
“Stuart,” she whispered, squirming a little.
“What is it, love?” The endearment slipped so easily off his lips, he almost didn't notice.
She lowered her gaze shyly. “I'd like to do that some more. Can we?”
When her mischievous hand slid down his hip to explore the part of him that had frightened her before, the petulant expression on his usual y good-natured Mariah, at what she found, made Stuart laugh out loud.
He kissed her fully, nothing held back, and felt stirrings of continued interest himself.
“Give me some time to rest, love, and I will happily oblige,” Stuart promised.
And she did, exploring him so happily while she waited that it wasn't long before Stuart felt fully recovered.
And he did, this time somehow pleasing her even more, if her soft cries and shudders were any indication.
They cuddled, whispered, laughed, made love. They talked and planned and kissed slow, tired, happy kisses off each other's lips. By the next morning, Stuart believed that, with Mariah by his side, perhaps everything would be all right, after all .
Everything.
Chapter Twenty-two
February passed with snow and isolation—and Mariah loved being married. Not the least of what she loved was waking up in the frozen dark of the morning, huddled tightly against Stuart in the little bed that spanned the back of his sheep-wagon. Not only did they both somehow fit, but usual y she woke to her kitten, Velvet, curled purring against her neck.
“Good morning, Mr. MacCallum,” she would whisper, finding Stuart's face with hers, nuzzling him to warm her icy nose.
“Good morning, Mrs. MacCallum,” Stuart would whisper back, his voice and his face equal y rough.
In order to kiss her, he would carefully lift the indignant kitten over to the bench that adjoined their bed, then roll over her, blankets and all . Then he would kiss her, so very thoroughly that she hardly even noticed his cold nose.
Mariah had thought Stuart an excellent kisser before they married. But he'd certainly proven the benefits of constant practice!
Sometimes, if it was early enough, they made love in the dark before starting their day. Too cold to disrobe, they found creative ways to reach hungrily under her gown or into his long Johns, to push clothing just far enough aside and warm each other most enjoyably.
Afterward, when it became clear that the day would start with or without them, Stuart would take a bracing breath, slide out of bed, and lunge for the camp stove at the other end of the room. As soon as he'd stoked the fire, his teeth chattering, he would dive back under the covers with Mariah. She would squeal at the cold he brought with him. But she loved lying back against his chest, his arms wrapped tightly around her and his breath misting past her cheek, watching the sky outside their one window—heavily frosted inside and out—grow slowly gray as they waited for the stove to work its wonders.
When Stuart deemed it warm enough, he would dress, add more wood to the fire for her, wrap up against the cold, and go out to check on the animals. Mariah would put on her own coat over her flannel nightgowns—most nights she wore more than
one—and her boots, to make breakfast. By the time Stuart climbed back into the wagon, bringing another armful of firewood and a burst of cold with him, she liked to have their high, narrow bed made and the little table, which slid out from under it, extended and neatly set with her good dishes.
By then, the stove nearly glowed red. Stuart would wash and shave while Mariah finished cooking breakfast, smiling when they caught each other's gaze. As they ate, they chatted of pleasant things
—chores, plans, family stories. Too soon, after more kisses, Stuart headed out to check on Dougie and the sheep. With the house to herself, Mariah would wash, usual y only baring one part of her at a time, before changing into a work dress—and putting her coat back on.
But what was a little cold, against such happiness?
She loved their house. Yes, it was a wagon, but such a clever one. Not a bit of space was wasted, with drawers and compartments built into both side-benches and under the bed, too. It had a stove, of course, and a water bucket, two lamps, and the glass window. Stuart insulated the bows and canvas with tarpaper, to help keep it snug for the winter. With her kitten for company, and the constant possibility of midday visits from Stuart or her mother, her sisters-in-law, or even Stuart's reserved mother, what else could Mariah want? She final y felt needed. Useful.
Certainly her days weren't easy. Baking with a small , red-hot camp stove and limited ingredients took ingenuity. She kept a sewing needle with her for quick mends, al the time. Wash-day lasted three days of her week— clothes could only dry so much outside when they kept freezing, and she had little room to hang them inside. Water must be melted from snow, hauled back out to dump.
And perhaps worst of all was having to use a chamber pot, since Stuart could not possibly dig an outhouse for Mariah until the ground thawed.
But chamber pots were warmer than outhouses. Clean snow made for soft wash water, once she final y carried in enough to melt. They kept store-bought soap and lamp oil, which saved work. And she had little fear of Indians, so far from the creeks, or of outlaws, so close to town. If the daytime sometimes got so dark she lit kerosene lanterns for light, or the wind shook the wagon so hard it shattered the icicle columns that had grown to the ground outside, she still knew that Stuart would be home by nightfall and that everything would be all right.
How could it not?
Especial y once Stuart and her father final y learned to get along, which could not happen soon enough.
“If Stuart's not welcome for dinner, then I won't come either,” she told her father evenly, after church. “I love you, and I miss you, but he's my husband.”
Mother stayed silent, but waiting on Mariah's father.
Papa, who had narrowed his eyes at the word “husband,” scowled off into the distance and final y said, “Your choice, Mariah Lynn.”
And he turned to go get the surrey.
“My choice, to marry him, or my choice to bring him?” insisted Mariah, but Papa only raised one mittened hand to fend off the questions.
Mother smiled and said, “Go!”
But when Mariah told Stuart, he said, "I'll not break bread where I'm not wanted, lass. Go on without me. I'll be back for you by three."
“If you won't go to dinner, neither will I,” she insisted. “You're my husband.”
And since she wasn't saying it just to manipulate him, that was what happened.
Papa disliked Stuart all the more, to have his “invitation” thrown back in his face. Mother's suggestions, that they alternate Sundays or eat at a restaurant, met with similar protests from one or both of Mariah's menfolk. More often than not, she ended up at the MacCallum family
homestead for Sunday dinners, ignoring his mother as stoical y as his mother ignored her and sometimes, just sometimes, wondering why Stuart and her father could not do the same.
But she still loved being married.
March passed, with a lot more wind and a little less snow and hints of a slow-coming thaw—and Stuart loved being married. He enjoyed eating the mutton sandwiches Mariah sent with him for lunch. He enjoyed thinking about her, while he and the dogs did their best to guard the sheep from increasingly hungry predators. He enjoyed coming home to a warm, clean wagon.
And he loved the warm, clean woman who met him there.
The practical benefits of a wife—the good food, the clean and mended clothes, the brightness she brought to their home with her curtains and gewgaws—those would have seemed luxuries
enough. But that it was Mariah! Through some miracle, the woman he came home to, wrapped his arms around, kissed whenever he could, was real y his Mariah.
A much better housekeeper than his mother had predicted, she almost always had dinner waiting for him— though he would gladly have married her even if he'd had to do the cooking himself.
Sometimes Dougie would take dinner with them, and Mariah never seemed to mind. Afterward, if they had company, they would sing or tel stories. If he and Mariah were alone, they would use the bed as a sofa and read to each other, or edit the shopping list for their next trip to town, or talk about what kind of house they wanted, when they could afford a house. Best of all was when they went from talking to kissing, kissing to touching, touching to ...
Well , the main bit. The more weeks passed, the more they discovered pleasures that neither had ever dared imagine on their own—and they saved on kerosene doing it.
Was it sinful to so thoroughly forget himself with his own wife?
Mariah tended a calendar that forbade them, some nights. But he had agreed from the start to avoid the disgrace that talk of an early baby would raise in town—and hoped to be nearer building their house before the first one came. If that meant taking special measures for awhile, so be it. In the meantime, falling asleep with Mariah in his arms, be he physical y frustrated or sated, fulfilled Stuart in ways that far surpassed his wary dreams.
Of course, the difficulties with Idaho Johnson still lingered. Since the snows prohibited most grazing, the feud stayed as frozen as the range. But Johnson had threatened Da's herders, too—
and they were afraid not to honor that new deadline come spring.
It annoyed Stuart that if the herders, all bachelors, respected an unjust deadline, they left only the three MacCallum men to take the risks. Stuart hadn't cottoned to risk before he married. Now that he had a wife of his own, the wife of his dreams, he had far too much to lose.
But nobody was intimidating him off perfectly good grazing land—once there was grass.
Stuart already got his fill of high-handed cattle barons with Mariah's father.
Stuart final y crossed the Garrison's threshold again in late March, though he had to grit his teeth to do it. On Mariah's nineteenth birthday, she asked for that as her present. So he went.
Her sisters seemed friendly enough, except for Laurel. Her mother made a fine hostess. And Mariah's pleasure at her family's company, far more than the gifts they piled in front of her, made Stuart's sacrifice more than worthwhile, despite the presence of not one cattle baron but two.
Smooth-talking Benj Cooper had been invited as well .
The food was better than his family's. Stuart couldn't help noticing the steam heat, the gas lighting, the kitchen pump, a stove the size of a buggy—and the indoor privy. He couldn't help noticing how faded Mariah's Sunday frock looked beside her sisters'.
Her family, he knew, sent their clothes to a Chinese laundry....
When the girls went briefly upstairs, their father commanded Stuart into his den with a silent tilt of his head. Stuart suspected the older man had also noticed Mariah's degraded lifestyle.
He was right.
“I don't claim to comprehend it,” announced the rancher, “but my girl seems set on you.”
For a moment, he sounded downright bewildered. But Stuart searched the man's stern, whiskered face, and figured he must have imagined it.
“Could be why she married me,” Stuart suggested evenly.
“I want what's be
st for her, boy.” As if Stuart didn't? “Or near as I can manage. So ...”
For this, he wouldn't even deign to look at his son-in-law. “You've got a job on the Circle-T, if you'll take it.”
“What?” Not the best answer, but Stuart honestly couldn't believe what he'd just heard.
Garrison's silence implied that Stuart had, indeed, heard him correctly.
“A job,” repeated Stuart, and the rancher nodded curtly.
“On a cattle ranch?”
Now Garrison just narrowed his eyes, impatient with Stuart's stupidity, and waited.
Stuart didn't bother to ask, doing what? Surely the man realized his insult! Did he think Stuart couldn't provide for Mariah without taking wages from his father-in-law? Did he not care that Stuart was proving up his own claim, for his own land and his own business? Did he somehow believe that Stuart raised sheep merely because nobody had been generous enough to give him the chance to risk his life with big, bony, stupid cows?
Stuart hadn't closed the den door, and from the faint chattering that lilted in, Mariah and her sisters had finished whatever they'd been doing upstairs and were heading back down. For his wife's sake, Stuart did not dare utter what he real y wanted to say to Old Man Garrison.
Instead he said, “Thank you, no. But if cattle ranching doesn't work out for you, I could always use another sheepherder.”
Then he turned and walked out, before Garrison even had a chance to change expression, past an amused-looking Cooper—and he left as soon as possible.
Stuart loved Marian. He would give her anything he could afford, and plenty of things he couldn't.
But his self-respect, that he could not part with, even if he'd wanted to and even if she'd asked, which, being his Marian, she did not.
But thanks in part to her father, Stuart had his fill of cattle ranchers even before springtime could revive the hostilities over the free range.
One night in late April, Stuart woke to the sense that something was different. For months of frozen cold, any sound from a coyote's yip to the kitten's mew seemed to crack across the landscape like a rifle shot. What he woke to was the unfamiliarity of... softness.