by Yvonne Jocks
“One more boot,” she insisted. She banged her elbow on the side of the wagon when she freed his second foot. There!
She didn't bother taking off her dress. She'd not worn a corset for months, except on Sundays—
and Stuart wanted to hold her. She blew out the lamp and climbed into bed, onto him.
At first, she thought he was already asleep. When she kissed him, he did not kiss back—usual y a sure sign.
“I love you, Stuart,” she told him softly, confused tears stinging her eyes. Even if he did not need to hear it, she did. “Even if I love my papa too.”
Stuart moved his arm up, across his cotton-clad chest in search of her. She took his hand and guided it to her waist, and he sighed with seeming contentment. He murmured something that sounded like, “Good.”
But as with so much else, too much else, she could not be sure.
Chapter Twenty-five
He had, thought Stuart, been naive. He'd hoped Mariah would eventual y relax her hold on past associations, could find happiness simply in being a sheep farmer's wife. His wife.
But if her upset the second night of shearing wasn't enough proof, her increased defensiveness over the next few days was.
Mariah stil considered herself a rancher's daughter.
By the third night, Stuart told some of the other men about the letters he'd written. They saw even less hope in outside help than he had. “Governor Richards is a cattleman himself,” Joe Al emand scoffed at dinner. “He's no better than Garrison and Cooper and al those other high-and-mighties.”
Mariah slammed a platter of potato salad down in front of the sheep farmer. "Jacob Garrison is my father,“ she said tightly. ”I won't hear you speak badly about him or Mr. Cooper."
The table fel silent quick enough. “Yes, ma'am,” said Joe. “Begging pardon.”
Conversation got awful stilted after that, though. And several of the other sheep men gave Stuart looks—half surprise, half reproach—that he would rather have missed.
When Stuart walked Mariah back to their wagon that night, she did not wait for him to admonish her. “I would have done the same thing were a bunch of cattlemen criticizing you,” she defended herself softly. “You do believe that, don't you?”
Of course he believed it. Mariah thought the best of everyone—she always had—and he'd never doubted her loyalty ... just her strength. And perhaps her discernment.
“I hope my behavior lends me less to honest criticism,” he noted. Blame it on exhaustion—when she frowned up at him, confused, he clarified. "Mariah, if a man hoards free land, breaks laws, hires gunmen ... he does open himself to a bit of criticism."
“But you can't be sure who has done that—if anyone! On the word of a criminal and a bully, you're wil ing to hear respected gentlemen slandered?”
Yes, he was, when those so-cal ed “gentlemen” did not have his respect anyway. Even exhausted, Stuart had the wisdom to not say that.
Then, as he helped her into the wagon, Mariah added, “Governor Richards is a very nice man, too.”
And he wished he'd said it after al . Better that than to feel somehow deficient for not having a personal knowledge of the governor, too!
After that, the men politely held their tongue around Mariah—and increasingly around Stuart. He didn't even find out about the manifesto they meant to publish in the Sheridan newspaper, until the others had drafted it:
To the cattlemen responsible for the harassment to which our sheep and herders have been submitted: We, the undersigned wool growers of Sheridan County, give warning. Any further abuse on our range wil be met with the severest repercussions.
“Each of us is going to contribute a hundred dol ars from our wool income,” explained Dougie, drawing Stuart aside in the shearing pens after the day's work. "So that we can hire us a good lawyer, maybe that Borah fel ow who got that sheep kil er in Idaho just t'other year."
Stuart had heard of that—despite the reluctance of Wyoming papers to publicize the trial, sheep farmers across the plains had cheered the rare conviction of Diamondfield Jack. And yet, Stuart felt strangely uncomfortable with the whole plan.
Maybe because he didn't live in Idaho.
“We couldn't afford Borah,” he said. “The Mormons hired him, 'cause it was Mormon herders kil ed. Likely al the sheep men in Wyoming couldn't match that kind of money.”
“Wel we could always hire your brother-in-law,” said Dougie, folding his dip-stained arms. “Think Thaddeas Garrison would take on his father for us?”
Stuart said, low, "You may decide with your temper, Douglas MacCal um, but I'l do nothing from pride alone. Let me think on it."
Dougie said, “Da already agreed to sign, and me too. You'd be the only one.”
“Then I'd be the only one. Let me think on it.”
Dougie nodded reluctantly. When Stuart asked, "Where did you mean to come up with a hundred dol ars, if I don't join?" his brother even had the grace to look away.
“I thought so,” said Stuart.
He pieced through the declaration's wording, more than once. No cattlemen were accused by name. Even the “harassments” were left vague enough that whoever had hired Johnson could, if wil ing, save face by just paying the man off and sending him on his way. The “manifesto” stil made him uncomfortable—like throwing down a gauntlet. And yet...
Why should the sheep farmer always wait passively for the cattlemen to make the next move—and the next, and the next? He had no better ideas himself. Sooner or later something would break.
Better that it break on their say-so than without warning. So Stuart signed.
And he did not tel Mariah anything until he did.
“You accuse them of harassing you?” she exclaimed that night in their wagon—and with honest surprise. If Stuart had been naive to hope she would forget her ties to cattle, perhaps he'd caught the failing from her. He'd never met a more naive woman than his wife.
“None of them personal y,” he reminded her.
“What if they al take it personal y?” Then, more softly, she said, “No, Pet! Behave yourself!”
Somehow, she saw no hypocrisy in defending the ranchers and bottle-feeding the lamb they'd orphaned at the same time.
Or else she stil thought the cattlemen innocent of the shooting.
“What if they do, Mariah?” chal enged Stuart. “They're al gentlemen, aren't they? So we have nothing to worry about.”
She looked up at him, cuddling the wiggling lamb on her lap, and asked, “Are you angry with me?”
And Stuart wasn't sure what to say. Little though he liked it, he was angry. But at her?
“Could be I wish you were right,” he admitted final y. “Could be I don't want to see you hurt when you're proven wrong.”
Mariah went back to feeding her bum lamb—but he recognized the stubborn furrow between her brows. She did not think herself wrong.
Naive.
She even asked, as over a dozen armed men left to escort the wool wagons to the depot, why they needed so many rifles just to sel their wool.
“As long as we have them, we won't need them,” Stuart assured her patiently.
But he hated to think what would happen to their biggest profits of the year if the sheep farmers indulged in the kind of blind faith that Mariah Garrison MacCal um had.
Mariah hated to think what the world would be like should Stuart's suspicions about al the ranchers—and the townsfolk who he insisted supported them—prove true. Who would want to
live in so ugly a world as that?
And yet... if he were right...
Then she had.
The very thought made her stomach hurt, so she tried not to think it. But how could she not?
Stuart seemed so certain.
Mariah even found herself “chewing the matter over,” as her papa would say, at church. Colonel Wright was there, with his wife and daughter. And of course her father was there, though Uncle Benj and his family had gone to Cheyenne. Surely people who at
tended the same church would not plot against each other! But Mr. Wulfjen ran most of his cattle in Montana; Mr. Irvine in Johnson County. Why would they risk anything for Stuart's grazing range?
Much as she loved Stuart, he had to be wrong.
“Are you al right?” murmured Stuart, low, after services. “You seemed distracted.”
Mariah searched his solemn face for the comfort she usual y found there. “Aren't you?”
Stuart's brown eyes softened at that, and he brushed his fingers across her cheek. “It's a benefit to not putting too much faith in people, love. I needn't fear such disappointment.”
She liked being cal ed “love,” but did not like his answer. She wanted to put faith in people. She would never have fal en in love with him, married him, had she not put faith in people.
Hadn't he put his faith in her?
“Mariah,” he protested, from her expression alone. But the arrival of her family distracted them—
her mother's quick hug and kiss, her sisters' excited reports of their week on the ranch. Victoria would be assisting Thaddeas in his law office. Laurel meant to prove up her own homestead. Audra had nearly run out of books to read. Mother thought Kitty needed spectacles.
They distracted Mariah so thoroughly that she did not notice anything amiss until they began to kiss her goodbye. Only once they left did Mariah notice Stuart, expression hard, staring past her.
“MacCal um.” Her father's voice sounded more like an accusation than a greeting.
Turning, Mariah didn't dare greet him, either. She'd seen Papa stand stiff and disapproving like this before— when dealing with Stuart, in fact. His steely eyes did not even acknowledge her. They were too busy rebuking Stuart, without Papa saying a word.
“Mr. Garrison,” greeted Stuart, careful to give her father basic respect—if not a bit more.
“You boys made slanderous claims, yesterday's newspaper,” Papa drawled. “Can't say as I've heard tel of... abuse.”
He made the word sound foolish, made Stuart sound foolish.
“Papa,” protested Mariah, but Stuart put a hand on her shoulder and she stopped.
Reluctantly.
“What would you cal someone shooting four of my sheep?” Stuart asked. “Shopkeepers denying me credit. A gunman riding out to my claim with threats?”
“Sounds like you're not too popular,” Papa said. Then, as if that weren't bad enough, he added,
“You're the one what owns sheep.”
As if that invited trouble? Marian couldn't stand by for that, even if Stuart was squeezing her shoulder. “Papa! You don't mean that!”
Final y, her father looked at her. It wasn't the way she remembered, with affection warming the steel gray of his eyes, softening his weathered cowboy face. In fact, she couldn't read his expression at al . “Boarded the train, Mariah Lynn,” he said solemnly. “No gettin' off.”
Then he touched his hat to her—not to Stuart—and turned to go drive the rest of his family back to their cattle ranch. Mariah stared after him and felt hurt. He didn't understand, she decided quickly. Given the choice between suspecting his fel ow ranchers and discounting Stuart's complaints, of course he would choose the latter. She preferred the latter!
But at least she tried to understand Stuart's concerns, even when she hoped he was wrong.
Stuart said, low, “Mariah.” She thought that if he said something rude about her father, no matter how justified, she would start to cry. She might start crying even without that impetus.
“What?” she asked, unable to meet his gaze.
Stuart said, “My folks are about ready to head back.” After months of marriage, Mariah stil rode to church in his parents' wagon. Someday, they would have their own wagon. In fact, Stuart might have been able to buy one with the hundred dol ars he'd contributed to the sheep farmers' legal fund.
She took his hand and held it tight, hoping he could tel how grateful she felt for his discretion. For him. No matter how Colonel Wright, passing them as he left church, tutted his disappointment at how blatantly she'd ignored his advice for marrying “wel .”
Stuart squeezed her hand in return. “Let's go home,” he said. And she was glad to. Real y.
She only wished she didn't have to bring Stuart's continued suspicions home with them.
Stuart would never have believed even Mariah could stil defend her father, not after the cattle baron's high-handed speech— scolding—outside of the church.
Then again, he was the one who valued reality over mere belief. In some ways, Mariah had adapted beautifully to being a sheep farmer's wife. Her garden, if not flourishing, at least survived.
She had a creative way with her meals, especial y with edible greens she found growing wild. She even showed a talent doctoring to Stuart, Dougie, and the sheep. She did not flinch from hard work—in fact, she took innocent pleasure in almost everything.
Maybe that had always worried him. But since shearing, Stuart found himself increasingly concerned.
Too much of Marian's happiness stemmed from her inability to accept hard truths. She planted tomatoes, peanuts, watermelon—things that weren't likely to ripen or even grow at so high an altitude—as if certain they might yet grow for her. She spoke glowingly of Stuart's future, as if he might someday become a sheep baron to equal her father—did she truly realize who she'd married, or was she in love with a fantasy she'd created around him?
And she would stil rather he be the victim of vicious mischief, or Johnson alone, than a united effort by the cattlemen. Stuart thought he'd resigned himself to her optimism.
But one of them had to be reasonable.
“You'd best get back to the wagon, lass,” he warned several days later, when she and her bum lamb brought him lunch. Stuart was herding while Dougie took his turn at wel -digging. "I don't want you so near the deadline."
“I don't look anything like a sheep,” she reassured him, opening her basket and spreading the blanket on a slope, where they could comfortably keep watch on the flock. And in her faded calico dress and straw hat, tied on with a big bow under her chin, indeed she did not. "And I brought lunch for the both of us. Besides, now that the newspaper published your warning, nothing else wil go wrong, wil it?"
Would that it were so simple. True, the week since shearing had passed without real trouble. The day was clear, with both dogs on guard. And herding was quiet, lonesome work ...
Perhaps Mariah's ranching connections were a blessing. Not even a hired gun would dare hurt a good woman, especial y not the daughter of an employer, despite Garrison's words about Mariah living with her own decisions.
Stuart sat reluctantly on the blanket and accepted the sandwich she gave him. Cucumber. Who else would think of making a sandwich out of cucumbers?
“I was thinking,” said Mariah, kneeling into a graceful pool of skirts beside him. “If Mr. Johnson was hired by a rancher, perhaps it's Alden Wright. I don't like him.”
Stuart asked, “Why not?” He thought she liked everybody.
“He's...” Her brow furrowed as she tried to put words to so foreign a concept as suspicion. “He cares about the wrong things. Money, and appearances, and connections.”
Amused, Stuart tucked a strand of sun-streaked golden hair back behind the green bow that tied her pert straw hat—the “treat” she'd chosen when they deposited their wool-draft. He'd gotten good money—from his perspective. But hers? “Everyone cares about those things, lass.”
“Wel yes, somewhat,” she agreed, dipping her gaze at his teasing. "But Alden prioritizes them.
Alice, too. Do you know, when we were in France, the Colonel spil ed wine on his pants and had to buy a pair of ready-mades to get through the afternoon. And Alice insisted they iron out the creases, so that they wouldn't look off-the-shelf. There were little children in the street, begging for centimes, and the Colonel paid an extra franc for ironing!"
The last thing Stuart wanted to hear about was Mariah's tour of Europe. "Alden Wright is in St.
Louis," he reminded her shortly, dividing his attention between her and the flock.
“He could be sending letters to Mr. Johnson,” she insisted, lifting an earthenware jug from her basket. “Or telegrams.”
“And risk people knowing what he's up to?” He shook his head while he chewed and swal owed a bite of cucumber sandwich. "If it came to a trial, the telegrapher or the postmaster could give witness against him."
“Against a sheep farmer?” chal enged Mariah, using his own argument against him. “And here I thought the town was owned by the cattle interests.”
Stuart narrowed his eyes in chal enge. "And I thought you didn't believe the cattlemen were behind this in the first place."
She hugged her skirted knees and frowned. “Wel ... maybe it's the railroads.”
“Johnson said it was the cattlemen to throw me off his trail?” guessed Stuart drily.
“You can't know he didn't!” she insisted.
Stuart had never told her that her father had threatened to kil him, back at the Sheridan Inn. He stil didn't. It would hurt her, and he did not have it in him to hurt her, especial y not on a lovely spring day like this. She wore her green-sprig calico which, faded or not, made him think of tender, growing things. In contrast to her hat, she wore no shoes, and her bare feet and ankles looked almost as tempting as the food she'd brought.
A great many herders napped during long, summer afternoons. Were Johnson not stil in town, Stuart might have left the dogs on guard and moved both blanket and wife into higher grass. But he would not let her optimism seduce him.
In fact, skimming his gaze across the flock yet again, Stuart saw the goats' heads come up—and freeze. Instantly alert, he murmured, “Stay down,” and stood.
At first, he saw nothing. He picked up his Winchester anyway.
“Stuart?” asked Mariah.
“It's al right,” he assured her automatical y—then silently cursed himself. That was what she'd wanted to hear, what he wanted to tel her. But what if it wasn't al right?
At least Mariah stayed down.
The dogs were alert now, too. Then Pooka's head came up from where he'd been grazing, and he nickered. Stuart thought he heard a horse whinny back. Then he saw horse and rider both top the rise, riding southwest as if distantly fol owing the gulch-delineated deadline.