by Yvonne Jocks
“A rider,” he told Mariah quietly, not taking his eyes off the stranger....
Until the stranger waved once. Then, squinting, Stuart recognized him. "It's that cowboy who used to fol ow us home from church."
“Dawson?” Before he could make her stay, Mariah stood, too. “It's Dawson!” And she stood on her toes and waved cheerful y, as if the man had been a friend to them. As if he'd not stood by and watched Stuart beaten, al those months ago.
But Mariah did not know of Dawson's involvement in that, either. Stuart hadn't realized until this afternoon how much he'd kept from his wife. Was it for her own good—or his?
Dawson waved, but kicked his roan horse into a canter and rode on.
“He's not stopping,” she protested, disappointed by the very thing that had Stuart relieved. “That's not very neighborly.”
“Likely he has work to do.” Stuart wondered darkly just what that work might be, so near his own range. Apparently, this time, so did his wife.
“Papa's cattle don't normal y come this far out...” She seemed to remember, then, that some of the cattle had been straying onto Stuart's side of the deadline—and Stuart's certainty that they'd been driven. Her frown certainly didn't indicate happy thoughts. “I mean ...”
“Mariah,” warned Stuart, lowering his rifle to the grass. “You knew there might be trouble when we married.”
“Dawson's a nice man,” Mariah insisted.
“Could be he is.” Though Stuart doubted it. “But some men wil do things for money that they'd not otherwise.”
She said, slowly, “But Dawson works for my father.”
Stuart didn't bother to say anything else. He could easily have been talking about her father in the first place. She seemed to sense that.
“Stuart,” insisted Mariah, “I know you don't like my father any more than he likes you, and you've got reason. But... won't you even consider that he could be a good man?” A pair of butterflies darted erratical y by her, but she did not seem to notice. She was too busy scowling at Stuart.
He'd kept so much from her already. “I don't know,” he admitted, rather than simply denying her hopes right there. When he returned to the blanket, rifle and al , his wife didn't fol ow, so he added, “He's a cattle baron, Mariah. Asking me to trust a cattle baron is like ... like asking a Union soldier to trust a Johnny Reb.”
It occurred to him that if her father had fought in the Civil War—and he was of the right age—
Garrison may have fought for the South, while Stuart's grandfather had defended the North. But what else could he say? He and her father already mixed like ... like cattle and sheep. For Mariah's sake, he endured the man. Even she could ask no more than that, could she?
From the injured way she watched him, stil not returning to the blanket, perhaps she could. "If you don't trust him even a little,“ she said, slowly, ”it's as if you don't trust half of me."
“You know I trust you!” he scoffed.
Except perhaps when it came to seeing ugly truths.
“Mariah,” he insisted. “Consider the consequences. Were I to trust your father, and you be wrong about him—I know you think you aren't, but just perhaps—it could get me kil ed.”
Her gray eyes flashed. “That's a terrible thing to say!”
“I should hope so!”
But despite what he thought to be a remarkably astute argument, she set her jaw with increasingly familiar stubbornness. “Maybe I should go back to the wagon,” she decided—to avoid arguing with him? Or just to avoid him? “Where's Pet?”
Stuart shook his head, fel tiredly back on the blanket. This too would pass, he reminded himself—
which felt suspiciously like tel ing himself that everything would be al right. Could it be that any other possibility scared him so deeply, he just couldn't consider it?
“He ran off with some of the other lambs,” he told her, staring up at the clouds. She would find her little bummer easily enough—not only did the beastie come when cal ed, but she'd tied a bright yel ow ribbon around its neck and refused to let Stu earmark it.
That was one lamb Stuart already knew would not get cul ed out for market in the fal ... even if sparing it did reinforce his wife's too-hopeful outlook on the world. Likely that made him as guilty for that as her, now that Stuart thought of it. That, and so much else.
He scowled up at the clouds until it occurred to him that she'd stopped cal ing for Pet.
Slowly, Stuart sat up. Something felt wrong. The goats' heads had come up, and the burro's. And Mariah stood very, very stil —too stil —at the edge of the gulch, a yel ow ribbon dangling from her hand, looking down.
Over the months, Stuart had come to know her body almost as wel as his own. He could see the fear her posture now telegraphed, as surely as if she'd screamed. That she hadn't screamed, but only stared, terrified him.
Stuart grabbed his rifle and ran for her.
Chapter Twenty-six
Now Mariah understood why a sheep in trouble would stand silent and absolutely stil . Ribbon dangling uselessly from her hand, she stared into the gulch, at the mountain lion crouched over the bloody lamb.
For a long, shocked moment, she could not move— could not even think.
She just saw. She saw the horrible, stil lump of meat and wool that had once been a baby sheep.
She saw the tawny animal that had kil ed it, al sharp low angles and slit eyes and ears pressed back against its head. It growled, a low rumble in its throat, eerily similar to how Velvet sometimes growled at Pet—but so much worse. Then it screamed at her, bloody teeth and fury. It sank back into itself, broad head lowering into its bony shoulders, muscles bunching into a pounce.
And al Mariah could think was, where was the goat?
She'd heard a bel . She'd expected a goat, probably some sheep. And now, unmoving, she stared into the slit eyes of a kil er—
The crack of a rifle, beside her, snapped her out of the strange paralysis. She screamed and spun to see Stuart eject a cartridge. As beautifully solid and steady as anything Mariah had ever known, Winchester seated firmly against his shoulder, Stuart shot again.
The tinkle of a goat bel sounded from the gulch.
Mariah turned again, stared at the cougar as it struggled to its feet. At another crack of the rifle, it fel back as if kicked. Stuart shot yet again, and the cat lay stil at last.
Then everything, even the goat-bel , fel silent—everything except for Stuart's hard, deep breaths.
Terrified though she'd been, Mariah did not like seeing the lion die. Worse, though, was the dead lamb that bloodied the rock above it.
Final y, with great effort, she managed voice for one word. “Stuart ... ?”
Quick as that, he had her in his arms, clutched so tightly against his warmth and strength that it should have hurt, but it didn't. It couldn't possibly hurt, especial y after the sight of that dead lamb. Mariah felt the ribbon, the one she'd tied onto Pet, flutter uselessly from her numb fingers.
She did not want to admit the likelihood, did not want to face it....
And yet Stuart smel ed like gunpowder. And she was shivering with a cold that did not match the sunny day, a cold that came from deep inside her where even she saw bad things.
“Oh, Mariah,” Stuart murmured into her neck. He kissed her jaw clumsily, then cradled her cheek in one big hand to better see her, better search her face. When he pushed her new hat away and leaned his forehead against hers, closing his eyes, she realized he was shaking, too. But Stuart was never frightened! “Thank God....”
Her words came out slow, clumsy. “I couldn't move!”
“If you had, likely he would have chased you. You did right.”
“But Stuart...” Final y, she had to admit her true fear. “Is it Pet?”
She even tried to turn from Stuart's arms, to look again into the gulch, and Stuart protectively blocked her way. “No, love. Don't.”
Instead of looking himself, he turned his attention to the flock, whi
stled some commands to his dogs. But when Mariah tried to go around him, to see the dead lamb, he caught her back.
“He doesn't always come when he's playing with his friends,” she explained, pushing at his restraining arm. Pet was her foster lamb, her responsibility—she had to know. "So I went to find him. But he lost his ribbon, and I heard a bel , so I thought..."
Perhaps the dead lamb wasn't hers. “Pet,” she cal ed, just in case.
“Whist, Mariah. You canna help him.”
“No,” she cried, this time more in pain than summons. “Pet!”
Stuart pushed her gently into the grass, his rifle bumping her in the hip. He hadn't put it down yet.
She felt glad he hadn't. “I'l go see,” he assured her. “You stay—”
Then he squinted at something behind her. “—here,” he finished, less urgently.
And something bumped Mariah in the back—and bleated.
Again she felt paralyzed, this time with hope. Stuart didn't wait for her wits to return. He dropped the rifle into the grass and scooped this lamb up with one hand, fumbled at its ears.
The baby struggled, as if offended, and bleated its protest at Mariah, fixing her with outraged, black button eyes. Pet... ?
“The ears are nae marked,” said Stuart, disbelief hollowing his voice. “This one's your bum lamb, not...”
But he didn't have to finish. With a happy lunge, Mariah had her arms full of squirming, bleating lamb.
Her lamb! She recognized his cry, recognized his fresh, soapy smel —none of the other lambs had been washed with soap, but hers had!
Pet was al right!
Happily raising teary eyes to Stuart, she didn't understand why he looked so ... angry? No, not angry. But for a moment, Stuart seemed almost envious.
Then he frowned to himself, shook his head, and turned to look across the gulch. “Rider,” he announced, and reclaimed his rifle. “The cowboy.”
Clutching Pet happily to her, Marian saw Dawson galloping up to check on them from the other side of the gulch. “You folks al right?”
“Aye,” said Stuart. “Kil ed a cougar.”
“This far out?” Dawson knuckled his hat back from his forehead, surprised. “Middle of the day?”
“This far out,” assured Stuart. Stil holding her lamb, Mariah started to pay more attention to her husband again. Why would Dawson's concern anger him? “Middle of the day.”
“Wel I'l be dogged.” The cowboy shook his head while his horse shuffled back from the smel of blood. “You sure got yourself some strange luck, MacCal um.”
“Could be.” But Stuart, staring into the gulch, did not bother to hide his dislike of the cowboy.
“Unless it's not luck.”
Something was stil very wrong. But when Dawson widened his eyes at her in question, she
frowned. She would not exchange silent communications behind Stuart's back.
Dawson had the sense to duck his head even as he thumbed his hat brim, easily sitting his spooky horse. “You al right, Miss Mariah?”
Stuart's head came up sharply.
“Excuse me,” added the cowboy with a mischievous grin. “Mrs. MacCal um?”
“I'm fine, Dawson, thank you,” Mariah cal ed back, before kissing Pet's head. “And my lamb is fine, too!” She tried not to think of the poor baby in the gulch.
Dawson didn't seem to know what to make of the lamb on her lap, so he looked back to Stuart.
“Need some help?”
Stuart said, "Don't want to keep you from your business. You do have business this far out. Don't you?"
“Could be,” said Dawson, just as cryptic. “Folks.”
It was Mariah who cal ed, again, “Thank you for checking on us!”
With a final nod, the cowboy reined his horse back from the gulch and rode away—as slowly as Stuart had walked, the first time he'd turned his back to Idaho Johnson.
Something was clearly wrong. “Stuart?”
“Not yet,” he said, low.
Mariah looked around her and spotted Pet's ribbon caught on a piece of sagebrush nearby. Before she let her lamb go play, she tied his bow extra carefully around his precious little wool y neck. He bounced happily off toward the flock, safe. She stil felt so grateful for that—
But it grew increasingly less important than whatever had Stuart's back arched like this. As soon as Dawson was out of earshot, she asked, “Why were you so rude? He came to help.”
But Stuart, was already edging over the side of the gulch, rifle stil in hand, to take a closer look at the dead mountain lion. Hearing a distant shout, Mariah saw Dougie riding toward her on Pooka.
She waved reassurance—likely Mr. MacCal um would be along next—and fol owed her husband.
She did not like seeing Stuart stand so close to the mountain lion. She knew it was dead—could see death in the unnatural sprawl of the great beast. But... it was so big! Skinny, too. She could see the line of the beast's ribs, the bumps of its spine, the angles of its shoulders under dull, tawny fur.
One paw, lying stil by Stuart's foot, was almost as big as her husband's head.
No, she did not like seeing the two of them so close at al .
“Stay there,” warned Stuart, without looking up. “It's steep.”
He sounded not just angry—uncharacteristic enough, for Stuart—but furious. Mariah knew the cougar had been taking sheep for over a month now; Stuart and Dougie had found its tracks more than once. But Stuart general y took his losses to wolves, coyotes, even eagles in stride. Why not this time?
She knew her husband's posture intimately, knew when he was barely restraining himself from the cursing or tantrum a lesser man might throw.
“What is it?” she asked yet again, aching to understand. “What's wrong?”
Stuart extended one booted foot and, grunting, kicked the dead cougar over, so that it slid another foot down the side of the gulch. A goat bel tinkled cheerfully across the morbid scene—a goat bel tied securely around the dead cougar's neck.
“That's why it came out of the mountains,” said Stuart.
Mariah shook her head, confused. Why would anyone tie a bel to a mountain lion?
But Stuart knew. He looked up at her, his brown eyes bright with betrayal. "The poor beast was starving. He could hunt nothing but sheep."
Then Mariah understood—even if she didn't want to. Once bel ed, the cougar couldn't stealthily approach any kind of prey except the one kind accustomed to hearing goat bel s. She'd once seen some boys in town tie cans to a frightened dog's tail, and that had seemed unreasonably cruel. But this! “Who would do such a thing?”
And Stuart blinked up at her as if she were daft.
Seeing Marian that close to danger was something Stuart never wanted to live through again. If he had to final y dash some of her hopes so that she could grasp the severity of what they faced from the cattlemen, he guessed that was what he had to do.
But it was stil with reservations that he let her accompany him and his Da—and the dead cougar
—to the sheriff's office. She hadn't seemed to believe his reports of the lawman's apathy. It was time she saw for herself.
It hadn't occurred to Stuart that Sheriff Ward might not be quite so apathetic to Stuart's wife as to Stuart. Then again, even disgraced, she was stil a rancher's daughter.
“Good afternoon, Sheriff,” Mariah greeted when Stuart held the door open for her, as if they were simply coming to cal .
“Wel howdy do, Miss Mariah.” Only then did the big man glance past Mariah and add, less
enthusiastical y, "MacCal um. Someone using your wool ybacks for target practice again? I reckon they must not have read the newspaper."
The deputy, thumbing through wanted posters in the corner, grinned.
Stuart said, “If someone shot down four cows, you'd be after them fast enough.”
“Doubt I'd have to. Them cattlemen hire decent range detectives themselves.” They both knew that “range detective” was just another
euphemism for a hired gun like Idaho Johnson.
Stuart wondered if Mariah knew it. But she seemed annoyed by something else entirely. She looked at the grinning deputy, then at Sheriff Ward, then at the deputy again, her gaze intensifying by the moment. Then she covered her mouth and coughed delicately—and distinctly.
To Stuart's surprise, the sheriff hoisted himself to his feet. “Excuse me, ma'am. Franklin!”
The deputy scowled—but he stood, too.
Her status as a lady momentarily reaffirmed, Marian's annoyance immediately eased to mere distress. “I'm sure you'l want to see what my husband has in his wagon, Sheriff,” she insisted earnestly. “Someone's done something terrible!”
“Terrible, is it?” But to Stuart's surprise, Ward headed for the door at Mariah's request, stopping on-ly to bid her “ladies first.”
The deputy put down his posters and fol owed, leaving Stuart to bring up the rear.
Their morbid cargo would have attracted onlookers even if the dead mountain lion weren't bel ed.
While Da told the story to Crazy Pete, the sheriff and his lackey actual y had to draw a fel ow or two out of the way just to take a look-see.
“Looks like you dril ed yourself a panther, al right,” said Ward—as if that was al Stuart had to show him. “Kinda puny, though.”
“Look at its neck, Sheriff!” insisted Mariah, glancing at Stuart as if to see why he wasn't saying anything.
Stuart wasn't quite sure himself. Maybe it was because he'd gone through this with the sheriff too many times before, about the dead antelopes, the gutted ewe, Johnson's threats, even his three murdered sheep. Or maybe it was because he'd never seen Mariah act quite like this— as if she not only deserved the respect of these men, but expected them to know it.
Stuart wasn't sure he liked seeing her this way. Worse, he wasn't sure why. She did deserve their respect, after al ....
“Someone bel ed it,” recognized Ward, nodding to Mariah instead of Stuart. “Wel that is a dang dirty trick.”