by Yvonne Jocks
As if she'd not run right into him. As if she were a respectable lady with gloves and shoes, rather than a whore's daughter with long legs and bare feet.
Now Evangeline couldn't breathe past the clamor in her head, not at al . Mariah ...
He clearly did not recognize her. But even as he released her to her own precarious balance, started to take a step past her, Mr. Garrison paused and looked back at her, thoughtful. Now he would remember ...
And when he remembered, he smiled. “You're Victoria's friend!”
Evangeline nodded warily, everything in her stil screaming: Mariah, Mariah, Mariah.
“Are you here to see her? She's just inside.” And he opened the door to the office, held it open for her to enter first. She stepped obediently through the doorway, into his fine, dark office.
Victoria looked up from the desk, where she was obviously handling stacks of paper. "Evangeline?
Hel o! How did you know I was here?" She stood, familiar and accepting and welcoming—
And Evangeline fel into her friend's surprised arms, weeping her relief. Somehow, through her tears, she managed the words, “Mariah needs help!”
At that, Thaddeas Garrison pulled out a chair for her, sat her carefully down in it, and held her hand as he crouched beside her to ask, “How?”
Somehow, even though it meant the insult of mentioning her mother in front of him and Victoria, Evangeline focused on his clear brown eyes and his strong, kind face—and she told him.
He listened. He believed her. He solemnly thanked her. And perhaps the biggest relief of al : Thaddeas Garrison took charge.
“We need to send a warning,” he declared, standing and retrieving his hat from the rack by the door.
"But we need reinforcements, too. I'l go to the ranch. Victoria, you tel Sheriff Ward what's going on, have him send word to the MacCal ums. Then I want you to go back to the house— Miss
Taylor, would you mind walking with her?"
Evangeline— Miss Taylor—nodded, so stunned that she forgot the sheriff wasn't in.
“Thank you.” And he faced Victoria again. “Stay there. One of us wil come get you as soon as we know anything. Understand?”
Victoria nodded.
Thaddeas nodded back once, started out the door— then turned back to Victoria. “Stay there Vic,”
he repeated, pointing at her.
“You said that,” Victoria assured him. “I understand.”
Thaddeas hesitated, obviously not convinced—but he did not have the time to waste. With a frustrated sigh, he vanished out the door, leaving Victoria to gather her gloves, parasol, and reticule in sudden, blessed silence.
“I understand,” she repeated determinedly. “I just don't agree.”
Then Evangeline remembered, gasped at her own stupidity.
“What?” demanded Victoria.
“The sheriff isn't in. Just his... his deputy.” The memory made her scared again.
Victoria said, “You know, I don't much like that deputy.”
Evangeline nodded agreement. “But your brother said—”
“Give me a moment to think,” said Victoria, and started to pace.
While Evangeline waited, she looked shyly around the wonder that was Thaddeas Garrison's office; at his chair; at al his large, intimidating books; at his diploma from a col ege cal ed Wil iam and Mary—and at the photograph of a young lady on his desk. A lady dressed in the height
of style. A lady he must admire greatly. Evangeline tried to like the woman in the picture.
Thaddeas had smiled at her, and thanked her, and held
her hand. He'd cal ed her “Miss Taylor.” That was so
much more than she'd ever dreamed.... “I have an idea,” declared Victoria. “A very good idea.”
And Evangeline began to feel frightened again.
Stuart drove toward the clapboard ranch house, a two-story, L-shaped building, white with blue shutters. He'd expected something fancier. Despite its size, and the trees around it, and al the outbuildings ranging behind it— barns, corrals, a spring house—the ranch house itself could hardly be more modest.
He drove the wagon up to the front porch, six mounted cowboys silently flanking him, and as he set the brake, he cal ed, “Garrison!”
Instead of emerging from the house, as Stuart had expected, Garrison strol ed slowly over from the corral. The cattle baron was as much a surprise as his house. This not being Sunday, the rancher wore work clothes, his chambray shirt half sweated through, his elbows stained with sawdust, his hands encased in leather work gloves. He approached stiffly, his gait showing his age as surely as did his white hair and beard. But when he raised one hand toward the windows, in silent
command, he'd clearly lost none of his authority.
Waiting, Stuart noticed an old log cabin in the distance, by the creek, and a smal tombstone under a tree, higher and to the left. Of course, none of this proved the man was not the robber baron Stuart had assumed him to be, any more than did Mariah's loyalty. What Mariah didn't understand was, criminals had families and histories, too.
“MacCal um,” said Garrison as he stepped deliberately onto the porch, his gray eyes steely in the shadow of his Stetson, his expression unreadable. Like his cowboys, he did not ask why Stuart was there—just waited an explanation. Maybe the fact that the sheep farmer had dared venture so deep into cattle territory stunned him as surely as it did everyone else.
It stil stunned Stuart. Survival instincts developed from childhood urged him to leave, now. But Mariah's words had stunned him more, worse. For her—them—he had to know.
Stuart knew the futility of talking to Garrison. This time, he just climbed into the back of the spring wagon and, wrapping his arms around the tarp, used al his strength to lift the dead cougar, heave it over the side of the wagon—
And rol it onto the porch at Garrison's booted feet with a great, dead thud, and a residual chiming of goat bel .
“Any idea who this belongs to?” Stuart asked.
The rancher stared down at the dead cat for a long, weighted moment. Then, just as slowly, he raised his steely gaze back up to where his son-in-law stood in the wagon bed—and at last, Stuart knew.
Garrison's stil -dark brow furrowed with insult, just as Stuart expected. But faintly, in gray eyes that suddenly resembled Mariah's, there echoed confusion as wel .
He had not known about the bel ed mountain lion until now.
Which meant the range war put Marian into more danger than Stuart had feared.
“Made yourself more enemies than I had you figured for,” drawled the rancher. He pushed at the li-on's big head with one booted foot, made a sound of pure disgust through his cheek at how the bel -rope had worn its scrawny neck.
Stuart said, "This one came about ten feet from losing Mariah for both of us, and I mean to find out who. It's someone low enough to hire Idaho Johnson, and it's someone who wants to get rid of the sheep."
Garrison—scowl deepening to learn Marian had been endangered—said, “Long list.”
And Stuart said maybe the bravest thing he'd managed in a long time. He said, "That's why I could use your help."
His father-in-law folded his arms in chal enge, not the least bit cowed by Stuart's superior position.
“Why would I help the likes of you?”
Stuart decided he stil disliked the man. A lot. But Mariah had confessed to a less-than-loving relationship with Stuart's mother, too, and they managed to work together.
“I'm told that you're a fair and decent man,” he admitted, past the bad taste in his mouth. “Even if you do hide it wel .”
Garrison considered that a moment longer, then made his decision. “Best come inside.”
And he turned to go in, too, no more left to say in front of the help. Stuart considered, once again, that it could be a trap. Just because the rancher didn't know about the mountain lion might not mean he'd had nothing to do with the sheep kil ings, the threats ...
“
After you clear that carcass off my wife's porch,” added Garrison, over his shoulder.
And Stuart decided to for once do what Mariah would do, and climbed down from the wagon.
Mariah would expect the best from people. Stuart feared it might stil get her kil ed—especial y if her father had not hired the man threatening them.
But maybe it was a habit that could come in useful, at least now and then.
He was stil wrestling the dead mountain lion back into the wagon—alone—when he heard
hoofbeats approaching, fast. Stuart did not recognize the horse that gal oped up the drive, orange-colored in the sunset. But he recognized the urgency to the man's speed.
“Garrison!” Stuart cal ed, again lowering the cat onto the porch. The name sounded better without the “mister” in front of it.
He felt almost as surprised as Thaddeas Garrison looked, swinging off the horse even as it stopped in front of the house and arriving, face-to-face, with his brother-in-law.
“MacCal um!” It didn't take the lawyer long to recover. “Thank God you're here. You can show us the way.”
“The way ...” repeated Stuart, clearly missing something. But he wasn't col ege-educated.
'The way to your place." And Thaddeas hurried past him and into the house, stepping over the cat without a second glance, cal ing back the worst possible words.
“Marian may be in trouble.”
Chapter Twenty-nine
Between her and Stuart's argument—and their incredible kiss—Mariah suspected that her fatherin-law had seen a little more of his son's marriage than he would like.
They spoke little on the way home. She tried to concentrate on the beautiful weather; the afternoon sky; the joy of riding Buttercup again. But perhaps Stuart's dour pragmatism was contagious. Despite having nothing certain to worry about, Mariah remained very worried.
“Do you know where he went?” she asked her father-in-law, final y, as they rode into sight of her home. It wasn't merely a wagon anymore. She also had an outhouse, a garden, a nearly dug wel , and an empty henhouse. She felt terrible for having cal ed it "a hundred and sixty acres of rocks and sagebrush." Since they weren't farmers, what did the rocks matter? Bunch grass grew as high as a horse's bel y, except where the sheep ate it as low as the nicest lawns. Wildflowers dusted the landscape with hints of gold and purple. It was a beautiful place.
“Nae, lass,” Mr. MacCal um said, which did nothing to soothe her.
“Do you have any ideas?”
“With al respect—none I mean to share.”
Mariah asked, “He'l be al right though, won't he?”
And her father-in-law said, “That would be up to Stuart.”
Once Mr. MacCal um rode on, Mariah felt Stuart's absence too keenly to relax, despite the distraction of chores. In four months of marriage, they'd rarely been far from each other. Her confidence sank lower, along with the sun toward the Bighorn Range. Her guilt lengthened with the shadows. Where was he, that he wouldn't tel her?
She had to face that, were she as convinced of the ranchers' innocence as she'd made out, fear wouldn't be chil ing her worse than the coming evening.
Mariah was weeding her garden when she heard a carriage approaching. She stood quickly, hungry for the sight of Stuart—but it was a buggy wheeling toward her, faster than any spring wagon. In fact, it was her mother's buggy.
For a horribly stil moment, she felt stark anticipation of something she never wanted to hear. Then she recognized her sister Victoria driving, a white-faced Evangeline Taylor with her, and nearly choked with relief. Surely a younger sister would not be bringing bad news!
“Victoria Rose Garrison!” greeted Mariah, planting dirty hands on her hips as she strode out to meet the carriage. “Does Papa know where you two are? You've winded Rue!”
And indeed, Mother's gelding was tossing his head and breathing hard, sweated wet under his harness. But Victoria did not seem abashed—even if Evangeline did.
“You've got to come with us!” the girl insisted instead. “You have to leave here. Now.”
Mariah blinked up at her. “Leave?” This was her home. She was waiting for Stuart.
And Victoria said, “Mr. Johnson is going to ambush your claim tonight.”
At first, it sounded too much like something out of one of Victoria's dime novels, and Mariah was loathe to believe it. Surely Evangeline's mother made for poor hearsay. Surely even if Idaho Johnson meant them harm, he could not gather a band of a half-dozen or more local men to help.
Not against her and Stuart?
But as Victoria finished her story—“You've got to come back to town where you'l be safe!” Mariah looked from one girl to the other—and she knew she had to believe them. She did not want to. But on the chance they were right...
She glanced at her wagon, outbuildings, lamb. If they were right, the risks of believing only the best of people could prove far too high.
“We need to bring in the sheep,” she supposed, heading for the wagon. “And Dougie.”
And Stuart. But much though she needed him to help, she could not summon Stuart with a
gunshot—no matter how badly she wanted to. She made sure the shotgun was loaded, braced
herself against the side of the wagon, and fired it once into the air, as a signal.
Al three girls winced at the sharp report.
Then Mariah put down the gun and continued to piece together a clumsy start of a plan. Stuart had said that bad men like Johnson sometimes fired wagons, so... "Would you two take some things back to the MacCal um homestead for me, to keep them safe?"
She clambered into her smal , neat home before they could even answer.
“And leave you here?” demanded Victoria, jumping from the buggy to fol ow her as far as the wagon's Dutch door.
“Of course 'and leave me here.' Someone has to tel Stuart, when he gets home.” Please God, let it be soon. “And someone certainly has to defend the sheep.”
“Thaddeas rode out to the ranch, to get Papa and reinforcements,” assured Victoria. “They'l come defend the claim for you.”
Which was good news—but this wasn't her father's or brother's claim to defend. It was Stuart's, and it was hers. Mariah would no sooner desert the land they'd worked so hard for than she would desert Stuart himself, not even on the hope of reinforcements.
“You two wil take my things and tel Stuart's parents,” she repeated firmly, opening a valise. Her most precious possessions did not take long to pack—her and Stuart's marriage license, Stuart's accounts and bank book, the letters they'd secreted to each other last year, and a few family photographs. Mariah caught and caged Velvet in the picnic basket. And she draped the tartan muffler over her shoulders, to keep near her until Stuart returned.
Nice clothes and Italian vases did not even signify.
“And then you're going to stay there with Mother MacCal um,” she continued, carrying her treasures to Evangeline , in the buggy. She went back for her lamb.
“I understand,” said Victoria.
Mariah knew her sister too wel for that. “I don't care if you understand; I want you to say you'l do it.”
Victoria scowled, despite the adorable sight Pet made, bouncing happily on his leash toward the buggy. “But you may need help!”
After lifting the lamb into the buggy as wel , and squeezing Evangeline's hand in silent thanks, Mariah turned to her sister and hugged her. "You were brave to come warn us. But this is our claim, mine and Stuart's. It was my choice to marry a sheep farmer, and I cannot worry about you two on top of everything else. So the best thing you can do for me is to take the things that I care for—-including yourself and Evangeline—safely back to the MacCal ums. Send Stuart's father, with rifles and ammunition. Then wait there. Wil you do that for me?"
Despite having their mother's coloring, Victoria looked surprisingly like their father for a stubborn moment. But she nodded. “I wil .”
“Thank you.”
“Rider
's coming,” warned Evangeline from the buggy, and Mariah spun, hopeful.
Her hopes and shoulders sank when she saw that this wasn't Stuart, either. But she made herself say, “See? I won't be alone. Here comes Douglas.”
Victoria frowned and asked the most obvious question, “But where's Stuart?”
The sun vanished behind the mountain range, and night fel on the Wyoming grasslands.
Stuart's world had condensed to one single need. He had to get home to Mariah.
Even if it meant accepting help from his in-laws to do it.
Garrison had faster horses to ride than his harness team and men anxious to ride with him. But to just stand there beside the corral, while Thaddeas smoothly roped a pony for each of them, grated Stuart's endurance raw. To delay further by saddling the beasts ...
He wanted to swing onto the resulting mare and race away, bareback, right then. Let the damned reinforcements find their own way to his claim. Mariah needed him!
But she also needed him alive—and one sheep farmer against a half-dozen or more regulators ...
those were the kind of odds Dougie would choose. So although Stuart's pulse raced, his breath stil in his chest, he managed to ease his movements around the mare long enough to slide the saddle blanket onto her back. She stood stiff, tense .,. then relaxed into the feeling.
When he spotted the cowboy Dawson across the corral, roping his own horse, Stuart even found the breath for low speech. “That one was riding deadline today,” he murmured to Thaddeas, hooking stirrups over the loaned saddle. “How do we know he's not with Johnson?”
“Likely 'cause I sent him,” drawled Garrison himself, arriving with rifles. He slid one into the scabbard on Thad's saddle with a firm whoosh, then one into Stuart's. Unwil ing to waste time on an argument, Stuart did not offer to get his own from the wagon. Mariah...
Instead, every bit of him tensed as he eyed al these cowboys. “Why?”
“Heard tel there's been trouble.” His father-in-law glared. “Final y.”
Final y trouble? Or final y ... At the more likely possibility, Stuart fumbled the cinch. Reading his nerves, the mare sidestepped him. “You only heard this Sunday?”