Wild Texas Rose (11 page)

“No, thank you.”

He sighed. “I've missed you, dearest.”

Staring at the earthen floor, she didn't reply.

“I'm pleased you made friends with Whitman. He's a fine chap, has been terribly kind to me this past year. Did I mention him in my letters?”

She shook her head, both in answer to his question and in hopes he would stop discussing that scoundrel Whit Reagor.

“I should have. He's–” Joseph abruptly raised his head, his line of vision stopping on the straw-filled mattress of his bed. Bloody hell! One of Temperence's cotton stockings peeked from the covers. Thanking God the woman had left two hours earlier, Joseph hastened to the offending article, gathered it and a pile of clothes, and shoved the lot into his watering pail. How was he going to rid himself of that baggage Temperence Tullos? A nightly visitor, she had promised to return this evening.

He had to get Mariah away from the farm. Never would he allow his beloved to be hurt by his meaningless indiscretions.

Beyond those anxious thoughts, Joseph had lost the train of his previous chatter. What had he been saying? Empty words mattered not, not really. His problems were far greater than idle talk. He read disenchantment in Mariah's silence, and taking her cold hand into his barbed-wire-scarred one, Joseph knelt in front of her. “You're too quiet, and that's not like you. Please say something.”

Her eyes averted, she asked, “Why did you lie?”

Backed into a corner, Joseph had to do something. He would rather die than lose her. Knowing Mariah, he decided to play on her sympathies. “Pride was my undoing. My situation is an embarrassment, and no one feels it more deeply than I. I couldn't tell you, simply couldn't!”

He cleared his throat before continuing. “My heart told me you were a dutiful woman who would accept our fate once you were here. My faith in you is unshakable,” he said, heartsick for resorting to manipulation. Despite his tryst with Temperence, he truly loved Mariah.

Joseph squeezed his eyes shut. Charlie Tullos's wife had been nothing more than a release for pent-up lust, and a handy vehicle for revenge against her husband, unsuspecting though Tullos might be.

“I love you with all my heart,” he said truthfully. “As a desperate man, I had to make certain we'd be together again. Please tell me my wretched efforts weren't in vain.”

For the first time since arriving at his “ranch,” Mariah inspected her fiance. He wore an earth-encrusted lounge suit of blue serge and a polka-dot bow tie stained with heaven-knew-what. His face was tanned to leather, making him appear at least ten years older than his twenty-four years.

In Guernsey, she had seen him wear the lounge suit and tie. Back then the apparel had been as natty as the young nobleman who wore it. But clothing did not a man make, and his present attire said more for him than had his previous dapper appearance. He bore the mark of honest toil.

Joseph hadn't been born to the earth, and certainly not to these dismal surroundings. Mariah cringed as she glanced around the pathetic cabin. Joseph Jaye, the Viscount Desmont, peer of the realm, scion of one of the Empire's most noble families, was living in a serf's circumstance. If not for me, she thought, he'd be enjoying the comforts of his family and title.

Yet he'd tried to make the best of his situation. He was trying to grow fruit. By his generosity, the Lamkins had land. He had tried to protect his property, she recalled, thinking of Gail's words and warnings about his fences.

And she remembered the many kindnesses he had shown her in her island home. Joseph had sacrificed so much, so very, very much for her yet now she must break his heart.

“Joseph, I–”

“Someday we'll be rich,” he interrupted. “I'll give you all the luxuries my letters promised. I have a bit of money–five hundred dollars–and I've asked my brother Reginald to sell my London holdings. The funds will be arriving by post any day now.”

“It's not the money that matters,” she said honestly, realizing she had to be totally frank. “Joseph”–her heart went heavy, like sodden bread–“Joseph, it hurts me to say this, but I don't love you as a wife should love her husband.”

“I've always known that. All I ask is for your presence, dearest. I love you enough for both of us.”

“That's not fair to you.” Why does this have to be so difficult? she asked herself. “It wouldn't be right, our marrying. I can't give you what you deserve in a wife.”

He jerked to his feet, crossed to the fireplace, and leaned his arm and head on the mantel. His balled fist made three short taps on the mantelpiece. “Why did you come here then? Why didn't you simply write a kind letter? Why ... Oh, God!” He swung around, and tears filled his eyes. “How can I lose you now that we're together again?”

She went to him and touched his cheek. “You'll find someone else. I know you will.”

He collapsed against her, his arms tightening around her waist as if she were a lifeline. “No one could ever take your place.”

“Please, Joseph. Pull yourself together.”

“Yes.” He hiccuped. “That I must.”

He sank down in the chair Mariah had vacated. She prepared him a fresh cup of hot tea, which he downed in one gulp. The tracks of his tears etched his forlorn face. Despite all his lies, she had never felt such sorrow for another human being.

“I've a present for you, Mariah. I meant to give it to you on the occasion of our marriage, but since you're leaving ...” He directed his eyes at a sidesaddle that was sitting in a corner. “Take it. It's yours.”

The gift shamed her. Such a lady's saddle of fine oiled leather was out of place in the humble surroundings. Her voice riddled with remorse, she said, “Oh, Joseph, I never wanted you to make sacrifices for me.”

“What's done is done, but I had no regrets. . . until this day. I regret I've disappointed you.”

“I regret disappointing you.

“You won't return to Guernsey, I should imagine, not with your father as he is.” His voice gained strength. “I remember how I used to comfort you when he made you sad.”

“You were my rock.”

“Yes, I was and I was proud to ease your pain when Lieutenant Rogers went to a greater reward.”

Oddly, for the first time the mention of Lawrence's death did not give her a stab of grief. Whit had begun to heal her broken heart, before he broke it anew.

“You needed me,” Joseph was saying, “and I never disappointed you. Before today. But I pray you can understand why I lied. I love you for an eternity.”

“Don't do this to me,” she pleaded.

“I don't know what else to do! Mariah, I beg you. Please give the two of us a chance. If you'd like, we needn't marry in the next week as I'd planned. I'd already made arrangements for you to board at Mrs. Birdie Turner's establishment in town until we were wed. But you can stay there for as long as you need to reacquaint yourself with my finer qualities.” He steepled his marred hands in front of his old man's face. “Give me one more chance, please. Don't discard me, not after all we've gone through together. Please!”

Guilt consumed her, and his begging was more than she could bear. Her mind in turmoil over the developments with Whit, she was no longer confident of her future. Furthermore, she didn't want to become the shriveled old schoolmarm of Gail's warnings, and Joseph had made promises . . .

“From the beginning,” she said, “you promised I could pursue my teaching. Was that another lie?”

“No. Oh, no!” He clasped both of her hands between his palms. “Do whatever you want. Just don't leave me.”

What would it hurt to grant his happiness? Honorable in his intentions–whereas Whit was not!–Joseph offered his love and his ability to compromise. She loved him as a friend, and she did owe him for the past.

If she turned her back on Joseph, she, a woman well beyond the prime age for marriage, might never have another chance for a good man's love and the home and family that adoration provided.

But can you live so near Whit? a voice from her heart asked. Are you capable of seeing him without wanting the succor of his arms?

Mariah walked to the hide door, pulling it back to view the pitiful sight before her eyes. After two soul-searching minutes she came to a decision.

Feeling as empty as the land before her dry, scratchy eyes, she dropped the door into place and swung around to face Joseph Jaye, the man who needed and wanted her.

Whit Reagor did not need her–not forever and ever, anyway. Yet she would never forget him nor the passions he had awakened within her–not forever or ever.

“Will you be my wife, Mariah?”

Her voice seemed as if it were far, far away as she gave him the answer that would change her life. Forever and ever. “Yes.”

“Thank you, dearest.” Expelling the breath he had been holding, his narrow face brightening, he rushed to her side. “I promise you won't regret your choice.”

His hand trembling, he grabbed her arms to land a kiss on her cheek. “Now, we must hurry into town and meet Mrs. Turner.”

Chapter Ten

The proprietress of Trick'em's only boarding establishment was a kind, silver-haired lady of diminutive stature, and Mariah's spirits were buoyed by the reception. Blanking her mind of Whit and her approaching marriage, she accepted the friendship the Widow Turner extended, and within minutes the two women were on a first-name basis.

Nonetheless, as the hour wore on, she noticed Birdie Turner excluded Joseph from the conversation. How odd. Or was it? Hadn't Gail told Mariah he had problems with the local cattle people? Birdie had been a cattle-woman, but arthritis and advanced years had forced her move into town.

Don't seek trouble,
Mariah scolded herself and tried to be reasonable. She herself could be classified as a farmer, and the elderly lady had shown no resentment toward her. Besides, it wasn't unusual, she was well aware, for two women to monopolize a chat, and perhaps she was as guilty as Birdie.

“Would you care for another cup of tea, Mariah?”

She decided to test Birdie, and waved her hand over the cup on the marble-topped parlor table. “No more for me, thank you.” Her gaze moved to center on Joseph's empty cup.

“Oh, my goodness, where are my manners?” Birdie obviously caught Mariah's not-so-subtle hint. “Would you like another cup, Mr. Jaye?”

From that point on, Birdie couldn't have been more cordial to Joseph.

After he left, the wrenlike old lady showed her new boarder to her room. “It's not much,” she said, her gnarled hand indicating the narrow bed, a lone chair, and one pine bureau, “but maybe you won't be too uncomfortable.”

“Everything is fine.” Mariah smiled. “I won't be here except to sleep. My fiance and I have much to accomplish at his farm. It's planting time, and the house has to be put to rights.”

Birdie smoothed the front of her gingham dress. “Mariah, I pray you won't take this the wrong way, but do you think it's proper being alone with Mr. Jaye at his farm? If word gets out, people will talk. I'd sure hate for you to get off on the wrong foot.”

“My reputation concerns me, too, Birdie. Trouble is, I don't know what else to do. Since I'm new in town, there's no one I can call on as a chaperone.”

“I have an idea. There's a family squatting down by Home Creek, fairly near to Mr. Jaye's farm. And if you can keep their bellies full, the Martinezes need you as badly as you need them.” She rushed on, explaining the Mexican family's desperate plight before expounding on their abilities. “They've got a girl, about fourteen she is, and Conchita and her mother would be a big help to you in the house and garden. I can vouch for their work being good. Before they moved out to the Home, I put all three of them to chores around here.”

“Why didn't they stay?”

“Pablo wasn't happy in town, and he has ideas to claim his own land and farm it, but he doesn't have the supplies or money to build a cabin, which a party's gotta do if he wants to file a claim in the Land Office.” Birdie pursed her wrinkled mouth. “Poor souls, they're living under the stars.”

Mariah placed Gus's cage on the bureau top. “I'm afraid Joseph and I couldn't provide any better. There's only his cabin.”

“Pablo's a fair hand with a hammer. With the proper tools, he could put a roof over their heads in no time. They'd sure be a help to you and Mr. Jaye. Till you can get your place going good, anyway.”

The Martinez family's assistance would be a godsend, and what would it hurt to extend a helping hand their way? “You've convinced me. I'll call on them tomorrow.”

With this decided, Mariah could turn to the consolation of teaching sooner than expected, and she began to speak of her plans. “... and I'm counting the days until I ring the schoolbell.”

“I've got a big piece of buttermilk pie downstairs that's got your name all over it, Mariah. Let's go down and find it.”

She was perplexed at the older woman's abrupt change of subject, but, nonetheless, acceded to the suggestion. As Birdie poured tea and sliced the dessert, Mariah recalled Gail's warning that day in Lois Atherton's kitchen... and Birdie's initial attitude toward Joseph.

“Birdie, do you mind if I ask you a question?”

“Go right ahead.”

“I've heard rumors ranch people are opposed to farmers. Is that true?”

“Yes.” Birdie swallowed. “Just like the other ranchers, I don't hold with farming, not here in cattle country noways. But I try to keep an open mind about whatever a party does to make his living.”

The contradictory statement puzzled Mariah.

“Maybe I should explain,” Birdie said. “I was reared on a plantation, which is just a fancy name for a farm, so cultivating the land is my heritage. My roots are in Alabama, in farming country. But Texas isn't Alabama, and I've grown to see the Texas side of things. Cultivating the open range upsets the grasslands, and cows have to eat.”

“So do Texas farmers.”

“I realize that. I'm not immune to their struggles. That's why it hurts me right in my heart to witness their troubles. Grangers have come here from all over–the South, the North, even from foreign countries. They're in Coleman County out of desperation; they've left worn-out or overcrowded fields, or no fields at all, in hopes of feeding their families. I know what it's like to be desperate. When Mr. Turner brought me and our son to this barren place called Texas, we were hungry and homeless and scared.”

“Oh, Birdie . . .”

“Now don't go getting soft, girl. I'm not after pity, I'm just explaining myself. Believe me, I don't have anything against farmers personally. There's a difference, you know, between farmers and farming. One is human, the other a result.”

Mariah let those words sink in. Birdie, she decided, was a woman caught in the middle of her way of life and her compassion for others. What a terrible place to be.

She admired Birdie's clemency, and had her own compassion toward her new friend's inner turmoil.

“You're not eating, Mariah. Something wrong with my baking?”

“Oh, no. This custard pie is delicious.” And it was. The last crumb of her portion eaten, she brought her teacup to her lips. “Would you share the recipe?”

“My pleasure.” Birdie paused. “Mariah, when we were upstairs, you mentioned . . . Well, I've been trying to keep my mouth shut, but I'm not good at that, as you've probably guessed. Anyway, I think you ought to know something.” She sighed, her wrinkled throat quivering. “You've come to the wrong place for teaching. If there's anything Trick'em has enough of, it's teachers. We've got a two-story schoolhouse, and two masters to run it.”

Disappointment sank through Mariah, but she forced herself to be positive. “That won't stop me. I will find children who need an education. I know I will.”

Birdie studied her, and admiration lit the old eyes. “Yes, I believe you will.” She smiled. “Keep that faith in yourself. If you do, I'll bet you get everything your heart desires.”

No matter her resolves, Mariah's heart desired Whit Reagor.

 

 

After a fitful night of sleep, Mariah rode Joseph's decrepit old nag to Home Creek, and prevailed upon Pablo Martinez and his family to accept her offer of employment. After some reluctance, the middle-aged Mexican agreed to pull up the stakes of their tent.

“We will be there tomorrow,” he promised.

Relieved, Mariah turned Old Glue toward Joseph's farm. On her arrival, he greeted her with a kiss, then took her on a tour of the pear grove. She was dismayed by the wilted saplings but tried not to show it, especially when he displayed marked enthusiasm for the project.
Well, she
decided,
let him have his pears. I'll plant a market garden.

Back at the cabin, Mariah made mental notes on all that had to be done in the house. Determined to keep herself busy, and to keep her mind off Whit, she looked forward to the challenge of making something out of nothing.

“Yoo hoo. Mr. Jaye? Are you home?”

The caller wasn't one but two. A.W. Lamkin's wife and youngest daughter. Patsy Lamkin, a sweet woman with light brown hair, had an air of pioneer spirit. Her daughter, Molly, was an adorable five-year-old.

After polite getting-acquainted banter, Patsy said, “Didn't expect you till Saturday. That's why I brought this.” She held out a covered bowl. “I wanted dear Mr. Jaye to have some peach cobbler to offer when you arrived.”

Peach cobbler made from Whit's canned goods, no doubt, Mariah thought, and sighed at the irony. She accepted the baked treat, then brewed a pot of tea.

“I met your husband yesterday,” she said, opening a tin of toffee for the little girl, who beamed and said a “thank you” before squatting down to dig into the sweets.

“That was you?” Patsy's green eyes rounded. “A. W. and I thought ... Well, it doesn't matter what we thought. Welcome to Trick'em, Mariah. You don't mind if I call you by your given name, I hope?”

“Not at all, Patsy.” Sensing that gossip might start over her means of transport to the area, she enlightened her visitor about her “friendship” with Whit. Naturally, she gave only the sketchiest details.

“He's such a nice man, almost as kind as dear Mr. Jaye,” the guest said. “Good gracious, Molly, come here and let me wipe your face. You've got candy all over it.”

Mariah gave another sigh, this one in gratitude for the change of pace. “Molly, you're a very pretty girl,” she said to the strawberry-blond youngster.

Molly craned away from the rag that was being rubbed across her mouth, and said with the lisp of missing baby teeth, “Tho are you.”

“Thank you.” Mariah sat down in the rocker and patted her lap. “Why don't you come see me, Molly pie?”

A gap-toothed grin widened the girl's round face. “Yeth, ma'am.” She crawled into Mariah's lap and snuggled against her. “You thmell nice, Mith Mariah.”

Mariah tightened her arms around Molly.
Children are God's most wonderful gift.
Someday she'd be holding her own children, and that was a grand thought; it gave her hope. Maybe once she and Joseph became parents, she'd love him.

Molly's tiny hand curled against her chest. “Do you have any little girlth?”

“Not yet.”

“I have a thithter.”

“A sister?” Mariah asked with mock astonishment. “What's her name?”

“Aggie. The's nine, but mean and won't let me play with her doll. If you had a little girl, I could play with her.”

“Sounds as if you're lonely, Molly. Tell me, don't you go to school?”

“No.” A thumb went to her mouth.

“A. W. and I wish our girls could get an education, but I can't read and my husband is too poorly for lessons after a day's work, so we're in a pickle. I'm afraid Trick'em's school isn't for squatters' kids,” Patsy said sadly.

An idea germinated in Mariah's mind. Why not form a free academy for farm children? Of course, she wouldn't be able to organize it right away, not with so much to be done at the farm, but ... “I'm a teacher, and I'd be more than happy to tutor your girls.”

“No, thank you.”

“If it's a matter of money–”

“Everything is a matter of money, Mariah.” She held her chin level. “We're poor folks.”

“I wouldn't charge for the tutoring. I need to teach, need it as much as your children need my services.”

“But you're not settled in yet.”

“The school will have to wait for a while. My calling won't. Let me tutor your girls.”

A half minute later, Patsy nodded. “Okay, yes. And I'm much obliged.”

“When may I start the lessons? How about tomorrow?”

“That could be a problem. A. W. needs all the hands he can get for the plowing and planting. Both of the girls do their share of the chores. I'm afraid until after the fields are in, we can't accept your offer.”

Mariah thought it was a shame, young children laboring at farm work, but she shouldn't be judgmental. No doubt the Lamkins were doing their best and she'd take her victories as she got them.

“All right,” she said. “After the planting is over, Molly and Aggie will be my students.”

A half hour later, Patsy and Molly took their leave. Mariah was jubilant. Soon she'd be teaching. Singing a merry tune, she set to tidying the cabin. Her mood changed, though, when she put the bowl of peach cobbler aside.

Whit's peaches. Whit. Once he discovered her marriage plans, would he be sending her his canned goods?

For the second time since he and his cats had left her at the farm, Mariah had an awful thought. As Joseph's wife, she and Whit would be neighbors. How could she live in his shadow and ignore him? How would he behave in her presence? Would he remember their hours together?

 

 

His eyes red from imbibing more alcohol than was his habit, Whit stared at the nude woman. She reposed on a tufted fainting couch, a thin swatch of material draped across her shapely hips. Her forefinger was touching the nipple of a full yet pert breast. Her hair was a mass of red curls, her big brown eyes half lidded with obvious desire.

The painting that hung on the wall behind the bar of Maudie's saloon reminded Whit of Mariah.

“Damn you to hell,” he muttered, tossing down yet another shot of bourbon.

Standing with a boot cocked on the brass rail, Whit was alone at the bar, alone in his disappointment. Behind the far end of the massive walnut bar, the barkeep, Roy Everett, better known as Heavy, polished glasses and held them up to the fading light of dusk that streamed through the windows. Behind Whit, in a corner of the watering hole, a cardsharp was fleecing three locals of their wages. By the swinging doors, the lazy sheriff snoozed over a table laid with dominoes.