High Plains Wife Page 10

  Respect wasn’t love. It wasn’t being desired. It wasn’t belonging.

  But it was more than her mother ever had. Mariah pushed out the images from her childhood, of her mother exhausted and bowed from long hours of work, carrying a full plate to Pa at the table, serving him like a slave, back bowing lower with each bite of his criticism.

  Respect was good. She would be grateful for it.

  “I know it’s a lot to manage before sunrise.” Nick plunked the coffeepot onto the trivet with a clink, brushing the hard bulging muscles of his arm against her shoulder. “You’re doing fine, and I sure appreciate it. Joey and Georgie will be up by six. If you set aside a few pancakes and sausages, that will be enough for them.”

  “I’ll see to it.” Nick’s children. Thinking about little Georgie made some of the tightness in Mariah’s chest ease. Her stepchildren.

  They would accept her, right? Why wouldn’t they? Mariah broke the last egg into the pan. Yesterday neither of them had so much as spoken to her. Jeb had looked after Georgie all afternoon, while Joey had been playing with his friends. Both had eaten at the children’s table during the celebration supper. Their uncle Will had taken them under his wing that evening and put them to bed.

  Today they were all hers.

  “You’ll do fine with them,” Nick assured her, as if he could read her mind. “I’ve got the last of the heifers calving in the north field, and I’ve got to relieve Robert, the hired man. He’s keeping watch over them. He’ll be in for a meal shortly. What’s left over will do for him.”

  “Fine.” Mariah concentrated hard on her work flipping the eggs. There wasn’t one thing about Nick that offended her. Not his words, not his manner, not the efficient way he carried both the platter of bacon and sausage and the plate of toast to the table. Helping her with her work without a complaint, damn him. When she wanted to hate him. If she could find terrible fault with him, then maybe she could find release for the pain gathering in her chest.

  But she couldn’t. Even this early in the morning, with his work clothes wrinkled and his uncombed hair tousled, he made her heart stop beating for one brief moment.

  “Looks like the eggs are done.” He held out a clean platter. Something her father never would have done for her mother. Something Mariah couldn’t believe he was doing for her.

  Respect. It went both ways. And so she thanked him as she scooped the eggs from the pan as fast as she could. The band around her chest cinched tight again. Was he thinking about last night? How she had wanted him to take her to his bed?

  Embarrassed, she slid the last egg on the platter and turned, intent on lifting the fry pan from the heat. She heard Nick’s step all the way to the table. Heard the clink of flatware on enamel as the men at the table began dishing up.

  “Wait for Mariah,” Nick reminded them. “And don’t you all have something to say to her?”

  “The food looks real good, ma’am,” Dakota boomed above the din. “Don’t mind whatever Pop says. Both him and Will got their taste buds burned off drinking their own coffee.”

  “See? I’m not the only one glad you’re here.” Nick was at her side again, his eyes shadowed and his face somber. He held out his hand, palm up, waiting for hers. “Let me escort you to the table. It gets a little rough with all of us fighting over the food at once. We’re like a pack of wild dogs, but I’ll make sure you get enough to eat.”

  “You’ll throw me the scraps?”

  “Nope. I’ll give you first choice.”

  When she laid her hand in his, her palm to his, his big fingers curled around hers and held her tight.

  She didn’t have his love. But she had the man and his respect. It was enough.

  “Hey, big brother.” Will ambled through the wet grass, ducking against the cool wind. “Got the feed unloaded. How’s it goin’ here?”

  “Good. We’ve got the last heifer dropping and she’s not having a bit of trouble.” He gestured toward the cow on the ground, her side heavy and heaving.

  The trouble was that the house was a fair distance away, nothing more than a thumbnail-size box on the far hill, but it was in his line of sight. A tiny gray thread rose in the air above it, smoke from the fire, and made him wonder how Mariah was getting along. He knocked rain off the brim of his hat.

  “What’s the matter?” Will stood shoulder to shoulder and followed Nick’s gaze to the distant house on the hill. “You had big problems before you got remarried, brother. Looks to me like you’ve got even bigger ones now.”

  “I want you to be good to Mariah, Will.”

  “Be good to her? Hell, I’m scared of her. Can’t see why you couldn’t have picked one of those sweet things in town. Soft and pretty and pleasant to look at.” Will sighed, too wet around the ears to know what was valuable in a woman. “Sure, breakfast was damn good. That was a welcome change around here, but, hell, brother, you married Mariah Scott. That’s a guaranteed lifetime of hell ahead of you.”

  “That’s marriage, no matter who you pick.” Nick couldn’t help it. Images of Mariah kept creeping into his mind. Of her opening the door to find him standing on her porch, come to take her to the church. She’d looked so different in that dress, a quiet blue-gray, instead of the dark grays and blacks she usually wore. He’d seen the young girl she used to be in the woman too practical to be young.

  No, that wasn’t quite right. Last night, as she’d hesitated in the hallway in front of Lida’s old room, he’d seen something else in her. A longing for the dream of what a marriage could be.

  And he’d disappointed her. He felt like the biggest jackass on earth. Never occurred to him that Mariah would want to share his bed. And not just to sleep.

  Damn it, he’d tried to explain it to her. And judging by the way she’d looked at him this morning, expecting his disregard, instead of his friendship, she understood what he wanted now.

  But she was still hurting. The thought of that tore at him. What was he going to do about that?

  “But did you have to go and pick her?” Will swept off his hat and shook it hard. Rainwater splashed everywhere.

  Nick swiped a drop off his cheek. “She’s a good woman and I don’t want to hear another word against her. She’s my wife, and damn it, Will, I don’t care if you like it or not. You’ll treat her with the respect she deserves.”

  “You’re sweet on her, aren’t you? That’s why you—”

  “No,” Nick roared, so mad so fast, he burned with it. “But I won’t have the hell I had with Lida, and you alone know what she did to me.”

  “She was a weak woman. I know you hated her—”

  “I never hated her. That was the problem.” He hurt something fierce, as if a dagger had pierced his lungs, and he struggled for breath. For control. “Mariah isn’t soft and sweet, but she’s nothing like Lida was. She is a strong, tough-minded woman with standards that would put both of us to shame. She isn’t going to sneak off at night or bear another man’s child. You, above anyone, ought to know how much I value that.”

  Will’s throat worked, and he stared at the ground. “Sorry, Nick. I know you’re right. I just thought…you know…”

  “I know, you were thinking down south, instead of with your brain. That will get you into a world of trouble. I made that mistake with Lida, and I learned the hard way.” The hard way? He’d been young and hurting from Mariah’s father’s rejection, and had sought the quickest form of solace. A lot of whiskey and, later, a Sunday afternoon driving date with pretty Lida Brown. A forced marriage was the result five weeks later.

  Nick’s gaze strayed back to the house. Mariah was there, and she was strong enough to put his domestic life in order. He was thankful for her. He was grateful. But sweet on her? No, he didn’t have the heart for that.

  “I hate these pancakes.” Joey dropped his fork against the plate with a clatter loud enough to wake the dead in the next county. “They taste bad.”

  Now what did she do? Mariah took one look at the boy’s face and read th
e hatred in it. The challenge that glinted in his eyes as dark as his father’s. No doubt the boy was as willful, too.

  Great. Just her luck. She set the iron on the stove, turned her back on her work, and plucked a jar of preserves from the pantry. “This might help. Georgie, do you want some jam?”

  “Only if it’s the red kind.” The little girl glanced up from her plate, her fork suspended in midair. The syrup smeared across her face made her look more adorable.

  “You’re in luck. It’s red.” Mariah uncapped the jar. “Joey, you first.”

  “I hate red jam.” His gaze narrowed. His mouth pulled up into a tight, belligerent line.

  This wasn’t about the pancakes or the jam. This battle was about her presence in this house. Mariah grabbed a second jar from the pantry. She hadn’t expected her first day to be without a single wrinkle. “How about some blueberry jam?”

  “I hate that, too.”

  “I’m sorry about that.” She set the jar in front of him and stole the red one. His animosity followed her as she circled the table and sat in the empty chair beside Georgie. “Do you want this on your pancakes or on your toast?”

  “The toast. But squished in the middle,” the little girl instructed around a mouthful of pancake.

  “Like a sandwich?” When Georgie nodded, Mariah went to work, slathering the sweet strawberry jam on the slice of toast, then folding it in two. “Like this?”

  “Yep.” Georgie grabbed it, pleased. “Are you still gonna take me to my ma?”

  The knife slipped from Mariah’s fingers and struck the table with an ear-ringing clatter. The kitchen seemed too quiet and still, as if the entire world had quieted to await her answer. Her pulse thrummed in her ears, and she got up too quick. The chair legs scraped against the floor, setting her teeth on edge.

  “We’re going to stay here today, Georgie.” Mariah headed straight for her ironing board, set up on the worktable by the cookstove. “I have to finish up my work.”

  “You could take me in your wagon. With your big ox.” A high note of desperation lifted Georgie’s voice and her eyes shone with grief.

  Mariah left the ironing untouched to kneel down in front of the girl’s chair. “My mother went to heaven, too.”

  “She did?”

  “Yep, and I hurt really bad for a long time, because she had to leave.”

  “Y-yeah.” Georgie breathed in, pain raw in her voice. “She just left. Didn’t take me or her dresses or nothing.”

  Mariah’s chest twisted with a fierce emotion, too complex to name, but it brought tears to her eyes and a pain to her heart. “I’m certain she misses you very much.”

  “Y-yeah.” Georgie rubbed her eyes with her fists. “Can we go see her now? Pa ain’t gonna take me. He don’t love me.”

  “That’s not true. Your father loves you very much. Who couldn’t love such a good little girl?” Mariah dared to touch those fine golden curls and stroked the girl’s soft brow. “Why don’t you stay here with me today? When I’m done with my ironing, you can go in the wagon with me to deliver all these shirts.”

  “No.” Huge tears brimmed those big blue eyes and trickled in fat droplets down her cheeks. “I just want my ma.”

  Mariah’s heart broke. She didn’t know what to do, she’d never in her life comforted a child of her own the way a mother should. She felt useless and lost, wondering if she should hold the child or think of the right magic words that would comfort so much pain. Georgie leaned forward, her head diving toward Mariah’s chest, and tumbled out of the chair.

  Mariah caught the girl and pulled her into her arms, holding her safe in her lap. Georgie buried her face in Mariah’s shoulder and wept. Mariah could feel each tremble, each sob, each spear of sorrow. She leaned her cheek against the crown of the child’s head, wishing she could absorb the hurt. Georgie felt fragile and tiny and infinitely precious.

  How could Lida have chosen to leave this little girl? Grief could be consuming, Mariah knew this firsthand, but to take one’s life? And leave children behind? Children who needed her? Mariah vowed not to hate the woman, but it was hard as she watched Joey scowl, overturn his plate with a spark of anger and push away from the table in disgust.

  She patted Georgie on the back, gently. It was the only thing she could think of to do. What did she know about comforting children? Not one thing. She doubted she had a single motherly instinct. Nick shouldn’t have married her. He should have chosen someone more suitable. Someone soft and loving and who naturally knew what to do with a crying child.

  “I got a bad owie.” Georgie put the heel of her hand against her heart. Her eyes watered with a silent plea.

  Mariah could only kiss the girl’s sweet brow and hold her close. She didn’t know what else to do.

  Nick took one look at the kitchen and fought a growing sense of doom. There was a stack of laundry on the worktable. The kids’ breakfast dishes were still on the table. There was no sign that the noon meal was being prepared—no roast cooking, no bread baking, no soup simmering. Where was Mariah?

  He rummaged in the lean-to for a tin of bag balm. This was only her first morning here. He couldn’t expect the day to go smooth. Even as efficient as Mariah was, she would need time to get things in order. Figure out their daily needs. And in an hour she’d have six hungry men at her table, in no mood to wait for their hot meal.

  Maybe it was the day’s storm, the wind and rain as cold as a March downpour, that was making his temper short. Or maybe it was the pitying looks his brothers and the hired men had been giving him all morning. Not one of them had the courage to say it, but he could guess what they were thinking. It wasn’t hard, with the confused looks on their faces, as if they were trying to figure out why he’d taken the prickly, sharp-tongued town spinster to wife. He’d had enough of it, and he wasn’t going to explain his choice. He knew what he was doing, damn it.

  So, why wasn’t the woman of his choice making dinner?

  He stomped down the back steps, swearing when rain dripping off the eaves decided to drip onto his head and down the back of his neck. Splashing through the puddles, he realized his head was wet, too. Where in blazes did his hat go? Why was he so damn forgetful this morning?

  Mariah. She was on his mind. The need in her last night, as palpable as the shadows, as revealing as the moonlight, as vulnerable as her voice when she’d told him she slept better alone, too. Why did this keep bothering him? He’d been honest with her up front. His conscience shouldn’t be troubling him.

  But it was. She’d expected him to be cold to her this morning. And when he’d helped her serve the meal and then sat her beside him at the table, she had been grateful. It had been in her shy smiles when he passed her the platters of delicious food she’d cooked. If she was disappointed, then she’d recovered well enough. Things should be going better now. So, where in blazes was she?

  Maybe something had gone awry. His work could wait a few minutes. He’d best figure out where she’d gone to.

  He tore through the kitchen only to find the fire blazing in the parlor, but no one there. Something felt wrong. Georgie could have run off again. That wind was cold, the rain mean and inclement for this time for year. If she’d forgotten her coat, she could have pneumonia by now, not to mention the hundred other dangers to a small child alone on the prairie—

  He bounded down the hall only to find Georgie’s bedroom door open. The soft glow of lamplight spilled through the threshold, illuminating a path through the door and into the room where Mariah sat in the old cane rocker, which had been his mother’s, with Georgie motionless in her arms.

  “She cried herself to sleep,” Mariah explained in the softest whisper. “Every time I tried to move her to the bed, she stirred, so I decided to stay here and let her rest. I didn’t know what to do. She was sobbing so hard, poor baby.”

  The fear drained out of him like water from a barrel. Georgie was safe. He propped his forehead against the door frame and took a steadying breath. He shouldn’
t have worried. Mariah could handle anything and quite well, if the sight in front of him was any indication. Georgie slept like an angel, her face tucked in the hollow of Mariah’s throat, her little hands clutching her rag doll. The dried tracks of tears stained the curve of her cheek.

  “Trapped in the chair, are you?” He kept his voice low, not wanting to wake his little angel, and knelt at Mariah’s side. “How long have you been here?”

  “Most of the morning. I’m afraid I’m a little numb from sitting in one place for so long.” Lights glinted in her eyes, as gray as the storm outside, made dark with emotion.

  Or maybe exhaustion. The lamplight on her face cast her in a radiant light, making her skin look as smooth as a cameo and tracing the lush curve of her mouth. A full bottom lip that he’d spent many hours of his last year in public school daydreaming about.

  He had no right to be daydreaming about her now. She was here for his children, and nothing more. Look how content Georgie was. It would be a long row to hoe for a small child grieving her mother, but Georgie had Mariah to watch over her. For the first time since he’d found Lida lifeless that sad rainy morning, he felt a seed of hope. Georgie was going to be all right. All she needed was time. And Mariah.

  You chose right, Gray. You picked a good woman. He felt proud of it and as sure as the wind howling against the eaves. He owed Mariah. And he would spend the rest of this convenient marriage letting her know it. She treated his kids well, and he would treat her like a queen.

  “Let’s see if we can get her into bed.” Nick leaned close, close enough to breathe in the lilac scent of Mariah’s hair and the soft woman scent of her skin.

  Georgie cried out in her sleep at his touch and buried her face harder against the hollow of Mariah’s throat.

  “See?” Mariah cradled Georgie’s head, holding the girl to her. “She was in so much pain, I didn’t want to wake her. She needs to sleep.”

  “How about you? You said you’re getting numb in places.”