Читать книгу High Plains Wife - Jillian Hart - Страница 10

I f only this dance would never end.

Mariah closed her eyes, savoring the wonder of it. With Nick’s hand at her waist, they moved together as harmoniously as the music. In a sweeping, gentle rhythm that felt like the heart of a dream. Slow and steady, and as light as air.

So this is what dancing feels like. Dancing in the arms of Nicholas Gray. Breathless. Exhilarating. She was intoxicated with it. The stars overhead were more brilliant than diamonds. The music from Mr. Dayton’s fiddle sweeter than any she’d ever heard. And the man who held her was more captivating than she wanted to admit.

“You’re as light as the music, Mariah. You’re a good dancer.”

“You sound surprised. I may be off the shelf, but I can waltz. I am surprised that you’re not tripping over your feet. Or my toes.”

“Go ahead and tease me. I’m man enough to take it.”

You are all man. She bit her tongue so the words wouldn’t accidentally slip out. His shoulder was pure iron beneath her fingertips, and just the feel of him was…masculine. There was no other word to describe him, staring at his chest, so muscled and solid and…

Down low, her stomach fluttered.

It wasn’t because she was attracted to him, to this man she hated. Because she did hate him. She really did. And he disliked her with equal force. He’s simply doing me a favor, dancing like this, for saving his child’s life. Remember that.

When this brief dance was over, his duty done, he would escort her back to the punch table where she belonged. She couldn’t fault him for that. Then he’d choose a prettier, younger woman to dance. One he would court and marry.

That won’t be you, Mariah. Disappointment dug into her heart, but she refused to think about it. She stared hard at the button at Nick’s collar. A thread holding it had frayed, and it could come loose. She’d have to remember that when she found this shirt in the next batch of laundry, and sew it on snug and tight. She always prided herself on doing a thorough job, the best in town, and never charged extra for the small touches. Yes, she’d do well to remember that button.

“That was a mighty fine chicken potpie you made. Rayna Ludgrin made a point of telling me you’d cooked it.”

“I’m glad you thought so.” It figured that he’d talk about food. See? He wasn’t out to charm her. She knew that. Then why did it hurt so much?

“I enjoyed your angel food cake, too. Rayna took it upon herself to make sure I got a slice. I can’t figure out why.” He sounded amused, not on defense.

“She’s a busybody who can’t mind her own business, that’s why.” And a dear friend, Mariah didn’t add, touched at her friend’s thoughtfulness. Rayna didn’t understand that Nick Gray wouldn’t want her. “I’m glad you enjoyed the cake. It’s my mother’s family recipe. Maybe that would make a fine wedding gift for your new bride. The one everyone says you’re here to find.”

“Oh, yeah. That’s why I’m here.”

He sounded so sad. Mariah’s heart punched with regret. She should have treated him better, even if she didn’t like him. He’d lost a wife he loved. “I’m sorry for your loss. I never had the chance to tell you.”

The strong shoulder muscles beneath her fingertips stiffened. He paused, letting the music move between them for a few short beats, his breath harsh, ruffling the tendrils at her temple, as if he were in terrible pain.

She ached for him. Maybe she’d been wrong to bring it up.

When he spoke, his voice was strained. “I never sent a note around for the food you prepared for the wake. I should have thanked you.”

“You didn’t need to. I understand. It’s a sad time.”

He simply nodded in response, his jaw brushing against her forehead. The fiddle sang sweetly, without a care in the world, but she could feel his heart, heavy and hurting. She laid her hand there, in the center of his chest, on the warm, hard, heat of him and felt the steady beat of his pulse. So much pain.

How was it that she could feel what was inside him? She didn’t want to. She didn’t want to watch as he chose another woman to marry, another woman to take his name, to live with him, to lie with him warm in his bed at night, to be loved by him, body and soul.

Anytime now Nick was going to release her, his duty done. She was prepared for it. She stared hard at the button on his collar, the one she intended to fix. Hardening her heart against the inevitable. She could see the younger women in the crowd watching him with hopeful eyes. Which pretty one would he pick to marry next?

For a second time Nick would pass her by to marry someone else. Her chest ached something fierce, and the button began to blur. She wouldn’t think about that. She’d concentrate on that button. Remember to look for this shirt in the next batch of his laundry—

He pulled her to his chest, tucking her beneath his chin, against his heart. She settled against him as if she were made to fit right there, her forehead nestling perfectly against the column of his throat. Oh, my. Everything within her stilled—her pulse, her blood, her thoughts. All she knew was the scent of Nick’s warm skin and the heat of his solid male body against hers. The music, the night, her anger at him, faded into nothing.

Being held by him was sheer heaven. Made her lighter than any soap bubble drifting on a summer’s breeze. Made her heart feel bigger than the wide spread of the night sky overhead. She closed her eyes, breathing in the solidness of him, the incredible feel of his arms banded around her, of his body’s heat, of the masculine way he was made….

“Is this all right?” His voice was a warm puff against her ear, making her tingle, shudder all the way to the soles of her feet.

All right? It was heaven. She nodded, closing her eyes, snuggling against him. Oh, to relax against the hard, wonderful plane of his chest. She breathed in the warm manly scent of his skin, letting him move her to the music, shuffling more than sweeping. His hand at her waist pressed her harder against him, as if he felt this, too, this yearning, this need to be closer. His free hand curled around the back of her neck, cradling her head against him. So tender…

He’s not going to choose you, Mariah. So don’t even begin to start hoping.

But holding him this close, feeling him so thrillingly male and comfortingly solid, made her ache. Ache for something she’d wanted since she was a schoolgirl. She wanted love. She wanted passion. She wanted to look into a man’s eyes and see the depths of his love for her, tender and endless and true. To know that she, Mariah Scott—afraid, lonely, and so deeply flawed—could be loved. Accepted.

Cherished.

You’re too cold-hearted for love, and you know it. Pa had told her this all her life. And it was true. She was too much like her mother for a man to ever find something to love in her. She was useful, a hard worker, good at cooking and cleaning, and she ran a fine laundry business. The best in town, in her opinion. She prided herself in that. In her accomplishments. She didn’t need a man to make her feel good about herself.

But being held like this was so wonderful. Nick shifted, bringing his cheek to rest against the side of her head. It was tender and snug, and heat gathered low in her stomach. A strong liquid want, heavy and demanding, made her lean into him. Her softness to his hardness. She wished she could be held like this forever. By this man, the one she’d loved all her life.

She would never be good enough to be loved by him.

“You’ve been on your own a long time.” He spoke low, so only she could hear him. “How long since your father’s passing?”

“Five, almost six years.”

“You’ve been alone all that time.”

Alone. That’s what she was, and she ached with it. She closed her eyes, sinking against Nick’s chest. He wouldn’t understand. He wasn’t lonely, he had a lot of family, and his own children.

“I know now that life with your father was hard. Maybe painful. I should have seen that. I should have understood.” His hand at the base of her skull moved in slow easy caresses.

Mariah shivered from the pleasure all the way to the soles of her feet. “It wasn’t your fault. I wanted to blame you, but I couldn’t. Lida was pretty and warm and loving.”

“She was my children’s mother and I won’t say a bad word about her, but I regretted what I did. Telling you I wanted to court you and then marrying someone else.”

“You fell in love.”

His hand stilled. “Your father told me that you changed your mind that day.”

“I didn’t change my mind.” She could clearly remember sitting at her bedroom window, ready for him to come calling, wearing the new dress she’d worked so hard to afford and had sewn during the late hours when her daily work was finally done. Fidgeting with anticipation, nervous, checking the mirror at least a dozen times to make sure her hair was all right because of the wind through the window.

Her first beau. Her young heart had sung with happiness. Other girls in school had boyfriends to take them driving on Sunday afternoons. She’d listened to their tales with such yearning. Now it was happening to her! Trembling, she leaned far out the open window, straining to see as far as she could around the bend in the road.

Was he late? Had he forgotten? He’d asked her in school that Friday; a whole day had passed and he could have forgotten…. No, wait. That was a small dust cloud rising on the rolling prairie, then suddenly a horse-drawn surrey appeared around the corner, the matched pintos trotting handsomely.

He’d come! The most handsome boy in school had come for her. She’d flown from the window, checked the mirror one last time to tuck an unruly gold curl beneath her poke bonnet and torn down the stairs.

Just in time to watch her father send Nick away. Dust flew in his wake, a big brown cloud obscuring him. When it faded, the dust settling back to the ground, he was gone.

He hadn’t wanted her then. Nor had any man wanted to court her since. She refused to be sad about it. She was a grown woman, she didn’t need anyone. Really.

“I have regrets,” she admitted quietly. Wishing with all her heart that she could go back in time and change the parts of her that had brought her so much unhappiness. Wishing she could have been different. More loving. More…something. She didn’t even know what it was. She just wanted to be loved. Was that too much to ask?

“I regret how I treated you. I was young. I made mistakes. I still wind up making a few now and then.”

“Just a few?”

His chuckle rolled through her, starting in him and lashing through her like a wave against the shore, moving her when she didn’t want to be moved.

This hurt too much, being in his arms. To think of the past. The one that had brought her here, alone, dancing not because she was wanted but because Nick Gray felt obligated to. It hurt that she wasn’t like those other women, so soft and pretty and young. The best part of her life felt over, and she hadn’t lived it.

Despair made her feet heavy, as heavy as her broken dreams. There would be no family for her, no children running to clutch her skirts calling “Ma, look!” Because there was nothing about her that anyone—especially a man as fine as Nick Gray—could love.

She broke away from his embrace. She had her pride left, and she refused to lose that, too. It took all her courage to meet his gaze, so he wouldn’t know how she felt. “Thank you for the dance. Consider your debt paid in full. I’ve got to go—”

“No.” Nick’s hand caught her wrist, stopping her. So tall he stood, his face set. “The dance isn’t over.”

“It is for me.”

“You’re not in charge here, Mariah.”

“There you go, thinking because you’re a man that you’re in charge and I—”

“But you gave your word.” He took her other hand and settled it on his wide shoulder, his touch firm. “I don’t think you want half the town to witness that the formidable Spinster Scott breaks promises right and left.”

“Oh, I’m sure everyone will understand my reluctance to dance with a man like you.”

“Hmm? That so?” His hand settled into place at her waist. “I’m disreputable?”

“Of the worst kind. You overheard the widows talking about you.”

“Seems to me that your reputation could stand some tarnishing, so come here.”

She gasped, startled when he hauled her tight against him, into the snug shelter of his arms, where she could press her forehead to the hollow of his throat. She couldn’t stop herself. Not one thing in her life had ever felt this good. This safe. This…right.

His hand curled around her nape, cradling her to him. A steady rhythm began to beat quietly in her blood, then picked up speed. I’m in big trouble. Any more of this and he will know how I really feel about him. Everyone in this room would know. Because they would see it on her face. See the love she hid deep in her heart for this strong man she’d never stopped wanting. Even if he’d broken her heart by marrying another.

The fiddle sang the last tender note of the waltz and the dancers fell away from one another, applause rising in the night. The stars twinkled, laughter and chatter rose, and Nick Gray’s hand at her waist remained, a steady pressure that did not fade.

His heart raced beneath her hand, beating faster and faster. She gazed up into his eyes, so dark, so full of stormy emotions she couldn’t begin to name, but still she felt the loneliness inside him that went all the way to his soul. Amazing, that she could feel that in him. Maybe because loneliness beat so strong within her. She didn’t know, but it hurt like a broken bone, healed and mended and throbbing in the winter.

Why did she have to feel this for him? Hands trembling, she broke away from him as the next song started, a lively schottische that had partners scurrying. Dancers were bumping against her skirts, because she was standing stock-still in the center of the dance area.

She wasn’t doing anything but stepping out of the arms of the man she’d always yearned for. Away from the man who could still turn her inside out with only a look.

More than anything she wanted Nick’s love. His real love. The kind her friends whispered about in those chaotic moments before the club meeting was called to order, with secret smiles of understanding about what went on between a wife and her man.

But the crowd of young women, all of marriageable ages and as pretty as could be, were waiting patiently for Nick to finish his obligatory dance with the town spinster. She couldn’t compete, she knew it. So she tucked away her hopes right along with her disappointment and walked away.

“Hey, wait. Mariah—” His voice rang low, easily drowned out by the music and stomping feet of the dancers, so it was easy to pretend she couldn’t hear him.

She walked past the pretty young women with hope sparkling in their eyes, pushed past the refreshment table where the widows stared at her in tight-lipped disapproval and out into the quiet of the schoolyard, dark and silent and empty.

Only then did she let the tears burn her eyes. Despair settled around her. She was alone. She had to face it. Just like her father had told her. No man was going to come courting her. Not now. Not ever.

She hated that the mean old cuss was still right, after all these years. Instead of heading back to the dance, to see which of the young women Nick had chosen to dance with, she headed toward the schoolhouse. Surely there was still some work there needing to be done.

Glad to be alone, Nick shook out the match, dropped it into the dirt at the side of the road and covered it with his boot.

The sweet, rich cigar smoke calmed him, and he dragged deep. He couldn’t get Mariah out of his mind. The independent-minded, aggravating spinster who looked as prickly as a roll of barbed wire had melted against him like warm butter, fitting against him the way a woman was meant to. All curves and softness and heat.

This is a marriage of convenience, you want. Remember that, man. How Mariah felt in his arms didn’t matter. That wasn’t the issue.

His children were.

He dragged deep, blew out a long ribbon of smoke. The air was thick with the fresh, earthy scent of new grass growing and heavy with the sound of night insects and the birds that hunted them. He was looking true north, toward his property a few miles out.

Home. He warmed from head to toe, his worries melting away, thinking of his little ones tucked in for the night. His father would have put Georgie down first, after an hour of protests, requests for a drink of water and a lullaby. He pictured her snuggled beneath the thick comforter, covers pulled to her chin, her hair curled all around her face like an angel. So sweet. His heart hurt just thinking of her.

And fear hit him in the chest like the business end of a sledgehammer. He could have lost her today. Could have been at her wake, instead of a dance tonight…. Damn it. He couldn’t stand it if something happened to her, or to his son…all it took was remembering the responsibility heavy on the boy’s narrow shoulders to make Nick get off his butt and face what he had to do.

A wife might mean a lifetime of misery for him, but it meant security and happiness for his children. Don’t let those women scare you, Gray. You’re the man. You’re the boss. Pick one and be done with it.

Aw, jeez. Not one of those young women—fresh-faced and immature—was what he was looking for. What he needed was a sensible, practical wife who understood that marriage was a legal agreement with separation of labours and knew that the job was tough. He needed a woman who would work hard and take good care of his kids. Someone who would leave his heart in his chest where it belonged and not shredded on the ground at her feet. Who on earth could fill those shoes?

A shadowed movement from the back door of the schoolhouse caught his attention. Mariah Scott, her basket slung industriously over one arm, was leaving. Backlit by the flaming torches set up to light the dance area, she was easy to pick out against the crowd, even in silhouette. Her purposeful stride was unlike any other woman’s—not swaying and seductive, not dainty and airy, but no-nonsense. With every snap of her skirt, with every step she took, Mariah Scott meant business.

She marched past a gaggle of younger women, who huddled together talking near the bonfire. The moment she turned her back to the women as she swiftly marched down the worn path to the road, one of the young women mimicked her. They all burst out laughing.

Nick’s chest tightened. Good thing he wasn’t interested in one of those women. They were cruel, no matter how soft and feminine they looked. It was too dark to see Mariah’s face, but he knew she’d been hurt. Her shoulders stiffened. He could see it. Just as he could feel the pride holding her up as she kept walking, without missing a beat. As if laughter was not lifting on the wind behind her, drowning out the first sweet strains of a new waltz.

She breezed past where he huddled on the shadowed bank, the row of parked buggies and wagons hiding him from her sight. He couldn’t help noticing that while her shoes were patched, they were polished and serviceable. Just like the woman. Practical Mariah. She was hardworking and wore black like a widow, already given up on life.

He wanted to keep hating her, but how could he? She’d been as tied to her father’s cruel demands as he’d been to the mistake he’d made with young Lida Brown. They’d both been trapped in unhappy lives. He knew the pain and the sting of the regrets that came with it.

He could make her life better. And his children’s. With one simple question.

He climbed to his feet, dragging deep on his cigar. Maybe the rich smoke would give him the courage he needed as he made his way down the rode. “Hey, Mariah.”

“Nick.” Startled, she dropped her basket in her wagon bed, stiffening like a porcupine ready to strike. “What are you doing out here? Or have you found your bride all ready?”

“I found her. Least ways, I hope so.”

“Oh, why that was certainly quick.” Her voice came as sharp as the crack of the tailgate as she slammed it shut. “Let me be the first to offer my congratulations.”

Her voice sounded strained. Hurt? That didn’t sound at all like Mariah. “Don’t go congratulating me yet. I haven’t gotten around to ask her.”

“Why not?”

“Because she’s one of those do-gooder, busybody types. Always doing for some event or another. Like this fund-raiser tonight.”

“Oh, then I must know her.” She turned her back on him and hiked her skirts up to march into the tall grassy field. “You must mean Betsy. She’s a good friend of mine. Truly, she’ll make a good mother to your children. She’s kind and I—”

Was her voice wobbling a little? Nick snatched the picket rope before she could grab it and yanked hard on the lead to bring the young ox to heel. “It’s not Betsy I intend to marry. It’s you.”

“Me?” She froze in midstride, her skirts tumbling from her hands, and the air from her lungs.

He kept walking, leaving her behind. As he hitched the animal to her wagon, he stole a couple glances at her standing there, frozen as a statue, washed in patches of silvered moonlight. She was a beautiful woman with a gently sloping nose, the high delicate cut of cheekbone, the soft full mouth, and he knew, blue eyes so bright they could make the sky look pale by comparison.

His heart thumped in his chest, simply from looking at her. Still some of the boy in the man, he supposed. The boy in love for the first time—after all the bitterness of marriage, the heart didn’t forget. But it was not his heart that saw the woman now.

No, it was the man appreciating her soft, full bosom. He’d never quite noticed how pleasantly she was proportioned. A narrow waist, not too tiny, but just right. How well his hand had fit there when they’d danced. Her skin as soft as warmed silk. Her hair fragrant with lilacs and soft against his shaven jaw. How small she’d felt against his chest.

“I told you, your obligation is over and done. Got that?” She marched right up to him, skirts flaring, and yanked the reins out of his hands.

“Yep, I heard you loud and clear, ma’am.” He took her elbow, since he knew she’d refuse a hand up, and helped her into the wagon.

“I don’t need your help or your pity, Mr. Gray.”

“Pity? Mariah, I was being sincere.”

“Sincerely charitable, I suppose. Good evening.” Her chin shot up, all fight, all pride. The fierce spinster to the core as she snapped the reins hard enough to startle the ox into forward motion, jerking the wagon swiftly away from him.

But not before he caught the sparkle of tears in her eyes.

Aw, jeez. He’d hurt her. He stood there a long while, watching her wagon disappear into the darkness. What did he do now?

Mariah felt her way up the porch in the dark. The night felt so quiet as she stood there in the shadows, hesitating to turn the key in the lock because she didn’t want to go inside. There was no one waiting for her. No husband to welcome her, no children running in their nightshirts who’d missed her all evening long.

Regrets. Why did she feel things so keenly tonight? She wished she could push them aside, but they remained, a heavy sharp blade in her breastbone. Did it have to be so darn quiet here? The door hinges squeaked like chalk on a board and her shoes tapped as loud as a war drum on the wood floor she’d polished only yesterday. The emptiness echoed around her and did not fade when she hurried to light a nearby lamp. The faint glow of the flame on the wick only illuminated the truth of her life—rooms in perfect order, not a speck of dust in sight, but without anyone to fill them.

Just her. It didn’t seem enough. Not tonight. Not after dancing in Nick’s arms. Not after what he’d said to her.

Marry him? She couldn’t marry him. He didn’t like her. She didn’t like him. He’d proposed to her out of pity, for heaven’s sake. Pity. As if she were a sad, lonely old spinster in need of charity.

Angry, she dumped her reticule on the hallway table. There was her reflection staring right back at her, the face of a woman no man could love. Or so Pa had told her, and told her often. And as time passed and she went from schoolgirl to spinster, she’d come to believe it.

Nick couldn’t have meant his proposal. She was old, and getting older by the minute. The dim light accentuated every wrinkle and imperfection on her no-longer-youthful face. Not that she was ancient, it was just that life had a way of marking a person, like rings in a tree. Sadness had marked hers, and she hated seeing it there. Had to wonder if Nick had seen it, too.

Oh, stop thinking about that man! She shrugged out of her shawl, hung it with a curse on the wall peg and made it all the way to the kitchen before she realized she’d forgotten her basket in the back of the wagon. What was wrong with her tonight? Even standing in the dark of her kitchen, surrounded by the sounds of emptiness and the wind scraping the lilac branches against the siding, she couldn’t seem to make her mind stop reeling her back in time to the sensation of waltzing in Nick’s strong arms.

It’s not Betsy I intend to marry. It’s you, he’d said in that deep dark voice of his, as intriguing as a rogue’s, making her shiver from the roots of her hair to the tips of her toes. He couldn’t mean it. She didn’t know why he’d even asked, and maybe he didn’t, either. He had to have proposed knowing she would reject him. Right?

Breathing in, she could remember Nick’s scent and feel the warmth of his shirt against her cheek, the security of his strong arms holding her. A part of her would always yearn after him, as she had when she was young, watching him marry another woman. And, as the years crept by, offering congratulations on the birth of his children. Watching from her father’s kitchen window as his family surrey swept by on the way to town, with Lida at his side.

Pain filled her, at the loneliness of her own life. It wasn’t better being alone. She didn’t care how right her father was. If she could pray for any one thing and have it granted, no holds barred, then it would be to have a heart that could love. A heart that wasn’t cold and used up, like a hunk of winter’s ice. One that bloomed like the wild prairie roses, and no harsh winter or dry summer could stop their stubborn blooms.

But she was her mother’s daughter. Ice to the core. Good for only one thing—hard work. At least she did that well.

Taking solace where she could, Mariah crossed the dark kitchen, petticoats swishing in the silence. She felt proud of how hard she’d worked tonight. Her contribution made a difference. They’d raised more than half the money they needed for the school addition. See? Her life had meaning enough. The children of this town would have new desks and plenty of room so they could become better educated, and a new heater to keep them warm through the winter.

She found the match tin by feel and snapped open the lid. The curtains were open, giving a view of her backyard and orchard, and a glimpse at her neighbor’s house. Lights blinked on in their windows like beacons in the night, drawing Mariah’s gaze. Their curtains were open, too, and she caught sight of the Bryants, returning from the dance, no doubt. Mrs. Bryant balanced her year-old son on her hip, while herding her other two small children through the front room toward the bedrooms in back.

It was just a slice of their lives Mariah could see through that window, but how warm it looked. How cozy. Mr. Bryant came into view and laid a gentle hand on his wife’s shoulder. She gazed up at him with a smile. How happy they looked, man and wife. There was love there, a kind Mariah knew nothing about. She closed her eyes and turned away.

No, she belonged here. In the house she grew up in. In the house where she’d cared for her father until his death. It was hers now. And she would live out her days here, not troubled by the demands of children and a husband and by her own inadequacies.

No, she was happy here—alone—and she was content with that. Mariah snapped the curtains shut against the night and other people’s bliss.

She vowed not to think of Nick again. And she didn’t. Not when she fetched the basket from the wagon and unloaded her dishes. Not when she prepared for bed. Not even once, in her dreams that night, or any of the nights that followed.