Читать книгу High Plains Wife - Jillian Hart - Страница 9

“Y ou blew it, brother,” Will commented from the back seat. “I didn’t think I’d live to see the day when the perfect son, Nicholas Gray, would make a mistake of this magnitude.”

“You think I should have went with Mrs. Gunderson?” Try as he might, Nick would never understand his younger brother. He gave the reins a snap when the horses slowed on the busy main street.

“It isn’t about the laundry, man. The woman thought you were going to ask her to the dance.”

“Mariah? Don’t be ridiculous.” Mariah was a practical woman. Sensible. She wasn’t given to romantic foolishness, and he knew that from firsthand experience. “Mariah wouldn’t have me if I begged her.”

“I wouldn’t be so danged sure. You didn’t see the big, bright moon eyes she was giving you?”

All he’d noticed was the way she’d been standoffish, leaning against the door, more beautiful than the day they’d met. “Moon eyes? Mariah?” The sky had a better chance of falling to earth.

“I’m telling the God’s truth.”

“Is that so? Then why hasn’t a lightning bolt struck the back seat of my buggy?”

“It isn’t gonna. I mean it. You were bumbling around saying things like ‘I kept thinking about you’ and ‘You look pretty.’ What was she bound to think?”

Maybe Will did have a point. But this was Mariah they were talking about. “She wants to be a spinster. She tells anyone who asks.”

“When a man tells a woman that he’s been thinking about her and shows up at her place right before the big town happenings, she expects an invitation to the dance. Heck, brother, you even had me thinking you were gonna ask her.”

The reins slipped between Nick’s fingers. No. How could it be? Mariah hadn’t wanted him ten years ago, at least her father hadn’t. In the years that passed, she hadn’t so much as given him a polite greeting in public. She’d just march past him on the street as if he didn’t exist. As if he were dead and buried to her.

No, Will couldn’t be right.

The schoolhouse came into sight, so he reined in the horses and parked the surrey. Folks were everywhere. His neighbor called out a greeting across the busy crowd. Nick waved back, taking stock.

Looked like the ranchers were gathering in the shade, smoking and discussing wheat prices. They’d fallen again. Not good news for the local ranchers. He set the brake before climbing to the ground. Headed toward the grounds with his brother in tow.

A pretty young woman cut in front of them, carrying a wrapped platter balanced just so, and damned if Will didn’t look his fill as she sauntered up to the schoolhouse steps.

Nick knew trouble when he saw it. “You behave yourself with the ladies. No kisses in the moonlight. I don’t want some angry papa coming after you with a shotgun.”

“Aw, it ain’t my fault. I sometimes get carried away by a woman’s beauty and lose all sense. You’re a man. You’ve got to know how that is.”

Only too well. “It’s called willpower. Use it. That’s my advice.”

“With that outlook, you’re never going to find a new wife.”

Nick ignored the jesting. He was no fool. He wasn’t going to get trapped into marriage a second time. He’d keep his male needs under steely control. If he chose to wed again he’d choose a woman using logic and not his…

Mariah Scott caught his eye. Could anyone explain to him why his gaze shot straight to her? There had to be fifty women milling around, carrying baskets and platters from their wagons to the schoolhouse. Why couldn’t he notice one of them? Why didn’t his gaze stray to their bosoms?

He kept on walking. The other ranchers had gathered near to a keg of homemade ale that smelled like heaven on the breeze.

“Been waitin’ for you, Gray.” Al Ludgrin thrust a foaming tankard in Nick’s direction.

“Just what I need.” No truer words had ever been spoken. Nodding in greeting to the other ranchers, young and old, he took a sip and noticed Mariah again.

She was climbing down from her wagon, dressed all in black. The high proud curve of her bosom sure did look fine. Desire stirred in him. No doubt about it—she was surely a finely made woman, hard and tough, true, but soft where it mattered.

Alone, she tethered her ox. Alone, she lifted two heavy-looking baskets from the floor of her small wagon. Had she always looked that sad?

He didn’t know, but it was on her face plain enough for anyone to see. The straight line of her mouth, down-turned in the corners. The town’s formidable spinster wove her way through the crowd of children playing, a tall and slim shadow touched by the last rays of the setting sun.

Nick took a long pull from the tankard. The ale was bracing, just shy of bitter, but not strong enough to make him forget the troubled feeling churning in his guts.

Mariah squeezed between the table rows in the crowded schoolhouse when she saw Rayna Ludgrin bringing a fresh pot of coffee. Finally! They were sending in the reinforcements. She was dead on her feet and could use a few minutes’ break.

“Don’t get too hopeful,” Rayna told her, speaking loud to be heard over the merry din. “They need you to keep serving. Careful, the handle’s hot.”

It sure was. Mariah’s fingers felt seared in spite of the thick pad as she took possession of the coffeepot. “We never expected such a good showing.”

“There isn’t an empty seat,” Rayna agreed. “So, are you going to tell me?”

“Tell you what?”

“What Nick Gray had to say to you. I noticed he hasn’t taken his eyes off you all evening. Does that mean he asked you to the dance?”

“Why would he? We’re not even friends.” Mariah tucked that piece of disappointment away and filled an empty cup of coffee for old Mr. Dayton.

“Then what did he come for?” Rayna sounded bewildered.

They were far from being alone and Mariah wasn’t about to let anyone overhear her conversation and make the mistaken assumption that she was mooning after Nick Gray. “I’ve taken on his laundry, that’s what. I didn’t want to do it, considering the man and how I feel about him, but business is business.”

“Mariah, I didn’t know you still disliked him so strongly.” Rayna winced. “I never would have teased you about him. I’m sorry.”

“No apology necessary.” Hiding her feelings, Mariah hesitated, not sure what to do, until someone called her from a nearby table, holding out his empty cup.

She didn’t blame Rayna. She blamed herself. Across the crowded room, a group of men were leaving. Probably heading over to the stable yard, where the dance was to be held, to help themselves to their stashes of beer and tobacco. Nick was one of those men, but to her, he always stood out in a crowd.

The last thing she ought to be doing was noticing that man. What she’d said to Rayna was true. They were not friends. She couldn’t stand Nicholas Gray. He was arrogant and domineering and stubborn… She didn’t want anything to do with him. Really.

And that was the story she intended to stick with. From this moment on she’d have no other feelings for Nick than those she had for her other customers. She would wash and rinse, starch and iron his shirts and collect her fees. That was it. That was all.

She’d never let one vulnerable feeling in. She refused to waste one more regret. Father was right, she did have a cold heart. She might as well use it to her advantage.

There Nick was, looking at her again. Jerking his gaze away to listen to his brother. Nick wasn’t sweet on her. He was probably wondering how much she planned to charge him for his laundry.

“Thanks for the refill, Miss Mariah.” Kol Ludgrin nodded coolly at the brim-full cup, and she stopped pouring.

Goodness, she’d almost forgotten what she’d been doing. And look how her gaze crossed the room right to Nick. Didn’t she have any more willpower than that? No, because he did look handsome tonight. She couldn’t deny that Nick was easy on the eyes. A woman wouldn’t get tired of looking at his face across her kitchen table. Not in a lifetime.

Not your kitchen table, she reminded herself. She wasn’t the only female looking in Nick’s direction.

Folks were finishing their desserts and leaving the tables. Children clamored through the aisles, mothers scolding, with babes on their hips. Those women had their duties. And she had hers. She was vice president of the Ladies’ Aid.

Her duties kept her occupied long after the second story of the schoolhouse emptied, and she’d spent two busy hours on the first floor, wiping down the last of the dishes. There was a dozen women who stayed to clean up, to take apart the board tables and wash the floor. Now, this was accomplishing something. Mariah treasured the rare sense of satisfaction as she packed the last dessert plate into the last basket.

“I’ll help you to the wagon with these,” she offered when Rayna bustled up to take the heavy baskets. “Let me take the bigger one.”

“What do you plan to do after loading up my wagon?”

“Load my own and go home.” What else? She had no obligations at the dance. The president of the club was in charge of that end of the fund-raiser.

“That’s simply not acceptable.” Rayna tsked, tossing the wadded towel into Mariah’s nearby basket. Trouble glinted in her narrowed gaze. “You’re coming with us. Betsy, are you ready?”

“Sure am. I’ve got rope to hog-tie her with, if that’s what it takes for Mariah to have some fun.” Longtime friend Betsy Hunter snared Mariah by one hand while Rayna took the other. “We’re all going to the dance, whether you like it or not.”

What was wrong with everyone? “I don’t dance, and you both know it.”

“You don’t have to dance,” Rayna pointed out, tugging on Mariah’s arm as they approached the stairs. “We can listen to the music.”

“That’s right,” Betsy concurred far too quickly. They’d planned this. “Old man Dayton brought his fiddle. It ought to be a real treat.”

“This wouldn’t be about Nick, would it? Please tell me you two haven’t been scheming. I don’t like the man.”

“This is about your duty as the vice president.” Betsy released her death grip and held open the wood door to the cool evening breeze. Faint strains of a fiddle rose and fell in merry delight.

“No, I’m not going.” She had no desire to see Nick swirling other women around the dance floor.

“I know how you feel about dances, but if you want a chance to be president in the next elections…”

O-oh, Betsy knew exactly what bait to use. Mariah knew she ought to get angry about this blatant use of manipulation. The truth was she did like old man Dayton’s music and she did want to be president one day.

The setting sun’s lights streaked bold purple and magenta against the sky and made the schoolhouse windows glow like a dream. Dozens of lamps and lanterns marched on stakes through the clipped-grass field, guiding their way, and the music sounded sweet and merry.

Maybe attending the dance wouldn’t be too bad. She’d treat herself to a sarsaparilla, listen to a few toe-tapping songs and then help out, if the refreshment committee needed her. She’d be too busy to notice a certain man.

The makeshift stage was lit like a Christmas tree. The call of the fiddle and the twang of a banjo made it hard to concentrate as she searched for a path through the crush of people to the refreshment tables.

“Excuse me, Mariah,” a man spoke at her side.

Surprised, her feet felt as if they’d frozen to the ground. Heart racing, she gazed up at the town gunsmith.

He held out his hand, but not to her. “Sorry, but could you step aside? I was hoping Betsy might honor me with a dance.”

Betsy blushed. “Why, no, Zeke, I couldn’t—”

What was a little disappointment? Of course he hadn’t been about to ask her to dance. What was wrong with her tonight? Mariah stepped aside. “Go on, Betsy. Have fun.”

“But—” She hesitated. Zeke took command and whisked her away.

“He’s a good dancer,” Rayna commented as the music lifted in harmony and boots tapped on the hard-packed earth.

“Yes, he is,” Mariah answered blindly. The flaring skirts on the dance floor all blurred together.

Ridiculous, watching folks dance like this. She ought to be doing something productive. Something useful. She turned her back on the merriment, heading straight for the refreshment table. Surely there was work for her to do.

There always was.

“You’re not dancing, big brother.” Will handed Nick a tin cup of lemonade.

“I didn’t come here to dance. We both know it.” The cup was cool in the heat from the crowd, and the liquid puckered his tongue. It wasn’t as satisfying as beer, but he needed a clear head right now.

He was on the hunt for a bride. A bride?

He couldn’t do it. He couldn’t pick out a wife, because every female here in this area was a stranger. He’d been married for a long time, and he wasn’t a man with a wandering eye. He’d been faithful to Lida every minute of their time together. Having another woman had never crossed his mind.

So, how did he start now? It felt wrong, even with Lida gone. But his children needed a mother. They all needed a woman to cook and keep house for them.

So, what did he do? Just pick one? He was at a loss.

“You look like you’re having troubles, big brother.” Will smirked, looking as though he was enjoying this. “There are lots of pretty women in this town. Lucky for me, I don’t have to settle on one. I can shop around.”

“That’s what you think. You just wait.” Nick wasn’t going to take any ribbing from his more obnoxious brother, especially when he wasn’t even wet behind the ears where love was concerned.

“I’m going to go pick a female right now, but only for one dance.” Will polished off his lemonade. “What you need, Nick, is to get out there and start dancing. Maybe you’ll find a pretty young thing you’ll want to keep.”

Nick swirled the lemonade around in the bottom of his cup. A pretty young thing? Hardly what he considered good wife material. He’d had one of those once, and look how it had turned out.

Bitterness made the lemonade on his tongue curdle. Nope, he wasn’t going to go near one of those young marriage-minded women lined up on the other side of the dance floor, looking at him with hope in their eyes. Females like that were nothing but trouble. He wasn’t attracted to them. He didn’t want a real marriage. Those women were looking for love. Every single one of them.

Just because a woman had a pretty face didn’t mean she’d be good to his children.

The song ended, the crowd parted, and he caught sight of a blond-haired woman behind the refreshment tables, soft wisps escaped from her tight bun to curl gently around her face. A heart-shaped face that would be beautiful if it hadn’t been for the dark smudges beneath her eyes.

Mariah. She was standing behind the lemonade pail beside two elderly ladies. All three wore black. Did she have to dress like a widow? Sadness pierced him sharp as a well-honed blade. Mariah had no husband and no children, unlike the other women her age. The women dashing after children, or sitting around the tables off to the side, or holding babies and talking about whatever it was women spent hours talking about.

Mariah was dressed in black, serving lemonade.

He couldn’t help remembering the smiling young girl she’d been, once, when he’d been smitten with her. When it had hurt like a punch to the jaw to look at her.

He couldn’t say why he slammed his cup onto the corral rail and left it there, or why his feet carried him through the crowd and past the dance area to the tables beyond. He only knew he was doing the right thing. He felt it down deep.

As he approached the refreshment table, he overheard Widow Collins. “I hear he’s hunting for a wife. That’s why that man’s here tonight.”

“What man?” Widow White adjusted her spectacles.

“That oldest Gray brother.” Widow Collins tsked. “Those Grays have always been trouble on two legs.”

Trouble, huh? Maybe that was a sign. Maybe I should turn around right now. Before Mariah sees me.

It was too late. Mariah plunked the tin dipper into the pail, staring up at him, her gaze surprised beneath thick lashes. Then amusement curved the soft corners of her mouth.

Amazing. He’d forgotten her smile. How it could light her up from the inside and make her as soft as an angel. Funny how he’d forgotten that after all this time.

“Nicholas Gray.” Mariah sounded as cold as stone. “Parched from hunting for a wife? Have some lemonade.”

He held up both hands. “Not looking for lemonade. But I would like a dance with you.”

“With me?” The dipper tumbled from her fingers and clanged against the tin pail. “Oh, I see. This is about Georgie, isn’t it? You’re asking me out of a sense of obligation. The same reason you hired me to do your laundry.”

He blinked. What was she saying? What obligation? “I saw you standing here. Noticed you’ve been working all evening. Thought you might like a spin on the dance floor. Listen, they’re just starting up a waltz.”

Mariah stared at him as if she found him less than worthy of a single, obligatory waltz. Was asking a woman to dance always this nerve-racking?

“I don’t approve of this close dancing.” Widow Collins shook her head as she rescued the dipper from the depths of the lemonade bowl. “It gives young people all sorts of ideas. And at their age, they have enough of them. Mr. Dayton promised me there would be no more than two waltzes the whole night.”

“Scandalous,” Widow White agreed. “Mariah, I highly suggest you wait for a nice schottische. Something more decent than a waltz.”

Nick could see Mariah wavering. He had to convince her now, before the widows said another word. “After all these years, you’re still the prettiest girl here. Dance with me.”

“Me? Dance with you?” she repeated.

“I dare you to.” He flashed her that grin, the one that made the dimples stand out in his cheeks and his eyes twinkle.

Mariah felt its effect all the way to her toes. She was a sensible, practical spinster well past the fancies of youth. She was helpless to say no.

Out of the corner of her eye, Mariah could see the widows close together, stunned into silence. Beyond them the colorful women’s dresses swirled in time to the music. What did she do? She could stay here where she belonged and not make a fool of herself. Then she’d watch another woman dance in Nick’s arms.

This time, she wouldn’t be left out.

He was waiting for her answer, one brow crooked in question, one hand held out, palm up. His fingers were broad and strong and warm when she touched him.

She wasn’t aware of weaving through the tables or walking toward the stage, where the banjo and fiddle made music beneath the open sky. She knew only the weight of his hand in hers and the shivery feeling drifting through her. As if something wonderful was about to happen.

As if in a dream, Nick Gray pulled her to him. Not touching, exactly, but so close she could see the smooth skin of his shaven jaw and smell the night air on his shirt.

“Just close your eyes,” he whispered, his breath warm against her ear, “and follow me.”

She placed her hand on his shoulder, as strong as steel, and let him whirl her to the sway of the music beneath the light of the rising moon.