Wild Texas Rose (26 page)

“Thank you for your good wishes,” Mariah said benignly.

“You're welcome.” Temperence stepped over to the fireplace. “You've certainly turned this place around. These figurines look nice on the mantel. Are they English? I wouldn't think to peek at the hallmark. That's so ill-mannered, you understand.”

Mariah's time was too precious for chitchat. “Is there something I can do for you, Mrs. Tullos?”

“Yes, there is.” The dark-haired woman swept over to the rocking chair. “May I? I fear my strength isn't up to snuff.” She seated herself in the rocker. The joints groaned under her weight. “I want to make you a very generous business proposition. Will you sell me the mineral rights to this farm?”

Mariah was taken aback by the strange offer. Didn't mineral rights include water? Well, even if she hadn't leased the pond to Whit, she wouldn't give over precious water for Charlie Tullos's benefit. “I don't believe that would be in my best interest.”

“Then let me sweeten the proposition. I'll take this farm off your hands. Permanently.”

“Why?” Mariah asked suspiciously.

“Your land abuts the Painted Rock, and you have a ready water supply. Our cows are in need of it, and I'm willing to give you two thousand dollars in gold.”

All that money would secure Mariah's schoolhouse, would ease her monetary woes. It was nothing to sneeze at. But she wouldn't take Tullos money. No decent person enjoyed the spoils of dirty money and, furthermore, the too generous offer had all the earmarks of being peculiar.

“This property isn't for sale,” Mariah said.

“Three thousand dollars.”

“I repeat, this property isn't for sale.”

“Why not? You have no crops or livestock. Everyone knows you're not a woman of means. Surely you don't plan to survive on your sheriffs pay.”

“How I make my living is a personal matter, Mrs. Tullos. You'd be wise to mind your own affairs.”

Temperence's nostrils expanded. “You're mighty high-handed.”

“And you're not going to get the pleasure of an argument from me. So nice of you to call, Mrs. Tullos. It's been a rare treat. Let me escort you to the door.”

Rising from the rocking chair, Temperence pointed a beringed finger. “You'll regret this!”

Mariah ushered her out the door and returned to her investigation, but snatches of the conversation kept coming back to her ...

What an odd thing for Temperence Tullos to have said. To what had she made a comparison? How did she know what the cabin was like in the past? To the best of Mariah's recollections–and why wouldn't she remember Joseph speaking of such a visitor?–Mrs. Tullos had never before visited the cabin. But obviously she
had
been here.

Mariah grabbed a chair arm. Was she ... was Temperence Tullos the gold hairpin's owner?

Chapter Twenty-four

Livid with rage, Temperence Tullos cracked the whip over the horse's rump as her buggy bounced toward the Painted Rock Ranch. The nerve of that McGuire woman, not selling Lord Joe's farm!

“And just where does this leave you, Tempie?” she threw to the prairie air.

With a husband she despised. In a land she hated. Without Leroy Smith and no chance of luring him back to Trick'em with the oil scheme. Although she was furious, she did have a vent for her frustrations. Violence. Tonight. Charles was fit to be tied over that Benedict Arnold, Whit Reagor, and he had plans for revenge. Plans that Temperence wholeheartedly approved of. Dammit, she might even join the raiding party.

And when they were finished with their deed, she'd demand one more killing, that of Mariah McGuire!

This would assuage Temperence's blood lust, and she could get on to making new plans for Leroy. She'd never give up. That wasn't her way.

 

 

Ten minutes after Chadwick Nussbaumer had spoken with Whit about a defense, and five minutes after a big brown envelope was delivered for Mariah, she returned to the jail.

Cooling his heels in the hoosegaw since daybreak had given Whit thinking time. He wanted to know why she'd broken her word, but that could wait.

With his fingers wrapped around the bars, he said, “I'd like a word with you, Sheriff.”

Hesitantly, Mariah approached the cell. Still wearing the breeches, she held a covered bowl in her hand. “I know it's a little late, but I've brought your lunch.”

He couldn't have cared less about pinto beans and cornbread. “Bring it right on in... Sheriff.”

“I don't like the look in your eye. You're not planning something sneaky, are you?”

“Like what?”

“Like breaking jail.”

“Don't give me any ideas,” he gritted out, hating not only the fact that he was her captive in the legal sense, but also that he was a prisoner of love. But, by damn, he'd get the upper hand in this situation. “Open the cell, Sheriff.”

She did. When Mariah set the bowl on the small table in his cell, Whit moved one hand to a hiding place. Like a flash and before she could escape, he hemmed her in his arms and snapped a manacle around her left wrist.

She started, giving him an advantage in the tussle.

“What are you doing!”

“Shackling you,” he replied, and wrestled to affix the other manacle to the cell bar. He turned the key, then tossed it out of her reach.

“Unlock me. Now! This is highly improper.”

“Too bad. Because this is the only way I can be assured of your safety. And I want a few questions answered.”

She yanked at her bonds, but neither the bar nor the handcuff gave way. “I know you're angry, but you've no right to do this to me. And you'll wait until your dying day for answers unless you free me”–she glared at him–“
right now.”

Whit realized his wrongdoing, realized brute strength would never work with Mariah. He also realized he could never chain her to him. He stepped back and retrieved the key.

Mariah relocked the door of his cell and tucked the wrist manacles out of his reach, well away from the branch he'd snapped from the tree outside his window and had used to fish for the handcuffs.

Wordlessly, she went to the privacy of her quarters to collect her wits. Nothing was settled between them. She knew he was still angry over her broken promise, but what could she do to heal his hurts and disappointments?

Dressed in clean breeches and shirt, she reentered the jail.

“What happened to your new clothes?” Whit asked.

She swallowed. “They were cumbersome.”

“Yeah. When a gal takes off after outlaws, she needs to be comfortable.”

She crossed to the cell. “Whit, I'm sorry for disappointing you.”

“Are you now?”

“Yes. For both our sakes, could we call a truce?”

For a moment, he stared at her, then rubbed his chin. “Yeah. A truce'll be fine.”

“Thank you.”

“Mariah ... there's something I've been wanting to tell you. I think Temperence Tullos was fooling around with Joe.”

“I think so, too.” Mariah proceeded to tell him about the Tullos woman's visit and about the talk with the coroner. “Have you ever heard a rumor of Mrs. Tullos carrying a stiletto?”

“No, never.”

Mariah's obstinate look set her features. “I'm going to bring her in for questioning, anyway.”

“Let Dan do it.”

She moistened her lips, and her eyes met his. “Would that make you happy?”

“Somewhat. The only way I could be truly happy ... Mariah, I'm worried about you.” Whit's hand snaked through the bars, catching her wrist and bringing her palm to his rapidly beating heart. “You could get hurt. Or killed.”

“I can take care of myself.”

“Not if you're outnumbered.”

“Maybe if you knew why this is so important to me, Whit, you'd understand.”

“Maybe you ought to tell me.”

She explained the events that had happened after he'd left to see after the herd. “I didn't want to go back on my promise to you, but I had to take action. Put yourself in my place, Whit. What would you have done in the same situation?”

“Sent for the Martinezes, and so on,” he admitted grudgingly. “But then, I didn't give you my word I wouldn't do anything to stir up trouble.”

“I'm sorry, so sorry, at least for letting you down. But my conscience wouldn't allow me to do nothing.”

Whit traced the pad of his thumb across the bow of her lips. “I know you're sorry. And I know about your ways. I'm just sorry your ways don't coincide with mine.”

A shudder wracked her shoulders, and Whit hated to see her so troubled. “Aw, baby, don't cry.”

“Could you just hold me a minute? Just hold me, and let me pretend ... pretend we're at your cottage again?”

Through the bars, they embraced, though their kiss was not without tension. Whit couldn't quit worrying about her well-being. As he reared his head away, he said, “Take care of yourself, baby. Don't put yourself in peril.”

“Peril comes with my job.”

Whit decided she was in her element, tempting the cutting edge of danger. How much longer would it be before she faced it? Despite his disappointment and anger at Mariah, he knew that losing her would be a thousand times worse than the pain he had suffered over Jenny. But he wouldn't ask Mariah to make any more empty promises. What was the use?

“I almost forgot to tell you,” he said. “There's a package for you on your desk.”

She retrieved the brown envelope, extracting a sheaf of paper and a newspaper. She smiled. Her palm went to her mouth and the papers shook. Whit figured the news was good.

“Don't keep me in suspense. What's up?”

She turned to him, and there were tears of joy in her eyes. “We have a message from Lydia Farrell. Texas law has been changed. Fence-cutting is now illegal!”

“Good show, Sheriff McGuire,” he said gently, proud for her in spite of himself.

Twirling around, she shook Gus's cage. As he squawked disapproval, she beamed. “Oh, Gussie, isn't this wonderful? Now we can put Charlie Tullos where he belongs. Behind bars!”

“Great. Just the cellmate I've always wanted.”

“Oh, silly goose,” she admonished, blowing Whit a kiss. “You'll be free in no time.”

A man wearing ducking and a striped knit shirt stepped into the office. In her glee, Mariah didn't hear him, but Whit noted the young man's appearance. Tall and burly, he had a thick head of long, fire-red hair tied at his nape, and brown eyes. His regard on Mariah, the stranger's expression showed familiarity and affection.

Jealousy ate at Whit like a hungry lobo. “Sheriff,” he said, “you've got a visitor.”

The stranger widened his arms. “Lovey.”

Papers fell from her grasp, and she whirled to face him. Her lovely oval face was a wreath of surprise ... and delight. “Dirk! What are you doing here?”

“I had to find out how you're getting on.”

Like jubilant children, Mariah and Big Red clasped each other. He lifted her from her feet, and she covered his face with kisses. What's going on? Whit asked himself.

Feeling completely abandoned, he stuck
his
face between the bars. “Don't mean to intrude, Sheriff, but how 'bout getting the prisoner a drink of water?”

“Put me down, Dirk. There's someone very, very special I want you to meet.” Holding his hand, she led him to the cell. “Whit, may I present my sailor brother, Dirk McGuire.”

A couple of minutes after introducing her favorite sibling to the man she loved, Mariah got a bigger surprise.

“I'm not alone. I've got traveling companions.” Dirk walked to the office window, leaned out, and cupped a hand to the side of his mouth. “Ahoy, mates! Come topside!”

Her surprise and good cheer were palled by apprehension when a flaxen-haired man and a fifty-year-old version of Dirk stepped inside. The Viscount Atterley followed Logan McGuire. What had brought Joseph's half brother and the father who despised her to Trick'em?

Whatever the case, this was an awkward situation. She realized the sad news that must be conveyed to Reginald; she didn't know how to approach her father.

“Reggie, welcome. Father, how are you?” Next, she addressed her brother, giving him a sisterly look he was certain to comprehend. “I'm afraid I can't offer accommodations, but there's a respectable boardinghouse here in town. Perhaps you and Father should secure the rooms. I'll meet you there.”

Logan–who was often called “Mack”–grimaced, but followed his son. Lord Reginald launched into greetings and questions. The last man, her own father, she avoided.

Mariah turned another look on Whit, one akin to the expression she had used with Dirk. Thankfully, he nodded in understanding and retreated to the shadows of his cell.

“Reggie,” she said softly, “perhaps we should go for a walk.”

“Heavenly days, Mariah. The dust would fairly choke me ... and the
heat!”
In a gesture of impatience, he touched the nick on his ear. “I must preserve myself for the journey to Joseph's farm. Let's do sit down, though. You must tell me how you came to be sheriff of this wretched town. And about how my brother is faring, naturally.”

She sat in her desk chair, Reginald in the one next to it. “Reggie, there's no easy way to say this. Joseph was murdered last month.”

His handsome, aristocratic face grew solemn. “The family feared . . .” He took a breath. “I trust the poor soul's end was quick.”

She reached for a bottle of rye Taft had forgotten, poured a stiff shot, and handed it to Reginald. In halting words, she told him the truth about Joseph, and about their estrangement.

“May he rest in peace.” The nobleman downed the strong spirits in one swallow. A moment later, he patted his lips with a handkerchief. “My condolences to you, too, Mariah, even though you decided not to become my brother's bride. Dear girl, how frightful your situation! You mustn't fret, though. I brought your salvation. As you know, Joseph appointed me to sell the London townhouse, and the proceeds are in my care. I'm sure he'd want you to have the monies. If you're careful with budgeting, your finances are assured.”

“I appreciate your understanding and kindness.”

“It's the least I can do.” He took her hand. “And I trust you'll return with us. You mustn't stay in this horrid place.”

She glanced at Whit, who was dealing a deck of cards onto the cot, but had stopped to lift his head and meet her gaze. She realized he was waiting with bated breath for her reply.

“Many things hold me here, Reggie,” she answered finally, watching Whit frown and take up his cards again. He's angry because I didn't say he held me here, she thought. “For one special reason, I won't be leaving Trick'em.

Whit avoided her eyes as Reginald exclaimed, “Surely you're joking!”

She hastened to end the conversation. Later she would speak with Whit and try to appease his anger, but right now she had work to do: Charlie Tullos's arrest. And the questioning of his wife. Now, she must face Logan McGuire.

The sun was setting on the dusty streets of Trick'em when, Reggie at her heels, she ascended the steps leading to Birdie's front porch. Dirk lounged against the rail. Logan quit the rocking chair and started toward his daughter.

She detected something in her father's eyes, a softness never before directed at her. Could it be possible he loved her?

“Hello, Daughter,” he said in French, his voice rough with emotion. In English, he admitted, “I've missed ye.”

Did she dare to hope ... ?

She barely noticed as Dirk took Reggie's shoulder, steering him from the porch and saying, “Reg, ol' mate, let's go have a pint.”

She sat down on the steps, as did her father. For a long moment, neither spoke. Birds flew to the trees, nesting for night. A buckboard rolled down the dirt street. Roasting meat wafted through the air, superceding the smells of horses and cattle that permeated the town of Trick'em.

Mack McGuire took a pipe from his pocket, and she turned slightly to observe him. Sucking on his smoke, he stared straight ahead. The aroma of cherry-wood tobacco brought vivid memories to Mariah, few of them good.

Running a hand through his faded red hair, Mack met his daughter's eyes. “I read your note.”

Dropping her chin, she bit her lower lip. It had been days since she'd thought about leaving that letter for him to read after her departure from Guernsey. Surely he wasn't here to chastise her for expressing her feelings! “And what did you think?”