Jillian Hart - High Plains Wife

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?