Jillian Hart - High Plains Wife

You should have let Nick help you, Mariah. She closed her eyes briefly against the glare of the sun and certainly not because of the stinging sensation behind her lids. Nothing good would have come from letting Nick Gray train the ox. Not one thing.

She had to be practical. Had to accept the kind of woman she was. She was meant to be alone. Not everyone had a heart that could love.

So it couldn’t be her heart that was hurting as she turned the wagon toward the Dayton ranch, late for her next delivery.

H olding his gelding steady, Nick watched Mariah disappear in a trail of dust. That woman could get his dander up like no other, that was for sure. Not even his late wife could get him het up so fast as the Spinster Scott could. Maybe he didn’t like independent-minded women, but what other woman would have battled coyotes to protect his little girl without wanting so much as a thank-you?

Hell, it would have been civil of her to accept his gratitude. She could have taken him up on his offer to train her young ox. But, no, not Mariah.

He swept off his hat in exasperation and raked his fingers through his hot, sweaty hair. The air felt good, almost as good as the relief of knowing his little girl was safe and sound and in his brother’s care.

The wind warmed him, but that wasn’t enough to stop his shivering. The image of hungry coyotes circling Georgie and Mariah chilled him to the meat of his bones.

“Darn lucky she came along when she did,” his brother Will commented as he handed Georgie over. “No other woman in the county could do what she did. Miss Mariah Scott is tougher than a bad-tempered grizzly. Even those danged coyotes know it.”

“So they say.” Grim, Nick cuddled his little girl to his chest. What would have happened to her alone in this field? He was damn glad he’d come along when he did. Glad his son had run to him, telling of Georgie’s escape.

Best thing to do would be to head home and give Georgie that serious talking-to she needed, but there was Mariah’s wagon, tiny in the distance. He could still barely make it out, a small brown dot rolling along the expansive prairie. As he watched, her vehicle dipped down a rise and out of sight.

Mariah Scott. He hadn’t cause to think of her in a long while. But he thought of her now.

“Pa, I want down. That lady said I could go with her and her ox.”

“I’m here now and so I’ll give you a ride on my horse.”

“But you don’t love me.” Georgie’s sob rattled through her. “My mama does.”

A well-honed blade could not cut his heart this deep. Nick grimaced. He held his daughter with more gentleness. Searched for words that would explain this fierce jumble of pain inside him. And failed.

He didn’t have the words. He didn’t need to ask Georgie where she’d been heading. This wasn’t the first time she’d done this, running off in search of her mother gone and buried.

Poor Georgie. Lida’s death had hurt her the most of all. He pressed a kiss against the crown of her sunbonnet, willing to do anything to take away her grief. “I love you, baby.”

She sighed deeply, feeling frail and ready to break. Such a little girl, and not even his comfort seemed to help her. Georgie’s arms wrapped tight around his neck. “Is heaven long gone and far away?”

“Very far away. Not even my horse can get us there. If I could, I’d take you to see your ma. It just can’t be done.”

Georgie’s arms tightened, her face pressed hard against his throat. “Not even an ox can get there?”

“Nope.”

Georgie wiped her tears on his collar and said nothing more.

He held her, all sweetness, until the big house came into view. The orchard’s gnarled black branches shielded the porch from sight, but he knew his son was waiting there, too small to be seen from a distance but keeping careful watch.

Sure enough, there was Joey, darting into the path between the trees. Worry was stark on his pale face and his blond locks were waving on the wind.

Nick’s chest punched. Joey had always been a serious boy, with a frown between his brows when he considered something mightily. But in the three weeks since Lida’s death, he’d changed.

Their lives had changed.

Joey planted his boots and shook a finger at his sister. “You can’t go runnin’ off like that. You’re in big trouble, Georgie.”

“I am not!” Her mouth compressed into a tough line. “You are.”

“The both of you, code of silence, right now.” Nick knew he sounded too stern and too tired.

He was just wrung out, that was all. He was at the end of his rope dangling by a fraying thread, and he had to hang on. His children and this ranch needed him. Look at Joey, all twisted up with worry, shivering in the cool wind. His trousers were wrinkled, his boots scuffed, his jacket crumpled and hanging crooked on his shoulders. “Joey, button up that coat and go to the house.”

“Yes, sir.” There was a tired look to the boy, as if Lida’s death had used him up, too.

Nick wanted to curse her for her choice to leave the children like this. Wanted to hate her. At least he’d been the one to find her, crumpled in the field near the small grave where they’d buried her baby last fall. A baby he knew wasn’t his.

Bitterness filled his craw and he tamped down a blinding rage he refused to give in to. The woman was dead. She’d suffered enough in this life, and he’d torn himself inside out trying to make her happy.

Georgie whimpered against him, bringing him back to the present, cuddling close. Her hold on his neck was choking tight.

It hurt, seeing her like this. Hurt worse to hand her over to his father, who ambled out on the porch, looking frayed and exhausted.

“Glad you found her, son.” Pop nodded once in approval, said nothing more as he settled Georgie in his arms.

She cried, begging for her mama.

Pain twisted in him like a knife. He felt torn and lost and defeated. So damn defeated. Georgie pushed at Pop, struggling to get down. Georgie didn’t understand death, and by God, neither did he. He’d never understand Lida’s actions, so how could he explain to a child?

Georgie was hurting, and he dismounted, leaving his horse standing in the cold. Took the porch steps in two long strides. Had Georgie clutched against him by the third, taking her from Pop’s arms and into his own.

“Pa,” Georgie wept against his flannel collar. “Mama left.”

“I know, princess.” He kissed her brow, and wisps of her silken hair caught on his whiskered chin. He’d forgotten to shave again.

Hell, he was forgetting everything. The world was crumbling into bits around his boots. None of it seemed to matter as he cradled his daughter to his chest, holding her as gingerly as when she’d been newborn.

There was nothing but the sound of her broken sobs and the echo of his heels on the parlor floor. The scrape of the rocker as he eased into the chair. The squeak of a spring. And the feel of heartbreak.

He held Georgie tight and rocked her until there was only silence.

Will emerged from the shadowed depths of the barn. “How’s Georgie?”

“Asleep.” Nick yanked on the stall door. It didn’t give, the damn thing. The hinge was sprung, leaving the wood door jammed into the frame. He kicked it hard, and wood scraped against wood, freeing the door, but not his frustration.

He could still feel Georgie curled against his chest, sobbing so hard her little body shook.

He hurt for her. Would take every grief, every anguish, every bit of pain from her if he could. The door crashed against the wall. The loud crack startled the mare in the stall. She whinnied and sidestepped, her head lifting high in alarm.

That’s it, Nick. Scare the horse while you’re at it. He pushed aside all thoughts of Georgie, but not his troubles. The feel of her sobs stayed with him as he reached for the mare’s bridle, speaking low.