Jillian Hart - High Plains Wife

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.

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?