Mary

by Raine Cantrell

Harry had loved to see her afraid. She had promised herself that no other man ever would.

  “I could ask you to leave.”

  “You could, but you won’t.”

  “No,” she said, “I won’t. I have no desire to hurt your daughter. But you know there’ll be pain.”

  “I know.” Her spunk in facing him down made the corner of his lips notch into a wry smile. “I wouldn’t still be sitting here if I thought otherwise.”

  “Just so we understand each other. I’ll do whatever I can.”

  “Then get on with it. But first, you’d better get more light in here.”

  Mary darted a look at the fat tallow candle sitting in a saucer on the side table. She left to gather the lamps from Sarah’s and Catherine’s rooms. She had started to write them a note, but it would have taken too long to explain what had happened. She had taken a moment to lead his horse to the water trough by the corral. A strange horse would be warning enough that they had company.

  He was no stranger to this land, and his horse was as valuable as his gun. A man on foot in this country was a man left to die. Her father had told her as much many times.

  It was one reason why a horse thief was hanged. If he was caught.

  Mary thought of the wounded men who had come seeking aid. Despite their exhaustion, if they could speak, they first asked care for their horse.

  But this man cared for nothing but his child.

  Mary set the two kerosene lamps on the bedside table. She lifted the glass chimney from each one, turned up the wicks before she lit them, then replaced the glass. The light threw wavering shadows on the walls.

  “Don’t you have a lamp?”

  “I like the soft glow cast by the candle.”

  Rafe believed her. She was no taller than his shoulder, slight in build, with a fragile air that suggested a strong wind would blow her along. There was a softness to her voice, to her eyes when she glanced at his daughter, and to the lips she bit as she drew closer.

  Rafe lifted his hand to hold the back of Beth’s head. His other arm lifted to rest across Beth’s lower back.

  Mary pushed aside the child’s torn shirt. She worked quickly now to soak off the makeshift bandage.

  “Talk to me,” she whispered, needing the sound of a voice to drown out the child’s moans of pain.

  “How many widows are there living here?”

  “Three.” Mary winced as she drew a louder cry from Beth, but she got the last bit of cloth free. Nor did she miss the emphasis he placed when calling them widows.

  “No matter what you may have heard in town, we really are widows. My cousin Sarah was the first This is her house. Catherine is our friend, and the most recent of us to lose her husband.”

  Mary looked over at him. “They will be coming up here when they finish their outside chores.”

  Her gaze drifted down to his gun. She wanted nothing to startle this man.

  “Warning me?”

  “If you like.”

  Mary washed the dirt and dried blood from the girl’s pale flesh as she talked, thankful that he anticipated her need and moved his daughter’s body to help Mary free her of the shirt and the smaller version of her own camisole. She could not but notice the fine lawn, the delicate embroidery and the lace that trimmed the child’s undergarment. No expense had been spared.

  “You cut the arrow?”

  “Had to. I had a far piece to travel. Brought her in from Gavilan Canyon on a travois. I was afraid any movement would work the point back into her flesh. She’d lost enough blood.”

  Mary lifted his arm so that he held Beth’s body just below where the arrow penetrated her back. She washed the shaft, then wrapped it with a clean dry cloth.

  “Hold her tight.”

  “You’re not going to cut it out?”

  “I could try, but I’ve no knowledge of what else I might cut. I could injure your daughter far worse. But this way is more painful.”

  Their gazes met above Beth’s head. To Mary, his silently conveyed their need to do this quickly.

  She placed herself in the notch between his legs.

  Rafe leaned back to steady the rocking chair, and watched her delicately boned hands grab hold of the arrow shaft.

  Sweat soaked his hair and slid down his cheeks. He saw that the woman’s forehead was beaded with moisture. Her gaze locked on the arrow.

  Mary prayed for the strength to make a clean, quick pull, for the flesh had had time to draw close around the wound, holding the arrow in place.

  Her lips moved silently.

  Rafe prayed as he never had.

  He prayed she had the strength to do this, for he could not rip it free from his daughter’s flesh.

  He felt sweat dampening his clothes, and saw that for her it was the same. He wanted to urge her to hurry. He kept silent. The woman had to make good with the first try, or Beth would bleed too much and make the way difficult.

  He needed to see that obscene arrow gone, his child whole.

  He stared at her fingers. The nails were neatly pared. A stupid thing to notice. He measured the woman’s fragile appearance. He held Beth tighter.

  And Rafe braced himself for the scream that was to come.

  In that moment, Beth’s scream of agony rang in his ears.

  Mary stumbled back, and threw aside the broken arrow shaft.

  Seconds passed while she watched the blood well and flow. Then she moved, working quietly but efficiently. She covered his shoulder and arms with clean cloths, and when he protested, she explained. “I’m not protecting your clothes. You’re filthy, and I want to keep any dirt from her wound.”

  “You’re not going to cauterize it?”

  She didn’t like the testing quality of his question, but kept her annoyance from her reply.

  “No. And I’m not sewing it closed. I can’t say for certain that the Apaches don’t poison their arrows, but I wouldn’t bet your daughter’s life that the arrow was clean. I know she’s already weak from loss of blood. Letting it bleed now will clean out the wound.”

  Mary dragged the bucket of clean water closer. While dressing the wound, she listened to the murmur of the man’s voice, its deep tone as soothing to her as to the child.

  First she sprinkled the crushed spectacle pod on both chest and back, then, gently as she could, she spread the pine sap paste. From the tray, she took the clean linen strips she had cut into bandages, and wrapped them around the little girl’s shoulder.

  She stripped off the child’s boots, and he helped her remove her torn skirt. Like the camisole, her petticoats and drawers were of the finest materials.

  Mary said nothing to him of the fever that threw off enough heat to nearly dry the washcloth. She washed the child twice. The high fever alarmed her. Not even the thought of the tea she had steeping downstairs, which would help eliminate the fever, could calm her.

  She worried, too, that the child appeared so pale and thin.

  “Has your daughter been ill recently?”

  His silence forced Mary to look at his face.

  “Has she?” she repeated.

  “I don’t know.”

  The words sounded as if they had been dragged from him.

  “You don’t—” Mary stopped herself from saying more. The savage look in his eyes did not offer a welcome for her questions.

  Mary took one of Beth’s hands and washed it, feeling him watch her every move. When she reached over to take the other hand, she couldn’t free the child’s grip from the doll.

  For a moment, Mary’s face softened, and a naked yearning appeared in her eyes. She found herself brushing back Beth’s hair. One tendril curled around her finger.

  “What is it? What’s wrong?” Rafe demanded in a low voice.

  Mary snatched her hand back. “Nothing.”

  She turned to the bed, stripping the quilt, then folding it over the footboard. Once she had the top sheet folded back, she motioned to him to put his daughter in bed.

  “I’ll hol
d her.”

  And I dare you to try to take her away from me.

  Once again, Mary heard the words in her mind, saw the truth of them in his eyes.

  “No, you won’t. You have wounds that require tending, too. You’re dirty, mister. Your daughter needs frequent bathing to keep her fever down. The best way you can help her and help me is to take yourself down those stairs.”

  “I’m not leaving her.”

  “Suit yourself,” Mary snapped. “But put her in this bed.”

  It had been a very long time since anyone issued an order to Rafe with every expectation of being obeyed.

  He eyed the slender woman glaring at him. She knew nothing of the devils driving him. She could not know of his need to hold Beth close, protecting her, even when he knew it was not within his power to heal her.

  She had not asked for, nor had he volunteered, any details about the attack. His suspicions were corralled for now, but he would need to find out who wanted to kill him.

  Rafe glanced at the soft curve of her chin, the firm set of her features. The memory of the naked yearning in her eyes when she looked at his daughter rushed forth.

  I have no daughter. I have no child. He had not realized it when she spoke, but the wealth of emptiness behind the words was tucked into his memory.

  He could not deny the competent care she had given his child.

  He made his decision.

  He rose from the chair in a smooth, powerful move to place Beth on the bed. She looked so pale, so helpless, lying there, still clutching the doll.

  Mary nudged him aside to draw up the sheet. She bent and lifted Beth’s head to spread the tangled dark brown hair on the pillow. Her hair was the exact shade of her father’s.

  “She is a beautiful little girl.”

  “Beth? Yes, she is. Especially inside, where it counts.” He sounded distracted, and knew he was. The lamp’s glow had caught and held in the reddish shades of her hair.

  Copper and gold strands mixed with darker spice colors. Where the brighter light touched upon it, Rafe thought of cinnabar, the reddish ore of mercury that he had mined in Mexico.

  From the thickness of the neatly wrapped braids around her head, he started to imagine its length. The way her hair would slide down to hide her bare nape, the delicately boned shoulders and back.

  Mentally Rafe leaped away from the direction his thoughts were taking him, just as if he had touched a rock baked by summer sun.

  Unaware, Mary kept turning over his remark. She was pleased to know he was a man who looked beyond the surface.

  But he had said as much when he entered the house. Don’t let appearances fool you.

  Mary could not afford to allow anything or anyone to fool her.

  Looking down at the child, she saw that Beth had his dark brown hair and eyes. Her mouth was bow-shaped, her nose tipped up at the end. Her brows arched, where her father’s were dark slashes. Mary was curious about the woman who had borne her, and thought became words.

  “Does Beth look like her mother?”

  “No. And I thank the Lord she doesn’t.”

  Mary shivered to hear that cold, hard voice again. Her envy for the woman had been misplaced. If he had ever loved Beth’s mother, that love had not lasted until her death.

  She bathed the child’s face with cool water, then dipped and wrung out the cloth again. She folded the linen and placed it on Beth’s forehead.

  “Keep this wet until I return.”

  Mary straightened, then turned around.

  Rafe moved without thought. He caught hold of her upper arm and dragged her closer to his body.

  “You’re not leaving her.”

  Mary immediately realized that his fingers held her in a firm grip meant to stop her, not to hurt her. But she knew how easily her flesh bruised.

  She was alone in the house with him. Was he a man who would use his strength against a woman?

  She didn’t know this man. She didn’t—and the sudden realization hit her hard—even know his name.

  She refused to cower.

  The feel of his naked hand pressing against the side of her breast made her feel light-headed. The warmth of his flesh seeped through the thin cloth of her gown and camisole.

  Mary dragged at a breath. An odd, shimmering sensation went through her. She was held motionless by his lean fingers curling around her arm. Her heart was hammering so fiercely she was afraid that he could hear it. Her nipples tightened and pushed against the soft cotton in twin hard peaks.

  She barely heard the swift, ripping sound of his breath over her own.

  Her gaze lifted from his hand and the heat he imparted to her skin. Her eyes tracked the dark curling hair in the vee of his shirt, moving up the strong column of his throat.

  There were dust streaks over the shadow of beard stubble on his cheeks. She stared at the full, sensuous line of his mouth, the straight, proud angle of his nose.

  The firm jut of his chin spoke to her more eloquently than words of a man who had things his own way more often than not.

  By the time she looked directly into his eyes, she was trembling. But not from fear. It was the glittering intensity of his gray-eyed gaze that sent a strange wave of weakness through her.

  Mary drew a deep, steadying breath, ready to demand her freedom.

  She never formed the words.

  “What I said before wasn’t true. I’ve never raised a hand to a woman, and what’s more, never will.” Rafe had had no choice but to speak. She trembled against him like a willow caught in a wind. “You don’t have to be afraid of me.”

  “I’m…”

  The cocking of a gun hammer was as loud as a shot in the tension-filled room.

  “Nice an’ easy now, let her go.”

  From the sound of Sarah’s voice, Mary guessed she was angry. A look showed her cousin holding a rifle. Slightly behind and to Sarah’s left, Catherine stood aiming a pistol at the man’s back. Mary knew he had no idea that Sarah was an excellent shot with the Spencer repeater.

  Mary wasn’t sure why she didn’t speak. Was she hoping he would pass some sort of test?

  “I ordered you to let her go,” came Sarah’s husky-voiced demand.

  Rafe was tired. His wounds ached, his muscles burned with exhaustion. He had been distracted by the needs of his daughter. For the past few minutes he had struggled with his sudden, fierce arousal, drawn forth by a woman who had done nothing to incite it.

  He was in no position to argue with a cocked gun.

  Especially one held by a woman who sounded as if she not only meant business, but knew how to close the deal in her favor.

  “I’m friendly,” Rafe said, and wondered as he did why he did not let the woman go. He had told her the truth. He had never once raised his hand to any woman, and the Lord knew Valerie had provoked him.

  “Mister, I’m saying this once. I’ve seen friendly, and you’re not it. My daddy said I shouldn’t aim a gun at a man unless I was prepared to shoot. Listen up, stranger. I’m aiming it. Aiming it right at you.”

  Chapter Six

  “Sarah, there is no call for holding a rifle on him.”

  “I beg to differ, Mary. I find a strange horse with a bloodstained saddle and a travois standing by my corral and think of you alone in the house—”

  “Sarah, please. He didn’t want me to leave his child. She was wounded by an Apache arrow.” Mary eased her arm from his grasp.

  Rafe, with his acute sense of hearing, listened to the gun hammer sliding back in place. Tension seeped from him.

  He looked at the woman beside him. He stood a hair over six feet. The top of her head reached his shoulder.

  When he spoke, it was softly, and only to her. “If I hurt you, I’m sorry. Beth means everything to me…Why, I don’t even know your name.”

  “Mary. Mary Inlow. The woman with the rifle at your back is my cousin Sarah Westfall. And our friend with the pistol is Catherine Hill.”

  “Westfall? Judd Westfall’s wid
ow?”

  Mary glanced from the man to her cousin. What did he know about Judd? She saw Sarah’s black eyes grow chillingly cold at the mention of her husband’s name. And Mary wondered if Sarah hadn’t kept a few secrets of her own.

  “What do you want with Judd’s widow?” The question came from Catherine. “And just who are you, mister?”

  Rafe still had not turned around, nor was he feeling encouraged to do so by the silence of Judd’s widow. Her voice was husky, the other had a lilt to it.

  He stared at Mary, once again noting the many shades of her hair. His gaze slid down the soft line of her flushed cheek, and then to her mouth. Soft full lips. It was a mouth a man looked at twice and speculated about ten times over.

  “Who are you?” Mary asked.

  “Rafe McCade.”

  “McCade? I’ve heard that name.” Catherine shared a knowing look with Sarah.

  Mary grew puzzled. What did they know about this man that she did not?

  Rafe eased his arms up and out from his sides, then slowly turned around.

  “From the sound of your voice, whatever you’ve heard wasn’t good.”

  “I never said that,” Catherine protested.

  Rafe studied the two women framed in the doorway. The husky-voiced one, Judd’s widow, stood tall, lissome, her skin a beautiful olive that owed nothing to the sun. He glimpsed hair as black as her eyes beneath the floppy brim of a man’s felt hat. There was an annoyingly self-possessed air to the way she held the rifle. He supposed the buckskin jacket, work pants and boots added to his impression.

  The other woman, Catherine, had a bright, fresh face framed by blond hair pulled back at the sides. Dressed much like Sarah, she stood a few inches shorter than her companion. Despite her dainty appearance, Rafe gazed into blue eyes that silently conveyed a competence with the gun she held.

  Merry widows? Hell, he thought. Black widows, more likely. But not the woman called Mary.

  He eyed the guns. “Like I said, I’m friendly.”

  “That remains to be seen,” Sarah said.

  “I need to get the tea I left steeping. The child has a high fever.”

  “Wait,” Rafe said as Mary stepped away from him. “I haven’t thanked you for all you’ve done. But I will. I’m good for—”