Mary

by Raine Cantrell

  “And what if you’re wrong, Mary?”

  Despite the sudden trembling that beset her, she found the courage to answer him.

  “I’m not. I can’t be wrong. Besides, the Lord doesn’t need Beth. You do.”

  Chapter Twelve

  Rafe reluctantly let her go. “Tell me what you want done.”

  “Carry Beth. I’ll bring the blanket and quilt. We’ll need them afterward.” Mary picked up the candle and led the way from her room.

  Out of the dark hall came Catherine’s whisper. “Rafe, what is going on?”

  Mary was poised at the top of the stairway, and she turned, allowing the candlelight to spill on her nightgown-clad friend and the gun she held.

  “There’s no need for that, Catherine.”

  “Blame Rafe. He’s the one who told me to sleep with it handy. Now, where the devil are you two going with Beth?”

  When Mary didn’t answer, Rafe did. “Mary has an idea how to break Beth’s fever.”

  “And we are wasting time. Catherine, since you’re awake, please come down and stoke the stove fire. We’ll need heat, and coffee.”

  Mary went down the stairs quickly, and was around the newel post on her way to the back hall when she heard Sarah’s sleepy query. Catherine was the one who answered her. Mary didn’t pay them attention. She was praying.

  By the time Rafe walked into the kitchen, Mary had her stockings off and was working on the buttons of her gown’s bodice.

  “What are you doing?”

  Mary ignored him. This was no time for modesty. The bodice joined her stockings on the back of the chair. She went to work loosening the tapes holding her skirt and petticoats around her waist.

  “Damn it! Answer me!”

  “I can’t put Beth in the barrel alone. I don’t want to get her bandage wet if I can help it. Satisfied?”

  “Don’t snap at me. This whole idea is crazy.” Satisfied? When hell froze, he might be. Did she have any notion of what she looked like by candlelight? Not that she cared that he was a witness. But it was a provoking sight to see her fiery dark hair tumbling over pale skin and the skimpy bit of cloth stretching over her breasts.

  “Hell,” he muttered, annoyed with himself for noticing her soft curves, her small waist, and the gentle flare of her hips. Annoyance gave way to anger. She was thoughtlessly doing what he had accused her of—clouding his senses just by being near, by simply breathing the same air as he.

  “You agreed with me upstairs, Rafe.”

  Mary kept her gaze averted from him. She had the foresight to place the candle on the dry sink, leaving her out of the pool of light. But Rafe would have to be blind not to see her. Just the thought sent heat beneath her skin when she stood shivering in her camisole and drawers. The oft-washed cotton was thin as cheesecloth.

  Then Mary looked at Beth. Her head lolled over Rafe’s arm. Her skin was pale, but her cheeks were mantled with fever and her body was racked with chills.

  Mary’s embarrassment disappeared. She snatched up the rolled quilt and blanket and opened the back door.

  “Better take the lantern with you, Mary.”

  “No.” Rafe answered Catherine, who entered the kitchen. “We don’t want to be a target if someone is watching the house.”

  “Like fish caught in a barrel. Lord, forgive that. I’m not really awake, Rafe. But what makes you think anyone’s watching the house? What kind of enemies do you have?”

  Rafe didn’t answer. He followed Mary outside.

  “We don’t have to worry about rattlesnakes. We check the side of the house every day.” Mary drew in a deep breath, for the air was bracingly cool after the relative warmth of the house. The scent was clean with a newly washed fragrance from the soapberry bushes planted as a screen around the barrels at the corner of the house. The tops of the large barrels reached Mary’s chest. She lifted a small three-legged stool from its nail in the clapboard and placed it against the first barrel. She leaned over and pressed hard to anchor the stool in the muddy earth.

  “I’ll climb in. Then you hand me Beth.”

  “No. Drape the blankets over my shoulder and take Beth. I’ll help you in.”

  Mary couldn’t argue. She had to clench her jaw to stop her teeth from clattering.

  But when she held Beth, she forgot the cold. “Sweetie…” she whispered, tucking one small arm beneath her own to angle the child’s body so that her wounded shoulder wouldn’t get wet.

  “Ready?”

  “Y-yes.” For a moment, Mary closed her eyes against the heat of Rafe’s hands settling on her waist. The thin cloth offered no protection from the strength of his fingers as he lifted her. She bit her lip when her bare feet took the first shock of the icy rainwater. In her arms, Beth’s body went rigid, her cry breaking the night as Mary immersed them into the water.

  “How long?” Rafe asked.

  “A f-few…min-minutes.”

  Mary had to hold Beth tight. The child thrashed in her arms. She struggled to keep as much of Beth’s body as she could beneath the water. The child’s cries faded to pitiful whimpers. The sounds tore at Mary, but she forced herself to remain firm in her conviction that they needed to remain a little longer.

  “About two minutes gone,” Rafe said.

  “M-more.”

  “You’re freezing.” When she didn’t answer him, Rafe ordered her to get out.

  “A l-little m-more.”

  “You sure know how to make a man feel as helpless as a cow caught in a mudhole.” But he bowed to her judgment and waited.

  If Rafe had not been beset with worry, he might have realized he wasn’t waiting alone.

  Out beyond the cottonwoods near the pasture fence, Shell Lundy grabbed hold of the rifle from the man he had knocked out with his gun butt. He didn’t hold with dry-gulching, or back-shooting a man, and he damn well wasn’t killing a kid and a woman. He rolled the man over, stuck the rifle barrel down his pants and grabbed hold of his shoulders to drag him back and away.

  Shell was so furious at not having been told all the facts before he had accepted the bonus money to kill McCade that he wasn’t thinking about the tracks he left behind.

  He just wanted to get off by himself and think this job through before he proceeded.

  Back by the barrels, Rafe figured he’d waited long enough. He was about to haul Mary and his daughter out when her shaken whisper came.

  “N-now.”

  Mary could barely manage to stand. Rafe took Beth from her into his quilt-draped arms.

  “Can you get out by yourself?”

  “Go.”

  “Blanket’s on the nail. Give me your hand.”

  “J-just…go.”

  His daughter needed him to get dry and warm. Mary needed help, too. He couldn’t rush into the house and leave her. Beth shook in his arms, her cries reduced to mewling noises. Mary struggled to get out of the barrel. He heard the audible click of her teeth as her pale hands slipped off the barrel’s rim each time she attempted to lift herself up and out.

  “G-go,” she repeated.

  Rafe shifted Beth’s quilt-wrapped weight to his shoulder and held her there with one arm. He dipped the other into the water, grabbed hold of Mary around her waist and hauled her over the rim.

  He held her tight for a moment, then let her body slide down the side of his until her bare feet touched the ground.

  Rafe snatched the blanket from the nail, clumsily wrapping it around her shivering body, then slipped his arm around her shoulders. He was drenched from the water and the press of icy bodies by the time he got them all inside.

  “Get Mary whiskey or brandy, whatever you have,” Rafe ordered Catherine. He hooked the bottom rung of the chair with his boot to pull it away from the table. With his hand he pushed Mary on the seat.

  “There’s no liquor in the house,” Sarah answered. “I don’t allow it. But the coffee’s good and hot.”

  “I’ll get it for Mary. You get Rafe and Beth upstairs and out of those
wet things.”

  Mary barely heard Catherine. She didn’t see Rafe leave with Sarah. She could hardly help Catherine strip off her soaked undergarments or use the heated towels to dry herself.

  Mary thought she would never be warm again. But once she had put on the nightgown, stockings and thick woolen shawl that Catherine thoughtfully heated on the stove, the feelings returned to her near-frozen limbs.

  “Where did you get such a hare-brained notion from, Mary? I never heard the like of what you did to Beth.”

  “I did. Truth to tell. Once.”

  “Did it work?”

  Mary didn’t answer her question. “I need to go upstairs. I want to be with Beth.”

  “Mary, you’ve done all you can.”

  “No. I can still pray.”

  Mary met Sarah on the stairs. “I was just bringing this quilt down to dry. See if you can get Rafe to change. I put a pair of pants and a shirt of Judd’s on my bed for him. They should fit.”

  Mary merely nodded and started to pass her, but Sarah caught hold of her arm.

  “You’re not alone. We’ll do what we can to help.”

  “I need to be with her, Sarah. Don’t ask me to explain. I can’t.”

  Mary came to kneel beside Rafe. Sarah had piled quilts and blankets on top of Beth, but Mary felt the child’s shivering when she slipped her hand beneath the coverings.

  She sought Beth’s hand and covered it with her own. If she could, she would impart her strength to this child who had woven her way into her heart.

  Rafe’s breathing kept cadence with hers. Then his hand, larger and warmer, enfolded theirs.

  “Go change,” Mary whispered.

  “She’s been so quiet since Sarah gave her a little more tea.”

  “You won’t do Beth or yourself any good if you get sick. Sarah left clothes—”

  “Yes. She told me. Can’t you understand that I don’t want to leave her?”

  I understand so well that I ache for you. The words remained unsaid.

  “I have no pride. All I can do is beg the Lord to let her live. I’ll give everything I own.”

  “I’ll pray every bit as hard for both of us while you’re changing.” Mary leaned against him, her head touching his shoulder, offering a silent message that he wasn’t alone.

  Rafe’s fingers tightened over hers. “Mary, what I said before, I didn’t mean—”

  “Later. There’ll be time enough for talking. Go on. I’m here with her.”

  She looked at him. Tears shimmered in her green eyes.

  Rafe didn’t think it strange that he wanted to brush a tear from the corner of Mary’s eye, or that he should bring it to his lips. He didn’t question where the strength to leave his daughter—however briefly—came from. After all, he had Mary’s assurance that she would be there watching over Beth.

  After he returned to Mary’s room, it seemed right that she should lean on him as much as she had supported him through these trying hours.

  Together they held Beth when the chills racked her body. In tandem they bathed her yet again, and spooned both the tea and the broth that Sarah supplied into the child.

  They prayed together, sometimes aloud, sometimes in silence. And the act seemed right again.

  Rafe watched her as much as he watched his daughter. Mary never lost her patience, no matter how exhausted she grew. She never flagged in her belief that Beth’s fever would break. Her voice, murmuring or humming some soft tune, soothed his frayed nerves and calmed his restless child.

  His admiration for Mary grew when she made no move to force a discussion about what she had heard earlier in the room. Admiration, and something more that he refused to name.

  Her gaze, meeting his, offered constant hope. Her touch was both comforting and encouraging. And he found himself wondering if she felt the bond that had formed between them.

  Mary had never known she could be so sensitive to another’s needs and moods. The night stretched endlessly, yet she was helpless to stop the rich strands that wove a bond around her heart. Rafe was restless, as she was, but he never became impatient with the repetition Beth’s care demanded.

  Each time her gaze met his, she took courage from his silent look. His unshakable belief, now that the ice bath was over, fed her own. His very presence lent her strength and calmed her when she felt despair.

  His strength combined with gentleness forced her to remember past dreams. And she wondered if he felt the bond forming between them.

  Catherine and Sarah were ghostly presences coming and going throughout their vigil, offering a touch, a word of comfort, bringing sustenance.

  The room grew lighter as dawn broke on a new day. Mary lifted her head from the side of the bed. Eyes burning, she raised the cloth from Beth’s forehead to wet it again.

  Befuddled, she stared at the already soaked cloth. Had Rafe—? A glance showed that he was still beside her, one arm flung across Beth’s legs.

  Exhaustion made her struggle to remember who had last bathed Beth. She even turned to see if her cousin or Catherine was in the room again.

  But she and Rafe were alone with Beth.

  “Rafe? Rafe, wake up. Look at me.” Mary shook her head. To her ears, her voice sounded slurred. She turned toward him, took hold of his shoulder and gently shook him until he groggily lifted his head.

  “What? Mary, what’s wrong?”

  “I need your help. I must have spilled water all over Beth’s pillow and the sheets. They’re soaked.”

  “Go rest, Mary,” he mumbled, rubbing his eyes. “I’ll take care of it.”

  Rafe grabbed hold of the footboard to pull himself to his feet. He stood swaying, blinking his eyes and tried to remember what Mary wanted him to do.

  Meanwhile, Mary had turned back the covers. When she felt the dampness of the wool shirt wrapped around Beth, she couldn’t hold back a cry.

  Rafe froze. His blood seemed to turn to ice. His heart skipped a beat. In a second, his throat and mouth were as dry as a desert in summer. He couldn’t move, couldn’t utter a sound.

  He could only watch Mary’s hand touching his daughter’s cheek. And he learned he had not yet tasted even the tip of fear, for what encompassed him filled him with an unknown dread.

  Rafe started to reach for Mary, then yanked his hand back.

  Mary looked at Rafe. She tried to smile, but her lips trembled. Joy glittered behind the tears. Rafe didn’t understand. How could he? His eyes were closed, his face was a mask of anguish.

  As much as Beth required her attention, Mary knew Rafe needed her more.

  She rose unsteadily and went to him. Instinct guided her. She raised her hands and cradled his dark, beard-stubbled cheeks.

  He cried out at her touch. “No!” It was a whisper torn from deep inside him, agonizing and defiant.

  “Rafe, look at me. Listen,” Mary pleaded. “The fever’s broken. We won, Rafe. We won.”

  Her thumbs spread of their own volition to the corners of his mouth. She watched his thick lashes lift and read the disbelief in his gray eyes.

  “Say…” He had to stop and moisten his lips. “Say it again.”

  “We won. It’s over, Rafe.”

  “Over? Beth’s safe?”

  “Yes,” she murmured, feeling the joy bubbling up from deep inside. “Yes,” she repeated, louder this time.

  Rafe caught her up in his arms and swung her around.

  Mary pressed one hand over his racing heart. She could hear the pounding of her own. She was crying and laughing when he suddenly stopped. Time disappeared in the moments when he held his gaze on hers. Slowly, then, he lowered her to stand in front of him.

  Rafe traced the curve of her chin with his finger. “Your laughter’s as sweet as your songs.” He held her with a few inches separating them. One of his strong hands splayed over her lower back, the other slid along her spine, into the thick wealth of her tumbled hair.

  Mary offered him no resistance. She wanted to give him all the womanly solace an
d compassion her heart held. She closed her eyes briefly as he drew her against his hard body and gently rocked her within his embrace.

  Rafe lowered his head, and she felt the moisture touch her cheek where his rested. The tears were hers alone. Tears of relief, joy, and thankfulness.

  Mary savored the moments he held her. She slipped her arms around his waist. It had been too long since she had her simple need to be held like this met.

  She found unmeasured serenity in the silent communion. The shared agony was over. Happiness could have free rein. Mary tilted her head back as he lifted his.

  “Mary.”

  Her smile faded when she heard her name in that black-velvet whisper. Her lips parted. Her pulses pounded to life. A subtle tension strummed her body. She wanted to close her eyes, but the force of his gaze wouldn’t allow that retreat.

  Mary had seconds to avoid what came. Her breath caught, and she did nothing to stop him.

  Heated dampness bathed her mouth as Rafe’s lips covered hers. She welcomed the kiss as one of celebration. Welcomed it and eagerly surrendered to it.

  But the meeting of their lips didn’t offer any comfort.

  Mary could give it one name. Need. And it had nothing to do with Rafe being Beth’s father, grateful and sharing. The kiss had everything to do with Rafe, the man. It was as raw and savage as the heightened emotions that had bonded them together through the night.

  She kept her hands around his waist, shocked at how much she wanted to use them on him. To test the muscles beneath his shirt, to drag them through his hair.

  Rafe felt no restraint. He relished her sigh, the small hitch in her breathing, the passionate warmth he laid claim to. He knew her strength, and found fire in her soft, lovely mouth. She opened for him as if they’d shared a hundred kisses. Her taste held a glory all her own. The press of her body against him was discovery and homecoming in one.

  His fingers tangled in her hair. He tugged her head back to deepen his kiss. He savored, and learned what it meant to be savored in return.

  The desire came at him like lightning. It jolted him to want her this much. Then he became aware that she was trembling like a leaf caught by a strong wind, her hands no longer kneading his back, but pushing him away. He let her go.