by West, Everly
“We’re home,” Mason murmured close to Sammie’s ear as he helped her out of the carriage. “Welcome to Whispering Pines.”
“It’s beautiful,” she sighed. “It reminds me of a plantation house.”
Mason laughed. “It should. My grandmother was from the South. She wanted a house grander than the one where she was raised. So, my grandfather built her a plantation house in the wilds of Wyoming.”
“Are you happy to be home again?” Samantha asked as they made their way up the steps.
“Very,” Mason replied as he turned away from the front door to gaze upon the breath-taking landscape bathed in the last glowing rays of sunset.
“How long have you been gone?”
“Twenty years,” Mason answered without thinking, still focused on the sunset.
“Quit playing,” Samantha laughed, nudging his arm. “I’m serious.”
“So am I.” Mason turned toward the double oak doors then froze, anger boiled in his gut. “My God! Your father didn’t tell you, did he?”
One of the doors opened before Mason could unleash his anger at his absent father-in-law. Mason expected his homecoming to be awkward—at best.
An elderly man held the massive portal open while standing as straight as his arthritis-stricken bones would allow. “Welcome home, sir.”
“Virgil, you old coot, I never could sneak in the house with you around,” Mason said affectionately, releasing Samantha’s arm to take the butler’s hand in his. On the pretense of a friendly greeting, Mason placed one hand beneath Virgil’s elbow while shaking the butler’s withered hand with the other. Then Mason assisted the frail man down the two small steps onto the foyer’s tiled floor.
A slow second passed before Mason turned toward Samantha, his face flushed crimson as he realized he’d left his bride standing on the door step. Raising his hand to lead her down the steps, he whispered, “I’m sorry, sweetheart.”
“No need to apologize.” She smiled. “I’m not a helpless woman. I could have made it down two little steps myself. I was just giving you a moment with Virgil.”
Mason took her arm and guided her toward the first door on their left. Pausing, he turned to the butler. “I need a private moment with my wife.”
Virgil nodded.
“Allow us a few minutes before bringing in a bottle of wine,” he ordered as he held the door open for Samantha.
Once Mason had securely shut the door behind them, he seated Samantha on a richly-covered brocade davenport. He began pacing between the furniture and the fireplace. A long silence ensued before he finally stopped in front of her.
“I was born and raised in this house, on this land, that is, until I was eight years old. Twenty years ago, our fathers were in—uh—involved in a business venture together. As a result, JP became owner of Whispering Pines.
“Shortly thereafter, my father and I moved out.” Mason began pacing again.
He had to be very careful with his words. He would not lie to his wife. But his life would be a great deal easier if she didn’t know the whole truth.
“A couple of months ago, your father and I had a similar business transaction.” He paused to lean against the gold-veined marble mantle. “And they say you’re supposed to learn from history’s mistakes.”
After a moment and he didn’t continue, Samantha prompted him. “Mistakes?”
“It was during that time you and I met. Whispering Pines is a wedding gift from your father.”
Did she notice he hadn’t explained the “mistakes” of the past?
“What kind of business would cause your father to deed Whispering Pines over to Papa?”
“You have to ask your father that question,” Mason answered tersely. Then soothed his harsh tone before resuming his pacing. “I was only eight at the time, remember?”
Rising, she crossed the small space between them. She placed her hand over his heart. “I can only imagine your anxiety at returning after a twenty-year absence.”
He pulled her into his embrace and softly kissed her forehead. “Thank you.”
A moment later, the couple still stood wrapped in a tender embrace when a hushed sound from the doorway alerted them they were no longer alone. “I’m sorry if I intruded. I’m not used to knocking in my own…”
“Amelia!” Mason exclaimed, so surprised by her presence, he barely noticed her poor choice of words. “I had no idea you were still here.”
“It’s good to see you again, Mason.” Amelia said with genuine affection.
“Amelia, this is my wife.” Mason tucked her under his shoulder. “We were married this morning.”
One of Amelia’s dark eyebrows rose in surprise.
“Samantha, this is Amelia, the woman who took me under her wing and raised me after my mother died.”
Samantha elbowed him in his ribs. Dang, woman, he thought. Was she serious about her nickname? It might be fun to find out.
“Do I look like a bird to you, Mason Mayfield?” Amelia walked farther into the room.
“No, ma’am, you look exactly as you did the day we left,” Mason replied, unruffling the feathers of the woman he remembered to be as graceful as a swan.
“That’s better.” Amelia nodded, placing the tray loaded with wine, cheese, and crackers onto the squat table centered in a grouping of chairs. “And in answer to your ridiculous statement, why would I be anywhere else? This is my home.”
“Are there others with such strong sentimental ties to Whispering Pines?” Mason felt a twinge of jealousy toward those who had been allowed to stay with their home when he had not.
“Patsy and Virgil,” Amelia reported as she let her gaze drift down Samantha starting at her head and stopping at the hem of her dress. “And Thomas, of course.”
“Thomas—your husband?” Samantha asked.
“No, my son. He is the overseer now.” Amelia looked down her nose at the new mistress of Whispering Pines.
Mason needed to have a private talk with Amelia at the first opportunity. He didn’t have time to mediate a power struggle between the two women. It was his wife’s place to run his household. Amelia would have to accept that fact.
“I spoke with Virgil when we arrived and I’m sure I’ll see Patsy at some point during dinner,” he said, trying to defuse any possible problems until after he had a chance to speak with Amelia. Although, Samantha didn’t seem annoyed at the moment. “It’s too late tonight for business. Would you tell Thomas I’d like to meet with him first thing in the morning?”
“Of course, will that be all?” Amelia squeezed her hands into fists at her side, her tone crisp.
Mason nodded as he handed his wife a glass of wine. “Yes, thank you.”
The delicate clink of two crystal glasses being touched together simultaneously sounded with the soft snick of the door latch as it was closed. Mason wrapped his arm around Samantha’s waist and pulled her closer. “To us.”
* * *
One hour and a bottle of wine later, Mason seated Samantha at the dining table then took his place at the head. A high-pitched squeal came from somewhere behind him. The swinging door between the kitchen and the dining room burst open as a heavy-set woman came padding toward the table as fast as her sizable girth could manage.
“Good Lord, did you hear that?” Mason asked as he winked at Samantha and pretended not to notice Patsy swooping down on him. “There must be a piglet stuck under a gate somewhere close.”
Patsy stopped mid-step at his snooty tone. But before she could turn to retreat into the kitchen, Mason stood and faced her. Allowing every bit of his joy and playfulness to dance across his features, he chuckled as Patsy’s apprehension dissolved into laughter. Suddenly, Mason’s arms were pinned to his side as she threw her arms around him in an affectionate hug.
“I should have known you’d pull a trick like that. You had a mean streak in you since you were knee high to a grasshopper,” Patsy said, releasing him from her grip.
“Now, don’t talk like tha
t in front of my wife,” Mason ordered in a mock tone of authority. “She might believe you.”
“She best believe me if she knows what’s good for her,” she warned in the same mocking manner he’d just used.
A giggle escaped Samantha’s lips drawing Patsy’s gaze in her direction.
“Tsk, Tsk, look at her. She’s no bigger than a puddle duck,” declared Patsy.
“Yes, ma’am, but she’s an awful pretty little puddle duck, wouldn’t you say?” Mason asked proudly.
“She is at that,” Patsy agreed tenderly. “You give her a week of my cooking and I’ll put some meat on her bones.”
“I kind of like her the way she is,” Mason replied.
“Fiddle. You’re gonna have to shake the sheets to find her.”
“Patsy! That’s enough,” Mason snapped as he watched his wife turn bright red from the root of her auburn hair down to base of her neck.
“My name is Sammie and it’s delightful to meet you,” she said after a long, tense moment.
“I didn’t mean any disrespect—” Patsy tried to explain, but his wife wouldn’t allow it.
She inhaled deeply and asked, “What is that delicious smell coming from the kitchen?”
“Well, it could be butternut squash soup simmering on the stove or the bourbon sauce I just finished to go over a pound cake fresh out of the oven.”
“It could be but it’s not. It’s cabbage rolls, my favorite supper when I was a child,” Mason announced, touched that she loved him enough to remember.
“I best fetch you two some supper if we’re gonna put any meat on—I mean…” Patsy stammered.
“You best hurry.” Mason chuckled as he shooed her toward the kitchen door. “I wouldn’t want to lose what I’ve just found, even if she is no bigger than a puddle duck.”
The mixture of the three people’s laughter drifted back into the kitchen as the swinging door opened as Patsy returned to her domain.
“Yep, just as cute and cuddly as he was when he was a baby,” Patsy announced to anyone within ear shot.
Chapter 7
Sammie pulled the brush through her thick hair. Most nights she rushed through the nightly ritual, anxious to crawl into bed with a book—or better yet, a dime novel about cowboys and Indians and the Old West. But not tonight. Tonight was her wedding night.
She was more nervous than scared. Mason wouldn’t hurt her—not on purpose. Hadn’t he twisted around until his body was between her and the hotel’s hard floor earlier today? She remembered the sound of air being knocked out of his lungs, remembered his struggle to catch his first breath after they landed. No, he wouldn’t hurt her.
Thoughts of the day’s events came rushing back to her. Receiving the blood-stained note, rumor of a shooting at the hotel, and then lifting her skirt and running. She recalled Sheriff Wiley telling the crowd around the hotel doors to go on about their business, assuring them everything was fine. But she knew better. She’d seen the bright red blood on Mason’s note. No way was everything anywhere close to fine.
But everything had been.
Sammie sighed, grateful to finally have a quiet moment to reflect on her new circumstance. The last two days had been a whirligig of life-changing events and emotions.
Yesterday, although it broke her heart to do so, she had declined Mason’s proposal. He’d been upset and angry, but it was the right thing to do.
Yet, tonight, due to a twist of fate, she awaited him to join her in their marriage bed.
She stopped mid-stroke. Her thoughts, her memories, jumbled together. Something wasn’t right.
How could Mason be uninjured, except for a tiny razor nick, and have sent a note so marred with blood stains?
The hairs on the back of her neck prickled. Suspicion skittered over her like a thousand angry spiders.
Tossing her brush onto the dressing table, she stood and stomped over to the armoire. Her skirt lay folded in a shelf. She retrieved the note she’d stuffed in her pocket.
No, she hadn’t imagined the blood or the amount. So, whose blood was it?
The note and room number lead her straight to Mason. To Mason who just so happened to be shirtless when he opened the door. Mason who just so happened to leave the door open for the world to see inside his room. Mason who just so happened to fall to the floor with her in his arms.
Mason who just so happened to be kissing her with his hand up her skirt when her father oh so conveniently came strolling by.
“Twist of fate, my granny’s knickers,” Sammie growled, crushing the note in her fist. “I’ve been setup!”
* * *
Mason wasn’t sure what to expect when he entered his wife’s bedroom, but it damned sure wasn’t the double click of a pistol being cocked. “Samantha?”
“I told you earlier, I won’t answer to that name. It’s Sammie. Or if that’s too offensive to you, I’ll agree to Sam.” Samantha leaned against the footboard of the four-poster bed positioned in the center of the room. Her legs casually crossed at the ankles. The Colt revolver she held pointed at his chest didn’t shake or waver in any way. She seemed to be as calm as a summer’s breeze. She smiled sweetly. “Anything but Samantha is acceptable.”
Anger flared through him. How dare the woman pull a gun on him! “Whatever you want. Now, put down the gun before you accidentally shoot yourself in the foot.”
“I can shoot a squirrel out of a tree from a hundred yards away. I doubt I’d accidentally shoot anybody.”
Mason scrubbed his hand down his face, his fingers shook in a combination fear and anger. If her little flare for the dramatics caused her harm—or worse—he’d never forgive her or himself. “You’ve made your point, Sammie. Now put the blasted gun down.”
His wife laid the pistol on her lap, her finger caressing the trigger guard. The odds of the gun going off, either deliberately or inadvertently, hadn’t diminished one whit.
Samantha hadn’t removed the threat only relocated it.
Had the woman lost her ever-loving mind? Crossing his arms over his chest, he cocked a questioning eyebrow and frowned. Obviously, his bride had more on her mind. “Do we have a problem?”
“How very clever of you. And to think, it only took a few minutes at gunpoint for you to reach that conclusion.” Samantha shrugged one shoulder. “But then, I didn’t realize how clever you were until a few minutes ago.”
What was she talking about? His heart leaped in his chest. Had she somehow found out about the bet?
Samantha raised the pistol again, this time aiming for his crotch area. “Tell me, Mason, do you always stoop to such dastardly measures to get what you want?”
Wait. Maybe she didn’t know enough to out-and-out accuse him. Maybe she was fishing for information. So far, she’d been vague with the details. Until he’d been backed into a corner he couldn’t get out, he knew better than admit to anything. Pushing his panic down, he put on his best poker face and stalled for time.
“Dastardly measures?” Mason leaned against the door jamb, hoping to convey an indifference he was far from feeling. “What dastardly deed have I done?”
Samantha jerked ramrod-straight, her eyes consumed with fury, and marched across the room to stand mere inches from him. If she didn’t have her finger wrapped around the still-cocked trigger, he’d drag her to the nearest chair, lay her over his knee and give her the spanking her childish behavior deserved.
Or maybe he’d kiss her—long and hard—instead.
God, his wife was beautiful. Even more so, if that were possible, when her temper was high. Blue fire blazed in her eyes. Soft, gently waves of auburn curls cascaded over her shoulders, contradicting the almost tangible fury sparking off her.
Samantha Mayfield was magnificent when angered.
She poked his chest with the gun’s barrel. “You just couldn’t take no for an answer, could you?”
Mason stepped backward, not liking the idea of a cocked and loaded pistol thumping against his breast bone. Damn it, he should
snatch the weapon away from her and have done with it. But he feared she’d get hurt in the tussle.
She moved with him, giving no quarter on the few inches of distance between them. With another poke of the gun, she yelled, “You set me up!”
Mason saw red. Fury roared over him, through him. He’d been the victim. He’d been the one out-maneuvered.
“You? I set you up?” he bellowed.
“Too much of a coward to actually shoot yourself?” Seeming to ignore his comeback, Samantha opened her fisted left hand. A scrap of wadded paper teetered on her palm.
“Why would I shoot myself?” He eyed the rumpled ball. “What is that?”
“The note you sent me this morning. The bloody note pleading for help,” she shouted. “Whose blood is it?”
“I don’t know,” he answered just as loudly. He snatched the paper from her hand, smoothed it out and read. “I did not send this note.”
“You ruined my reputation!” she screamed.
Before he realized her intentions, she raised the pistol, aimed at his head and pulled the trigger.
The sharp bark of gunfire pierced the air.
Mason braced himself for the pain of a bullet’s impact. Instead he felt heat singe his right earlobe, heard a high-pitched whistle hiss close to his ear. Glass shattered. All within a half-heartbeat of time.
Instinct kicked in. He lunged for Samantha, slamming her against his body non-too-gently. Like a snake striking, he caught her wrist and squeezed. The pistol dropped to the floor.
She struggled against him. Having no trouble holding her in place, he waited until she gave up fighting him. Then growled, “The next time you pull a gun on me, you’d bett—oof!”
She’d kneed him! The little spitfire had kneed him.
“Next time, I’ll shoot you’re dangling bits instead of the chandelier’s.” She pushed against him, breaking his hold. “Now, tell me the truth. Why did you do it? What’s so important that you would ruin me in order to marry me? And don’t bother to say you love me so much you’d do anything to have me. I won’t fall for it. Neither one of us have spoken of love.”
