Claiming Mariah

by Pam Hillman

  “Cookie’s not feeling well, so he asked me to take you ladies to church this morning.”

  “His neck still bothering him?” her grandmother asked as Slade gave her a hand up into the buggy.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “I can manage the buggy,” Mariah said. “You don’t have to come along.”

  “Cookie said you’d say that.” He gave her a fleeting smile. “He made me promise to take you, no matter what. Said he’d rest easier if he knew you ladies were being taken care of.”

  “But I—”

  “Mariah, quit arguing,” her grandmother interrupted, “or we’ll be late.”

  Slade grinned and held out his hand. Mariah allowed him to help her into the backseat of the buggy. He hoisted himself up with ease to the driver’s side, and they were on their way.

  Her grandmother tapped him on the shoulder. “I hope you’re planning to attend church with us.”

  “Sorry, ma’am. I’m not dressed for church.”

  “Ah, fiddlesticks. We don’t stand on ceremony in Wisdom. A clean shirt and a decent pair of pants will do nicely.” She looked him over. “And a haircut, if you don’t mind my saying so.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” He glanced back at Mariah, amusement in his eyes.

  Mariah listened as her grandmother pointed out landmarks on the way into town. She didn’t try to join in the one-sided conversation—much easier to let her grandmother do all the talking. Slade must have realized the futility of interrupting too. He just nodded in agreement every so often.

  Her gaze lingered on Slade, noticing how his too-long dark-brown hair brushed his collar beneath the shadow of his hat. Her grandmother was right. He could use a haircut. She’d kept her father’s hair trimmed during his last few years, when her grandmother’s shaking fingers hadn’t been up to the task. What would it feel like to comb Slade’s unruly locks into place and snip off the curling ends?

  She tried to concentrate on the passing countryside, but the opportunity to study him unobserved was too tempting. She couldn’t make out anything above his chiseled cheekbone with his hat shading the upper portion of his face, but a faint shadow of a beard covered his jawline.

  Suddenly he turned his head, and his blue gaze, heightened by the midmorning sunlight, caught and held hers. He quirked an eyebrow. Mariah jerked her attention away and tried to look engrossed in the countryside.

  She stole glances at him the rest of the way into town, being careful not to get caught staring again.

  An hour and a half later, Mariah sat on the hard church pew and did her best to concentrate on the end of the sermon. As promised, Slade didn’t accompany them to church, and she wondered where he’d gotten off to. She’d managed quite well throughout the singing, the prayer for Martha Edwards and her new baby, and the announcement of the upcoming church picnic. But as Reverend Winston wound down his sermon on Abraham and Sarah, her mind wandered.

  A faint rumble sounded in the distance, and a sigh went up from several of the children. Mariah smiled. The sound of the train coming—a sign that Reverend Winston had to wrap up his sermon if he didn’t want to be drowned out by the whistle and the steam engine. The noon train had always been an effective deterrent to any long-winded sermons on Sunday mornings.

  As soon as he said the last prayer and the train passed on by, she put her hand on her grandmother’s frail arm. “Why don’t you wait here, Grandma, and I’ll have Slade bring the buggy around.”

  “All right, child.”

  She left her grandmother chatting happily with her friends and made her way outside. She shaded her eyes against the noonday sun and looked around for Slade.

  “Mariah.”

  She turned to find Sally behind her. Mariah embraced her friend. “Sally. How are you?”

  “Feeling a little peaked these days.” A smile broke over Sally’s face. “Especially in the mornings.”

  Mariah’s heart skipped a beat. “Really?”

  “Yes, really.” Her friend’s lips twitched as amusement danced across her expressive face.

  “Why didn’t you tell me the other day?”

  “I just found out myself a couple of days ago. I didn’t want to say anything until I knew for sure.”

  “Oh, Sally! I’m so happy for you.” A twinge of disappointment stabbed her. “But I won’t be here when the baby’s born.”

  Sally reached out and hugged her. “I’ll write and tell you all about him or her when the time comes.”

  “What does Reverend Winston say?” Mariah couldn’t bring herself to call the pastor by his first name, even if Sally had been her best friend forever.

  Sally shrugged. “Oh, he acts like it’s nothing to get excited about. But did you hear his sermon today? Abraham and Sarah?” She laughed. “I’m sure we’ll hear all about Mary, Elizabeth, and Hannah in the next few weeks.”

  “Sally, you’re incorrigible.”

  “Enough about me. How are you doing? And how’s Amanda?”

  “Amanda’s fine. I got a letter the other day. She passed another major milestone.”

  “What?” Sally’s eyes lit up with interest.

  “She had to walk from the school to the farmers’ market, purchase a very specific list of fruits and vegetables, and take them back.”

  “Alone?” The interest in Sally’s face turned to surprise.

  “Yes.” Mariah shook her head. “Amanda assured me the market is close to the school and it’s perfectly safe. She had made the trip several times with an escort and knew the route, but still, it scared the daylights out of me. She seemed to take it in stride.”

  “Adventurous Amanda—that’s what I used to call her. I’ll keep praying for her.”

  “Thank you, Sally. I knew you would.”

  A broad-shouldered form by the railroad tracks caught her attention, and Mariah’s gaze slid past her friend. Slade stood beside the tracks, chewing on a piece of straw and watching the conductor inspect the train. In the distance, two children walked along the tracks, making their way toward town.

  Sally turned to see what had caught Mariah’s attention. “Those poor children.”

  “Do you know them?”

  “They moved to town a month or so ago. Their father is a drunk. He doesn’t have a job, and when he does get a little money, I’m certain he spends it all on whiskey.”

  “How sad.”

  Sally shook her head. “I’ve tried to help all I can by taking the mother vegetables and such. I’ve invited her to church and told her to come by and see if any of the clothes in the mission basket might fit the children. But she’s too proud or maybe too scared. She won’t accept any handouts.”

  Mariah’s heart ached as she looked toward the tracks again, her gaze going past Slade to rest on the children. The little boy appeared to be about seven, and his sister was maybe four or five. She chewed her lip. The boy wasn’t much younger than Slade had been when he had to take on the responsibilities of an adult.

  The children drew nearer to Slade and stopped, both of them staring up at him. He said something to them, but she couldn’t hear anything at this distance. The boy dug one toe in the weed-infested dirt beside the tracks and cast a sidelong glance at Slade. Then Slade pulled something out of his pocket. It glinted brightly in the sunlight as he handed it to the little boy. The child’s face lit up with a smile, and Mariah heard him say something that could have been “Thanks, mister!”

  Then the boy took his sister by the hand and hurried off. Slade turned away, and Mariah let out a breath she hadn’t even realized she’d been holding.

  “That’s the man who brought you and your grandmother to church, isn’t it? Is he the new owner of the Lazy M?”

  “Yes.” Mariah nodded.

  Sally leaned close. “He’s mighty handsome, don’t you think?”

  Mariah frowned at her friend. “You’re a married woman, Sally. And to a preacher, no less.”

  “I’m not interested for myself.” Sally shrugged, elbowing Mariah. �
��Maybe you won’t have to go to Philadelphia after all.”

  Mariah shook her head. “I’m afraid it’s not that simple. I don’t think Slade Donovan would be interested in me.”

  “Why in the world would you say that?” Sally asked. “He’s not married, is he?”

  “No.” She couldn’t tell Sally why Slade wouldn’t look twice at her. “But that doesn’t change the fact that he would never want to marry me.”

  As the two children headed back down the tracks, Slade wished he could do more. It hadn’t taken long to see how poor they were. He’d seen their tattered clothes, the haunted, hungry look on their faces, the hopelessness. He recognized the signs, and his heart squeezed with compassion for them.

  But he’d done all he could for now. He’d watch out for the little boy around town and try to help when he could.

  A chattering drew his attention toward the church. Several people milled around outside, indicating the end of the service. Time to gather up Mariah and her grandmother and head back to the ranch. He searched the small crowd and found Mariah talking with a young woman about her own age.

  He made his way toward them, admiring Mariah’s slender form as he drew nearer. Her grandmother had been in such a hurry to get to the church this morning, he hadn’t had time to really look at her. She looked even prettier today than the day he’d arrived.

  Her soft brown skirt draped in folds from her small waist, a waist he could probably span with his two hands. And her cream-colored shirtwaist gave her skin a soft glow, like a rose-colored sunset. Her gaze met his, her brown eyes reflecting the deep shades of her skirt. He moved forward, and her friend held out one hand, smiling broadly.

  Mariah introduced him to the preacher’s wife.

  “So glad to meet you, Mr. Donovan. Welcome to Wisdom.”

  Slade tipped his hat. “Pleased to meet you, ma’am.”

  “The next time you bring Mrs. Malone and Mariah to church, feel free to join us. We’d love to have you. Mariah sings solos, you know.” The woman tapped him on the arm with her gloves and smiled. “Come to church next Sunday, and I’ll make sure she sings.”

  “Sally . . .” Mariah swatted the woman’s arm.

  Slade bit back a smile as Mariah tried to hush the friendly preacher’s wife. “Thank you, ma’am. I’ll think about it.”

  But he had no intention of setting one foot inside that church—even if Mariah Malone could sing like a mockingbird.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  THE CREAKING OF SADDLE LEATHER broke the stillness, but for once the men were silent.

  Slade slouched in the saddle and let his gelding find his own way back to the ranch. The ranch hands had spent the entire day repairing the section of fence that had injured Duncan’s horse. Giff had done his share of complaining, and Red had finally growled at him to shut up.

  Which was a good thing. Slade’s patience was worn to the breaking point, and he’d come within inches of telling Giff to pack his things and get out. But they were shorthanded, and as long as he did his job, Slade was willing to give him a chance.

  Stretching his aching back, he’d like nothing better than to go down to the creek to wash the sweat and dust from his body before sitting down to one of Mariah’s home-cooked meals.

  He dismounted and saw Mariah coming back from the creek, a sturdy pole with a bucket dangling from each end draped over her shoulders. Water sloshed out of the buckets as she trudged toward her small garden.

  Slade unsaddled his horse, ignoring Rio’s chatter that started right back up where he’d left off earlier. He caught glimpses of Mariah as she carefully rationed water on each tender plant. When she’d emptied the first bucket, she repeated the process with the second one before lowering it to the ground.

  She pushed her bonnet back and wiped her face with her sleeve, then massaged her neck, letting her head roll backward and then to the right and the left.

  He knew how she felt. He’d been riding fences all day, forcing nails into fence posts gone hard with age, stretching half-rusted wire, trying to make ends meet. And they’d barely gotten started.

  Mariah pulled her bonnet up to shade her face and hooked the buckets to the pole again, then bent down to lift the contraption to her shoulders once more. As she wove her way back toward the creek, he shook his head. She looked much too tired to tote one bucket, let alone two. She disappeared into the line of trees bordering the creek bank.

  Absentmindedly, Slade rubbed the gelding down and turned him into the corral. Then he followed after Mariah. Might as well offer to carry the buckets for her. He strode through the trees and along the briar-lined path. He spotted her at the edge of the water, struggling to fill one of the heavy wooden buckets.

  She slipped in the mud and the bucket tipped, drenching her skirt. A groan broke from her throat, and she glared at him. “Do not say a word.”

  “I won’t. I promise.” He grinned.

  He sidestepped down the steep bank and reached for the still mostly full bucket. Mariah yelped when his fingers closed over hers. He stilled, and she tried to tug her hand from beneath his, but he didn’t let go. Slowly he peeled her hand away from the bucket and turned it over.

  Her hand felt small and delicate in his, like a fragile bird anxious to take flight. For all its smallness, though, her hand’s reddened calluses proved she worked hard around the ranch. Lugging the buckets back and forth had taken a toll, though. He feathered his thumb over her palm before lifting his gaze to hers.

  “You should be wearing gloves.”

  “They’re wet.”

  “I see.” His eyes dropped to her lips, looking full and lush as if the sun had ripened them just for him. Awareness crackled between them, and she dipped her head, the edge of her bonnet shielding her face against his scrutiny. He let go of her hand, took both buckets and slid farther down the bank, hunkering down to fill them from the creek.

  “Watering the garden is my job.”

  “It won’t hurt me to tote the buckets back this once. Besides, the faster you get through watering the garden, the faster you’ll have supper on the table.”

  “All right, but only because you’re already here.”

  She turned, grabbed a handful of sodden material in each hand, and trudged up the path toward the house. Slade grinned at the mud caked on the back of her faded skirt. She wouldn’t be happy when she realized the state of her skirt. Suddenly she stumbled and cried out. Her bonnet flew back, revealing her pain-filled expression.

  “What is it?” Slade dropped the buckets and grabbed for her.

  “Nothing.” She spoke through clenched teeth, tears pooling in her eyes.

  “Mariah . . .”

  “It’s just a thorn. I’ll be fine in a minute.”

  In spite of her protests, she clung to his arm, teetering on one foot. Turning one of the buckets upside down, he pointed. “Sit.” When she obeyed, he knelt and reached for her foot. “Let me see.”

  “No, it’s all right.” She pulled out of his grasp.

  Exasperated, he blew out a breath. “Mariah, let me see your boot.”

  He grabbed her ankle before she could protest again. She flicked her voluminous skirt over her ankles. He grunted. Women and their propriety.

  Wiping the mud off, he inspected the bottom of her boot. He didn’t see any thorns, but he did see the hole in the leather where her stocking foot peeked through, stained crimson by the thorn she’d stepped on. He raised his head to meet the guilty look on her face. “Mariah, the sole of your boot is worn through.”

  She tugged her foot from his grasp.

  He let go and grabbed the other boot, glancing at the bottom of it. “Why in heaven’s name are you traipsing around out here with these boots on? You might as well go barefoot.”

  “These are my work boots. I save my other pair for Sunday.” She lifted her chin.

  Slade had seen her other pair when he’d helped her into the buggy Sunday. Even though she’d polished them and they were presentable, they were
almost as old and worn as the pair she wore today.

  “Why don’t you buy a new pair for Sunday and wear your other ones for every day?” He rocked back on his heels and glowered at her.

  “It takes money to buy boots.”

  “That’s right; you don’t have the money. You’d rather send every dime you can get your hands on to your sister. You’ve let this ranch fall down around your ears, and you’re walking around all but barefoot just so she can prance about in high society.”

  “I’ll have you know, Slade Donovan, that I’ll do whatever I want with my money. If I want to walk around barefoot, I will. And there’s not one thing you can do about it!” Mariah struggled to her feet. He didn’t know anything about Amanda, and she’d be hanged before she’d tell him.

  She groaned as her tender foot touched the ground. Walking with as much dignity as she could manage, she limped toward the house, watching for more thorns. Please, Lord, just let me get away from that man.

  Suddenly he grabbed her from behind and swept her up into his arms.

  “Ooooh,” she gasped. “Put me down!”

  “Not on your life,” he growled. “Do you think I want to watch you hobble all the way to the house like a wounded buffalo? If you want to be stubborn, you can. But I don’t have to watch such foolishness.”

  A wounded buffalo?

  Mariah clamped her mouth shut and remained rigid in his arms as he stomped toward the back porch, thankful no one was around to witness her embarrassing predicament.

  As soon as he deposited her on the porch, she limped into the house without a backward glance. She hobbled into her bedroom and cringed at the dirt and mud clinging to her soggy skirt.

  Just look at the mess he’d caused. If he’d left her alone, everything would have been fine. She could have finished watering her garden in peace. Now, she’d have to finish the chore in the morning and get all hot and bothered all over again.

  She changed clothes, lined her Sunday boots with a piece of soft cotton, and tested her weight on her sore foot, thankful the quickened pain of the thorn had eased a bit. By tomorrow her foot should be fine.