by Pam Hillman
“Sorry, Mariah; I didn’t mean any offense.” He smiled. “I reckon you did the right thing. Your prayers might have saved them both. Who knows?”
“God knows.” She returned his smile, then glanced away. “I’d better turn in. Good night.”
“Good night. And thanks for the coffee.”
Slade watched until Mariah was safely inside the house; then he looked up, his gaze focused on a distant star. Could her prayers have made a difference tonight? Did God really care about horses and see every sparrow that fell from the sky? If God loved that much, then maybe He cared for Slade as well.
He squinted at the star. A thought worth pondering.
CHAPTER TWENTY
JIM SQUIRMED, tilting his head away. Mariah followed with her scissors, determined to get the lank mass out of his face.
“Hold still.” She snipped several strands of his straw-colored hair.
He eased to the edge of the chair as if preparing to bolt any minute.
“Don’t you dare get out of that chair, young man,” she warned as she walked around to snip away at the bangs straggling over his eyes.
“It hurts.” He gave her a sad puppy-dog look.
She frowned at him. “Now, Jim, you know good and well it doesn’t hurt.”
“But it does!” He looked ready to cry.
“What’s all this caterwauling about?” Slade stepped out of the barn.
Jim whipped around. “Miss Mariah’s trying to scalp me!”
Mariah placed both hands on her hips, trying not to grin. “Jim, you should be ashamed. I’m just trying to help you look better. Your hair is way too long.”
Jim gestured at Slade. “Why don’t you cut his hair? It’s even longer than mine.”
Mariah’s gaze met Slade’s amused one.
“Why don’t you, Mariah?” he drawled.
“Because—because you’re much too busy.” She adjusted the sheet around Jim’s shoulders, heart pounding. “Maybe some other time.”
“I’m too busy too, Mariah. Buck said I could pet Midnight if I got my chores done.” Jim tried to stand.
Mariah pushed him back down and grasped him by the chin. “Not so fast. Now, hold still. There’ll be plenty of time to pet the colt before you leave.”
“Aw, Miss Mariah.”
“So you finally settled on a name, huh?” Maybe talking about the colt would keep him still for a few minutes longer.
“Buck let me choose.” Jim grinned. “You like it?”
“Midnight.” Mariah let the word roll around on her tongue. “It’s a perfect name for a colt born in the middle of the night.”
She snipped at his bangs until her handiwork satisfied her. Giving him a careful once-over, she pulled the sheet from his shoulders, ruffled his freshly cut hair, and smiled. “All right. Go.”
He shot out of the chair so fast it tipped over. Without a backward glance, he raced toward the barn. Mariah shook her head and laughed. She reached for the chair, but Slade’s big, callused hand closed over hers.
“You’re scared.”
She raised her gaze to his, pretending she didn’t know what he meant. “Scared?”
He grinned. “Yeah. You’re scared to cut my hair.”
“I am not.” Her heart fluttered and her laugh sounded shaky.
In one smooth movement, he turned the chair around, straddled it, and took off his hat. “All right. Cut away.”
“You should be the one who’s afraid.” She snapped the sheet, letting the wind blow Jim’s hair away on the breeze. “Afraid I’ll cut off your ear.”
“You won’t.”
She draped the sheet around his shoulders and stared at the back of his head, her fingers itching to touch the dark, curly strands of hair that reached to his collar. Slowly she reached out and let the thick, lustrous strands wrap themselves beguilingly around her fingers. She bit back a groan. He’d be lucky if she didn’t shear him bald.
Resolutely she first ran a wide-toothed comb through his hair and then started snipping. She shaped up the back, thankful the mistakes her trembling fingers made would be hidden in the tumbling waves. Satisfied with the back of his head, she eased around to one side. He sat as still as a statue, his eyes closed, looking relaxed.
Her gaze traveled across his smooth forehead, over his dark, curving eyebrows, to the deep-brown lashes sweeping against his dusky skin. Tiny lines, formed from squinting against the sun, feathered out from his eyes, and a small scar graced his cheek. The bruises from his fight with Giff were still visible up close, but fading fast. Her heart gave an alarming tumble when her searching gaze landed on his lips, and she jerked her attention back to the job at hand.
It would never do to let her thoughts wander, or he might end up with a clipped ear after all.
Finally happy with her work over his ears, she moved in front and started on the hair falling over his forehead. He usually kept the wavy strands pushed back underneath his hat, but when she pulled them out straight with the comb, they were almost as long as Jim’s had been.
She carefully combed and trimmed until the results pleased her. She combed his hair again and the wavy strands fell hither and thither. A snip here, one there. More on the left. She was so caught up in playing with his hair, she didn’t realize he’d opened his eyes to tiny slits and was watching her.
She stared into his heavy-lidded gaze for a long, drawn-out moment, reliving the kiss they’d shared in the kitchen. Finally she found her voice. “I’m done.”
“I’m not bleeding?” he asked, his voice a lazy drawl.
“No,” she managed on a strangled laugh.
He straightened and stood, his broad back to the barn and any prying eyes. He closed the short distance between them, his gaze locked on hers. Her stomach flipped at the half wink he threw her way.
“Thank you for the haircut, Mariah. I think I enjoyed it as much as you did.”
“Oh!” For a flustered moment, she almost wished she had cut off his ear.
Slade must have taken her grandmother’s advice and bought some shirts. The haphazardly wrapped package he dropped by the kitchen door could only be Mr. Thompkins’s handiwork. Mariah could always tell the difference in his wrapping and his wife’s. Mrs. Thompkins tied pretty bows on her packages, while her husband just threw something together as fast as he could.
Hopefully the shirts would fit. Mr. Thompkins wasn’t any better at sizing up his customers than he was at wrapping.
She carried the potatoes to the table, checking to make sure she hadn’t left anything in the warming oven.
When Buck reached for a biscuit, Mariah slapped his hand. “Buck! That’s not polite. Sit down and I’ll have everything on the table shortly.”
“But, Mariah, I’m starving.”
“Well, you’ll just have to starve until we say the blessing.” Mariah brushed past him, placing the plate of biscuits on the table.
Mariah’s grandmother came in, and Buck helped her to the table.
She patted his arm. “Thank you, young man. You’ll make a fine husband to some lucky young woman one day.”
Buck grimaced. He glanced up, and Mariah glimpsed the pain on his face. “No girl would have me, Mrs. Malone.”
“You’d be surprised, Buck Donovan. You’d be surprised.” Her grandmother smiled in a knowing way.
Mariah glanced at Slade, trying not to notice how nice his freshly cut hair looked in the lamplight. If she did say so herself, she’d done a fine job. “Did Jim make it home all right?”
The slight quirk of Slade’s lips sent a spiraling warmness through her. “He was asleep before we got halfway to town. I had to carry him in front of me so he wouldn’t fall off the horse.” He swatted Buck’s shoulder. “You shouldn’t have worked the poor kid so hard, Buck.”
“Me? The kid rushed from job to job all day. Wore me out trying to keep up. Wanted to get done so he could pet Midnight.”
“What did his mother say about the canned beans?” Mariah asked.
/> “I told her they were in payment of a day’s work well done. She didn’t say anything, but I think she’s getting used to the idea.”
“Good. I’d hoped she’d take it that way. At least they’ll have something to go with the rabbit Jim killed with his slingshot.”
She glanced around, making sure she had everything on the table. “Supper’s ready. Grandma, would you say the blessing, please?”
During the meal, Buck and Slade talked about the progress the men were making around the ranch.
Mariah poured coffee. “Has Sheriff Dawson said anything about the rustlers?”
“No.” Slade shook his head. “I stopped in the other day, and he said no one had seen a thing. We won’t know how many head we lost until the fall roundup.”
“So you think whoever it was is long gone.”
Slade took a bite of biscuit and chewed for a minute. “I don’t know. But we can hope so.”
“Buck, you up for another game of checkers?” her grandmother challenged.
“Yes, ma’am. Tonight’s my night. I can feel it.”
When they were finished, Mariah started clearing the table. Checkers had become a nightly ritual for the two of them. She was glad that Buck enjoyed spending time with her grandmother, but it left her more time alone with Slade. And that made her uncomfortable. She’d pulled away from him, guarding her heart and biding her time until she had to leave.
As Buck and her grandmother headed to the parlor, her grandmother’s taunt floated back to her. “You know I’m going to beat your socks off.”
Her gaze slid to where Slade slouched at the table, nursing a cup of coffee, one arm slung over the back of his chair. When he glanced up and caught her staring at him, she lowered her head and continued clearing the table, careful not to look at him again.
If she did, he’d see in her eyes what she was too afraid to say. Her heart ached. This crazy longing would lead nowhere. She didn’t have a future here. She didn’t have a future with him. He felt sorry for Mariah and her family; that’s why he’d asked them to stay.
Slade stood and moved toward the door. “I went by the mercantile.”
“Yes, I saw your package.” She wiped her hands on her apron. “Did Mr. Thompkins get the size wrong?”
He picked up the bulky parcel and turned to her, one eyebrow cocked, looking amused. And a little surprised. “Ma’am?”
“Your shirts. Mr. Thompkins never gets anybody’s sizes right.”
His mouth twitched. “He doesn’t?”
“I guess they need altering. Just a word of warning. Make sure Mrs. Thompkins is in the store next time. She’ll find you a better fit. I’ll get my measuring tape.” She hurried from the kitchen. As she rummaged in her sewing basket, she muttered, “What have I gotten myself into this time?”
When she’d so heedlessly volunteered to alter Slade’s new shirts, it had not even crossed her mind that she’d have to touch him. Her trembling fingers clutched the measuring tape, and she pulled it out of the basket. She could do this. It would be simple. She’d done it lots of times before. First for her father, then for Cookie, Rio, and Jim. Measuring Slade shouldn’t be any different.
Resolutely she marched back into the kitchen to find Slade leaning against the table, the package lying by his side.
She held up the tape. “What first? Your arms?”
He shrugged. “I suppose. You know what you’re doing.”
“All right. Hold out your arm.”
He held it up, his elbow bent at an angle.
“No. Like this.” She reached over and straightened his arm so that it stuck out level and true. “Now, hold still.”
She took one end of the measuring tape and held it securely against his shoulder, unable to ignore the warmth that shot from underneath his cotton shirt into her fingertips.
Feeling his gaze on her, she peered at him from under her lashes. His gaze moved lazily over her face, and his arm drooped downward.
Mariah’s thoughts came back to the matter at hand. “Hold your arm up.”
Obediently he straightened it. “Yes, ma’am.”
She walked her fingers down his shirtsleeve and across his muscled forearm, holding the tape in place. Her fingers slipped off the edge of his cuff, and the dark hairs at his wrist tickled her fingers. She stared at the contrasting texture of his tanned skin against hers. “Thirty-four inches.”
“I could have told you that.” His breath stirred the tendrils of hair at her temple.
She jerked the measuring tape away. “Why didn’t you, then?”
He shrugged, a crooked grin on his face. “You didn’t ask.”
Mariah bit her lip. “You’re right. I just assumed you wouldn’t know.”
“Just like you assumed this package is for me.” He reached for the parcel.
Her gaze dropped to the bundle, face flaming. She’d made a complete fool of herself. “It’s not?”
He shook his head.
She brightened. “It’s for Jimmy. You bought Jimmy some new clothes.”
“No.”
“Buck?”
“No.”
She frowned.
He held out the parcel. “You.”
“I don’t know what to say.” Her wide-eyed gaze skipped from the parcel to meet his head-on.
He pushed the package toward her. “Say ‘thank you’ and open it.”
“You shouldn’t have.”
“Mariah.” He arched a brow at her, still holding the parcel out.
“Thank you.” Hesitantly she took the bundle, laid it on the table, and reached for the string holding the brown paper together.
The wrapping rattled loudly in the silent kitchen. Slowly she peeled back the layers, revealing a pair of brown leather boots.
“Oh, Slade, they’re beautiful.”
The leather gleamed, sparkling when she turned the boot in the lamplight. Twin rows of hooks marched downward in unison, the laces ready and waiting for the job of tightly securing the boots around her ankles.
“Did Mr. Thompkins get the size right?”
Her fingers trembled. “I think so.”
She ran one finger along the intricate stitching, mentally calculating how much the boots cost and how long the money would keep Amanda in school. “I can’t take these. They’re too expensive.”
He crossed his arms, determination in the set of his jaw. “I bought them because you need them, and I’m not taking them back.”
“Slade—”
“Just take them,” he cut her off, his voice low and husky. “Don’t argue. Please. This once. Don’t argue. You hear?”
Mariah fingered the boots. “I hear,” she whispered. A tear escaped and rolled down her cheek.
Slade cupped her face in both hands, wiping her tears away with his thumbs. His eyes darkened as he slowly lowered his head to hers.
She couldn’t breathe. If he let go, she’d melt into a puddle at his feet.
His lips brushed softly against hers, and her world spiraled out of control.
The moon reflected off the creek. Slade stared at the water, wondering how he’d gotten himself into such a mess. How could he want to send Mariah away from the Lazy M but at the same time be unable to resist the sweet temptation of her lips?
He jerked his hat off and raked a hand through his hair. What was it about her that drew him so? Her brown eyes sparkling like live coals when she grew angry or excited? Or how she bundled up goodies for Jim to take home every afternoon? Or how she fed that crazy cat day after day, hoping he’d let her pet him?
Or maybe the fact that she’d sacrificed her own comfort and the good of the ranch for her sister? It still rankled when he thought of how he’d talked about Amanda, only to discover that Mariah’s sister couldn’t see.
Blind! And he’d thought Amanda a selfish young woman who’d left Mariah to eke out a living while she flitted about in Philadelphia.
The land. That’s all he’d ever wanted or needed. All her life, his mother
had scraped by, struggling to provide the basic necessities for her children, living from hand to mouth. He’d grown up determined to make life easier for her and his sisters. If he had the land, he could accomplish the rest through hard work and sheer determination.
He jammed his hat back on his head. When he’d made up his mind to claim the Lazy M for his own, he hadn’t given any thought to how Seth Malone would take care of his family. So when he’d arrived to find the man dead and his daughter left to care for her sister and an elderly grandmother, he’d needed to adjust his thinking.
Now he found himself drowning in the depths of a pair of dark-chocolate eyes and lips as sweet as honey . . . and a desire to toss caution to the wind and protect her and her family as if they were his.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
“JUST A LITTLE CLOSER,” Giff whispered, a bloodthirsty tinge in his voice.
“Giff.” Red glanced between the riders in the distance and Giff sighting along the barrel of his rifle.
“Buck’s mine.” Giff hunkered down, his rifle braced against a rock. “You take Slade. If they find these cattle, we’re done for.”
Stomach churning, Red slid his rifle out and settled into position, squinting along the barrel, bringing Slade into his sights. He didn’t want to be any part of this, but he didn’t have any choice. He’d made his decision when he’d let Emmit talk him into this foolhardy scheme in the first place.
The minutes ticked by. Sweat dripped down his face and his palms grew slick.
He prayed the cattle wouldn’t stir. The time of day and the heat worked in their favor. Midafternoon and the cattle dozed in what little shade they could find in the box canyon behind Red and Giff. One movement, though—one bellow from a cow calling for her calf—and the Donovans would come investigate.
And Giff would start shooting.
“Easy. They’re too far away.” He swallowed, mouth dry as a tumbleweed in the dead of winter.
“Come on, Buck Donovan. I owe you.”
Please, Giff, don’t get trigger-happy now.
Red’s hands trembled. Could he shoot a man in cold blood? He wouldn’t have another option if Giff squeezed off a shot. He’d have to take out Slade before the man dove for cover or, worse yet, got away and rode for help. Fifty feet and they’d be within range.
