Silver Mist

by Raine Cantrell

  “Stop it!” Hating the unyielding look on his face, Dara lowered her gaze. This was not the talk she had planned to have with him. She knew she had handled this all wrong and was desperate to make amends. But her need for freedom warred with her need not to hurt Clay. She derided herself for this weakness and for the guilt that lingered along with the mantle of meek obedience she had worn for a lifetime. All were heavy burdens; none easy to remove. And she had to disabuse him of any notions to take his revenge against Eden McQuade.

  “You mustn’t blame him, Clay. I told you last night how I felt. It was your choice to ignore me just as you have always done.” Gripping her hands together, she balled the pot holder between them. “Please, wait until later. Call Pierce and tell him the water is ready for his shave, and I’ll get my father his breakfast.”

  “That’s it? You think you can dismiss me like some—”

  “I’m not. All I’m asking for is time, Clay. Just like you’ve demanded of me all these years.”

  With his hand thrust into his hair, he glowered at her. Dara flinched at the sound of his teeth grinding together in frustration. “And what if I want to settle this now?”

  “Must I remind you that this is my home?” She gazed into his eyes, an unshakable feeling that she was right lending her the strength to stand there and bear his scrutiny. The hands he suddenly began clenching and then just as slowly unclenching drew her gaze down toward his sides. She was beset by the certainty that if she dared to provoke him further, Clay would put his hands upon her, and there would be nothing gentle in his touch. As if a veil were ripped aside, Dara saw Clay for what he was: brash, arrogant, and selfish. This was the man she had thought to marry, to love, and to … the disillusionment was still new and pained her. Here stood the man who had cheated her with his promises. The acceptance, no matter how bitter, gave her courage.

  “I want you to leave now.”

  “Think you found yourself a prize, Dara? I never really knew you, did I?” he grated, loathing the sight of her. “Such a meek little thing, pretending all this time to be a decent, virtuous woman a man would be proud to marry. But you’re not, are you?” he stated, stalking her around the table, his move quick to comer her at the door to the pantry. With a glittering blue malice in his eyes, he pinned her there. “You haven’t the sense of a pea goose if you think I’ll turn tail and ran to leave you to McQuade. You’re the fool if you believe he wants anything more than your innocence. When he’s done with you,” he stressed, leaning his face down so close his breaths were fanned back to him from her pale face, “he’ll toss you aside like the harlot he’ll make you.” He stifled her protest with his palm across her mouth, using his other hand to press her shoulder against the door, ignoring her struggles.

  “Stay put and listen. I know you lied to me about what happened with him in the store. You thought I was fool enough to believe you? I know he kissed you, and Lord knows what the hell else you allowed him to do. I loved you, Dara. I trusted you. But that’s not what you wanted from me, is it? You wanted this,” he claimed, pulling her shaken body against his.

  Dara yanked her head back, freeing her mouth. “Is that going to salve your wounded ego? I’ll never marry you now, Clay. It has nothing to do with him. You don’t love me, you never did. I’m a possession to you. Get out of my—”

  With a brutal jerk he grabbed her head, his fingers digging into her thick, loosely pinned hair. There was a fire lit within the blue of his eyes that told of his rage, and something more that Dara couldn’t name. She whimpered, her body trembling with fear, for this was a side of Clay she had never witnessed.

  “You dare go anywhere McQuade is, talk to him, smile at him, or so much as glance his way, and I’ll kill him, Dara. Do you understand?” He shook her, both hands threaded into her hair, its length spilling down over his arms in wild disarray, and he was seized with a powerful passion to brand her. Need pierced him like lightning to claim her, and every one of her taunts of the night before replayed in his mind. His grip tightened, his move swift to bend her neck backward until the delicate bones of her face sprang into prominence and she was arched against his body.

  “You taunted me like the innocent virgin you are, but you don’t want a man’s passion loosened on you,” he muttered, dismissing her cry of pain. “Do you?” A dark surge of fury filled him, goading him now. His lips flattened hers, grinding down against their softness until he tasted blood.

  His head jerked upward, and without a sign of remorse he stared down at her. “Is that what you wanted, Dara?”

  “N o,” she mouthed, unable to look at him.

  “Your lip—”

  “Don’t touch me.” Her chest heaved with the effort it took to drag air into her lungs.

  “You asked for it. But this doesn’t change anything. McQuade can’t have you. I’ll kill him if he touches you again.”

  “Get out!” she cried, shuddering when he released her.

  “Tell Pierce I’ll wait outside for him. As it is, we’ll be late for service.”

  Dara merely nodded, unable to sort out the turmoil of her feelings. She would have done anything to see him gone from her sight. Gingerly she wiped her swollen lip, sagging back against the pantry door. She listened to his departing footsteps, heard him outside rounding the house, relieved when the sound faded. Her stomach churned, and she closed her eyes until the sound of someone clearing his throat made her look up. Pierce stood in the doorway.

  “If you dare to utter one sound, one word, I’ll—”

  “W here’s Clay?”

  “Waiting for you,” she snapped. “I hope you’re satisfied, Pierce. I’m sure you heard every word. If anything happens to Eden McQuade, it’ll be on your head.” Dara glanced at the stove and then back to her brother. “Get your hot water and then leave.”

  “Papa heard you. He wanted—”

  “An explanation, his breakfast, and something for his pain. Just leave him to me as you always have. I can’t see you changing what you’ve become.”

  While filling the basin and watching her cautiously, Pierce said, “Matt didn’t come home last night. His bed wasn’t slept in and Papa asked where he was. I didn’t know what … Dara, I didn’t mean to rile Clay. You just don’t understand what men like McQuade—”

  “Tell it to the Lord,” she cut in. “And when you’re done, come right back here so we can figure out how we’ll manage the store between us.”

  “I’m not staying. I’ve got fields to plant.”

  “Matt and I can’t run the store and take care of Papa alone! You’ve got to help us.” The defiant look on his face was enough to loose the leash on a temper she didn’t know she had. “You’re as selfish as Clay. Can’t? You mean you won’t.” Her laugh was bitter. “More the fool I am for expecting help from you. Both you and Clay are cut from the same cloth, selfish to the core. Go tend to your farm, Pierce.”

  Dara avoided looking at him. The sound of her name called filled her with a weary acceptance as she hastened to reassure her father that his breakfast would be ready soon.

  Glancing out the back window of the kitchen, Dara noticed the stray wisps of clouds that drifted across the afternoon sky. Her father had kindly accepted her brief explanation that she was angry with Clay over what happened at the social, and yes, she agreed with him that Eden was a man to be thanked and not despised. But she had no time to linger, even if townsfolk would be horrified to learn that she was washing on a Sunday. It was simply not done. Dara found she had a decided practical streak that said she could not manage the store, the household chores usually left for Mondays, and care for her father. Rubbing the ache in her back, she wished she could leave her father alone and go look for Matt. He had never stayed away for so long. Fear that something had happened to him crossed her mind again. She tried dismissing it as she had been for countless hours, but concern nagged her.

  After retrieving the fresh bar of soap she had come inside to get, she returned
outside to the laundry tub and the upstanding washboard that waited. She swished her delicate undergarments around in the water, knowing they had soaked long enough. With her back bent, she lifted each item, rubbed it carefully with soap, and then with a gentle up and down motion abraded it against the corrugated board. Dara ignored the muscle aches in her arms and across her shoulders, concentrating on her chore, willing herself to forget the morning.

  The sound of a buggy entering the lane that led to the house arrested her attention. Her father called out for her, and Dara knew the flash of resentment she felt was unfair. The corset cover dropped into the tub with a splash, and she rubbed her hands on her water-splattered skirt before making sure the pins securing her hair were firmly in place.

  “Company,” she muttered, racing for the back door, unrolling her shirtwaist sleeves and trying to fasten at least one button on each. Visitors were the last thing she wanted or needed to contend with today, but there was no help for it. Word would have passed among those attending service this morning, taking note of both her and her father’s absence, that Cyrus had broken his leg. This was going to be the first of many afternoon calls. Sunday’s dinners were over, and visits to neighbors were one of the few pleasures people would not forgo, even if bored miners about town precipitated violence.

  “Dara, I’ve got a powerful thirst,” Cyrus said as she stopped a moment.

  “Let me see who’s come to call, Papa, and then I’ll bring you a fresh glass of lemonade.”

  She opened the door to find Jesse and his wife, Sophy, carrying a linen-draped pie. At the instant sympathy the older woman offered, Dara ushered them into the parlor.

  Jesse and Sophy stayed a little while, then took their leave when Robert and Leah Tucker arrived. Dara was kept busy running back and forth with cool drinks, serving the cakes and pies kindly neighbors had brought, and wishing the day would end. Her father was cranky with pain, but with each new visitor he insisted he was well enough to chat a bit.

  She left him in the company of Early Yarwood, feeling a definite lack of excitement over Early’s news of the miners’ discoveries. It brought Eden to mind as she heard Early explain that fossils had been uncovered near a pit mine that proved to be giant shark remains, the jaw of a huge bear, and what Early swore they claimed was the fang from a saber-toothed tiger. “They said there was some they couldn’t identify,” Early stated. “Dug down nearly thirty feet and found them. Fella said…”

  Dara excused herself, belatedly remembering her laundry outside.

  Fuming over the delay to complete this chore, Dara had her hands immersed in the now cold water when she heard the jingle of harness out in front.

  “Now who’s come?” she muttered. Moments later she once again raced through the house, plastering a smile of welcome before opening the door.

  “Oh, goodness, Miss Loretta … and Luther. Won’t you both come in,” she said, wishing she had remembered to unroll her shirtwaist sleeves.

  “That you, Loretta?” Cyrus called from where he held court in the parlor. “Dara, get another pitcher of your lemonade. Early talked it dry.”

  Fresh glasses and more slices of cake, and nothing would do for the delicate lace cookies that Miss Loretta brought but for Dara to take down her mother’s cut-glass platter. She nearly fell from the chair as she reached for it on the high pantry shelf. Miss Loretta preferred to have tea, and Dara wasn’t to put herself out, for Miss Loretta would pour. Since Dara rarely used her mother’s tea set, she whisked it off the dining room sideboard, hurrying to wash each of the lovely delicate porcelain pieces before she could offer it to Miss Loretta.

  With gritted teeth, she listened to the kindly offered criticism. Her hair was mussed to a fright, her shirtwaist was wrinkled, and her skirt, well, Miss Loretta huffed, its condition was nothing to compare to the state of Dara’s face. She bore it all silently, her patience at its end, and then made her excuses and left them.

  “Cyrus,” Miss Loretta remarked as Dara left the room, “you should see ’bout gettin’ that girl of yore’s some help. Wearin’ herself to a frazzle tryin’ to keep up with all that needs doin’. And you failin’ … in mah day…”

  Dara stifled a laugh that she was sure had to be the first sign of madness. She could be thankful that Miss Loretta would occupy her father for hours. Leave it to the old dear to offer concern over the least of her problems. But her mood was lighter as she once again returned outside. Dwelling on what happened would only drain her.

  Rubbing the poor neglected corset cover for the third time, Dara vented her frustration upon it. The sound of masculine laughter drifted upward from the riverbank. Dara looked up, sure she saw Kelsey the ferry man with his white mane of thick hair and his bear-sized frame standing off to one side. Scanning a group of several men, trying to determine if Matt was with them, Dara, without thought, lifted her hand to shield out the sun and cried out when soapy water dripped into her eyes.

  She turned blindly, frantic to wipe her hands against her skirt, lifting its hem to rub her eyes.

  “I hope this charming immodest display is meant to be a private one, darlin’.”

  Dara froze with the dark cloth obscuring her face. This was the final straw! Sputtering and swearing in a most unladylike manner under her breath, she squeezed her eyes tight, refusing to face the man who stood there, softly chuckling at her predicament. Irrationally, the thought that the events of the whole day were his fault settled instantly, and she laid them before his feet without a qualm.

  Eden, having no idea of the black thoughts that his presence incurred, looked his fill. Her high-buttoned shoes were mud-splattered. Her thin cotton petticoat in itself was nothing to draw a man’s attention, not when one considered that most ladies would display such charms carefully arrayed in silk and lace for his delectation. It was the lack of its usual sister layers that drew his ardent gaze as a playful breeze, taking pity on his starved senses, whipped the virginal white cotton against her knee-length drawers beneath it. His indolent inspection gathered a smile and the information that Dara Owens wore lace-trimmed garters with her serviceable black cotton stockings. Her legs, etched with painful clarity so that he was forced to shift his stance, were a vision of delicate curves, whose positioning he had spent the night pondering. Whiskey and cards had held no pleasure for him, and there wasn’t a woman in Rainly whom he desired but for the one before him. The breeze, having invoked his interest, skipped away to leave a sultry stillness behind. Eden waited, patient and assured that Dara was aware of the reason he remained silent, and the sudden descent of her skirt confirmed it.

  Sputtering still, venting her anger and embarrassment that he, of all people, should discover her in such a state of dishabille, Dara glared in his general direction. She could barely see. Her eyes stung and watered as she repeatedly blinked, trying to focus on his fuzzy image.

  “If you had any decency, you would have kept your unwanted presence to yourself, Mr. McQuade.”

  Gazing at her tear-bright eyes, the delicate flush across her cheeks, and the curling wisps of hair that fell against her slender neck, he was stung with fresh insistence by the desire she raised in him. He reached out to tap her nose playfully. “If I waited,” he drawled with all the heat of the August day in his voice, “for an invitation from you or your permission to call, Miss Dara Louise Owens, I’d be old and gray and too tired to play courting games.”

  “Let me apprise you of a few home truths, Mr. Me—”

  “Eden, darlin’. If you recall as well as memory serves me, you didn’t have a bit of trouble whispering my name with decided impatience last evening.”

  “You are a depraved scoundrel to remind me of what is best forgotten.”

  Dara held the faint impression of his image in place for a moment before he was gone. She rubbed her eyes, willing the tears to flow and ease their stinging. Eden came to her side, ignored the sullen pout of her mouth, and proceeded to wipe her eyes with fresh well water and the li
nen towel he had snatched from the clothesline.

  “Better?” he asked. Eden raised her chin with two fingers, turning her face to the right and then to the left, delivering his opinion with a connoisseur’s sophistication. “Charming, love. I’ve imagined you with all the starch removed. You have the allure of Eve in the Garden of—”

  “Don’t you dare mention Eden,” she cut in crossly. “I’m not going to play Eve in any garden of your making.”

  “I haven’t invited you to do so, little saint. You shouldn’t presume—”

  “I’m afraid,” she stated coolly, “that you have formed an erroneous opinion of me that I accept the entire blame for. I shall—”

  “How noble of you.”

  “I shall endeavor,” Dara continued, ignoring his interruption, “to do my utmost to correct it, Mr. Mc­Quade. I’ve warned you that you don’t know me. My lapse—”

  “Don’t tell me that I don’t know you. If I don’t, who does? Clay? No, love, you wouldn’t let him near you. O r,” he asked with stung male pride, “was it his own rigid code of gentlemanly behavior that kept him from becoming your lover?” Eden allowed her to bat his hand away from her chin, his voice softer as he continued.

  “If Clay had once tasted the lush invitation of your provocative, but alas, innocent mouth, no man could come near you.” He politely disregarded her startled gasp, irrationally blaming her for his restless discontent that found its ease with this verbal retaliation.

  “Clay doesn’t know how to bring a secret smile to your lips that women’ll envy and men would kill to see,” he noted with cynical observation. “But I do, don’t I, love?” His gray eyes held no pity targeting hers.

  “You make that a final declaration!”

  “Not final. Final words, little saint, are for the dying. I don’t intend to say mine for a long time.”