Sweet Mountain Magic
Page 34
Sage leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “Well, Mr. Cousteau, there are a lot of things I think you need to understand before seeing Mary. She’s learned a lot. She’s stronger, harder, a real survivor. Even Mary has learned about Indians—and the mountains, the elements, hunting, a lot of things. When I found her again, it was getting too close to the dead of winter to try to send her off anyplace. No more wagon trains would be coming through. I knew I couldn’t do anything about finding where she came from until she remembered who she was. So we holed up the winter in a little cabin in the Rockies.”
He saw the jealousy and anger creeping into the man’s eyes. Sage carefully explained the events that had taken place over the last several months—Mary’s progress and seemingly complete mental healing. He left out the attack by Lowe and White. Just knowing about the Comanche and the whiskey trader was enough.
“She slowly remembered more and more things every few days,” he continued. “But until she remembered who she really was—remembered you and her family—she came to…depend on me…” He sat up straighter. “And she came to love me,” he added calmly then. “And I came to love her.”
Rafe’s eyes widened then, his jaw flexing with repressed anger. “Love you! What the hell are you trying to tell me, MacKenzie? That you spent the last few months sleeping with my wife?”
Sage held the man’s eyes squarely. “Don’t put it that way, Mr. Cousteau. I saved Mary’s sanity and her life, and I love her, very much. Please think about all of this before you say another word. She didn’t know who she was. She had been through the worst hell any woman could imagine. She was alone and afraid and dying. And I couldn’t help falling in love with her. She’s beautiful and sweet and good, and she needed someone’s love and support. I didn’t use her, Cousteau. I loved her, and I still do, as much as any man can love a woman. I prayed that if she ever remembered who she was, she would also remember she had no husband. But it didn’t work out that way.”
Rafe was shaking, staring at Sage, clenching his fists. More tears came to his eyes. “What the hell are you telling me, MacKenzie? That you’re just here to say hello before running off with my wife? You would have been better off letting me think she was dead! She’s my wife!”
The man rose, and Sage rose with him. “Of course she’s your wife! Why in God’s name do you think I brought her back here?”
Rafe hit a tin of pencils with his fist, knocking them to the floor. “Comanche! That whiskey trader! And who knows who else in between! And I have to add you to the list?”
Sage quickly walked around the desk, grabbing the lapels of Rafe’s suit. “You listen here, Cousteau! Mary St. Claire Cousteau is one of the best women who ever walked! Neither one of us needs to make any excuses, because neither of us knew about you till later, when she got her memory back! That woman has suffered more than any human should be asked to bear, so don’t you dare go over there and let her think you’re ashamed of her! You treat her bad and I’ll kill you!”
He gave Rafe a little shove, pushing the man back down into his chair, then let go of his jacket and stepped back slightly. For a moment they just looked at each other. It was obvious to Rafe that Sage MacKenzie was a man who most certainly knew how to fight and who had probably killed. He was an experienced hunter and mountain man, and he had already told Rafe about the grizzly attack—a grizzly this man had killed with a knife in one-to-one combat.
“You can’t blame somebody for something they’ve done out of innocence and ignorance,” Sage was telling him. “We didn’t know about you. Even when she remembered, she was sure you must be dead. But I knew, by how she talked when she first remembered, how much she loved you. She still does. She’s been through hell, and now she’s come home to find she’s faced with some mighty big decisions—maybe too big for the little slip of a woman she is. I don’t think she could take your going over there and shaming her, Cousteau. That woman is your wife. You loved her enough to marry her. Do you love her enough to accept what has happened to her and not blame her for it?”
Rafe turned and ran a hand through his hair, resting his elbows on his desk then. “What does she want to do?”
“First tell me what you want. Do you still love her? I’ll by God not let you hurt her.”
Rafe squeezed his eyes shut and sniffed. “Of course I still love her,” he groaned. “I’ve spent months searching for her—nights aching for her.”
The pain and jealousy Sage felt at the words actually made him wince. “There’s a lot to consider, Cousteau. You have to remember the kind of woman she was before all this happened—good, innocent, loving you very much. That is the only way you should look at her. She didn’t ask for any of this, and considering all that happened, she’s proved herself one hell of a woman. Any man ought to be proud to have her for a wife.” His own voice choked then. “I would have been. But legally she belongs to you. I’m not a man to go stealing other men’s wives, Cousteau. If I had known, I wouldn’t have let it happen. But it did happen, and it had nothing to do with Mary’s being unfaithful to you. She didn’t even know you existed. But now she does, and she’s come home. She’s done the right thing. She’s here, if you still love and want her. She still loves you.”
Sage turned and walked wearily to a guest chair, slumping into it as though suddenly very tired. Rafe raised his eyes to look at the man—big, handsome, rugged. It was difficult to quell the fury that raged inside him at the thought of Mary’s lying beneath this stranger. But he knew her well enough to realize she never would have done it as an act of betrayal. Surely in the state she was in when this man found her, it had been easy to grow dependent on him, to look at him as her only friend, her protector.
Rafe sighed deeply, rubbing his eyes and leaning back in his chair. “I could kill you,” he muttered. “I mean, that’s what I want to do. Any husband would feel the way I feel. But I also know you’re right—about Mary and the kind of woman she is. She never would have…done anything out of lust or betrayal.” He met Sage’s eyes and they held in a strange understanding. “And much as I hate you, Mr. MacKenzie, I know I have no right to—and I know I owe you a great deal. You could have done any number of things with her—just left her there, raped and killed her. The Indians would have been blamed. You could have sold her, or refused to bring her home. If you love her as much as you claim, it must have been very difficult bringing her back home, knowing you might have to leave her here.”
Sage sat up straighter, resting his elbows on the arms of the chair. “It’s the hardest thing I’ve ever done in my life. From here on I’ve got no say in what happens. It’s between you and Mary. The only reason I came over here first is because I wanted you to know—to understand. I wanted you to get all that anger out of you before she saw you. I don’t want her to see that, Cousteau. I don’t want her to see any shame or anger, and I don’t want you ever making her feel like any of this is her fault, because it isn’t. I had a hell of a time helping her get over feeling guilty about the Comanche and that whiskey trader. And I’ll by-God kill anybody who tries to make her feel responsible or tries to take away her pride and dignity. She’s just as beautiful and good as the day she was taken. She’s still Mary St. Claire Cousteau. My only regret is that she can’t be Mary MacKenzie.”
Sage rose then, running a hand through his hair and turning away. “Mary’s a loyal, honest woman, Cousteau. If you still want her, she’ll stay with you. Right now I hope you do still want her, because now that I see how she lived before I found her—see the things you can give her, the kind of life she can have being with you—I realize she’s better off staying with you. I’d love her as much as any man can love a woman, but I can’t give her this kind of life. She kept saying it wouldn’t matter, but I know that eventually it would. The minute you walked in I knew you were the right kind of man for her, not me.”
Rafe was surprised that suddenly he actually felt sorry for the man. He leaned back in his chair. “I feel there must be something I can
do for you,” he offered. “You brought my wife back to me. Do you need money? A new horse and saddle? A rifle? Anything?”
Sage grinned sadly, his back still to Rafe. “I don’t want your damned money,” he said quietly. “Or anything else. I brought her back because she wanted to come and it was the right thing to do. I reckon I’ll just head back up into the Rockies where I belong. I lived alone a long time before—” His voice broke and he couldn’t finish. He walked to the door. “You go see her,” he said then. He turned, and Rafe saw that his eyes were red with tears. “And you be good to her. Let her talk. Feel things out. I’ll get a room here in town. There’s a rooming house across the street from here. That’s where I’ll be. You come tell me what you and Mary decide.”
Rafe rose and came around the desk, walking closer. “I’m sorry, MacKenzie.”
Sage nodded. “Yeah. So am I. If I had known—” He sighed, resting his hand on the doorknob.
“Seeing how much you really love her helps me understand,” Rafe told him. “But I love her too, MacKenzie. I want my wife back, if she wants to stay.”
Sage looked away, for the room had suddenly begun to feel stuffy. “I got no doubt what she’ll do,” he said in a strained voice. “You…uh…you just remember her delicate state—her emotions, I mean.” He finally met the man’s eyes. “She’s real proud of how strong she’s gotten. She just completed a journey of almost a thousand miles, Cousteau—on horseback, through Indian country, mountains, prairies. She’s been attacked twice by grizzlies, had to spend the night right in the middle of a camp of drunken Utes. She’s survived a winter in the Rockies, nursed me back from near death, and she’s slept under the stars and ridden right through herds of buffalo. She’s spent time at Bent’s Fort, cooked over camp fires, skinned and cleaned rabbits, knows how to make a fire. She’s a hell of a woman, Cousteau, a better woman than the one you remember—stronger, braver, prouder. Don’t you destroy it all for her. I meant what I said. If you hurt her, I’ll kill you.”
Their eyes held, and Rafe knew the man meant every word.
“I love her. After what she’s been through, I could never hurt her.”
“Her mother already has. I want her out of that house, Cousteau. That woman is already worrying about what to say to friends and relatives, making Mary feel like she’s done something wrong.”
Rafe nodded. “I know the kind of woman my mother-in-law is, Mr. MacKenzie. That’s why I had to leave the house. I’ll get her out of there. Charlet loves her daughter very much. She wouldn’t intentionally hurt Mary, but she’s the kind of woman who can hurt without even trying.”
Sage nodded. “You might have to move someplace else with her—might be best for her.”
“I have plenty of money—and enough experience to start over somewhere else.”
Sage sighed deeply. “I reckon you do. You’ve got a lot better chance than I would ever have.” He opened the door. “I’ll be waiting at the rooming house. Come by in the morning.”
“We will probably both come.” Rafe put out his hand. “Thank you, MacKenzie.”
Sage stared at the hand a moment, a little surprised. Then he took the man’s hand, and both men squeezed hard, sending messages with their eyes and the grips of their hands.
“You take good care of her,” Sage said in a near whisper. He let go then and hurried through the door and through the main lobby of the bank and outside. He walked around the side of the building and to the back of it, where no one could see him, then he leaned against the wall and wept.
Chapter Twenty-three
Sage awoke with a start, a rattling buggy passing by on the street below disturbing him. He was surprised he had fallen asleep at all. Apparently it had come to him out of sheer exhaustion, for he had spent most of the night sitting up alone in his room, thinking about Mary, and annoyed by the sounds of a town that didn’t seem to quiet down much after sunset.
It had been a long time since he had been in the midst of so much noise and commotion, but he realized this town was small and uncivilized compared to bigger cities farther east. He wondered how any man could live where there were even more people and more noise. He was accustomed to the quiet of the mountains, a quiet that was sometimes so intense that it almost hurt a man’s ears. He didn’t like being around so many people. He felt out of place here, and meeting Rafe Cousteau the day before had only made him feel even more displaced.
He sighed deeply, lying quietly for a moment to gather his thoughts. He stared at flowered wallpaper, and as soon as he was fully awake and reality again swept over him, his eyes teared and his throat felt tight.
Mary! He had spent his first night without her in months, almost a year. How was he going to survive this? How could he have lived alone all those years, and now feel so lost without Mary? Her absence was the reason he couldn’t sleep, as well as the torturous thought that Rafe Cousteau might try to make love to his wife out of his joy at finding her again. Would he try something like that right away? And would Mary…?
He let out a guttural groan, sitting up and putting his feet on the floor. To think of it was sheer agony. She would stay with her husband. Of that he had no doubt. Mary was a lady, a woman of morals and principle. What an ugly turn fate had taken. How he wished she had never remembered her identity. And how he wished Rafe Cousteau really was dead.
He got up and poured some water from a pitcher into a wash pan. He washed and shaved, all the while fighting the heavy agony in his heart. He put on his familiar buckskins and moccasins. There was no one left to impress now, and if he had to say good-bye to Mary, he wanted to look like the Sage MacKenzie she had known and loved, not the one who had worn dressier clothes to meet her parents.
He studied himself in the mirror. Mary had said he was handsome. He supposed he was in a rugged sort of way, but Rafe Cousteau was more handsome—a well-dressed, well-educated, and younger man, a man who at one time must have been the perfect match for the beautiful young Marietta St. Claire. Yes, it truly must have been a beautiful wedding. And their love must have been sweet and strong.
But a lot had happened to Mary since then. She was not the same woman. And Sage could not help wondering if Rafe would take her back only because he thought it was the right thing to do; if he would do it just to keep from hurting Mary any further. If he did take her back for those reasons, how long would it be before the sweet love turned sour? Sage was uneasy about the way Rafe Cousteau had reacted at first to the knowledge that so many men had been with his wife. But then Sage supposed a man just needed time to get over something like that.
He turned away and strapped on his leather belt, which held his big hunting knife. Then he walked to a window and looked out into the street. How strangely lost he felt. Never since running away from Missouri had he felt this alone. He had gotten so used to it before, he seldom thought a thing about it. Now it was different. It wasn’t so much that he was alone, but that he was lonely. He realized he could be in a crowd of people and still feel this utter emptiness. It was amazing how much he had come to depend on Mary’s presence, her smile, her voice, her laughter, her violet eyes, the feel of her in his arms.
He couldn’t stop the tears then, feeling like a silly child and glad no one could see him. He clenched his fists and gritted his teeth, angry with himself for having allowed himself to love and need for the first time since losing his parents. Surely if he had gotten by so well all these years with no one else in his life, he could do it again. Why was it so different now?
He walked over to the bed, sitting down on it and putting his head in his hands, letting the tears and painful sobs come. He might as well get it over with before he saw her so he could be strong when they met again—strong enough to accept what he knew she would say. It would almost be worse than if she had died, for she would still be alive—beautiful, wonderful, the woman he loved—but he would be unable to touch her, to taste her lips, feel her naked against him in the night, be one with his beautiful Mary.
No
Indian could dream up a torture more terrible than this would be, and the pain was made worse by the thought that after a time, Rafe Cousteau would share his wife’s body again, enjoy the ecstasy that Sage had hoped could be all his own. And poor Mary was being forced to choose. She would never want to hurt him, but she would have no choice. She belonged with Rafe Cousteau.
He threw back his head and took several deep breaths for control, then blew his nose and wiped his eyes. He went back to the mirror and recombed his hair, then trimmed his mustache a little. Already he knew he would grow back his beard again when he left. He had shaved for Mary, for her parents. And often Mary herself had shaved him. Those things were done now. She would not shave him, cook for him, help him care for the horses, help make camp, share his bedroll. Such sweet, wonderful moments they had shared, lying under the stars, talking about a future they hoped to have together, trying to decide what a man like himself could do for a living.
None of it mattered now. He would go back to wandering, try to forget her, try to find some reason to want to go on living. He walked to the door and went out, descending the stairs and going through a wide front door with lacy curtains at the glass. He stepped outside. It was already quite warm. He noticed a bench nearby on the porch of the rooming house. He sat down on it to wait. She would come soon, and he would have to tell his Mary good-bye. It would be over, and he would have nothing left but to look back on the past several months as the most beautiful, most memorable, moments in his entire life.
Mary stirred awake, turning onto her back and looking around the familiar room. Immediately the agony swept over her and she brought a hand to her chest, where a tight pain made her feel short of breath.
So, it was real. She was back in her own room, the room where once she had known only innocence and happiness, the room where Rafe Cousteau had so often made love to her and had gotten her pregnant. Now she felt as though the room belonged to someone else—a different Mary St. Claire Cousteau, not the one who lay here now.