Wild Texas Rose (18 page)

“Ya don't like the way I wear my star, pin it on yarself.”

Somebody needed to be sheriff, but a lady peacekeeper? Who'd ever heard of such a thing?

“Whatever I do, Sheriff, I will be doing
something.”
Exactly what, she wasn't sure.

She took her leave and headed for Joseph's farm, where she'd taken up residence. A hot bath did little to ease her aching muscles or to clear her baffled mind. There had to be someone she could turn to as an ally. Who?

Her head ached, as did every bone in her body. She tried to eat a dish of canned beans, but pushed the fare away and perched Gus on her shoulder. “Well, Gussie, what am I going to do?” She ran the pad of a forefinger along his beak. “Who can I turn to?”

“Toooo, toooo.”

“No, who. Who?”

Three sharp raps of the knocker she had installed by the makeshift door stopped her questions.

“Miss McGuire? This is Chadwick T. Nussbaumer, and I must speak with you on a matter of the utmost importance.”

Both with relief and disappointment, she allowed his entrance. Nussbaumer sported a pencil-thin mustache and a brimmed hat. He was nattily dressed in creased trousers and flannel waistcoat, and carried a thin leather valise.

The local solicitor was also mayor of Trick'em, and Mariah saw an opportunity. As the town's leading official, surely he was aware of the urgent need for law and order. Perhaps he could use his power and civic position to force Sheriff Taft out of his ineptitude.

After she made welcoming banter, deposited Gus in his cage, and prepared a cup of tea for her unexpected visitor, she joined him at the table. “Mr. Nussbaumer, how do you feel about this range war?”

“It will wear itself out.”

“But how many people will lose their lives before that happens?” she asked.

“I've no idea. Moreover, I learned a long time ago to stay out of other people's business.”

Another brick wall, Mariah thought, trying to school her feeling of disappointment.

“May I get down to business, Miss McGuire?” He extracted a folded piece of parchment from his valise and flourished the document. “Before his unfortunate demise, Mr. Jaye solicited my services, which I was, of course, pleased to provide.” He unfolded the parchment. “You, Miss Mariah Rose McGuire, are the sole beneficiary of the late Joseph Arthur Harold Jaye's last will and testament.”

“Mr. Nussbaumer, I can't accept Mr. Jaye's legacy. It was I who called the marriage off.”

“If you decline the inheritance, his estate will revert by law to his father, the Earl of Desmont. I do not believe that was Mr. Jaye's wish.”

Uncertain of the right course, she sat silent.

“I can appreciate your hesitation, but may I be candid with you?” At her nod, he continued. “Mr. Jaye called on me last September, which, I don't have to remind you, was over a half year ago. He had some concerns about his safety, and he wanted you to be provided for. I believe his words were, ‘No matter what happens, I want her to have what is mine.' ”

If the will had been drawn during the last day of Joseph's life, would the beneficiary have been different? Well, he hadn't changed the will, and he had been determined to marry Mariah, not the gold hairpin's owner, and that stood for something.

Now he rested in a cold grave and, thanks to Sheriff Taft's disinterest, his murderer was walking free. Beyond that, she had to be practical. She was without funds and a legal abode. The farm, where for all intents and purposes she had been squatting, would be hers if she accepted the legacy. Joseph's remaining cash could be used in her quest for justice–for Joseph's death as well as the others. It was only right his estate be used for this purpose.

Nussbaumer leaned forward. “Shall I enter the will for probate?”

“Yes, thank you.”

Knowing she now had a certain amount of security, Mariah felt her spirit rising, her body aches lessening. Today, Sheriff Taft had scoffed away her inquiries, but tonight was going to be different. She'd let him know he wasn't dealing with just anybody and now that she was to be a landowner, she would have some clout. She would advise Sheriff Taft that if he didn't start handling his duties in a competent fashion, he'd simply have to step aside for some man who would!

She rose to refill Gus's food and water cups. “Mr. Nussbaumer, would you mind if I accompany you into town?”

“Not at all, ma'am.”

Nussbaumer on his swift gelding, Mariah sidesaddle on Susie the buckskin mare, they rode through the moonlit night. He said his goodbyes at the edge of Trick'em and headed for home. Without further ado, Mariah continued on to the sheriffs office and learned he was at Maudie's Saloon, sharing a drink with Whit Reagor.

Never had she entered a public house, but the thought of doing so didn't trouble her. What did trouble her was the thought of facing Whit Reagor. Would she be strong enough to ignore him?

Chapter Seventeen

His back to the wall as he tried to relax in a corner of Maudie's Saloon, Whit took not only a sip of aged bourbon but also a slow look around. A general air of confidence filled the cattlemen's haunt, wrought no doubt from the inroads cowmen were making in the range war.

The tinny piano blared forth; the smoke-clogged air was alive with a fast-tempoed tune. Dancing girls wearing bright satins and plumes sidled up to the scores of rowdy cowpokes, some standing at the long bar, others sitting at the twenty-odd tables.

To Whit's left, five men were engaged in a game of five-card stud. One of the players was Slim Culpepper, who had hit town a couple of hours earlier to take over as Crosswind's top hand. With most of his men on the trail to Dodge, Whit needed all the hands he could get, and Slim had been born to the saddle.

General topics weren't paramount in Whit's thoughts, though. As usual, he was thinking about Mariah. At first he had let her be, figuring she needed to get her mind straight, what with calling off her wedding and being so annoyed with him.

Then Joe had died. Whit had been out on the range trying to get his mind straight about Mariah when word reached him about the funeral. By the time he got to town, Joe was six feet under and Mariah was back at the farm... or so he had been told. Strange. Why had she gone back to Joe's place?

A woman, a good-looking one, walked toward him. “Are you Sheriff Taft?” she asked.

“Nope.” Whit scrutinized her. Young and beautiful, she had snapping dark eyes and a wealth of raven-black hair. Before he had met Mariah, he might have pursued this gal, but now his desires ran only to one woman: Mariah McGuire.

“What makes you think I'm the sheriff?” he asked.

The raven-haired beauty laughed. “Mr. Reagor, I know you're not Wilburn Taft. I was looking for an excuse to introduce myself.” She extended her hand. “I'm Lydia Farrell, on assignment with the
Austin Statesman.”

“You're a reporter?” he asked incredulously. “Didn't think there was such a thing as a newspaperwoman.”

“I'm the first.” Lydia's hand touched the empty chair at Whit's right. “Do you mind if I sit down?” she asked.

Unless it was Mariah, company of the female variety was the last thing on Whit's mind. Remembering his manners though, he said, “Please do,” and got up to seat her. “Care for a drink?”

She nodded assent. “So tell me, Mr. Reagor,” she said as he poured her a shot from his bottle of bourbon, “how have you been affected by the fencing war?”

“I'd rather not discuss it.”

“I've been told you lost your finest bull, and a dozen or more cows. Not to mention your stable burning to the ground. Was it six Arabians you lost?”

Basically, she had her facts right, and Whit grimaced. “I lost five horses.”

“What a shame.” Lydia shook her head. “Are you confident Sheriff Taft will be able to find the perpetrators?”

“That's what he gets paid for.” Whit was fed up with the lily-livered Wilburn Taft, but why trust a stranger–especially a reporter–with the truth?

“Yes, but is he earning his salary?” Lydia asked. “I find it hard to believe you're not livid with rage over the sheriffs indifference.”

Whit shrugged.

“He's a disgrace to his badge,” she said. “He's not a bit interested in keeping the peace. Right now he's sleeping off the effects of alcohol.”

“It's nighttime, Miss Farrell. Everyone's got a right to sleep.”

“Well, I'm not the only person who thinks he's slacking off in his job. I've yet to meet her, but there's a lady here in Trick'em who has her complaints. Miss Mariah McGuire. Do you know her?”

He took a sip of whiskey, then replaced the glass. “Yeah, I know her.”

He heard a commotion near the saloon doors, and his gaze moved in that direction. Those doors slapped shut, and Mariah entered Maudie's Saloon.
Oh, shit. She'll think I'm with this Lydia gal!

As he unfolded his frame from the chair, Mariah caught sight of him. He tipped his black Stetson. She was a distance away, but not so far he couldn't read the fury on her face as she continued her visual scrutiny.

“Hate to be rude, Miss Farrell, but I've gotta be shoving off.”

His spurs clicking, he navigated around the tables and over the sawdust floor. Mariah's hair was swept into curls on the crown of her head, he noted. She wore a simple brown riding habit, its only adornment the beauty of the wearer. She was trying to ignore him and he didn't have to guess why.

Damn, she was beautiful, and he hadn't realized just how very much he'd missed her. While looking down at the brown eyes that refused to rise, he cocked a thumb against his silver gunbelt buckle. What was she doing in a place like Maudie's?

Wanting to whisk her into his arms and out of the saloon that, before tonight, had been frequented only by women of ill repute, he drawled, “Buy you a drink?”

“No. I'm looking for the sheriff.”

“You're about an hour too late, Red. He's gone. Will I do?”

“For what? Target practice?”

“I can explain–”

“Say, Reagor,” someone at the bar said, “don't be hogging that beauty.”

“Yeah, look at that purty red hair!”

“Let her come on in and make her own choice!”

“Let's get out of here.” Whit grabbed her arm to direct her out the swinging doors. The night breeze ruffled the hair at his collar as he said, “We need to talk.”

“You beast! Didn't anyone ever tell you it isn't polite to abandon a lady friend?”

He wheeled around to look Mariah straight on. Light from a saloon window cast a halo on her thick, wavy hair, and he touched the beautiful locks. “I just met that woman. We were discussing business.”

“Isn't the price usually set beforehand?”

“Sheath your claws, Mariah. I told you she's nothing to me and, by damn, I mean it. She's a newspaper reporter.”

“And I'm Victoria, Queen of Great Brit–”

“Lydia Farrell was after a story, that's all. And for your information, I don't want any woman but you, and haven't since the day we met.”

Mariah's gaze flew to his. She blinked. “For some strange reason, probably daft, I believe you.”

He was struck by the realization that, after the many times he had disappointed and hurt her, she was still able to trust him, Whit Reagor, a callous, bitter, conceited scoundrel and beast–all the deserved names she had called him over their acquaintance. This was one helluva woman. And he didn't deserve her, much less another chance, but ...

“Let's go.” He steered her past a watering trough and to the ever-dusty street.

“Aren't you being a bit presumptuous?” she asked.

“Probably. But the outside of a saloon is no place for talking.” He smiled. “You got a horse at that hitching post?”

“Yes. The buckskin,” she sputtered, “but–”

“Let's go.”

His free hand unlooped the mare's reins, and he gave Mariah a small shove. “We're going to my place.”

“I'm not going to your ranch.”

“My place here in Trick'em,” he amended.

 

 

Mariah had had no idea that Whit owned a townhouse, but there were a lot of things she neither knew nor understood about him. Unlike his sister's large home in Dublin, Whit's cottage was small. The clapboard dwelling was situated across from the blacksmith's shop, several hundred yards east of the Turner boarding establishment.

As Mariah entered his quarters, her nose picked up mingled scents–leather, tobacco, and a slight hint of bay rum. The front room bore an aura of masculinity: heavy chairs covered in cowhide; tables and cabinets of no-frills lines; a leather sofa long enough for him to stretch out. On the wall hung a gun rack with two rifles and a shotgun, and bull horns measuring at least nine feet across.

Mariah, sitting down on the cool leather sofa, watched Whit fling his hat to one of the horn's pointed ends, then run his hand through his hair and turn to a sideboard. He extracted a bottle of whiskey and poured two squat glasses half full. Save for his spurs and the big silver buckle of his gunbelt, his narrow-hipped frame was clad in black, the shirt and breeches close-fitting. Around his neck was a black bandanna and shadows of a beard darkened his lean cheeks. He looked like an outlaw. A very handsome, intriguing badman.

“You've been retaliating against the farmers,” she stated without preamble. “Cutting fences.”

He handed her a glass of whiskey. “Who told you that?”

“It matters not who told me. But I firmly believe it's deplorable to–”

“Before you start the schoolteacher lecture, may I say a word? Yeah, I ride with the rest of my kind–cattlemen protecting their property and rights and I make no apology for it.”

She couldn't believing her ears and in light of his words she had to pose a question for her own peace of mind. “I didn't think I'd be asking this, Whit, but did you kill the O'Brien men?”

“No.”

“Are you responsible for
any
of the recent murders?”

“No. In retribution for my own losses I've scared a few farmers, but that's all.”

She believed him. “Does vengeance give you satisfaction?”

“You could say that. I protect what's mine and as I told you, I make no apology.”

She understood his motives, though agreeing with them was another matter. Her faith in his innocence was firm nonetheless. He had said he'd had no part in the murder, so he hadn't. Whit Reagor might be many things, but his honesty had always been close to brutal. And after Joseph, she found this character trait especially appealing.

Whit hoisted his drink and took a short draw of the amber liquid before setting his glass on the table. “I hear tell you've been badmouthing the sheriff.”

“Sheriff Taft is a blight on the name of law enforcement.”

“All these things you mentioned, do they have anything to do with why you're still in town?” he asked. “Or are you here because of us?”

“The last time I saw you I was determined to be on the next stage, and if Joseph hadn't been murdered, I would be gone.”

Whit unbuckled his gunbelt and laid it beside his glass. His eyes riveted to hers. “I'm glad you aren't.”

She couldn't control the wild beat of her heart, but she would not be deterred from her purpose. “I won't leave until Joseph's killer is found.”

“That so?”

“Yes.”

“Rustlers did him in.” Whit shrugged.

“They're long gone by now.”

His stock answer was the same as Taft's. “What makes you so certain?” she asked, gritting her teeth.

“I'm not, but it's as good a guess as any.”

“You know he didn't have any cattle to steal,” she exclaimed. “Someone killed him over his fences.

“What makes you so certain?” Whit asked, repeating her question of a moment earlier.

“It makes more sense than rustlers. Barbed wire was the means of his death, and I take that as an obvious warning sign from ranchers. Besides, Joseph wasn't the only farmer to die. Ranchers started this war, not rustlers or farmers.”

“Well, Mariah, if you want the truth, I don't give a damn who killed him.”

“Why?”

“You ought to know why. My eyes were opened . . . real wide ... when I saw what he was trying to pull on you. The last straw–Let's just say that in the end I had no use for him.” Whit folded his long frame into a chair. Unfastening one spur, then the other, he let both fall to the floor and lifted his booted feet to the table. Propping an elbow on the chair arm, he rubbed his stubbled jaw. “Seems to me,
you
wouldn't give a damn who killed him.”

“Then you don't know me!”

A lopsided chin deepened his right dimple. “You're saying that to me of all people? I know you, all right. I know every hill and valley of your body. I know what it feels like to . . .” His voice grew hoarse, his eyes flicking up and down her form. “I know what it's like to be buried deep within you.”

Her rush of excitement at these remembrances did strange things to her wits. She swallowed. She fidgeted. She wanted ...
Don't let him do this to you!

Taking a swallow of the fiery whiskey, she thought about the real meaning of his words. “You know what I am, but you have no earthly idea
who
I am.”

“I could if you'd give me the chance,” he said. “Tell me about the woman inside the beautiful redhead. I want to know what makes her tick, what makes her so damned loyal to the man who mistreated her.”

His blue, blue eyes were honest, sincere, and she was glad for the five feet separating them. Space gave her a certain strength. In halting tones she began to tell Whit about her childhood, her family, her heartaches and hopes. Even about the silly letter she'd left for her father.

Whit showed rapt interest in her background and prompted her with questions whenever she faltered. As the hours wore on, her already weary body became even more tired. The midnight hour approached, and she began to wind down. “... and the lawyer told me Joseph willed me his farm.”

“Will you take up farming?”

“I don't imagine so. Right now, I must keep trying to make the sheriff do his job. When I'm successful at that I can continue with the rest of my life. Teaching, not tilling,” she added on a lighter note. “I'll sell the property and move on.”