High Plains Wife. Jillian HartЧитать онлайн книгу.
Oh, stop thinking about that man! She shrugged out of her shawl, hung it with a curse on the wall peg and made it all the way to the kitchen before she realized she’d forgotten her basket in the back of the wagon. What was wrong with her tonight? Even standing in the dark of her kitchen, surrounded by the sounds of emptiness and the wind scraping the lilac branches against the siding, she couldn’t seem to make her mind stop reeling her back in time to the sensation of waltzing in Nick’s strong arms.
It’s not Betsy I intend to marry. It’s you, he’d said in that deep dark voice of his, as intriguing as a rogue’s, making her shiver from the roots of her hair to the tips of her toes. He couldn’t mean it. She didn’t know why he’d even asked, and maybe he didn’t, either. He had to have proposed knowing she would reject him. Right?
Breathing in, she could remember Nick’s scent and feel the warmth of his shirt against her cheek, the security of his strong arms holding her. A part of her would always yearn after him, as she had when she was young, watching him marry another woman. And, as the years crept by, offering congratulations on the birth of his children. Watching from her father’s kitchen window as his family surrey swept by on the way to town, with Lida at his side.
Pain filled her, at the loneliness of her own life. It wasn’t better being alone. She didn’t care how right her father was. If she could pray for any one thing and have it granted, no holds barred, then it would be to have a heart that could love. A heart that wasn’t cold and used up, like a hunk of winter’s ice. One that bloomed like the wild prairie roses, and no harsh winter or dry summer could stop their stubborn blooms.
But she was her mother’s daughter. Ice to the core. Good for only one thing—hard work. At least she did that well.
Taking solace where she could, Mariah crossed the dark kitchen, petticoats swishing in the silence. She felt proud of how hard she’d worked tonight. Her contribution made a difference. They’d raised more than half the money they needed for the school addition. See? Her life had meaning enough. The children of this town would have new desks and plenty of room so they could become better educated, and a new heater to keep them warm through the winter.
She found the match tin by feel and snapped open the lid. The curtains were open, giving a view of her backyard and orchard, and a glimpse at her neighbor’s house. Lights blinked on in their windows like beacons in the night, drawing Mariah’s gaze. Their curtains were open, too, and she caught sight of the Bryants, returning from the dance, no doubt. Mrs. Bryant balanced her year-old son on her hip, while herding her other two small children through the front room toward the bedrooms in back.
It was just a slice of their lives Mariah could see through that window, but how warm it looked. How cozy. Mr. Bryant came into view and laid a gentle hand on his wife’s shoulder. She gazed up at him with a smile. How happy they looked, man and wife. There was love there, a kind Mariah knew nothing about. She closed her eyes and turned away.
No, she belonged here. In the house she grew up in. In the house where she’d cared for her father until his death. It was hers now. And she would live out her days here, not troubled by the demands of children and a husband and by her own inadequacies.
No, she was happy here—alone—and she was content with that. Mariah snapped the curtains shut against the night and other people’s bliss.
She vowed not to think of Nick again. And she didn’t. Not when she fetched the basket from the wagon and unloaded her dishes. Not when she prepared for bed. Not even once, in her dreams that night, or any of the nights that followed.
Chapter Five
“M ariah!” Rayna Ludgrin’s knock echoed through the warm house the next Monday morning and was followed by the squeak of the hinges. “Mariah! Are you in here? I’m a little early, I know. Some of your dishcloths got mixed up with mine. I’d best return them while I’m here, or I’ll forget all about it.”
“Good thing, because I have some of yours.” Mariah sprinkled water on the collar of Nick’s blue muslin work shirt. “How much did the dance bring in?”
“We topped last year’s in donations.” Rayna bustled through the door like a whirl of gaiety and dropped a neat pile of a dozen dishcloths on the crowded table. “Oh, you look busy. Your business is growing.”
“It’s improving.” Mariah had told no one, not even her closest friend, how hard it had been making ends meet. “Have you heard from Betsy? She was dancing with the gunsmith when I left.”
“Betsy ought to be here in a few minutes. She’d never miss our weekly tea time. Speaking of Friday night’s event, what about you? I saw you waltzing in Nick Gray’s arms.” Rayna helped herself to the tea water simmering on the stove. “It was the talk of the dance.”
“Hardly. It was one waltz.”
“Yes, but did you see the way he looked at you?”
“I did happen to notice. That’s why I’ve vowed never to speak to him again.”
“Mariah! If you keep this up, you’ll never marry.”
“Marry? What does that have to do with Nick Gray? Oh, sure, you mean his act of pity. He danced with me out of his conceited, self-centered sense of obligation.” She blinked hard and stabbed the point of the iron into the seam of the muslin’s narrow collar. “So, he must have chosen a wife by now. Those children of his need a woman’s care. Who’s the lucky bride?”
“I have no idea— Wait, I hear Betsy. Why, Betsy, good morning.”
Mariah’s hands stilled for a shocked moment. What was wrong with Rayna? Why was she avoiding the subject of Nick Gray?
“Good morning, or, well, a few minutes to noon.” She waltzed in, looking happy as a lark in a pretty blue calico dress with a matching bonnet, balancing a pink bakery box in her gloved hands. “Guess what? Zeke asked me to go driving with him on Sunday.”
“He’s a good man, Betsy. I’m glad for you.” Mariah set the iron in its stand. Maybe this romance would work out for Betsy, but what about Nick Gray?
He’d proposed to someone else.
Pain pierced like an arrow into Mariah’s chest, making it hard to breathe. She couldn’t let her feelings show. Keeping her chin high, she turned the shirt on the edge of the board, smoothing the fabric until it was perfect.
There. Another shirt done. She folded it precisely and laid it on the stack of others.
It’s all right. You didn’t expect he really wanted to marry you. But that didn’t stop her heart from breaking or the disappointment from welling up like a geyser. She hadn’t realized how much she wished Nick’s proposal had been a real one.
Blinking hard, she set the iron aside, her work done for now. She had a few hours to spend with her friends. This afternoon she had more garments to iron and deliveries to make.
Nick Gray’s choice of bride was not her concern.
It was just as well. She was content with her life. Look at all she’d accomplished. Rayna was right—her laundry business was beginning to flourish. The fund-raiser had been a success. She had friends, her own house, and her independence. What more did a women need?
“A good man.” Rayna waggled her brows as she gathered china from the corner hutch. “Betsy, did you hear what Mariah said? He’s a good man, she said of the gunsmith. What did you mean by that?”
Mariah blushed as she snatched the stack of plates from Rayna. “Just what I said. Zeke is a good prospect for a husband. He’s an honest businessman. He’s kind. He makes a good wage. I think you ought to let him court you, Betsy.”
“That’s what I’m going to do.” Betsy smiled. “Rayna, did you hear what Mariah said? She said a man who’s a good prospect for a husband is honest and kind.”
“Huh! Mariah, just goes to show what you know.” Rayna winked, sharing