High Plains Wife

He held up both hands. “Not looking for lemonade. But I would like a dance with you.”

“With me?” The dipper tumbled from her fingers and clanged against the tin pail. “Oh, I see. This is about Georgie, isn’t it? You’re asking me out of a sense of obligation. The same reason you hired me to do your laundry.”

He blinked. What was she saying? What obligation? “I saw you standing here. Noticed you’ve been working all evening. Thought you might like a spin on the dance floor. Listen, they’re just starting up a waltz.”

Mariah stared at him as if she found him less than worthy of a single, obligatory waltz. Was asking a woman to dance always this nerve-racking?

“I don’t approve of this close dancing.” Widow Collins shook her head as she rescued the dipper from the depths of the lemonade bowl. “It gives young people all sorts of ideas. And at their age, they have enough of them. Mr. Dayton promised me there would be no more than two waltzes the whole night.”

“Scandalous,” Widow White agreed. “Mariah, I highly suggest you wait for a nice schottische. Something more decent than a waltz.”

Nick could see Mariah wavering. He had to convince her now, before the widows said another word. “After all these years, you’re still the prettiest girl here. Dance with me.”

“Me? Dance with you?” she repeated.

“I dare you to.” He flashed her that grin, the one that made the dimples stand out in his cheeks and his eyes twinkle.

Mariah felt its effect all the way to her toes. She was a sensible, practical spinster well past the fancies of youth. She was helpless to say no.

Out of the corner of her eye, Mariah could see the widows close together, stunned into silence. Beyond them the colorful women’s dresses swirled in time to the music. What did she do? She could stay here where she belonged and not make a fool of herself. Then she’d watch another woman dance in Nick’s arms.

This time, she wouldn’t be left out.

He was waiting for her answer, one brow crooked in question, one hand held out, palm up. His fingers were broad and strong and warm when she touched him.

She wasn’t aware of weaving through the tables or walking toward the stage, where the banjo and fiddle made music beneath the open sky. She knew only the weight of his hand in hers and the shivery feeling drifting through her. As if something wonderful was about to happen.

As if in a dream, Nick Gray pulled her to him. Not touching, exactly, but so close she could see the smooth skin of his shaven jaw and smell the night air on his shirt.

“Just close your eyes,” he whispered, his breath warm against her ear, “and follow me.”

She placed her hand on his shoulder, as strong as steel, and let him whirl her to the sway of the music beneath the light of the rising moon.

Chapter Four

I f only this dance would never end.

Mariah closed her eyes, savoring the wonder of it. With Nick’s hand at her waist, they moved together as harmoniously as the music. In a sweeping, gentle rhythm that felt like the heart of a dream. Slow and steady, and as light as air.

So this is what dancing feels like. Dancing in the arms of Nicholas Gray. Breathless. Exhilarating. She was intoxicated with it. The stars overhead were more brilliant than diamonds. The music from Mr. Dayton’s fiddle sweeter than any she’d ever heard. And the man who held her was more captivating than she wanted to admit.

“You’re as light as the music, Mariah. You’re a good dancer.”

“You sound surprised. I may be off the shelf, but I can waltz. I am surprised that you’re not tripping over your feet. Or my toes.”

“Go ahead and tease me. I’m man enough to take it.”

You are all man. She bit her tongue so the words wouldn’t accidentally slip out. His shoulder was pure iron beneath her fingertips, and just the feel of him was…masculine. There was no other word to describe him, staring at his chest, so muscled and solid and…

Down low, her stomach fluttered.

It wasn’t because she was attracted to him, to this man she hated. Because she did hate him. She really did. And he disliked her with equal force. He’s simply doing me a favor, dancing like this, for saving his child’s life. Remember that.

When this brief dance was over, his duty done, he would escort her back to the punch table where she belonged. She couldn’t fault him for that. Then he’d choose a prettier, younger woman to dance. One he would court and marry.

That won’t be you, Mariah. Disappointment dug into her heart, but she refused to think about it. She stared hard at the button at Nick’s collar. A thread holding it had frayed, and it could come loose. She’d have to remember that when she found this shirt in the next batch of laundry, and sew it on snug and tight. She always prided herself on doing a thorough job, the best in town, and never charged extra for the small touches. Yes, she’d do well to remember that button.

“That was a mighty fine chicken potpie you made. Rayna Ludgrin made a point of telling me you’d cooked it.”

“I’m glad you thought so.” It figured that he’d talk about food. See? He wasn’t out to charm her. She knew that. Then why did it hurt so much?

“I enjoyed your angel food cake, too. Rayna took it upon herself to make sure I got a slice. I can’t figure out why.” He sounded amused, not on defense.

“She’s a busybody who can’t mind her own business, that’s why.” And a dear friend, Mariah didn’t add, touched at her friend’s thoughtfulness. Rayna didn’t understand that Nick Gray wouldn’t want her. “I’m glad you enjoyed the cake. It’s my mother’s family recipe. Maybe that would make a fine wedding gift for your new bride. The one everyone says you’re here to find.”

“Oh, yeah. That’s why I’m here.”

He sounded so sad. Mariah’s heart punched with regret. She should have treated him better, even if she didn’t like him. He’d lost a wife he loved. “I’m sorry for your loss. I never had the chance to tell you.”

The strong shoulder muscles beneath her fingertips stiffened. He paused, letting the music move between them for a few short beats, his breath harsh, ruffling the tendrils at her temple, as if he were in terrible pain.

She ached for him. Maybe she’d been wrong to bring it up.

When he spoke, his voice was strained. “I never sent a note around for the food you prepared for the wake. I should have thanked you.”

“You didn’t need to. I understand. It’s a sad time.”

He simply nodded in response, his jaw brushing against her forehead. The fiddle sang sweetly, without a care in the world, but she could feel his heart, heavy and hurting. She laid her hand there, in the center of his chest, on the warm, hard, heat of him and felt the steady beat of his pulse. So much pain.

How was it that she could feel what was inside him? She didn’t want to. She didn’t want to watch as he chose another woman to marry, another woman to take his name, to live with him, to lie with him warm in his bed at night, to be loved by him, body and soul.

Anytime now Nick was going to release her, his duty done. She was prepared for it. She stared hard at the button on his collar, the one she intended to fix. Hardening her heart against the inevitable. She could see the younger women in the crowd watching him with hopeful eyes. Which pretty one would he pick to marry next?

For a second time Nick would pass her by to marry someone else. Her chest ached something fierce, and the button began to blur. She wouldn’t think about that. She’d concentrate on that button. Remember to look for this shirt in the next batch of his laundry—

He pulled her to his chest, tucking her beneath his chin, against his heart. She settled against him as if she were made to fit right there, her forehead nestling perfectly against the column of his throat. Oh, my. Everything within her stilled—her pulse, her blood, her thoughts. All she knew was the scent of Nick’s warm skin and the heat of his solid male body against hers. The music, the night, her anger at him, faded into nothing.

Being held by him was sheer heaven. Made her lighter than any soap bubble drifting on a summer’s breeze. Made her heart feel bigger than the wide spread of the night sky overhead. She closed her eyes, breathing in the solidness of him, the incredible feel of his arms banded around her, of his body’s heat, of the masculine way he was made….

“Is this all right?” His voice was a warm puff against her ear, making her tingle, shudder all the way to the soles of her feet.

All right? It was heaven. She nodded, closing her eyes, snuggling against him. Oh, to relax against the hard, wonderful plane of his chest. She breathed in the warm manly scent of his skin, letting him move her to the music, shuffling more than sweeping. His hand at her waist pressed her harder against him, as if he felt this, too, this yearning, this need to be closer. His free hand curled around the back of her neck, cradling her head against him. So tender…

He’s not going to choose you, Mariah. So don’t even begin to start hoping.

But holding him this close, feeling him so thrillingly male and comfortingly solid, made her ache. Ache for something she’d wanted since she was a schoolgirl. She wanted love. She wanted passion. She wanted to look into a man’s eyes and see the depths of his love for her, tender and endless and true. To know that she, Mariah Scott—afraid, lonely, and so deeply flawed—could be loved. Accepted.

Cherished.