High Plains Wife

“I’ll help you to the wagon with these,” she offered when Rayna bustled up to take the heavy baskets. “Let me take the bigger one.”

“What do you plan to do after loading up my wagon?”

“Load my own and go home.” What else? She had no obligations at the dance. The president of the club was in charge of that end of the fund-raiser.

“That’s simply not acceptable.” Rayna tsked, tossing the wadded towel into Mariah’s nearby basket. Trouble glinted in her narrowed gaze. “You’re coming with us. Betsy, are you ready?”

“Sure am. I’ve got rope to hog-tie her with, if that’s what it takes for Mariah to have some fun.” Longtime friend Betsy Hunter snared Mariah by one hand while Rayna took the other. “We’re all going to the dance, whether you like it or not.”

What was wrong with everyone? “I don’t dance, and you both know it.”

“You don’t have to dance,” Rayna pointed out, tugging on Mariah’s arm as they approached the stairs. “We can listen to the music.”

“That’s right,” Betsy concurred far too quickly. They’d planned this. “Old man Dayton brought his fiddle. It ought to be a real treat.”

“This wouldn’t be about Nick, would it? Please tell me you two haven’t been scheming. I don’t like the man.”

“This is about your duty as the vice president.” Betsy released her death grip and held open the wood door to the cool evening breeze. Faint strains of a fiddle rose and fell in merry delight.

“No, I’m not going.” She had no desire to see Nick swirling other women around the dance floor.

“I know how you feel about dances, but if you want a chance to be president in the next elections…”

O-oh, Betsy knew exactly what bait to use. Mariah knew she ought to get angry about this blatant use of manipulation. The truth was she did like old man Dayton’s music and she did want to be president one day.

The setting sun’s lights streaked bold purple and magenta against the sky and made the schoolhouse windows glow like a dream. Dozens of lamps and lanterns marched on stakes through the clipped-grass field, guiding their way, and the music sounded sweet and merry.

Maybe attending the dance wouldn’t be too bad. She’d treat herself to a sarsaparilla, listen to a few toe-tapping songs and then help out, if the refreshment committee needed her. She’d be too busy to notice a certain man.

The makeshift stage was lit like a Christmas tree. The call of the fiddle and the twang of a banjo made it hard to concentrate as she searched for a path through the crush of people to the refreshment tables.

“Excuse me, Mariah,” a man spoke at her side.

Surprised, her feet felt as if they’d frozen to the ground. Heart racing, she gazed up at the town gunsmith.

He held out his hand, but not to her. “Sorry, but could you step aside? I was hoping Betsy might honor me with a dance.”

Betsy blushed. “Why, no, Zeke, I couldn’t—”

What was a little disappointment? Of course he hadn’t been about to ask her to dance. What was wrong with her tonight? Mariah stepped aside. “Go on, Betsy. Have fun.”

“But—” She hesitated. Zeke took command and whisked her away.

“He’s a good dancer,” Rayna commented as the music lifted in harmony and boots tapped on the hard-packed earth.

“Yes, he is,” Mariah answered blindly. The flaring skirts on the dance floor all blurred together.

Ridiculous, watching folks dance like this. She ought to be doing something productive. Something useful. She turned her back on the merriment, heading straight for the refreshment table. Surely there was work for her to do.

There always was.

“You’re not dancing, big brother.” Will handed Nick a tin cup of lemonade.

“I didn’t come here to dance. We both know it.” The cup was cool in the heat from the crowd, and the liquid puckered his tongue. It wasn’t as satisfying as beer, but he needed a clear head right now.

He was on the hunt for a bride. A bride?

He couldn’t do it. He couldn’t pick out a wife, because every female here in this area was a stranger. He’d been married for a long time, and he wasn’t a man with a wandering eye. He’d been faithful to Lida every minute of their time together. Having another woman had never crossed his mind.

So, how did he start now? It felt wrong, even with Lida gone. But his children needed a mother. They all needed a woman to cook and keep house for them.

So, what did he do? Just pick one? He was at a loss.

“You look like you’re having troubles, big brother.” Will smirked, looking as though he was enjoying this. “There are lots of pretty women in this town. Lucky for me, I don’t have to settle on one. I can shop around.”

“That’s what you think. You just wait.” Nick wasn’t going to take any ribbing from his more obnoxious brother, especially when he wasn’t even wet behind the ears where love was concerned.

“I’m going to go pick a female right now, but only for one dance.” Will polished off his lemonade. “What you need, Nick, is to get out there and start dancing. Maybe you’ll find a pretty young thing you’ll want to keep.”

Nick swirled the lemonade around in the bottom of his cup. A pretty young thing? Hardly what he considered good wife material. He’d had one of those once, and look how it had turned out.

Bitterness made the lemonade on his tongue curdle. Nope, he wasn’t going to go near one of those young marriage-minded women lined up on the other side of the dance floor, looking at him with hope in their eyes. Females like that were nothing but trouble. He wasn’t attracted to them. He didn’t want a real marriage. Those women were looking for love. Every single one of them.

Just because a woman had a pretty face didn’t mean she’d be good to his children.

The song ended, the crowd parted, and he caught sight of a blond-haired woman behind the refreshment tables, soft wisps escaped from her tight bun to curl gently around her face. A heart-shaped face that would be beautiful if it hadn’t been for the dark smudges beneath her eyes.

Mariah. She was standing behind the lemonade pail beside two elderly ladies. All three wore black. Did she have to dress like a widow? Sadness pierced him sharp as a well-honed blade. Mariah had no husband and no children, unlike the other women her age. The women dashing after children, or sitting around the tables off to the side, or holding babies and talking about whatever it was women spent hours talking about.

Mariah was dressed in black, serving lemonade.

He couldn’t help remembering the smiling young girl she’d been, once, when he’d been smitten with her. When it had hurt like a punch to the jaw to look at her.

He couldn’t say why he slammed his cup onto the corral rail and left it there, or why his feet carried him through the crowd and past the dance area to the tables beyond. He only knew he was doing the right thing. He felt it down deep.

As he approached the refreshment table, he overheard Widow Collins. “I hear he’s hunting for a wife. That’s why that man’s here tonight.”

“What man?” Widow White adjusted her spectacles.

“That oldest Gray brother.” Widow Collins tsked. “Those Grays have always been trouble on two legs.”

Trouble, huh? Maybe that was a sign. Maybe I should turn around right now. Before Mariah sees me.

It was too late. Mariah plunked the tin dipper into the pail, staring up at him, her gaze surprised beneath thick lashes. Then amusement curved the soft corners of her mouth.

Amazing. He’d forgotten her smile. How it could light her up from the inside and make her as soft as an angel. Funny how he’d forgotten that after all this time.

“Nicholas Gray.” Mariah sounded as cold as stone. “Parched from hunting for a wife? Have some lemonade.”