Forgetting Herself Read online

  “Yep,” said Garrison. He finished the hitching himself, then turned toward the depot. Stocky, his hair and beard streaked white, he moved like the old cowboy he was.

  He is not even tall , noted Stuart. But cattle barons did not need height. They had power.

  The stationmaster himself crossed the platform to meet him. "Your oldest girl gets home today, boss?"

  Beneath the shadow of his black Stetson, Garrison stared at the railroad man for a long moment.

  Why else would he be wearing his Sunday go-to-meeting coat on a Thursday? “Yep.”

  Stuart wore his cleanest work clothes today, the best he could do besides getting away from his claim at all . Mariah, he firmly hoped, would not mind. To the parasoled ladies strolling the Inn grounds across the way, his simple duds made him near about invisible—and probably just as well .

  But Mariah never seemed to place importance on such things. It was one of the things that made him wonder at her bloodline.

  Garrison's fierce brows furrowed into a scowl. He stared down the tracks as if he could bring the train by force of will .

  Likely thinks he can, decided Stuart. But he knew a truth that Old Man Garrison himself did not.

  Stuart meant to marry Garrison's eldest daughter.

  You enjoy everyone calling you boss, he thought at his future father-in-law's rigid back. Enjoy it while you can.

  Stuart would do a great deal for Mariah, including stooping to subterfuge. But he would not cal a cattleman “boss.”

  He'd meant what he'd told Mariah under the bridge that first time: If he was to kiss her, he should cal on her openly. Since a sheep farmer courting a rancher's daughter would never end up healthy for the sheep man, nor come to anything real and lasting, he had determined to forget about her.

  But Mariah proved impossible to forget. Every time their gazes had touched in church that winter; every time she stood to recite a lesson at school; every time he heard her laughter, something twisted inside Stuart's chest. Something deep-rooted and incontrovertible wanned him at the very thought of her. Miracles seemed possible with Mariah ... someday. And in the meantime, subterfuge had won out. He and Mariah secretly met, again and again. And they'd kissed, again and again... and again....

  Standing on the platform of Sheridan's two-story depot, Stuart felt a flush of shame at that. If ever some fellow took such advantage of one of his sisters, much less a daughter, Stuart might well kill the son-of-a-dog.

  But it's his own fault, he thought darkly at the cattle baron's back. Neither of us would have behaved so badly if we could have had a proper chaperone— if not for him.

  Kisses still fresh on his mind, he caught his breath at the distant wail of the train approaching from the south.

  Garrison's hat came up, alert. Impatient to have his daughter back under his rein, was he? Well , things were about to change. In the time since Mariah's parents had sent her to Europe, Stuart had turned twenty-one and filed claim on his own quarter section of government land. He could ask her to marry him outright now. Proving up a claim would be hard work, even with his brother helping. But Mariah had never failed to surprise Stuart yet, and they would be working together. At eighteen, she knew her own mind. She'd said as much in the letters she'd secreted to him through a friend and his sister Emily.

  The train bore down on them. With a great gusting of steam and clanging of bell s, the locomotive chugged to an ungainly stop beside the depot. Stuart took several steps nearer the first-class passenger car, searching its fancy windows—then hesitated.

  The first man off the train felt like danger.

  He wore a conspicuous gunbelt, unusual attire on a passenger train even without the tooled leather and pearl handle. He walked cocky, too. But most damning, Stuart realized, was how the gunman's gaze paused knowingly on Old Man Garrison before he nodded and stepped out of the way.

  The rancher's head turned to fol ow the gunman's progress and Stuart thought, with a shudder: It's starting again.

  Stuart could remember when his and several other sheep families first moved to Wyoming

  territory on the promise of a homestead and free range. Cattlemen, it turned out, had a different definition of the word “free.” Their beef cattle were too dainty to drink water “tainted” by sheep, too stupid to tear off grass that had been eaten as short as sheep ate it. The Wyoming Stock Grower's Association—whose definition of “stock” proved equal y narrow—publicly took what action they could in the Territorial government. Privately, they turned the Wyoming range into sheer hell . Gunnysackers, their faces hidden, rode out of the night to kill sheep, dogs, even herders. Rim-rockers chased panicked bands of sheep over the edges of cliffs with cowboy precision. The warring factions finally called truce, accepting a “deadline” on the range that neither party was to cross, only after a massacre of homesteaders in nearby Johnson County caused a public outcry the ranchers dared not challenge.

  Then.

  By then, only a few sheep farmers remained in Sheridan County. Others had run—not MacCallums.

  Never MacCallums. But to see a hired gunman and a cattleman together added a deadly chill to the November afternoon....

  Suddenly, with a sunlit swoop of pale blue cloak, Mariah Garrison herself flew down the iron steps onto the platform and launched herself, wide-armed—

  At her father.

  From his spot to the side and slightly behind the reunion, Stuart forgot to breathe. She was so beautiful! He had always known that, of course, but... now! He understood neither fashion nor hairstyling—as his sisters would surely agree—but on a gut level he recognized that Miss Garrison's golden curls and traveling coat must be the height of style. She looked so neatly put together; so clean, and polished, and worldly!

  She looked as far from his world of fleece worms and hoof rot as ... as Europe and posh hotels.

  Her father put his hands on her shoulders and looked her over. “Well ain't that fine behavior for a la-dy.”

  Mariah smiled as if he'd complimented instead of chided her, kissed his bearded cheek, then hugged him again.

  Then, over Garrison's shoulder, she saw Stuart.

  Barely breathing even yet, he nodded a silent hello.

  She stared, her gray eyes warming with the delight of recognition. But when Stuart, emboldened, took a step closer, those same eyes widened.

  He paused, immediately wary.

  She looked quickly away, before her father might notice anything amiss. Another passenger—a tall , light-haired gentleman with a young lady of the same complexion on his arm—approached Mariah as if he belonged with her. Looking everywhere but back to Stuart, Mariah touched the man's arm, smiled a welcome to him. He looked familiar.

  Did he belong with her? Stuart watched Garrison nod at her introductions, watched the rancher touch his hat brim at the lady and firmly shake hands with the gentleman.

  During this, Mariah lifted her contrite gaze back to Stuart's. She raised a gloved hand to her hair, wrapped a golden curl around a finger—the old signal asking him to meet her later, at their bridge.

  With her eyes she begged him to understand. Even he, no master of silent communication, could read those fine eyes of hers.

  He moved his attention, almost angrily, to the light- haired man who did not need secret trysts for her attention, her touch.

  Mariah widened her eyes back at him, clearly distressed.

  Stuart reluctantly nodded—but the light-haired lady had said something and Mariah spun to respond, to mask her distraction. If she saw Stuart's agreement, she gave no sign of it.

  She smiled at the light-haired man—who was he?— as well .

  Too soon, their party turned to leave. Suddenly, Stuart found himself locking gazes with eyes the identical shade of gray as Mariah's, but as cold in the shadow of a black Stetson as hers had been warm beneath a jaunty blue bonnet. Jacob Garrison, cattle baron and town founder, had just caught a sheep farmer staring at his eldest daughter.

  Stuart stared righ
t back. He might only have a quarter section of land, and barely four hundred head of livestock—and yes, they were sheep. He might not have a surrey or two fine houses. But he was a full -grown man with his own land and a good name. He would rot in hell before he would lower his eyes before a cattle rancher.

  Likely Garrison felt equal hatred. He wasn't lowering his eyes either.

  “MacCallum!” The voice at his ear startled Stuart into looking away—at the stationmaster who had cal ed him. Damnation! When Stuart glanced back, the Garrison party was already leaving the platform. Al four of them.

  The light-haired man, the one Mariah had touched, was splitting from the party in the direction of the cocky, narrow-eyed gunman.

  “You here to fetch something?” The stationmaster meant that this was not downtown; he did not want people loitering at his depot without business to conduct.

  Especial y not sheep men.

  “No,” said Stuart, after one last glance at the only woman he'd ever considered worthwhile. “Not yet, I guess.”

  And he strode angrily away.

  Stuart had met the train!

  Never had Mariah felt so grateful for Papa's steadying arm; it kept her from crumpling into a surprised heap. She knew how much work Stuart's claim demanded of him and his brother; hadn't he told her so in his letters? She knew how difficult it was for him to get into town. She had never dreamed, not in the midst of her most shocking fancies, that Stuart would meet a Thursday-morning train just to see her, much less that he would be so bold as to approach her—

  And in front of her father!

  Just as well that, when she dared peek back at the depot for another glimpse of him, she could not find him. Papa might see, and Stuart had risked so much already.

  But she searched the platform twice more, just to be sure.

  She barely noticed the heartwarming reception several of the townspeople were giving her, though she did try, gratefully taking people's hands and promising to pay visits. She went through the mere motions of bidding farewell and thank you to Alice and Alden Wright; six months with Alice had proved several too many, and after only a day Alden made her nervous with his barely concealed staring. She would not let them soil her homecoming.

  Here she stood on her beloved father's arm, the Bighorn Mountains dominating the western horizon, Wyoming air sharp and clean in her lungs, and she was home, home, home!

  And Stuart MacCallum had met the train—would, she fervently hoped, meet her at their bridge.

  Tall , broad-shouldered, stubborn-eyed Stuart. Summer had darkened his skin, lightened the ends of his hair, weighted his eyelids to give him a sleepy, serious look. And something else had darkened his brown eyes as he had squinted at her across the platform.

  Mariah liked it, for years had liked it, when his eyes went dark. It made her shiver inside, with a warm excitement she did not fully understand. Yes, he would meet her at their bridge.

  Why care any longer what Alice Wright thought?

  “Primed for a longer tour, are you,” teased Papa under the wail of the train whistle, after directing her trunks to the surrey. His gruff, low drawl could cut through anything. Mother sometimes said that was because he was a force of nature, “half German and all Jacob.”

  If not for his reticence at public affection, Mariah would have hugged him again. "You would need to force me away at gunpoint!"

  As if to emphasize her determination, the train began to huff and puff and then, with one last wail, to chug northwards toward Montana—without her.

  “Reckon you'll stay a spell , then.” She could see from the gleam in his shadowed eyes that he approved. He helped her onto a curbside step provided by the Inn, then into the surrey.

  “I suppose I will ” she agreed, heartfelt, as he unhitched the team and climbed up beside her. “Poor Papa! You simply can't get away from al of us heifers, can you?”

  He clucked to the horses. “I'll endure.”

  From her closemouthed father that was high enthusiasm, and Mariah returned it by taking his arm while he drove, supremely comforted by his familiar silence. Papa did not, she knew, play favorites amongst his six daughters—she doubted a fair-minded man like him would know how! But that had never stopped her, his oldest girl, from sometimes savoring her storybook life as if he were some kind of cowboy king and she his crown princess.

  And oh, Mariah thought her life even better than the most glorious storybooks. Whether wolves howled outside the walls of their old log cabin, or Indians rode up to their ranch well , she knew Papa would protect her mother, her sisters, and herself. Their fine homes, on the ranch and in town, were due to his hard work and determination. Mother made sure the family never forgot their blessings, encouraging what charity work was proper for young ladies and teaching them to see beyond their own lives—one of the many things that had annoyed Alice Wright in Europe.

  But never had Mariah felt so blessed as now, luxuriating in Papa's effortless security as surely as in the crisp October air, the familiar houses along Scott Street, and the expectation of seeing her family—and Stuart—again.

  “I'm so glad to be home!”

  “I did notice.” They drove another block of the mile between the depot and their town house.

  Then her father asked, “They mistreat you, over there?”

  He did not look at her but when she turned to study his weathered profile, she detected a furrow between his brows. Oh dear, had she shown too much excitement? Papa did not, of course, know that she was in love. He could not possibly understand the extra undercurrent of excitement that had built in her from the time she stepped foot on the steamship from Italy to return. It had increased with each passing day, with each milestone— arrival in New York City, the train West, changing onto the Burlington line—until now she could hardly breathe through it, Wyoming air or not.

  For the best part of her storybook life had become Stuart.

  She felt safe with Stuart too, of course—safe from Indians or wolves—but perhaps not from something feverish, deep inside herself, that seemed to threaten whenever she saw him and his stubborn eyes. Competent and wonderful though he was, Stuart represented his own delicious risk. Especial y when his eyes went dark.

  No, she could not explain that to her father. Not yet.

  “No sir,” she assured him instead, leaning her cheek against his shoulder. “Alice's parents took good care of us. I had a glorious time ... I'm just glad to be home again.”

  Papa considered that, then nodded, his gaze speculative. For a moment a great, hollow foreboding opened up in Mariah's chest. Did he know? Had he guessed? She had to swallow, hard, before managing the words, “Is something wrong?”

  But all he said was a gruff, “Learn these horses poor habits, findin' their own way home.” So she respectfully loosened her hold on his arm while he drove, and split her attention between her beloved hometown, her father's silent companionship ... and thoughts of Stuart.

  In the summers Mariah's family still lived out on their Circle-T Ranch, in the foothil s of the Bighorn Mountain Range. But in the autumn they moved into town so that the girls could attend school.

  Mariah loved their three-story brick town house with its wraparound veranda and gazebo, its gables and sparkling windows, its fine lawn. Now she studied it with new eyes while Papa circled toward the carriage house behind. Even compared to houses in Europe, it was beautiful. The perfect place to begin happily-ever-afters.

  Her stomach did a nervous flip-flop as she again slanted her gaze up at her father's stern profile.

  Before she could have her happily-ever-after, she must tel him about Stuart once and for all . Papa would no doubt disapprove at first, which had made it disturbingly easy for her to keep secrets.

  But he did love her, did want her to be happy; she never doubted that. And Stuart was a good man —honest, hardworking, churchgoing.

  Handsome. Forbidden. Meeting her in secret...

  “Ho,” ordered her father, pulling the team to a halt
and then setting the brake and swinging down from the driver's seat. The horses stood with charmed obedience as he came around and lifted Mariah down to the brick walkway.

  “Best go kiss your mother,” he ordered her, in much the same tone. He would see to the rig, to her bags. He always managed things like that for his girls.

  Mariah gave him one more hug, which this time, in the privacy of their own trees and carriage house, he returned.

  “I love you, Papa,” she said earnestly. He had to understand that, no matter who she meant to marry. She would never, ever stop loving her family.

  He exhaled deeply into the embrace, almost a sigh. Then he let her go. “Get on with you.”

  Affection, solid and enduring, warmed his gray eyes behind the usual scowl. Mariah wondered how she had stayed away from her favorite men in the world for so long.

  With a last kiss on his whiskered cheek, she spun and all but raced up the walkway to the back porch, the kitchen, and her mother. Ladies did not, of course, run. And with the thought of Stuart's darkened eyes still fresh, Mariah remembered far too much unladylike behavior she had to make up for.

  She shivered happily at the very idea.

  Chapter Two

  Mariah's younger sisters hurried home from school for their midday meal, to welcome her in a gratifying cluster of squeals and hugs. As they settled around the kitchen table, she had the satisfying sensation of never having left—not in any way that counted.

  Papa sometimes called himself a madchenvater, or father of girls. While that wasn't strictly true—his son Thaddeas, by his first wife, would be home for supper tonight—he and Mother did have six daughters. Mariah sat in the place that had always been hers, at Papa's immediate right, across from dark-haired, sixteen-year-old Laurel. Fourteen-year-old Victoria, beside Mariah, plied her with questions while seven-year-old Kitty kept quiet as ever at the far end. On the other side of the table, thirteen-year-old Audra behaved herself between Laurel and four-year-old Elise. Mother, of course, sat at the opposite end of the table from their father, where she could best deal with the baby of the family—not that Elise was a baby anymore.