Wild Texas Rose by Martha Hix

the Double Inn’s log outer wall. Using it for back support, she leaned against the wood, oblivious to the rough texture and to the slight scent of pine emanating from the building. The road fronting the stagestop that led to the center of town was now alive with wagons and horsemen, yet she took no special note of those activities, either.
    She was appraising Whit Reagor. He knew it, and she didn’t try to deny it. Nor was a word spoken to ask for her denial or comment.
    He strode over to the hitching rail, rested one palm on the cedar post, and hitched a thumb through his belt loop. Less than ten feet separated them. He was studying her but she wouldn’t let that get in her way.
    Her attention centered on his hands. She knew how they felt, callused and rough and filled with strength, yet with fingers that knew how to be gentle. Her gaze moved. She was well aware of the muscles and sinew that roped his long, long bones. Physical exertion had developed that brawn, and she knew he was proud of his hirsute body, for not once during their first meeting had he displayed modesty. But why should he be anything but proud of his physique? Such a gift, from God and from the toils of labor, was made for appreciation.
    But none of that had anything to do with whether she should trust him.
    â€œYou can trust me,” he said, as if reading her mind. “I promise.”
    Her head cocked to the side, she absorbed the sincerity in his drawling timbre. He continued to look her straight in the eye and she admired that character trait of his.
    At that moment he neither laughed nor frowned. Honesty and sincerity lived in his expression. She analyzed the total picture. His was a bony face. All angles and sharp edges sometimes softened by dimples. Though his thick black lashes were long and his eyes matched a moonlit midnight sky, there was raw masculinity to his features. His face was young though old, as if he had lived a thousand years during his short days on earth and had experienced heartbreak and sorrow.
    She recalled his smile. When he had grinned at her, there was a boyish charm to his juts and edges, as if he knew happiness and all the good things that could happen to the blessed. Enigmatic. That was Whit Reagor.
    She laced her fingers. “I think you’re sincere.”
    â€œI am. My word is my bond,” he affirmed.
    What should she answer? She had to deal with the situation, but was sooner better than later? Within days they would be neighbors, and Mariah could neither deny nor ignore this fact. As for her unexplainable fits of inner wantonness surely those feelings would pass.
    If that didn’t happen, however; could she trust herself? the voice of her conscience questioned, but she refused to listen. “I’ll go with you, Whit.”
    â€œThatta girl.” A grin, big and wide, split his face as his hand left the hitching post. “Guess I’d better collect your things and make a few arrangements.”
    Making a few arrangements turned out to be a bigger chore than Whit had anticipated. He had heard of wedding trousseaux, but Mariah’s ten heavy cases and eight heavier boxes beat all, he groused inwardly while arranging to leave the majority of her luggage at the Double Inn until he could beg, borrow, or buy a wagon.
    With Mariah beside him, he headed Lois’s buggy toward Comanche Street. He didn’t ask about the contents of all those cases and boxes, and she offered no explanations. He figured that whatever she’d brought to her penniless groom, she was going to need ... and need bad!
    Whit cast a covert eye at Mariah. She seemed to be studying her hands.
    â€œThank you,” she whispered, taking him by surprise. “Joseph will be grateful for your kindness.” She tilted her chin Whit’s way, and her expression was soft. “We must have you to dinner one night soon. As soon as I can get the staff organized. Is that agreeable?”
    Whit offered no