Wild Texas Rose by Martha Hix Page A

reply. It was obvious she didn’t know about Joe’s circumstances.
    Why was honesty so difficult? With one big exception he refused to dwell on, he’d never had this problem before; his honest streak was a source of pride. Yet to hurt Mariah with the truth ... Who could be proud of causing pain? No way would he tell her that Joe’s “staff” was Joe.
    The red cobbles of O’Neil Street resounded with the click of horses’ hooves and wagon wheels, seeming to point out the silence between him and Mariah.
    Her arched brows quirked. “Well?”
    â€œYeah. Okay. Dinner sounds fine.” Why had Joe led her to believe she was arriving to comforts? There was no excuse for it. But he must have his reasons, Whit decided and it wasn’t his place to butt in.
    Whit pulled the buggy to a halt beside Lois’s barn, which had been cleared for the wedding dance. Keeping out of Joe and Mariah’s business meant he’d better pull Gail aside, post-haste, and order her to keep mum.
    Mariah’s mind was put to further ease when Whit introduced her to Gail Strickland. The heart-faced, black-haired young woman of nineteen in no way resembled Barbara Catley; she was effervescent, warm and lovely with no signs of vinegar.
    Almost immediately, though, he took her into a back room, clearly for a private chat. Mariah found this peculiar indeed, but wouldn’t borrow trouble. A few minutes later, Gail returned to the parlor, saying, “I’m pleased to be a third on your trip to Trick’em, Miss McGuire.”
    â€œThank you,” she replied. “And I’d be pleased if you’ll call me Mariah.”
    Whit broke into their friendly chatter. “Excuse me. I’ve gotta find a wagon for your trousseau.”
    Thankfully he didn’t question Mariah about the contents of her voluminous stores. All the way from St. Peter Port, she’d offered explanations and paid extra fares for her dowry of farm and home goods. Extra weight had been added in Galveston: schoolbooks and supplies. She was relieved not to be now interrogated further.
    Her belongings brought another thought to mind. Mariah had been reared on the fertile loam of an island known for its gardens. Texas, even the lush parts near the Gulf of Mexico, wasn’t so blessed by nature. Unless the arid terrain improved, she doubted it could support a grove of pear trees. Yet Joseph had mentioned black land and a ready water source. She had to trust his integrity, just as she trusted Whit Reagor to escort her to Trick’em in all safety.
    Â 
    Â 
    That afternoon, Gus’s cage was sitting on a table beside Mariah. While he frolicked in a dish of water, she relaxed in her bedchamber’s oak rocker. Lois had suggested her boarder nap before the wedding, which was to commence at five sharp, but Mariah was not good at being idle, nor at whiling away afternoons.
    Her fingers, holding a crochet hook and thread with the proper amount of tension, were making swift movements around a pristine-white antimassacar. Though she had begun the project some days earlier with the intent of using it in her new home, she’d decided to make it a wedding gift for Kimble Atherton, the future Mrs. Clutch Magee.
    From the kitchen Mariah heard the stir of activity, the sound of two female voices chattering and laughing. She felt the urge to join them, but no invitation had been issued.
    All of a sudden, a falsetto “Here, kitty, kitty, kitty” filtered around Mariah’s closed door.
    Gus stopped his bathing. His round eyes blinked twice, then he turned his head from side to side. “Here, ki–”
    â€œHush up, you crazed bird,” she ordered. “The last thing you need is to summon that cat.”
    The last single crochet finished in an edge’s shell pattern, Mariah snipped the cotton thread and pulled the loose end through the finished product.
    Now what was she going to do? The bureau clock