Free Wild Texas Rose by Martha Hix

chuckled. “There’s a privy behind the church. No need to get your drawers in a wad.”
    She stopped so fast that dirt stirred around her skirts. “That isn’t what I meant.” Her strapped reticule swinging from a forearm, she crossed both arms and twisted around to face Whit. Her eyes speared him, as she suppressed a grin. “And if you’re trying to be funny with your uncouth phraseology, you’ve failed miserably.”
    â€œThen why are you chewing the inside of your cheek?”
    She glanced down while drawing in a breath. “To keep from crying,” she whispered, finally, brokenly.
    â€œI didn’t mean to insult you.”
    â€œMy feelings have nothing to do with you. I–I ... well, I need to be alone. That’s all.”
    â€œThe wedding got to you,” he surmised.
    â€œYes.”
    â€œThinking of your upcoming wedding, Mariah?”
    She nodded. “I’d like to be alone right now.”
    He stepped in front of her, taking her chin within his palm. Her skin was soft as a rose petal and he stroked its bud-smooth texture, knowing that each time he smelled roses he’d always think of Mariah Rose.
    â€œIf you’ve got second thoughts about becoming a missus,” he said hoarsely, “don’t marry Joe.”
    â€œMaybe you’re–” She moved backward. “Wait a minute. Why are you trying to talk me out of it?”
    â€œHey.” He waved a hand. “Don’t turn the emphasis to me. You’re the one who’s having second thoughts.”
    â€œI never said that.”
    â€œYou didn’t have to.”
    Neither spoke. Mariah shuffled her feet. No more than three arms’ lengths from her, Whit crouched back on his heels, picked up a pebble, then tossed it down Main Street.
    An elbow on his knee, he fell to deep thought. Joe Jaye was hardworking, determined, and in love. The last part of Whit’s thought jarred his senses. To this point, he had been a little slow on the uptake. Not now. Apparently Joe hadn’t been frank in his letters for fear of losing his precious Mariah.
    Once Whit had been desperately in love. Love’s a funny thing, he thought, feeling more than his years. In most relationships, one person’s love was deeper than the other’s. Such had been the case with him and Jenny. Back then, he’d been a moonstruck, gullible wet-ears who wouldn’t listen to the naysayers’ warnings that he was too young and randy to know his mind. Or Jenny’s. His wife had married him to get away from her parents; he’d married her because he couldn’t live without her. Two years later, she was dead. Time had proved he could live without her ... and live a damned fine life.
    He correlated his past troubles to Joe’s. Though the Englishman was twenty-four, a couple of years older than Whit had been at the time of Jenny’s death, Joe still had a lot to learn from the academy of hard knocks called life.
    Glancing up at Mariah, Whit admitted, “Joe reminds me of myself when I was young. So much in love that it overpowers everything and anything, beyond rhyme or reason.”
    She gasped. “Don’t say that. Please don’t.”
    â€œYou don’t love him, do you?”
    She took several pacing steps, then whipped around and squared her shoulders. “Define love.”
    He was nonplussed. Whit Reagor was the last person on earth to be asked for such a definition, but Mariah didn’t know that. Could he even remember how love felt?
    â€œCan you define true love?” she pressed.
    â€œLove.” His fingers tugged at his suddenly tight shirt collar and he rose to his feet. “Well, I’d say it’s desire, passion, probably obsession. Wanting to share your life with another. Needing to be together all your born days ... having the urge to procreate.” He gave a half grin. “Guess the best way to describe it is ... say