That hurt a little. No, actually it hurt quite a bit. Not for a second did Molly begrudge her son a mentor, but she missed the closeness she and Tom used to have—until a year ago, when he’d become so moody and difficult.
She should be thrilled that Tom’s attitude had completely changed. And she was. What she found hard to take was the fact that the positive influence on her son had been Sam’s. Not hers. Only Sam’s. She supposed it was natural enough, but…
The tears that brimmed in her eyes came as a surprise. She blinked several times, trying to keep them at bay.
Sam would marry her, she thought grimly. All she had to do was say the word. He’d be a fool not to, seeing that Gramps had offered him what amounted to a dowry. The memory of that conversation—five hundred acres and fifty head of cattle—was enough to make her want to stomp her foot with outrage. Gramps had actually tried to bribe his foreman to marry her! It was absolutely mortifying.
More than once in the past week she’d felt Sam watching her. His eyes were like a warm caress and left her all too aware of what he wanted. What she wanted, too. What distressed Molly the most was her own response. Idiot that she was, she’d have welcomed his touch—and he knew it.
When she’d restarted the wash cycle, she picked up the shirt she’d mended for him. Folding it she left the laundry room to return it to Sam’s place.
Still angry with herself, she crossed the yard to the small house where he lived. She knew so little about him; he revealed so little of himself. Russell Letson had suggested Sam wasn’t trustworthy and implied that he had information he couldn’t or wouldn’t share. Gramps had been furious that she’d listened to such gossip and had defended Sam as if he were his own flesh and blood.
While her instincts told her Sam was trustworthy, Molly reminded herself she’d once had complete faith in Daniel, too. By the time she’d discovered the truth, it was too late. To be fair, she’d been younger then, less experienced, more naive. Nevertheless, she didn’t want to repeat her mistake.
Molly had been in Sam’s living quarters, mostly to drop off laundry, a number of times. His bedroom was small and cramped. But although the accommodations were modest, he kept them in decent order.
She placed the mended shirt on his bed and turned to leave then paused in the doorway and looked around, seeing the room with fresh eyes. Sam had slept in this room for more than seven months. Not a single picture was displayed. No family photographs. Nothing to indicate there was anyone important in his life.
The letter that had arrived a week or so earlier—the letter from the other ranch—was the only piece of personal mail he’d received in all the time she’d been here. Suddenly she saw the ticket, tucked in the corner of his mirror. She shouldn’t have read it, should simply have walked away, but she couldn’t seem to stop herself from crossing the room and looking.
The ticket was from the Sweetgrass Pawnshop. Sam’s name was printed on it, along with the article he’d pawned. A silver buckle. Sam had pawned a silver buckle and going by the amount of cash given him, this wasn’t any ordinary buckle. A rodeo buckle? She couldn’t imagine why he’d pawn it, since it must have held real significance for him.
She knew from Gramps that Sam had been a rodeo cowboy, a successful one, and that he’d had an accident of some kind. She found herself wondering what had happened and how he’d felt, seeing his career come to an end like that. And pawning the buckle…He’d obviously needed the money.
Stepping away from the mirror, she decided to put the matter out of her mind. This was Sam’s business, not hers, but it made her suspicious. Once again she recognized that he was a man who had nothing to lose and everything to gain should she agree to marry him.
With her hand on the doorknob, she glanced around one last time. Her thoughts skittered crazily about—from rodeos and prize money to the ranch and its bills. Every evening this past week had been spent going over the financial records. Gramps’s bookkeeping left much to be desired. The books were a mess; despite that, she could tell almost immediately that the Broken Arrow’s finances were in dismal shape. She’d been paying for groceries and supplies from her own limited savings, but with no money coming in, those dollars would quickly disappear. Then what? Molly didn’t want to think about the answer.
Of one thing she was sure: when the money ran out, so would Sam. He’d as much as said it himself. Unless he had a reason to stay, a reason like five hundred acres and fifty head of cattle, Sam would be moving on. The reality of their situation terrified her. There had been no response to her ad for a new foreman, and the hands would be gone by the end of the summer.
Completely lost in thought, Molly closed his door, turned around—and walked smack into Sam.
“What are you doing sneaking up on me like that?” she demanded, furious that she’d been caught gazing into his bedroom.
“I came to tell you there’s been a small accident—Tom cut his hand on a piece of wire. I couldn’t find you at the house, so…”
Molly sucked in her breath. It must be serious if Sam had brought her son in from the range. “Does he need stitches?” she asked, her heart pounding in her ears. “Should I drive him into town?”
“He’s fine,” Sam assured her, gripping one of her shoulders. His touch calmed her immediately. Calmed and somehow reassured her. “The cut’s nasty, but he’s going to be fine.”
“Stitches?” she repeated.
“No.”
“What about a bandage?”
“I already did that.”
“Oh.” She’d always looked after things like this. Cuts and bruises. Hugs and healing. She was Tom’s mother, after all, and Sam was the mentor. Couldn’t he at least keep their roles straight? She knew she was being petulant, but she couldn’t help it. “I would’ve preferred to do it myself,” she said in a tight voice.
“I’m sure you’ll want to clean it and rewrap it,” he said. His hands, free of gloves, stroked her upper arms. A warm sensation settled in the pit of her stomach and refused to go away.
He understood what she felt. His eyes told her so. Told her that, and more. Without words he said he’d been watching her the same way she’d been watching him.
He wanted her. His longing was unconcealed. He tensed, and she knew he was fighting back the sharp pungent taste of desire. Then abruptly he removed his hands.
“Where’s…where’s my son?” she asked.
“In the house.”
“I’d…I’d better find him.”
Sam nodded and stepped aside.
Molly raced toward the house, grateful to be away from Sam’s influence. It was growing stronger every minute of every day. She began to feel panicky. Soon it would be impossible to escape him. Soon she’d be just like her boys, completely in his power. Unless she took measures to keep it from happening, she’d risk trusting another man. Risk saying yes to Sam Dakota.
The cut was on the fleshy part of Tom’s palm. Although it looked mean, it wasn’t terribly deep. Her son was more angry than hurt.
“Sam hasn’t left yet, has he?” he asked, squirming as she reapplied the bandage.
“I wouldn’t know,” she said, gritting her teeth at his eagerness to get back to the foreman.
“He didn’t need to bring me here. I would’ve been all right.”
“Maybe he was worried about blood on the saddle,” she said frivolously.
“Sam sees blood all the time,” Tom argued, frowning at her for suggesting anything so silly. “He didn’t want you to be mad at him.”
“Me?”
“Yeah,” her son explained patiently. “You’re a mother. He said mothers worry and that you’d be furious with him if he let me work all day without taking care of this stupid cut first.”
“Well, he was right about that. You could’ve ended up with an infection if you’d waited until you were done for the day.”
“Mo-om,” he groaned, rolling his eyes. “Hurry up, please. Sam’s waiting for me!”
She finished
with the bandage and Tom roared to his feet like a roped calf suddenly set free. He was out the door before she could stop him.
Molly followed, but by the time she got outside, Tom and Sam were both back in the saddle and headed south. Standing on the top step, she watched them ride off, like John Wayne and his sidekick in some dumb Western.
When she returned to the kitchen, Molly found Gramps sitting at the table. “Sheriff Maynard phoned while you were out,” he announced.
Molly flicked a stray hair from her face, hoping Gramps could read none of her frustration. “What’d he say?” She’d called the sheriff shortly after the fence had been purposely cut, and the man had taken his own sweet time responding.
“Not much. Just that there’s been a series of such things happening the past few months.” A scowl darkened Gramps’s face, telling Molly he hadn’t revealed all of the conversation.
“What is it?” she asked.
Looking disgruntled, Gramps shook his head.
“I’ll need to hear it sooner or later.” She pulled out a chair and sat across the table from him.
“Damn fool sheriff suggested we ask Sam about it.”
“Sam? That’s ridiculous.” She might have had her suspicions about him earlier, but no longer. Sam had spent almost seventy-two hours rounding up the lost cattle. No one in his right mind would create that kind of work for himself.
“That’s what I said.” Gramps’s gaze held hers; the approval in his eyes made it clear that he was pleased by her quick defense of Sam.
“What reason did the sheriff give for suggesting it?”
“All he’d say was that Sam’s a stranger.” Gramps’s voice was gruff. “Far as I’m concerned, he’s more than proved himself. I don’t consider him a stranger. And I trust him enough to hope he’ll marry my only grandchild.”
Molly froze; she didn’t want to discuss this with Gramps.
“Are you going to do it, girl?” he asked.
Inhaling deeply, she mulled over her answer, knowing Gramps would argue with her. “Probably not.”
Gramps went quiet, then muttered, “That’s a shame.”
“It’s my life, Gramps. I make my own decisions.”
“And your own mistakes.”
“Those, too.” She couldn’t argue with him there.
“Molly girl,” he said softly, his disappointment obvious, “you need a man. For lots of reasons. Especially living on this ranch. If not Sam, who?”
“Gramps, you’re way behind the times.” It was difficult for Molly not to laugh. Or cry. Her heart ached just thinking about what would happen to Tom and Clay when Sam walked out on them.
As if reading her mind, Gramps added, “All right, you insist you don’t want a husband. But what about the boys? Look at the change in them since you got here. You might not want to marry Sam, and that’s your choice, but both Tom and Clay have made him a substitute father.”
Molly swallowed tightly, unable to deny it. She’d been thinking about this very thing.
“They’re desperate for—whaddaya call it?—a role model,” Gramps went on. “It would have been an easy thing to ignore them, but Sam didn’t do that. I’ll tell you what, Molly girl, he’s been more father to them than Daniel ever was or ever will be.”
“I’m leaving for town now,” she said, reaching for the list Sam had given her that morning. Talking to Gramps was impossible, she decided. Just impossible.
It was well past the supper hour—and just before the storm broke—when Sam and Tom arrived back at the ranch. Pete and Charlie had already returned and left for the day. Thick gray clouds had followed them in from the range, and the scent of rain was heavy in the air. The day had been busy but productive. They’d moved the herd from one pasture to another, the second such move that summer. Each time, they brought the herd closer to the house and the road, so when it came time to sell the cattle, they’d be nearby and easier to transport. Rotating pastures was good for the land, as well.
Boris had put in a hard day’s work. When Sam dismounted, he stopped to pet the dog. For every mile he went, Boris had gone two. Later on, Bullwinkle would be good with the cattle, too, especially with his father to learn from.
Thunder crashed close enough to shake the barn roof. “We beat the storm,” Tom said proudly as he opened the door and led Sinbad toward his stall.
The boy didn’t understand that storms came and went; they struck when they damn well pleased and left without rhyme or reason, often just as quickly.
Rain beat against the barn roof, echoing through the building. Tom looked up. “Wow, that’s some storm.” He slipped the saddle from Sinbad’s back and carried it to the tack room. “I wonder what Mom’s cooking for supper. I’m hungry.”
“Me, too.”
“I bet she made chili. It’s one of my favorite dinners, with corn bread hot from the oven so the butter melts as soon as you put it on. Yum.”
The kid was making Sam hungry just talking about it. Sam had been staying away from the house at suppertime, preferring to give Molly a chance to think, consider her options. He didn’t want to influence her one way or the other. In a matter as serious as marriage, he wanted her to be sure. He’d marry her, if she agreed, but not for love—and he’d be honest about that. He intended to be a good husband, though, and a father to her boys. What interested him was the promise of that land and the herd. It represented a second chance, and second chances didn’t come along every day.
“You go on in and wash up,” Sam told the boy. “I’ll finish out here.”
Tom hesitated. “You mean it?”
“I always mean what I say.” Sam didn’t want Tom ever to question that. A hundred times in the past week he’d stopped himself from talking to Molly. He wanted to assure her that given the chance, he’d prove himself to her and the boys. Even though it wouldn’t be a love match, he liked her, dammit. And he was attracted to her. Another thing—if they got married, they’d be man and wife, and none of this sleeping-apart business. The couple of times they’d kissed should tell her they were compatible sexually. A lot of marriages started out with less.
Tom set his hat lower on his head as he opened the barn door and raced across the yard. Sam saw a jagged flash of lightning cut across the sky. As his stepfather used to say, the night wasn’t fit for man or beast. That memory brought with it an unexpected ache, a desire to reconnect with his own family. Someday, he would, he promised himself. Later. When he was ready.
Taking the brush, he rubbed down his gelding, hands working at a steady pace while he thought about marriage. Marriage to Molly. He knew next to nothing about her ex-husband. The boys hardly ever mentioned their father. From what he’d gathered, Daniel Cogan hadn’t spent much time with his sons. His loss, Sam decided. Walt hadn’t said much about Molly’s ex-husband, either, only that he was a damn fool, and without even having met the man, Sam agreed. Anyone who’d walk away from a woman like Molly and those boys didn’t have a lick of sense. As for Molly herself, it was plain the breakup of her marriage had soured her.
Sam let his mind drift back to his own family. He’d learned—from a hometown newspaper—that his stepfather had died a couple of years earlier. Sam’s heart ached each time he realized he’d never had the chance to thank Michael Dakota for being a father to him. His mother had been a teenager when she’d gotten pregnant with Sam. Three years had passed before she married Michael, who’d adopted Sam as his own son, loved him and raised him. When he’d reached his teens, Sam had rebelled and brought nothing but trouble and grief to the family. Michael had reacted with patience, but it was Sam who’d rejected him. Sam had allowed his stubborn immature pride to hurt his family.
At the time all he’d wanted, needed, was the opportunity to compete in the rodeo. He found it painful to admit now, but those years had been a waste. A selfish indulgence that had cost him more than he wanted to think about.
The barn door flew open and, assuming it was the wind, Sam hurried over to close it.
“Mom isn’t back!” Rain pouring off the brim of his hat, his eyes filled with panic, Tom burst into the barn. “She left for town a little after twelve and she isn’t back. Gramps expected her home around three.”
Sam checked his watch. Seven-fifteen.
“I thought she might’ve decided to wait out the storm, but she would’ve phoned. I know she would.” The boy was trying to stay calm, but it was an obvious struggle.
“Which vehicle did she take?”
“Gramps’s truck.”
Sam handed Tom his brush and headed outside. Walt’s vehicle was on its last legs. She shouldn’t be driving it at all! Then he realized that she was probably picking up the shingles and drainage pipe he’d ordered—which would never have fit in her car.
“Where are you going?” Tom asked, racing after him.
“Where else, boy? After your mother.”
“But she could be anywhere.”
“True.” But it made no difference. “You won’t see me again until I’ve found her, understand?” No one would rest easy until Molly was back, safe and sound. He’d find her, and he wouldn’t return until he had.
Five minutes later Sam was on the road that led to town. The windshield wipers slapped the rain from side to side, and visibility was practically zero. The rain streamed down in torrents that quickly filled the gullies and washed across the roadway. Driving was hazardous and it took Sam’s full concentration to keep his truck on the road.
Wherever Molly was, Sam prayed she’d be smart enough to seek shelter. If the truck had broken down, the worst thing she could do would be to leave it. Anyone from the country would know that, but Molly was a city girl.
As he carefully steered down the highway, going no faster than ten miles an hour, he shuddered, trying not to think beyond the moment. If anything had happened to Molly, it’d kill the old man. She was the only thing that kept him alive. She and her boys. And what about Tom and Clay? What if they lost their mother?
What if he lost Molly? Without ever really knowing her. Without ever having the chance to see if they could build a life together.
Sam saw a vehicle in the distance parked by the side of the road. He squinted through the furious beating of the windshield wipers and tried to make out the type and color.
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