Montana

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Montana Page 26

by Debbie Macomber


  “What happened?” Molly had to know.

  “We aren’t going to get any loan, Molly. We’re going to have to find another way to hold on to the ranch.”

  Sixteen

  The alarm sounded, and Molly groaned as she climbed out of bed, leaving Sam to sleep while she brewed a pot of coffee. These late-October mornings were crisp and cold, and she reached for her robe and tied it securely about her waist, then made her way, blurry-eyed, into the kitchen. Standing in front of the coffeemaker, she waited for the hot water to filter through for the first cup.

  “Mornin’,” Sam murmured a couple of minutes later as he moved behind her. He wrapped his arms around her waist and buried his face in her neck. Turning into his arms, Molly hugged her husband, savoring the closeness they shared.

  Sam yawned. He was exhausted, Molly realized, and wished he’d stayed in bed awhile longer. She didn’t know what time he’d gone to sleep, but it was long after she had, and that had been close to midnight. Sam had wanted to review the accounting books one last time before meeting with the other independent ranchers.

  “I’ve got the Cattlemen’s Association meeting this morning,” he reminded her.

  Molly rested her forehead against his shoulder and swallowed a sigh. With money worries crowding in around them, they clung to each other for emotional support. Their lovemaking had taken on an abandonment, a need, as if proving their love often enough would safeguard their world.

  Molly tightened her arms around him. She treasured these moments before the boys paraded down the stairs. The serenity of the morning would shatter as soon as Tom and Clay charged into the kitchen.

  The coffeepot gurgled. Reluctantly Molly disentangled herself from her husband’s arms and brought down two mugs, filling each one. The aroma, which generally revived her, had the opposite effect this morning. Her stomach heaved, and for a couple of seconds she actually thought she might be sick.

  “You okay?” Sam asked. “You don’t look so good.”

  “I’m fine,” she lied. It was the strain and worry of their financial situation. Molly knew that stress could manifest itself in all kinds of physical ailments. She didn’t want to add health concerns to Sam’s already heavy load, so she reassured him with a saucy grin. “If you come back to bed, I’ll show you exactly how fine I am.”

  “Don’t tempt me.” He took a first tentative sip of his coffee and glanced at his watch. “I’ve got to get moving.” He kissed her cheek and, carrying his mug, disappeared into their bedroom.

  Still feeling a bit queasy, she leaned against the counter. She remembered the last time the smell of coffee had bothered her—when she was pregnant with Clay. Pregnant. Molly frowned and realized she couldn’t recall the date of her last period. She thought she’d been on schedule since Gramps’s death, but couldn’t be sure. It went without saying that the expense of a pregnancy just then would cripple them. The health insurance they did have was limited, and it paid next to nothing for routine medical conditions. Like pregnancies.

  The doctor had told her the emotional upheaval of Gramps’s death might upset her cycle, so she’d put off starting her birth-control pills for a month or two. But she and Sam had been so careful! She couldn’t be pregnant.

  At the sound of footsteps pounding down the stairs, Molly removed half a dozen eggs from the refrigerator. One of the pleasures of being an at-home mom was that she could indulge her boys with the luxury of a hot meal on these cool autumn mornings.

  “What’s for breakfast?” Clay asked as he clumped into the kitchen. The half-grown dog trotted behind him, settling beneath the table. Her son pulled out a chair and immediately reached for the radio. Five minutes of world, national and Montana news was followed by the listing of school lunches, beef prices and the reminder of radio bingo and the local sponsors.

  “We get hot dogs today,” Clay said cheerfully. “Is it all right if I buy my lunch?”

  “Sure.” Molly cracked the eggs against the side of a ceramic bowl, then added milk and whipped the mixture with a fork.

  “I’ll take his lunch if you’ve already got it packed,” Tom said. His voice alternated between two octaves; her oldest son was becoming a man, and the evidence showed every time he spoke.

  “You need two lunches?” Molly asked him. He’d grown an inch and a half over the summer, and his appetite had never been better. Must be the country air, Molly concluded.

  “I’ll eat the second one after school,” Tom explained, “before football practice.”

  Dressed in a pair of freshly laundered jeans, a Western shirt and string tie, Sam joined the others in the kitchen. “Something smells good.”

  “French toast,” Clay informed him.

  “You two can set the table,” Molly said to the boys.

  “Going someplace, Dad?” Tom asked.

  Molly smiled every time she heard Tom address Sam as Dad. He’d started shortly after the incident at the school. Sam had never made a big deal of it, but she knew it pleased him. It pleased her, too.

  “A meeting with the other cattlemen,” Sam answered.

  Suddenly the radio announcer had a news flash. Human remains had been discovered along Route 32, about fifteen miles outside town. A couple of hunters had happened upon the decomposed body and reported their find to the sheriff’s office.

  Molly’s hand stilled and her gaze sought Sam’s. “Pearl Mitchell?” she asked.

  “That would be my guess,” he said with a note of sadness.

  “Isn’t she the lady someone killed?” Clay asked. “I didn’t think people got murdered in places like Sweetgrass. That’s the kind of stuff that goes on in San Francisco, not Montana.”

  Molly had believed the same thing. Not once in all the months she’d been in Sweetgrass had she thought to even lock the house. The dogs were protection enough. And as for locking the car—well, according to a crime report she’d heard over the radio, there hadn’t been a car stolen in three years.

  “How will they know if the remains belong to that missing woman?” Tom wanted to know.

  “The sheriff will probably send them to a laboratory in Helena,” Sam explained. “With luck, the body could give the authorities enough evidence to locate the murderer.”

  Molly hoped that was true. Hardly anyone spoke of the killing these days. It had been several weeks now, and with no suspects and few clues, Pearl’s murder remained unsolved. Sometimes Molly still worried that the people of Sweetgrass blamed Sam, but that didn’t appear to be the case. It was as though the subject of the murdered hooker was forbidden. People felt bad about her death, but she wasn’t someone they knew or cared about. The only people who seemed to miss her—besides Russell Letson—were the randy cowhands who came into town looking for a good time. But from what Molly heard, there were plenty of young women willing to take over where Pearl had left off.

  The boys grabbed their books and were out the door five minutes before the school bus was due at the end of their drive. Molly carried their syrupy plates to the sink, which she filled with hot sudsy water.

  “I’m leaving, too,” Sam said, reaching for his Stetson. He paused in the doorway. “Just make dinner for the boys tonight. Something easy.”

  Molly frowned. “What about us?”

  “We’re going out to dinner.”

  They so rarely went out that the idea flustered her. “Where? Why?”

  “Dinner and a movie.”

  Finances didn’t allow this sort of thing. “But, Sam—”

  “No arguments.” He grinned, and any resistance she felt melted away.

  “Are we celebrating something special?”

  His grin widened. “Yeah, I just don’t know what it is yet. How about celebrating the fact that I love you? Is that a good enough reason?”

  She nodded, feeling the strangest urge to cry. Sam left then, and in the quiet of the morning, the sun cresting the hill, Molly sat down with a fresh cup of coffee and a piece of toast.

  One sip of the coffee and
her stomach heaved again. Surprised, she flattened her hand against her abdomen. Her eyes shot to the calendar, pinned to the bulletin board near the phone.

  Standing, she took it down. She flipped back to September and studied the notes she’d scribbled—the reminders of meetings and dentist visits, the church women’s group, PTA meeting at Clay’s school. And there was that terrible night when Sam was arrested. Afterward they’d made love without protection—the one and only time.

  Could she possibly be pregnant because they’d been careless just once?

  Her stomach was all the answer she needed. She’d enjoyed good health while pregnant with Tom and Clay, but during the first two months she’d suffered frequent bouts of nausea. She’d been forced to give up coffee because the mere smell of it made her retch. Both times.

  Molly didn’t need a doctor’s appointment to confirm what she already knew.

  She was pregnant.

  Russell sat in the darkness of his cabin, holding a glass of bourbon. The ice had long since melted and diluted the potency of the drink. He wished he was more of a drinking man. That way he might be able to escape this gut-wrenching pain, at least for a little while. All he needed was a few hours’ respite so he could sleep.

  Since he’d learned of Pearl’s death, he hadn’t slept an entire night; he woke up frequently, often hourly. Nightmares, grief and tension hounded him the minute he closed his eyes. Once exhaustion dragged him into a troubled sleep, he’d wake abruptly, Pearl’s screams echoing in his ears. More likely they were his own.

  The sheriff had phoned late the night before to tell him about the most recent discovery. Although Russell had no official connection with the murder investigation, he’d been allowed to visit the site.

  Afterward he’d had no doubt left that the remains were Pearl’s. The shallow grave had been unearthed by wild animals, and human bones were scattered in a half-mile radius. An hour after he arrived, he’d driven directly to his cabin. He hadn’t been there since the murder. Too many memories. Too much pain. He still hadn’t been sure he was ready to handle the place, but he’d been so tired and the cabin so close. Here, he wouldn’t need to deal with anyone.

  If he had it to do over again, there were so many things he’d change. The regrets stacked up till they reached halfway to the heavens. His fingers were numb with cold, and Russell raised the glass to his lips and gulped down the alcohol.

  Soon he felt groggy, but not groggy enough. A so-called friend, offering to help him through this difficult time, had given him a handful of sleeping pills. Russell hadn’t wanted them, but now he was tempted. He’d been awake all night following Maynard’s call about what the hunters had found. This morning, in the woods, he’d watched deputies scoop up Pearl’s remains and shove them into a black plastic garbage bag. That had shattered whatever little peace he’d managed to achieve in the weeks since her murder. He withdrew the brown bottle from his coat pocket and spilled two capsules into his palm.

  Sleep. He’d sell his soul for a single night’s sleep. Without another thought he tossed the pills into his mouth. It didn’t take long for the combination of drugs and alcohol to begin having the desired effect.

  Moving into the bedroom, he stripped off his clothes and sank onto the mattress, his back to the wall. When he found the energy, he got up, pulled back the covers and climbed between the cool sheets. Almost immediately his bare feet encountered a silky nightgown.

  Pearl’s. From her last visit.

  With a sense of unbearable grief, he reached for the long peach-colored gown and held it against his heart. He closed his eyes, waiting for oblivion.

  When he awoke, the room was cold and dark, so dark it was virtually impossible to see. The gown Russell had pressed against his heart was now wrapped around his upper body. He flung it aside and covered his eyes with the back of his hand.

  As he lay there, eyes squeezed shut, the scent of roses, the French perfume Pearl had loved, drifted toward him. His need for her was so great his senses had actually invented it, fulfilling his desperate longing for the woman he’d lost.

  The lingering aroma of roses grew stronger. Russell knew that the minute he opened his eyes it’d be gone. He was determined to savor it while he could. Fantasy, whatever, he didn’t care. Not if it brought him close to Pearl for even a minute.

  Pain tightened his chest and he wondered what he’d say to Pearl if he had the opportunity to speak to her one last time. Even though he knew she was dead, he could pretend she was there with him. He wanted her lying at his side as she so often had in the past.

  “I’m so sorry,” he whispered, his voice shaking with emotion. “We could have made it work….”

  The scent of her perfume seemed even more potent. He kept his eyes closed as he struggled to banish from his mind the horror of her last few minutes on earth. These were the thoughts that had tormented him for weeks. She must have been in horrible pain, experienced terrible fear. He hoped with all his heart that she hadn’t been bound, that she’d put up a fight. Dear God, he couldn’t bear to think about it any longer. Part of him died with her every time he imagined her final minutes.

  He must have drifted off to sleep because when he woke up again it was morning. Sun leaked into the bedroom from between the heavy drapes. Pearl’s nightgown was next to his pillow where he’d flung it. Sitting up, he reached for it now and brought it to his chest. He wadded up the soft material as he buried his face in it, longing to immerse himself in her perfumed scent. But the beautiful aroma of the roses, like Pearl, was gone.

  Sam was definitely pleased.

  Money worries had festered in him for nearly a month. Beef prices were at a record low. Ranchers couldn’t afford to raise cattle in this current economic climate. At this price, it actually cost them to raise beef.

  That was what the cattlemen’s meeting had been about. As a group, they’d taken their concerns to the bank and Mr. Burns. It seemed the banker was anxious to help when faced with all the ranchers in the county withdrawing their funds en masse.

  That morning when he’d left Molly, Sam had impulsively made a dinner date with her. At the time there’d been nothing to celebrate. Now there was. He had the loan, and although the terms weren’t the best, it was the first piece of good news in quite a while.

  “Are you going to tell me?” Molly asked, sitting across the table from him. She’d barely glanced at the menu.

  “All in good time,” he said, grinning at her. She looked especially lovely, and he wondered if he could keep his eyes off her long enough to actually eat.

  “Sam, I swear, I’ll have a perfectly awful evening until you tell me what happened this morning.”

  There was no help for it. He would’ve preferred to hold out a bit longer, but…His grin felt like it spread halfway across his face; that was how good he felt. “We got the loan,” he announced.

  Molly closed her eyes and brought her fingers to her lips. “Oh, Sam.”

  “The terms aren’t that terrific,” he felt obliged to tell her.

  “But at least we have the money we’ll need for now, right?”

  Sam nodded and reached across the table for her hand. “First half’s due December first.”

  Her eyes continued to hold his. “So soon?”

  “I’m not worried about it, because I’ll sell off the last of the herd then. Even if beef prices stay as low as they have been, we’ll be able to meet the payment without a problem.”

  Molly leaned back in her chair, and the relief he saw in her eyes humbled him. He’d had no idea she’d been this worried. Molly was gutsy and determined, and she’d silently clung to her doubts and fears, rather than place more pressure on him. Sam loved her for it; at the same time he was sorry she hadn’t come to him.

  Flustered, she brushed her emotion aside. “I’m sorry—I don’t know what came over me.”

  “We’re going to be all right.” If nothing else, he wanted to reassure her that no matter what happened, they’d find a way. They’d ma
nage.

  “I know. It’s just that…” Sniffling she picked up her purse and sorted through the contents until she found what she wanted. A tissue. She dabbed at both eyes, then stuffed it back inside the purse.

  “Did you get a chance to talk to Tom?” she asked in an obvious effort to change the subject. She blinked furiously to keep back fresh tears.

  “He was coming into the house just as I was leaving.”

  “He had some good news, too,” Molly told him.

  “About the football team?” Although thin and wiry, Tom had turned out to be an excellent wide receiver. Brian Tucker had made Tom his favorite pass receiver, and Tom had quickly advanced from junior-varsity level to varsity—something of a rarity for a sophomore. Although he had no right to feel proud of Tom’s accomplishments, Sam did. Damn proud.

  “By the way, they found the person responsible for the graffiti,” Molly said.

  “Who?” Sam asked with keen interest.

  “Tony Hudson.”

  The name meant nothing to Sam. “Another student?”

  “A senior. He was caught doing some more spray-painting by Mr. Wilson himself.”

  “Why’d he do it?” Sam figured someone—this Tony?—had purposely set Tom up. Either that or it was a coincidence, which wasn’t too likely in Sam’s opinion.

  “So many young people are involved in gangs these days,” Molly said. “And just as many want to be. It’s frightening.”

  “Even here in Sweetgrass?” That was incomprehensible to Sam.

  “Mr. Wilson seems to think so.”

  Sam mulled that over for a moment. “Did Tony have anything to say in his defense?”

  Molly laughed. “This kid needs a good attorney, because his defense is almost ludicrous. He claims someone hired him to do it.”

  Sam went still. “Who?”

  Molly shook her head at the improbability of such a statement. “I think someone ought to contact Russell, don’t you?”

  Sam grinned, but he wasn’t amused. With everything that had happened at the ranch this summer, he wasn’t taking such talk lightly. What better way to undermine and discourage a rancher than to attack his children? It was difficult enough to protect his cattle and land. Now Sam knew he had to shield the boys, as well. The best approach would be to sit down and talk with them, man to man.

 

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