Open Country

by Warner, Kaki

  Molly smiled tentatively at the infant in Jessica’s arms. The child was already a beauty, with her mother’s ready smile and her father’s striking eyes and dark hair. She would be a heartbreaker someday. Ben took more after Jessica in appearance, with dark auburn hair and intelligent brown eyes, but in temperament he seemed all Brady—boisterous, stubborn, and fearless. And apparently quite a climber.

  “Well then. I see supper is served,” Jessica said, setting off a stampede toward the dining area.

  Supper was a lively affair, with Dougal arguing with Brady, Brady teasing the children, and Jessica striving in good-humored exasperation to maintain a semblance of polite discourse. Hank said little, ate enormous amounts of food to make up for his sickroom fare, and spent far too much of his time watching Molly. Penny was in such delight to have so many people to entertain, she was either giggling or shouting, and Charlie was his usual quiet self.

  After the meal, the family gathered by the fireplace for cakes served with coffee, tea, or hot chocolate. While Jessica read aloud to the children and the brothers discussed how the dissolution of the silver standard in favor of the greenback might impact their silver mines, Molly watched thick, white snowflakes drift past the mullioned windows. Already the porch railing held an inch of new snow. If it snowed through the night, the roads would be impassable, which meant they wouldn’t be able to leave until spring. But that also meant Fletcher couldn’t come after them until spring either. They would be safe for a while, at least.

  Molly’s gaze drifted across to Hank. He was still talking to his brother, slouched in a leather chair beside the fireplace, long legs stretched out toward the crackling logs, his booted heels propped on the hearth. Firelight played over his face, softening the sharper angles and highlighting the strong arc of his jaw.

  My husband, she thought, still amazed. A feeling of contentment stole over her, and she smiled, thinking if she and the children had to be snowed in somewhere for several months, this was a lovely place to be.

  Abruptly Hank turned his head and looked at her.

  Molly’s smile faltered. Trapped by those eyes, she stared back. A heaviness seemed to settle against her chest. One moment. Three. Then five. When finally he turned back to his brother, she almost gasped for air, feeling suddenly so weightless, she might have floated up to the beams.

  “YOU’RE STILL UP,” HANK SAID FROM THE DOORWAY OF HIS brother’s office.

  Brady looked up from the booklet spread open on his desk. His gaze dropped to the apple in Hank’s hand, and he shook his head. “Do you ever quit eating?”

  “I went a week without. I’m just making up.”

  Brady went back to his booklet.

  Hank wandered over to the French doors opening onto the back porch. It was still snowing. The children had long been in bed, and Molly and Jessica had retired about an hour ago. A light from the other end of the house, probably Dougal’s room off the kitchen, cast a yellow wash over the gentle drift of snow. Dropping the apple core into a trash basket, he wiped his hand on the grizzly then settled into one of the leather chairs in front of the desk. “What are you reading?”

  Brady held up the pamphlet for Hank to see. “The Causes and Prevention of Screw Worm Infestations North of the Rio Grande.”

  “Sounds exciting,” Hank said dryly.

  “It is. Did you know the fly that lays the screw worm larvae mates once, lays its eggs, then dies?”

  “That would sure take the fun out of it.” Hank didn’t want to think about mating. Yet lately, ever since he found out he was married, that seemed to be all he did think about. Picking up the letter opener Jessica thought would look nice on Brady’s desk, he scratched an itchy place under the bandage on his arm.

  “But if they can figure a way to sterilize it,” Brady went on, “then it won’t lay any eggs and there won’t be any larvae. What do you think of that?”

  Hank tossed the opener back on the desk. “I think the cows will be glad.”

  Brady returned to his reading.

  “It’s snowing.”

  “I saw.”

  “Six, maybe eight inches so far.”

  Brady turned the page.

  Hank propped his ankle across his knee, picked up the letter opener again, and dug at a crust of dirt in the seam between the leather and sole of his boot. “Buck says it won’t last long, since the flakes are so big and the wind is out of the east.” Buck was Iantha’s husband. Both were runaway slaves who had been with the family for over twenty years. He had been a gifted carpenter until rheumatism crippled his hands. Now he was the ranch barometer. He read clouds the way a cartographer read maps, and by Hank’s recollection, he’d never missed a blizzard. “He figures it’ll be done by morning. Still ought to be enough for a snowman.”

  His brother glanced up.

  Hank returned the opener to the desk and lowered his foot to the floor, wincing at the pull of muscles across his sore ribs. “Penny wants to build a snowman.”

  Brady continued to watch him, a thoughtful frown on his face.

  “They’re from Atlanta,” Hank reminded him. “Not much snow in Atlanta.”

  Closing the booklet, Brady sat back.

  Hank tucked a loose end back under his bandage, then scratched the mostly healed cut on his temple. “Charlie doesn’t seem to care, but Penny’s real excited about it. I told her maybe we’ll have a snowball fight.”

  “What’s wrong with you?”

  Hank quit scratching and looked at him.

  “Why are you talking so much?”

  “I’m practicing.”

  “Practicing talking? I thought you already knew how.”

  “I need a drink.” Hank wasn’t sure how much he wanted to reveal to his brother. Brady had an annoying habit of sticking his nose in where it didn’t belong, and Hank had learned years ago the best weapon against his interference was silence. But this had him baffled, and he didn’t know who else to ask.

  His brother rose and went to the crystal decanters and glassware artfully arranged on a silver tray atop a dainty claw foot table by the bookcase. Another of Jessica’s additions. Now, instead of sharing a jug of Buck’s potent home brew, he and Brady were treated to fine Scotch sipping whiskey in cut crystal glasses.

  Neither of them complained. But if something stronger was needed, there was always a jug in the barn and another in the loafing shed. Hank thought he might be heading out there fairly frequently in the days to come.

  After pouring an inch of whiskey into each glass, Brady handed one to Hank, then returned to his chair. “So what’s going on, Hank?”

  Leaning back, Hank propped his boots on the corner of Brady’s desk. He figured with Jessica asleep, he was safe enough. “She wants me to court her.”

  Brady stared at him for a moment then shook his head. “Hell.”

  “I know.”

  They drank in silence for a time then Hank said, “I’m not so good at courting. I only did it that once—other than Molly—and we know how that turned out.”

  “You talking about Melanie Kinderly? You never told me what happened.”

  Hank stared silently out at the snow.

  Brady sighed. “And I guess you’re not going to.”

  “How’d you go about it with Jessica?” Hank asked after a while.

  “Whatever you did seems to have worked.” And Hank was still amazed that it had. Brady was a rough cob, and Jessica, well . . . Jessica was all starch and fancy hats. And rules. Lots of rules.

  “It’s a confusing process,” Brady admitted. “Not at all what you’d expect.”

  Studying his brother over the rim of his glass, Hank waited.

  Brady spread his hands in a helpless gesture. “I went to save her from tripping over my saddle, and she tries to geld me with a ruffly umbrella. I grab her before she falls down a cliff, and she gouges my arm bloody. I tell her I’m going for help, and she nearly knocks out my tooth. And that was just the first day. A dangerous undertaking, courting is. Like ju
ggling porcupines.”

  Hank gave it some thought. “I don’t think I’m up to that. Not with this arm.” On top of which, his ribs were still pretty sore and headaches plagued him from time to time. He didn’t need to be beat up any worse. Besides, he shouldn’t have to do any courting anyway. He was already married, for crissakes.

  “Women do tend to complicate things,” Brady agreed.

  Hank sighed. “I wish I could remember what I did the first time. Doesn’t seem fair to have to go through it all again.”

  Brady studied him, his expression troubled. “You don’t remember any of it?”

  Hank shook his head. “Seems odd, but I don’t.” And the harder he puzzled on it, the more confused he became. Nothing about his marriage—or his wife—made sense.

  “If you want,” Brady said in a hesitant voice, “we could settle some money on her and cut her loose. No use staying married if you don’t want to.”

  Hank frowned. “Cut her loose? Why would I do that? And who said I didn’t want to stay married?”

  “Whoa,” Brady said, raising a palm in a placating gesture. “Don’t get yourself worked up.”

  “I’m not worked up.” Regretting his outburst, Hank studied the glass in his hands. “All I’m saying is she’s a decent woman. She doesn’t deserve to be cast off just because my memory’s confused.”

  “So you like her.”

  Hank thought back to the times she’d surprised him with her wit and her earnestness and those blushes that brought out the sparkle in her almost-green eyes. The woman definitely had him interested, and to his way of thinking, that was a step past “liking.” “Why wouldn’t I like her?”

  “Well, for one thing, she hit me in the face with a spoon.”

  Hank grinned. “Why? What’d you do?”

  “Nothing. We were just talking.” Brady studied his fingernails then shrugged. “Maybe I said something about you she took exception to.”

  “See? Pretty and smart.”

  “You like her.”

  “She’s my wife.”

  “But you like her.”

  Swirling the amber liquid in his near-empty glass, Hank debated answering, then thought, why not? He must have liked her at one time if he’d gone to all the trouble of marrying her. “Yeah. I guess.”

  His brother tugged at his mustache with his thumb and forefinger, a thoughtful look on his face. It was an expression Hank had seen often, and it never boded well.

  “Well, I don’t trust her,” Brady finally announced. “There’s something she’s not telling us.”

  Anger sparked in Hank’s mind. “Us? Now she’s your wife too?” Why did Brady have to elbow his way in, then try to take charge of everybody else’s business? “She’s my wife. If there’s any telling to be done, it’ll be to me.”

  “I’m just saying there’s something not right about all this.”

  “Goddamnit, Brady,” Hank warned.

  “Okay, okay.” His brother made a hands-off gesture. “But don’t come crying to me when everything goes to hell.”

  “Believe me, I won’t.” It struck Hank as odd that he was defending a marriage he had no memory of, and protecting a woman he hardly knew. But she was his wife, so he must have known her well at one time. Damn that Brady. Now his head was starting to hurt again.

  “Well, if you’re so insistent on going through with this courting thing,” Brady said after a lengthy silence, “I figure you’ve got three things going for you. First”—he held up his index finger—“you’re hurt. I know it’s a bother, but women seem to like fussing over a man when he’s hurt. And what woman wouldn’t like a big strapping fellow like yourself at her mercy? Especially if he’s feeling weak.”

  “I’m not weak.”

  “Second”—he held up another finger—“you’ve got the Wilkins smile. Of course, you’ll have to keep your hair cut and the beard shaved so she can see it, but if you use it wisely, it’ll get you a long way. Remember the Norton twins.”

  Hank would rather not. He’d felt like a lone pork chop caught between two starving dogs.

  “And third . . .” This time it was the finger sporting the wedding band Jessica had given him, which he proudly wore even though it drove him crazy.

  Hank frowned, realizing neither he nor Molly wore a wedding band. Why was that? He didn’t care so much about himself, but why didn’t she wear one? Had she removed it? Or had he never given her one?

  “Since you’re already married—or so she says,” Brady went on, regaining Hank’s attention, “even if this second courtship is a complete failure, there’s nothing she can do about it. She’s stuck with you.” He showed his teeth in that big grin that always made Hank wary. “In fact, when you think about it, little brother, this is the perfect way to court a woman because nothing you say or do matters in the least since you’re already married. I wish I’d thought of it with Jessica. Could have saved me a lot of pain. What do you think?”

  Hank shook his head. “I think I’m not surprised you got hit in the face with a spoon.”

  Nine

  “GOOD MORNING, DOUGAL,” MOLLY SAID AS SHE WALKED into the kitchen. The room was empty but for the old Scotsman, who sat at the long center worktable, which also served as a family dining area on less formal occasions.

  “Morning? ’Tis nigh afternoon, lass. I dinna ken if ye’d died in the night.”

  Smiling, she plucked a muffin from a plate on the warming shelf above the stove. “I haven’t slept so well in weeks. Where is everyone?”

  Before Dougal could answer, Brady came in behind her, tracking snow and carrying a protesting bundle that sounded like Abigail—it was difficult to tell under the wooly scarf and hat.

  “Finally up,” he said when he saw Molly. “You better get out there. You’re missing all the fun.” Depositing Abigail on the counter, he anchored her with one gloved hand and grabbed a rag from a peg with the other.

  “What’s going on?” Molly mumbled around a bite of muffin.

  “Snowball fight.” He unwrapped the scarf enough to expose Abigail’s red cheeks and runny nose. “Blow,” he said, holding the rag to her face. While his daughter wiggled and squirmed and made snorting noises against the cloth, Brady grinned at Molly. “Hank’s team is losing. They could use your help.”

  “You have teams?”

  “Hank and Penny versus me and Ben and Abigail.”

  “What about Charlie?”

  Brady shook his head. “He’s just watching.” Having cleaned up his daughter, he tucked the towel in his jacket pocket, then began rewrapping the squirming infant. “You and Dougal ought to come out. It’s a beautiful day.”

  “Tae cold,” Dougal protested. “Colder than a well digger’s donkey, I’ll warrant.”

  “Ass,” Brady said, adjusting Abigail’s wool cap. “Colder than a well digger’s ass in the middle of winter in the Yukon. Can’t you get anything right?”

  Dougal glared up at him from beneath his bushy eyebrows. “That’s what I said, ye great lummox. Ass, donkey, ’tis the same.”

  “Arse then.”

  “Och, mon, have ye nae sense at all? There’s a lass and wee bairn present.” He turned to Molly with a sigh. “My apologies tae the tew o’ ye. The bumble-headed maundrel wed above himself and doesna ken how tae behave wie the lassies.”

  Brady smirked. “Strong words for a man who wears a dress.” Holding his daughter under one arm like a squirming bundle of laundry, he left the room.

  “It’s no’ a dress,” Dougal yelled after him. “It’s a kilt.”

  Fighting a smile, Molly asked, “Are you sure you won’t come out with me?”

  “Nae, lass. The cold makes me bones ache.” He made a show of looking around. “Dae ye ken where that bonnie lassie, Consuelo, might be?”

  Bonnie lassie? By Molly’s reckoning, Consuelo must be fifty years old—long past the “lassie” age—and although she had a kind face and lovely eyes, the missing teeth kept her from being what might strictly be called
“bonnie.” But then, Dougal, with his contentious nature and more hair in his ears than on his head, was no blue-ribbon catch, himself. “Isn’t she married, Dougal?”

  The Scotsman gave a dramatic sigh. “A widow, more’s the pity. A puir lonely widow wie a need for the companionship of a fine braw lad.”

  “Like yourself, perhaps?” Molly teased.

  “I’ll nae turn me back on a puir soul in need, lass. ’Tis no’ the Scots way.”

  Relenting, Molly said, “I think I saw her go into the pantry.”

  Moving with surprising spryness for a man of his years, Dougal trotted from the room.

  After donning her coat, mittens, and a scarf, Molly went onto the front porch.

  Jessica sat in a rocker, holding a steaming mug in both mittened hands while directing the fracas between bouts of laughter. Charlie leaned against a post by the steps, watching, his sullen expression softened by a look of longing. The outsider looking on. Molly knew the feeling.

  In the yard, the battle lines were drawn, with Hank and Penny half-hidden behind a mound of snow, lobbing snowballs at their opponents, Brady and Ben, who crouched behind another mound of snow. Abigail wallowed in the drifts between the warring camps, giggling and flailing at the snow, unperturbed by the snowballs flying over her head. Deep male laughter and children’s squeals filled the crisp air.

  After exchanging words of greeting with Jessica, Molly went to stand beside Charlie at the top of the steps. “Why aren’t you helping Hank and Penny?”

  “I don’t want to.”

  Aware that Jessica was watching and that the fight in the yard had slowed, which meant Hank was probably watching, too, she forced a smile. “It might be fun, Charlie.”

  “I don’t care.”

  Determined to get the child involved, she scooped a handful of snow off the railing, shaped it into a ball, and held it out. “Here, try it.”

  “I don’t want to. Just leave me alone!” Spinning, he stalked away.

  From the corner of her eye, Molly saw Hank shoot up from behind his snow bank, arm swinging. A moment later a fat snowball spattered between Charlie’s shoulder blades.