Open Country

by Warner, Kaki

  “It’s not about you,” he cut in. “He’s afraid. But not of you. How does that work?”

  She looked up to find him eyeing Papa’s stethoscope, which was tied to the underside lid of her medicine basket. Remembering what Jessica had said about him dismantling things, she flipped the top closed with her toe. “It magnifies sound.”

  “It does? How?”

  “I don’t know. Penny seems very taken with you.”

  He shrugged. “She’s afraid too. Just not as angry about it. Can I see it?”

  “Perhaps later,” she hedged. Leaning down, she picked up another handful of gauze strips and dropped them into the bowl on her lap.

  They sat in silence while she smoothed more strips over the cast. It wasn’t a comfortable silence, but then Hank’s silences rarely were. He always seemed to be watching, assessing, observing, but gave little indication of what he thought.

  Molly knew he was still trying to fit together the puzzle of his missing memories. She had no doubt that his sharply analytical mind would soon tell him there were too many missing pieces, and those he’d been given didn’t fit. Perhaps that was why he had stopped asking questions about their marriage. Perhaps he was waiting for her to tell him the truth, rather than forcing a confrontation.

  She wished she had the courage to tell him. But the more time she spent with Hank, the more time with him she wanted. Her clinging to the lie wasn’t just because of her promise to Brady, or even her need to find a safe place beyond the long reach of Daniel Fletcher. It was about time—time to savor the sense of belonging to a family again. Time to rest and let the children heal a little. Time with Hank, whose smile sent all the lonely yearnings of all the empty years rushing into her mind.

  “Why don’t you wear a wedding ring?”

  The question so startled her, she dropped a plaster strip onto the tiled floor. After she retrieved it then wiped up the mess, she was able to answer calmly. “I don’t have one.” Holding up her dripping left hand, she added, “Jewelry interferes with my work.”

  She felt him studying her as she laid the last of the strips over the hardening cast, then daubed it with a final coat of plaster. “There,” she said, rising to rinse her hands in the sink. “Once that hardens, your arm will be fully protected. But you must tell me immediately if there’s any pain, or a feeling of tightness, or if you notice any swelling in your fingers.”

  “How long until it dries?”

  “Not long. It’ll dry more quickly and you’ll be warmer if you come into the bedroom and sit by the fire.”

  As soon as the words were out, she wanted them back, realizing he might take them as an invitation to . . . what? Assert those husbandly rights?

  For one frantic moment, she cast about for an excuse to put him off should he make advances. Then she realized it was right in front of her, covered with wet plaster. He couldn’t do anything with that arm. Not that he’d be using his arm, precisely, but—God, I am such a ninny.

  As Molly directed him toward one of the two upholstered chairs flanking the fireplace, she realized that even though as a nurse she had long abandoned the rules of propriety and had in fact become quite accustomed to the sight of sick men in various states of dishabille, it was vastly different to have a healthy, half-dressed, incredibly attractive man lounging in a chair in her bedroom. Especially when his gaze tracked her every movement as she pulled a quilt from the chest at the foot of her bed and came to drape it over his long form. She was almost sweating by the time she settled in the chair opposite his, her feet squarely on the floor, her hands clasped in her lap.

  Unable to tolerate another of his probing silences, she looked around for something to spark a conversation. Her gaze came to rest on the disassembled clock on the mantle. “Why did you take that apart?”

  “I needed parts.”

  “For what?”

  “A toy train I was making for Ben.”

  “Did it work?”

  “For a while.”

  Silence again except for the pop and hiss of the fire. Molly tapped a fingernail on the arm of the chair in tempo with an inane tune she hummed in her head.

  “I wanted to build a stuffed bear with a movable head,” he said after a while.

  “Oh? Why didn’t you?”

  “Jessica couldn’t spare the clocks.” He smiled.

  She smiled back, enjoying his droll humor.

  She wondered if he felt it, too, that unseen bond that seemed to have grown even stronger since the kiss in the snow. She wondered if he was as confused by this new intimacy as she. She wondered if he would kiss her again. But mostly she wondered why he stared at her that way.

  Looking down, she saw her hands clenching and made herself straighten her fingers until they lay flat against her thighs. “I wish you wouldn’t do that,” she said.

  “Do what?”

  “Stare at me.”

  He continued to watch her. She could feel it.

  Lifting her head, she looked directly into his eyes. “You’re doing it now.”

  “You’re talking to me. I can’t look at you when you talk to me?”

  “It makes me nervous.”

  “Why?”

  She wasn’t sure what to say. “I’m not accustomed to it,” she finally admitted. “I feel like I’m being scrutinized, censured . . . like I’ve done something wrong. I don’t like drawing attention to myself.”

  He snorted. “Then you better start wearing a potato sack.”

  She frowned, not sure what he meant.

  “You’re a beautiful woman, Molly. I can’t have been the first man to notice.”

  Beautiful? She blinked at him, astonished. She had always thought of herself as unremarkable. Hair an undecided mix of too many colors. Eyes not quite green, but not completely hazel either. Average height, average weight, average face. Nothing to attract notice. Undecided, unremarkable Molly.

  Up until now, that had suited her fine. She liked the invisibility it brought, because when one went unseen, no response or participation was required.

  Until now. Now, it mattered. Because now a man had noticed her—a man she could care about thought she was beautiful. How shocking was that?

  “Well, it’s late,” he said, pushing the quilt aside.

  “No,” she blurted out. “It’s still too soft.”

  “Too soft?”

  “The plaster hasn’t had enough time to set properly.”

  A hint of a smile tugged at one corner of his wide mouth. “Oh, I think it’s hard enough.” He pushed to his feet.

  She rose, too, and moved forward to examine his cast. “You must be careful not to roll on it. Perhaps I should wrap it in something.”

  Hank put his hand on her shoulder. “It’s all right, Molly. I’ll be careful.”

  She looked up at him, realizing this was the first time she had been this near him when they were both standing. He was taller than she had thought. Even taller than his brother. And he stood so close she knew if she tipped her face forward, she would almost be able to taste the warm, male scent of him on her tongue.

  “Molly.” His right hand moved slowly from her shoulder, up her neck, to slide beneath the heavy braid hanging down her back. A warm hand now, instead of an icy glove. He bent toward her. “Maybe next time, you’ll take your hair down for me,” he said as he brushed his lips over hers. “That’s all I ask. For now.” Then he straightened and, smiling, turned away.

  She watched him cross the room, wanting to call him back. But then it was too late and the door was closing behind him, leaving her standing dazed and breathless in the silent room.

  Next time?

  Ten

  THANKSGIVING WASN’T A TRADITION MOLLY AND PAPA USU ally celebrated. Not for political reasons—Papa had no particular feelings for President Lincoln one way or the other, and as for his Proclamation of 1863 designating a national day of thanksgiving, he thought that was downright silly. Orchestrating gratitude? Absurd. No, Papa’s political beliefs were chara
cterized less by societal ideals than a general dislike of government interference, a natural outcome, Molly supposed, of the cadaver procurement difficulties of his medical apprenticeship days. Even donating his skills at Andersonville Prison had been less about humanitarian concerns than an interest in furthering his medical pursuits.

  Consequently, they never celebrated that holiday. Immersed as they were in the carnage of war, they had never felt moved to celebrate a day of thanksgiving—Papa, because he couldn’t be bothered—and Molly, because it was hard to feel grateful when sewing up a man who was screaming in agony. War rather dampened the holiday spirit.

  So Molly was both delighted and a bit surprised that Jessica was making such a to-do about it, especially since Thanksgiving was more of an American tradition than a British one. She suspected it might simply be an excuse for Jessica to do something special for the family.

  The morning before the last Thursday in November, almost two weeks after coming to the ranch, Molly walked into the warm kitchen to find it crowded with busy women and filled with the scents of baking bread and simmering vegetables. At the far end of the large room, Iantha worked on sweet potato pie while supervising the two kitchen girls as they chopped vegetables for sage dressing and dirty rice. Consuelo sat at one end of the long center table, humming and peeling potatoes, and Jessica kneaded bread dough at the other end.

  “May I help?” Molly asked Jessica.

  “Absolutely.” After outfitting Molly with an apron and a tin shaker of flour, Jessica retrieved a ball of dough from the towel-covered bowl on the warming tray above the stove. “Have a go,” she said, plopping it onto a floured breadboard.

  They worked in silence, Molly enjoying the smell of spices and yeast and the quiet companionship of the women around her. When Mama was still alive, she and Nellie often helped in the kitchen, making corn fritters and pecan pie and apple dumplings while Mama sang hymns in her soft contralto voice. Molly smiled, not realizing how much she missed those times until walking in here today.

  “This is a lovely kitchen,” she said, rolling the dough under the heels of her hands. “So roomy.”

  “More so since the explosion.”

  Molly glanced over to see if Jessica was joking. She didn’t appear to be. “Another of Hank’s inventions?” she ventured.

  Jessica nodded. “A pressurized cooking apparatus for Iantha. It took out a bank of cabinets on the back wall. Luckily no one was in the room at the time.”

  Not knowing what to make of that, Molly changed the subject. “What meats will you be serving tomorrow?”

  “Whatever the men can find. If not turkeys, they’ll bring deer or elk or wild sheep.” She wrinkled her flour-streaked nose. “Hopefully not bear. Bear meat is quite strong. In my condition I simply couldn’t tolerate it.”

  “Why not beef?” Molly asked, patting the dough in a loaf. “They seem to have plenty of that on hand.”

  “Too easy, I suspect. Hunting Thanksgiving dinner is something the men of the Wilkins family have always done, even when they lived in Missouri. Much like the Christmas tree hunt.” She chuckled and shook her head, sending copper curls sliding from her topknot. “Now, there’s an ordeal. The first year I was here, I accompanied them, and I have to say, I have never seen two people argue so over a silly tree. If Jack had been there, I daresay it would have disintegrated into a family brawl. Meanwhile, I’m sitting in the sleigh, freezing my toes, while they tromp around, discussing tree after tree until finally settling on the first one they had seen. Needless to say, I haven’t accompanied them since. Although I probably should have gone on today’s meat hunt, just to make certain they got something edible.”

  They? “Hank went with Brady?”

  Jessica must have heard the snap in Molly’s voice. Lifting an arm to brush the curls from her eyes, she looked at her. “Shouldn’t he have?”

  “I specifically told him not to ride horses or do anything that would jostle his ribs or arm.”

  Jessica’s lips twitched. “Did he agree to that? Because if he didn’t give his word, then it doesn’t count.” She resumed kneading. “That’s how they dodge my edicts. I’ve learned if I get a promise, I get results.”

  “I’ll remember that,” Molly muttered.

  Jessica added more flour and punched down the dough. She shot Molly a worried look. “If you didn’t know Hank was going, then I guess you don’t know about Charlie.”

  Molly whipped her head around. “Charlie? Charlie’s with them?”

  Jessica gave her a reassuring smile. “And Dougal—don’t worry, his gun isn’t loaded—and several of the ranch workers and their sons. As I said, a male family tradition. Ben is still too young to participate, thank God. I can’t imagine what will happen when Brady puts a gun into that child’s hands.”

  Molly scarcely heard her, worry over Charlie eclipsing all else. Her nephew had nightmares enough. What new night terrors might a “meat hunt” bring out?

  “Don’t worry, Molly,” Jessica added. “They’ll watch over him.”

  “I’m sure he’ll be safe physically. It’s just that he’s so fragile right now. After the death of his mother . . .” She let the sentence hang.

  “Hank knows that. He won’t push the boy. He has a magical touch with children.”

  Children too? Molly thought peevishly. As well as fractious horses, balky mules, and any kind of machinery? The man should join a traveling circus.

  It was late afternoon before the hunters returned. Molly had positioned herself in the rocker by the main fireplace and was practicing what she would say to Hank when she heard deep voices and heavy footfalls on the front porch. A moment later, the door swung open and the man with the magical touch entered with Charlie in tow.

  A smiling Charlie, Molly noted. With a bit of a swagger in his walk.

  So maybe she’d been foolish to worry. But magical touch aside, she was still piqued that Hank would take her nephew on a hunting excursion without discussing it first with her. Although, as his “supposed” stepfather, he probably thought he had the right to make the decision on his own. But still.

  She waited for them to remove their outer wear, all set to confront him, when Hank turned and saw her sitting there. He gave her that bone-melting smile, scattering her thoughts like thistledown on the wind, and before she could gather them up again, he walked over and kissed her as if he had a perfect right to do that as well. Which, as her “supposed” husband, he probably thought he did.

  Molly didn’t complain. In fact, she was so befuddled she couldn’t speak at all, and it wasn’t until he left the room, trailed by Charlie, that she even remembered what she had wanted to say. Letting out a rush of air she wasn’t even aware she’d been holding, she turned to find Brady looking thoughtfully down at her.

  “He’s shaving,” he said.

  She blinked at him, still addled. “Charlie?” Surely Hank wouldn’t put a straight razor into the hands of an eight-year-old.

  “Hank. He never shaves unless he’s courting.”

  “Oh?” She feigned nonchalance. “And does that happen often?”

  Brady scratched his chin in thought. “Maybe once in ten years.”

  That girl from the fort that Martha Burnett had mentioned. “What happened?” she asked, trying to sound only marginally interested.

  “Ask him.” Then with a last probing glance, he strolled from the room.

  THAT NIGHT SCREAMS SENT MOLLY BOLTING UPRIGHT IN BED.

  Charlie!

  Terrified that Fletcher had found them, she leaped out of bed, half-asleep and so disoriented she almost stumbled into the door before she got her bearings. Rushing across the hall, she burst into Charlie’s room to find him huddled against the headboard, sobbing.

  “It’s all right, Charlie. I’m here.” Taking his rigid body into her arms, she rocked him while he wept. “You’re safe. It’s just a bad dream. You’re all right.”

  “H-He’s coming—I s-saw him—he’s c-coming to get us.”

>   “No one is coming, Charlie. We’re safe here. It’s just a dream.”

  Charlie drew back. “Is P-Penny all right?” He swiped the sleeve of his flannel nightshirt across his running nose. “W-Where’s Papa-Hank?”

  “Right here, Charlie,” a deep voice behind her said.

  Turning, Molly saw Hank coming through the doorway, struggling one-handed with the buttons on a shirt with a split left sleeve. He looked tousled and sleepy and such a welcome sight to her frantic mind, she sagged in relief.

  “Hey, fellow, what’s wrong?” Crossing to the opposite side of the bed, he settled beside Charlie. Immediately the child lifted his thin arms and threw himself against Hank’s broad chest, causing Hank to wince as a bony elbow hit his sore ribs.

  Looking rattled, Hank frowned across the boy’s auburn curls at Molly as if asking what he should do now.

  Molly shrugged, as surprised as he.

  Moving awkwardly because of the cast, he patted the small body almost dwarfed by his own. “I’m here, Charlie. I’ll keep you safe.”

  “P-Penny too?” Charlie asked, his voice muffled against Hank’s chest.

  “Penny too.”

  “A-And Aunt M-Molly?”

  Hank’s gaze found hers again. “Always.”

  Charlie wiped his face against Hank’s shirt, then pulled back to look up at him. “You promise?”

  “I promise.”

  Molly looked away, blinking hard, weakened by a confused mix of emotions. Although she was moved by Hank’s tender care of the boy, and grateful that Charlie drew comfort from it, she was also a bit disturbed by Charlie’s sudden dependence on a man with whom they had such an uncertain future. What would happen when the truth came out? Would Charlie’s brittle trust be another casualty of this deception?

  Sickened by the prospect of the additional heartache the boy might suffer because of her actions, she turned to the door. “I’ll check on Penny.”

  Once in the hall, guilt overcame her, and she leaned against the wall, one hand pressed to her stomach. How could she let this go on? How could she allow them all to become attached to a man destined to send them away?