Open Country

by Warner, Kaki

  “Hank.” She sagged against him in relief. “It’s you.”

  “Who’d you think it was?” When she didn’t answer, he gently held her away with his good hand and peered down into her face. “What’s wrong?”

  She felt him waiting, probing. Then a new panic assailed her. “Where are the children?”

  “I sent them back to the hotel with Jessica and Brady. The Garcias will see that they’re readied for bed.” He gave her shoulder a gentle shake. “Now tell me what’s wrong.”

  Suddenly she felt foolish and melodramatic. Before Fletcher, she had never feared anything but failure, but now she saw a threat around every corner. This sense of helpless panic was new to her, and she didn’t like it.

  “Nothing. Some women were staring at me, and I—”

  “What women?”

  “In the Haberdashery.” She didn’t mention the figure in the alley.

  Releasing her shoulder, he turned back.

  Realizing he intended to go over there, she grabbed his arm. “It’s unimportant. They didn’t do anything. I—” Her words stopped when she looked past him to see the blond woman standing on the boardwalk in front of the shop, staring at them.

  Hank turned to see what had drawn her notice.

  Molly still gripped his arm, and even through the thick leather and wool interfacing of his jacket, she could feel the ripple of tension that went through him.

  “Hell.”

  “You know her?” The woman was now focused on Hank, rather than her.

  Instead of answering, he pulled his arm from her grip and gave her a gentle push. “Go back to the hotel, Molly.”

  The woman stepped off the boardwalk and started toward them, her gaze never leaving Hank’s face. Even in the fading light, Molly could see she was pretty and petite and smiling. At Hank. Her husband.

  A feeling Molly didn’t recognize coursed through her.

  Another nudge regained her attention. “Go on, Molly. I’ll be there directly.”

  Lips pursed, Molly spun. Head high, looking neither right nor left, she marched toward the hotel, furious that her husband had dismissed her as if she were a child. And who was that woman that he would so easily cast aside his own wife—

  Her steps faltered as realization came.

  Filled with dread, yet unable to stop herself, Molly looked back.

  They were standing where she had left him. Standing close, talking. As Molly watched, the woman raised a gloved hand and touched Hank’s cheek.

  An intimate, telling gesture. One Hank didn’t try to avoid.

  Something coiled in Molly’s chest and constricted her lungs. She gulped in air, felt the cold bite of it in her throat, the icy sting against her damp eyes. Blinking hard, she forced herself to move on—past the General Store—dark now—and the milliner’s shop, the assay office—her entire being focused on reaching the bright squares of light spilling from the hotel windows—then through the lobby and up the stairs and, with a last burst of strength, through the door into her room. Closing it behind her, she leaned against it, her heart pounding, her mind in tatters.

  It was her. The woman from the fort—the woman Brady said had chosen a tin soldier over Hank—the woman Hank had been in love with before Molly had trapped him in this sham of a marriage. What have I done?

  A hollow ache spread through her chest. She felt the burn of tears on her cold cheeks and didn’t know whom she wept for—herself or Hank.

  IT HAD BEEN TWO YEARS, BUT AT FIRST GLANCE, MELANIE didn’t appear to have changed at all. Same small, round-cheeked face, same wispy blond hair, same soft gray eyes. But as he watched her draw closer, Hank saw that though the changes were subtle, the years had marked her. Those gray eyes seemed a bit weary now, and faint worry lines marred the smooth forehead. The smile was the same, although less open and eager. More subdued. Wiser.

  But the biggest change was within himself. She moved him not at all.

  “Hank,” she said in that breathy, childlike voice he remembered.

  “It’s really you.” Reaching up, she brushed her fingertips along his cheek.

  He steeled himself not to pull back.

  She must have sensed it. Taking her hand away, she motioned to the cast showing below his left cuff. “I’d heard you were in a derailment. Are you all right?”

  “Fine. What are you doing here?” It came out more sharply than he had intended, but he was rattled, by both Melanie’s sudden appearance and Molly’s obvious anger. He hadn’t meant to upset his wife by sending her away so abruptly. He’d only wanted to save her from an uncomfortable confrontation. But he’d done it badly, and now . . . hell, before this was over, he’d probably have both women mad at him.

  “I was on my way back to Baltimore,” Melanie said.

  “Taking the long way, are you?” Val Rosa was at least fifty miles the wrong way. When she didn’t respond, he looked around. “Traveling alone?” What he wanted to ask was where was her husband.

  She brushed a tendril of blond hair from her eyes and peered up at him. “I don’t know if you heard, but there was an outbreak of smallpox at the fort last spring.” A hard look crossed her normally placid features. “Brought in by one of those filthy Indians, I’m sure.”

  He didn’t remind her that someone from the fort had probably infected those “filthy Indians” in the first place. “I heard.”

  “Mama died. And Paul. He was my husband.”

  “Sorry to hear it.” And he was. Whatever animosity he’d once felt for this woman was long gone. She seemed a stranger now. And a little lost. He watched her gloved fingers worry the fringe on her shawl and felt that familiar surge of protectiveness that always gripped him whenever he was in her presence.

  It was a failing of his. Probably because of his size, he felt compelled to watch out for those who were weaker and smaller. Even now, he fought the urge to shelter her as if she were a helpless child.

  Which in many ways, Melanie was—in temperament and intellect and that cloying need to please that he’d once attributed to a gentle nature, but had come to recognize as weakness of character. He’d forgotten how burdensome that dependence could be. And tiresome. Molly had spoiled him.

  Molly. What was she thinking right now?

  Impatiently, he shifted his weight from one foot to the other, wishing this conversation would end so he could get out of the cold. He glanced toward the hotel and wondered how to explain Melanie to his wife, or if he should say anything at all.

  “I was pregnant.”

  Startled, he looked back at the woman before him. “Not by me.” His memory might be faulty, but he was positive he’d never taken Melanie Kinderly to bed.

  “No, it was Paul. He was Father’s adjutant. I was lonely, and he . . . well, it just happened. Before you came to the fort and asked me to marry you.” Her sentences were short and choppy. Hesitant. “I never loved him, not like I did you.”

  Not knowing what to say, he remained silent. None of this mattered now. He was married to another woman. A better woman.

  “When Mama found out about the baby,” she went on, “I told her it was yours. I wanted it to be yours. I wanted it so bad. But she still wouldn’t let me marry you.”

  “You were a grown woman, Melanie. It was your choice.”

  “I know, but I was afraid, Hank. Can you understand that? Besides, Father said he would throw you in the guardhouse if I didn’t make you leave.” Her voice turned bitter. “He wanted me to marry Paul, you see. Keep up the military tradition.”

  Hank had wondered. When he’d first arrived at the fort, Melanie had seemed so glad to see him—frantic, almost. He’d proposed, she’d said yes, and then suddenly, she was marrying another man.

  He’d felt stunned. Then betrayed. And finally so furious it had put him off women for over a year, until, well, Molly came along.

  In his rage, he had assumed Melanie’s mother had forced her into it—he knew Maude Kinderly had no love for the Wilkins family—or that Melanie’s a
ffection had all been a sham, just another fabrication of her overworked imagination. There had always been a fantasy quality about Melanie, an emotionalism that shielded her from reality. Life was a dime novel adventure to her, complete with heroes and damsels in distress and happy endings. She saw what she wanted to see, believed what she wanted to believe. Given enough time, she might have even convinced herself that he really was the father of her baby. Thinking back on it now, he had to wonder if he had married her, would he have ever known otherwise?

  Feeling like a man who had survived his own hanging, he thought how lucky he was to have avoided binding himself to this woman forever. No Molly. No Charlie and Penny. A life built on a lie. The idea of it left a sour taste in his mouth.

  “The baby was stillborn.”

  He studied the toes of his boots. “That’s too bad.”

  “I just wanted you to know what happened . . . why I did what I did. And to tell you that I wish I had done it differently.”

  Hank was glad she hadn’t.

  They stood in silence for a moment. He noted the wind had picked up and carried a bite that foretold snow. They’d be lucky to make it home before the roads were buried in snowdrifts. “Well—”

  “Actually I was headed to your ranch,” she blurted out before he could finish the sentence. “To see you. I was hoping . . .” She gave a forced laugh and made a fluttery gesture with her hand. Hank could see it was shaking. “But the lady in the haberdashery said you were married. Is that true?”

  He nodded.

  “I see.”

  Another awkward silence. She cleared her throat. “Then I wish you well. Do give my regards to Jessica and your brothers.” She held out her gloved hand.

  He gave it a brief squeeze then released it. “Have a safe journey.” Blinking hard, she nodded. “Thank you.”

  As Hank watched her move quickly down the boardwalk, he felt the past slip away—the months of doubt and bitterness, the disappointment, the wondering “what-if”—and by the time she faded into the gloaming light, all that was left was a deep sense of relief.

  He turned toward the hotel, wondering if Molly would be waiting to ambush him, or if she’d punch him like she had after the snowball fight. Perversely, the thought of her being mad at him made him smile.

  Being unafraid of confrontations but hating to wait for them, he went straight up to her room. Mentally bracing himself, he knocked on her door.

  The knob turned on his third knock, which told him she’d either been asleep and he’d awoken her, or she’d had a hard time deciding whether or not she wanted to open the door.

  She was fully dressed, so she hadn’t been asleep. Judging by the puffy eyes, she’d been crying instead. The fight went out of him. Reaching out, he pulled her against his chest. She felt smaller than she looked and smelled like lemons and the cinnamon and sugar-coated nuts he’d bought her. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”

  “I’m not upset.”

  Even though her voice was muffled against his chest, he still heard the quaver. “She means nothing, Molly.”

  She drew back to glare at him through damp eyes. “How can you say that? She was in love with you. You were in love with her. How can that mean nothing?”

  “I mean now. She means nothing now.”

  “So you did love her.”

  Accused and condemned. Hank let his arms fall back to his sides.

  “Do you still have feeling for her?” Before he could answer, she rushed on. “Because if you do, my offer still holds.”

  “Molly—”

  “We don’t have to stay married, you know. We can still call this off.”

  Anger spiked through him. “Is that what you want? To call it off? Because that’s sure as hell not what I want.”

  She blinked like a startled owl. “It isn’t?”

  “No. It isn’t.”

  “You want to stay married?”

  How could she be so smart and ask something so stupid? He considered whipping her clothes off and showing her exactly what he wanted. Instead, he struggled for patience and tried to keep his voice calm. “Molly, if I didn’t want this marriage—and you—I wouldn’t be standing here.” He was amazed that she would think otherwise.

  She looked away, but not before he saw the smile in her eyes. It made him want to shake her. Then hug her. Then shake her again.

  She brushed at her skirts. “She’s very pretty.”

  “A china doll,” he agreed, feeling contrary again.

  “And petite.”

  “A strong wind would blow her over.”

  “She seems a lovely woman.”

  “She is.”

  That brought her head up, those almost- green eyes snapping fire. He met them with a smile. “But she’s the wrong woman, Molly.” “Oh.” The fire faded to a warm glow. “You’re sure?”

  “I’m sure.”

  This time, she reached for him, hugging him with a vigor that made his still-sore ribs creak in protest. Which bothered him only a little.

  Twelve

  “I PUKED UP THE CANDY.”

  Startled from a deep sleep, Hank opened his eyes to find Penny looming over him, her wild curls backlit by the muted light coming through the hotel window.

  “Jesus!” he choked out, yanking the blanket over his bare chest.

  “But I’m not supposed to say that.”

  His heart racing in his chest, he looked down to be sure he was fully covered. The kid must be part Apache the way she snuck up on a person. “Say what?” he asked groggily.

  “That I puked.”

  He squinted up at her, trying to make sense of her words. Conversations with Penny were always a challenge. “Why not?”

  “Ladies aren’t allowed to say ‘puked.’ ”

  “You’re a lady, are you?” He wondered where Molly was, and what time it was, and how he could get Penny out of his room so he could dress.

  She giggled. “Not yet. I’m only a baby lady. I won’t be a real lady until I grow bosoms.” She stretched her flannel gown over her puffed-out chest. “Do you think they’re growing? I think they’re growing, don’t you?”

  He embarrassed himself by checking before he realized what he was doing. “Give them time,” he muttered, quickly looking away. “Where’s Molly?”

  “Getting dressed. She says it’ll take years.”

  “To get dressed?”

  “To grow bosoms. She’s been growing hers a long time. That’s why they’re great big.”

  He blinked at her. Not great big. More like gently rounded. Definitely sufficient. An idea came to his befuddled mind. “Did Molly send you in here?” Be just like her to try to get even for Melanie.

  “They’re really soft too.”

  “Are they?” Suspicions giving way to pleasant musings, he grinned up at the ceiling. “Remind me to check.”

  “And bouncy.”

  “Bouncy.” An interesting word. One that conjured interesting images.

  “What’s thirty-seven?”

  The images faded. He turned his head to find his stepdaughter picking at a scab on her elbow. “Thirty-seven what?”

  “I don’t know. When I came in, I thought you were asleep then you said thirty-seven and fifty-nine and leventy-something. What’s that mean?”

  “It means I was sleeping.”

  She paused in her scab excavations to give him a wondering look. “You talk while you’re sleeping?”

  “I work numbers. Or so I’ve been told. Aren’t you hungry? I bet you’re hungry. Why don’t you go see if it’s time for breakfast.”

  Having completed her surgery, she wiped her finger on the blanket and grinned at him. “I might get pukey.”

  He eyed the smear on his blanket and felt a little pukey himself. “Where’s your dress, Papa-Hank? Last time you were wearing a dress.” She lifted the corner of the blanket.

  He quickly pinned it to the mattress with his arm. “It wasn’t a dress. It was a nightshirt. Don’t I hear Molly calling you?�
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  “Where’s your nightshirt then?” She tugged at the blanket, then froze, her eyes as round as marbles. “You’re not wearing anything, are you? You’re naked!”

  Before he could answer, she let loose a high-pitched squeal that would deafen the hounds of hell and fled the room. “AuntMolleee PapaHanksnaked!”

  Ten minutes later, he was dressed, shaved, and knocking on Molly’s door, primed for battle. He suspected confrontations with Molly would be almost as much fun as conversations with Penny.

  She didn’t disappoint, flinging open the door on the first knock. “Morning, Molly.”

  “Please tell me you did not invite my niece in for a visit while you were lying in bed nude.”

  He smiled.

  “Hank!”

  Stepping past her into the room, he closed the door behind him, then turned to face her. “In the first place, I didn’t invite my stepdaughter in, she snuck in. And it wasn’t for a visit, so much as a cozy chat—very informative, your niece. And as you well know, that’s how I sleep—nude. At least I hope you know,” he added with a rakish grin.

  She blinked at him.

  Amusement faded. “You do know, don’t you? Tell me you do.”

  “I—ah. . . .” She cleared her throat. “Ch-Chat about what?”

  Sweet Molly. So shy. His confidence happily restored, he attacked hers. “Bosoms.” He sauntered across to the window, speaking as he went. “Yours, mostly. Your great big, really soft, bouncy bosoms. Her words, not mine—that faulty memory, you know.” Pulling aside the lacy curtain, he scanned the sky. No snow yet, but low clouds promised it was on the way. “They sound so . . . perky.” He let the curtain drop and turned to face her. “Brings to mind a French postcard I once saw.”

  “Oh, Lord.” She lifted a palm to her flushed forehead. “That child will be the death of me.”

  “Death of you? Try waking up to her looming over you.”

  She chuckled.

  Enjoying the sound of it, he pressed for more. “The kid would make a fine burglar. Or spy. Remind me not to sleep with my pistol nearby and to get some sturdy door locks.”

  “Oh, Hank.” Dropping her hand to her stomach, she let chuckles give way to laughter.