Open Country

by Warner, Kaki

  He rose, pulled on his unions, then sat back down on the edge of the mattress, as if undecided what to do next.

  Molly watched firelight shadows dance across his broad back and felt some of her anger ease. He wasn’t a bad man, although he’d treated her badly. Nor was she bad because she’d withheld the truth. They both deserved a second chance. But she was still too angry to allow him that.

  “Why didn’t you tell me truth?” he said after a while. “Why did you string me along and make me think we were a family? That we cared for each other?” He looked back at her over his shoulder. She could see the hurt in his eyes.

  Because we do care for each other and we can still be a family. But she wasn’t sure she still wanted that. Suddenly impatient with her own confused emotions, and desperate for this to be over, she said in clipped impatient tones, “At first I didn’t tell you because Brady asked me to wait until you were stronger. Then later, I was afraid of what would happen when I did. I felt safe, and the children were happy. It was . . . nice. I didn’t want it to end.”

  He looked at her, silent and brooding.

  What did he see when he looked at her that way? What thoughts did he hide behind that expressionless mask? Resentment eddied through her. How long was she to pay for that sin? Wasn’t what just happened punishment enough?

  “Has Brady never lied to you?” she asked.

  “Once. He had his reasons.”

  “We all have our reasons, Hank.”

  He bent and fumbled with the tab closures on his unions, then sat facing the wall, his hands resting on his thighs.

  “You’ve forgiven him,” Molly persisted. “Why not me?”

  “It’s not about forgiveness, Molly. It’s about faith. I trusted you.”

  “And once broken, that trust can never mend. Is that what you’re saying?”

  “No, that’s not what I’m saying.” He swiveled to look at her.

  He looked drawn and defeated. A man trapped between his implacable nature and his own desires. She sensed a battle raging inside him, could almost feel his indecision and confusion.

  “But it’ll take time, Molly.”

  And she was to meekly wait for him to finally forgive her? Hardly.

  “Take all the time you need, Hank,” she said wearily. “But don’t come to me again like you did tonight. There’s no place for anger or distrust in my bed.”

  “Molly . . .”

  “Good night, Hank.” Rolling away from him onto her side, she stared at the fire, waiting, hoping for . . . something. Instead, she felt the mattress shift as he rose, then heard the sound of his footfalls across the floor. A moment later the door closed.

  Pressing her face into the pillow, she let the tears come.

  Sixteen

  MOLLY WAITED UNTIL SUNLIGHT CREPT ACROSS THE FLOOR, then rose and washed. She studied her reflection in the mirror above the bureau, expecting changes, evidence of the emotional seesaw she had been on over the last days.

  She looked tired and pale and worn around the edges. But the greatest change was in her eyes. She had seen that expression of weary resignation in Andersonville and more recently in Martha Burnett’s eyes. Had she fallen to a point where just to endure was the most she could hope for?

  She had dreamed of so much more.

  Hearing no movement from the other part of the house, she assumed Hank had left. She hoped so. She didn’t know if she could bear facing him this morning. That scene last night had left her heartsick and angry, and she was too edgy right now to hash it out with him.

  And hash it out they would. He would give her a just reason for his treatment of her. She would allow no stony silence this time. By heaven, she would make him talk to her.

  Then she would decide what she must do.

  Meanwhile, she would somehow get through Christmas and see that Jessica’s babies were safely delivered. Then she would gather her strength for whatever lay ahead. She couldn’t leave now if she wanted to, not in the dead of winter with two children in tow. She still had no money and no place to go. And Fletcher’s men were still out there. Besides, she wasn’t ready to give up on Hank. On them. On all those lovely dreams.

  After dressing and setting the room to rights, she wandered through the empty house, wondering if anyone would come to take her back to the church or if she should strike out on her own. She wasn’t sure she knew where it was, having come and gone in the middle of the night. She supposed if she walked through town, she would eventually find it. She certainly wasn’t going to sit in Hank’s house like a dutiful little wife and wait for him to come home. She would rather perform surgery on herself. With a rusty penknife. Resolved to bring some order to the mess she’d made of things, she donned one of Hank’s spare jackets—her borrowed shearling was still at the church—and left the house.

  The day was crisp and bright, a cloudless sky above and a dazzling blanket of pristine snow below. As she walked, she breathed deep, enjoying the bite of cold in her throat, feeling her spirits lift with every lungful of clean mountain air. She would get through this. She would find a way to heal the wounds they had dealt each other. After all, that was what she did best, wasn’t it?

  “WHAT DO YOU MEAN IT WAS DELIBERATE?” HANK DEMANDED.

  Brady shoved a piece of wood across the foreman’s desk in the mine shack. “This is from the main crossbeam over the entrance to the new shaft. Those are saw marks.”

  Hank studied the markings, ran his thumb over the edge. Wood never broke that clean on its own. He returned it to the desk. “But why?”

  “Hell if I know.”

  “Blake.” Franklin Blake had been nosing around the Wilkins holdings for months. He had a reputation for shady deals and brutality toward his workers, which was why Hank and Brady had refused to consider his offers to buy the mines or the ranch water rights. But this was too blatant, too obvious, even for Blake.

  “It’s not your fault,” Brady said.

  Hank looked up and met his brother’s eyes—the right one anyway. The left was nearly swollen shut. His top lip was swollen as well, with a nice split disappearing under his mustache. Hank took some satisfaction in that. “You ought to have Molly tend that cut.”

  “Is that an apology?”

  “Hell, no.” Movement caught his eye, and Hank looked through the window behind his brother at a figure moving along the boardwalk. Molly. He would recognize that stride anywhere. The woman didn’t walk. She marched. Chin first, head high, like she had a brass band playing in her head and her footsteps were the drumbeat. A woman of purpose. A hollow feeling opened in his chest. How could he have used her so badly? What kind of man had he become?

  “She’d try to stitch it,” Brady muttered, fingering the cut. “And that would mean shaving my mustache, which I won’t do, of course.”

  Hank watched Molly step into the alley between the boot shop and O’Hara’s Apothecary. A moment later she came back out and stood for a moment, looking down the street in one direction, then the other. Probably looking for the church. He ought to go help her, but the thought of facing her made his head hurt. Last night had been disastrous. He hadn’t meant to be so . . . what had she called it? Selfish and cold. He’d been that and more. Christ. It seemed whenever he was around her lately he humiliated himself.

  He didn’t like it—that feeling of regret—of loss—of missed chances. He wasn’t accustomed to such uncertainty, and the emotional turmoil she had brought into his carefully ordered life was intolerable to him. It would be best for both of them if he let her go. Ended it. Got the annulment, gave her enough money to salve his bruised conscience and set her and the children up in California, then sent her on her way.

  But as soon as that idea formed, a sudden image of himself filled his mind—alone, still living in Brady’s shadow, still in turmoil over these same regrets and missed chances. Damn her. For one unreasonable moment he almost hated her for exposing the lonely sterility of his old life. Because now, after these weeks with Molly and Penny and
Charlie, he could never go back.

  “I see you’re still shaving.”

  Hank glanced at his brother.

  “I half expected you to start growing the beard again.”

  “Why?”

  “Usual reason.” Brady tried to sneer, then winced at the pull on his lip. “To hide behind.”

  “You want another black eye?”

  “You’re welcome to try. Now that you don’t have your cast as an excuse, I’ll feel better about beating the hell out of you.”

  “Best bring a friend then.”

  Looking back to the window, Hank saw Molly hesitate outside the livery. She seemed ridiculously small in his jacket. And why wasn’t she wearing gloves or a hat? Didn’t she know she had a low tolerance to cold? He’d have to remind her . . . if they ever spoke to each other again.

  A man in a slouch hat approached her. From this distance Hank couldn’t tell who he was, but there was something about the way he moved. A lot of hand flapping. A weak sister. Molly didn’t seem to like him either and tried to back away. But when he leaned down to say something to her, then took her arm to lead her in the direction of the church behind the livery, she went with him.

  “The cave-in wasn’t your fault,” Brady said again.

  Hank turned from the window, suddenly feeling restless and on edge. “I should have been more vigilant. Posted a guard. Something.”

  “You had no cause to. It wasn’t negligence, Hank. Or an accident you could have foreseen. It was deliberate sabotage.”

  “I’m the man in charge. It’s my responsibility.”

  Brady threw his hands up in exasperation. “Damnit, Hank. Haven’t you made enough mistakes lately? Why are you looking for more?”

  “What mistakes?”

  “Christ.” Brady started to scratch the stubble on his cheek then winced when he got too near the bruise by his eye. “I saw you go past here with Molly last night. Then later you come stomping back like you’ve got a burr up your tail. Not the behavior of a well-satisfied man.”

  Aware that his brother was watching him, Hank picked up the piece of wood and rolled it in his hands. “So you don’t think it’s Blake?”

  Brady sighed. “You are one close-mouthed sonofabitch.”

  Hank tossed the wood back onto the desk. “And you’re an interfering bastard.”

  “I’m observing. There’s a difference.”

  “Right.” Hank turned toward the door. “I’ll ask around, see if anyone’s seen a stranger in town.” Like the man outside the livery with Molly. He opened the door.

  “What about Molly?” Brady asked.

  Hank stopped on the threshold, one step shy of escape. The man was goddamn relentless. “What about her?” he snapped.

  “What are you going to do about her?”

  That was a question Hank had wrestled with since he’d left the house the night before, and he still didn’t have an answer. The woman had him doubting himself, in a constant state of confusion, and so furious he could hardly form a thought.

  Yet he didn’t trust himself to stay away from her.

  He was that doomed.

  He sighed. For her safety and his peace of mind, there was really only one thing he could do. “I’ll think of something.” Then before his brother could question him further, he closed the door and went to tell his wife he was sending her back to the ranch.

  THE SCARRED MAN SHOVED MOLLY INTO THE LAST STALL. She hit hard against the wall and crumpled to the hay-strewn floor. Fighting to catch her breath, she crouched in the corner staring up at the man who had followed them through Nebraska, then Utah, to Val Rosa, and now Redemption.

  “You’re a hard woman to track down, lovey.”

  He was even more hideous than Penny had said, and not just because of the puckered burn scar that covered the left side of his face from hat to chin. There was an aura of evil about him that aroused within her a level of fear she had never known.

  He began to pace the small enclosure, his steps kicking up puffs of dust that danced in the bands of light coming through the gaps in the planks of the exterior wall. She wondered where the stable owner was and if anyone would hear her if she screamed and what the scarred man would do if she tried to run.

  He was thin, almost cadaverous, and moved with a sensuous hip-rolling gait, like she imagined a snake might move if it had legs. When he spoke, he gestured in the exaggerated way of an actor on the stage, and his voice was a lisping hiss that made her wonder if the flames that had marred his face had damaged his vocal chords as well. There was a wrongness about him that went deeper than the scar.

  Trying to focus past the fear, she looked around for a way to escape or a weapon she could use against him. Nothing, not even a bucket or a halter on a peg. If he came close enough, she could go for his eyes with her nails. Or kick him in the groin. If she could butt him in the sternum and momentarily paralyze the vagus nerve, she might have enough time to get to the door. But if she failed . . .

  Despair swept through her. Thank God the children were at the ranch. Whatever it was he had planned for her, at least they would be safe.

  Don’t argue. Do what he says. Stay alive, she chanted silently.

  He stopped before her, his elegant, almost-feminine hands spread on his narrow hips. He gave her a scolding look. “Do you have any idea the trouble I had to go through to lure Nurse Molly away from that backwoods ranch?” He waved a languid hand in exasperation. “Mercy, I almost died in that cave-in.”

  At her look of horror, he laughed, a high-pitched trill that vibrated along the nerves under Molly’s skin. “Close your mouth, lovey. You look like a trout.” Hunkering down in front of her, he cocked his head to one side and studied her through eyes as dark and empty as an abandoned well.

  Molly pressed back against the wall. “W-What do you want?”

  “Me?” With an expression of exaggerated innocence, he splayed his fingers on his chest. “I don’t want anything. But your brother-in-law is most anxious that you return what you took from him.”

  “I didn’t take anything.”

  His hand shot out and struck the side of her face, driving her head back against the wall. Pain ricocheted down her neck.

  “Please, love, don’t interrupt. Don’t let’s lie to each other either. It would get messy and I abhor messiness. And you wouldn’t want to upset me, would you?”

  Stunned, Molly blinked at him, her senses reeling from the blow.

  He leaned closer. His breath stank of cloves. “That was a direct question,” he said in his hissing voice. “You can answer.”

  “N-No.”

  “No, what?”

  “No, I d-don’t want to upset you.”

  “Excellent.” He settled back on his heels. “Now where were we? Ah, yes. I was explaining to you what you need to do. It’s quite simple, really. Return the book. That’s all. And voilà!” He snapped his fingers. “I disappear from your life, Fletcher disappears, and we all live happily ever after.”

  “W-What book? I don’t have any book.”

  He slapped her again. “Then you had best start looking for one, hadn’t you?”

  Molly recoiled, one hand pressed to her stinging cheek. “I d-don’t have anything of his, I s-swear it.”

  He drew back his hand.

  She ducked, her arm over her face. But instead of the blow she’d expected, she felt his fingers stroking her hair. She shuddered with the effort not to scream.

  “You have beautiful hair, lovey,” he murmured. “I once did too. But dear old mommy set it on fire. Would you like to see?” Before she could answer, he whipped off his hat and thrust his bald head inches from her face.

  She stared in revulsion at the ropy web of puckered scar tissue that rose in wine-colored ridges across his ruined scalp.

  “Nasty, isn’t it?” With a dramatic sigh, he replaced the hat on his head. “Children are rather afraid of it. Which, of course, makes it almost worthwhile.”

  He studied her as though lost i
n thought, one long finger idly tapping the twisted flesh of his lower lip. “Now where were we? Oh, yes, the children. I love children. Properly trained, they’re so eager to please, aren’t they? But oh, so breakable.” He smiled, although it was more of a grimace because of the rigidity of the scarred flesh. “Now Charlie and Penny seem a sturdy pair. When I saw you with them in Omaha, I was so taken with their beauty I just wanted to eat them up. But then you left and I couldn’t find you.” Reaching out, he tweaked her bruised cheek. “Naughty girl. You won’t do that again, will you?”

  When she didn’t respond, he tweaked harder. “Answer, please.”

  “N-No.”

  That grimace again, his twisted lips pulled flat against crooked yellow teeth. “Of course you won’t. And you know why?” He leaned close to whisper in her ear, the perfumed reek of his body almost as nauseating as his breath. “Because I will, you know. Eat them up.” He made smacking noises and stuck his tongue in her ear.

  With a cry, she shrank away from him.

  He laughed. “Oh, don’t be so squeamish. They’re really quite tasty. Now hold out your hand.”

  Molly stared at him, her heart racing like a wild thing in her chest.

  “Hold. Out. Your. Hand.”

  Panting with terror, she lifted her left hand. It shook so hard, it looked palsied. He took it in both of his, patted it reassuringly, then savagely twisted her thumb.

  A popping sound, then white hot pain shot through her hand and up her arm. She sucked in air, so stunned by the searing pain, tears flooded her eyes.

  “Shhh, lovey,” he whispered, clapping his hand over her mouth before she could cry out. “We wouldn’t want to draw attention, would we? Answer, dear.”

  She shook her head.

  He removed his hand, gave his palm a look of distaste, then wiped it on his shirtfront. “Oh, do stop crying. It’s not broken, just dislocated.”

  Cradling her injured hand against her chest, Molly swallowed back bile.

  “Now listen carefully,” he said in his whispery voice. “You have one month, and I’m being generous here because Fletcher is frantic to find you. But I have other business in Mexico—did you know they sell children down there? Not on the street, of course, but if you know where to look—well, never mind that. But when I come back, you’ll have what I want, won’t you?”