Open Country

by Warner, Kaki

  “Brown,” she said. “Soft, sable brown. Like here.” Leaning forward, she kissed his right brow, then his left. “And rich, dark chocolate brown like here.” More kisses on his eyelids. “That’s my favorite color.” She pulled back and smiled.

  “You know you’re killing me, don’t you?”

  “I’m learning you. Lie back.”

  When he did, she hiked her nightgown and straddled his waist, with only the thin wool of his half-unions separating them. Planting her hands on either side of his head, she brought her face to within inches of his.

  “Do you love me?” she asked, staring directly into his eyes.

  He blinked up at her.

  “You don’t have to say the words,” she added, trying not to smile. “Just nod ‘yes’ or ‘no.’ ”

  Instead, he grabbed her face in both hands and brought it down to his. It was a kiss she felt to her toes and left her squirming for more. “What do you think?” he asked when he finally released her and let his hands fall back to the mattress.

  “I think you do.”

  “You’d be right.” Watching her, he lifted his hands to stroke her breasts.

  With a sigh, she dropped her cheek to his. “Don’t leave me,” she whispered before she could stop herself.

  His hands stilled, then came up between them to lift her head. His eyes bored into hers. “Why would I leave you?”

  She blinked hard against an unexpected sting in her eyes. She hated the show of weakness but was unable to stop the tears from cutting hot trails down her cheeks. “Everybody does.” How needy she sounded. How pathetic.

  “Not me.”

  She tried to drop her head from his probing gaze, but he held her fast.

  “What’s wrong, Molly?”

  She felt like she was smothering, choking on words she didn’t want to say. But they came out anyway, stripping her bare and leaving her defenseless before his probing gaze. “Today, hearing what Charlie said, it was like losing Papa all over again. I didn’t want to believe he would take his own life. I didn’t want to think he would leave me . . . that he didn’t love me enough to stay.”

  “He didn’t take his life. He was murdered.”

  “I know. But talking about it brought up all those thoughts, that pain. And I thought . . . I realized . . . I couldn’t bear it if . . .”

  “You’re not losing me.”

  But once loosened, the flood wouldn’t stop. “I treated you so badly. I lied—”

  “You saved my life,” he cut in gruffly. “You gave me a family.” He kissed her fiercely, as if by the hard pressure of his lips against hers he could draw out all that fear and doubt. “You’re not losing me.”

  The moment was too painful, too wrenching. She gave a shaky laugh and sat up, needing to pull back before she dissolved into some pitiful, blubbering, desperate person she didn’t want to be. “How could I lose you?” she asked with a wobbly smile. “You’re as big as a house. I’d find you anywhere.”

  He didn’t smile back. “You’re not losing me.”

  And before she knew it, she was on her back and he was sliding into her and words no longer mattered.

  THEY LEFT AT DAWN, CHARLIE ON THEIR CALMEST GELDing and flanked by Hank and two outriders. Jones and Foley took the lead. Sheriff Rikker and another ranch hand brought up the rear. They set a fast pace, needing to stay ahead of storm clouds building over the mountains, and wanting to arrive in Val Rosa in time to see the judge that afternoon.

  Charlie’s expression was grimly determined. Hank could see he was afraid, but not as panicky as he’d been. Maybe Molly was right, and the boy needed to do this so he could put it behind him. Hank just hoped there’d be no surprises.

  Like Penny, the boy had wormed his way into Hank’s heart. He was encouraged by the small strides Charlie had taken toward learning to trust again, and the thought of Fletcher undoing all that made Hank’s hands clench. Despite the fact that he was sometimes called upon to defend himself against smaller men anxious to prove their manhood by forcing a fight, Hank wasn’t a man who enjoyed violence. But the idea of getting his hands on Fletcher aroused the cruelty within him. For the first time in his life he understood the fire that burned in a father’s breast.

  They reached Val Rosa just past eleven o’clock and went straight to the Val Rosa Hotel. While Hank arranged for their usual rooms taking up the entire top floor, Jones went in search of the circuit judge to set up a meeting with Charlie. Rikker headed to the jail to alert his deputy that they could expect a new inmate before evening. After tossing his saddlebags in his assigned room, Foley went to check on the man he’d left to keep an eye on Fletcher.

  Hank could tell Charlie was tired. Hoping to strengthen him for the ordeal ahead, he ordered food sent up, then joined him at the small table set up by the window. As they ate, Hank checked the street, watching for the return of Jones and Foley and hoping it wouldn’t be long. He wanted Fletcher in jail as soon as possible, for Charlie’s sake as well as his own. He wasn’t sure what he would do if he came face-to-face with the bastard.

  “I wish Buddy was here,” Charlie said as he idly shoved peas around on his plate.

  Hank noted he hadn’t eaten much, but he didn’t try to force the boy, fearing if the food didn’t sit well, it might make a sudden appearance later.

  “He seemed real sad that he couldn’t come,” Charlie added.

  “He couldn’t have kept up.”

  “He might have. He’s really fast.”

  “He is that. And he’d have tried his best, but his paws would have frozen.”

  “Oh.” Charlie went back to shoving peas. After a while, he looked up with a frown. “Do you think my stepfather will go to hell?”

  Somewhat taken aback, Hank hesitated. Then he shrugged. “Probably.” He forked up a bite of roast beef and studied his stepson while he chewed, trying to hear what hadn’t been said. Kids, he found, spoke a special language that was sometimes as convoluted as a sidewinder’s track.

  “I hope so,” Charlie said. “I don’t want him anywhere near my mother and grandfather. But if he somehow gets to heaven, my real dad will kill him. He was big and strong, like you.”

  They ate in silence. Charlie finished off everything but his peas then sat back, idly kicking his foot against the leg of his chair. “Do you think Aunt Molly’s mad?”

  “About what?”

  “About me not telling sooner.”

  “She knows you were trying to protect her and Penny.”

  “But the monster still got her, didn’t he?”

  Hank finally had an idea where this was going and he resolved not to let the boy add more burdens to the load he already carried. “That was my fault, not yours.”

  “It was?”

  Hank saw a glimmer of hope in Charlie’s eyes. He’d seen that same expression on Molly’s face the night before when she’d asked him if he loved her. It bothered him that he hadn’t been able to declare himself and tell her how he felt. He had never been a talker or a charmer, and he knew some people considered him cold or the big dumb one or, as Brady thought of him, just shy.

  In truth, he was none of those. He just didn’t feel comfortable saying the sweet things women seemed to want to hear. They sounded odd in his own head, and even odder when they came out of his mouth.

  He needed Molly. He thought about her more than he probably should. And he was committed to protecting her and his stepchildren at any cost. Not very romantic, but it was the truth.

  “She’s under my protection now,” he said to Charlie. “I saw the man you call ‘monster’ talking to her. I thought there was something strange about him, but I didn’t go check. If I had, she wouldn’t have been hurt.”

  Charlie seemed to digest that. Then he nodded. “We’ll get him this time.”

  Hank nodded. “Because of you, we will.”

  Staring down at his bouncing foot, Charlie allowed a small smile. “Yeah.”

  THE HOUSE SEEMED EMPTY WITHOUT HIM.


  To fill that void and to keep from worrying too much about the ordeal Charlie would be facing in Val Rosa, Molly threw herself into hectic activity, tending to chores Jessica had had to set aside owing to her increasing bulk.

  While Molly had grown more frantic over the last weeks as the threat of the scarred man—Hennessey—loomed closer, Jessica had drifted into that serene phase that made the last weeks of her confinement tolerable, when worries seemed to melt into calm acceptance of whatever lay ahead. She was especially patient with Brady, but with a touch of poignancy that troubled Molly. It was as if she were preparing him for the possibility that this birthing wouldn’t end as happily as they all hoped. She spent more and more time beside the great fireplace, gazing out at the tiny graveyard on the hill behind the house. But instead of the wistfulness that her face had shown several weeks ago, she now carried an expression of sad expectation.

  The evening after Charlie and Hank left for Val Rosa, Molly saw Jessica standing again at the window. Determined to put an end to what she felt was an unhealthy obsession with that hilltop and all that it represented, Molly pasted on a cheerful smile and approached her. “Do you feel up to a walk?”

  Jessica sent her a weary smile. “Actually, no. I’ve a bit of a backache today.”

  “How did you sleep?”

  “Brady would tell you I didn’t. And my restlessness kept him awake as well.”

  Molly glanced over Jessica’s bulging midriff and realized something had changed. No wonder her back was bothering her; the babies had dropped lower in the pelvic cradle. Labor was imminent. “No other discomfort?” she asked, studying Jessica closely.

  Jessica reached out and patted Molly’s arm. “I know what you’re asking, dear. I’ve been through this twice before. And yes, it’s getting close, but I feel we still have a bit of time left. I would like to stretch out for a while, though.”

  “Then let’s get you to your room.”

  “Shall I have Brady send for Dr. O’Grady?” Molly asked a few minutes later when she helped Jessica onto the chaise by the fire in hers and Brady’s bedroom.

  “Oh, I don’t think that’s necessary. I feel we’re still a bit premature and I think Hank was planning to bring him when he returns in a day or so.”

  “Is it still your intent to have the birthing in one of the spare bedrooms?”

  Jessica settled back with a sigh, her gaze sweeping from the ornate mantle and stone fireplace to the oversized bed and heavily carved English antiques. This room was entirely different from any other room in the house, and a staid reflection of the most refined European tastes. “This is a room of happy memories,” she said. “I wish it to remain so.”

  When Molly started to protest, Jessica held up a hand, adding, “Not that I foresee anything of a dire nature occurring, but the birthing process is, after all, not without its difficult and messy moments. And I would prefer not to have to rearrange the furniture or roll up the rugs. Besides,” she added with a laugh, “a bed this size would be impossible to work around.”

  Molly conceded the point—the one spoken aloud, and the one that remained silent in their thoughts; if something went wrong, Jessica wanted this room to be a place for healing, not one tainted by bad memories.

  “Shall I tell Brady we’re nearing delivery? Or would you prefer to tell him?”

  “I would prefer to have the whole thing over before he even knows we’ve begun. The man made a complete nuisance of himself last time. I dread his antics almost more than the actual delivery.” Jessica said it with a tone of impatience, but Molly thought her eyes told a different story.

  The love Jessica felt for her husband was more than a little surprising to Molly, especially considering they were so different in background and temperament and well . . . everything. It was like pairing a ball gown with hobnail boots. Molly wondered if she and Hank would ever reach that depth of devotion. They had so much yet to learn about each other, and so many tender spots around which they still had to tread lightly.

  “Then we’ll wait,” Molly said with a cheerful smile, hoping that by the time the babies were on their way, Dr. O’Grady would have arrived. She was almost as nervous about this delivery as Brady was. Those old doubts rose within her, but she resolutely pushed them back down. This was not the time to weaken. This family depended on her, and she refused to fail them.

  A SOUND BROUGHT HANK LURCHING UPRIGHT IN THE CHAIR.

  He looked groggily around, saw Charlie curled on the bed, and slumped back in relief. The room was dark except for the fading evening light that came through the hotel window. Heavy gray clouds pressed against the treetops, and a brisk wind made the signs hanging over the boardwalk across from the hotel wobble and swing.

  He rubbed a hand over his face, wondering what woke him, then heard a knock on the door. Rising, he pulled his pistol from the gun belt hooked over the coat rack, cocked it, and opened the door.

  It was Foley. He didn’t look happy. Hank didn’t know if that was his normal expression, or if he was bringing bad news, or if seeing a cocked revolver pointed at his chest put that irritable look on his face. Hank wasn’t that fond of him either; the deputy marshal was so focused on his job he didn’t see the people in his path. Hank suspected the man would run roughshod over anyone who got in his way, including an eight-year-old boy. Lowering the pistol, he stepped outside so they wouldn’t wake Charlie. “Is the judge ready for us?”

  Foley’s dark eyes narrowed as he watched Hank ease the hammer down and slip the revolver into the waistband of his trousers. “There’s a slight delay.”

  Hank waited.

  “The trial in Raton took longer than anticipated. The judge won’t arrive until tomorrow.”

  “Hell. What about Fletcher?”

  “Still here. Holed up in the hotel at the other end of town. You and the boy will have to stay put so he doesn’t see you.”

  After Foley left, Hank stepped down the hall to Langley’s room. Carl Langley was one of their most reliable hands and a good man in a crisis, and Hank trusted him to cover their backs while he and Charlie were sequestered in the hotel room. After explaining the delay and posting the other two men at the head of the stairs and in the lobby, Hank sent Langley down for food and went back to the room.

  Charlie was awake and looking scared. Hank realized he should have roused the boy rather than let him wake up to an empty room. After assuring him that even if Hank was out of the room, there would always be at least two other men standing guard outside, Charlie seemed to relax a little. A few minutes later, Langley returned with a tray heaped with food. Hank took it and set it on the small table by his chair at the window. He motioned Charlie over. “Take a seat.”

  “I have to wash my hands first.”

  “Says who?”

  “Aunt Molly. You should wash yours too.”

  “We didn’t wash before,” Hank pointed out.

  “I forgot.”

  Hank sighed. But not wanting to undermine his wife, he poured water into the bowl on the bureau, and he and Charlie washed.

  “Now can we eat?” he asked as he took his seat at the table.

  “After we say grace.”

  “Another rule of Aunt Molly’s?” Hank reminded himself to remember to have a word with his wife. Too many rules could stifle a growing boy. Or anyone.

  Charlie said grace.

  “Anything else?” Hank asked, trying to ignore the rumbling in his stomach.

  “No, sir.”

  They ate in silence. Hank was pleased the boy wasn’t a chatterbox like his little sister. It wasn’t that he minded talking, but sometimes all those words interfered with productive thinking. And right then he was thinking about how to fix Penny’s cat so the damn head would stop falling off. That, and bosoms.

  After they’d finished eating, Hank carried the tray to the hall then returned to his post by the window. Charlie remained slouched at the small table, bouncing his foot against the leg of his chair.

  Hank tolerated it a
s long as he could. “You play poker?” he finally asked.

  Charlie found the question amusing. “I’m not allowed.”

  “Says who? Wait, let me guess. Aunt Molly.”

  Charlie grinned.

  “What does she have against poker?”

  “She doesn’t like gambling.”

  “Poker’s not gambling,” Hank argued. “Not if you don’t bet. And if you did bet, you’d be a fool to bet on a losing hand, wouldn’t you?”

  “I guess.”

  “And if you knew you had a winning hand, what would be the gamble?”

  Charlie thought that over and, being a logical thinker, found the flaw. “What if the other guy thinks he has a winning hand too?”

  “Then you have to outthink him. Fish the deck of cards out of my saddlebag over there, and I’ll show you how.”

  Charlie retrieved the packet of cards and returned to his seat. “Aunt Molly won’t like it,” he said, watching Hank shuffle.

  “Think of it as working on your numbers.”

  “She still won’t like it.”

  “I’ll make her see reason.”

  “How?”

  Hank grinned, all kinds of ideas churning in his head. “Oh, I’ll think of something.”

  MOLLY AWOKE BEFORE DAWN TO A LOUD BANGING ON THE door. Rising, she flung it open to find a white-faced Maria Garcia hovering in the hall. “Señora, ven ahora! Los bebés—”

  “The babies?”

  “Sí, sí. Ahora.”

  “I’ll be there in a moment.” Rushing into the dressing room, Molly pulled on the old work dress and apron she’d left hanging in readiness on a hook, tied a kerchief around her head, grabbed her medicine satchel, and headed to the birthing room that had been set up in the west wing.

  Brady met her at the door. He looked ghastly. Setting her satchel in the hall, she pulled him outside and closed the door behind him. “You shouldn’t be in there.”