“Was the man very special to you?” Molly asked.
He turned and looked at her, his expression carefully masked. “He saved my life. Yeah, he was pretty damned special.”
His words, his voice worked magic on her, but she hid it from him. At least she thought she had.
“Dammit, girl. Don’t look at me like that.”
Swallowing hard, she let her gaze drop to the hay and dirt packed floor. “I … I don’t know what you mean.”
“Oh, you know all right,” he said on a hiss of breath.
She squared her shoulders. “All right, maybe I do. I won’t hide my feelings for you, Buck. I love you. It’s the dumbest, most foolish thing I’ve ever admitted to anyone in my life, but God help me, it’s true. I don’t like the feeling, either. Why I’d subject myself to loving you makes no sense, especially since you treat me like a worn-out shoe.” Her knees felt like pudding, and her heart jumped wildly in her chest at her admission.
Buck turned away and swore. “Love? Hell, brat. Love is only a word. One that can suck the feelings from you and kill your spirit. Believe me, I know. Love is … is some intangible emotion that can be blown away by the wind. Or killed by an unfaithful mate. Or smashed by the realities of a cruel, hateful world. Love,” he scoffed. “It isn’t worth the pain, Molly. It isn’t worth the pain.”
She sucked in a wild, shaky breath, turned and hurried out of the barn. Maybe one day she’d learn to keep her mouth shut. Maybe … For once again, she’d bared herself in front of this man, and he’d craftily poured salt into her wounded heart.
Buck noted the ramrod state of her spine as she hurried away. His gut still had knots in it every time he saw her. So, she thought she loved him. Hell, he knew he loved her. But loving was the easy part. The hard part was the reality of what loving another person meant. It meant exposing those raw nerve endings to the air. In the long run, it meant disappointment and more often than not, at least in his case, death. Besides, he didn’t have a pot to piss in, yet his responsibilities continued to build.
His life was filling up with burdens he hadn’t wanted to deal with, but deal with them he must. But, like breathing, no one could do it for him. And as provocative as sharing his troubles and his life with Molly sounded, he knew he had to handle them alone. Hell, Molly was just in love with the idea of being in love. He’d saved her sweet behind more than once. She was beholden to him. For some stupid-ass reason, women got all misty-eyed when men played the hero. It wasn’t reality. It was a feeling based in fiction and had no place in the grueling day-to-day world. She’d get over it. As he bent over the map, he knew that he’d be sorry when she did.
Fifteen
Three mornings later, after helping Angelita feed the hands, Molly ran into Charles in the dining room as she was setting the table for his breakfast. Being in a room alone with him suddenly made her flush, and she felt a burning ache in her chest. He had such an imperious look about him. Why hadn’t she noticed it before? Perhaps she had, but before, she’d found it appealing—in a twisted sort of way, she decided. It was their first meeting alone since she’d told him the truth.
“Join me, Margaret.” He seemed to sense her hesitation. “Please.” His voice was warm, but his eyes were not.
She reluctantly sat down across from him, watching him with wary eyes as Angelita served him sourdough biscuits, a small steak and scrambled eggs. The housekeeper gave her a sympathetic look as she left the room.
“Well, my dear,” Charles began, as he cut into his steak. “Have you given any thought to my proposal?”
Molly watched the blood ooze from the piece of rare meat, and her own breakfast pressed upward. She swallowed hard. “Of course I have, Charles. I’ve thought of little else.” It wasn’t a lie.
He gave her a benign smile. “And have you come to any conclusions?”
Pretending confusion, she studied the gold-tinged Lincrusta wallpaper and the scroll shaped brass sconce on the wall beside the window. What she really wanted to do was dump his plate, bloody meat and all, into his lap. “You’ll have to forgive me, Charles. I … I need time.” If nothing else, she had to convince him of her sincerity—even though the only thing she was sincere about was that she loathed him so much, she could barely stand to look at him.
He sipped his coffee, assessing her. “Time is running out, you know.”
Her stomach plummeted. “Running out? What do you mean?”
“I mean, you must decide by the end of the week.”
Her stomach dropped farther. “Why—” She swallowed, her mouth dry as dust. “Why by the end of the week?”
Chewing a piece of meat, he continued to study her. He swallowed, dabbing his mouth with his napkin. “Because I have a feeling if I don’t give you an ultimatum, you’ll never decide.”
“Oh, Charles. That’s ridiculous.” She looked at him, noting the shuttering of any emotions behind his eyes. “Certainly you can understand my dilemma. Really, you … you proposed marriage in February. Marriage, Charles. That’s something quite different from … from simply being one’s mistress.”
He gave her an infuriating patronizing laugh, then looked away. “Maybe for most women, Margaret, but I wouldn’t think a woman like you … a woman in your position, would pass up the opportunity to live in this kind of luxury,” he said with a sweeping motion of his arms.
A woman like you. In this kind of luxury. How quickly she’d come to realize that warmth and comfort aren’t automatically found amidst luxury. How quickly she’d found everything he had to offer hollow and empty. “I’m a woman like any other, Charles. I don’t want to be considered any man’s property.”
He gave her a look of disbelief. “But, Margaret. You’re a breed. Breeds are always someone else’s property. It’s the law.”
She couldn’t believe she hadn’t seen through to his ugly soul before. “Who created this law, Charles?”
“Why, the government. And, of course,” he added, nodding confidently, “God.”
It was useless to argue. His twisted beliefs were so deeply entrenched, she’d be a fool to try. Gratefully, her gaze left him and found an incredibly interesting spot to study on the ceiling.
“I’m offering you something I’d never offer another woman like you.” He flung up his hands in a gesture of incredulity. “I don’t understand what there is to think about.”
She stood, unable to tolerate being in the same room with him another second, much less breathing the same air. Still, she hid her fury and maintained her facade. “All right,” she said with a forced sigh of acceptance. “You’ll have your answer by the end of the week.” She just hoped Buck and Sage had some answers then, too.
The rest of the day dragged. But she knew better than to go looking for Buck before dark. To make time go faster, she helped Angelita put up wild plum preserves, then sat with Nicolette as she practiced the piano.
As Nicolette played, Molly studied the wood paneling on the far wall. The unusual combination of square panels topped with a small border of arched panels intrigued her. Or maybe it was just something to take her mind off her own worries about not ever being able to play the piano again.
She automatically clenched her fist, finding some small measure of victory in the fact that each day, her fist appeared tighter, harder, stronger. There was still occasional pain, and always discomfort. The ache was deep inside and often radiated up into her elbow, and when she was very tired, even into her shoulder.
She listened to Nicolette play, yet part of her considered the other deep ache she felt daily. The ache of Buck’s rejection. He’d hardened himself against loving again. He’d told her that over a week ago, and obviously, even though they’d shared a magical night together, he hadn’t changed his mind. It was frustrating, but not nearly as frustrating as her own feelings. Still unable to understand how she could love a man who couldn’t or wouldn’t love her back, she tormented herself by imagining what life with Buck would b
e like—if he ever did change.
She fantasized about it. She allowed her mind to go into full, rapturous ecstasy thinking about it. How wonderful it would be to curl up against that hard, wide chest every night, to press herself against him and find him wanting her as much as she wanted him. To experience nightly what she’d experienced only one night…. To be loved, adored, satisfied, all by the same man. In full view of the world. Proudly. Openly. And it wasn’t just that she hungered for him in a sexual way. She wanted to be his mate, to share his pain, to celebrate his successes. She envisioned them going back to California and raising Dusty together. In spite of everything he’d said and done, she knew that deep down in a place no one had yet touched, he was a good man.
Nicolette suddenly stopped playing, also bringing a halt to Molly’s daydreaming.
The girl scooted off the bench. “I’m gonna be sick,” she mumbled, running from the room.
Molly briefly closed her eyes and massaged the tension in her neck. Hopefully, Nicolette’s morning sickness wouldn’t last too much longer. “Morning sickness” was rather a foolish term, she thought, for the poor girl seemed to be gripped with nausea at odd times throughout the entire day.
With a weary sigh, Molly stood and stretched her back. Ever since her meeting with Charles at breakfast, she’d experienced an edgy sense of panic. She hadn’t seen Buck or Sage for almost three days and wondered if they were checking on the map locations, or if Charles had sent them to do other chores. Even if he had, she was sure they would find a way to look into the possibility that stolen cattle were being held at the marked sites.
She crossed to the window and gazed outside. The days were getting warmer as they pushed deeper into summer. Even so, the house was cool. So cool, that Molly shivered. Or maybe that was just a response to what was happening in her life.
Angelita’s daughter, Carmen, had come over earlier in the morning to give her mother a hand in the kitchen, as she often did. This morning she’d brought Estella, her eight-year-old daughter, with her, who was now playing in the yard with a little boy. Molly hadn’t seen him before. He didn’t appear to be any older than two, or at most three. She smiled at how the girl mothered the boy. She was currently teaching him how to pet one of the many dogs that roamed the ranch. Molly’s grin widened as the dog lifted its head and licked the boy on the face. Both children laughed gleefully, and Molly felt a strange tugging that made her want to cry.
It had been crazy, this strange urge to begin a family. It had started when she and Buck had spent so much time together coming from the camp to the ranch. They were strange, deep twinges that left her wanting something, someone to care for and love.
She felt a wry smile lift one corner of her mouth. Who would have thought that she, Molly Lindquist, would have felt such a strong, aching pull toward motherhood.
She continued to watch the children, wondering who the little boy belonged to. He was a sweet thing, giggling engagingly as the dog continued to lap away at his cheek and ears. She knew it wasn’t Angelita’s grandson, for Angelita had despaired repeatedly about her daughter’s inability to have another child. Like her, she had told Molly, her daughter was only able to conceive once.
Still feeling chilled, Molly left the salon and went outside. The heat felt wonderful as she lifted her face to the sun. Ever since she’d returned from her abduction, she’d scorned wearing a large brimmed hat and gloves, having decided it didn’t matter anymore whether her skin was tanned or not. Of course, it wasn’t fashionable, but she was already so dark from that week on the plains with Buck, that it didn’t matter.
The children quit playing with the dog and watched her come toward them. Molly waved. Anxious to use some of the Spanish she’d practiced with Angelita as they prepared meals for the ranch hands, she called, “Hola! Estella.” When the girl waved back, Molly asked, “Quien es tu amigo paquito?”
“El se llama Tomas,” the girl answered.
Molly squatted down in front of him and smiled. “Hola! Tomas.”
Gravely, Tomas studied her through eyes as round and shiny as black buttons. His hair, lighter by shades than Estella’s black braids, curled around his ears and his brown skin had a beautiful golden undertone. He reached out and touched Molly’s hair, then turned and lisped something in Estella’s ear. She nodded sagely.
“He say your hair look like dried wheat.”
Molly bit back a laugh. “Well, sounds to me like he means it looks like straw.” The children didn’t understand the humor in that, but Tomas continued to stare at her. Suddenly, he glanced over her shoulder, and his face lit up.
“Papa,” he said, almost in awe.
Molly turned, curious to know who the child belonged to. Nausea spread through her, for she saw Buck coming toward them astride Thunder. She stood slowly, turning to face him. Their gazes locked briefly before Buck looked away and dismounted.
“Papa!” Tomas held out his arms toward Buck, who smiled, going down on one knee as the boy threw himself against his chest.
Molly couldn’t move. She couldn’t speak. In truth, she could hardly breathe. Raw hurt battered her insides. Even if she could have spoken at this moment, she didn’t know what she would have said. But she could see, and what she saw sent her emotions spiraling.
Little Tomas clung tightly, his chubby brown arms wrapped around Buck’s neck and his face hidden against his father’s shoulder. Buck hiked the boy against his chest and stood, running his fingers through the child’s soft, curly hair.
When Molly met his gaze again, she saw something in his eyes she didn’t understand. She would have thought he’d have broken eye contact, but he didn’t. His look challenged, dared her to ask. But she wouldn’t. Couldn’t. Right now, she didn’t even want to think about the possibilities.
Blinking back tears of frustration, she turned and walked to the house, hurrying to her room only after she was out of Buck’s sight. Pressing a cold cloth against her eyes, she cursed her recent stupid urge to bawl.
Sighing with disgust, she crossed to the window and stared down at the yard. Buck had put Tomas on Thunder’s back, instructed him to hang onto the saddle horn, and was now leading the horse toward the barn. Molly’s insides continued to ache. She could make no sense of the whole situation. Who was the child’s mother? Surely not the whore. And why hadn’t she seen the child around here before? Tomas obviously knew full well who his father was, that had been very evident by the way his eyes lit up when he spotted Buck ride in. This wasn’t a new relationship.
She continued to battle her confusion, wondering why he hadn’t mentioned the child when he was telling her every other gut-wrenching thing in his life. What difference would one more little indiscretion have made? She couldn’t imagine that he’d have given a diddly-damn what she thought anyway. He hadn’t cared for her opinion regarding Dusty. But she wondered, too, if he planned on becoming Tomas’s permanent father. A horrible thought snagged the coattails of that image. If he was Tomas’s permanent father, was there also a permanent mother?
She felt a quick sense of anger. Dusty needed him every bit as much as this little boy. She couldn’t imagine how he could reject one child so soundly, only to turn and embrace another.
She watched them disappear into the barn, then turned from the window just as Nicolette poked her head around the door. The girl still looked pale.
“How many times have you been sick today?”
Nicolette flopped onto Molly’s bed, moving her arm up to cover her eyes. “I’ve lost count.”
Molly edged toward the bed and sat down beside her, smoothing Nicolette’s hair away from her face. “Things will get better, honey. Believe me.”
“I try to keep telling myself that.”
Molly continued to soothe Nicolette’s forehead. “What do you know about the little boy Tomas?”
“You mean Buck’s boy?”
Molly’s stomach dipped, and she frowned at her instinctive response. “Yes. Ho
w long have you known he had a son?”
Nicolette shrugged, her eyes still closed. “For a while, I guess. Although he’d never brought him out here before.”
“Do you know why he’s out here now?” Molly tried to sound casual, but her heart was in her throat.
“No. I can’t imagine why.”
Molly toyed with the grosgrain ribbons that adorned Nicolette’s yellow summer silk gown. “Who … who’s the boy’s mother?”
Nicolette shrugged again. “Probably some whore in Cedarville.”
Molly felt a pang of jealousy. “Why do you say that?”
“Well, if it were some decent woman, I’m sure Buck would have married her.”
Molly rose from the bed and wandered back toward the window. She should be vicious and explain to poor Nicolette that Buck wouldn’t know a decent woman if one popped him in the nose. But it would do no good to verbalize her petty thoughts on the subject of Buck Randall. It was still best that no one knew that she and Buck had known one another all of their lives. Then again, at this point, what did it matter? Still, she couldn’t imagine what purpose it would serve, either.
There was a gentle tapping at the bedroom door, and Angelita stepped inside. “How is my little Nikky?”
Nicolette gave the housekeeper a wan smile. “Margaret tells me I’ll live.”
Angelita returned the smile. “I’m sure she is right, nina. I will bring you some special tea and flat bread. You have not been eating enough to keep a bird alive, much less un bebe.”
Nicolette groaned. “Even the thought of food makes me want to puke, Angelita.”
The housekeeper clucked her tongue. “It will pass. In the meantime, you must try to keep something down.” She turned to Molly. “Senorita Lindquist, please, would you help me for a minute?”
Nodding, Molly followed her downstairs to the kitchen. She was glad she’d told Angelita about Nicolette’s condition; she needed an ally in this house. She watched as Angelita went to the window, peered outside, then came back to the table, where Molly stood. “I have a message,” she said in a hushed voice.
Forbidden Moon--The Moon Trilogy--Book Three Page 22