Jack looked up from his dinner plate and frowned. How had she heard? He couldn’t imagine Molly or her father would speak of that morning’s display to anyone, and Hank Morrison didn’t seem the gossiping sort.
“Apparently he left the newspaper and went straight to the saloon where he told everyone who’d listen that Molly Everton should be fired.”
“She isn’t going to be fired.” Jack set down his fork.
“Of course not,” Bertha Simpson replied. “We all know Mr. Dobson’s anger had lots more to do with Miss Everton scorning him than about what she wrote in the paper.”
Scorning?
Louise nodded. “Mr. Dobson’s right full of his own importance, but Miss Everton wasn’t impressed when he came calling after his wife died. He’s resented her ever since. Mostly ’cause he told folks he meant to marry Molly Everton, and it embarrassed him when she didn’t want him. ’Course, he married the next gal he courted fast enough to make your head spin, so it wasn’t like he loved Molly. He went down to Green River City to find someone. Nobody here was good enough for him, I reckon. Not after Molly wounded his pride.”
Jack remembered wondering, soon after he’d arrived, what was wrong with the men of Killdeer that none of them had married Molly. Now he’d met two men who had thought to do so—and neither one of them, in Jack’s opinion, was near good enough for her.
“What about you, Mr. Ludgrove?” Mrs. Simpson asked. “Have you a girl waiting for you back in Iowa?”
“No. There’s no one waiting.”
“That’s a shame. You know, the Bible says it isn’t good for a man to be alone.” She glanced toward her unmarried daughter and back again, her meaning clear.
He shook his head and picked up his fork, determined to concentrate on the meal. If his landlady was going to try her hand at matchmaking between him and her daughter, she was in for a disappointment.
The conversation veered away from talk of marriage, changing to the next day’s barn dance at the Holbrook farm. An annual event for the past six years, it was eagerly anticipated by most folks in the area. Even those who didn’t like to dance.
Jack liked to dance, though he’d seldom had opportunity to do so. A week ago he’d told Molly he would want to dance with her. It had been the polite thing to say at the moment. Only now he realized how true it was. He did want to dance with her. The idea of holding Molly Everton in his arms, his right hand on the small of her back as they twirled around the floor, caused an unusual sensation to shiver through his chest.
It troubled him, but he chose not to analyze why.
CHAPTER TEN
“QUIT DAWDLING, MOLLY,” HER MOTHER CALLED FROM the base of the stairs. “We’re going to be late.”
“I’m coming. Just one minute more.”
“Father and I will be in the buggy. If you don’t hurry, we shall go without you.”
Molly turned one more time before the mirror, hating herself for caring so much about her appearance. Hating it even more because she knew the reason why. Tonight she would dance with Jack Ludgrove.
She groaned as she hurried out of the bedroom, grabbing a shawl as she went.
As promised, her parents were already in the buggy. On her lap, her mother held a basket that contained several fruit pies. Molly lifted her skirt and petticoats and stepped up to the back buggy seat. As soon as she was settled, her father clucked to the horse and they set off to the Holbrook farm, right toward the descending sun.
Up ahead, Molly saw clouds of dust rising from the road. More buggies, wagons, and horses, all on their way to the same destination. The nerves in her stomach intensified. A silly, girlish reaction—and she was no longer a girl. Hadn’t been one for many years. She was a woman. An independent woman. And happy to be so.
She stiffened her spine, lifted her chin, and drew in a deep, steadying breath. There. That was better. Foolishness all over. Whatever had come over her today was now set aside.
The new feelings of calm and self-control lasted all of ten minutes. Right up until the moment Jack Ludgrove cantered his horse up to the side of their buggy, then slowed to keep pace with them. When she saw who it was, he bent his hat brim in her direction and smiled. An instant later she was blinded by the light of the setting sun from beyond his left shoulder. A good excuse to shade her eyes and turn away.
When they arrived at the Holbrook farm, her father guided horse and buggy to an open space near a fence. Jack stopped his horse to their left, dismounted, and wrapped the reins around the top rail. Then he stepped to the buggy and offered his hand to Molly’s mother to assist her to the ground.
“Thank you, Mr. Ludgrove.”
“My pleasure, Mrs. Everton. May I say how very lovely you look this evening?”
“Of course you may. A woman never tires of hearing such things, even when she is old and married.”
Jack stepped toward the backseat of the buggy and offered the same assistance to Molly. Drawing another quick breath, she placed her fingers in his open hand. Tingles ran up her arm and straight into her heart.
Merciful heavens!
Lowering his voice, he said, “And may I also say how very lovely you look, Miss Everton?”
She felt her cheeks grow warm. How she despised the ease with which he could make her blush.
Jack offered the crook of his arm. “Allow me to escort you inside.”
Good manners gave her no option but to accept. She took hold of him, and they walked slowly toward the barn, her parents following behind.
The light of many lanterns spilled through the wide entrance of the barn. Friends and neighbors milled about, greeting one another, visiting, laughing, while the musicians warmed their instruments. It all created a loud, yet pleasant hubbub.
To the far right of the doorway, tables had been set up, covered with white sheets and tablecloths, and now were laden with refreshments. Molly’s mother moved in the direction of the tables with her basket of pies. It was the excuse Molly needed to let go of Jack’s arm and walk away from him.
Breathing became easier the more distance she put between herself and Jack Ludgrove. She felt almost normal by the time she reached the tables.
Her mother looked surprised to see her. “You needn’t have come with me, dear.”
Molly gave a small shrug, then looked at Florence Perkins, standing opposite them. “Good evening, Mrs. Perkins.”
“Evenin’.” The woman nodded.
“Do you need any help serving?” Molly asked.
“If Mrs. Perkins needs help,” her mother interrupted, “then I shall do it. Go join the young folk, Molly. The dancing is about to start.”
“But I—”
“Look. Here comes Mr. Ludgrove to ask you to dance. I knew he would.”
Like a magnet toward the north pole, Molly was pulled around to see his approach. When their gazes met, he smiled, but there was something reluctant about his expression. Almost as if he came against his will.
He stopped before her. “Is the first dance spoken for, Miss Everton?”
She shook her head.
“Then please allow me.”
A refusal formed in her mind, but before she could speak the words, she placed her hand in his for the second time that night. He led her into the center of the barn where other couples, young and not so young, waited for the music to start.
“I was told the first dance would be a waltz,” Jack said as he faced her again.
Molly loved the waltz. Both the music and the dance, though she seldom got to do the latter. She was particularly fond of the Strauss waltzes. “The Blue Danube” was her favorite to play on the piano. That was the waltz the musicians—seated in the loft of the barn—began to play.
Her heart skipped a beat as Jack took her hand in his and placed his other hand on the small of her back while the bard seemed to whisper in her ear, “When you do dance, I wish you / A wave o’ the sea, that you might ever do / Nothing but that; move still, still so.”
For most of his
adult life—after he was free of the army and the chaos of war—Jack Ludgrove had been a man of single-minded purpose. Even during the years he’d been forced by circumstances to stay in Iowa to care for his ailing father, Jack had set goals and worked toward them. No woman had been a part of his plans in the past, and Molly Everton wasn’t a part of his plan for the future.
So why did she feel so right in his arms as he turned her around the floor in time to the music? And why was he so reluctant to release her when the waltz ended?
“Thank you, Mr. Ludgrove,” she said softly.
The proper thing was to return Molly to the side of the floor and to ask another young woman to dance. He would rather not, but she didn’t leave the decision up to him. She turned and walked in the direction of the refreshment tables. Jack hurried to catch up with her.
“Molly, will you allow me another dance?”
“I’m sure there are others who are hoping you will ask them, Mr. Ludgrove.”
“Won’t you call me Jack?”
She glanced around, answering softly, “Not here, I won’t. It isn’t proper. And you mustn’t call me Molly either.”
“All right.” He couldn’t help the smile that tugged at the corners of his mouth. Since when was Molly afraid to defy convention? She seemed to do it as naturally as she drew breath. “Miss Everton, may I reserve another dance with you? The next waltz?”
She stopped walking.
So did he.
She faced him. “Yes, I will dance the next waltz with you. But for now I’m needed to help Mrs. Perkins serve punch and dessert.” And off she went.
His smile widened. There was no point denying it. He liked her. She amused him. She challenged him. She wasn’t like any woman he’d ever known before. She was unique, and she made him . . . made him . . . made him what?
“Good evening, Mr. Ludgrove,” two female voices said in unison.
Jack didn’t need to turn his head to know who he would find nearby—Ada and Jane Shoemaker. They wore bright-colored gingham dresses. Ada’s of blue and white. Jane’s of red and white. Together they made him think of the nation’s flag.
“Are you enjoying the evening?” Ada asked.
“We just arrived,” Jane added. “We told Papa we needed to hurry or we would miss the first dance, and we did.”
Jack swallowed a groan and did what was expected of him. “Will you allow me the pleasure of the next dance, Miss Shoemaker?” He asked it of Jane, whom he knew to be the older of the two by one year.
Jane giggled before answering, “I’d love to, Mr. Ludgrove.”
He turned his gaze to Ada. “And will you hold the one after that for me?”
She giggled too, sounding identical to her sister.
The musicians, seeming to be in league against Jack, stopped playing. The dancers in the center of the barn applauded. Some couples moved toward places to sit. Others went to the tables for punch and something to eat.
Jack offered his hand to Jane, and the pair moved to join the other dancers.
From behind one of the tables, Molly watched as couples formed squares in the center of the barn. The musicians struck a new tune and William Ingram’s voice boomed, “Bow to your partner.”
Even from where Molly stood, she could hear Jane’s laughter. But she didn’t feel like laughing in response. Something hurt on the inside. She didn’t know why.
“Molly,” Mrs. Perkins said, “why aren’t you out there enjoying yourself? I can manage here just fine.”
“I like to help.”
The woman gave her shoulders a little push. “Don’t be silly. Nobody’s going to ask you to dance when you’re standing back here. You go on now. This night’s meant for fun.”
Short of an argument, Molly had no choice but to move away from the refreshment tables. Her gaze swept the barn, looking for someone she could talk to so she didn’t appear so alone—and unwanted—while everyone else appeared to be half of a couple.
The ache intensified. She lowered her gaze and made her way outside where gloaming had turned the world to many shades of gray. She moved away from the doorway and the light, wanting the safety of the shadows. Only when she reached the fence of a corral did she stop. One of the horses came close and thrust its head over the top rail, snorting softly. Molly stroked the animal’s muzzle.
What is wrong with me? My thoughts are all jumbled. I don’t understand what I feel or why.
Not entirely true.
She closed her eyes and pictured Jack. Pictured his smile. Pictured the two of them swirling in time to the waltz. She might not be able to name her feelings, but Jack Ludgrove most surely was the cause.
“Molly?”
She sucked in a gasp as she spun around.
“Sorry.” Jack stood a few feet away from her, the night turning him into a dark shadow. “Didn’t mean to scare you.”
“I . . . I wasn’t scared. Just startled. I thought I was alone.”
“I saw you leave the barn and thought I should check on you.”
She glanced toward the light that spilled through the doorway. “The dance ended already?”
“No. I had to apologize to Miss Shoemaker for stopping before it was over.”
“Jane’s feelings must have been hurt.”
He took a step closer. “You’re right. It was rude of me. I’ll need to apologize again. But I wanted to make sure you were all right.”
“Why did you think I wouldn’t be?”
His voice lowered. “You left so suddenly. When you should be dancing.”
“That’s what Mrs. Perkins thinks.”
“She’s right.” He raised his hand and cupped the side of her face with it. “Molly Everton, there’s something I’ve been wanting to do all evening.”
“What is that, Mr. Ludgrove?” she whispered.
His other hand rose to cup the other side of her face. Then he stepped close and lowered his lips to hers.
Molly had been kissed before—but not like this. Her heart seemed to stop beating. The world seemed to spin faster. The barn and the music and the lights and the sounds of people talking and music playing faded away. There was only Jack. The taste of Jack. The warmth of Jack. But then he pulled back from her, and the night air felt cold as it filled the space he’d put between them.
“I’m not sure I should have done that, Miss Everton,” he said, his voice almost gruff. “I think I’d better take you back inside.”
And all she could think as they walked together toward the barn was how much she wished he would call her Molly again.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
JACK WAITED UNTIL THE ENTIRE CONGREGATION HAD left the church, headed for their Sunday dinners, before returning to the sanctuary where Oscar Lynch was gathering his Bible and sermon notes from the lectern.
“Reverend Lynch?”
“Yes?” the reverend said without looking up.
“It’s Jack Ludgrove.”
Now the other man looked up and smiled. “I remember your name, Mr. Ludgrove. It’s only been a week since we dined together at the Everton home.”
“Of course.” Jack swallowed. “I was wondering if I might talk with you.”
Reverend Lynch motioned toward one of the pews. “Have a seat.”
“I promise not to keep you long. Your wife must have dinner ready for the family.”
“Take as long as you need. Mrs. Lynch doesn’t set the table on Sundays until I actually step through the front door.”
Jack sat on the wooden pew and raked the fingers of one hand through his hair. “I’m not quite sure where to begin.”
“Wherever you feel comfortable. I’m a good listener.”
Jack figured Oscar Lynch wasn’t many years older than Jack himself, but the reverend had an air of quiet maturity that seemed to add a decade to his true age. After drawing a deep breath, he began telling the other man about his four years in the Union army, the deaths of his brothers, and his father’s failing health that kept Jack in Iowa while he longed
to be set free to explore the frontier.
“I never resented Father,” he added. “I want you to know that. His need was real, and I was the only family he had left. He lingered for more than a decade, finally passing away last year.”
“Must have been hard for you, seeing your father suffer.”
“It was. There were times he begged God to take him. There were times I prayed the same. Not because I wanted him dead but because I wanted him to be free of the pain. I saw lots of suffering during the war. Saw many young men die or lose limbs and eyes. But none of that prepared me for seeing my father in pain and unable to do for himself. Or for it to last as long as it did.”
“Mmm.” The reverend nodded, his expression grave.
“We weren’t a wealthy family, and there wasn’t much money left after I buried my father. I despaired of ever achieving my dream of exploring the West. Then I happened upon the advertisement for an editorial position with the Killdeer Sentinel. It seemed like an open door at last. Just the first step in what I hoped would be my great adventure. I thought maybe I could write about it. Like Mark Twain’s Roughing It.”
Oscar Lynch chuckled softly. “Enjoyed that book a great deal.”
“Yes.” Jack ran his fingers through his hair again, this time using both hands. “But you see, it was never my intention to remain in Killdeer for a long period of time. Perhaps two years.”
“I see. Did you tell Mr. Everton that when you accepted the position? Is that what’s troubling you?”
“No. I mean, yes. Yes, I did tell him I might not stay beyond two years. That isn’t what troubles me.”
The reverend cocked an eyebrow. A silent question.
Jack looked down at the scuffed wooden floor. “It’s Mr. Everton’s daughter who troubles me.”
The reverend made a sound that was a combination of cough and croak.
Jack looked up again.
Oscar Lynch rose from the pew, clasped his hands behind his back, and took a few steps away from Jack. After a short while, he turned to face him again, his expression difficult to read.
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