Sweet Nothings

by Catherine Anderson

  He left it at that, forcing himself to walk away. With every step, the realization was driven home to him that he was leaving a chunk of himself behind, and that it might be gone come morning.

  As irrational as he knew it was, he wasn’t sure if he was thinking of the heirloom watch or the woman who clutched it in her trembling hand.

  Chapter Seven

  To stay or not to stay, that was the question. Molly paced a circle around the old leather sofa where her bags of belongings lay in helter-skelter piles. She didn’t know whether she should return them to the Toyota or start unpacking. Dust burned in her nostrils, a reminder of the cleaning that would have to be done in the cabin before she could put her things away. If she was going to stay, she needed to get started.

  Could she trust Jake Coulter? That was the real question she needed to address, and whether or not she stayed would depend entirely upon the answer.

  She gazed down at the old timepiece in her hand. The inscription inside the gold cover read, “Forever, Matthew, my love, June 6, 1873. Hattie.” By the date, Molly knew the watch was a family heirloom, passed down to Jake’s grandfather by his father before him. Little wonder Jake treasured it. If the watch went missing, something truly priceless would be lost to the entire Coulter family.

  Molly closed her hand over the gold, now warm and slick from her sweaty palm. Jake had entrusted this into her keeping. If he had that much confidence in her on such short acquaintance, why couldn’t she have just a little in him?

  She thought of Sam Banks, her therapist, and wished with all her heart that she could phone him without running a risk of her call being traced. During her stay at the clinic and over the last five months since her release, he’d been her sounding board and only steadfast friend, someone she could contact, day or night, if she needed to talk. Though he tried never to pontificate, choosing instead to let her reach her own decisions, he always managed to guide her in the right direction.

  What would he say to her now?

  Molly closed her eyes, the memory of his mellow voice whispering in her mind. “We shouldn’t stereotype people,” he’d once told her. “Give each individual a chance to prove him- or herself before you pass judgment. Giving your guarded trust is never a mistake, Molly, not if you’re smart about it.“

  Another time, when she had expressed a concern that she was a terrible judge of character, Sam had popped back with, “Why is that? Because you trusted and believed in people, and they betrayed you?” Since that was exactly the reason, Molly hadn’t been able to think what to say. Not only Rodney had betrayed her, she had reason to believe her father-in-law, Jared Wells, who’d been her dad’s partner and best friend, had taken part in the scheme as well. There was even evidence to implicate Claudia, the only mother she’d ever known. What was she supposed to do with that?

  Toward the end of that counseling session, Sam had presented her with a question that seemed particularly appropriate to ask herself now. Along with everything else, was she going to let her marriage to Rodney rob her of the ability to trust?

  The very thought made Molly tremble with outrage. Her ex-husband had taken so much from her already, so very much—her youth, her peace of mind, her liberty—and, she suspected, even her father. Was she going to let him continue to ruin every aspect of her life? No, damn it, no.

  Even as determination filled her, she felt a dark cloud of hopelessness move over her. In only seven more months, she would have reached the finish line. Rodney would have lost her power of attorney. She would have been able to walk back into Sterling and Wells to take her rightful place behind her father’s desk. She would have then had the financial resources to hire legal representation and stonewall Rodney if he tried to pull any more fast ones in court. She’d been so close, so very close, to regaining her independence. Now, in one fell swoop, she had jeopardized everything, even her plan to avenge her father’s death.

  Now, thanks to her stupidity, Rodney could get the upper hand again. He would put his spin on the horse-theft incident, holding it up before a judge as irrefutable proof of her emotional instability and legal incompetence. Even Molly had to admit that stealing a sixty-five-thousand-dollar racehorse was a crazy thing to do, and she would have a devil of a time convincing a judge she’d had good reasons.

  Sam Banks had warned her. “Keep your nose clean, Molly,” he’d cautioned her repeatedly. “Whether you like it or not, whether it’s fair or not, you’re living under a microscope right now.“

  Since her release from the clinic, she’d lived like a goldfish in a small glass bowl, thinking twice and sometimes thrice before she did anything. Other recently divorced women could quit their jobs, move to exciting new places, go back to school, or start new careers. On a whim, they could bleach their hair, dress like teenagers, go on crash diets, or engage in tawdry affairs. No one cared if their choices were based on sound judgment or if they were even rational. But Molly didn’t have that freedom. Before she did anything, she had to think of how it might look to a judge.

  In a perfect world, Rodney’s power over her personal life should have ended the day her divorce was final, but no world was perfect, least of all hers. The very fact that Sam had helped her obtain a divorce while she was still in the clinic could work against her. Rodney would argue that she’d been incapable of making wise choices, hadn’t understood what she was doing, and that her doctor had made a grave error in judgment. He would also claim that she still needed someone, namely him, to look after her and her business interests. Further strengthening his hand was the fact that her adoptive mother, an MD and something of an expert witness in her own right, might testify against her in court.

  Molly wasn’t sure what motivated Claudia, whether she was involved in the scheme to take over the firm, or if she was merely doing what she honestly believed was best. Molly only knew that her mom had joined ranks with Rodney to have her deemed legally incompetent and had later signed the necessary forms to have her committed. Molly had seen Claudia’s signature on the papers herself.

  It had been the most heartbreaking revelation of her life.

  In the end, it hadn’t really mattered what Claudia’s intentions had been. The result was that Molly had been stripped of her rights. Individuals who were deemed legally incompetent in a court of law were treated like children in many ways until the mandate was reversed. The court appointed a person to act as their legal guardian. If they had money, they were often denied access to the funds and were allotted only a monthly stipend to cover basic expenses. Their driver’s licenses were frequently revoked. They weren’t allowed to have charge accounts. If they owned firearms, the weapons were removed from their possession. Their signature on a legal document was worthless unless the court-appointed guardian agreed to co-sign. In many ways, they became nonpeople who could make no decisions for themselves and whose protests went unheard.

  In Molly’s case, the situation had been even worse because her husband and mother had had her committed, not only calling into question her judgment but casting doubt on her sanity as well. First she’d been stripped of her rights; then she’d been locked up.

  At the clinic, Sam Banks, the doctor whom she’d initially seen as her enemy, had turned out to be her knight in shining armor, transforming what might have been a nightmarish imprisonment into a time of healing. He had listened patiently to her outlandish story and had begun to believe her when no one else did. Eventually, he had fought in court to help her get a divorce, telling the judge that it had been her dysfunctional relationship with her overbearing husband that had caused all her problems in the first place.

  In a world that had turned viciously against her, he’d been her only ally.

  Until this morning, she had followed Sam’s advice to the letter, refraining from any behavior that might cast her in a bad light. But now she’d totally blown it, jeopardizing all her plans and putting herself at the mercy of strangers she wasn’t sure she could trust.

  Unfurling her fingers again,
she gazed solemnly at the watch Jake Coulter had given her. In the firelight, the aged gold case seemed to gleam with inner warmth, much like the man who had placed it in her hand. He was a strange one, she thought with a faint smile, forceful and overbearing, yet seemingly gentle and kind as well.

  He’d thrown her a lifeline, whether he realized it or not, providing her with a perfect place to lie low for a while. The chances that anyone would think to look for her on a ranch were miniscule. If she stayed on here and took precautions, it was entirely possible that she could ride out the clock until the entire year of probation elapsed, gaining strength each day for the inevitable battles she would face when she returned to Portland, not only to vindicate herself, but to seek justice for her father’s death.

  In just seven more months, her power of attorney would revert back to her, and she would be legally free of her ex-husband and her mother. If she acted quickly when that day arrived, she could get a good attorney on retainer and reclaim control of the firm before Rodney had time to appeal to the court for an extension. Only seven more months. If Jake Coulter’s word was good, she could surely hole up here for that long.

  Slipping the timepiece into her pocket, Molly approached the plastic bags that held her belongings. She’d fallen in love with the Lazy J at first sight, thinking it was the perfect place for Sunset to recuperate. Why not remain here herself? It was a beautiful and peaceful setting, so far removed from her usual surroundings that it gave her a sense of separateness and safety. This quaint old cabin was growing on her as well, its air of timelessness soothing her in a way she couldn’t define.

  Decision made, Molly went to work. Since she’d slept most of the evening, she could afford to stay up late. Thanks to Rodney, she didn’t have much by way of household goods to put away. If she got right to it, she’d be finished unpacking inside of two hours.

  As she washed out kitchen drawers and set herself to the task of putting her cooking utensils away, Molly recalled her rampaging attack on Jake’s house. She still couldn’t believe she had behaved so badly, and then, horror of horrors, she’d capped it all off by slugging the poor man.

  An unbidden grin tugged at her mouth. The look on his face had been priceless, and for just a moment, she’d felt so free. Though she wished now that she could undo the incident, she had to admit that a perverse part of her had enjoyed being wildly out of control for a few minutes. What did that tell her?

  Sam would probably say she’d been releasing long suppressed rage, and Jake Coulter had just been standing in her line of fire. He would then advise her to find healthier, less objectionable ways to vent her feelings in the future.

  Well, punching a pillow had never given her a rush like she’d felt this evening, and there had never been a sense of closure, either. She had experienced that with Jake. He had apologized and so had she. That felt nice. Instead of trembling with helpless anger when she thought of him, she actually wanted to smile. “I’m sorry for what I did.” Such simple words, uttered with husky regret. In ten years of marriage, a sincere apology had never passed Rodney’s lips.

  Satisfied with the order of the kitchen drawers, Molly turned her attention to wiping out the cupboards. Tomorrow she would begin cleaning Jake’s house. She had gotten off to a rocky start, but she would make it up to him.

  Though she’d taken no time to admire it, he had a lovely home with an impressive, log-wall interior, beautiful oak floors, and an eclectic collection of handmade furniture, fashioned from logs. She would sweep and scrub and polish until the place shone. She’d also do her best to put tasty, wholesome meals on his table. He’d not be regretting his decision to hire her.

  She just hoped he had some cookbooks.

  Finished in the kitchen, she moved to the bedroom. As she hung her slacks and tops in the closet, Molly worried her bottom lip. Her wardrobe wasn’t exactly suitable for ranch life, but she’d have to make do.

  She turned to grab another sack, thinking it contained only underclothes. The corner of something hard poked through the bag and touched her leg. She thrust in a hand and drew out a folding picture frame. Sadness clutched at her even before she looked at the two photographs, one of her best friend Sarah, the other of her father. Molly studied their faces, her feelings of regret and shame still sharp. It had been well over ten years since Sarah’s death and eleven months since her father’s, but the hurting never stopped.

  She set the frame on the nightstand, turning the pictures toward the bed so they would be the last thing she saw when she went to sleep. Reminders of grave mistakes helped a person never to make the same ones again. Seeing her father’s smiling likeness also reminded her that she had a far more important mission to accomplish than merely getting her affairs back in order. Her father was dead, and if her suspicions were correct, Rodney Wells had pulled the trigger of the gun that killed him.

  She couldn’t let that slide, she thought, knotting her hands into aching fists. If it was the last thing she ever did, she would make Rodney pay. Only then would she be able to lay her father to rest and move on with her life.

  From outside, she heard Sunset whinny, the sound forlorn. She stepped to the window and swept aside the lace curtains to push up the bottom sash. Crisp night air, redolent with the scents of nearby forest and rolling grasslands, flowed in around her, the chill a sharp contrast to the fire’s warmth that caressed her back. Down along the creek, frogs raised their voices to the moonlight, the melodic cacophony underscored by the rhythmic hiss of irrigation sprinklers in the fields.

  Molly dragged in a deep breath, marveling at how different it smelled here. Off in the distance, she heard a coyote baying at the moon. From up near the main house, a dog barked in response. The unharmonious duet prompted Sunset to neigh again.

  Though Molly squinted to see through the darkness, she couldn’t make out the horse. Nevertheless she leaned out the window, hoping Sunset might be able to see her.

  “I’m here, boy. You’re not all alone. I’ll leave my window partway open so I can hear if you need me. No one’s going to hurt you ever again. I promise.”

  The stallion grunted and whinnied softly, almost as if he was comforted by the sound of her voice.

  I did the right thing, she thought. No matter what happens to me, I did what had to be done, and that’s the end of it.

  “Molly?“

  The masculine voice slipped into Molly’s dreams. “Molly, can you hear me?” She struggled to wake up, afraid if she didn’t that they’d give her another injection. No more. Please, no more. She had to talk to them, make them believe her. She couldn’t do that when her head was muzzy. She wasn’t crazy. Had to tell them. Not crazy. No more shots.

  “Molly!”

  Molly jerked awake. For a moment, she stared blankly at the knotty pine ceiling, uncertain where she was. Then the events of yesterday slammed into her brain.

  Rap—tat—tat. The sharp, rhythmic report sat her up straight. She rubbed her eyes, squinted against a shaft of blinding morning sunlight, and groaned. Someone was knocking on the door. Jake Coulter? What time was it, anyway?

  Blearily, she glanced at her watch, decided it had to be wrong, and stumbled from the bedroom.

  “Coming!” she yelled. Once in the living room, it occurred to her that she shouldn’t assume it was her new employer at the door. There was still a very real possibility that the police might find her. She stopped dead in her tracks. “Who is it?”

  “Jake.”

  Recognizing his deep voice, she fumbled with the dead-bolt. The apparatus rattled like a bunch of aluminum pots as it disengaged.

  A tall blur of blue stood on the doorstep. Even half asleep, she felt her stomach tighten at the sight of him. “What time is it?” she managed to croak.

  “Six,” he informed her in that deep, silky voice she remembered so well, “and we’re running late.”

  Molly pushed at her hair. “Late?“

  He gave a low chuckle. “Yes, late.”

  She looked at her w
atch again. “How can we be running late when it’s only six in the morning?”

  He chuckled and stepped inside, thrusting a large mug of coffee under her nose. “I brought you some morning wake-me-up.”

  She took the proffered cup with undisguised eagerness. Not even six-feet-plus of well-muscled male was enough to wake her up without the help of a strong jolt of caffeine. She slurped a little into her mouth and swallowed before saying, “God bless you.”

  He gave another low laugh. “I wasn’t sure if you had the makings for coffee over here. I can’t get my eyes open without it.”

  Molly’s eyes were coming open with record speed. “My goodness, it’s certainly strong.“

  “I usually have time for only one cup, so I try to make it count.”

  A spoon would have stood straight in the stuff.

  She took another sip, then cradled the mug in her hands. Jake moved inside and closed the door. Without considering how it might look, Molly retreated a step, then wanted to kick herself for acting like an idiot. She wasn’t sure why this man unsettled her so. She only knew that he did.

  This morning he wore clothes identical to those of yesterday, the only difference being that the blue chambray shirt and jeans looked freshly laundered. Beneath the brim of his Stetson, his sable hair was a shade darker with dampness from his shower, and he was freshly shaven, his jaw shiny and red from scrubbing, the woodsy scent of his cologne mixing nicely with the earthy smells he brought in with him from outdoors.

  He smiled as he gave her a head-to-toe once-over. “Do you always sleep fully dressed?”

  She glanced down at her wrinkled attire. Heat rose to her cheeks as she forced her gaze back to his. “Only when I’m so tired that I fall asleep before I realize what hit me.” Feeling painfully self-conscious under his unwavering regard, she switched the mug to one hand and pushed at her hair again. Her braid had come partially undone, and a rippled shank of brownish red hung forward over one eye. “I’m sorry. I must look a fright. I stayed up late unpacking.”