Love on the Range

by Mary Connealy

  “You were a growlin’ old grizzly to her all the time.” Falcon had to remind Wyatt of that.

  He glared at Falcon. “I came over here thinking a brother might have some good advice. Now I wish you’d go back to chopping, and I could just talk to Cheyenne.”

  “Sparkin’ a girl’s the easiest thing in the world.” Falcon grinned at Cheyenne.

  Who grinned back.

  Falcon had gotten lost in the woods, well, not lost exactly. He’d been shot, he’d fallen into a vicious, fast-moving stream, half-drowned and believed dead, and left to wander in the forest for a week with a head wound that wiped out his memory. Cheyenne hadn’t met him yet, since it happened the first day he’d come to the ranch, and she’d left the ranch in a rage over having lost her inheritance to Wyatt and his surprise half brothers.

  While wandering the woods, she’d seen tracks and wondered who was skulking around her property. She traipsed around after him in the mountains and forests for nearly a week and never so much as caught sight of him.

  “Falcon impressed me so much when I was trying to trail him. I was halfway in love with him before we met. He’s right. It was easy.”

  “You two are no help.” Wyatt grabbed his Stetson and dragged it off his head, then with his gloved hand, he shoved his hair back so it didn’t hang in his eyes. He needed a haircut. He clapped his hat back on and decided to ride to Bear Claw Pass to the barber. Anything to get shut of these two.

  And no, he wasn’t gonna ask the barber what to do about Molly.

  He took one long step.

  Cheyenne grabbed hold of him. “Wait. Don’t leave. You’re right. We’re a bad example of how to spark a woman.”

  “I sparked Patsy back home. My first wife.”

  Nodding, Cheyenne asked, “How’d you do that?”

  “I met her in the woods skinnin’ a possum. You should’ve seen that woman skin a possum.” Falcon shook his head and seemed to be seeing into the past. “It was a wonder. I asked her if she was married, and she said no. So I asked her if she’d marry me, and she said yes.”

  Cheyenne leaned forward to look across Wyatt at Falcon. “Just like that?”

  “She was a fine woman.”

  Cheyenne looked sideways at Wyatt.

  He scowled at her. “I’ve never seen Molly skin anything. She expects the food to come to the house already skinned.”

  “Still, she’s a fine cook.” Falcon patted his stomach.

  Wyatt expected Falcon and Cheyenne to show up for most meals back home . . . unless Molly moved away. Then they’d all starve.

  “Just go back and ask her to marry you. That oughta fix things up, but I can go trap a possum for you if y’all want to test her first.” Falcon’s Southern drawl was a perfect echo of Clovis Hunt, their worthless father. Of the three brothers, Falcon resembled Clovis most. It was the thing Wyatt liked least about him.

  Wyatt shoved Falcon, and he only moved because Wyatt took him by surprise, and maybe because he was getting out of fist range and laughing at the same time.

  Having brothers was turning out to be a chore.

  “Molly isn’t interested in marrying anyone,” Wyatt said, feeling low. “Remember when we were talking about honoring our fathers, and all of us were wondering how to honor Clovis? Molly said, ‘Mine was no great pillar of decency, either. I think honoring him is going to have to be one of those sins I just have to ask forgiveness for.’”

  “You remember her exact words?” Falcon asked. “You were interested in her even back then?”

  Cheyenne crossed her arms and frowned. “After Molly did so much doctoring on Win the night she got shot, I said something about Molly getting married someday. She said she’d never marry. And, cranky as I was then, I wasn’t paying her much mind, but even at that, I was struck by her sounding solemn as the grave. She said her ma did a poor job of picking husbands, and she’d likely do just as poorly.”

  “Picking me wouldn’t be doing poorly.”

  “That’s sure enough true, but she might not see it that way, especially since you’ve been so growly.”

  He hadn’t been growling when he’d kissed her. His head was a little fuzzy from it, but he was pretty sure she’d kissed him back. Before he’d heard the door, shoved her away, and ran. He winced at the memory. He doubted that had impressed her much.

  “Kevin said his stepfather and his ma died a long time ago.” Falcon tried to remember. “I think his pa was a . . . a night rider? Was that what he said? Threw in with men riding wild at night, thieving and burning, fighting for slavery before there was even a war. Molly’s pa sounds like he was no prize. And we know Clovis was a dumb choice. So I can see why Molly’s a little on edge when it comes to husbands.”

  Wyatt listened and wondered.

  “You should ask her about it.” Cheyenne shook her head while she gave advice.

  Wyatt didn’t think she noticed her head shaking, but he figured her head was being more honest than her mouth. “You never want to talk about anything that upsets you. Molly won’t either.”

  It was hard being the youngest. As the man, he should’ve been the leader of his home, but Ma and Cheyenne were both stronger and smarter and faster at everything than him.

  And now here he was asking his big sister personal questions. He said, “I know she’s too skilled at healing.”

  “Did she learn that during the war?” Falcon asked.

  “I don’t know. Around the farm, I think. Were her parents hurt because of the war? How did they die? Was it in the war, or were they killed by men taking revenge on her pa’s night riding?”

  “Maybe Kevin would talk about it,” Falcon said.

  “I’m not talking to Kevin.” Wyatt didn’t know a thing about sparkin’. But he knew sure as shooting that talking to Kevin would be stupid.

  “Maybe Win knows,” Cheyenne said. “I could ask her.”

  That sounded like a good idea. Wyatt wouldn’t have to do any more talking. He was worn clean out from all this talking.

  “If she’s determined not to marry, I doubt you can change her mind. Prob’ly best to give up and go looking elsewhere for a woman.” Falcon shoved his hands in his pockets.

  “Big brother, you’re not a lot of help. Between possum skinning and giving up, I should’ve just gone out looking for stray cows to herd in.” Wyatt decided to do that right now.

  “Now, Wyatt, let me talk to Win. I can at least ask. And you know what? You oughta take Molly somewhere. Take her riding.”

  “Too cold.”

  “Take her to town for a meal at the diner. You could do that today.”

  “She’s a better cook than Hogback.” The man who owned the diner called himself that and nothing else. No one knew his name.

  Everyone knew he was a terrible cook.

  “Um . . . I don’t know where a man takes a woman here to court her.” Cheyenne scratched her head. “I’ll talk to Win and give some thought to how to woo Molly. In the meantime, it’s cold, either come and help me sweep out the cabin or go home.”

  Falcon turned to the woods, his ax slung over his shoulder. Cheyenne gave Wyatt a kiss on the cheek. Something she’d hardly ever done before. Well, maybe when he was little, and maybe when he’d been shot, but he’d been mostly out of his head with fever so he wasn’t sure.

  “You’re going soft, Cheyenne.” He kissed her back.

  He heard her chuckling softly as he swung up on his horse. She was halfway back to the cabin by the time he rode out of the yard. Back to the home he’d just run away from.

  Molly’s parents.

  Her pa was no great pillar of decency. What did that even mean?

  Then he thought, if he asked her about her parents, she could ask him about Clovis. And Clovis Hunt was a sidewinder if ever there was one. He’d also broken Wyatt’s heart regularly when he was little, until Wyatt learned not to care. Or at least not to show he cared.

  Did he have the nerve to ask her?

  And if she asked back, did
he have the nerve to answer?

  Nine

  Molly enjoyed cooking with a well-stocked pantry, and the RHR had a fine stove. But she’d just run off to town, and her excuse had been that she wanted to do some other job. Now here she stood, sliding a baked chicken out of the oven and sliding a pan of cinnamon rolls in.

  An oversized rooster had fallen into her hands this afternoon, one who’d taken to sleeping in the rafters of the barn and had thereby escaped plucking. She’d made him up like a Thanksgiving turkey with stuffing.

  Lifting the lid off the roasting pan, she saw the bird was done and browned perfectly. It would be ready to serve at the same time the cinnamon rolls came out of the oven. She had potatoes boiling, soon to be mashed. There were carrots, baked and glazed. It was a fine meal, and she enjoyed thinking of the nice fuss they’d make of it.

  Win and Kevin would come, she’d asked them specially. She doubted Cheyenne and Falcon would be back, but there was plenty if they made the long ride. It wasn’t impossibly long, but long enough if they were in the middle of repairing the cabin.

  Andy, he liked it too much with the working men.

  And Wyatt. She paused. Instead of lifting the chicken from the pan, she touched her lips. She could still feel the kiss. The heat of it. The intrigue. The sweetness.

  Shaking her head, she said out loud, “No. I’m not getting married.”

  Not that Wyatt had asked. No, he’d run like a scared rabbit.

  But if he had, the answer was no. She had no wish for marriage. No interest in binding herself to a man. Her own pa was reason enough. Her ma marrying badly twice made it worse. And knowing how a man could steal a woman’s property was the final blow. She had plans to work, teach school. Starting next Monday, she’d be earning money, and it would be hers to keep. Maybe in a couple of years, when she was twenty-one, she could homestead, build a small cabin. Kevin and Andy would help her. If there was a place near Bear Claw Pass left to claim, she could work as the schoolmarm and set up a decent kitchen at her own home and cook for herself.

  She wondered if she could eat a whole chicken before she tired of it. A whole pan of cinnamon rolls.

  It didn’t matter. Her life was all planned and in order.

  And then Wyatt Hunt had kissed her.

  And she really wanted him to do it again.

  She put the chicken on a platter, then set plates and utensils on the table. She made gravy, scraping crunchy bits of chicken drippings from the bottom of the pan. She pulled out a pan of glazed carrots from the oven and turned them into a bowl. The cinnamon rolls smelled luscious and were minutes away from perfection.

  The sun was well set as she mashed the potatoes. She heard the back door open and close quietly. Probably Wyatt, that kiss-stealing skunk.

  “Molly.”

  Startled by the unfamiliar woman’s voice, Molly spun around and flung a spoonful of potatoes through the air.

  Rachel Hobart was out of range. “Where is everyone?”

  “What are you doing back here?” Molly remembered her, but they’d only met briefly. After Wyatt had been shot. After Falcon had dragged the Pinkerton agent into the kitchen when he’d caught her slipping through the shadows on her way to the house.

  At the time, Falcon figured her for the one who’d shot Wyatt. Molly had gone running upstairs because they heard Wyatt moving around and someone had to keep him from coming down because he was too unsteady for the stairs.

  They’d met one other time while Molly was fighting for Wyatt’s life. So Wyatt hadn’t spent any time with her, either. The bullet had knocked him mighty low.

  Molly knew the rest of the family had been persuaded to trust her, but now she was back, looking like a desperate woman with bad intentions.

  Molly braced herself to fight her off with the potato masher.

  Wyatt came in behind Rachel, likely having seen her arrive. “What are you doing back here?”

  Molly took grim satisfaction in knowing Wyatt thought like her. She was also glad she didn’t have to get the knife out of her boot. She liked to keep it a secret. She and Win had both taken to carrying one. Cheyenne, of course, already did.

  “You’re Wyatt, right?” Rachel Hobart stuck out a hand, very manly.

  Wyatt blinked. He hesitated but shook. Molly didn’t like it.

  “Answer my question,” he said.

  “That’s exactly what I’m planning to do.” Rachel looked from Wyatt to Molly. “Where is Falcon? And Cheyenne?”

  “They aren’t here,” Wyatt said.

  Rachel’s jaw firmed, and her eyes flared with annoyance. “I got Amelia Bishop returned home to Minnesota. We had a long train ride to talk, and we compared our experiences with Oliver Hawkins. He bothered both of us.”

  “He bothers everyone.” Wyatt shrugged.

  “He bothered us in a way that was improper. He was overly familiar. As a single woman employed in his house, I can promise you he said and did things in an increasingly disturbing way. Amelia’s experiences very closely matched mine. You weren’t in town when Hawkins saw Amelia had been found. But it was clear she was frightened of him, and it was clear he wanted her back.

  “On our trip home she said a big part of the reason she ran off and got married and lived in hiding was because she was afraid Hawkins meant her harm.”

  “Harm?” Wyatt’s brow furrowed. “You mean he put his hands on her? Against her wishes?”

  “I mean, Amelia’s experience and mine aroused her father’s suspicions to the point he asked me to continue investigating.”

  “But how can you investigate the way he treated you and Amelia when neither of you is still in his household?” Molly asked.

  Rachel’s eyes narrowed. Her mouth a straight, grim line, she said, “I’ve learned of two other housekeepers that worked for Hawkins. They disappeared without a trace. They had no influential, wealthy family, so no one sent an investigator. It’s sad for the families left behind, but there was nothing done to find those housekeepers. After all, the West tends to swallow people up.”

  Molly knew it had swallowed her parents. In one big, ugly gulp.

  “Checking up on Hawkins led me to checking on those missing housekeepers, and that led me to his wife.”

  “She died birthing a child,” Wyatt said. “Everyone knows that.”

  “What everyone knows doesn’t line up with the truth. In fact, I suspect he’s a killer.”

  The door swung open.

  Win came in. Kevin was a pace behind her.

  Win’s eyes went straight to Rachel. All the color drained from her face, and Molly wondered if she was going to faint.

  “You collapsed before when we spoke.” Rachel had a shrewd look in her eyes that Molly found cruel. And that look was aimed right at Win.

  Molly didn’t like that Win had stolen her brother. That made Molly feel unfair, unreasonable, and petty—and Molly didn’t like feeling that way.

  But what Molly really didn’t like was that right this moment, she realized Win was her sister. And no one was going to upset her sister.

  “Wh-what are you doing here?” Win reached for Kevin, missed him because her eyes were locked on Rachel. Kevin stepped up quickly and grabbed her hand to steady her.

  “I’m here to ask you some questions you’re not going to want to answer, Mrs. Hunt.”

  “What kind of questions?” But the tremor in Win’s voice made her sound like she knew.

  “Questions about your father and his unpleasant history with women.”

  Win nodded. The tiniest nod, the most reluctant show of agreement Molly had ever seen. Still holding tight to Kevin’s hand, Win walked to the table and sat rather heavily in a chair.

  “Supper’s ready.” Molly thought eating might as well go on. “There’s plenty for you, Rachel, please join us.”

  Honestly, Molly would have preferred to boot her out of the house. But Rachel had a stubborn look about her.

  Molly figured the woman was here to stay.

  A
nother plate was added to the table, and Molly swiftly set out platters and bowls. Then they all sat down, said a prayer, and Molly braced herself for talk of murder.

  Ten

  I need to ask you questions about your father, Winona.” Hobart picked up the platter of sliced chicken, served herself, and passed it to Wyatt, who sat at the head of the table.

  He felt like he needed to guard his family from her. Protect Win, protect everyone.

  Taking the chicken, he added it to his plate with some stuffing. Just the smell made his mouth water. He was sure Molly had again prepared an unusually delicious meal.

  “I suspect your father of being a murderer.” Hobart picked up the bowl of glazed carrots. “I think he killed your mother.”

  Molly’s quiet gasp drew Wyatt’s eyes. He handed her the chicken platter. And he had to hold it for too long. She wasn’t paying attention to anyone but Win.

  Kevin’s arm came around Win. He said fiercely, “You don’t have to talk to her, Win.”

  The way Kevin said it sharpened Wyatt’s attention. From his earliest memory, Win had always stayed here. A little, motherless girl, then she’d vanished off to boarding school for years and never once came home, even for summers. When she had finally come home, she spent her free time here, not at her pa’s house. Wyatt had never considered why. He didn’t care much for Hawkins, and he just accepted that Win preferred the company of Cheyenne, her childhood friend, to her loud, lazy father.

  Now he asked himself if there was more to it than that.

  He wondered at Molly’s reaction, too. It was a shocking statement by Hobart, but Molly seemed to be struck hard.

  “I am blunt, Winona. I don’t apologize for it. Yes, your husband is right, you don’t have to talk to me. But I traveled to Chicago to find background on Hawkins. I couldn’t find much before he married your mother. He was untraceable, and I’m good at tracing. I suspect he isn’t using the name he was born with and most everything your mother knew about him was an invention. There were people willing to share suspicions with me—old friends of your mother and your grandparents. Their suspicions, combined with his treatment of me and Amelia Bishop, made me wonder. I looked closer and found two former housekeepers that disappeared. Can you remember when your mother died?”