Montana

by Debbie Macomber

  Her fourteen-year-old son’s wisdom touched her heart. Tom focused on what he could be grateful for, instead of all he’d lost. He, too, had achieved a hard-won acceptance. He counted his blessings.

  “He taught me to whittle and I can play cribbage now,” Clay said.

  Gramps had taught her the same things when she was about the same age.

  “Last night he talked more about the war,” Tom told her. “He told us about men dying even before they made it to land, their bodies bloating in the water.”

  Molly’s hand reached for the cameo and gripped it hard. He’d called it his good-luck charm. He’d carried the cameo into battle with him, taking a small tangible piece of the love he shared with his wife. For protection. As a token of faith in the future.

  “He talked quite a bit about dying and how it was nothing to fear,” Tom added, as if remembering this for the first time. “He said that with some folks death can be a friend.”

  “A friend?” Molly knew what he meant but had never heard such talk from her grandfather.

  “For those who’d made their peace with God,” Clay said. “That’s what he said. I think Gramps was ready.”

  “He talked about a lot of things last night,” Tom said. “But mainly it was about the war and about your dad and his Molly.”

  The tears came again, unwanted. Molly hadn’t meant to cry, not in front of her sons. She didn’t want to upset them further.

  “Mom…”

  “I know, honey, I’m sorry. I can’t seem to stop. I’m going to miss him so much.” At least she wasn’t alone anymore. At first Gramps’s suggestion that she marry Sam had seemed an interference, an insult, but she knew this terrible void inside her would be ten times deeper if it wasn’t for her husband. She accepted that Gramps was gone, but she would always miss him.

  She held a handkerchief to her eyes. So many tears had been shed that her eyes ached and her nose was red and sore from blowing.

  “I liked him,” Clay said quietly. “He might have been old, but he knew a lot of stuff and he never treated me like a kid. Even when I made mistakes in cribbage, he never made me think I was dumb.”

  The burial service was held three days later. Afterward Sam, Molly and the boys stood at one side of the grave and Ginny stood across from them as the casket was lowered into the ground. The minister who’d married her and Sam said a prayer, then briefly hugged Molly and exchanged handshakes with Sam and the boys. Molly lingered, as did Ginny Dougherty, who repeatedly dabbed a tissue to her eyes.

  “I’m gonna miss that crotchety old coot,” Ginny said, and blew her nose loudly.

  “We’ll all miss him,” Sam said. His arm rested across Molly’s back, and she was grateful for his comfort and support. Molly didn’t know what she would have done without him these past few days. He’d given her strength.

  “We were neighbors for thirty years,” Ginny continued, weeping softly now. “Walt and Molly stood with me when I buried Hank.” She rubbed her eyes with one hand and took a couple of moments to compose herself. “Walt and me might not have agreed on a lot of things, but I knew if I ever needed a helping hand, he’d be there.”

  Ginny’s tears came in earnest then, and she raised both hands to her face. “Damn, but I’m gonna miss him.”

  Molly stepped away from Sam and put her arms around the other woman. “It’s going to be mighty lonely without Gramps around,” she said, “especially with the boys starting school next week. Do you think you could stop by for tea one day? It’d be good to have a friend.”

  Ginny nodded and hugged Molly fiercely. “I never had children, you know. If I had, I would’ve wanted a daughter like you.”

  Molly savored the compliment. The older woman was a lot like Gramps—just as ornery and just as honest. And just as lonely.

  “Would you like to come back to the ranch with us for dinner?” Molly asked.

  Ginny shook her head. “No thanks, I’ve got to get back. Fred’s on his own.” She kissed Molly’s cheek, then hurried to her truck, parked near the cemetery entrance.

  As they left the graveyard, Molly realized that Ginny had been sweet on Gramps. She should’ve guessed it earlier. All the years they’d lived next to each other, watched out for each other, fought, argued and battled. And loved. Silently. Without ever saying a word to each other. Without ever a touch. They’d been the best of friends and the best of enemies.

  The shadow-filled alley behind Willie’s was deserted now that the tavern had closed for the night. Monroe sat in his car with the lights off and waited for Lance to show. He didn’t trust his fellow Loyalist and considered him a loose cannon. In the past couple of months, Lance had grown even more unpredictable, impatient. It grated on Monroe’s nerves. He wanted Lance gone, but Burns wouldn’t hear of it.

  The car door opened and Lance climbed into the front seat.

  “You’re late,” Munroe muttered. He glanced at his watch, letting the man know he begrudged every one of those five minutes.

  Not only was Lance out of uniform, he’d grown lazy. Any discipline had vanished from his personal hygiene and his attitude. His face bristled with a two-day beard and his fatigues were rank with body odor. His boots were unpolished, one of the laces broken. Monroe suspected he’d snuck off to attend another rodeo.

  “I take it the old man’s dead and buried?” Lance said.

  “The service was this afternoon,” Monroe confirmed.

  “Did that lawyer cousin of yours convince his granddaughter to sell yet?”

  Monroe wished to hell it was that easy. “Unfortunately, no, and now that she’s married Dakota, we’re forced to tighten the screws.”

  “You got any ideas?”

  This was supposed to be Lance’s area of expertise. The Loyalists had imported him from Idaho, reasoning that it was better if an outsider handled the dirty work, sparing Monroe any hint of suspicion. Other than to make contact with Monroe, Lance wasn’t supposed to venture into town. The less seen of him the better. Only, he’d grown bored living in his wilderness camp and started hanging out with another Loyalist, playing pool and getting drunk.

  “I thought you were supposed to be the idea man,” Monroe snapped.

  “I am. All I need to know is how far you want me to go.”

  Monroe gritted his teeth, trying to control his irritation. “Do what you have to do and don’t bother me with the details, understand? And stay out of town.”

  “No need to lose your cool,” Lance muttered, opening the car door.

  The interior light came on, illuminating a section of the alleyway. Suddenly Monroe caught a movement out of the corner of his eye and jerked his head around. It took him a moment to locate the source.

  Pearl. She’d crouched down behind the garbage dump in an attempt to hide. He wondered what she’d been doing there, but it went without saying that she was up to no damn good. The bitch needed to be taught a lesson. He’d make sure she kept her nose out of his business from now on. Before the night was over she’d be begging his forgiveness; anticipating that scene excited him. He hadn’t seen near enough of Pearl lately, and obviously she’d forgotten some of the lessons he’d given her earlier. This was the type of work he relished best—putting a woman in her place. By the time he was through with her, she wouldn’t be sneaking around and listening in on his conversations anymore.

  “Who did this to you?” Russell demanded, studying Pearl’s battered face. Fierce anger consumed him until he barely recognized the sound of his own voice. By God, whoever beat her would pay for this. She sat before him with both eyes swollen so badly he wondered how she could see out of them. The corner of her mouth had a jagged cut.

  “Russell—”

  “Tell me, dammit! I want to know.” He paced her living room, too furious to sit still.

  “It’s not so bad,” she said in an obvious effort to brush off his concern. It didn’t work.

  “Who?” he shouted again, his hands in tight fists at his sides. Russell had never been a
violent man, but the rage he experienced now led him to believe that he was capable of brutality. Capable of anything.

  Pearl lowered her head. “Please, it isn’t important.”

  “It is to me.”

  He’d known something was wrong when she didn’t show up at the cabin Sunday morning. He’d waited an hour and then gone searching for her, assuming her car must have broken down along the way. The cabin was a good fifty miles out of town, and on that isolated road, she could wait hours before someone came by. But he didn’t find her, nor did he see her rattletrap of a car.

  When he returned to the cabin, the message light was flashing on his answering machine. It was Pearl, telling him she wouldn’t be able to come that Sunday and probably not the next one, either. Her voice had sounded odd, and after playing the message a second time, he was sure something was wrong.

  Unconcerned about his reputation, he drove directly to Pearl’s house. She hadn’t wanted to let him in and did so only after he raised a fuss loud enough to call attention to his being there. Reluctantly she unlatched the door and he’d found her beaten and bloody.

  “Russell, please, just go,” Pearl said now. “I’ll be fine, and in a couple of weeks, you won’t even know I was hurt. I’ll…we can continue just like before. Okay?” She tried to usher him to the door, but he’d have none of it. Again and again he’d asked her to marry him, and each time she’d refused. He couldn’t understand it, couldn’t fathom that she would choose this kind of life over the love they shared.

  “I’m not leaving until we have this out,” he insisted.

  He could see that talking was painful for her. And her bruised swollen eyes—he could hardly stand looking at them. By all that was right she should be in a doctor’s office, perhaps even a hospital.

  “Please…”

  “I can’t pretend this didn’t happen,” Russell said, and continued his pacing. He rammed his fingers through his hair hard enough to tug painfully at the roots.

  “Please…you’re making me dizzy. Sit down.” She gestured toward the sofa.

  He sagged onto the ottoman, but couldn’t look at her. Every time he did his stomach churned and he felt like vomiting.

  She held a washcloth to the edge of her mouth, dabbing gingerly at the cut. “There’s no reason to carry on like this,” she said, dismissing her own pain. “These things happen now and then. It isn’t pleasant, it isn’t fun, but it’s a fact of life. An occupational hazard, so to speak. I’m sorry it upsets you—I wish you hadn’t come.”

  She moved slightly, and her robe opened, exposing ugly bruises high on her shoulders. Dangerously close to her throat. It was almost as if her client had attempted to strangle her.

  Russell’s blood ran cold at the thought.

  He loved her more than he’d realized. For months he’d pushed the reality of her occupation from his mind. It was easier to ignore the way she made her living than to face it, especially since Pearl steadfastly refused to discuss it. Instead, he’d concentrated on the time they shared every Sunday. But he couldn’t ignore the truth any longer.

  Drawing in a ragged breath, he looked at her, looked hard at the bruises and other injuries. “We’re getting married.” He wasn’t asking this time, he was telling her. He wasn’t going to let Pearl put her life on the line again.

  Her first reaction was to physically pull away. Her back went against the cushion, and slowly, one movement at a time, she seemed to become smaller and smaller, shrinking into herself. First she tucked her bare feet beneath her and drew her robe together, holding it closed. Then she wrapped her free arm about her waist.

  “Did you hear me?” Russell asked.

  She turned her head away.

  “Well?” He watched her, waiting, wondering. Hoping.

  When she did speak, her voice was almost inaudible. “Men like you don’t marry women like me.”

  “I do.”

  Her chin came up slightly and her words gained conviction. “Let me put it another way, then. Women like me don’t marry, period.”

  “What is this? A rule of some kind?”

  She refused to answer.

  The silence seemed to last forever, but when she spoke again, he sensed a new resolve in her. The woman could be stubborn, he’d say that for her. “We’ve already been through this,” she finally said. “I can’t…I’m so sorry, but it just isn’t possible.”

  “Why isn’t it? Look at yourself, Pearl! Your face has been beaten to a pulp. You can’t ask me to sit by and do nothing. If you won’t tell me who hurt you, then at least let me offer you the protection of my name.”

  She gave him a small crooked smile and grimaced at the pain it caused her. Russell’s gut tightened and the bile rose in his throat as he witnessed her discomfort. Feeling the other person’s pain—this was what love did.

  Slowly she shook her head. “I can’t.”

  His frustration was nearly overwhelming. “Then explain it to me. At least help me understand. I love you and you love me. Marriage is what happens when people feel about each other the way we do.”

  “In case you haven’t noticed, I’m not like other women.” She looked him straight in the eye, and it was the hard-edged look of the woman he’d met all those months ago. “I’m a whore.”

  He could think of only one way to reach her, to get her to listen to reason, to trust him. With the truth. “I love you, Pearl—you know that. I have for months. I live for Sundays when I know I’ll be spending time with you. You’re all I think about. Okay, you’re right, you’re not like other women, but I don’t care. I don’t want anyone but you.”

  She glanced away and he knew from the way her eyes glazed with tears that his words had touched her. She stiffened her shoulders and smiled slightly. “I’m afraid you’ve confused great sex with love, Russell.”

  “We met for weeks before we ever slept together,” he reminded her. He knelt down in front of her and reached for her hand. She tried to snatch it away, and it was then that he noticed the large welt on her wrist. He grabbed her other hand and saw a similar welt. The son of a bitch had tied her up.

  It hurt him to look at her injuries. “Who did this to you?” he begged again. He experienced the highly embarrassing urge to weep. She must have heard it in his voice, because she took hold of his shoulder and squeezed hard.

  “Listen to me, please, and hear me this time. It doesn’t matter.”

  “I’m calling the sheriff.”

  Pearl laughed out loud. “Oh, please! Do you think he gives a damn about a hooker with an overfriendly john?” she asked mockingly.

  Russell glared at the ceiling and forcefully expelled his breath. “I care. I can’t do this. I can’t sit back and see this happen to you. I can’t love you like I do and not worry about the fact that you’re being abused. I’ve looked the other way for too long.”

  “Just forget about this, please. I’m all right. Really.” Her eyes pleaded with him to drop his concern, along with his marriage proposal. In the past Russell had given in to her pleadings, but no more. Not when her life was at stake. Not when all she had to do was agree to marry him and let him love and protect her.

  “I can’t forget.” He turned over her hand and kissed the inside of her wrist. The welt was red and ugly, and he felt the heat of it against his lips.

  Pearl closed her eyes. “Please,” she begged.

  “I’ve never asked another woman to share my life. I’m asking you. I can understand that it might be uncomfortable for us in Sweetgrass. We’ll move, and I’ll set up a practice in another state. We’ll start over, just the two of us.”

  She shook her head and seemed about to weep. “No. It just isn’t possible.”

  “You can’t make me believe this is the kind of life you want. I know better.”

  She raised her hand to her face, apparently forgetting that her eyes were bruised, and winced at the flash of unexpected pain. “This is something men have never been able to understand about women like me,” she said in a
half whisper. “I love what I do.”

  He knew she was lying.

  “You might disagree,” she went on, “but I provide a valuable service, and if it gets a little rough occasionally—well, that just comes with the territory. I take the beatings, along with the bonuses. You, Russell, were an unexpected bonus, so you see it all evens out in the end.”

  “I don’t want to listen to any more of this.” Especially when he knew she was lying. They were too close, too intimate, for him not to recognize that.

  She clamped her hand around his wrist. Her grip was hard and relentless. “Listen, and listen carefully, because what you fail to understand, what most men like you can’t accept, is that I do this by choice.”

  Russell yanked his wrist free of her grasp and bolted upright, angered by her lies and her attitude.

  “I have a specialty, you know—then again perhaps you don’t.” She moistened her lips. “A lot of women are averse to it, but—”

  “I’ve heard all about your specialty,” Russell interrupted between clenched teeth.

  She laughed as if his anger amused her. “You do? That surprises me because you’ve never asked for it.”

  “It’s different with us.”

  “Is it? Are you completely convinced of that, or is there a tiny shred of doubt?”

  “Pearl, this tactic isn’t going to work. No matter how crude you are, it isn’t going to convince me that you don’t love me. I know how you feel.”

  “Because I gave you my body gratis,” she said, and laughed. “It isn’t often a girl like me gets to laze away a Sunday afternoon in a private getaway. Even a call girl needs time to breathe once in a while, and if all it costs is a freebie, then why not? You’re pleasant company, and you were nice enough to teach me to read. You can’t blame me if you got a little too…involved, can you? A girl like me is—”

  “Stop!” he shouted. “Don’t cheapen what we shared.”

  “Then don’t make more of it than it was!” she snapped back.

  His skin felt clammy even as a chill raced through his blood. He had to get away. Escape. Otherwise he was in danger of making an even bigger fool of himself. Not looking at her, he headed for the door.