Molly Darling

by Laurie Paige

  “That’s good.” Oh, heavens, she sounded so stuffy. Her family was right. She was a throwback to some other era.

  He spooned out another plate of food for himself after offering her seconds, which she refused.

  “Tell me about your ranch,” she said invitingly. “Does it have a name?”

  “It’s called Diablo Mesa Ranch.” He studied her for a moment before he continued. “It’s on the El Cam-ino del Diablo.”

  “The Devil’s Highway?” she mused. “What’s it like?” She pictured a barren, hardscrabble place.

  “It’s the most beautiful place on earth.” His expression softened the way it did when he looked at his daughter. “The ranch lies along the Pecos, so we have running water all year.”

  She altered her image to a lush, green valley.

  “We’re on a high, flat mesa—”

  “What is a mesa?” she interrupted him to ask. “I mean, is it a mountain or what? Some people have said it is. Others told me it isn’t.”

  “It’s the flat-topped part that’s left when the rest of a plateau erodes.” He made a broad, sweeping gesture with one hand. “This area was once a tableland that was shoved into a tilt sloping from the northwest to the southeast when the Rockies thrust their way up through the earth’s crust. Erosion has cut gullies and ravines through it. Mesas form where a harder layer, such as cap rock, protects that section of the plateau from the weathering effects of rain and wind.”

  “Ah,” she murmured in understanding.

  “The ranch house sits on a rise above the mesa. From it, you can see eternity—” He halted abruptly, as if he’d said too much.

  He had shared part of himself with her, she realized. He knew and understood the land as keenly as any geologist. More than that, he had a vision within himself of the land, with him a part of it. This place was home to him as it was to her.

  “Do you have gullies and ravines?” she asked softly.

  “Yes. They’re mostly dry washes—arroyos, the Spanish settlers called them. I’ve dammed some of them on my land to form ponds, but they go dry a couple of times a year, so it isn’t a dependable source of water.”

  “I see.”

  At her interest, he expounded on the land and what he’d like to do someday “when I strike oil or a gold mine.”

  She smiled at his wry crack.

  “You have a nice smile,” he said, startling her.

  “Thank you.”

  “You should smile more.”

  “So should you,” she responded in her usual tart way. She clamped down on the inside of her lip. A lecture wasn’t the way to a man’s heart.

  A stillness came over her while she contemplated the question that leapt into her mind. Was she aiming for his heart?

  No, of course not. It was just a thought.

  Chapter Three

  Molly pushed the cat out of the way with her foot and checked off the items on her mental list—ham, rolls from a local bakery, freshly made cookies. All was ready for the potluck dinner honoring the local author.

  “You’ve had your dinner,” Molly reminded Persnickety, who pressed against her leg and made cat sounds of starvation. “Be nice like your sister. She’s not begging for a bite of ham.”

  Porsche snoozed on the throw rug by the back door.

  Molly heard a vehicle in the driveway. She glanced at the ham on the table, then at the black cat with three white whiskers. “I don’t trust you,” she declared. She ushered both cats out the back, then rushed to the front door.

  “Am I too early?” Sam called, climbing out of his truck.

  He looked very presentable in dark wool slacks, his usual white shirt—open at the collar, the sleeves rolled up. He carried a bouquet as he came up the flagstone walk.

  “No, of course not. Lass will be glad to see you.” She’d brought the child home with her after the nursery school closed.

  He handed over the gift at the door, then took off his hat as he stepped inside. She watched his gaze take in the small house with its spit-polish shine.

  She’d worked all last evening to make sure it was perfect. As if she’d wanted to impress him. For a second, while they stood there, suspended between one moment and the next, she tried to analyze her feelings. She shook her head hopelessly.

  “Lass is in the kitchen,” she told him, leading the way.

  She was aware of him following close behind. His after-shave drifted on the air, mingling with the tiny dabs of perfume she’d put behind her ears.

  All her senses seemed heightened. She felt the silky swish of her dress against her stockings. Her friends from high school and college had all told her she had nice legs… really nice legs. The blue silk dress, a gift from her mother, cleared her knees by an inch or more.

  Spinster tries to seduce cowboy, she mocked. As if that would be possible. She hadn’t a sexy bone in her body.

  Sam hung his hat on an old-fashioned highboy and followed her into the kitchen. “Smells good in here,” he murmured.

  Soaking up the flavor of the place—the aroma of home-cooked food, the lemony scent that bespoke cleanliness and a tantalizing whiff of mingled cologne, soap and powder that shouted woman to his starved senses, he realized how bare his own life had grown.

  For a second, he imagined this was his home, all clean and shining, his dinner, hot on the stove, his wife and child, eager to welcome him with smiles and kisses.

  He took a step forward… A babble of sound from Lass kept him from making a fool of himself. He changed his direction and headed for the playpen.

  “Hello, sweetheart,” he said, scooping Lass up and tossing her toward the sky.

  She squealed in delight. “Da, Da, Da, Da,” she said.

  “Da-da,” he encouraged. “That’s me, your old man. I’m the boss and don’t you forget it, young lady.”

  Lass pulled his nose.

  “Hey,” he scolded and dodged the moist tug.

  He glanced across the tiny kitchen. Molly was watching them, a gleam of approval in her eyes. A smile glazed her lips.

  Her mouth looked soft and inviting. A rosy pink shine indicated lipstick. He realized she’d rarely worn any on the days when he dropped Lass off at school. Odd, he’d never missed it on her.

  His wife had used a lot of makeup and had looked pale without it. She hadn’t liked for him to “muss” her up. The sure knowledge came to him that Molly didn’t have those vanities. His glance strayed down her slender curves.

  Molly was aware of his perusal with every nerve ending in her body. She busied herself with the flowers.

  She knew he was looking at the sheer black stockings she’d worn with three-inch evening pumps. Somewhat irritated by her own vanity, she wondered if women teetered around on high heels to indicate they’d like to be swept off their feet.

  That was obviously the last thought on her guest’s mind. He hugged his child to his chest with a protective arm under her bottom and a hand on her back and continued talking to her.

  “Hi, how’s my girl?” he questioned in a soft voice.

  Lass clicked her tongue at him. He laughed and clicked back at her. When he glanced up and saw Molly watching, he looked sort of sheepish.

  “I took her riding with me a couple of weeks ago,” he said. “She heard me click my tongue to the mare and has been doing it ever since then.”

  “Yes, babies are great mimics.”

  “Guess I’d better tell the spring roundup crew to watch their language from now on.”

  “I thought roundups were in the fall when ranchers sold their cattle.”

  “I hire on a couple of extra men to help with the branding and all. They usually stay until after the cattle are sold.”

  “I see. Then you’re alone the rest of the year?” She thought of him on the ranch, alone during one of the blizzards they occasionally had.

  “Yes.”

  “I’m sure it’s beautiful, but isn’t it lonely?”

  “No.”

  Her eyes me
t his at the quick, harsh denial. Their gazes locked and wouldn’t let go as they engaged in some primal clash that shifted her equilibrium. A knotty sensation settled in her throat as she wondered wildly what he was thinking.

  Lass’s head, with its soft wisps of cottony curls, bobbed against Sam’s chin, severing the unexpected tension that had leapt to life between them.

  Full of nervous energy, Molly busied herself filling a vase half-full of water, adding two tablets as a preservative and poking the bouquet of daisies into it. She placed the flowers on the table behind the platter of ham.

  The bright yellow blossoms looked nice against the earthy red of the tablecloth.

  “Still life with ham,” she said, standing back so Sam could admire the effect. She glanced at him. The moment of awareness between them when she’d mentioned the loneliness of the ranch might never have been.

  She drew a calming breath. “I think I hear the others arriving. Shall we go into the living room?” She glanced back over her shoulder. “Lass has had her supper, so she should be okay until bedtime. Do you give her a bottle then?”

  “Uh, yes.” He looked up.

  His attention had been on her legs. A light fluttering invaded her middle. She was intensely aware of her short skirt, the silky dress…the heat that tumbled out of some place inside her as if the door to a furnace had been opened.

  Most of the literary club arrived together. “Come in,” she invited the preacher and his wife.

  Mrs.. Liscomb checked on the threshold, causing her husband to stumble over her. The knot of people behind them halted.

  “Do all of you know Sam Frazier?” Molly asked, standing back so her guests could get a clear view of him standing behind her.

  Aubry Liscomb’s jaw actually dropped open. “Sam Frazier,” she echoed.

  Sam watched surprise segue into animosity from several of the locals, the ones who’d lived in the community when he’d left and had still been there when he returned. Old resentment welled up in him, hot and churning. The residents had always been a bunch of sanctimonious hypocrites as far as he was concerned. They hadn’t changed a damn bit-Molly took his hand, forcing him to step forward and acknowledge her guests. He sliced her a glance and saw the expectation in her eyes.

  He sighed internally. The prissy little teacher expected her guests to be on their best behavior… including him. He clasped her hand tightly when she would have removed it. He’d be nice if it killed him, but he deserved a reward for the effort. Touching her was it.

  “Evening, Mrs. Liscomb, Reverend,” he said.

  “Evening, Sam,” the preacher said. He gave his wife a gentle push from behind. She mumbled a greeting and stepped into the room. Sidled was more like it, as if she’d be attacked if she got too close.

  Sam forced a smile on his face. He wanted Molly for a friend. That meant he’d have to accept these people, too. He let go of her hand reluctantly so she could perform her duties as hostess. When the guest of honor arrived, he moved back to her side, standing close so that she was aware of him. He smiled at her startled glance, then spoke to the man whose book had won some prize or other; he remembered reading about it in the paper. He laid his hand at the back of her waist.

  Molly felt warm the rest of the evening and didn’t catch more than one word in three of the guest speaker’s lecture on the terrible state of American art and government funding for it. Sam’s eyes were often on her, a quiet watchfulness in the rich dark depths.

  A quietness grew in her, too, as if she were waiting…

  Lass slept peacefully in the playpen in the study off Molly’s living room. Sam stood watching her from the doorway, his thoughts on other matters.

  He couldn’t believe the evening had gone so quickly. He’d actually enjoyed some of it. Except when that windbag writer had held Molly’s hand for a long time at the door while he told her what a delightful time he’d had. The man was interested in Molly. That much was clear.

  Sam frowned in irritation. His carefully constructed plans didn’t allow for outside interference.

  Another problem was Molly herself.

  She’d thrown him for a loop when she’d opened the door and invited him inside. Gone was the schoolteacher who handed out advice on child rearing or one’s manners. In her place… God, in her place was a stunning woman.

  He closed his eyes. Soft. That was the impression she gave—a delicate softness that made a man want to reach out and stroke that smooth skin, those flyaway wisps of hair.

  Yeah, but he knew only too well how fast a woman could change from a sweet, ethereal creature—loving and clinging and making a man want her so bad he’d forsake the world—and turn into a shouting fury that made him want to crawl into a hole and not come out till hell froze over.

  “Well, that was the last of them.” Molly’s voice cut into his musing. “It went well, didn’t it?”

  “Yes.”

  She bent over the makeshift crib. “Ah, the sleep of the innocent. Lass is such a good baby, not a peep out of her about sleeping in a strange place.”

  Her soft voice whispered over him like a caress. Her light brown hair fell over her shoulders in a silky cloud. Her skirt hiked up to expose an enticing bit of black-clad thigh as she gazed down at the sleeping child.

  He looked away and stared out the window until his blood settled down again. It had been over a year since he’d made love with a woman. His marriage had gone from wild passion to cold fury in a few short months. Abstinence had to be what had sparked this crazy desire he had for his daughter’s teacher.

  That and his attorney’s urging him to marry her. Molly, the intelligent little prude, would probably be shocked at the thoughts that had run through his mind all evening.

  She straightened and turned to him. “Would you like to leave her for the night? I have enough diapers. There’s an extra outfit in the diaper bag and I can run over to the nursery for more food.”

  “No, I’d rather take her home.”

  He doubted he would sleep a wink if Lass wasn’t snug in her own bed. He had a need to know she was nearby, safe and sound. The problems with his former father-in-law had made him paranoid where his daughter was concerned.

  “But thanks for offering,” he added belatedly, realizing how harsh he’d sounded.

  She smiled graciously. “Here, wrap her in the blanket. You can return it Monday when you bring her in.”

  He nodded in thanks, the sense of well-being he’d experienced at odd moments all evening returning. He liked Molly Clelland, he realized.

  She was a bossy woman, like most teachers, and yet she wasn’t. She gave choices and coupled them with instructions in such a way that a person automatically did what she said. He found her presence soothing… for the most part, except when his libido kicked up.

  They walked down the hall. He retrieved his hat and jammed it onto his head. At the door, he paused. “Listen, my attorney wanted to know if we’d like to have dinner with him and his wife sometime. How about tomorrow night?”

  “I’m busy then,” she said and looked regretful.

  He wondered if she was saying that to make it seem as if she had lots of dates. His wife had done that. Molly’s next words assured him she wasn’t playing a game with him.

  “Perhaps next weekend? I have both Friday and Saturday free.” Her eyes held no hint of subterfuge.

  “Right,” he said, relieved that she hadn’t turned him down.’ ‘I’ll check on the day and time and get back to you.”

  “Fine.” She stood by the door and held it open for him.

  He shifted Lass from one shoulder to the other. A moment dragged by. A question appeared in her eyes.

  “I had a nice time tonight,” he finally said. “Thanks for having me.” He stepped out into the night.

  “It was a pleasure,” she called after him. He heard the smile in her voice, then she closed the door against the chilly night air, and he was left out in the cold.

  In the truck, after fastening Lass in he
r seat, he drove off quickly, feeling like an utter fool. For a moment there, he’d considered kissing Molly good-night.

  She would have probably fainted or slapped him. No, she would have given him a lecture on propriety or manners or some such fool thing.

  He smiled, a soft feeling stealing over him. Lass stirred and clicked her tongue in her sleep and settled again. The smile evaporated, and his thoughts returned to practicalities.

  He wanted Molly for his friend, not his lover, he reminded himself. Once the sex wore off, men and women didn’t remain friends—at least not in his experience. He needed her friendship.

  The idea gave him pause. He didn’t think he’d ever been friends with a woman before. It was a different concept.

  Sure, he’d been friendly with girls while growing up and with some women he’d known. But being friendly and being friends seemed two different things.

  A friend, he repeated. For some reason, it made him feel good deep inside.

  Molly stifled a yawn. “Janice and Chuck are nice,” she said. She and Sam had met the other couple in Roswell where they’d gone to dinner and a movie. “Have you known him long?”

  She rested her head on the back of the seat and observed Sam’s face from the glow of the pickup’s dash-lights. A terrible clenching in the vicinity of her heart worried her. She felt it each time she saw Sam, which was to say, every day.

  “Only for a couple of years.’’

  “Since you’ve been back home?”

  “Yes. He was new in the area and an outsider.” Sam cast her a glance before concentrating on the road once more.

  “Like me.”

  “Like me,” he corrected. “He’s from back east. He married a local girl and settled here about the same time I returned.”

  “You were born here,” she said pointedly.

  “But I was gone for twelve years. Before that, I had a reputation for wildness.”

  “Did you deserve it?”

  “Maybe. I drove fast. I acted tough. And I didn’t like taking orders.”