This was where Molly had come by her serenity, her sense that everything would always work out for the best. Wolf knew that was a nonsensical quirk. Life rarely worked out for the best.
He didn’t want to stand here and list all the horrible dangers that could face Molly if she were still lost when the sun set. He’d gone over them again and again in his mind, and he couldn’t stand to torture himself anymore.
Wolf wasn’t surprised to find that Molly was not at her mother’s house. He knew she wasn’t safe, knew it deep down, on an instinctive level that scared the hell out of him. That undeniable connection frightening him almost as much as knowing that Molly was lost.
To his astonishment, Mary Hanson smiled at him. “You’ll find her.”
“How can you be so sure?” Against all reason, Wolf wanted her to give him something to hold onto, something tangible.
“Molly has great faith in you,” Mary revealed softly. “I didn’t understand that until recently. Perhaps I still don’t understand it completely.”
“Why?” Wolf faced the woman who had wailed as if her heart were being torn from her chest as she’d watched her daughter marry him.
“I can’t answer that, any more than I can tell you why she loves you.”
Wolf shook his head. This was all wrong. Molly should be safe, happy, and she should have fallen in love with someone who could tell her he loved her without feeling so damn scared.
Good God, was that all it was? Fear?
“Mrs. Hanson,” Wolf looked into the woman’s eyes, saw a bit of Molly there in the gray depths. “Did Molly say anything to you . . . anything about a baby?”
“No. Is she in the family way?”
Wolf shook his head again. “I don’t know. I thought, maybe —”
“And you’re worried about the baby, too?”
Mary Hanson laid her hand on Wolf’s arm, as if to comfort him. “She would have told me, I’m sure. Don’t worry.”
Don’t worry. What a ridiculous suggestion.
Mary’s new husband, Orville Hanson, grabbed his coat and accompanied Wolf to the tavern, where many of the townsmen would be gathered for the afternoon.
It had been years since Wolf had set foot in Kingsport; nothing had changed. Passersby stared openly, and when he stepped into the tavern an abrupt and complete hush fell over the room.
These people hated him, and with good reason. Wolf half expected one of the men to throw a stone, like the last time he’d made the mistake of coming to Kingsport.
This wasn’t for him, it was for Molly.
“I need your help,” Wolf said, closing the door behind Hanson. One man, an unseen patron sitting in the back corner, laughed out loud.
Wolf didn’t have time to allow his anger to propel him, not now. “Molly’s lost, somewhere in the woods out past Nelda Kincaid’s house, and I . . . I don’t have time to search for her by myself. I need help,” he repeated.
The faces that were turned to him were uncaring, distant, the rough faces of men who worked hard for very little, and had no sympathy for a man in Wolf’s position. Even without the scandal of his past, he’d be unlikely to find a friend in this room.
“Well, well.” The voice that piped up probably belonged to the man who had laughed. The man, dressed in a red flannel shirt and sporting an untended beard, stood. “What do you know? Wolf Trevelyan’s lost another wife.”
He didn’t even remember crossing the room, but he had the man by the collar, and pressed him against the wall with a choking grip. “Molly’s not dead,” he seethed. The man’s face turned red, and then purple, before Wolf felt Hanson’s restraining hand on his arm.
“Let him go,” Hanson urged softly. “We’ll find her without their help.”
Wolf dropped the man, whose only response was to gasp loudly and clutch at his throat.
Men stared as Wolf passed, but no one challenged him as he headed for the door with a singular purpose.
He threw the door open, bemoaning the time he’d lost by coming here, knowing that with only the two of them it would be difficult, maybe impossible, to find Molly in those woods.
In the open doorway, he turned. “If any of you were lost, Molly would look for you. She wouldn’t hesitate, wouldn’t think twice, no matter what.”
Blank faces stared back at him. “She’s the best person any of you have ever known.” Something in him broke, but he couldn’t afford to feel it. Not now. “And she’s the best part of me,” he muttered as he turned his back on the tavern patrons.
Before the door swung closed, Wolf heard chairs scraping across the floor, but he didn’t look back.
His horse took him to the edge of the wood, there where, months ago, he’d seen Molly enter to take the footpath to her grandmother’s house. Hanson assured him that at least a dozen men followed them, but Wolf wasn’t about to wait for them. Who knew how long it would take those fools to band together and begin the search?
Hanson promised to organize the party, making certain that the searchers fanned out so they wouldn’t miss Molly, and he also promised to send someone to inform Larkin of the situation.
Larkin would want to look for Molly himself, so Wolf sent strict instructions that he was to wait at the house, in case Molly returned.
She’d be scared, and he wanted someone to be there for her.
They decided on a signal, two shots fired into the air, to alert Wolf if Molly was found by someone else.
Once he’d entered the woods, Wolf didn’t stay on the path for long. If Molly had found her way to the path she would have made her way to Nelda Kincaid’s house. No, she was lost in here somewhere, turned about and confused and scared. In a couple of hours it would be dark and cold, and she would be almost impossible to find.
He wasn’t coming out without her.
Wolf passed the stream where he’d tried unsuccessfully to seduce Molly. The wildflowers were all gone, now, and wouldn’t reappear until spring. He followed the stream for a while, and when he veered off into the deepest part of the woods, he called her name.
Even though he’d been unable to admit the fact aloud, he knew he loved Molly. More than he’d thought possible. If he didn’t find her, if he didn’t have her with him, he was nothing. That realization came with a knot in his throat and a sick heave in his stomach.
He called her name again, bellowing into an empty forest that gave up nothing but a sickening echo.
Mary Hanson had said that Molly had faith in him. It was a difficult concept for Wolf to accept. He hadn’t had faith in anything since early in his childhood, since his mother had died.
He didn’t have faith in Molly, in the repeated assertion that she loved him, and he sure as hell didn’t have any faith in himself.
It was instinct that guided him, as he walked deeper into the growth of old trees. She could be anywhere, miles away or just beyond his reach. At regular intervals he called out to her, only to be answered by the reverberation of his own voice.
“Come on, Red,” he whispered hoarsely as he plunged forward. “Don’t do this to me.” No more than a minute had passed, when he called out to her again. This time he was rewarded with the sound of his own name, a faint cry that seemed to come from directly ahead.
He ran, pushing aside a low branch and yelling again, louder this time, and when Molly answered he was sure it was no delusion.
Relief washed over him when he saw a glimpse of red through the brown and gray tree trunks, that bright red cape a beacon for him to follow.
Molly ran, as he did, weaving past young and ancient growth that stood between them, but just when they were about to meet, they both stopped. Simultaneously.
Molly’s hood was thrown back, and her hair was tangled and embellished with a couple of small dead leaves. Her face was flushed, but she appeared to be rather calm.
“You found me,” she said softly.
Wolf had never been at a loss for words, until now. “I told you to stay on the road,” he said lamely.
> “Yes, you did.” Molly looked down at the basket she clutched with both hands, properly contrite.
Wolf took the basket from her and dropped it to the ground, and he forced her to look up at him, taking her chin in his hand and tilting her head back. He’d never lied to Molly, not really, and he’d always prided himself on being a somewhat honest man, but this kind of honesty hurt.
“You took ten years off of my life,” he said.
“I’m sorry.” Her lower lip trembled a little.
“There’s a search party looking for you, all the men I could round up.”
Her eyes widened, gray eyes so honest he could glance at her and know every emotion she felt. “You went to town for me?”
“I thought it was the only way, Red. Good God,” he gave in and gathered her into his arms. He needed to hold her, just for a moment. “When I thought of you lost in these woods, of how cold and dark it would be tonight, I knew I never should have let you leave the house alone.”
“You found me,” she said soothingly against his chest, trying to calm him. “Everything’s going to be fine.”
She’d been lost all day, and she was comforting him.
“I love you, Red,” Wolf said quickly, before he lost his nerve.
“Don’t say that just because you know it’s what I want to hear,” Molly whispered against his chest.
Wolf forced her to look up at him again. “Have I ever told you what you wanted to hear?” he snapped.
“No,” she said with a smile. “You’ve always been brutally truthful with me.”
She sighed and fell against him.
“Always,” Wolf whispered.
For a long moment he just held her, wondering how he could have ever thought to let her go.
“I’ve been a little less than truthful with you, lately,” Molly whispered hesitantly. “It’s not a lie, exactly, just . . . not all of the truth.”
Molly took his hand, and placed it over her belly. He pressed his fingers against the slight swell of her stomach and a smile spread across his face.
“I’m not getting fat,” she said petulantly. “This is our little Wolf,” she whispered.
“My first redheaded child.” Wolf kissed Molly gently, then lifted her and spun her around.
Molly was giggling when he finally set her on her feet, but her laughter died quickly when he kissed her.
She was enjoying the kiss so much, he was surprised when she pulled her mouth from his.
“Wolf, darling,” she said breathlessly, “would you think me terribly wicked if I asked you to make love to me?”
“Here?” he asked, glancing to the hard ground and dried pine straw at their feet.
“Here,” she whispered. “Now. In the forest where I found you.”
“I always thought I found you,” he said as he lowered Molly to the ground.
He pushed her skirt out of the way, released his swollen manhood, and with a gentle push he was inside her. With her red cape as a mattress, he made love to her as she’d asked.
This was no vice. It was sacred, beautiful, heaven sent. Molly didn’t own him, body and soul and heart, she was a part of him, body and soul and heart.
The best part of him.
Smiling and covered with dead leaves and pine straw, they headed back the way Wolf had come. They walked hand in hand, Molly’s basket swinging easily beside her. At times Molly had to follow him, through a narrow space between two trees, but he never released her hand.
When they heard the calls of another searcher, Wolf answered quickly. A moment later a huge man appeared, wielding an axe in one hand and carrying a rifle in the other.
The man looked briefly at Wolf, not bothering to disguise his hate, and then turned his narrowed eyes to Molly. “Are you all right?”
“I’m fine.”
The man pointed his rifle barrel into the air and fired two shots.
Wolf didn’t like the way the man hefted his axe and glowered, as they continued toward the road.
“Are you sure, Miss Molly, that you’re all right?” the burly man asked as they hurried forward, trying to reach the road before dark.
“Very sure,” she said brightly.
“It’s just that, well, you are married to Wolf Trevelyan.”
Wolf held his tongue. He’d probably have to deal with this all his life. People would always wonder why someone like Molly had married a man like him. He didn’t understand why he continued to smile.
Molly squeezed his hand as she answered. “I appreciate your efforts, Wallace, your attempt to save me from the forest. But if you think I need saving from Wolf, you’re wrong.”
“Or late,” Wolf muttered.
Molly laughed. “Much too late.”
Epilogue
“Vanora Trevelyan, stay on the path.”
Molly tried not to smile at Wolf’s barely restrained instruction to their oldest daughter, but she couldn’t help herself.
At seven, Vanora was the eldest and the most adventurous of their four daughters, and she led the way to Great-grandmother Kincaid’s house along the path Wolf had forged years earlier. Wolf always accompanied them, and he was a stickler about keeping his four redheaded daughters on the path.
Bridget tossed back the hood of her red cape, and unruly curls sprang free as she skipped after her sister. Mary Jane followed, her little legs not able to move quite as fast as those of her older sisters. Her boundless energy made up for her shorter legs.
Little Ariana, who was not yet three, didn’t have a chance. They hadn’t gone far before Wolf swung her into his arms to carry her effortlessly along the path.
All four of the girls had curling red hair, matching red capes made by Great-grandmother Kincaid, and little baskets in which they carried gifts to the cottage. Bread, an embroidered hankie, a drawing, and, in Ariana’s basket, a pretty rock.
“Vanora, you wait right there,” Wolf ordered as they watched their oldest disappear around a bend in the footpath.
The girls loved their father, but they did test him constantly. They had the upper hand, because no matter how he threatened, no matter how fiercely he growled, they knew Papa wouldn’t spank them.
The three girls waited patiently until they were joined by their parents and the youngest girl they still called “the baby.” Not for long, Molly mused. Perhaps this time it would be a boy who would carry on the Trevelyan name, though Wolf didn’t seem to care.
“We stay together,” Wolf ordered, “and we all stay on the path.”
Reluctantly, Vanora led the way at a sedate pace. “Tell us the story about the time Great-grandma Kincaid beat you up with her cane.”
“She didn’t beat me up,” Wolf protested, as he always did when the girls asked for this story.
“Actually, she did,” Molly confided.
“She beat you up because you wanted to marry Mama, isn’t that right?”
“Yes, it is,” Wolf agreed with a smile.
“But she didn’t scare you away,” Bridget added adamantly, looking over her shoulder and up with wide green eyes. “Did she?”
“No.”
Mary Jane lagged behind, until Wolf almost tripped over her. “Because you wanted to marry Mama.”
Wolf grinned. He hadn’t actually had to tell this story for years. The girls always told it for him. “That’s right.”
Ariana placed her chubby arms around Wolf’s neck. “Because if you didn’t have Mama you couldn’t have redheaded girls like us.”
“Exactly.”
Ariana squirmed, and Wolf set her on her feet. Vanora had already picked up her pace, and the other girls were right behind her. They danced down the footpath, red capes swirling behind them.
Wolf slid his arm around Molly’s waist. “They’re so much like you,” he said softly.
“But not entirely.” Molly leaned against Wolf as they followed the girls. “Bridget and Mary Jane have your eyes, and Ariana is much taller than the others were at three. She has your height. And Van
ora . . . . ”
About that time Vanora poked her head around a tree, just to see what was on the other side.
“You told me more than once that all life’s fun lay off the path.”
Wolf winced. “Don’t remind me.”
Without caution, Vanora stepped into the woods.
“Vanora!” Wolf shouted, and she stepped quickly back onto the path. “Hold Ariana’s hand, until we get to the cottage.”
Vanora sulked, but did as she was told. Who would have thought that Wolf Trevelyan would turn out to be such a strict and loving father?
Of course, Wolf hadn’t really changed all that much. He’d be tired at the end of a day like this one, after herding the girls and facing Grandma, but when the rest of the house was sleeping, a rousing game of strip poker would liven him up.
It always did.
All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 1997 by Linda Winstead Jones
Cover design by Open Road Integrated Media
ISBN 978-1-4976-0309-7
This edition published in 2014 by Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.
345 Hudson Street
New York, NY 10014
www.openroadmedia.com
LINDA WINSTEAD JONES
FROM OPEN ROAD MEDIA
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