Open Country

by Warner, Kaki

  “Not from the beginning,” he said in a placating tone that made her want to leap over his desk and throttle him. “Not until I saw you working so hard to keep him at arm’s length. A true wife wouldn’t have done that.”

  “Damn you, Brady.” Tears rose in her throat, making her voice high and wobbly. “What have you done?”

  “What I had to. For him and for Jessica.”

  She couldn’t get her mind around it—the manipulation, the deceit, his utter disregard for anything other than his own aims. “He’ll hate me. He’ll never forgive me or trust me or . . .” Realization hit so hard, she rocked back, one hand to her chest.

  Or what? Love me? Was that what she had been hoping for? She wanted to laugh. Then cry. Then scream at her own stupidity. She had fallen in love with the man she had set out to deceive. How sad and ironic and pathetic was that?

  Tears filled her eyes, ran unchecked down her face.

  “Don’t do that,” Brady muttered, tossing a kerchief across the desk.

  Molly ignored it. “How could you do this to me, Brady?”

  “Do what?” He dragged both hands through his dark hair then let them fall back to the armrests. “What exactly have I done, Molly? You’re safe. Your children are safe. Hank is alive and recovering. What the hell have I done?”

  Hopeless despair defeated her. Pressing her hands to her face, she let the tears flow.

  “Aw, hell.” There was a long, tense pause, then Brady sighed. “You care about him. You want it to be a real marriage, don’t you, Molly? Sonofabitch.”

  Molly lifted her head and glared at him. “No chance of that now, is there? Thanks to you and my own stupidity.” Snatching the kerchief from the desk, she wiped her eyes and blew her nose. “I should have told him the truth as soon as I knew he would recover. Instead, I let you talk me into coming here and continuing this despicable farce.” She flung the kerchief back onto the desk and rose to her feet. “Well, no more. I’m done.” She turned toward the door.

  “No wait! Listen!” Brady shot to his feet and came around the desk. “It can still work, Molly. We can both still get what we want.”

  “How?” she asked, disgusted with herself that she was still in the room, still listening to this man . . . still hoping.

  “I’ll vouch for you, tell him the marriage is real. He never needs to know about the money or that he never knew you before.”

  Hope curdled. “You don’t understand, Brady,” she said wearily. “Hank is not like you. He doesn’t even think the way you do. Lying about the marriage was one thing. But covering it up these last weeks . . . ? That’s what he’ll never forgive.”

  As she turned back toward the door, Brady grabbed her arm. “Don’t, Molly. Wait a minute. Just listen.”

  She whirled, prepared to flay him alive. Then she saw his face.

  He looked panicked and worried. The man was clearly suffering—not that he didn’t deserve it—but such a show of vulnerability seemed so alien to Brady’s character, it shocked her.

  “You’re right. It’s Jessica,” he blurted out “I need you to stay because of Jessica. She’s—” He faltered, then rushed on. “Doc O’Grady says she’s carrying twins.”

  “I know that. So does she.”

  “She does? Why didn’t she tell me?”

  “Because you’re a worrying nitwit.” Pulling her arm from his grip, Molly opened the door.

  He reached past her to shut it, and held it closed when she tried to pull it open. “Did you know she almost died when Ben was born? And that Abigail was breech? What if it happens again? Women die in childbirth all the time.”

  Swallowing back her irritation, she whirled to face him, arms crossed over her chest. “And you think I can keep that from happening to Jessica?”

  “You can try.” His eyes were pleading now. His face was so tense a tiny muscle jerked in his jaw. “Stay. I’ll make it right with Hank. I’ll tell him it was all my idea, that I forced you into it. I’ll do whatever you want, Molly. Just don’t leave her.”

  Molly thought of Jessica—her friend—and the sadness in her eyes when she spoke of her lost daughter.

  She thought of Penny and Charlie—safe here, and so happy. And Fletcher—waiting to pounce the moment they left.

  She thought of Hank—who had kissed her and asked her to take down her hair, and who made her feel more like a woman than she ever had before.

  Dust motes in sunlight.

  Did they ever grow weary and long to settle too?

  “I won’t lie to him, Brady,” she finally said. “Ever again.”

  “But you’ll stay? At least until the babies come?”

  “For Jessica. Not you.” Pushing his arm aside, she flung open the door and stalked from the room.

  Thirteen

  Jeanerette, Georgia

  GORDON HENNESSEY WATCHED WITH DISPASSIONATE INTERest as Edward Rustin struggled to propel his rolling chair across the thick carpet of his dimly lit office.

  It was obvious the man’s kidneys were failing fast. He stank of decay, and the fingers gripping the wheels were so swollen they looked ready to split like sausages roasting on a fire.

  It was too disgusting. Dying by the inch. Ghastly.

  Moving his feet out of the path of the wheels, Gordon pressed a perfumed handkerchief to his nose as the blind old man fumbled and bumped his way past him toward his fine cherrywood desk. It was amusing in a macabre sort of way. Like watching a trussed and blindfolded child try to find his way out of a cage. It might be fun to send the old man careening down a hill or bouncing down a flight of stairs. Higgledy, bouncity, pop. Gordon smiled, picturing it in his mind. What a mess that would make.

  Once Rustin was situated behind the desk and his labored breathing had settled into rapid, shallow gasps that reminded Gordon of steam escaping the pop valves on a locomotive, he leaned forward and said, “Well, Hennessey? Have you found them?”

  Gordon watched the palsied fingers move restlessly on the desktop like fat, blind worms. “I have. They’re at a ranch in New Mexico Territory. It’s heavily guarded and snowbound for now, so I haven’t had a chance to talk to them yet.”

  “But you will.”

  “As soon as the roads clear.”

  “No. Don’t wait. If you can’t go in after them, lure them out to you. I want that book!” The vehemence in Rustin’s voice brought on a hacking fit that had him rocking and clutching the armrests of his chair.

  Gordon eyed him in distaste. The old fool should just die. Really, he should. He was much too disgusting to be around other people. And just what was in this book Rustin was so frantic to find? Gordon loved puzzles.

  He waited until the old man had regained control of himself before speaking. “Of course, Edward,” he answered, using Rustin’s given name because he knew how much it upset him. “And my money?” Because of the old man’s condition, Gordon had insisted on being paid his monthly fee in advance. Be just like the maggot to choke to death on his own blood before settling his bill.

  Rustin fumbled with the drawer, extracted an envelope, and shoved it across the desk. “Just get that book, Hennessey. Soon.”

  “Oh, I shall.” Rising, Gordon slid the envelope into his coat pocket. “And Edward,” he added, as if in afterthought. “When it’s finished, might I ask a favor?”

  Rustin’s milky eyes stared at Gordon as if he could actually see him. “What?”

  “The children. I’d like to have the children, if that’s okay with you?” Or even if it isn’t. The children were the only reason he had taken this assignment.

  “Bring me the book. Then you can have anything you want.”

  “Thank you, Edward.” After silently positioning his chair directly in the path the blind man would travel from his desk to the door, Gordon left, whistling, as best he could with his damaged face, a lively Christmas tune.

  DRESSING THE CHRISTMAS TREE WAS A GRAND EVENT.

  The first layer was a series of ribbons and garlands strung with dried
berries and glass beads, laced with sprigs of rosemary and sage. Then the children added their own decorations of colorful cones of sugared almonds, strings of rock candy, paper stars, and snowflakes. And finally came Jessica’s fancy ornaments—silver angels, painted glass balls, miniature china dolls, tiny musical instruments, German tinsel, and hand-sewn silk gift pouches with gold and silver stitching. It was a lovely sight when it was done and the finest Christmas tree Molly had ever seen.

  After spending most of the day preparing the ornaments and dressing the tree, the children were too tired to stay up long after supper. Brady, concerned that Jessica was overdoing, insisted they retire early too. With Dougal no doubt chasing Consuelo through the pantry, Molly and Hank found themselves alone in the great room.

  Retrieving her sewing basket from beneath a side table, Molly settled in to finish the scarves she was knitting for the children while Hank sprawled in an adjacent armchair, his gaze fixed on the fire, his long legs crossed at the ankles.

  As she worked the needles, Molly studied him from beneath her lashes, all manner of questions floating through her mind. After insisting that he learn about her, she realized how little she knew about him.

  Did he have a favorite color? A favorite food? Did he sing? Dance? Did he like having a wife?

  “Say something,” she said, breaking the long silence.

  He looked over, his dark eyes reflecting back the firelight. “About what?”

  “You.” At his look of confusion, she gave him a chiding smile.

  “You don’t talk about yourself much, do you?”

  He shrugged.

  “Brady thinks it’s because you’re shy.”

  “Shy of him maybe. Give my brother an opening and he’ll be on you like a pack of starving chiggers.”

  Wrapping a loop of yarn around her finger, she slipped the needle through. “I didn’t realize chiggers came in packs.”

  He smiled. “A pack of heelers then. He likes to herd people around. Manage them. I’ve found the only way to keep him from trying to take control of my life is to tell him nothing about it.”

  Molly wished she’d known that strategy earlier. She might not have let Brady manipulate her into this mess. But then, if she hadn’t, she wouldn’t be here now, sitting before the fire with Hank.

  “I would never try to control you,” she said.

  He snorted. “Hell, you already do.”

  Letting her hands fall to her lap, she frowned at him. “How?”

  “By walking into the room. Saying good morning. Breathing.” He grinned. “But I don’t mind.”

  Feeling a rush of heat into her face, she picked up the knitting again. “I’ll remember that,” she murmured, her heart dancing in her chest.

  “See that you do.”

  Silence again. But it was a comfortable, companionable silence, as if they were a long-married couple no longer plagued by awkward silences or moments of uncertainty or unanswered questions.

  “A small hand loom could do that faster,” he said after a while.

  She looked up to find him watching her work the needles. “Is there such a thing?”

  “Not yet.”

  Ah. Another innovation. Molly smiled. “It’s not about speed,” she explained. “Needlework can be very relaxing. Hand me that red yarn and I’ll show you.”

  He leaned over to study the balls of yarn in her sewing basket, then picked up the green one and tossed it into her lap. “I’d rather watch you.”

  She looked at the green yarn, then back at him to see if he was teasing her. He didn’t appear to be. Watching him closely, she held up the green yarn. “Do you think this red is too bright for Penny?”

  He shrugged.

  She unrolled several inches of yarn and made a show of studying it. “It is a rather bright red, don’t you think?”

  “It’s not red.”

  She let the yarn fall back into her lap. “Then why did you say it was?”

  “I didn’t. You did. You’re not very subtle, you know.”

  “Then why—”

  “I get my reds and greens mixed up sometimes.”

  “Just reds and greens? No other colors? What about blues and yellows?”

  He sighed and tipped his head back to study the ceiling high overhead. “You sure ask a lot of questions.”

  “It’s called communication. It’s how people get to know one another.”

  “Why do we have to get to know each other? We’re already married.”

  She was about to scold him when he shot her that startling grin. “Mostly reds and greens,” he explained. “It’s a bother sometimes, but it helps when I’m hunting.”

  Molly was enthralled. She had read about Daltonism in her father’s medical journals. “How?”

  “I see patterns others don’t. Like game hiding in the bushes. Or shadows that someone else might not notice.”

  Setting her knitting aside, she dug through her sewing basket until she found the small magnifying glass she used for tatting. “May I look at your eyes?”

  “You won’t poke at them, will you?”

  She rose. “Sit up straight.”

  When he did, she nudged his knees aside and stepped between them so she could look directly down into his right eye with the light from the overhead chandelier behind her. “Look up at the ceiling.”

  When he complied, she leaned closer to peer into his eye with the glass.

  “You smell like lemons,” he said.

  “That’s from the rinse I use on my hair. Be still.”

  “Four. Sixteen. Two hundred fifty-six.”

  She drew back. “What are you doing?”

  “Squaring numbers.” At her questioning look, he added, “It calms me.”

  “Why do you need calming?”

  “I’ve got a piece of glass an inch from my eye and a woman’s bosoms resting on my chin. I find that unsettling.”

  She jerked back. “I was not resting my . . . anything . . . on your chin.”

  “Would you like to?”

  “Don’t be impertinent.” Suddenly feeling overheated, she turned away. “I’ll have to read up on it.”

  “Bosoms?”

  “Daltonism.” Horrified that she might burst into nervous giggles like some tittering schoolgirl, she busied herself stuffing the yarn back into her basket, and making a fine mess of it in the process. “Well.” She straightened, the basket clutched before her like a shield.

  “I believe I’ll go to bed.”

  He rose, towering over her, so close she had to crane her neck to look up at him. “Want me to go with you?”

  “To bed?” It came out more of a squeak than a voice.

  “I was thinking up the stairs, but if you want to take me to bed, I—”

  “Good night.” Turning before he could see her smile, she fled the room.

  Hank watched her go, pleased with the way things were progressing. It wouldn’t be long before he had her right where he wanted her. Right where she belonged.

  It was taking longer than he had expected, this second round of courting, but it wasn’t as awful as he’d thought it would be. In fact, he was almost enjoying himself. He hadn’t laughed so much in a long time, and he was sure he hadn’t used so many words in at least two years.

  It was odd having a family to look after. That sense of detachment he’d always felt even when surrounded by brothers and people who knew him well was fading. Sometimes all his new responsibilities weighed heavily upon him. Other times they filled him with purpose. He liked that Molly and the children depended on him. He liked being a father. And he was pretty sure he was really going to like being a husband.

  Again.

  WHEN HANK ENTERED THE BARN A FEW MORNINGS LATER, he heard raised voices and sounds of a struggle coming from the last stall. Hurrying forward, he yanked open the stall door to find Amos Logan, one of the younger RosaRoja hands, straddling Charlie, who was down in the straw, flailing at the older boy with his fists.

  With a mut
tered curse, Hank yanked Amos off his stepson and pinned him with his right hand against the wooden wall. He glared from one boy to the other. Both were bloodied, but neither seemed seriously hurt. “What the hell’s going on?” he demanded.

  “He hit me,” Amos shouted. “He jumped on me and hit me, the coward.”

  Hank looked down at his stepson, who was rising stiffly to his feet. “Charlie?”

  The boy glared at him, then at Amos, but said nothing.

  Hank gave Amos a shake. “You got anything more to say?”

  “The kid’s crazy,” he muttered, swiping a sleeve over his bloody nose.

  Hank pointed him toward the door. “Get to the bunkhouse. I’ll talk to you later.” As Amos left, he turned back to Charlie. He could see the boy was fighting tears, even though his expression and posture showed his usual angry defiance.

  “You’re bleeding,” Hank said.

  Charlie dabbed at the cut on his lip and winced.

  “You want your Aunt Molly to tend it?”

  Charlie didn’t answer.

  “Then I guess I will.”

  With a hand clamped to the boy’s shoulder, Hank steered him out of the barn and into a chill wind that sent a swirl of powdery snow into their faces. “We have a low tolerance for fighting,” he said as they crossed toward the house.

  Charlie didn’t respond.

  Hank looked down at him. The tears were gone, and his lip had stopped bleeding, but if they crossed paths with Molly, there was little chance he could convince her everything was all right.

  Luckily they reached Charlie’s room without being seen. Pointing the boy to the chair by the bed, Hank told him to stay, then went to get Molly’s medicine basket.

  It wasn’t a bad cut and would probably heal before the bruise darkening the boy’s right eye faded. But Hank was more worried about what was going on inside the kid’s head. He didn’t know how to convince the boy to talk to him, or let him help him with whatever was troubling him. It was frustrating, and he was beginning to understand how Brady must feel when Hank treated him to one of his long silences.