by Warner, Kaki
Foourteen
DON’T CRY, DON’T CRY, SHE CHANTED IN SILENT TEMPO WITH each step she took up the stairs. It was an effort not to run. Not to give in to the anguish burning in her chest. She felt Hank looming behind her, a dark, furious mass, his rage so intense it pressed against her back like a shoving hand.
Oddly, she wasn’t afraid. At least, not of Hank. The worst had happened. What more could he do to her?
It was over, her idyllic dream life, her sham of a marriage, her hope of something more than endless years of tending other women’s husbands, other women’s children, other lives less barren than her own.
The bleak injustice of it rocked her, sent a blast of anger through her mind. She wanted to whip around and strike the man behind her, shake him until his eyes bounced from their sockets, force him to understand.
Yes, she had done a terrible thing.
Yes, she had lied.
But she’d also saved his life. Didn’t that account for something?
Loud voices drifted up from the entry. Fearing Brady and Jessica might come to intervene and cause an even greater scene, Molly increased her speed. Flinging open the door into the bedroom with enough force to bounce it against the logs, she whirled to face her husband as he slammed the door shut behind him.
“You weren’t supposed to survive the night,” she blurted out before he could speak. “The railroad was offering widows’ portions to the wives of men killed in the derailment. I was desperate for money, so I married you to get it.”
He stopped before her, his chest heaving, his clenched teeth a white slash against his flushed skin. “How disappointing for you that I didn’t die.”
She slapped him. Tried to slap him again, but he grabbed her wrist to stop her. “Don’t ever say that!” she cried, wrenching from his grip. “Don’t even think it! I saved your life! Your arm! I did everything I could to—”
The door crashed open. Brady stood on the threshold, his face stark and white.
“We have to go. There’s been a cave-in at the mine.”
“WHERE DO YOU THINK YOU’RE GOING?” BRADY ASKED WHEN
Molly rushed into the kitchen a few minutes later. He was stuffing provisions into his saddlebags and was dressed for travel in a heavy shearling jacket and long oiled duster. A muffler covered his ears and neck, and over it he wore his Stetson. Hank stood beside him, filling his own saddlebags. Other than a quick glance, he ignored her.
Molly plunked her valise and medicine basket on the table. “With you.”
“No you’re not,” Brady said.
“There will be injuries,” she argued. “I can help. It’s what I do.”
“We have a doctor.”
“The Irishman?” Molly had heard about O’Grady, who had a better reputation as a drinker than a doctor. “And what if there are more injuries than he can handle?”
Brady’s scowl deepened. “I didn’t drag you here to tend miners.”
Hank looked up. “You dragged her here?”
Ignoring him, she tried to reassure Brady. “I’ve spoken with Jessica. I checked her yesterday and everything is proceeding well. Consuelo is making her an herbal tonic, and Iantha will see that she eats properly. She’s fine.”
“Why’d you have to drag her here?” Hank persisted. “She didn’t want to come?”
“Later, Hank,” Brady snapped.
Molly watched fury flash across Hank’s face. Fearing an eruption, she laid a hand on his good arm. “Hank—”
He jerked away as if her touch burned him. Or disgusted him. With a last glare at his brother, he picked up his saddlebags and stalked out the back door.
Molly pressed a hand to her chest, stunned at how badly his rejection hurt.
“Jesus, what a mess,” Brady muttered.
“Don’t sound so surprised.” Blinking back tears, Molly picked up her valise and basket. “We knew this day would come.” Even so, she wasn’t prepared for the pain that closed like a fist around her heart. She started for the door.
Brady snagged her arm. “If you’re coming with us, you’ll have to wear more than that,” he said, eyeing her worn wool coat. “Come into the entry. We’ll see what we can find.”
Five minutes later, dressed in wooly boots, a scarf, a hat, another scarf over the hat, fur mittens, an oversized shearling jacket that reached past her knees, and an oiled duster buttoned to her chin, she was ready to go. Bundled as she was, she needed Brady’s assistance to get down the porch steps to where Hank sat atop a tall bay, the reins of two saddled horses in his mittened hand. In the yard, three other mounted men waited. As soon as Brady hoisted her onto her horse, they were off.
Molly still couldn’t believe they were traveling at night with a storm brewing. Apparently these people were so accustomed to treacherous weather, nothing held them back. Luckily there was a near full moon rising out of the clouds to the east, and if the weather held, they would have good visibility at least through the same pass she had crossed only weeks ago when she had first come to the ranch.
Brady led, setting a hard pace. Molly rode behind him, sandwiched between two outriders she recognized from their jaunt into Val Rosa, while Hank and the other man brought up the rear. She was soon glad for all the extra padding. She wasn’t that accomplished a rider, and certainly had never attempted it under these conditions. Fortunately the gelding Hank had chosen for her seemed well trained and even-tempered and moved with a smooth, mile-eating gait.
They rode in silence except for the jangle of harnesses and the sounds of the horses’ hooves crunching through the icy crust on the road. Since riders traveled between Redemption and the ranch several times a week, the snow was packed down and the horses didn’t have to slog through deep drifts. But still it was hard going.
An hour out, Molly’s horse began to limp. Hank called to Brady to stop, then dismounted and tossed his reins to the rider beside him. Without a word, he wrapped his good arm around Molly and pulled her from the saddle, then bent to check the gelding’s hooves. Molly could see that the underside of the right front was clogged with a hard ball of icy snow. Hank knocked it loose, then taking off his glove, retrieved a tin from his pocket, opened it, and scooped out a gob of what looked like axle grease. He smeared it on the underside of the hoof. After wiping his fingers clean on the horse’s shaggy belly, he tossed the tin to the waiting rider, pulled on his glove, and motioned for Molly to remount.
She tried, but with so many clothes, she couldn’t lift her leg high enough to reach the stirrup. Hank hoisted her into the saddle, handed her the reins, and walked back to his own horse.
Not a word. He never even looked directly at her. It was as if, as far as he was concerned, she had ceased to exist.
One hour bled into two. The wind rose and the temperature dropped. Barely staying ahead of the clouds crowding behind it, the moon arced across the dark blue dome of the sky, casting ghostly white light on the rolling snow-covered valley. It was odd riding through a world with no color, no sound or movement except for the six riders cutting a dark trail through the snow. An hour later they left the valley, heading up through a piney canyon where snow-laden trees bordered the road like hooded, white-caped sentinels.
Molly burrowed deeper into her scarf, wishing she could still move her hands enough to retie it. But she’d lost feeling in her fingers, her feet ached, and her cheeks were so cold they burned. She tried to remember what Papa’s medical books said about frostbite, but her mind was as numb as her body. By the time they cleared the pass and started down the other side, she was so chilled she was beyond shivering. Just staying in the saddle took all her concentration. Every breath she took made the walls of her throat ache. She was so weary she could scarcely keep her eyes open, and the urge to just let go and sink into the snow was almost overpowering. The analytical part of her mind knew she was in trouble. The rest of her didn’t care. If she could only stop for a moment, just close her eyes and—
“Molly. Molly! We’re here.”
; She opened her eyes to find Hank standing beside her horse, scowling up at her. His cheeks were as red as apples, and the muffler over the lower half of his face was crusted with ice and snow. She wanted to ask him when it had started snowing, and why he wouldn’t talk to her, and tell him she was sorry, so very, very sorry . . .
“Lean toward me,” Hank ordered, peeling her hands from the saddle horn.
She tried, but ended up falling against his chest instead. He scooped her up with his right arm and slid his bent left arm with the hard cast under her knees. Pressing her face against the scarf around his neck, she tried to draw in his heat as he carried her up steps, then through a door.
Sudden bright light, then a blast of heat that was so intense it made her eyes hurt. Dimly, she heard a woman’s voice as he carried her down a darkened hall into another brightly lit room that smelled like roses. Roses in winter. How could that be?
He lowered her onto a bench and began unwinding the scarf around her face, making her flinch when the frozen folds scraped against her chaffed chin. The warm, rough palm of his right hand cupped her cheek.
“She’s too cold,” he said to someone behind her. “Get a basin of warm water—not hot—and some cloths. Hurry. If we don’t get her blood moving, she’ll start losing fingers and toes.” Kneeling before her, he began yanking off her gloves.
As the heat penetrated her chilled body, she shivered harder, her teeth chattering so uncontrollably she bit her tongue. But that discomfort was mild compared to the pain that shot through her fingers when Hank began rubbing her hand with his. It felt like needles jabbing into her flesh and grew even more painful when he thrust her hands into a bowl of boiling water.
“Not boiling,” he argued over her whimpering protests. “Barely warm.”
Hunched over with pain, she pressed her forehead against his shoulder, trying not to cry as circulation returned and hot blood flowed into her icy fingers. After a while, the burn in her hands eased, and she was able to relax a bit. Then he started on her feet.
At some point during that agonizing warming process, her mind began to function again, and she became aware of her surroundings. They were in a well-appointed water closet with the same array of piping as the water closet in the ranch. Had Hank designed this too? She looked around, seeing little details—a shaving mug on a tall cabinet, oversized boots in the corner, a homespun shirt hanging on a peg by the door. A man’s things. Except for the tub of steaming rose-scented bathwater.
She looked back at Hank, who knelt before her, pouring warm water down her shivering legs into the basin in which she soaked her feet. He’d removed his hat and muffler, and his cheeks had lost their redness. A stubble of beard darkened his strong jaw. She wanted to lay her cheek against the crown of his bent head, stroke the worry from his brow, feel the hard, steady beat of his heart beneath her hand.
But he was no longer hers to touch. In truth, he never really had been.
“Is th-this house y-yours?” she asked, still fighting shivers.
He nodded and poured.
“Why d-do you have a second h-house?”
He took so long, she thought he wouldn’t answer. “For when I’m here tending mine business.”
“I’m s-sorry to be such a b-bother.”
Finally he lifted his head and looked at her. He wore that hard, implacable expression she had dreaded. “I suspect you’re sorry about a lot of things, aren’t you, wife?”
A wrenching sense of loss gripped her as she realized the truth of it no longer mattered. The reasons, her excuses, all the “sorries” in the world, would never mend his broken trust.
“You warming up, Miz Wilkins?” a familiar voice said from the doorway.
Molly looked over to see the prostitute who had helped her when Hank was so sick after the train ride from El Paso to Redemption. “M-Martha,” she said, smiling—at least she thought she smiled—she was shivering so much the muscles in her face wouldn’t behave. She wondered what Martha Burnett was doing in her husband’s house and if the rose-scented oil was hers, then chided herself for questioning it. Martha had serviced him before. No doubt he would turn to her again, now that the marriage was over.
“Stew’s on the stove,” Martha said. “There’s wood by the hearth and a fresh loaf of bread on the warmer. Anything else before I go?”
“Any news?” Hank asked.
“They’re still digging out rubble. It won’t be long.”
Hank resumed pouring. “Tell Brady I’ll be there soon. Thanks for helping.”
“We knew you and Miz Molly would come. Just wanted to warm the place up for when you got here.” She shot Molly a rueful smile. “You get some rest, ma’am. I got a terrible feeling they’ll be calling for you soon.”
HANK CONTINUED DRIZZLING WATER OVER MOLLY’S LEGS, buying time until he could get his thoughts together. He didn’t know why he was still here, tending a woman who had lied to him and deceived him and played him for a fool. Maybe because he still couldn’t believe it. Didn’t want to believe it.
Were they married? Not married? And what was Brady’s part in all this?
All through the long ride from the ranch he had struggled to bring his fury under control so he could think clearly. But he still could make no sense of it. Usually he wasn’t this indecisive, but with Molly he didn’t know what was real and what was not, and that uncertainty kept the anger burning.
Damn her.
He could sense her watching him, waiting for him to speak. But he didn’t. He could barely even look at her. What he was feeling couldn’t be put into words, and he was so raw and ragged he wasn’t sure what he might say or do. One minute he wanted to shake her, the next he wanted to lay her down. Either way, he wanted to get his hands on her, and no good would come of that.
Dropping the rag into the bowl of water, he motioned for her to lift her feet. When she did, he slid the bowl to the side then rose. “Stand up.”
She did and stood shivering before him, her gaze pinned to his shirt. She was so close he could feel her breath against his chest, smell the lemon rinse she used on her hair, count each dark eyelash that fanned across her flushed cheek. He wanted to choke her, kiss her, use her body until the fire inside him burned out and the lies no longer mattered. He wanted the pain to end.
With his right hand, he began awkwardly undoing the buttons on her shirt.
Her hand flew up to grip his. “W-what are you d-doing?”
“You have to get in the tub.”
She pushed his hand away. “I c-can do it.”
He stepped back and watched her work the buttons. She was shivering so badly she was making a mess of it. He suspected it was as much from fear as cold, and felt some gratification in that.
“Y-you don’t n-need to stay.”
He didn’t answer.
“I c-can undress mys-self.”
That darkness rose inside him again. “What are you afraid of, Molly?”
“I’m n-not afraid. I’m c-cold.”
Another lie. It was one too many. Suddenly the need to hurt her the way she had hurt him overcame him. “Are you worried I’ll demand my husbandly rights? That I’ll do this?” In a savage motion, he shoved her hands aside and tore through the buttons, sending them in clattering disarray across the tile floor.
She stumbled back, clutching at the edges of her shirt. “What are you doing?”
“You’re my wife,” he snarled in her face. “I can do with you whatever I want.”
“S-Stop this!” Eyes wide, she backed away from him toward the door.
He stalked after her, teeth bared. He no longer recognized himself, no longer knew the man he had become. Fury was roaring through his mind, demanding release. She had tricked him, deceived him, made him believe he could have it all. Lies. All of it. “You are my wife, aren’t you?” he demanded, hoarsely. “I’ve seen the paper that says you are. Or was that a lie too?” When she bumped up against the closed door, he kept coming until he pinned her body with his.
>
She twisted beneath him and whipped her head away. “H-Hank, d-don’t.”
A distant part of himself was appalled at what he was doing. But the anger was so strong he couldn’t stop. “Don’t? But isn’t this what you wanted, wife?” Trapping her face with his right hand, he brought his mouth down hard against hers, tasted salt, and wondered if it was blood or tears. “Isn’t this what you lied to get?”
“No!” She shoved hard against his chest. “Hank, no!”
“Damn you, Molly!” Jerking his hand from her face, he forced himself to step back before he did her real damage. He stood shaking, dragging in great gulps of air, and tried to cool the rage churning inside. Wiping the back of his hand across his mouth, he felt a sting where her teeth had cut his lip. It scared him, and told him he had to stop this. He had to get away from her. If he didn’t, he wasn’t sure what he might do. Taking another step back, he tried to ignore the stricken look on her face and the tears streaming from her almost-green eyes. “Right. I forgot,” he growled, as something cold and bitter wrapped around his heart. “It was never me you wanted, was it, wife? It was just the money.”
Pushing her aside, he yanked open the door and left the room.
MOLLY STAYED IN THE TUB UNTIL THE WATER COOLED AND she started shivering again. She dressed, then went into the kitchen and filled a bowl with stew. She ate all of it without actually tasting it, then rinsed the bowl and put it back into the cupboard. Returning to her chair, she sat and waited.
Time passed but she was unaware of it. Years of discipline enabled her to go through the motions of whatever task was before her, while her mind wandered elsewhere. Anywhere. It was a skill she had learned in the surgical room when the smell and the blood and the horror of it were too much, and which she later had perfected at Andersonville when her mind turned the world into a flat, colorless tableau, like a faded photograph on a distant wall in a faraway room.
Wind swirled around the eaves, sending snow and sleet pinging against the windowpanes. Downdrafts drove puffs of smoke back down the chimney, where it hung in the air, collecting in stagnant layers against the ceiling of the still room. Her sluggish thoughts moved like cold molasses through her numbed mind.
