Open Country

by Warner, Kaki

  “Of course I did. She had children to protect. She needed money and she did what she had to do to get it. It’s what any mother would do.” A frown brought her copper brows together. “What I don’t know is if your brother is too hardheaded to accept that and forgive her for it.”

  Hearing the note of worry in his wife’s voice, Brady turned her away from the window and pulled her close against his body. Or as close as he could with that ever- growing belly between them. “You slept better last night, didn’t you?”

  She tipped her head back to give him a teasing look. “How do you know? Do you lie awake watching me?”

  Brady didn’t want to admit that he did. Or that he hardly slept a night through anymore, fretting the hours away worrying about her, and his brother, and the mines . . . and her. “Just trying to keep the spiders off.”

  He felt her body tense. “Spiders?” Eyes wide, she glanced at the ceiling then around the room. “You saw spiders?”

  He put his lips against her ear. “Shh. You’ll upset little Thomas Jefferson.”

  “Nigel, you big dolt. And stop teasing me.” Shoving away from him, she went back to the chaise and folded the night sack into her sewing basket. “Have you finished attaching the tree to the wall?”

  “I have. Two stout ropes high enough that he can’t reach them.”

  “That’ll go lovely with my imported tinsel.” She crossed to the door, waggling fingers in farewell. “I’m off to make gingerbread houses. Wish me luck.”

  “You’ll need it. Don’t overdo.” As she disappeared into the hall, Brady turned back to the window.

  Hank had taken off his jacket but showed no sign of tiring. His brother did some of his best thinking at the blister end of an ax, and Brady knew he’d keep at it until he’d worked through whatever was troubling him, no matter how long that took. He was sorry Hank was upset, but he surely didn’t mind having the extra firewood.

  HANK SPLIT WOOD FOR MOST OF THE AFTERNOON, STOPPING only when his weak arm started cramping so bad he could no longer hold on to the ax handle, and his ribs were burning like a sonofabitch. After returning the ax to the shed, he picked up his jacket and headed to the house.

  Brady met him as he came through the front door. “Should I send the boys to cut more trees?” he asked with that smirky grin.

  “I need to talk to you,” Hank said as he hung up his jacket and hat.

  Brady’s grin faded. “My office or yours?”

  “Yours. You’ve got the whiskey. Ten minutes. Bring food.” He started up the staircase, stopped, and turned back. “Don’t bring Jessica.”

  Hank found Molly sitting in her chair by the fire, an unopened book in her lap. He stopped before her, feet braced, hands planted on his hips. “You’re not leaving. The marriage stands. We’ll work this out. No more discussion.”

  She blinked up at him. “Did we discuss? I thought normally in discussions, both sides get to participate.”

  “Say your words then. But don’t think to argue with me about this, Molly.”

  “Yes, but—”

  “And don’t worry about Fletcher or his henchman. He’s one man against two dozen, and we have the advantage of knowing when he’s coming.”

  “I never—”

  “We’ll take care of him, don’t worry about that. Meanwhile, keep looking for the book Fletcher wants. Can you do that?”

  “I’ll try, but—”

  “Good.” He put on a smile. “Anything else?”

  “Else?”

  Was that sarcasm? Hank studied her, wondering if pain was making her snappish. “You look tired.”

  “I am. Probably all this discussing.”

  Definitely sarcasm. Which baffled him. What had he done now? “Did you eat? If not, I could get you something.” He always got cranky if he didn’t eat.

  She sighed. “I’m fine. But I think I’ll turn in early.”

  “Good idea. Stand up and I’ll unbutton you.”

  She looked down at the buttons on her shirt, then at her bandaged hands, then sighed again. “This is getting tiresome,” she muttered as she rose.

  “Not for me.” He undid the skirt first, let it slide over her hips, then held her arm while she stepped out of it. He removed the blouse next, then two petticoats with little lacy bows, than a short vest-corset thing with lacing up the front. Finally she was down to a knee-length underdress that was so sheer he was amazed it stayed together. And more than a little disappointed that it did. Especially when she wouldn’t let him take that off as well.

  Surprised to find that his palms were sweating, he wiped them on his shirt and stood back to admire the wonders he had uncovered, enthralled all over again at how beautiful she was and how perfectly formed and how her skin glowed in the firelight.

  “You’re doing it again.” She turned, giving him an inspiring view of her butt, which shimmied like two armadillos doing a slow dance under a silk scarf as she walked toward the bed. The woman did know how to move.

  “Doing what?”

  “Staring.”

  He laughed. “Jesus, how could I not? You prancing around halfdressed—”

  She looked back with a laugh that set off a chain of motion beneath that flimsy underthing that made his tongue curl. “Good night, Hank.”

  “No hugs?”

  She slipped under the covers, but not before he saw her smile. “Good night, Hank.”

  Eighteen

  THAT NIGHT THE DEAD CALLED TO HER, REACHING UP FROM their blood-soaked beds, their skeletal fingers grabbing at her skirts as she rushed by. She tried to avoid them, walking faster and faster until she was running. But still they cried out, calling her name, begging . . . begging . . .

  MOLLY AWOKE TREMBLING AND NAUSEATED, HER THROAT aching with unshed tears. Rolling onto her back, she stared blindly up at the ceiling, where firelight shadows danced over the rafters like demon figures cavorting in the flames of hell. “Leave me in peace,” she whispered.

  Irritated at her own imaginings, she sat up. The room was cold, making the ache in her hands even more pronounced. Her stomach felt sour and empty. Knowing she wouldn’t be able to go back to sleep and feeling suffocated by the very emptiness of the room, she pushed back the quilts and rose. After donning her borrowed robe and using her teeth and fingertips to tie the sash, she stepped into her slippers and left the room, not sure where she was going but needing to move.

  As she descended the staircase into the entry, she saw lamplight shining beneath the kitchen door and another light coming from Brady’s office. She turned toward the kitchen. Pushing open the door with her elbow, she looked inside.

  Dougal sat at the long kitchen table, a bottle of whiskey in one hand, a half-filled glass in the other. When he saw her in the doorway, he gave a jerk then let out a huff of air when he recognized her. “Ye shouldna go sneaking up on an auld man that way, lass. My heart near stopped.”

  She sent him a smile as she crossed to the cupboard. “I’m sorry I startled you.”

  Using her splinted hands like tongs, she lifted a cup from the cupboard and carried it to the table, then went back for the tea caddy. Luckily there was a spoon already in it. Wrapping a cloth around her hand to protect it from the hot metal, she hooked the unbandaged tips of her fingers under the handle of the kettle and carried it to the table.

  When she started to pour, Dougal, who had watched her efforts with blurry-eyed interest, finally felt moved to help. “I’ll do that, lass, e’er ye scald us both.”

  At her direction, he also added a spoonful of tea leaves and stirred in the requested amount of sugar. Standing by the table, she lifted the cup in both hands and took a sip. Perfect.

  “Can’t sleep, lass?”

  “No. You?”

  “Nae.” A deep sigh. “Consuelo’s off tae her sister.” He held up the bottle, showing a drawing of a woman on the label. “Just me and Hannah Goodman.”

  “May I join the two of you?”

  He squinted at the face on the bottle and b
urped. “She says aye.”

  Molly settled onto the bench across from him. Sipping her tea, she looked around. Even though she wasn’t much of a cook, she loved a well-appointed kitchen, and this was certainly that. A huge combination cookstove, cabinets and cupboards galore, running water in sinks at either end of the long room, window vents high on the outside walls to draw out the hot air in summer, and a waste chute that emptied directly into a covered barrel outside. With the vent windows closed for winter, the kitchen was comfortably warm and filled with the lingering scents of cooking. It was a space full of life and energy, and the perfect refuge against the lonely chill of her empty room. Sighing contentedly, she looked over to find the old man studying her from beneath his bushy brows, no doubt wondering what she was doing afoot in the middle of the night. She saved him the bother of asking.

  “Bad dreams,” she said with a wry smile.

  Dougal nodded sagely. “Aye. I ken it.”

  “You too?”

  “A soldier’s curse,” he said, rolling his R’s even more than usual.

  “You were a soldier?”

  “For more years than I care tae remember, lass.”

  She hadn’t known that about Dougal. In fact, she knew little about him other than he had been part of Jessica’s family in England and had followed her to America when she married Brady. But now that she thought about it, she recognized signs of his military days in the way he walked, in his stiff posture when he dressed down Brady or tried to bring the children in line. And there was also the puckered scar from a bullet wound that she’d glimpsed above his knee before he started wearing a union suit beneath his kilt. “What drew you to the soldier’s life?”

  He shrugged. “I wanted tae see the world. And the only way tae dew that was indenturing meself or soldiering. Being as I’ll no’ slave for any man, I chose tae follow the pipes.” He took a long swallow and coughed.

  She waited for him to catch his breath then asked, “And did you see it?”

  “Aye. At its worst.”

  “So why did you continue?”

  He smiled at her in a gentle way, giving her a glimpse of the man who had caught Consuelo’s eye. “The same reasons ye stay wie the doctoring, I’m guessing.” He took another long swallow, coughed, then wiped a sleeve over his watery eyes. “Bad as it is, ye get comfortable wie it,” he said once he had found his voice again. “O’er time, even proficient at it. And somewhere ’neath all the ugliness and destruction, ye think maybe ye’re doin’ some guid.”

  She stared into her cup. “Yet we still have nightmares.”

  “Och, lass. The nightmares just give voice tae the pain, e’er wise we’d choke on it and die.” He reached out a gnarly hand and patted her arm. “I ken it’s hard, lass. But ye’re a healer. ’Tis yer gift. And using it is the task ye’ve been given.”

  “It feels more like a burden sometimes,” she admitted.

  “Aye.” He sat back. “But ye’ll do it anyway, because that’s just how it is.”

  Suddenly the door opened with a bang that made Molly and Dougal jump. “Jesus Christ, woman!” Hank boomed. “You scared the hell out of me.”

  “Scared yew!” Dougal blubbered, clutching at his kilt. “I near wet meself!”

  “What’s wrong?” Molly asked, her heart still hammering from fright.

  “Wrong?” Hank waved a hand like he was flagging down a carriage. “You tell me a madman’s lurking around, then you disappear from your room—what the hell were you thinking?”

  Molly blinked in surprise. “I couldn’t sleep. I thought a cup of tea might help.”

  Muttering under his breath, he called back down the hall, “She’s in the kitchen talking to Dougal.”

  “Better her than me,” Brady called back. “I’m going to bed.”

  Holding open the door, Hank motioned impatiently to Molly. “You’re going to bed too.”

  “I am?”

  “You are. It’s late and I’m tired and I don’t want to have to worry about you wandering around the house in the dark.”

  Still bemused by Hank’s odd behavior, Molly rose. “Good night, Dougal. I enjoyed our chat.”

  Dougal belched, then coughed.

  “You be careful with that stuff,” Hank warned the old Scotsman as he followed Molly through the door. “It’ll make you impotent.”

  “Egad.”

  “Will it really?” Molly asked, intrigued.

  “If it doesn’t, it should.”

  As soon as they entered Molly’s room, Hank crossed to the hearth and knelt to relight the fire. Taking advantage of his distraction, Molly quickly slipped out of the robe and under the covers. Stretched on her side, one hand tucked beneath her pillow, she watched him, admiring the way the firelight played over his strong features. Her wariness of him had faded over the last days. Now what she remembered most was the way his hands had felt on her body. She wondered if she would ever feel them again. “I’m sorry I worried you,” she said after a moment. “I had a dream and couldn’t go back to sleep.”

  He turned his head and looked at her. “You have bad dreams?”

  “Sometimes.”

  “About Fletcher?”

  “Mostly about patients. The ones I lost.”

  He turned back to the fire. “You fret too much, Molly.”

  “This from a man who almost caused a riot over an empty room.”

  He was silent a long time before he spoke. “I didn’t know where you were.”

  An unseen hand seemed to grip her heart. How long since anyone had worried over her, or even knew her well enough to care where she was or what she did? She smiled into the dark. It was nice.

  Once the fire was going strong, Hank rose. “New rules,” he said as he began unbuttoning his shirt. “No one leaves the house, day or night, without telling me or Brady first.” Shrugging out of the shirt, he tossed it onto the chair, then sat on top of it and began tugging off his boots.

  “What are you doing?” Molly asked, caught somewhere between fascination and astonishment.

  He tossed the boots into a corner, rose, undid his belt, then started on his trousers. “There’ll be no trips to Val Rosa or Redemption or anywhere else until Fletcher and Scarface are caught.” He stepped out of his trousers and was starting to loosen the closure on the front of his half-unions when Molly finally came to her senses.

  “Stop!”

  He stopped, hands still gripping the tabs. “What?”

  In the flickering light he was all shadow and rounded muscle and gold-tipped hair—strength and power and masculine grace come to life—and he was so beautiful, just looking at him stole her breath away.

  “Molly, what’s wrong?”

  “W-What are you doing?” she finally managed.

  His hands fell back to his sides. “You don’t want me to stay?”

  “Well . . . I . . . ah . . .” She wasn’t sure what she wanted. But what she didn’t want was a repeat of the other night.

  He walked toward her. “I’m not going to jump on you if that’s what you’re worried about.” He sounded amused. Not threatening at all. “I’m too tired. But if that’s what you want, maybe after I rest some, we—”

  “No! No. I’m tired too.”

  Moving to the other side of the bed, he threw back the covers and plopped down, making the mattress sag with his weight. “What a day,” he said with a deep yawn. “At least we won’t be running out of firewood for a while.”

  Molly stared blindly into the fire, every sense focused on the movements on the other side of the bed. “Did you talk to Brady?” she asked, needing to fill the silence.

  “I did.”

  “Did you tell him about Fletcher?”

  “I did.”

  “Was he upset?”

  “He was.” Another yawn.

  “Did you tell him how sorry I am to bring this trouble—”

  “He knows, Molly. He’s not upset with you. Go to sleep.”

  “Is he going to tell Jessica? He shou
ldn’t tell Jessica. She’ll just worry.”

  “He won’t. Stop fretting. It’ll all work out.”

  How could she not fret? Everyone in this house was in danger because of her.

  The fire popped. Somewhere on the snowy flats, coyotes howled and barked. Molly tried to keep her breathing even while he rolled over, then back, then stretched and yawned. She was thankful this wasn’t one of those newfangled mattresses with the steel coils, else she’d be bouncing up to the rafters with all his tossing and turning.

  Finally he grew still. Silence. Was he asleep?

  She wanted to roll over and see. She wanted to move her foot and maybe accidentally brush a toe against him so she would know where he was. She wanted—

  “You cold?” he asked, his sleepy rumble startling her.

  “A little.” And before she realized what he was doing, he draped his thick arm across her waist and pulled her back against his chest. Molly went utterly still. Unsure what to do with the hand not tucked beneath her pillow, she tentatively let it rest against his arm.

  He sighed, his breath tickling her scalp at the crown of her head. His male scent wafted around her and beneath her palm, his arm felt solid and warm and slick with fine, silky hair. Staring at the dying fire, she waited . . . expecting . . .

  Then he began to snore.

  HANK AWOKE TO A GENTLE SNUFFLING SOUND AND A WARM body pressed against his shoulder. Sweet Molly, he thought sleepily. He lifted his arm to pull her closer, and instead, encountered something damp and sticky.

  Jerking his hand back, he raised his head to see Penny crowded between him and Molly, sucking her thumb and blinking at him through teary eyes. With a groan, he slumped back to the pillow. “What are you doing in here, Penny?”

  “Where were you, Papa-Hank?” she accused in a wobbly voice.

  “I looked in your room, but you weren’t there and I couldn’t find you and it scared me.”

  Touched by her distress, he reached out and patted her arm. “I’m right here, Penny.” As aggravating as she could be sometimes, the kid did have a way of reaching right inside him and wrapping her sticky little hands around his heart.