Beyond This Moment

by Tamera Alexander

  The second man, the larger of the two, fingered the fabric of her sleeve. She pulled away, but the grip on her arm tightened. They both laughed. "We heard you can make that same talk as them foreigners who're taking all our jobs. Is that right, ma'am?"

  Eyeing her slowly, he began unbuttoning his coat, and Molly felt sick inside.

  "I tell you, ma'am. For knowing so many different ways to talk, you sure don't say much:'

  Oh, God, please help me. "I n-need-" She dug deep for courage. "I need to be on my way. Someone's expecting me right now" She jerked her arm away, but the man who held her only pulled her back against him.

  His friend tossed his coat aside, nodding. "There you go. You can use that tongue of yours." He smiled. "Say something for me in that different talk. And make it sweet."

  Molly shook her head.

  He grabbed her jaw and forced her face back. "I said, say something in that-"

  A thrashing noise sounded from deep within the woods.

  The man holding her took a step back but didn't let go. He cursed softly. "What's that?"

  His partner didn't answer. He just stared into the dense stand of evergreens.

  Molly did the same, going from sickened and scared to petrified and unable to move. Of all the animals inhabiting these mountains, only one came to mind. As did the image of what Thomas Boyd's body must have looked like when they'd found him.

  The thrashing grew louder. Sharp cracks and pops. It sounded as if trees were being trampled. Both men drew back. The one man let go of her arm.

  Molly took steps away from them but couldn't take her eyes off the woods. The upper bough of an evergreen shook and she held her breath, praying-when Charlie Daggett crashed through the foliage, a bottle in his left hand.

  He saw her and his eyes widened. He staggered a step as if trying to maintain his balance. "Miss Molly. What you doin' out here, ma'am?" He blinked and his gaze swung to the men beside her.

  Confusion washed over his features, then quickly cleared.

  Charlie looked back at Molly as if to confirm what he'd somehow deciphered.

  She nodded, praying he was sober enough to understand.

  What gentleness there was in the Charlie Daggett she knew disappeared. But he was drunk. She could smell it on him from where she stood, and the half-empty bottle in his hand confirmed it. Even as big as he was, he could barely stand. There was no way he could fight off-

  Charlie started toward the men. The man without his coat drew a knife from a sheath on his belt.

  Even watching, Molly wasn't sure how Charlie got ahold of the man's wrist. But he did. And she heard a pop. The man screamed, dropped the knife, and cursed Charlie at the top of his lungs.

  Charlie started toward the other man, who grabbed his partner by the shirt and hauled him down the road. Their trot became a run and neither looked back.

  Charlie stood stalwart, watching their retreat. "You okay, Miss Molly?"

  "Yes;' she whispered, still hearing the sound of the man's wrist snap. "Thank you ... Mr. Daggett" She took another breath. "For coming when you did:"

  He walked to where her shawl lay in the dirt, his steps slow and measured. He picked it up and walked back, stopping for the knife too. All while still cradling the bottle in his grip. "They touched you, Miss Molly. On your face:"

  She reached up and felt her jaw, and came away with black dust on her fingertips. "But that's all they did;' she whispered. "Thanks to you:'

  Tenderness moved in behind his eyes, and he held out her shawl. "Miss Molly?"

  "Yes, Mr. Daggett?"

  "I heard about you losin' your man, before you come west. I don't know if I ever said how sorry I was about that:' He slipped the knife into his coat pocket. "But in case I didn't, I want to now."

  "Thank you, Mr. Daggett. That's most kind of you"

  "I'll see you safely home, ma'am."

  Dusk settled over the valley, and when the schoolhouse came into view, Molly touched his arm. "If there's ever anything I can do for you, Mr. Daggett-anything at all-please ask. This is the second time you've come to my rescue:" She liked the way his eyes sparkled like a little boy's. "I'd consider it a privilege to return the favor, even in the smallest portion:"

  He stopped and stared at her for a second, then focused on the ground beneath his large work boots. "Do you know how to dance, Miss Molly?"

  His voice was so tentative, and the question so unexpected, it took her a moment to respond. "I do, in fact, Mr. Daggett. Do you?" she chanced softly.

  He shook his head.

  Following the thread of his question, she peered up at him. "Would you care to learn?"

  His bearded cheeks bunched in a grin that would've looked odd on the bear of a man he was had she not already known how kind and gentle a heart was within him.

  "I would, Miss Molly. If it won't trouble you too much:"

  In her state of "widowhood," dancing was unacceptable, but she wanted to do something for this man and could see how important it was to him. Smiling, her mind jumped ahead. "Is there a special occasion coming up?"

  He nodded. "The statehood celebration:"

  "In two weeks;' she thought aloud.

  "If you can't do it, Miss Molly, don't you fret over-"

  "I would be honored to teach you how to dance, Mr. Daggett:' She looped her arm through his, touched by how his chest puffed out. "But we'll need to get started as soon as possible."

  Molly bolted the latch behind her, checked it a second time, and leaned against the cabin door, only then allowing to play out in her mind the possibility of what might have happened if Charlie Daggett hadn't come along. She hugged herself tight, so cold. It was a bone-numbing cold that went deeper than any chill.

  A fire. She needed to build a fire. But first she filled the teakettle with water and lit the stove.

  She closed every curtain on every window and thanked God again for sending Charlie Daggett along. She hadn't thought to ask him what he'd been doing out there in the woods. But then again, remembering the bottle, she thought she knew.

  She knelt by the hearth and stacked the wood on top of old embers. She would need more wood before morning. It was just outside the door, on the side of the cabin, but she didn't want to go out in the dark. Not alone. She would make do with what she had.

  Hands shaking, she struck a match. It failed to light. She tried again. Not even a spark. She huffed in frustration. She'd just lit the stove, for heaven's sake. She would borrow the flame from there.

  A gentle rap on the door brought her around.

  "Molly? Are you in there?"

  James...

  She unbolted the latch and had no sooner turned the knob than he stepped through the doorway.

  "Is it true?" he asked, breathing hard.

  She took a step back, her hand trembling at her midsection. "Is ... what true?"

  "I just saw Charlie Daggett" A muscle flinched in his jaw. "Those men, on the road just now. Did they-" His eyes narrowed. "Did they ... hurt you in any way?"

  Tears rose, and she didn't try to stop them. "No;' she whispered, relief pouring through her. Relief chased by guilt. "They didn't hurt me:"

  He exhaled, and a strangled sound rose from his throat. He briefly closed his eyes, and when he opened them again, Molly saw what she'd seen the morning he'd brought her the apple before school.

  Except this time, the intensity in his eyes made that look tame.

  He pushed the door closed and took her in his arms. He held her, his hands moving over her arms and her back, caressing her shoulders. She felt herself relaxing against him, knowing she shouldn't. But it felt so good to be held. Really held. His arms encircled her waist and pulled her against him.

  He pressed his forehead to hers, his breath uneven. "I just had to make sure you were all right:"

  She nodded, mindful of how close they were. "I am:' Especially now, she wanted to add but didn't, knowing that would only further encourage things in a direction they didn't need to go.

>   They stood that way for the longest time, her knowing she needed to stop whatever was happening between them and yet not knowing how to. And not fully wanting to.

  "I don't guess you've changed your mind;' he finally said, his deep voice soft.

  She didn't have to ask what he was talking about. She wanted so badly to answer yes, that she'd changed her mind. She wanted to brush her lips against his and give him the answer he wanted-that she wanted to give-and that he was waiting for.

  But instead, she shook her head, not trusting her voice.

  A wry smile tipped one side of his mouth, telling her he didn't believe her. "I think I'm going to have to insist on a verbal answer, ma'am. That one wasn't very convincing:'

  Desire for him, swift and strong, swept through her. It left her lightheaded and threatened to steal her resolve. Molly reached up and touched his face, and traced a path along his stubbled jawline. He caught her hand and kissed her open palm, again and again, and the tremble she felt in him resonated inside her.

  She needed to tell him about the baby. Now was the time. She'd prayed for God to guide her steps, and she felt the gentle nudge inside her. Oh, but, Lord, this was harder than she'd imagined.

  She looked up at him. "James.. "

  "Yes?"

  His hand moved in slow circles on the small of her back, not making her decision any easier. But the precious child growing inside her, and between them-that he didn't know about yet-did.

  She gently pulled her hand away. "I need to tell you something. Something you're not going to like." She glanced back at the sofa. "Maybe we should sit down:"

  But he didn't move. He brushed a finger against the side of her neck. "They touched you;' he whispered. His jaw went rigid.

  It wasn't a question. And she remembered Charlie commenting on the coal dust on her face. She thought she'd wiped it away.

  "One of them touched my face. That was all:"

  A visible shudder passed through him. "If someone ever ... touched you, or hurt you ... in that way, I don't know what I'd do:"

  He pulled her close and she held him tight, hearing what he'd said, hearing the concern in his words. But also hearing a "difference" in what she might become in his eyes if those men had hurt her in that way.

  The muted whistle of the teakettle sounded and quickly swelled to a loud shrill.

  He drew back but seemed reluctant to let her go. "You didn't answer my question" He cradled her face. "Have you changed your mind, Molly?"

  Thinking of herself brought the wrong answer to her lips. So she focused on him, and the man he was, and his reputation in Timber Ridge, and all the people who looked up to him. She thought of Rachel, Mitchell and Kurt, Josiah and Belle, all of them, and she shook her head. "No ... James;' she whispered, lying to him yet again, but this time for his own good. "I haven't changed my mind." She took a step back and out of his arms. "And I won't."

  Needing to be away from him, she crossed to the stove and pulled the kettle from the flame, her hands shaking. The sudden silence seemed overloud.

  "I'll bring in more wood before I go."

  The flatness of his voice cut her deep.

  "You don't have to do that. I can-"

  "I want to do it."

  He returned with his arms full. With an amount that would have taken her three trips. A burst of cold air followed him inside, and she shut the door behind him.

  Minutes later, a fire burned bright and hot in the fireplace. She walked him to the door, knowing again that the punishment for her sin wasn't the child inside of her. It was the life right before her that she would never have.

  "Lock the door once I leave."

  She nodded. "I will."

  Standing in the doorway, he bowed his head. "Molly?"

  "Yes?"

  He turned back and reached out as though to touch her, then stopped. "I'll wait. And when the time comes, whenever you're ready-if you're ever ready-all you have to do is ..." He didn't complete the sentence. He didn't have to.

  His boot steps made a hollow thud on the porch stairs.

  Molly closed the door and bolted the latch firmly in place, knowing that time would never come. Not unless she told him the entire truth. And if she did that, she would be risking it all with only the promise of rejection in return.

  And friendship with James-though it was far from the relationship she wanted-was better than nothing at all.

  28

  ut I don't want to do it now." Kurt drank the last of his milk, then slipped from his chair, eyeing his mother across the kitchen table. "I'll do it later."

  Knowing it wasn't his place, James held back from saying anything. For Rachel's sake, as well as Molly's, who sat across the table, intent on smoothing the napkin in her lap.

  Though the noon meal had been more tense than he'd expected, he was still glad she'd accepted their invitation for Sunday dinner, and he looked forward to time together, especially after what happened-or didn't-in her cabin two nights ago.

  When Charlie Daggett had told him about finding her with two miners, a rage had overtaken him. He'd wanted to ride down that road and beat the men senseless, then haul them in and ask questions later. Charlie said he'd broken the wrist of one of the men. Knowing Charlie's grip, he could well imagine it, and hoped the two miners had moved on from Timber Ridge. If not, he would make sure they did.

  Rachel looked tired, and he had a good idea as to why.

  He'd heard her crying during the night. The ranch was a continuing source of worry for her, taking more time and energy than she had, and more than he could spare. She'd grown lax in following through with the boys in recent weeks, mainly with Kurt. Mitch had always been the more compliant of the two and rarely challenged her authority. Kurt, on the other hand, challenged her at every turn, especially these days.

  Chances were good that Molly had witnessed this same behavior, or similar, from Kurt at school. But if she had, she hadn't said anything to Rachel. That he knew of, anyway.

  "Kurt-" Rachel's voice grew more stern, but a weariness weighted her tone that weakened her attempt. "You'll go muck out those stalls right now with your brother, or I'm going to-"

  Kurt turned as if to walk back to his bedroom.

  Rachel stood, her chair nearly toppling over. "Young man, ge-" She steadied herself by placing a hand on the tabletop. "Get back here right now."

  A tenuous thread of emotion undermined her threat. James heard it. And apparently, Kurt heard it too.

  The boy paused and looked back at her, challenge in his eyes.

  Rachel pointed. "You'll head out to that barn right now or-" She paused, her breathing audible. "Or you'll go to bed without supper tonight."

  Kurt's brow furrowed slightly, revealing either doubt or lack of concern. James couldn't tell which. Earlier that morning in church, he'd watched Kurt intentionally drop a songbook in an attempt to draw a giggle from a cute little girl sitting in front of them. Rachel had scolded him afterward, but if appearances counted for anything, it hadn't made much of an impression. And the boy wore much the same expression now.

  Kurt turned to leave, but James caught his eye and met his stare straight on.

  Kurt stopped cold.

  James didn't move. He didn't blink. And he sure didn't say anything, not with Rachel looking on, her authority teetering in the balance.

  Kurt tried to keep up his courage, but James saw it slipping away. Just as his own had done when set against the unyielding steel of his grandfather's firm stare. Thank God his grandfather had been in his life-when his own father hadn't. For nearly twenty-one years, he and his father had lived beneath the same roof, yet James had never felt like he really knew the man. And the night his father died, he'd discovered why-because he was a constant reminder of something his father had spent a lifetime trying to forget.

  Kurt's stare wavered, and he gradually lowered his gaze. "Yes, ma'am;' he muttered, and trudged from the kitchen.

  The front door closed louder than necessary, and Rachel loo
ked across the table.

  James read failure in her eyes-and irritation at him-and shook his head. "He's just testing you, Rachel:"

  "Do you not think I know that?" Her voice was soft, but her tone was brittle. "I am his mother, after all:'

  James didn't want to go where this conversation was headed. Not with their present company included. It was unlike Rachel to address something like this with guests, but he knew she felt comfortable around Molly and considered her a good friend. "Give it time, Rach-"

  "I've given it time, James" She sank down in her chair and rested her head in her hands. "I've lost my hand with the boy."

  "No, you haven't" James leaned forward. "He's simply trying to figure out where he fits in now that ... Thomas is gone. And since he realizes his papa's not coming back:"

  The frustration drained from Rachel's face and raw uncertainty took its place.

  James started to get up and go to her, but Molly reached out a hand. Rachel grabbed on and held tight, as if Molly were a lifeline in a stormy sea.

  "I still miss him so much;' Rachel whispered, closing her eyes. "It's not proper to speak of the deceased, I know. But-" She raised her head and looked at Molly, her eyes swimming with tears. "Do you ever still ... feel your husband with you? Beside you?"

  James watched, waiting. How many times had he wanted to ask Molly much that same question? Ask about her former life. Yet he hadn't felt at liberty to. And she'd volunteered so little.

  He saw Molly's grip tighten on Rachel's hand. A single tear trailed her cheek. She opened her mouth as though to speak, then closed it again and said nothing.

  "Sometimes .. " A fragile smile curved Rachel's mouth. "Sometimes when I'm in the barn early in the morning, or when I ride up in the mountains like we used to do together, I'll sense him with me. I'll stop for a second, and-" she sighed a soft, humorless laugh-"I'll be so sure that when I turn, he'll be there:' Her breath caught. "But he's not. I know he's gone, and that he's waiting for me in the hereafter, but ... it feels like he took part of me with him when he went. A part I still need to get along in my life:'