Hunter's Moon

by Karen Robards

  “We’re looking for Don,” Helen Trapp continued. Will realized she was referring to the trainer. “Do you know where he is?”

  “Probably trackside,” Molly answered. “He wanted to clock Tabasco Sauce’s workout. Mr. Simpson’s got high hopes for him in the Bluegrass Stakes this Saturday.”

  “So do we all,” said Helen Trapp, smiling, then turned as though about to leave the barn.

  “Speaking of the Bluegrass Stakes,” Thornton said to Molly. “We’re having a party at our house afterward. A humdinger. Fancy dinner, dancing, black tie. I could pick you up at seven.”

  Helen Trapp looked surprised and a little disapproving of her nephew’s sudden invitation. Will disapproved himself, though he supposed it was futile to hope that Wyland—and every other man too—would simply give up and leave Molly alone. He waited for Molly to tell the slimeball, in some more or less polite way, to get lost.

  “That sounds like fun,” Molly said, smiling at Thornton in a witchy way that did bad things to Will’s blood pressure. “I’d love to come.”

  Will’s jaw dropped. He could scarcely believe his ears. Molly considered Thornton Wyland an opportunistic creep, he knew. Almost as soon as he had the thought he knew, too, why she accepted, when she had turned Wyland down so many times before: because she knew he could hear.

  Molly was accepting Wyland’s invitation for no other reason than to torment him.

  Will’s fists clenched. His muscles tightened. His stomach roiled.

  He realized that there was absolutely nothing he could do.

  Except pretend he didn’t care.

  “You mean you’re saying yes?” Wyland sounded as surprised as Will felt. When Molly nodded, he grinned at her like a man who had just won the lottery—which in a way Will supposed he had. “We’ll have a great time. I promise.”

  “I’ll look forward to it.” Molly, who had fallen into step with Wyland and his aunt as they walked away, sounded as if she didn’t have a care in the world. If Will had not known it for a fact, he never would have guessed that just minutes before she had been crying in his arms, and kissing him as if it meant something.

  Watching the three of them walk out of the barn together, Will didn’t know whether to curse or kick the wall.

  So he did both. Not that it helped.

  All it did, Will realized with disgust, was provide further amusement for Murphy via the monitor.

  36

  October 21, 1995

  Molly realized she had made a bad mistake before the evening was barely under way. To begin with, there was Thornton. His hands were all over her every chance he got. Driving to the Big House in his bright red Corvette, he’d rested his hand on her knee; at the dinner table, he’d put his arm around her shoulders so many times, she’d felt like asking him if he’d ever considered a career as a mink stole; now they were dancing, and he was nuzzling her neck while his hands slid perilously closer to her rump with every step.

  He seemed to feel that by accepting his invitation, she had also agreed to fall into his bed. The hideous thing was, Molly had known he would feel that way, had known how he would expect the evening to end. And she had accepted his invitation anyway. Because Will had kissed her and she loved him and no matter how she tried to deny the feeling it didn’t seem to be going away.

  She had tried to tell herself that one man was as good as another, and that Thornton, who was handsomer, younger, and richer than Will, would be a good bet to help her get Will out of her mind.

  The problem was, Thornton wasn’t kinder than Will, or a gentleman like Will. He wasn’t solid, steady, and dependable. He didn’t make her feel safe.

  And for all his looks and money, he didn’t turn her on.

  With Thornton, there were no sparks. When he held her in his arms, all she wanted to do was kick his shins.

  One or the other of Thornton’s friends had been watching them all night. Allison Weintraub was the worst. Molly knew the slender blonde with the jealous blue eyes by sight, though they’d never been introduced before tonight. From something the other girl said, Molly realized that she had been with Thornton at Keeneland the day Will had kissed her hand; Molly hadn’t recognized her at the time. Gossip had it that she meant to be Mrs. Thornton Wyland. In any case, Allie, as Thornton called her, clearly considered Thornton hers. She just as clearly resented Molly to the point of hatred. If Allison had had a knife, Molly knew she would have felt it in her back.

  Thornton’s male friends, few of whom Molly knew because they ran in such different circles, watched Molly too, but not with dislike. They were avid to make her acquaintance.

  They upbraided Thornton for keeping her a secret from them, and tried to cut in. Thornton rebuffed them with good-humored firmness. Molly, he said to her annoyance, was private stock.

  “I really like the way your dress feels. What is it, satin?” Breathed in her ear, this gambit presumably was designed to explain away Thornton’s stroking hands.

  “Silk,” Molly said pleasantly, knowing that she looked good in the ivory slip dress that she had bought for Ashley, and knowing, too, that her dress could not hold a candle, style- or costwise, to any of the other women’s gowns. “And if you don’t keep your hands where they belong, I’m going to knee you where it counts right here in the middle of the dance floor.”

  Thornton laughed, pulling her tighter against him and twirling her around. In a classic black tuxedo, he looked so handsome that by rights Molly knew she should have been dazzled. But she wasn’t, and when he kissed the side of her neck it was all she could do not to carry out her threat.

  The only thing that held her back was the potential embarrassment of making such a scene in front of all these people—there must have been at least two hundred crowded into the Big House’s ballroom, and more circulating through the twin double parlors off which the ballroom opened. Molly felt outclassed by the company, no matter how fiercely she told herself otherwise.

  Across the room, Helen Trapp, resplendent in a glittering gold gown that must have cost the earth, watched them with a worried expression as she stood on the sidelines talking to Tyler. Whatever Tyler said must have reassured her, because after a moment her frown cleared, and she turned to chat with a woman friend.

  Molly presumed Tyler had assured his sister that nothing permanent was likely to come of Thornton’s infatuation with one of the grooms.

  From the time she’d entered the Big House, with its twelve-foot ceilings and glittering chandeliers, its gorgeous oriental carpets and stately antiques, Molly had felt out of place. Helen Trapp and her daughter, Neilie, a statuesque brunette, were not responsible for that, but they had made their own small contribution to Molly’s sense of unease. In line to greet the arriving guests, they had in the most subtle way possible looked down their noses at Thornton’s date, smiling and chatting politely all the while.

  Molly guessed they feared she might somehow manage to snare Thornton permanently.

  But she had news for them, she thought as Thornton’s hands slid too low again, she didn’t want Thornton permanently. She didn’t want him at all.

  “Excuse me, I have to go to the rest room,” Molly said as the music ended and Thornton showed every inclination to keep his arms around her until it started up again. The band in the corner had so far played nothing but slow dances. Molly wondered who she had to thank for that.

  She wouldn’t have been surprised to learn that Thornton had something to do with it, but because he had not left her side since she had walked through the door several hours before, she could only speculate. It was possible that slow dances were all they played at these fancy parties. Never having been to one before, she had no way of knowing.

  “If you’re running away to powder your nose, baby, don’t bother. You already look good enough to eat.” Thornton grinned at her and took a playful bite out of one white shoulder.

  “I’m not,” Molly said, pulling herself out of his arms. “I have to pee.”

  She sai
d that last deliberately, enjoying its shock value, determined not to let herself be intimidated by the upper-crust crowd or rich surroundings. Thornton chuckled. Molly could feel his gaze on her back as she walked away.

  The powder room—they actually called it that—was off the front hall. It was larger than Molly’s bedroom. The floor and vanity top were of gray marble, the wallpaper featured what appeared to be hand-painted birds, and the white china sink had been custom made to match. A huge gilt mirror over the sink reflected the light of two elaborate crystal sconces that had been set right into the glass. Making use of the facilities, Molly discovered that the toilet made no noise at all when it was flushed, and the exquisite pink soaps that looked exactly like tiny rosebuds actually smelled of roses too. A filagree-over-crystal dispenser by the sink held hand lotion, Molly discovered when she touched the handle. Rubbing some into her hands, she fell in love with the soft floral scent.

  Vaseline Intensive Care it wasn’t.

  Molly brushed her hair, powdered her nose, and freshened her lipstick, then stood back to regard herself critically in the glass.

  It was easy to see why she had fallen in love with the dress in the resale shop, she thought, because it might have been made for her, not Ashley. The thin spaghetti straps and lingerie neckline bared her shoulders and the soft uppermost curves of her breasts. The lustrous silk clung to her every curve and shimmered when she moved. That particular shade of ivory enhanced her dark hair and eyes, and made her skin look as creamy as her favorite Baskin-Robbins flavor, French vanilla.

  So the dress was secondhand, and had only cost thirty-seven dollars. So what? No one here was aware of that, and it looked fabulous on her. Molly knew it did.

  Why then did she feel so out of place?

  You can take the girl out of the reform school, but you can’t take the reform school out of the girl. The thought made Molly squirm.

  But she wasn’t going to let it defeat her. She was good enough, she told herself stoutly, for the Wylands or any of them. As her mother used to say, it’s not where you come from but where you’re going that counts.

  Right now, Molly decided, she was going home.

  She’d been stupid to come, and she was only going to compound her stupidity if she hung around till the end of the evening. Thornton’s plans for her were very clear.

  She could fight him off, of course, but it would be a fight and she was not up to it. The smart thing to do would be to ditch him now and walk home across the fields.

  Two other women were waiting outside the powder room when she emerged. Molly smiled at them as she passed, and they smiled back. Molly felt a sudden renewal of confidence. Those two strangers with their elegant hairdos and beautiful designer gowns had seen nothing wrong with her. She had to keep telling herself that her background did not show, like a badge of shame.

  As she walked toward the kitchen she was smiling.

  In the ballroom, the band performed a drumroll. Cymbals crashed and some sort of announcement was made. Molly couldn’t quite understand the words.

  “Champagne, Miss Molly?” To her consternation, Thornton came out of the kitchen just as she reached it. He was carrying a champagne glass full of golden bubbly in each hand. “We have to drink a toast to Tabasco Sauce’s victory, you know.”

  Tabasco Sauce had won the Bluegrass Stakes hours earlier. That was what the announcement had been about, she had no doubt. Seeing no help for it and in any case not loath to celebrate something that touched her as nearly as anyone there, she accepted the glass. The win made it a great day for Wyland Farm.

  “To Tabasco Sauce,” Thornton said, clicking his glass with hers. He gulped at his champagne, while Molly took a sip of hers. For all its vaunted reputation, champagne wasn’t much to her taste.

  “And to our first date.” Thornton drained his glass and set it down on the tray of a passing waiter. “It’s been a long time coming, but I mean to see that it’s worth the wait.”

  With that he reached for Molly. She jumped back to avoid being caught in his bear hug, and sloshed champagne all over her dress. Looking down in dismay at the stain spreading across her skirt, Molly didn’t demur when Thornton took the goblet from her with a teasing “Tssk!”

  “There’s a bathroom right through here,” he said, pulling her into a nearby wood-paneled den. The den did indeed have its own bathroom, masculine in decor but no less elegant than the powder room. Setting her glass down on the vanity and picking up a towel, Thornton dabbed at her skirt.

  “It doesn’t matter.” Being alone with Thornton in a bathroom was not a situation in which she cared to stay. Tugging her skirt from his grasp, Molly edged toward the door.

  “Oh, no, you don’t.” Grinning, he did his bear hug thing again. This time he caught her, and wrapped both arms around her waist, pulling her against him. “I’ve got you alone at last, and I’m not letting you go.”

  His breath hit her full in the face. Molly realized that Thornton had had too much to drink.

  “Give me a kiss, beautiful,” he growled, his mouth swooping down on hers. He tasted of champagne and garlic, a combination Molly found repulsive. Thrusting his tongue into her mouth with bold confidence, Thornton kissed her. Molly let him, and was disappointed to find his sloppy technique less than thrilling. Thornton was so very handsome, with a hard male body every bit as masculine as Will’s and a moneyed background to boot, that by rights he should have been able to knock the memory of Will’s kisses clean out of her head. No such luck, though, as she should have known. The chemistry simply wasn’t there. Molly waited the kiss out, hoping he would be satisfied with that and let her go.

  She should have known better.

  His mouth crept down her throat at the same time as one hand slid up her rib cage to cover her breast.

  “Stop it, Thornton!” she said, pushing at his shoulders in an unmistakable demand to be released. He ignored her, fumbling about in a less than deft attempt to thrust his hand down the front of her dress. She struggled, and one of her straps broke, sending the left side of her neckline south. Grabbing at her dress with one hand, sputtering with rage, Molly doubled up her fist and socked Thornton smack in the nose.

  “Ow!” He released her, stumbling back, his hand flying to his face. Blood gushed from his nostrils. Molly could not help but feel smug as he tilted his head back, pinching his nostrils shut with one hand. There was something to be said for an upbringing like hers, after all: She had learned to take care of herself.

  “Serves you right,” she said to Thornton, who was groping along the counter, presumably for a towel. She handed him one, then walked out the door.

  Minutes later she was running along the pea-gravel path that bisected the Big House’s back garden, and letting herself out the wrought-iron gate that separated the lawn from the fields.

  Home was not more than two miles distant. Molly had walked it many times. The problem was, she had walked it wearing sneakers or boots and jeans. Tonight she was wearing heels and a very bare evening dress with a long, tight skirt.

  Fortunately it was a warm night, with a beautiful starry sky and a three-quarter moon to light the way.

  She even had company, in the form of tight little groups of grazing Thoroughbreds dotted about the fields. Since the attack on Sheila—as soon as the mare entered her mind Molly pushed her out again, refusing to allow herself to remember—another security guard had been hired to assist J.D. with his nightly rounds. But neither J.D. nor his colleague was in evidence now.

  Molly lifted her skirt high as she trudged over the spongy ground, stepping carefully to avoid the occasional horse pile. Tall hemlocks and spruces ringed the fields, creating dark, shadowy borders where the moonlight did not reach. The sounds of the night—a hooting owl, the squeal of a rodent that might have been its prey, rustling leaves, the soft swish of her own passage through the ankle-high grass—were familiar. She was no stranger to the rolling pasturelands at night.

  But something about this night was d
ifferent. Eerie.

  Hard as she tried to repress it, the memory of Sheila rose in her mind.

  Something evil walked these fields by night.

  The thought made Molly shiver, and stop in her tracks to cast quick glances all around.

  She was no coward, but she was not stupid either. Belatedly, it occurred to her that choosing to walk home across the fields at night might not have been the smartest thing she had ever done.

  But it was too late now. There was no way she was going back. Anyhow, she was almost a third of the way home.

  Molly shivered again, and told herself it was because the wind was picking up. She resumed walking, deliberately conjuring up pleasant thoughts.

  Ashley in her pink dress had been absolutely beautiful.

  Molly’s face softened as she remembered how her sister had blushed and smiled at the boy who had come to pick her up the night before. Like Ashley, Trevor was seventeen, tall and thin with glasses, blemishes, and a dirty-blond bowl cut. Ashley had looked at him as if he were the handsomest thing in the world.

  There was no accounting for taste, Molly thought, shaking her head. Take herself, for example: Thornton Wyland, with his good looks, money, and fine old name, turned her off.

  What turned her on was Will.

  Without warning Molly set her foot down in a hole, and fell sideways, landing on her hip. For a moment she sat there, more surprised than hurt. Getting to her feet, she discovered that she was standing on the cover of what seemed to be an old well. The lid was a stone circle not more than three feet in diameter. It was very old, Molly guessed, because grass grew thickly around and over it. She never would have seen it if her foot had not found the one place that had broken away, and plunged downward.

  Starting off again, Molly stumbled and realized that her encounter with the well had broken the heel off one shoe. They were Ashley’s, actually, sparkly silver slippers that she had bought to go with her prom dress. Molly grimaced. Ashley was not going to be happy when she saw her shoe. Molly wondered if she could repair the heel with superglue.