by Lynde Lakes
She stroked her left ring finger. “Where’s my wedding band?”
Thank God, he’d thought of the ring earlier this morning. He had flown his chopper to Buck George’s ranch to buy one. Buck’s hobby was jewelry making, and he had a slew of rings around, including the size six Matt figured would fit Molly’s delicate finger. He reached in his pocket and pulled out the leather pouch with the ring inside. “Here ya go, little darlin’.”
He took her small, soft hand in his and slipped the ring on. He suddenly felt like he’d leaped off a two-hundred-foot cliff or had lost control of his plane. Was he so marriage-phobic that just slipping a ring on a woman’s finger sent him into a tailspin?
“Someone on the hospital staff took the ring away while you were in recovery.” Matt’s throat constricted, and he had trouble getting the next lie out. “The doc gave it to me for safekeeping when I picked you up.”
Molly held up her hand and studied the ornate design. “It’s”—she paused—“different.”
Did that mean she liked it, or not? It didn’t matter. The ring didn’t mean a damn thing. He tugged at his collar then forced a grin. “One of a kind. For a one-of-a-kind lady.”
She nailed him with a searing look that could brand a heifer. “Is our marriage a good one?”
“It was until you forgot me, little darlin’.”
“Quit calling me that. I prefer Molly. That is, if it’s my real name.”
“Whatever you say, little…er…Molly.”
She rubbed her arms. “Where am I from? What about family?”
He rose and stood over her. “Enough for now. It’s dangerous to push things too soon.” He snagged his Stetson off the rack and headed out the door. “I have evening chores.”
What he wanted was a straight shot of bourbon, but he wouldn’t bend to the family weakness of using alcohol to solve problems. Not tonight. Not ever again. Not if he was smart.
Chapter Two
Darn that slippery cowboy! Molly thought. Every time she tried to dig a little deeper into her past, Matt closed her out. She paced her room for a few minutes and then gave in to an irresistible urge to poke around the ranch house. The rooms were big with massive mahogany furniture and Aztec design scatter rugs over polished quarry tile floors. Everything looked masculine and hard edged, like Matt. Nothing in the decor reflected that a woman lived here. That she lived here.
There had to be evidence of that. She dug through drawers and cabinets, with trembling clammy hands, looking for clues about Matt, herself, and their relationship. Everything was neat—too neat. It was as though someone had meticulously stripped the place of all personal items. If she and Matt had a life together, where were the photographs? The memorabilia?
Damn, she needed to know about herself and her relationship with this disturbing man who worked at cross-purposes against her, although he claimed otherwise. The gun cabinet displayed an arsenal of polished weaponry impressive enough to make the National Rifle Association proud. Anger swelled in her. She hated guns. Hated men who used them.
Fighting a shiver, she stepped down into the sunken living room and admired the imposing limestone fireplace. It almost overpowered the room with its presence much like Matt every time he entered a room. She glanced at the guns again. Had Matt ever killed anyone? Not wanting to ponder that right now, she looked away.
The bar in the corner displayed several dozen varied crystal glasses hanging upside down from a rack. She ran her hand across the black marble top of the bar and noticed that the liquor was locked away in a cabinet. Locked away from whom? From Matt’s staff? From her?
Couldn’t be her. She had no driving urge to break the lock and guzzle down a shot of anything. The staff, then? If Matt didn’t trust his staff, maybe they were corruptible. She tucked that possibility into the back of her mind for potential use later.
She left the living room and headed up the wide spiraling staircase, while trailing her hand along the polished oak banister. Last night, she’d slept alone in the master bedroom adjoining the nursery. There had been no evidence of Matt there. None of his clothes. None of his personal items. Where did he sleep? Heading down the upstairs hall, Molly opened doors and peeked inside each room until she found another master bedroom with the stamp of Matt Ryan on it. Men’s clothing hung in the closet. Belts and neckerchiefs hung from a row of hooks, and boots lined a boot rack. Everything had its place. The man was a bloody neatnik. He might like to organize and control every aspect of his life, but no way would she let him control her.
Why aren’t any of my clothes in here? If we’re married, is our marriage in trouble? While she pondered that, a big box in the back of the closet drew her attention. She dragged it out and opened it. Inside were all kinds of personal belongings and framed pictures. None were of her, and none of Sara Jane. The group photograph was no doubt his family. The mom had a wistful smile, and the dad looked stern and unapproachable. The one in the picture who looked familiar was the lanky teen with brooding eyes—even at such a young age Matt’s defiant expression screamed rebel and danger. The other two boys, with their fingers looped into the waistband of their jeans, were no less rebellious looking.
Molly studied the photograph, delving deeper. If she were married to Matt, why didn’t any of these people trigger some emotion? And why had he stripped the place of all evidence of his family? She needed answers to her questions, and when Matt returned, she wouldn’t let him put her off any longer. She placed the box back into the closet the way she’d found it and then opened a dresser drawer. She shook her head at the neat rows of men’s briefs and socks and had the sudden urge to mess up everything.
A door slammed downstairs. Being caught snooping in his room might not be the best way to start a conversation, she thought with a twinge of guilt. With her heart pounding, she ran and ducked into her own room. Maybe this was where she should’ve looked first.
She opened her dresser drawers, one by one, and discovered all new stuff, underwear, and a few tank tops. She checked the closet. The clothes, free of labels, consisted of a jacket, a couple of cardigans, a coat, several pairs of Levi’s, and some western shirts. If these were her duds, she sure wasn’t a clothes horse. Fingering the fabrics, all bland blues and greens, she searched for tags. She checked all the pockets—not even lint.
Nothing showed wear, and they all revealed the same uninteresting colors. It was as though someone had rush-shopped, grabbing clothes without regard for style, cut, or design. These boring pieces couldn’t be her taste in clothes. There was nothing here to reveal who she was, or that fire burning in her belly.
What was Matt’s game? Did he think she’d knuckle under and willingly turn into some kind of Stepford wife? How did she know that term? She shook her head. She couldn’t keep questioning every random thought. She needed something concrete to go on. The cotton nightgown and terry robe she’d worn last night hung on the hook where she’d left them. At the back of the closet was the suitcase she’d had at the hospital. It contained only a nightshirt, sweats and some underwear. Was that all she’d packed for a shopping trip? Where were her purchases? Was it the western stuff hanging here?
She emptied the suitcase and went through each zipper pocket. She slid her hand into the satin pouch. Her fingers closed over a piece of paper. She pulled it out and inspected the crumpled yellow sticky note with a phone number on it. Her heart began to pound in wild, erratic beats. Whose number could it be? If Matt hadn’t disconnected all the phones, she’d find out in quick order.
Molly dug deeper into the pouch. It was empty except for some old-fashioned bulky knit slippers. They looked comfortable and quiet. She liked the idea of walking around without making noise. After a struggle, she yanked off her boots and shoved a foot into one of the slippers. It was a perfect fit. But Cinderella she wasn’t. The other slipper felt heavy. She pushed her hand inside the toe and found a small velvet pouch, the kind to keep rings in. She turned it upside down and dumped out three sterling silver coins. They
looked antique, rare, and valuable. Her heart thudded against her chest. Where did she get them? One thing was sure, until she remembered, they would remain her little secret.
****
Matt searched the downstairs and assumed from the silence that Molly and Sara Jane had hit the hay early. He harnessed his disappointment. Molly needed lots of rest to get well.
But damn it, it was still light out, and he hadn’t expected them to go to bed before dark. Feeling letdown and empty, he’d tiptoed back outside.
He saddled up his favorite horse, Gold King. After swinging into the saddle, he urged the horse forward. Gold King trotted down the dirt trail at a steady clip, and Matt kept his eyes alert for broken fencing and stray cattle, but his mind stayed on Molly. He’d never brought anyone from his FBI life to the ranch before. He didn’t like mixing the two parts of him, but when he learned that Molly’s protectors had been gunned down and that she was in danger, he’d sprung out of semi-retirement and broken his own rule without a second thought.
Matt reined in his horse as he approached Alfonso’s place, a three-bedroom adobe dwelling located about two miles from the main house. Evening settled slowly over the valley, and the exterior of the adobe took on the purple hue of the distant mountains. The windows glowed with a welcoming light. Tita was on the porch gathering the pies she’d left under nets to cool. Rather than bid him her usual cheery greeting, she sent him an icy glance that he tried not to take to heart.
Tita, at forty-three, didn’t look a day over thirty. She was still trim, curvy, and the pride and joy of her husband, Alfonso. The screen door opened, and Alfonso came out on the porch and waved.
“Howdy, Matt,” he shouted with both Mexican and Texas accents wrestling in his drawl. Due to Alfonso’s small, wiry build and funny Chihuahua face, men often wondered how his head vaquero and trusted amigo had lucked out and caught the heart of the former Miss Texas and Rodeo Queen.
Those who knew Alfonso well understood that Tita had fallen for his quick sense of humor and ready smile. Besides, the little guy could charm the needles off a cactus. In spite of his small stature, Alfonso was a giant of a man who ran the ranch with an iron fist. Tita claimed that, with Alfonso’s bushy mustache, pointy eyebrows, and big grin, she’d always thought he resembled Cheech Marin. Matt had to agree.
“Hey, patron,” Alfonso said. “Ranch business bring you galloping over here, or the aroma of Tita’s pies?”
“Just here to talk a spell.” Matt thumbed his Stetson high on his forehead, not yet ready to be more specific. Gold King, gamboling around in a sidestepping jig, moved like a nervous colt beneath him as though sensing Matt’s turmoil about the visit. Matt pulled the horse up tight and dismounted.
Alfonso’s seventeen-year-old son—and Matt’s favorite stable boy—Roberto stopped lassoing the sawhorse he’d set up for practice, looped his lariat over his shoulder, and trudged over to Matt. The boy’s hangdog demeanor suggested he’d been caught doing something he considered beneath his budding talents. “I’ll see to Gold King.”
Gold King snorted, and Matt stroked the sleek neck under the horse’s strawberry mane before handing over the reins. Matt patted the boy’s shoulder. “Thanks, Roberto. By the way, good roping. I used to practice with a sawhorse myself.”
Roberto’s eyes lit up with new pride, but he merely nodded. The kid was tall, thin, and quiet—the kind of quiet that made you wonder what he was thinking. The teen got his looks from his mother. He had huge chocolate brown eyes fringed with thick curly lashes, and the intensity of his steady gaze drove the young rodeo chicas wild. He was a newcomer to the rodeo circuit, but he’d already won a couple of calf-roping trophies. His charcoal-colored hair, braided back from his face in a rope down his back, emphasized his long, thin face and high cheekbones.
“Well, don’t just stand there. Come on in,” Tita called over her shoulder.
Matt smiled. Piqued or not, Tita was wearing the sterling silver comb he’d given her for her birthday tucked into her chignon. She balanced the pies while Alfonso held the door for her. Following them into the kitchen, Matt inhaled wafts of lemon sauce and Tita’s potent lavender scent. He eased into a straight-backed kitchen chair. Tita slammed a fistful of silverware on the table in front of him, which confirmed that she had her back up about something. It took no special smarts to determine that it involved Molly. He exchanged raised-eyebrow looks with Alfonso and braced for the rest of Tita’s tirade. She thrust mugs of strong coffee and chunks of lemon meringue pie in front of them, then dropped into a chair and gave Matt a stern look.
“Your dictatorial ways may work with the men, Matt Ryan, but not with me,” she said, her dark eyes flashing. “If you want me to work in your house around the señorita, release me from your loco code of silence.”
With a bite of tart lemon puckering his mouth, Matt stared at her. How could he fault her? He was an authoritarian. He expected those who worked for him to give him complete obedience and loyalty. He’d accept nothing less.
With great drama, Tita touched a spot over her left breast. “It makes my heart ache to pretend that I don’t understand what that poor woman says.”
The sadness in Tita’s tone touched Matt. He’d been unfair. He’d already decided to pull the directive, but Tita would accept his explicit restrictions better if she thought she’d won the first round. “I know. Molly’s not taking it too well.”
Tita made a sound of disgust and shook her head. “What woman with an ounce of backbone would? And that señorita’s got backbone.”
“Okay, okay, you win,” Matt said, secretly agreeing with Tita’s assessment of Molly. “The silent treatment’s off. But listen to me, Tita—this is important. If Molly learns about her past too fast, it could cause a serious setback in her recovery. I don’t expect you to back up my lies, but you’ll have to sidestep her questions until I give the okay to answer them. Talk about how cute Sara Jane is, recipes, the weather, but nothing to give her the idea that she’s not my wife after all. Got it?”
“Muy mallo, playing with a woman’s heart. And what about the marriage bed?” Tita asked in her usual blunt manner.
“Until she remembers me and invites me to her bed,” Matt said, “you don’t have to worry about me compromising the lady.”
“Invites you to her bed, eh, Romeo? So cocky, so sure of yourself.” Tita frowned. “Big ladies’ man, just like your brothers.”
Her words hit him like a physical blow, the reverberation sending pain to every cell in his body. “It’s not like that. Molly and I were close once.”
Tita thrust the flat of her hand outward to silence him. “No importante. A square shooter like you shouldn’t deal in lies. I’m no doctor like that De La Fuente hombre, but lies bring mucho trouble.”
“I know. I’d give my prize bull to be able to tell Molly everything. But for her sake, I can’t.”
Tita arched a cynical eyebrow. “For her sake? Madre de Dios!” Leaving her pie untouched, Tita pushed her plate away and got up bristling. “Men!” She stomped out of the room, her potent lavender scent streaming in her wake.
Alfonso sighed. “She’s right, you know.”
Matt couldn’t argue the point. Tita was right as rain, and he was on a collision course with a situation as unpredictable as a flash flood. Molly valued the truth above anything. That was why she’d been a crack reporter. The Witness Protection Program had forced her to leave her job, but nothing could make her give up her values and high standards. Matt took a sip of his coffee and cursed under his breath. Molly could never love a man she didn’t respect, and his lies would diminish any respect she may have had for him.
His jaw tightened. Did he still have hopes that they would get back together? He’d thought he could walk away for good without looking back—but that was before he’d brought her under his roof. Now, just like last time, to keep her alive, he had to bite the bullet and do something that went one-hundred-eighty degrees against his feelings. This time, he feared he would fore
ver mess up any chance for more between them.
“Tita didn’t mean what she said about your brothers,” Alfonso said. “You’re nothing like them.”
Matt shrugged, not wanting to discuss it.
Alfonso glanced at the clock and tuned the radio to the weather forecast. Both men remained silent until the stockman’s advisory was over. They exchanged glances, and Matt knew by Alfonso’s expression that he, too, was relieved that the predicted storm had detoured.
Alfonso pulled a cigar from his pocket and rolled it between his blunt fingers. “What are you going to do?”
“What I always do. Make a plan and stick to it.” It was his philosophy of life. Regardless of how difficult the follow-through could be sometimes, to deviate begged for trouble.
Alfonso lit up his cigar and took a couple of puffs while watching the door. Matt knew Tita would have a fit if she caught Alfonso smoking in the house. Alfonso took another puff. “Have you heard from Luke or Parker?” he asked.
Matt’s stomach tightened. He didn’t want to think about those two. “I sent Gunther to San Antonio to look for them.”
Sometimes, Matt hated his brothers as much as he loved them. He tried to understand why they’d become alcoholics and ne’er-do-wells. They blamed it on marrying the wrong women. But they’d chased trouble even in their teens, and the family had been pulled apart by their scrapes.
Alfonso sent Matt a sympathetic grin. “Want me to scoot up to the cattle auction and finish the job?”
Under normal circumstances, Matt would have gone himself. He sighed. “I need you here. Send Sam.” Someone had to go. Those two-stepping, ready-fisted, boozing brothers of his wouldn’t be back until they’d blown every cent of the travel expense money and ended up in jail on a DUI or disturbing the peace charge.
