Secret Surrender--Jarrett Family Sagas--Book Four

by Vivian Vaughan

  “I have children.”

  “Brothers and sisters. I mean children of your own. Of our own.”

  Molly didn’t speak again for a long time, and when she did, Rubal could hear the pain in her voice. “I can’t discuss this tonight, Cleatus. It’s been a hard day.”

  “I know, Molly. I understand, better than anyone. I’ve been there, too.”

  The swing ropes creaked through the ensuing silence.

  At length Cleatus’s voice came again, “Do you realize this is the first evening we’ve had time alone, just the two of us without the children whining and complaining—”

  The creaking stopped abruptly. “Cleatus—” Molly’s voice objected.

  Clothes rustled. Cleatus’s voice was muffled. Rubal flinched to think by what—Molly’s sweet lips? “I’m going to like having that Jarrett fellow here,” Cleatus was saying, “if it gives us time to ourselves.”

  “Cleatus, not tonight—”

  A sigh. “Okay. I understand. You’ve had a hard day. Why don’t you get some sleep, then get up in the morning, put on your prettiest frock, and let me take you to church?”

  “And the children?”

  Another sigh. “Molly, I asked you, not the whole household. I’m marrying you. Let Sugar take the children to church. The coloreds like for little white children to attend their services.”

  The swing creaked again, this time the sound was followed by footsteps crossing the porch. Rubal heard Molly stomp toward the door. He moved quickly back into the shadowed foyer, but she stopped just beyond the screen door. Moonlight streamed across the porch and filtered through the screen. Rubal pictured it on her face, glistening off her black hair, not wrapped tightly around her head in braids, but down, loose, curls flying in the evening breeze, like on the night of the dance. The night he—

  “You’d better go, Cleatus,” she was saying. “It’s late.”

  The swing ropes creaked again. More footsteps. Hands on clothing. Rubal tried not to imagine what was happening.

  But he knew what he would do, if he were telling Molly good-night. With a swiftness born of perversion, Rubal pushed open the screen door. The squawk grated through the tense silence. Cleatus stepped back from Molly. Even with the moon on her face, Rubal couldn’t tell whether Cleatus had kissed her or not.

  If it’d been him, you could have told. He would have kissed her so thoroughly the driest old maid in town would have recognized the signs.

  Molly glared at him, startled. “Mr. Jarrett…uh, we were saying good-night.”

  “Sorry. Didn’t mean to intrude.” Another lie. One he was certain they both recognized as such.

  Cleatus grabbed his coat and hat from one of the rocking chairs. “I was just leaving. Sure you won’t change your mind about church, Molly?”

  “Not on your terms.”

  Exasperated, Cleatus offered his hand to Rubal with a shrug that seemed to say women, who understands them?

  Molly didn’t move while Cleatus made his way down the path and out the open gate. Rubal crossed and sat in the swing that was surrounded on two sides by trellises of blooming honeysuckle, on the third by the parlor wall. Lamplight streamed through the parlor windows, spraying across his knees. When Cleatus was out of earshot, he invited, “Take a load off.”

  She turned furious eyes on him. Even in the dim light he could tell she was angry. Hurt, more likely, he thought.

  Without a word she sashayed across the porch and jerked the screen door open.

  “How ’bout we get up early and take the kids to church?” He had kept his voice low, but it raised her hackles, nonetheless.

  “You were eavesdropping.”

  “Overheard.”

  Her tone changed subtly after that, from anger to anguish. Rubal felt a rush of pity. He wished he could take her in his arms, soothe away her troubles. “You’ve overheard an earful today,” she said. “You’re probably sorry you stopped here.”

  “And you’re likely sorry you allowed me to stay,” he added, letting her know he read the situation clearly.

  She turned back to the door, acknowledgment written on her face. “Good night, Mr. Jarrett.”

  “Molly,” he called.

  She stopped on the threshold, holding the screen in one hand.

  “You didn’t answer my question.”

  “What question?”

  “About church.”

  “No.”

  “No, what? No, you didn’t answer. Or no you won’t go.”

  “No, I won’t go.”

  “It’d be good for the kids.”

  “It’d be hell for me.”

  “I’ll go with you.”

  “You don’t understand half as much as you think you do.”

  “Explain it to me.”

  She stuck her head back around the screen. “Not that it’s any of your business, but the busybodies in this town think I’m no better than a…than…”

  Even in her anger, her voice cried out to him. His arms ached to respond. He closed his eyes against a rush of emotion at her hurt, her pain, her vulnerability, realizing that he had likely caused some of it himself.

  “Then let’s go and prove ’em wrong,” he challenged.

  Chapter Four

  Molly didn’t sleep much that night, what with everything that had transpired during the day, the most significant of which had been Iola Young’s visit. The most disturbing, however, had been the appearance of Jubal Jarrett on her doorstep. He’d turned everyone at the Blake House upside down.

  Willie Joe and Little Sam had found a new playmate; Travis, an adversary; Lindy, suddenly aggressively precocious, obviously saw Jubal as a suitor; Cleatus had found a babysitter.

  And herself? A heart full of pain, that’s what he brought her. Jubal Jarrett was a painful reminder of the biggest mistake she ever made. A year had passed since her indiscretion with his brother, and still she flushed at thoughts of Rubal. She felt yet the exhilaration of twirling around the parlor downstairs in his arms, the handsomest man in the room. She warmed yet recalling his eyes, only for her, sensual eyes that caressed her face, lingered on her lips. He made love to her with his eyes long before they escaped the crowded parlor and found themselves, without design, in the barn, in the hay, in each other’s arms, entwined, entangled, at length enmeshed, body to warm pulsating body.

  She hadn’t slept that night, either. She had lain on this very bed, rejoicing in the sweet ecstasy of love, only to arise at dawn and find it had been neither love nor ecstasy—but agony. Rubal Jarrett was gone.

  In the night, like a thief, he had left, stealing her body and her love, leaving her empty of everything except despair—despair that gradually turned to hate.

  At least she had convinced herself it was hate, until yesterday, when for one fleeting moment her heart thought Rubal had returned. Of course, she would have sent him away. But never again would she have been able to fool her heart.

  Miserable, Molly arose at first light, dressed, and went downstairs to find Sugar cheerfully frying bacon and counting eggs.

  At her appearance, Sugar nodded toward a five-gallon barrel. “Fetch me some of that wheat flour, missy.”

  Molly eyed the old woman suspiciously. “What’re you doing?”

  Sugar looked like a fox who’d been caught raiding the hen house. “Mister Jarrett, he said to feed the younguns good this mornin’ so’s they won’t be actin’ up in church.”

  “Mr. Jarrett said what?”

  “He’s takin’ y’all to church, and high time you’re goin’, if I do say so.”

  “He’s doing no such—”

  The sound of whistling stopped Molly’s words. Through the back screen door, she watched Jubal saunter toward the house, carrying a pail that sloshed with milk. He kicked a stone ahead of him like Willie Joe or Little Sam would have done, and whistled a tune that was lost in the breeze, except for its gaiety. Molly recalled his observation at supper about the virtues of remaining a child, and a smile tipped her l
ips. But before she allowed his spirits to lift hers, she turned away.

  The back screen squawked. She heard him step onto the back porch, heard his boots stop in the kitchen threshold. “Mornin’, Molly. Sleep well?”

  She swirled to face him. “I told you we aren’t going to church.”

  “Thought maybe you’d cool off overnight, have a change of heart.”

  “I don’t need to cool off and I didn’t have a change of heart. I’ll thank you not to complicate my life.”

  He held her defiant gaze, direct, emotionless. “Where’d you want this milk?” he asked Sugar.

  Sugar frowned at Molly, but her words were sweet as molasses. “Sit it on the drain, Mister Jarrett. An’ I thank you for doin’ chores that rightly belong to others.”

  But when Rubal sauntered over to the cookstove where he proceeded to turn Sugar’s bacon, she slapped his hand away.

  “Nobody comes in my kitchen an’ tends my bacon,” the old woman scolded in jolly tones. “Pour you’self another cup of coffee, an’ see if you can’t pour one for Miss Molly, too.”

  Rubal winked at Sugar. “You mean she always wakes up on the wrong side of the bed?” He caught Molly’s eye before she managed to look away. “Sure is a pretty little thing, though, don’t you think, Sugar? Wouldn’t wonder that those dried up old prunes in this town were a bit jealous. Now, if she’d just put on a proper frock and greet ’em on the church steps with that pretty smile of hers, can’t help but think it’d sway their opinion.”

  “Little you know,” Molly snapped, pouring herself a cup of coffee.

  “You’ve tried it?”

  “Once.” The word was lost when she turned her back.

  “Once?”

  “Find any wheat flour, missy?” Sugar called.

  Glad to have something to do with her trembling hands, Molly jerked the lid off the flour barrel. After their mother died, she had taken the children to church. Once. And the backbiting of those who called themselves Christians had been enough to set her stomach roiling every time she thought about going back.

  “There’s a little,” she called to Sugar.

  “Well, bring it over here so’s I can beat up some biscuits. Hurry, child, we ain’t got all day.”

  Molly carried a tin measure of flour to the drain-board. “Go ahead and get yourself ready, Sugar. I’ll cook breakfast. You know I don’t expect you to cook on Sunday mornings.”

  “While you were sleepin’ upstairs, missy, Mr. Jarrett and myself, we cooked up a scheme that might jes’ help you hang onto things aroun’ here for a while. Now, you set yourself down and listen till he’s done talkin’.”

  Rubal grinned in spite of the seriousness of the situation. Sugar certainly belied her name, being as strict as any old trail cook he’d ever run up against. Taking Molly’s cup, he refilled it, set it back on the table, and motioned for her to sit down.

  “You don’t have any right coming in here—”

  “I’m only trying to help, Molly. Let me explain. Sugar says you’ve had a slowdown in business lately. Not boardin’ loggers likely hurts your trade, but there’re other ways to bring in customers. Sugar’s about the best cook in Texas, and she told me how the Blake House has been noted for its meals since your grandma’s day.”

  “What does that have to do with going to church?”

  “I’m getting to that. We take the kids to church this morning, all spit and polished like they’re well cared for—”

  “They are well cared for!”

  “I know, I know. What I mean is, show the ladies of Apple Springs how well they’re cared for. It may take a few Sundays to bring ’em around, but—”

  Molly flinched as though he’d hit her, and Rubal stopped talking. He wanted to reach for her, to take her in his arms and console her, but he dared not.

  “I’ll go with you,” he added. “Fact is I haven’t made such a model citizen of myself, either. Wouldn’t do me harm to sit through a few two-hour sermons.”

  Molly glanced at him, askance. “Seeing us in church is supposed to relieve their minds about bachelors boarding at the Blake House? You’re crazy. You’re one of them. You’re…”

  Her words trailed off as his gaze intensified, sending shafts of pure fear skimming the surface of her skin. “No.” She turned away. “It would never work.”

  “Not if you don’t give it a try,” he agreed. “As for me, I’ll tag along with Willie Joe and Little Sam.”

  “And Lindy?”

  “She’s a kid, Molly, feelin’ her oats. Don’t worry about her.”

  “Don’t worry? She threw herself at you last night in her own home. What do you think she’ll do in church?”

  “I’ll sidestep her. Travis can escort you and Lindy, I’ll bring the little boys behind.”

  “Travis goes to church with the schoolmaster and his wife.”

  Rubal slammed his cup down on the table. “Why do I get the feeling you don’t want to work things out?” Refilling the cup, he took a swallow of scalding coffee. Molly’s hurt turned to anger.

  “If you were half as smart as you think you are, Master Taylor would be trying to adopt you and send you off to school,” she retorted. As angry as she was, tears still rushed to her eyes. She turned quickly away.

  Fact was, she’d had the same idea about going to church in the beginning. A month after her mother died the Ladies’ Aid Society started hounding her about not raising the children properly. At the time she had begged Cleatus to take them to church. Seeing her with the foster son of the bank president would have gone a long way toward silencing the tongues of the people in this town. But after one service, during which Little Sam dropped the penny she’d given him and chased it on its roll down the aisle, and Willie Joe crawled under the pew in front of them and tied Mrs. Bott’s shoelaces together, almost tripping the woman when she stood to sing the next hymn, Cleatus pronounced the children unmanageable. He said she couldn’t control them.

  Obviously, he was right. “You haven’t explained how this grand idea will bring diners to the Blake House.”

  Rubal looked to Sugar for help. She offered her broadest, brightest smile, wiped her hands on her apron, and patted him on the shoulder. “Tell Miss Molly what we cooked up, Mister Jarrett. Tell her.”

  Molly sighed. Jubal Jarrett had made a clean sweep in this house; Sugar had fallen as hard as a hundred-year-old virgin pine. “Tell me, Mr. Jarrett,” she encouraged. “Just don’t expect me to be the pushover the rest of the family is.”

  Rubal grinned. His eyes held hers a minute, during which he wished he had her in this room all to himself, and she didn’t think he was his brother, and he himself hadn’t won her hatred in a way that’d likely be unredeemable. “Sugar’s cookin’ up a batch of chicken an’ dumplin’s for dinner.”

  “Sugar doesn’t have time to fix dinner. She has her own service to attend.”

  “Not today,” Sugar interjected. “Today I’ll pray to the Lord while I wring them ol’ hens’ necks. If we don’t get some business aroun’ here, we’ll none of us be feelin’ like goin’ to church.” Sugar motioned for Rubal to continue.

  “Sugar and me, we thought, well, we thought it’d be a nice gesture to invite…” He looked to Sugar for help. “What’s his name?”

  Sugar grinned, silent.

  “What’s his name…your preacher and his wife…to dinner.”

  “Reverend Callicott?” Molly flew to her feet. “I will not. His wife is one of the worst of the busybodies.”

  “That’s all the better—”

  “I’d as soon invite Iola Young.”

  “Not a bad idea.”

  Exasperated, Molly threw her hands in the air, turned and stalked to the back door, where she stood watching chickens scratch in the dirt beyond a large pine tree from which hung a frayed rope swing.

  “You don’t understand.”

  He crossed to stand beside her. “Explain it to me.”

  She stared out the door, silent.


  “Show ’em, Molly. I’ll help you.”

  “It won’t work.”

  “From what I’ve seen, nothing else is working, either.”

  He watched her curl her lips together, observed her tensed shoulders. Her arms were folded across her chest, her hands gripping them, her knuckles white. He stood, quietly watching her, wanting to hold her so badly his muscles strained beneath his chambray sleeves.

  She turned at length, her blue eyes sad, desperate, pleading. “I just can’t Rub—uh, Jubal.” Color rose quickly in her cheeks. She swirled away, chagrined at her slip of tongue.

  Conscious of Sugar standing behind them, Rubal nevertheless took Molly’s arms in his hands, turning her to face him against her will.

  “Molly.” She refused to meet his eyes. “Molly, look at me.”

  He watched her purse her lips, refusing still. “Let me help you.” His hands slipped up to her shoulders. With effort he kept from pulling her to his chest. “You’re trying to carry too much on these shoulders. You need someone to help carry the load. Please, let me help.”

  She shook her head, standing still beneath his touch, yet refusing to meet his eyes. His heart ached for her. She’d aged twenty years since the night he danced with her and loved her…and left her. She was beaten and worn out. But he remembered how she was that night.

  “You’ve got spunk, Molly. And spirit. You can fight back.”

  Finally she looked up. He watched her examine his face, feature by feature, avoiding his eyes, settling at length on the side of his face. He wondered whether she remembered the scar on his left temple. If so, would she consider it unusual for two brothers to have an identical scar? What would he say if she challenged it?

  She didn’t, but he could read the discomfort in her eyes. He wanted to tell her that she wasn’t mistaken, that he was Rubal, the man who had run out on her. That he was back now, and he would help her fight the devil himself, if it would make up for the hurt he’d caused her. But he knew she couldn’t accept all that right now.

  “You really think it’ll help?” she questioned.

  Without releasing her, he shrugged. “Won’t know unless we try.”