“If I make my own living, I won’t have to depend on him.”
“Why do you have to depend on him? Why can’t you just…uh, love him?”
“Maybe he thinks it’s the same thing.”
“Some men do.”
“But not you?”
“Hell, Molly, way I was raised up, my sisters are as strong and dependable as my brothers.”
Her breath caught at that, and he wanted to eat his words, but they were already out. “Some of ’em, anyhow,” he added feebly.
“So how can I help?” he asked when she didn’t continue.
“I need to know if the timber is worth anything. Then I’ll need to know how to sell it. Should I deal directly with a timber company? Or should I find an independent logger? For someone who’s lived all her life in the forest, I don’t know anything about selling trees.”
Rubal grinned. “Bet you know how pretty they are, though.”
He heard her slow intake of breath, and his imagination roamed free. He imagined taking her out to the forest, walking through the corridors of majestic longleafs, barefoot on the cushions of needles. Forcefully, he pulled his mind back to the porch, which held enough distractions at the moment.
“That’ll be no problem,” he assured her. “I’ll need to know the location of the property. I’ll be seeing a lot of folks these next few days, should be able to find an honest man among them.”
“I’ve heard rumors about loggers who steal other people’s timber,” she acknowledged. “That’s why I didn’t want to talk to just anybody.”
Rubal’s heart lodged in his throat. “Thanks for your confidence.”
“I figured if Lutcher & Moore trusted you enough to send you out here alone, you must be honest.”
If she’d shot him with that danged shotgun, she couldn’t have struck him a harder blow. Honest? Him? A wolf in sheep’s clothing, that’s what he was. And she was Little Red Riding Hood, living in the forest where the woodchoppers weren’t any more honorable than the wolves.
“I’ll be glad to help out, Molly.”
After a moment of silence, she said, “I don’t want to sell it all. Just enough to send Travis to San Augustine Academy in the fall. And to keep him there until he finishes school.”
Emotion welled in Rubal’s throat. “You have decided to fight, haven’t you?”
“Don’t you think it’s about time?”
“It might turn out for the best that you’ve waited a while. Now you can count heads, see who’s on your side, who isn’t.”
She nodded twice in tight succession. “I know.”
He reached for her hands, and she surprised him by allowing him to take them. “That’s a danged good idea, Molly. Danged good.”
“You think I can get enough money?”
“Sure do.”
“I want to save enough back—for the others. Lindy’ll need help soon, and the little boys.”
And you, Rubal thought. You need help, Molly. You need someone to help you fight. “I’m proud of you, Molly. Real proud.”
She grinned. “It’s thanks to you.”
“Naw.”
“Yes. You showed me that I can stand on my own.”
He turned her hands over in his.
“I’ll always be grateful for that, Jubal. Always.”
He enclosed her hands in his, feeling her fingers with all their calluses rest easily inside his cupped palms. Suddenly he knew that of all the things he wanted from Molly Durant, gratitude wasn’t one of them. He tugged on her hands, pulling her gently toward the swing.
She resisted.
“Come here,” he whispered.
She stared a moment, tempted, he could tell, then shook her head.
“Why not?”
“I’m afraid.”
He held her firmly, felt the pulse in her wrist throb against his hand. Knew his own raced as wildly.
“Come on, Molly. It’s okay. The house is teeming with kids and loggers. We can’t even get a good start on what’s on both our minds.”
She stopped rocking abruptly. “It’s time to go see…” Her fingers slipped from his grasp. She stood up. Dusted off her skirt.
Rubal came to his feet. The swing bumped him on the back of the calves. But it was nothing to the jolt he felt when he reached for her, taking her by a shoulder, stopping her.
She didn’t turn around.
“Don’t you think we oughta talk about last night?”
She shook her head.
“Why not?”
She tried to move toward the door, but he held her back. “I won’t hurt you, Molly.” Not again. “I won’t hurt you.”
He felt a tremor course through her body. Using both hands, he turned her around. Her face was in shadow. Reflected light shone through the edges of her loose bun, giving the appearance of a halo.
“You said I taught you how to fight. Well, you need to start fighting for yourself, too.”
His lips touched the bridge of her nose. He kissed it lightly. Even her skin tasted like the honeysuckle growing around them. He kissed her lips, a gentle, chaste, dry but soft kiss.
She pulled back. “Someone might—”
“Just a kiss, Molly. Danged if I haven’t been thinking about it all day.”
And she had, too. When his lips found hers again, it was to a welcome, eager response. She twined her arms around his neck without prompting. She settled against him, feeling the muscles of his chest, steady and rock-hard, reassuring. She felt her breasts react to his nearness, to his passionate kisses, his suckling lips, his delving tongue, his roaming hands that slipped around her ribs and clutched her breasts before she even realized it.
When she stiffened, he lifted his lips. “Don’t fight it, Molly. It’s good. You’re good. So good.” Rolling his neck against her arm, he let her feel his rapid pulse. When she relaxed, he pulled her close again, covered her lips again, drawing forth her passion like a bee draws nectar from the honeysuckle blossom.
Lordy, she tasted good; she smelled good; she felt good. He swept his hand to her waist, pressing her to his body, waist to abdomen, admonishing himself all the while, to go slow, not to go lower, afraid of scaring her off.
But she felt good. So good. Too good.
Finally in desperation, he stopped. Gazing into her eyes, he fingered the soft curls around her face. Taking one he drew it between his lips, wanting more…wanting her. Finally, his arms weakened with desire, he took her shoulders in gentle hands and kissed her one last smacking kiss. “What say we go in and see about those loggers now?”
Chapter Eight
By midweek the Blake House and its boarders had settled into a routine, of sorts. Molly arose early, prepared lunches for the children and the loggers, while Sugar cooked breakfast, and Rubal saw that the children were up, dressed, and ready to leave for school.
Also routine had become Rubal’s farewell kiss. A peck on the cheek, nothing more. But oh the turmoil it caused inside Molly.
Not that she felt guilty, betraying Cleatus. Truth known, she figured she would have come to her senses about Cleatus with or without Jubal’s presence. His companionship with the little boys only served to contrast Cleatus’s rejection of them.
She knew in her heart that even if Cleatus relented and agreed to allow the children to live with them, he would never relate to them the way Jubal did. She couldn’t picture Cleatus taking the little boys fishing, while Jubal actually initiated their trips to the creek on afternoons when he returned before dark—a treat for the boys’ having done their sums and finished their chores, he claimed. And such a difference that had made around the house.
He had even begun to temper Travis’s air of intellectual superiority. Not that anyone commented on it; likely no one except Molly noticed. But Jubal had a way of discussing the railroad with Travis, grown-up to grown-up. He talked about the timber business, asking Travis questions, honest questions a man new to an area would need answers to. Travis still remained at the schoolhouse or
at Master Taylor’s until dark every day, leaving little time to perform his own chores of milking and chopping wood.
But no one had to chop wood or milk the cow for him after that first day. It was as if he didn’t want Jubal to think him less a man for shunning chores.
And Lindy. Lindy still flaunted her maturing femininity around Jubal, but it was different. Molly worried that the difference was not so much to do with Jubal, as it was with the youngest of their boarders, the red-headed logger named Jeff. Lindy made it a point to have her lessons finished before supper, so she could help Sugar prepare the loggers’ meal, which was invariably served in the kitchen after the other guests departed.
The other guests were another change in the Blake House. True to their word, Oscar and Etta Petersen appeared for supper Wednesday night. Fortunately Sugar had outdone herself, preparing succulent turkey breasts with cream gravy, fresh peas and okra from the garden, and jelly cake for dessert.
“My, you were right Mr. Jarrett,” Etta Petersen enthused. “This food is outstanding.”
“Compliments go to Miss Durant,” Rubal replied.
Etta Petersen nodded tight-lipped to Molly, who corrected with, “Sugar deserves the credit. She does all the cooking.”
Sugar, who had brought another bowl of cream gravy to the table, explained, “Recipes belong to Miss Molly. They’ve been in her family since before the war. She’s collectin’ ’em into a book. Plans on sellin’ it for the holidays.”
While Molly blanched at Sugar’s having taken up where Rubal left off, Etta Petersen’s eyes gleamed with inspiration. “You must add the recipe for this jelly cake.” Her smile was genuine, as were her plans for Molly’s future. “After you close down, dear, why don’t you and Sugar come work for me? Sugar can cook, and I could use a smart, spunky girl like yourself to run my household, free me for more community work.”
Molly’s eyes widened. Rubal glared, rudely, searching for a retort; Cleatus, in his usual place at the head of the table, cleared his throat, drawing the table’s attention.
“Afraid you’ll have to look elsewhere, Miz Petersen. Molly’ll have her hands full running my household. And Sugar belongs to the family.”
Sugar belongs to the family? What about the children? Molly thought. What about Travis, whom you’re determined to farm out to the schoolmaster? What about Lindy—lovely Lindy, who would wither and die in the home of that persnickety Iola Young? And the little boys? What about Willie Joe and Little Sam? How would they bear growing up in separate foster homes?
Tears sprang to Molly’s eyes. She couldn’t have swallowed another bite of food if Etta Petersen herself had forced it down her throat. But it wasn’t Mrs. Petersen’s presumptuous remark. It was Cleatus.
Cleatus, who professed to love her. Cleatus was the biggest disappointment of them all.
Supper ended abruptly after that, with the logging wagon lumbering up to the side yard. Lindy jumped to her feet, belatedly excusing herself, and rushed to the kitchen. “Excuse me, Molly. I’ll help Sugar get supper for the loggers.”
Etta Petersen frowned disapprovingly at Molly, and that was enough to call forth Molly’s fury. Rising, she thanked the Petersens for coming and wished them a good night. “You’ll have to excuse us. Work around here never seems to end.”
Later that evening when Cleatus drew her to the porch to say good-night, she felt like slapping his face. Instead she managed to keep her hands and her body to herself.
“Miz Petersen didn’t mean to offend you, Molly.”
She didn’t, Molly wanted to cry, you did. But somehow she held her tongue. Cleatus changed the subject.
“You’re still determined to hold that dance Saturday night?” he quizzed.
She nodded, tight-lipped, deciding she’d learned something from Etta Petersen.
“It’s not a good idea. Give folks more reason to talk.”
“Haven’t you learned by now, Cleatus. Folks in this town don’t need a reason to talk about me. Everything I do is fair game.”
“Molly…” He tried to embrace her, but she turned away, using Lindy’s excuse.
“I’m sorry, Cleatus. I need to help Sugar.”
She left him standing on the step Rubal had repaired when he’d returned from scouting the railroad Monday afternoon. She doubted Cleatus noticed it had been fixed.
Immersed in her own thoughts, she came upon Rubal and Lindy with a start. They were standing in a corner of the foyer off the kitchen. Lindy leaned against the wall, her head hung. Rubal stood facing the girl, an arm propped against the wall.
“You’ve got to be careful how you act around boys, Lindy. I know you want Jeff to notice you, but you’re giving him the wrong idea.”
Lindy defiantly wiped her eyes with the back of a hand. “How would you know?”
“I know.” Rubal’s voice was firm, yet Molly could tell by the way he dug the toe of his boot into the pine floor that he was uncomfortable. “You’re young, Lindy, but you’re growing up fast. Remember that you’re only fifteen. Think about how you want your life to be when you’re twenty-five and don’t do anything to ruin it before then.”
“But I like Jeff, and he likes me.”
“I can see that. We all can.” Rubal inhaled, fidgeted some more with his toe, and finally advised, “Talk to Molly. Tell her what you’re feeling. Ask her advice—”
“Molly doesn’t know how I feel. The only beau she’s ever had is Cleatus. Even you only kiss her on the cheek.”
Rubal stiffened as if she’d slapped him. His hand fell to his side. He frowned at Lindy like he’d heard wrong. In the shadows, Molly held her breath. She had suspected all week that Rubal delayed his departures in the morning until Lindy and Travis left the house. He had been discreet, but possibly they both had misjudged Willie Joe and Little Sam.
“I respect your sister, Lindy. I respect her far too much to—”
“Well, I don’t want Jeff’s respect. I want—”
Rubal reached out and clamped an open hand over Lindy’s mouth. “Hush that.” He breathed heavily. Removing his hand, he repeated. “Just hush.” Molly saw his Adam’s apple bob and came to his rescue.
Moving into the hallway, she said lightly. “Well, Lindy, have you and Sugar finished feeding the loggers?”
Lindy pursed her lips, nodding sharply.
Rubal turned helpless eyes on Molly. “Lindy needs to talk to you.”
“No, I don’t.”
Taking Lindy by the shoulders, Rubal nudged her toward Molly. “Yes, she does.” He shrugged, obviously uncomfortable. “Girl talk.”
He looked so vulnerable at that moment, Molly wanted to grab him around the neck and hug him.
“I’ll go find Willie Joe and Little Sam,” he said gruffly. “Tuck ’em in.”
With trepidation, Molly urged Lindy toward the darkened parlor. “What’s this all about?”
Lindy refused to sit down. She crossed her arms defiantly over her chest. “Jubal thinks I’m flirting with Jeff.”
“Aren’t you?”
“So what if I am?”
“Where do you expect it to lead?”
Lindy pursed her lips.
“What do you want from Jeff?”
“Nothing,” the girl retorted. “I’m just having fun. He is, too.”
“That kind of fun usually leads to things you’re not quite ready for.”
“How would you know? The only beau you’ve ever had is Cleatus. He wouldn’t know how to flirt with a post. And…and Jubal doesn’t even kiss you. He just pecks you on the cheek.”
Molly suppressed the urge to touch the spot on her cheek that seemed branded with Jubal Jarrett’s lips. “How do you know that?”
“Willie Joe told me that Jubal politely pecks you on the cheek every morning. Well, I don’t want to be politely pecked on the cheek. I want more out of life. You wouldn’t understand, Molly, but I don’t want to be an ol—…uh, I don’t want to be like you.”
Molly’s heart rocked with th
e blow. She had failed Lindy. Lord, she had failed Lindy. Travis’s problem, she could fix with money. All he wanted was to go to school.
But Lindy. Lindy ached like every little girl ached: to be grown-up, to be beautiful, to attract the eyes of every handsome young man. Molly understood too well. She considered telling Lindy how well. But she didn’t. That was something she would tell only if she were assured it would help. Only if, by the telling, she could prevent Lindy making the same mistake.
“Listen to Jubal,” she advised. “He understands. Don’t you think he was Jeff’s age once? Don’t you think girls flirted with him?”
“Of course, they did, but now he’s grown up. Grown-ups forget how it was to be young and in love.”
Molly inhaled a deep draft of musty parlor air. She drew Lindy to her, with much the same effort Rubal had used on her a few nights earlier. “No, they don’t, honey. Grown-ups don’t forget. But sometimes they regret. We want you to miss the regrets, that’s all.”
As the Saturday dance approached, Molly’s anxieties turned to panic. She wasn’t worried about the people in town. Like she told Jubal, she intended to fight them. And she intended to win.
But did she deserve to win? Look at Lindy. What would become of Lindy? More and more every day, Molly recognized her limitations as a substitute mother and counselor, and every instance involved Lindy. Lindy and Jeff and the dance Saturday night became a bugaboo that haunted her day and night. It could be a repeat of a year ago—Molly and Rubal and a Saturday night dance. That’s all it had been, and look how it had ruined her life. Would Lindy repeat her mistake of a year ago? If she were allowed the opportunity, surely.
Molly would have gladly called the whole thing off, except the problem with Jeff hadn’t arisen until everyone had gotten excited about the dance. To call it off now would likely do more harm than good.
By Friday morning all anyone at the Blake House could think about was the coming dance, and the preparations required to pull it off.
At least that’s what Molly thought was on the minds of all. In spite of her and Jubal’s admonitions, Lindy fairly glowed and could talk of nothing else. Travis had invited the schoolmaster and his wife, who had at first disapproved of the event with such vigor that Travis denounced it, too. For some reason the Taylors had decided to attend; to look down their noses, Molly assumed.
Secret Surrender--Jarrett Family Sagas--Book Four Page 14
