Secret Surrender--Jarrett Family Sagas--Book Four

by Vivian Vaughan

  Molly bolted to her feet. “You don’t understand, Cleatus. Tonight was the beginning of something wonderful. Not the end. Tonight proved I can do it.”

  “Do what?”

  “Make a go of the Blake House. Raise the children.”

  “Molly, don’t be ridiculous. It was one dance. One. One dance doesn’t change your financial status. A dozen dances won’t.” Grabbing her arms, he pulled her roughly against him. “Not any more than whitewashing a house makes it livable.”

  Later Molly was really proud of the way she controlled herself. She didn’t scream. She didn’t slap his face. She didn’t even swear at him with all the wicked words that came to mind. Instead, she firmly removed herself from his embrace, and quietly said, “I think you’d better go, Cleatus.”

  His face dipped, his lips descended.

  She backed up a step. “Now, Cleatus.”

  “But…”

  “Good night.” Reaching the screen door, she gripped it with both hands, standing stock still, listening as his footsteps crossed the porch, paused. When she didn’t move to stop him, he finally stomped down the path. She pictured not his dejection, but the path itself. For the first time in almost a year it was neatly trimmed and free of weeds. Thanks to Jubal Jarrett, who had put the loggers and Travis and the little boys to work, and even Lindy.

  Jubal Jarrett who would walk down that very path one of these days, like his brother had done. Walk down that path and out of her life.

  The sadness of it was overwhelming, yet she knew he had already given her something she could never have found without him: the strength and the will to fight her own battles…to fight and to win.

  Inside all the lights had been extinguished and she groped her way across the foyer. Her mother’s admonition never to go to bed with a dirty house flashed through Molly’s tired brain. But her mother wasn’t here tonight, and Molly was going straight to bed. Tomorrow was soon enough to tidy up and replace furniture.

  “Molly.” Rubal’s voice came out of the darkness, startling her. She paused at the foot of the stairs. Turning her head, she saw him standing in the doorway to the parlor.

  Dim shafts of moonlight streamed through the screen door, gleaming off the pine floor. From the parlor behind him, moonlight shafted through windows whose draperies had not been drawn against the evening. He stood between the two dim sources of light, propped against the door frame, like she had seen him do earlier, like Rubal had done that night.

  “Come here,” he beckoned.

  She hesitated, one foot on the bottom step. Her heart pounded. She surprised herself by saying, “You didn’t dance with me.”

  “I know. Come here.”

  She took a couple of steps toward him, then hesitated again. He held out a hand, as though to assist her in learning to walk. She placed her fingers in his firm, steady palm. He tightened his grip and pulled her toward him step by faltering step until they stood toe to toe.

  Ever so slowly, lazily even, he shoved away from the wall, straightened to his full height, holding her in his gaze all the while.

  She felt her pulse race. But she couldn’t have drawn her eyes from his if she’d wanted to. And she certainly didn’t want to. She wanted to hold him this way, in her sight and in her heart, forever.

  With an additional tug he drew her to a dancing position, clasping one hand at the small of her back. “May I have this dance, Miss Durant?”

  Fear chased desire through her veins. She couldn’t dance with him. If she danced with him, it would be like before. If she danced with him, she would lose her heart…

  And what else? If she danced with him she could deny him nothing. She would be his—his to dance with and…and to use…and to leave. She couldn’t dance with him.

  But neither could she pull away. “There’s no music,” she offered feebly.

  “I’ll hum.”

  The bizarre suggestion brought a smile to her lips. In the breath of a second he was twirling her about the parlor. They bumped into the sofa. She stepped on his toe.

  “Sorry,” she said.

  “It’s a waltz,” he explained.

  “Oh.”

  Humming the tune of “Moonlight in the Pines,” he maneuvered them in long gliding strides around the sofa, between two chairs, in and out among the furniture. Her breath came hard and fast. Finally her brain cleared.

  “The furniture’s back in place.”

  “Travis and Jeff helped.”

  She looked from side to side in the near darkness.

  “They’re in bed,” he said. “Everyone. Tucked in safe and sound.”

  He stopped, but it took her a moment to realize it. She stumbled against him. He held her firmly, squeezing them together in the middle. They stared at each other, breathing hard, both of them.

  Finally he let her go, and in an instant his hands were cupping her face. His lips descended, claiming hers, wet and desperate. After a hard, wet kiss, he lifted his face.

  “Dang it, Molly, I wanted to dance with you so bad tonight. That gown drove me crazy…and your eyes…and your hair…” While he spoke his hands fumbled in her hair, removing her bow and the steel hairpins, dropping them to the floor. Loosened, her hair tumbled over his hands. He ran his fingers through it, bringing large handfuls around, burying his face in it, inhaling her clean, sweet scent.

  “And this, Molly, I’ve wanted to do this…forever, it seems like.”

  She stood, unable to respond. Her heart beat so fast she thought it might beat itself out. She felt weak and at the same time restored and full of life.

  Suddenly they were kissing again. He pulled her close, molded her to him and she allowed it, shameless, wanting him in an acute way that shut out all other thought, even thoughts of that other time, of that other man. She was here…in Jubal’s arms…with his lips on hers, his hands roaming her body, cupping her breasts, calling forth dreams she had thought she would go to her grave without ever realizing. If she could have him only for tonight, then tonight she would take to savor.

  “You don’t feel this way for Cleatus, do you?” he mumbled against her neck, more a plea than a question. “Say you don’t, Molly. Please, say you don’t.”

  “I don’t,” she whispered. Her fingers skimmed through his hair, pulling his face to her neck. She felt her breasts fill with anticipation. “I’ve never felt this way before…not for anyone else. Not ever.” And in that moment she knew it was true.

  “WELL!”

  Lindy’s voice slashed through their foggy brains, separating them as a cleaver would have a slab of meat. Turning they faced the slender figure outlined in the doorway. Her hands were perched defiantly on her hips, snugging her nightgown to her waist. “Look at you! Just look at you! After harping at Jeff and me, you sneak off and do exactly what you preach to us not to do.” Lindy swirled and ran for the stairs.

  “Lindy.” Molly moved after her. “Wait, Lindy.”

  “I’ll take care of this.” Rubal rushed past Molly, took the stairs two at a time, and raced down the hall. He threw open the door to Jeff’s room, just as it closed behind Lindy.

  Jeff, to give him credit, stood in his longjohns, his face a picture of confusion. “I didn’t…”

  “I know.” Rubal stormed around the room, pulling blanket and sheets from Jeff’s bed, adding the pillow to the pile, then thrusting the bundle into Jeff’s arms. “The barn.”

  “But…”

  “The barn.”

  “You can’t do this,” Lindy screamed.

  “I can and I am.” He pointed to the door. “Out, Jeff. Now.”

  Jeff headed for the door, but Lindy grabbed his arm. The boy’s tormented expression told the tale—he felt caught.

  “You have no right to do this,” Lindy stormed.

  “Maybe not, but I’m doing it. Now get to your room. And if you so much as set foot outside your door before morning, I’ll personally string Jeff up by his heels and skin him alive and make you watch.”

  Jeff turn
ed white. Lindy raged.

  “You’re mad because I caught you and Molly. Well, we were just doing what you’ve been doing.”

  “No, you weren’t. We’ve been controlling our…our…” Rubal took a heavy breath, unable to come up with a term that wasn’t too crude for Lindy’s ears, or too crude to describe how he felt about Molly. “We’ve been acting like grown-ups. And I can tell you this, young lady, it’s danged hard. Because regardless what you think about old age, passion and…and stuff just get better. You’re at the beginning of your life, and I don’t intend to let you…” he glanced at Jeff who stood with his red head hung low, “…either of you, make a mistake you’ll regret the rest of your lives. Now, get out.”

  They went. Jeff slipped down the stairs and out the door. Lindy stomped defiantly to her room. She slammed the door, and Rubal began to wonder what kind of damage he’d done, saying those things to her. He hadn’t intended to blow up like that, but danged if he hadn’t been mad enough to turn her over his knee.

  In the hall he looked both ways, catching sight of Molly’s skirts as they disappeared into her room. Without stopping to ponder the decision, he strode down the hall and rapped on her door.

  Molly was standing with her back to the door when he approached. She started at his knock, even though she knew he was there. Her heart raced. All she could think about was the harm her indiscretion would do to Lindy. Lindy wouldn’t listen to reason, not that she had any to give. How could she explain love and passion to Lindy, when she didn’t understand them herself?

  Rubal rapped again. Gathering her wits, Molly opened the door. He stood there, breathing hard, staring at the space where he’d somehow known her eyes would be. One arm was propped over his head; his hand grasped the top of the door facing. His expression was one of total bewilderment. His eyes searched hers, she knew, for answers to the dilemma. His voice was almost gruff. And his words were the last thing she ever expected to hear from his lips.

  “Marry me, Molly. That’s the only way we’ll ever have any peace around this danged place.”

  Chapter Ten

  Marry me Molly? What kind of danged fool idea was that? What the hell had gotten hold of him? He’d like to put it down to that revealing green gown that had called forth memories and passion—the latter not just from himself, Rubal had noticed, but from every other red-blooded man at the dance, too.

  Rubal tossed and turned the rest of the night, but by the time Molly’s little bantam rooster crowed Sunday morning, he still hadn’t come to grips with his irrational behavior.

  He wondered how Molly was taking it. She’d been startled by his unexpected proposal. He’d seen that in a minute. Her mouth had dropped open and her eyes grew round. Then she very quietly said, “Good night, Jubal.” And closed the door.

  Good night Jubal, in a voice so husky it brought a lump to his throat just thinking back on it…and a pain to his groin.

  She hadn’t responded to his proposal of marriage, but he hadn’t expected her to. Hell, he hadn’t expected to propose.

  Marry me, he’d said.

  Marry me! Me, who? Although she was as yet unaware of the fact, Molly Durant didn’t even know who’d proposed to her last night. And when she found out…

  That dance had been pure hell from beginning to end. But then, how could he have expected otherwise? Where the hell had his brain been when he suggested—no, when he decided—that Molly would hold a dance? Once again he cursed his lightning-quick method of taking charge and making decisions.

  After the disaster of a year before, he should have known a dance wouldn’t solve their problems. How was it supposed to have done that? And what the hell were their problems, anyway? Aside from his own fool lies?

  Cleatus Farrington popped instantly to mind. But he knew it was because his brain was full of Molly dancing around the parlor in the banker’s arms. Where she belonged, truth known.

  Molly had known it, too, until he came to town and shook the apple tree. And the fruit that had fallen out had all been bad—disturbing her relationship with Cleatus, forcing her to face the viper tongues of the Apple Springs busybodies, bringing in the loggers. All rotten fruit.

  The thought occurred to him that if her relationship with Cleatus could be disturbed, it hadn’t been all that good, anyhow. Cleatus would make a danged sorry father for those kids.

  And he wouldn’t? That was the joke of the century: Rubal Jarrett, a father to a fifteen-year-old girl who was feeling her oats; to a boy who might be the genius the town claimed, but who was nevertheless a volatile bundle of defiance; and to two little boys who, although they stole your heart and took you back to your own youth, would in all likelihood grow up as disagreeable as their older brother.

  Who was he kidding? It would take a wiser man than he’d ever be to play father to those kids. And wisdom was one thing Rubal figured the Man Upstairs had left out of his make-up.

  Last night had proved that, saying proof was needed, which it wasn’t, given the way he’d treated Molly in the past. Not only had he caused her a year’s worth of grief, running out like that, but once he returned, he’d worked overtime turning her world upside down. And on top of it all, he lied to her. Out and out lied, when he always made a point of speaking the truth.

  Not any garden-variety lie, either. This one was a humdinger. This lie set her up for another, even deeper hurt. Why the hell hadn’t he stayed out of her life? But the vision of her mocked such a choice—the vision of her dancing the night away in the arms of Cleatus Farrington, in the gown she’d worn when they made love.

  The dance had been a danged fool an idea. He’d known that, the moment he met Molly at the head of the stairs. One look at her in that green gown, and all he could think of was taking it off of her. Then she’d dragged him downstairs, all excited and full of vinegar. It hadn’t taken him long to find out that her excitement wasn’t for him, but for that danged banker.

  While she watched Cleatus reject the value of her newly whitewashed home, Rubal had watched her. He’d wanted to punch Cleatus in the nose for his rejection. At the same time, he was relieved that Cleatus didn’t try to hide his true colors.

  Seeing Molly standing on the porch, hurt and vulnerable, Rubal had been hard-pressed not to take her in his arms right then and there. So he stomped off, leaving her alone with Cleatus, counting the minutes until the music began, so he could take her in his arms and twirl her about the dance floor without ruining her reputation.

  But when the music began, they were standing at opposite ends of the parlor. The instant he caught her eye, he knew that one dance in his arms would be the final blow to her reputation in this town. He would hold her too close—he wouldn’t be able to stop himself—and he would gaze into her eyes. And every busybody in attendance would be able to read what was written there.

  So they gazed at each other through the crowd, while memories drifted in and out among the dancers like campfire smoke curling into a night sky—memories of that other time, at once poignant and wicked, wicked not in their lovemaking, but wicked for his actions afterward.

  He had spoken the truth when he told her the reason he supposed Rubal had run out on her. He had eaten that whole juicy apple, and it had left him wanting more, which in turn had acted like a swift kick to the rear, sending him hightailing it away from Apple Springs without so much as a by-your-leave to Molly.

  The very idea that he rode out of town without saying goodbye, without trying to reassure her, explain to her, apologize to her, left him weak with self-loathing. He had wronged her without intending to, without knowing he had.

  For a year he had dreamed sweet dreams of their night in the barn. When he hadn’t been able to forget, he figured it best to get on back to Apple Springs and see for himself what made Molly Durant so unforgettable.

  Danged if he hadn’t been the ignorant one! He waltzed in here with all his pretty memories only to find that Molly had memories of her own.

  Not pretty, Molly’s memories. While he’
d definitely had an unforgettable effect on her life, too, he now knew there were two sides to the coin. Her side was tarnished, black and ugly, and he was to blame.

  Now he’d gone and set her up to be hurt again. And in high style this time. He couldn’t stop with shouting their carnal cravings at her little sister, loud enough for all the household to hear, and likely folks up and down the street. He couldn’t stop with taking charge of a situation that was, like Lindy told him, none of his business. He couldn’t stop with kicking Jeff out of a house that didn’t belong to him in the first place, and sending Lindy to her room with a threat of violence.

  He couldn’t stop with misdemeanors, he had to commit the most cardinal of cardinal sins. He proposed marriage to Molly Durant.

  Just like that. Marry me, Molly. Marry me.

  And dang his wicked soul, if, lying here in bed under her own roof, knowing himself to be the most offensive liar on God’s green earth, dang his hide, if it didn’t seem like the best idea he’d ever had.

  The sad fact was, it might have worked. If he’d hung around to say goodbye a year ago, it might have worked. If he hadn’t lied to her, claiming to be someone other than the scoundrel she despised, it might have worked.

  But he had done all those things. And now he had committed the worst offense of all. He put Molly in a position to be hurt again. Once she discovered him to be that lyin’ an’ leavin’ son-of-a-gun Rubal Jarrett, she would kick him out on his tail, whether she wanted to or not. Not that he didn’t deserve it. He surely did that. But Molly didn’t.

  By the time Rubal shaved and dressed, he knew the worst was still ahead. He had to go downstairs, walk into that kitchen, and face Molly. What the hell would he say? What would she say? If he’d ever considered hightailin’ it out of a place in his life, he considered it now. He took the back staircase to the kitchen as hesitant as a virgin bride walked down the isle.

  Molly stood with her back to the stairs, stirring eggs in a skillet, while Sugar, the only other person in the room, beat up a batch of flapjack batter. Rubal stepped into the kitchen, wishing the floor would fall out from under his feet.