Secret Surrender--Jarrett Family Sagas--Book Four

by Vivian Vaughan

  “But—”

  “Master Taylor was repeating gossip, Travis.” She stood. “And he’s wrong. Jubal Jarrett hasn’t made me look like a tramp. He’s made the busybodies in this town look like vultures.” She started to the door, then turned. “You aren’t interested in how I intend to send you to school?”

  Slipping off his perch on the porch rail, Travis shrugged. “Not really. Master Taylor says you can’t.”

  Travis’s cynicism had one welcome effect—it kept Molly from spending the rest of her Sunday worrying over Jubal and what could ever come of their relationship. Several townsfolk, including the reverend and his busybody wife, came for supper. Sugar was prepared with left-over meatloaf, supplemented with fresh cornbread and clabber. Mrs. Callicott couldn’t stop praising the meal.

  “Imagine, all this time you’ve had that wonderful cook locked away up here and none of us knew anything about her.”

  Molly wanted to respond that nobody had come up the hill to test Sugar’s cooking until Jubal arrived and piqued the town’s interest. She wondered how many townsfolk looked upon her as a tramp, like Travis said.

  Undoubtedly some did. But surely not everyone in town considered her a fallen woman, now that she had resumed renting to bachelors. One of them, though, was so visible about town, so open with his generosity to her and the children. So vocal in defense of them. Yes, she could see where people who didn’t know the truth might talk.

  After supper, she sat on the porch, telling herself she wasn’t waiting for Jubal. She needed time to think. Lindy was in her room, the boys were in bed, and Travis hadn’t returned from the Taylors where he fled after their earlier confrontation.

  Rubal found her there, sitting quietly in the swing. He stopped on the top step, glanced over, and saw her. His heart began to race. A thousand different emotions sang through his veins.

  Passion. Yes, they all added up to passion. And guilt and remorse and hopelessness. Passion. Lust and love. Love? His eyes caressed the dim silhouette of her. He could tell she was looking at him, but he couldn’t see her eyes, nor read her expression.

  How did she feel about his strange marriage proposal? He took a step toward her. For that matter, how did he feel about it?

  One of the reasons he took Jeff along on his ride into the country was to keep his brain from dwelling on last night and Molly, and the implications his rash words held for both of them.

  The other reason, the obvious one, of course, was to keep Jeff away from Lindy so Molly would have a measure of peace today.

  Had she? Had her day been peaceful? Or lonely? Had her day been as lonely as his? Settling beside her on the swing, he asked casually, although around a lump in his throat.

  “How was your day?”

  “I’ve had better.”

  He turned to her with a frown.

  “I’ve had worse,” she added. Then, at his prompting, she told him about her argument with Travis, leaving out the part about Jubal’s responsibility in the town’s image of her as a tramp.

  He rested an arm along the back of the swing. Her calico sleeves whispered against his arm. “Want me to talk to him?”

  “It wouldn’t do any good. After we sell the timber and he gets to go to school, maybe he’ll see reality.”

  “Reality? What’s that, Molly?”

  “That his family loves him. And that we’re not all dimwitted.”

  They rocked a while, silently. Rubal inhaled the fragrance of the honeysuckle vines, the fragrance of Molly, the essence of her. His eyes sought hers in the dim light. “We have to talk about last night—”

  She bolted from the swing so fast, she almost toppled him to the floor. Recovering his balance, he found his footing and grabbed her by the shoulders.

  “Why not?”

  She refused to face him. “I’m not ready.”

  Her voice was so soft he couldn’t read the emotion in it. So soft it brought a catch to his throat. “Ready for what?”

  To hear you take it back, she thought. “To discuss…it.”

  His hands traveled up her arms to her shoulders. He clasped her there, his thumbs strumming back and forth across the high collar of her bodice. “It—what? Marriage? Passion? What?”

  “Nothing. I’m not ready to discuss anything.”

  “I don’t see that we have a choice.”

  Jerking away, she turned to face him. “All right, we’ll discuss it. You blurted out a marriage proposal in the heat of anger…and…and passion. You do that a lot, you know.”

  “Do what?”

  She studiously avoided looking at him. “Say things you don’t mean…without thinking.”

  “Molly, don’t.”

  “Don’t what? Don’t remind you what a foolish thing you said last night? Don’t remind you that you should think before you speak?”

  He stared at her, his heart pounding. She knew? How could she? She didn’t. If she did, she would tell him so. Molly didn’t beat around the bush. Not Molly. She was honest and straightforward…and open.

  “How do you know I didn’t?”

  “Didn’t what?”

  “Think before I spoke.”

  For the first time, she looked up. Moonlight touched her face, shimmering in her tears, glinting off her burnished cheeks, streaking across her lips. “You did?”

  Closing the space between them, he lowered his face, claimed her lips, mumbling, “I did, Molly,” the last into her mouth as she opened her lips to him. But when he tried to pull her closer, she resisted.

  Desperately, Molly fought back her rising passion. She couldn’t let herself go like this. She had to control her emotions, like Jubal told Lindy, they both had to. “Why?”

  “Why what?”

  “Why did you propose to me?”

  Why did he propose? Now, that was a horse of a different color. He’d pondered the question all day and hadn’t come up with an answer to suit him. Certainly he hadn’t ridden into Apple Springs a little over a week ago intending to marry Molly Durant. How could he have changed his mind in so short a time? Like she asked, Why?

  “I’m not sure,” he replied honestly.

  She stared at him. He watched her lips curl in, as though to protect them from his assault. She stepped back a couple more steps, bumping into the rocking chair.

  When he reached to steady her, she dodged away. “If you don’t know why, then we can’t very well discuss it, can we?”

  “Molly, wait…Listen…”

  She opened the screen door and stepped into the foyer. The silence brought tears to her eyes—silence, when before Jubal Jarrett arrived, the door had squawked for lack of attention…like everything else at the Blake House, including herself.

  Especially herself.

  Chapter Eleven

  Why? Molly had asked.

  Why? Rubal wondered. Why the hell had he proposed to Molly Durant? Throughout the following week Rubal pondered that question in detail, from every conceivable angle, considering all its facets and ramifications. He and Molly might as well have been living under separate roofs, for all they saw of each other. Rubal rose early and left without breakfast, not returning until well after dark, when he would enter the back door, slip up the stairs and into bed.

  Why? Why had he come in here taking charge like a bull moose in heat? Why had he proposed marriage to Molly Durant when he had never given serious thought to settling down?

  Several responses posed themselves, none of which would satisfy Molly, he knew. Could the recent marriages in his family have conditioned him to think of marriage? He could picture telling Molly that.

  Or how about the fact that the Blake House—the people living in it leastwise—reminded him of home? He missed his family. Missed the years when all of them, poor as church mice, worked and played, happy just to be together. He liked being with Molly’s family. Although he knew she would appreciate that, he had a feeling it wasn’t what a woman wanted to hear as the reason for a marriage proposal.

  Then there
was the debt he owed Benjamin. Every time he did the smallest thing for one of those kids, memories of Benjamin assailed him—poignant memories of the sacrifices Benjamin had made for his younger brothers and sisters. Handling the trouble with Lindy, reminded Rubal of Benjamin’s reaction the time their brother Kale shot that carpetbagger. Benjamin had sent Kale off in record time, before the law could punish Kale for an understandable, if reckless, action.

  Yes, taking quick action was a part of his make-up, even though Rubal realized that his own spur-of-the-moment decisions were oftentimes more harebrained than rational. Yes, he owed Benjamin a debt, but the only payment his brother would have wanted would have been for Rubal and his brothers and sisters to become upstanding citizens and decent people, who made their way in the world without stepping on the toes of other men; for them to pass along the advantages they’d received to those less fortunate. A charitable objective, yet hardly an acceptable reason for marriage.

  Of course there was the other undeniable fact: He wanted Molly Durant in his bed. Danged if he didn’t want it in the worst way possible. Had he used a proposal to gain that end? He knew that’s what Molly thought. She’d practically said as much.

  And that was the reason he steered clear of her. He didn’t want her to think that of him. Not that. Once she learned the truth about his identity, she was sure to hate the sight of him. But he didn’t want her to think he proposed just to sleep with her.

  He knew what she wanted to hear. The same thing every woman wanted to hear from her future bridegroom. But that was one lie even he wasn’t blackhearted enough to tell. So he stayed away.

  Truth known, he had neglected the job that brought him to town in the first place. Time to get the timber theft solved and get out of Molly’s life before he caused her any more trouble.

  He spent hours perusing sawmill tickets, making notes. Twice he wired Jubal for information, which he used to check against records in the county courthouse at Lufkin.

  Two things he learned: There were more ways to steal timber than there were to rustle cattle. And it was easier to get away without leaving evidence: Timber could be diverted to the wrong sawmills, or the thieves could cut more timber than a contract called for and send the extra to a separate mill. Or they could simply under-report the profits. They could cut extra timber from land joining the legal cutting site. Or they could go all the way and claim land by a paper trail of deeds and work orders that would confuse a sidewinder.

  The second thing Rubal learned early was that L&M’s timber thief could be just about any feller he ran into on the road. There were as many scoundrels roaming this forest as there were ways to steal the timber from it. To hear the old-timers tell it, anyhow.

  Tuesday afternoon Rubal recalled his promise to bring fresh meat for the Blake House. He also recalled promising to take the little boys along. Circumstances prevented that now. Now he knew the more distance he put between himself and those kids, the better off they’d all handle things, once he left.

  He took off early that afternoon and bagged a fair-sized buck on the way home. Carrying it, bled and gutted, back to the house after dark, he proceeded to butcher it on a shelf he carefully washed down in the barn, not wishing to call Molly or the kids, by making commotion in the kitchen. That was when he discovered he’d been so caught up in his own troubles he had neglected everyone else. He hadn’t intended for Jeff to sleep in the barn forever.

  When Jeff stumbled, sleepy-eyed, into Rubal’s lantern light, Rubal started, immediately cursing his perfidious brain.

  He’d thought it was Molly. Hoped it was Molly. But hope rose and fell in a matter of seconds. After which, Rubal chastised his wicked heart. He didn’t want to see her, he argued. Shouldn’t want to. But what he wouldn’t give for one glimpse of her.

  Jeff rubbed a fist in his eyes. “What the hell’s goin’ on?”

  “Meat for the table.”

  “Why don’t you cut up that thing in the kitchen?”

  “Why don’t you mind your own danged business?”

  Jeff fell silent. Rubal worked steadily, thinking of the boy and of the situation in the house.

  “I didn’t intend for you to sleep out here forever,” he commented.

  “You mean you trust me in the house?”

  “Long as you keep your pants buttoned and your door locked.”

  “I ain’t no simpleton.”

  Finished, Rubal wrapped the backstrap and hams in a clean cloth and motioned to Jeff. “Carry these packages down to the springhouse while I clean up.”

  “Then I can go to the house?”

  Rubal nodded. “Think Haslett would let you knock off a couple hours early tomorrow?”

  “Depends on what for, I reckon.”

  “Hog huntin’. They’ll need more meat than this to last out the week. Sugar said they’re about out of bacon.”

  Which, Rubal decided afterward, was the most favorable action he’d taken in a week. Jeff came along eagerly, and Rubal was grateful for his company. He could have killed a hog without any help. Could even have carried it back to the house and butchered it without getting caught by Molly or the kids.

  He could have, but the Man Upstairs must have been looking out for him, for Jeff proved not only a diversion from his regular self-recriminations, but the boy provided what turned out to be valuable information, as well.

  They rode through the summer afternoon in quiet harmony. Rubal liked having Jeff along, for a reason quite different from his usual purpose in taking the boy with him. Today Jeff’s presence made him feel closer to Molly. Jeff lived in the house now, ate at the table, even played with the little boys, to hear him tell it.

  “Took ’em fishing, huh?”

  “Caught a couple of channel cats and a yeller.”

  “Willie Joe use his buttons for sinkers?”

  “Naw. I didn’t want to get in trouble with Molly.”

  Rubal laughed. “They keep her busy. That’s for sure.”

  “Sure do.” After a while Jeff offered, “They’re sure nuf missin’ you.”

  Rubal stared at the red roadbed ahead, trying to focus on the hog hunt.

  “Little Sam’s about to drive Molly plumb crazy askin’ when mister’s comin’ back.”

  Rubal pursed his lips.

  “Mister. That’s what Little Sam calls you—”

  “Knock it off, will you, Jeff?” After a while he reopened the conversation with, “Where does Haslett have you working these days?”

  “Out by Harris Holler.”

  “Harris Holler? Whose place is that on?”

  “I never know whose place we work on, I just show up, do my job, and take the money. Clear-cuttin’ pays well, considering it’s a lot quicker than going in and selecting individual trees.”

  “Quicker, maybe, but nowhere near as good for the land.”

  “Haslett’s not overly concerned about the land,” Jeff admitted.

  “Same as a lot of other loggers.”

  They came up on the young hog, rooting in a pile of debris left over from the last river rise. Rubal took it down with one shot. Jeff helped string the animal up to a nearby oak limb, from where they gutted and skinned it. As was generally the case, with his hands busy, Rubal’s brain began to work. The only mill receipts he’d seen signed by Haslett were way to hell across the county. Had he overlooked a sawmill?

  “What mill does Haslett use?” he asked.

  “First one, then another. Depends on where the job is, an’ which crew’s doin’ the cuttin’.”

  Rubal recalled an earlier conversation with the logger. “He still use that portable mill?”

  “Time to time, I reckon.”

  “How many crews does he operate?”

  Jeff paused from digging a hole where Rubal had instructed him to bury the carcass of the wild hog. “Can’t say for sure. I’ve worked with three, four different cutters, and I’ve heard talk of others. Reckon he’s got half a dozen pairs of flatheads. He runs a big operation, I know
that much.”

  “Humm.”

  “Pays well, too. That’s why I’m doing it. Working to make enough money to head out west and buy me a piece of a working ranch.”

  The comment took Rubal’s mind off timber theft. “Does Lindy know about that?”

  Jeff ducked his head. “We’ve discussed it.” He fidgeted with the shovel, then looked off through the trees when he spoke. “She’s young yet, Mr. Jarrett. We won’t be getting serious or nothing like that.”

  “You’ve discussed that, too?”

  “Yes, sir. Well, to be honest with you, what you said the other night, well, it made a hell of a lot of sense…to both of us. We’re both young, yet. She’s fifteen an’ I’m only eighteen. We have a few more years to enjoy life without risking growing too old for…uh, for…you know…”

  “Glad to hear you say it, Jeff.” Rubal clapped the boy on the shoulder. “Just make sure you know that sayin’ it isn’t always enough. Your brain has to be willing to take charge of your body, often’r than you’d like.”

  By Friday morning everybody at the Blake House was jumpy as an ol’ bullfrog, to use Sugar’s expression.

  “Where’s Mr. Jarrett?” had become a chronic question around the place, threatening to send Molly raving mad to the crazy house.

  In the mornings the question was preceded by bets between the two little boys, as they tripped down the back stairs to the kitchen. “He’ll be here.”

  “No, he won’t.”

  “I betcha two fishin’ worms, he is.”

  “I betcha ten tadpoles, he ain’t.”

  Of course he wasn’t. Jubal hadn’t appeared at breakfast all week. He left before Molly came downstairs, without breakfast or a pail lunch. Sometimes she fancied that he was punishing her for not wanting to talk about his outlandish proposal. Other times she knew he was avoiding discussing it himself.

  By the end of the week Molly’s vitality was gone; she snapped at each and every one of them, and she started wearing her hair in tightly coiled braids again. Sugar commented on the change when Molly dragged herself into the kitchen Friday morning.