Secret Surrender--Jarrett Family Sagas--Book Four

by Vivian Vaughan

  “I’ll swan but you two are avoidin’ each other like one of you has the bluebonnet plague,” Sugar chided.

  “It’s bubolic plague,” Travis corrected.

  “Who cares?” Lindy retorted. “You and your schoolin’. You’re the one who ran Mr. Jarrett off…with your uppity airs about going off to school.”

  “I ran him off?” Travis challenged. “Not I, sister dear, but you. No man in his right mind would hang around a girl who throws herself at men like she’s a bit—”

  “Travis!” Molly rebuked.

  Lindy jumped up, knocking her chair over in her haste to get to her brother. “I’ll kill you for that, Travis. I listened to every word Mr. Jarrett said, which is more than you ever did.”

  “Look where it got you. Look where it got all of you. I’m the only one not moping around with a hangdog expression. I knew all along he didn’t intend to see that I got to go to school. Cleatus was right. Master Taylor was right, too.”

  Molly had taken about all she could stand. “Mr. Jarrett never intended to send you to school, Travis.” She wasn’t trying to take up for Jubal, she reasoned; he had certainly earned the children’s wrath for running out on them. But Cleatus and Master Taylor weren’t right, either. And she couldn’t keep quiet and let Travis believe it.

  “Then why did you tell Master Taylor that?”

  “I didn’t. I said Mr. Jarrett found a way for me to send you to school. He did.” She carried her untouched breakfast plate to the dry sink. “And I am.”

  “How?”

  Turning, she glared at Travis. “Now you’re interested?”

  He glared back.

  “I’ll sell some of our timber. Not all of it. Just enough to send you to school. Each of you in turn.” She looked at Lindy. “Even you, Lindy.”

  Lindy’s eyes bugged. “Me? To school?”

  “You. To school. Before you ruin your life with some young whippersnapper like…” Molly stopped short. Lindy’s eyes were dazed and she had a faraway smile on her face. Molly hoped it was for going to school and not to bed with Jeff. Not that she had anything against Jeff. In a few years…The little boys battled around them.

  “Where is mister?” Little Sam was whining.

  Molly ignored Sugar’s stern look. “I don’t know.”

  “He promised to take me bear huntin’,” Little Sam continued.

  “He did not,” Willie Joe retorted.

  “Did, too.”

  “Did not, you goonybird. He said he’d take us both to kill a hog.”

  “He’s already done that,” Little Sam complained.

  “You probably ran him off being such a goonybird.”

  “Did not.”

  Molly could tell Little Sam was as near tears as she was herself. She pulled him up from the table, then reached and pulled Willie Joe to his feet.

  “Up you go. Lindy promised to take you to the mercantile, so run upstairs and comb your hair. Help Little Sam, Willie Joe.”

  “I don’t like the way he does it. I like the way mister does it.”

  “Just do it.” Molly turned away. “Now.” Anxiety flooded her. She stood at the kitchen window, staring sightlessly into the empty yard, toward the empty barn, thinking about their empty lives. How had she managed to ruin things? She should never have rented to Jubal. He looked too much like Rubal.

  As things turned out he acted too much like Rubal, running out at the first sign of trouble. She hadn’t seen him in a week. Granted, she could have stayed up until he came home, but in the beginning she hadn’t wanted to. She wanted to give him time to think, to come to her. Now she knew he never would.

  Reminders of him were everywhere. It was as though his ghost lived in this house. First the venison, then the hog. Butchered and left in the springhouse for them to find. Once she thought she heard the porch swing creak, but when she looked out her bedroom window, which overlooked the front porch, she could see nothing.

  He sent his rent money by Jeff. She’d been tempted to throw the money back in Jeff’s face, but she hadn’t.

  Time after time she recalled Jubal’s statement to Lindy and Jeff that night—that he and she, the two of them, were acting like grownups.

  Well, they weren’t now. Now they were running away from the problem—a problem neither of them wanted—refusing to talk about the very thing that she had promised herself would not happen, would never happen again.

  But Lordy, how she wanted it to happen.

  “Bye, Molly.” The screen door banged after Travis. The little boys returned from upstairs. Behind her, Molly heard Lindy fussing over them.

  “Let me look at you. Okay. You look fine. Both of you run on. Wait for me outside.”

  The door banged behind them.

  When Molly turned, Lindy was standing in the open doorway staring at her.

  “Bye, Molly.”

  “Bye.”

  “Travis didn’t run him off like I said.”

  Molly swallowed hard, trying to hold back senseless tears.

  “The little boys didn’t, either.”

  Molly nodded.

  “Not even I ran him off, Molly.”

  “I know.”

  “You did.”

  Molly bit her bottom lip.

  “You ran him off, and he was the best thing that ever happened to us…to any of us. We needed him Molly. You needed him. And you ran him off.”

  Molly turned away.

  “If I ever have a beau as nice as Mr. Jarrett, I’ll try hard not to lose him.” She cocked her head. “And if I do…lose him, I mean…I’ll try hard to get him back.”

  The door banged. Sugar scrubbed the dishes. Molly wiped tears from her cheeks with the back of her hands.

  “I’ll swan,” Sugar mused. “If that child don’t show signs of growin’ up—inside an’ out.”

  Molly stood in the back door, staring after the children and knowing her life had never looked so bleak. Finally she turned toward the stairs. “Did it ever occur to any of you that if he really wanted to stay, I couldn’t have run him off?”

  Determined not to give in to futile emotions, Molly returned to her room, dressed with care in her best Sunday dress, and left the house. At the timber office she asked to see Mr. Petersen privately. Not until the secretary closed the door behind her, did Molly begin to doubt herself. She looked around the large, sparsely furnished room, feeling as bleak as Mr. Petersen’s office looked.

  He motioned her to an oak captain’s chair. “To what do I owe the pleasure of your visit, my dear?”

  “If you have a moment, I’d like to discuss business.”

  “Business? Certainly I have a moment. Glad to be of help.” Petersen winked conspiratorially. “My good wife would suggest I make it on condition we hire that cook of yours, but Cleatus made his claim quite clear.”

  “I came to discuss selling some timber.”

  Oscar Petersen frowned.

  “My brother Travis is an unusually bright boy, as you may have heard. I would like to sell enough timber off some of our acreage to send him to school.”

  “That’s a mighty small amount.”

  “Yes, sir.” Since Jubal had warned her that not everyone would be receptive, she’d come prepared to argue her case. “If I cut only the pines, section by section, I’ll have enough to send all the children to school.”

  “Ah, yes, there are two more young fellows.”

  “And Lindy.”

  Petersen’s brow furrowed again. “Lindy? Now, that’s an unusual idea, Miss Durant. Sending the girl to school. Not to say it isn’t being done more and more these days. But I dare say folks who send their girls to school are, for the most part, those folks who have more money than they know what to do with.” He perused her worn dress. “Which, if I may speak plainly, doesn’t appear to be the case with you.”

  “Regardless, Mr. Petersen, I plan to use the timber for that very purpose.”

  “A little at a time?”

  She nodded.

 
; “It isn’t cost effective, that way, my dear.”

  “I understand, but I’ve been told that a few loggers will do the job according to my wishes.”

  “I dare say.” He ran an index finger in sweeping motions along his moustache. “What does Cleatus have to say about your…uh, notion?”

  “I haven’t discussed it with Cleatus.”

  Petersen’s eyes narrowed. He rose slowly. Coming around his desk, he took her shoulders in a fatherly gesture and lifted her from the chair. “In that case, my dear, I suggest you make Cleatus aware of your intentions before we talk further.” He ushered her through the front office and opened the outside door.

  Molly bristled. It was on the tip of her tongue to blurt out that it wasn’t any of Cleatus’s business.

  “Talk to him tonight,” Oscar Petersen was saying. “I’m sure he’ll give you some good advice.”

  On top of the hassle with the children at breakfast and Lindy’s accusations, Mr. Petersen’s patronizing refusal to do business with her was too much. Her mind awhirl, Molly rushed from the timber office with only one thought—to make it home before she cried. She’d be damned if she intended to give the pompous people in this town a chance to see her cry.

  Without replying to the secretary’s “Good day, Molly,” Molly marched through the outer door, stomped onto the boardwalk, and ran smack dab into Jubal Jarrett.

  She jumped back like she’d landed in a bed of red ants. He grabbed her upper arms, steadying her.

  “Molly.” He stared, wide-eyed.

  “Jubal.”

  He turned her loose of a sudden, as though her arms had burned his hands. “Did you…uh, get my rent money?”

  “Yes.” Her mouth was so dry, her tongue stuck to the roof of it.

  “You found the venison okay?”

  She nodded. “And the wild hog. Thank you.” His eyes seemed to devour her. She tried to look away, but couldn’t.

  “Guess you’ve had a tableful of folks…nights.”

  Her heart pounded. Curling her lips together, she nodded. She looked down the street…toward home. “Well, I’ll…uh, be going.”

  He nodded, touched the brim of his hat with a finger. “Sure. Uh…” He nodded toward the timber office. “Business…”

  “Sure.” For a moment longer she was held in place by his deep questioning gaze. He stood so still, looked so calm. While her heart pounded like she’d just run a foot race.

  Damn him. Damn him. Turning about, she walked with brisk steps toward the Blake House. She kept a steady pace until she heard the door of the timber office slam closed, then she ran. Ran for home. Ran for her life.

  Ran to escape Jubal Jarrett, and the prying Apple Springs townsfolk, and herself.

  Herself most of all.

  She banged open the yard gate, hoped she hadn’t broken it again. Her feet stilled on the path while she took in the newly whitewashed exterior. The front and one side. Now that Jubal wouldn’t be around, the other two sides likely would never get painted. Things would surely fall to ruin again.

  And Cleatus would be right. Again.

  She passed Lindy on the stairs. Lindy, who had reprimanded her so emphatically this morning. Lindy, who’d been right, too.

  “Molly, I’m sorry about—”

  “Later.” Molly raced for her room, slammed the door, and flung herself on the bed.

  Later. Let me lie here and cry, just for a little while.

  Rubal stepped into the timber office, his heart ticking faster than a Saturday night watch. All week he had avoided Molly, thinking he was doing them both a favor.

  Well, it’d taken one look to show him what a fool he’d been. She looked terrible. Circles under her eyes, her hair in skintight braids.

  She looked beautiful. Her full lips, that he knew now she curled inward when she wanted to kiss him. Her luminous eyes that called him to bed even as they shimmered with tears.

  Molly. Molly, Molly. Would he ever get her out of his system?

  “Jarrett.” Oscar Petersen offered his hand, an expression of amusement on his face. “What can I do for you?”

  Petersen furnished the records Rubal requested and allowed Rubal time to peruse them. When he finished, the timber superintendent walked him out onto the boardwalk.

  “That landlady of yours is one crazy woman.”

  “Who?”

  “Miss Durant, your landlady.”

  Rubal nodded, wondering why he’d never thought of Molly by that term. Landlady. It conjured up thoughts of plump little women with gray hair and printed aprons.

  Landlady. Molly wasn’t his landlady. Molly was his…

  “She came marching in here, wanting to sell off some of her timber. Crazy as a doorknob,” Petersen was saying.

  “Repeat that.”

  “Thought she could sell her timber off, piecemeal, use the money to send those kids to school.” Petersen shook his head. “Don’t know why Iola Young and that schoolmaster couldn’t have kept their mouths shut about that older boy going off to school. It’s put a bee in her bonnet, for sure. Just like a woman, huh? ’Bout as much business sense as a bedpost.”

  Rubal looked the timber superintendent straight in the eye, clenching his fists. He’d never wanted to slug a man as badly in his life. But he didn’t have time.

  Tossing a hasty “Adios,” to Petersen, he stepped off the boardwalk and caught up his reins.

  “Hey, where’s the fire?” Petersen called after him. But Rubal Jarrett didn’t pause to reply. Stepping into the saddle, he headed for the Blake House.

  It was the first time he’d been on the place in daylight in a week. The first thing he noticed was the whitewash job, which was only half done. Next, the boys.

  Willie Joe and Little Sam were playing with Squirrel out by the back hitching rail when he drew rein.

  Their eyes opened wide as half-dollars.

  “Mr. Jarrett!”

  “Mister!”

  Before Rubal’s feet touched the ground they had him by the legs. “When’re we goin’ fishin’?”

  “Later, boys.”

  “When’re we going huntin’?”

  “Later, boys.”

  Rubal strode toward the back door of the Blake House as fast as two legs with a boy attached to each could travel. In the kitchen Sugar was shucking ears of corn for supper. Her hands stilled at sight of him. A wide smile spread across her face.

  “Where’s Molly?”

  “Upstairs crying.” The answer came from the dining room where Lindy set the table for supper. She crossed to the kitchen door, a grin on her face, too. “Thank goodness, you’re back, Mr. Jarrett. Things have been terrible without you.”

  Rubal felt short of breath, like a noose or something akin to it was tightening around his neck.

  “Thank goodness you’re back,” sang Willie Joe.

  “Thank goodness, mister.” Little Sam echoed.

  Rubal motioned to the boys. “Would you come get ’em, Lindy?”

  Grabbing each boy around his waist, Lindy pulled them away from Rubal.

  “Keep ’em down here, will you?”

  “Sure, Mr. Jarrett.”

  He took the stairs two at time, reaching the top breathless. Or was it what was on his mind that made him breathless? Breathless and a little crazy.

  She’d never go for it. It wouldn’t change a thing. He was still the wrong person. When she found out who he was, she would run him off for sure. Briefly he considered changing names with his brother, permanent. He wondered whether that had ever been done.

  She didn’t answer his first knock, so he rapped again, louder, longer, calling, “Open up, Molly.”

  Silence came from inside the room.

  “Molly, open up. I figured it out. I know why.”

  Chapter Twelve

  The sound of Jubal’s bootsteps shot panic straight through Molly. He followed her home. The bootsteps stopped outside her door. He followed her home, and here she was, crying like a baby.

  He
followed her home. Why? How long did he intend to stay this time? What kind of tribute would he exact before he left again? Last time he broke her heart. What else could she give him. Her body throbbed with the unwanted answer to that question.

  She sat up, drying her tears with the tail of her skirt. How much more emotional torture could she take? Jubal’s week-long rejection, censorship from the children, Oscar Petersen’s humiliating reaction of her offer to sell the timber—they had all taken their toll. Now here Jubal was, at her door…

  “Open up, Molly.” His voice was low, almost begging. It fired her senses, reminding her of how much she had longed to hear him call her name.

  Despondency washed over her. Only an innate sense of pride enabled her to hold back more tears. Her heart still raced from seeing him outside the timber office. She clutched her arms to her chest with trembling hands. Her arms still burned from his touch. Her lips…

  “Open up, Molly. Please.”

  Her heart paused, as if to acknowledge the powerful emotions welling within her. When it resumed beating, it pumped pure fear.

  “Go away.”

  “Not until you open this door.”

  “No.”

  “Dang it, Molly, open up. I figured it out. I know why.”

  Her heart stopped. She curled her lips together. Breathless seconds passed while his words reverberated through her brain. He knows why!

  He knows why? Suddenly she knew exactly what he would say—she could practically hear the words fall from his lips. And she didn’t want to hear them.

  Yes, she did.

  No, she didn’t. Calling on a reserve of strength she wasn’t sure she possessed, Molly tried to temper her expectations with a dose of reality. Reality: How could she convince herself of the truth, unless she allowed him to speak his mind? And if she didn’t look him in the face when he spoke the words, her heart might convince her brain that he meant the pretty lies she knew he had come to feed her.

  Pretty lies that she might believe, unless she looked into his eyes and saw the truth when he spoke the words. The truth: lust not love.

  Weakened by dread, she crossed the room and opened the door. He stood as he had stood the night after the dance—the night that had precipitated everything.