Montana Rose (2 page)

“She’s in shock, I reckon,” Muriel said. “She hasn’t spoken more’n a dozen words since she rode in yesterday.”

“She was clear enough on what dress I needed to fetch.” Seth shook his head in disgust. “And she knew the reticule she wanted and the shoes and hairpins. I felt like a lady’s maid.”

“I’ve never seen a woman so shaken.” Muriel’s eyes softened. “The bridle was on wrong. She was riding bareback. It’s a wonder she was able to stick on that horse.”

Red didn’t want to hear any more about how desperately in need of help Cassie was.

Muriel had been teasing him up until now, but suddenly she was dead serious. “You know what the men around here are like, Red. You know the kind of life she’s got ahead of her. There are just some things a decent man can’t let happen to a woman. Libby’s boys are off hauling freight or I’d talk to them. They’d make good husbands.”

Muriel was right, they would be good. Something burned hot and angry inside of Red when he thought of those decent, Christian men claiming Cassie.

It was even worse when Red thought of her marrying one of the rough-and-ready men who lived in the rugged mountains and valleys around the little town of Divide, which rested up against the great peaks of the Montana Rockies. It was almost more than he could stand to imagine her with one of them.

But he also knew a sin when he saw it tempting him, and he refused to let Muriel change his mind. She badgered him awhile longer but finally gave up.

He was glad when Seth and Muriel left him alone to finish his digging. Until he looked up and saw Cassie as if he’d conjured her with his daydreams.

But this was no sweet, fragile china doll. She charged straight toward him, her hands fisted, her eyes on fire.

“Uh ... hi, Miz Griffin.” He vaulted out of the shoulder-deep hole and faced her. The look on her face was enough to make him want to turn tail and run.

She swept toward him, a low sound coming from her throat that a wildcat might make just before it pounced.

She’d heard it. All of it.

God forgive me for being part of that gossip, hurting her when she’s already so badly hurt.

Whatever she wanted to say, whatever pain she wanted to inflict, he vowed to God that he’d stand here and take it as his due. Her eyes were so alive with fury and focused right on him. How many times had his unruly mind conjured up the image of Cassie focusing on him? But this wasn’t the look he’d imagined in his daydreams. In fact, a tremor of fear ran up his backbone.

His grip tightened on his shovel, not to use as a weapon to defend himself but to keep her from grabbing it and taking a swing.

“Stop it.” Her fists were clenched as if to beat on him. “Stop saying those awful things.” Red saw more life in her eyes than he ever had before. She was always quiet and reserved and distant. “Give him back. I want him back!” She moved so fast toward him that, just as she reached his side, she tripped over her skirt and fell. A terrified shriek cut off her irate words.

“Cassie!” Red dropped the shovel and caught her just as she’d have tumbled into the open grave.

She swung and landed a fist right on his chin.

His head snapped back. She had pretty good power behind her fists for a little thing. Figuring he deserved it, he held on, stepping well away from the hole in the ground. He pulled her against him as she pummeled and emitted short, sharp, frenzied screams of rage. Punching his shoulders, chest, face. He took his beating like a man. He’d earned this by causing her more pain when she’d already been dealt more than she could bear. Of course he’d tried to stop it. But he’d failed now, hadn’t he?

“I’m sorry.” He spoke low, hoping to penetrate her anger. He could barely hear himself over her shouting. “I’m so sorry about Griff, Cassie. And I’m sorry you heard us speaking ill. We were wrong. So wrong. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” His voice kept crooning as he held her, letting her wale away on him until her squeaks and her harmless blows slowed and then ceased, most likely from exhaustion, not because she’d quit hating him.

Her hands dropped suddenly. Her head fell against his chest. Her knees buckled, and Red swung her up into his arms.

He looked down at her, wondering if she’d fainted dead away.

In his arms, he held perfection.

She fit against him as if his body and his heart had been created just for her. A soul-deep ache nearly buckled his own knees as he looked at her now-closed eyes. Those lashes so long they’d tangle in a breeze rested on her ashen face, tinged with one bright spot of fury raised red on her cheeks.

“I’m so sorry I hurt you. Please forgive me.” His words were both a prayer to God and a request to poor, sweet Cassie. He held her close, murmuring, apologizing.

At last her eyes fluttered open. The anger was there but not the violence. “Let me go!”

He slowly lowered her feet to the ground, keeping an arm around her waist until he was sure her legs would hold her. She stepped out of his arms as quickly as possible and gave him a look of such hatred it was more painful than the blows she’d landed. Far more painful.

“I’m so sorry for your loss, Cassie honey.” Red wanted to kick himself. He shouldn’t have called her such. It was improper.

She didn’t seem to notice he was even alive. Instead, her gaze slid to that grave, that open rectangle waiting to receive her husband ... or what was left of him. And the hatred faded to misery, agony, and worst of all, fear.

A suppressed cry of pain told Red, as if Cassie had spoken aloud, that she wished she could join her husband in that awful hole.

Her head hanging low, her shoulders slumped, both arms wrapped around her rounded belly, she turned and walked back the way she came. Each step seemed to take all her effort as if her feet weighed a hundred pounds each.

Wondering if he should accompany her back to Muriel’s, instead he did nothing but watch. There was nothing really he could do. That worthless husband of hers was dead and he’d left his wife with one nasty mess to clean up. And Red couldn’t be the one to step in and fix it. Not if he wanted to live the life God had planned for him.

She walked into the swaying stand of aspens. They were thin enough that if he moved a bit to the side, he could keep his eye on her. Stepping farther and farther sideways to look around the trees—because he was physically unable to take his eyes off her—he saw her get safely to the store.

Just then his foot slipped off the edge of the grave. He caught himself before he fell headlong into the six feet of missing earth.

Red heard the door of Bates General Store close with a sharp
bang,
and Cassie went inside and left him alone in the sun and wind with a deep hole to dig and too much time to think. He grabbed his shovel and jumped down, getting back at it.

He knew he was doing the right thing by refusing to marry Cassie Griffin.

A sudden gust caught a shovelful of dirt and blew it in Red’s face. Along with the dirt that now coated him, he caught a strong whiff of the stable he’d cleaned last night. Cassie would think Red and the Western men he wanted to protect her from were one and the same. And she’d be right, up to a point. The dirt and the smell, the humble clothes, and the sod house—this was who he was, and he didn’t apologize for that to any man ... or any woman.

Red knew there was only one way for him to serve God in this matter. He had to keep clear of Cassie Griffin.

The china doll wasn’t for him.

“‘The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want.’” Parson Bergstrom stood in the buffeting wind.

Red filled in Cassie’s precious husband’s grave while the parson, with his black coat and flat-brimmed hat, stood in the fall breeze, reading from his open Bible. The parson intoned the Psalm, using it as a prayer for peace and strength.

Cassie had neither.

She looked down at Griff, and the wind whipped the blanket away, exposing Griff ’s forever-closed eyes. One second later, dirt landed, covering the still, white face.

Had Red done that on purpose, thrown dirt on Griff ’s face? Her fists clenched. She wanted Red to get away from Griff. She wanted to attack him and claw him until he bled as red as his hair. Glaring at Red, who didn’t seem to notice her, she saw that he had a puffy lip and a slightly blackened eye. She’d done that to him. The satisfaction of it was shocking. She wanted to shove Muriel’s arm off her shoulder. To think this woman considered herself superior to Griff. All of that raged inside Cassie’s head, but outwardly she forced herself to remain calm.

Each time the shovel bit into the soil mounded beside Griff ’s grave, Cassie felt it cut her heart, scoop it out, and toss it in with Griff. Or it might as well have. She wouldn’t have hurt anymore. The shoveling went on and on, obscuring the blanketed body of her dearly loved Griff.

“‘He maketh me to lie down in green pastures: He leadeth me beside the still waters,’” the parson continued.

She was aware, in an impassive way, of the people hovering around her: Muriel, Seth, Parson Bergstrom, Red. There were others but she didn’t know them and had no interest in getting to know them.

The parson was a circuit rider, and he’d been passing through town when Griff died, or the town would have settled him underground with an awkward prayer and an off-key verse of “Amazing Grace.”

“‘He restoreth my soul: He leadeth me in the paths of righteousness for His name’s sake.’”

The shovel bit again, working until it was a steady beat, rhythmic, in time with the words, nearly setting Cassie’s nightmare to music. The pace fixed, unstoppable, like a heartbeat. Cassie felt hers beating, and it told her she wasn’t dead. But Griff was and she wondered if that might not be the same thing.

“‘Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff they comfort me.’”

Besides Muriel, every one of the twenty or so mourners was a man. Divide, Montana, was a rugged place, tucked into the Rocky Mountains. And women didn’t come here. Cassie and Muriel and a couple of others were the exceptions that proved the rule. Women were too soft, Griff said. Muriel said women were too smart.

Cassie didn’t have an opinion. It wasn’t a woman’s place to have an opinion. But Griff had told her often enough that time would change the lack of women, and the settlers who were here first would become barons over this vast, empty land.

Griff ’s dream of being a powerful cattle baron was being buried along with him.

“‘Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies: thou anointest my head with oil; my cup runneth over.’”

The hole filled until it was running over. It happened so quickly Cassie wanted to scream at Red Dawson to stop. But she’d surely screamed enough for one day. Griff would be so ashamed of her if he could have seen the way she carried on earlier. But at least that had been with Red, in private. She would not carry on so in front of this crowd.

She stood, contained and serene, perfection in her demeanor, only marred by the tears dripping off her chin. But inside, she could still see herself striking Red, screaming at him, wanting the cruel words he’d spoken to disappear and the horrible grave to vanish. She nearly staggered back. He was dead. Griff was really dead.

“‘Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life: and I will dwell in the house of the Lord for ever.’”

There was no goodness without Griff. God had no mercy.

The hole mounded until Red tossed in the last shovelful of dirt. He turned and gave Cassie a compassionate look that locked their eyes together.

Cassie wanted to demand he give Griff back to her. She needed to take her rage out on someone and Red was here. He looked strong enough to take it, and she already knew he was kind enough to let her attack him without returning the pain.

“I’m so sorry for your loss, Mrs. Griffin.” Red’s quiet words were accompanied by eyes that seemed to speak to her, as if he understood her grief and rage. As if he cared.

The moment between them stretched too long. Red’s blackened eyes dropped shut as if he had to stop looking but didn’t have the will to turn his head. His chin tilted down and Cassie saw him open his eyes and stare at the grave. Then, without looking at her again, he swung his shovel up to rest on his shoulder and walked away.

She wanted to scream at him. Call him a coward. Tell him to get back here and let her rant and rave. Red’s broad shoulders disappeared into the crowd of men, but even after he was gone, Cassie looked after him.

“Red’s a good man, Cassie.” Muriel patted Cassie’s arm.

No, he wasn’t. Cassie wanted to shout that in Muriel’s face, but of course she didn’t. A good man wouldn’t have left her here.

“‘Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death....’”
Those were the parson’s words. Surely that’s where Cassie stood now, in that valley of the shadow. It came to Cassie that the parson’s words would come true soon and she could walk on through and then dwell in the house of the Lord forever, because without Griff she would surely die. The truth hit her, and instead of frightening her, it gave her peace.

How simple.

Griff was dead. She’d die, too.

Of course.

Without Griff to take care of her there was no way to go on. She clutched her hands around her stomach. Her baby. She’d never know this little one she loved so much. Would God judge her harshly because she hadn’t protected her child?

Something fierce rose in Cassie that wanted to fight for her child. But how? Griff had told her so often that she was stupid and useless. And this moment proved Griff right, because she couldn’t imagine how to live without her husband. So, she’d die and her precious baby would die with her. Through her grief and her overwhelming failure, she was almost relieved. Death—so simple.

“Let’s get on with it, Parson.” A rough voice broke through Cassie’s grief and fear and roused her temper. Fine enough for her to decide to die, but no one had the right to tell her to get on with it.

Muriel stood on her right, supporting her. Now her arm tightened around Cassie’s shoulder until it hurt. “This is not the time.”

Time for what?
Cassie wondered, slowly bringing her concentration to focus on the group around her.

The men surrounded the filled grave. Now they stepped nearer. She noticed the ones across the grave from her walked across the newly filled hole.

“The parson’s here. We get it done,” the same voice growled.

Cassie was watching this time. She saw an overweight man, with a full beard more gray than brown, shouldering his way to the front of the assembly. He came so close to Cassie she could see the line of tobacco that drooled from the corner of his mouth and stained his beard. She caught the hot, rancid odor of his breath and the stench of his unwashed body. She glimpsed his blackened teeth.

“Back off, Marley.” The voice came from farther back in the crowd. “She hain’ta gonna choose you anyhow. You’re old enough to be her pa and fat enough to be let out with her cows.”

The crowd broke out into loud, coarse laughter.

“Miz Griffin likes ’em old, don’t ya, sweetheart?” a third man shouted.

More laughter followed.

“Well then, you’re it, you old coot.” Someone shoved the old man aside and others jostled forward to take his place.

Cassie couldn’t keep up with who was talking. She felt Muriel’s fingers tear loose from her shoulder and turned to see Muriel being jostled aside and pushed away until Cassie couldn’t see her anymore. Seth was on her left, and the parson pushed up close to stand in the spot where Muriel had been. He and Seth were knocked into her until she thought she’d be crushed between them.

“Stay back!” Seth shouted.

“Give her time.” The parson sounded like he was threatening the crowd, but they showed no affect from his words.

One man’s beefy arm snaked past Seth and caught hold of the sleeve of Cassie’s black silk dress. “Take care of your fussy dress, darlin’—you won’t be gettin’ no more. No matter who ya choose.”

Seth shoved the man’s hand away.

Choose? What were they talking about? She shrank away from the reaching, grasping hands but backed into someone, and a frantic look over her shoulder told her the men were behind her, too. Her heart started to pound in fear.

Through the milling crowd, she looked down the slope to town and caught a glimpse of Red walking toward the stable, his shovel resting on his shoulder. She saw Muriel rush up to Red and catch his arm and start talking rapidly, waving her arms and pointing at Cassie. Red looked at Cassie and shook his head.

Cassie thought of how she’d attacked the man and felt shame. She also felt some regret that she hadn’t taken another swing at him.

Another man touched her, this time on her protruding stomach. “Iffen it’s a boy, you kin call it after its pa if you choose me.”

The parson shouted, “Please, gentlemen, can’t you see she’s in no emotional state to make this choice now? She needs time to grieve. Her husband is newly dead. Maybe in a week or two.”

A week or two?
Cassie tried to understand that. The parson expected her to be done with her mourning in a week or two? Cassie knew she’d be mourning Griff for the rest of her life, be it short or long.

“He’s cold, Parson. That’s all we need to know. You’re a pretty li’l thing, china doll. I’d sure like you keepin’ me warm through this next winter.”

Cassie gasped. She’d overheard gossips on occasion call her china doll—not least of all Seth and Muriel this morning—but no one had ever called her that to her face except Griff. And he meant it warmly.

“Pick, li’l lady.” A tall, thin man pressed forward from the right. “I’ve got chores to get to at home.”

“See here, I won’t stand for this.” The parson stumbled and nearly fell, knocking into Cassie.

“You’re leavin’, Parson. We get it done now, today, or she’ll be livin’ with one of us for months ’til you come back. Griff ’s young’un’ll be born and she’ll be broodin’ with a new one by then.”

“She will if she don’t marry an old codger like you.”

An outburst of laughter sent Cassie stumbling backward. Her stomach heaved at the sickening things they were saying.

“It took Griff years to get a babe on her. Maybe it’s her.”

“I’d be willin’ to keep trying were you to choose me, china doll.” That brought the loudest outbreak of laughter yet.

She knew what they were talking about, but she kept turning her mind away from it. Without Griff, the only choice she could see before her was to die bravely. It was inevitable so she accepted it. It had never occurred to her to save herself by choosing another husband. She looked around the crowd, and more than ever death sounded like a better option.

“A barren woman’s better than no woman at all.”

“Choose, Miz Griffin. I’m young. I’ve got a good place, well started.”

“You live in a soddy, Harv. Think she wants that after what she’s livin’ in now?”

The men bandied their crude jokes and shoved each other, trying to get close to her.

The parson fell to the ground beside her, and arms jerked him sideways until he disappeared in the crowd. Someone slid his arm around the girth of her protruding belly and pulled her hard against him.

Her head started to spin, and her knees threatened to give out. The mob pressed closer and more hands clung to her, touching her, sometimes improperly, but there were so many that each bit of contact was as much a violation as the next, regardless of where that touch occurred. She wished she could sink beneath the dirt that sheltered her husband.

“Miz Griffin will marry me,” a voice thundered from the back of the crowd. The men turned at the harsh, tyrannical voice that overwhelmed even this rough assembly.

Cassie recognized that awful voice. Mort Sawyer had arrived.

A huge black horse pranced right up through the middle of the mob. Mort seemed unconcerned if he trampled anyone under iron-shod hooves, and the men seemed to know it. They snarled and grumbled in protest, but they fell back far enough to allow the man through, like wolves giving way before the leader of the pack.

Five other horses followed the black, driving the mob back farther. Cassie recognized several of the riders, particularly Wade Sawyer, the young, hungry-eyed son of the rancher. The younger man rode one pace off the lead horse. Wade studied her with piercing green eyes that sent a shudder of fear climbing like a scurrying insect up the back of her neck.

“Miz Griffin, I’m mighty sorry to hear of your loss.” Mort tipped his black Stetson. He spoke like a man paying heed to a social nicety with no emotional interest in his words. And why not? He didn’t really know her. She’d taken pains to never speak to him and to stay out of his sight. And the little Mort had to do with Griff had been unpleasant. Tense meetings over the natural spring just behind Griff ’s house, one of the few in the area that flowed freely even in the dry season. Mort Sawyer had the bad habit of turning his cattle out during the long summer months, so they could drink from that spring.

Mort dispensed with his hollow expression of sympathy and returned to his usual imperious tone. Mort’s ability to dominate with that voice made Griff ’s endless chiding sound like playful schoolyard banter by comparison.

Mort Sawyer, the name Griff had spoken with his dying breath.

Most of what he’d said toward the end was incoherent, so if he was cruel, she didn’t hold him to blame. If in his delirium he knocked her to the floor a few times, it wasn’t his fault. He’d fallen into a stupor, occasionally rousing to swallow a few drops of water or rant at her for letting him get so sick.