Open Country (10 page)

She actually seemed to get bigger while he watched. “What I did?”

“You know. Faking the marriage for the railroad money.” Again, he almost wished she would deny it. She didn’t. “You’ll get your money,” he said. “After.”

“After what?” She clapped fists on her hips, apparently unconcerned that the spoon dripped broth on his boots. “What are you talking about? Surely you don’t want to continue this charade of a marriage?”

He backed out of dripping range and tried to keep his voice reasonable, hoping she would do likewise. Excitable women made him almost as nervous as crying ones. “Hank doesn’t trust women. Hell, you shaved him. You saw. When he cleans up, they jump on him like ticks on a hound. He doesn’t like it. Doesn’t trust it.”

“You’re saying he has an aversion to women because they find him attractive? That’s absurd. And what does it have to do with my money?”

“Not an aversion, exactly. He’s shy. Why do you think he grew all that hair?”

She threw up her hands, flinging broth against the wall. “Then hit him with a rock and break his nose so you can both feel better. What about my money?”

“We tried that. It didn’t work.” When he saw her shock, he quickly added, “It was an accident. The thing is, there was this featherbrain he had his eye on, but she ran off with a tin soldier from Fort Union and that only made it worse.”

“Oh, for God’s sake. You’re insane. You should be chained to a wall in an asylum.” Whirling, she yanked the saltcellar from a shelf above the stove.

Brady prepared to duck then relaxed when she began flinging salt into the broth with all the vigor of a woman trying to stone ants.

“I hate all this lying,” she muttered.

Since when?
But Brady wasn’t so stupid to say that out loud. Nor did he mention the soup was probably salty enough now to cure pork. He needed her too much to run her off. “He’s wary enough as it is. If he knew what you did, he wouldn’t let you anywhere near him.”

“That won’t be a problem, since I have no intention of going to your ranch.”

“You will if you want your money,” he snapped, drawing her head around again. Curbing his temper, he added in a more reasonable tone, “Here’s what we’ll do. Because we don’t want anyone accidentally blurting it out, we’ll go ahead and tell him about the marriage. But not about the money. I want to get him home and well again before we pull his feet out from under him.”
And by then, hopefully it’ll be over and Jessica will be safe,
he added silently to himself.

She faced him, eyes narrowed in suspicion. “I don’t know what scheme you have going here, Mr. Wilkins, but I am not lying to your brother.”

“Hell, you already have!” He clapped both hands to his head.

“Christ. You’re as bad as he is, hardheads, both.”

Muttering to herself, she snatched a bowl off the shelf and began spooning broth into it.

This wasn’t going as Brady had hoped. He didn’t want to get harsh with her, but there was more at stake here than just Hank’s well-being. “Look at me,” he said.

Pausing mid-scoop, she glared at him over her shoulder.

“You’ll come to the ranch,” he said with soft menace. “You’ll stay married and tend Hank and not tell him about the money, or we can go to the sheriff right now and he can explain the penalty for fraud. What’ll happen to those kids then?”

The bowl dropped. Broth sizzled on the hot stove. “You’d do that?”

He stepped closer until he loomed over her. “I’ll do anything to protect my brother. He may have finally come awake but he’s not out of the woods yet, and you’re his best hope of staying alive.”

“You arrogant—”

“I know you’re running from something,” he cut in. “I don’t know what or why and I don’t care. But if you’d rather face
that
—or jail—instead of coming to the ranch to nurse Hank a little longer, it’s your choice. But decide now.”

Her face went white. She pressed a hand to her stomach.

He hoped she wasn’t going to puke again.

“When he realizes what we’ve done, he’ll hate me,” she said. “And you.”

“But he’ll be alive, won’t he?”

Straightening, he took a step back. He knew his size and manner could be intimidating, and he didn’t like using it against a woman, but he’d do whatever he could to help Hank. And Jessica. And this woman was exactly what he needed to do that.

He tried to soften his expression. “Hell, he may never remember, you said so yourself. And who knows? If you sweeten up to him and play your cards right, he may never care that you tricked him like a blind dog.” He grinned.

She hit him in the side of his face with the wooden spoon.

For a moment they blinked at each other, then Brady lifted a hand and brushed his fingertips over the broth dripping down his cheek. He tasted it and shook his head. Chicken. “I’m telling you he’d prefer steak. And less salt.”

“You are the most vile, manipulative, deceitful—”

“I know. What’s your answer?” When he saw her hand tighten on the handle of the spoon, he took another step back. The woman had a formidable temper.

In the distance a train whistle blew. He glanced at the clock above the stove then back at the woman, aware that if his wife was on that train, he was running out of time. “Think of the little ones, Molly. And Hank. Come to the ranch and they’ll all be safe.”

He watched tears well up in those sad green eyes, and panic shot through him. “If you cry, I’ll take you to the sheriff now,” he lied. “I swear it.”

“You horrid man.” She swiped at her eyes. “You ingrate.”

The whistle sounded again, closer. “If you come to the ranch, I’ll protect you and the children,” he persisted. “I won’t let whatever you’re running from reach you there. And when it’s over and Hank is safe, then I’ll give you your money and see that the marriage is annulled. My word.”

She looked like a cornered cat. He remembered seeing that look on Jessica’s face and felt something clench in his chest. Suddenly he felt so guilty for all his empty threats and manipulations he almost admitted the other reason he so desperately wanted her at the ranch.

Christ.
What if Hank really had proposed? What if he really wanted this woman? Brady still didn’t know what to believe. But the truth wasn’t important right now. Keeping Hank and Jessica alive was.

“I’ll never forgive you for this,” she said, her chin wobbling.

“I expect not. But you and the children will be safe, and Hank will be alive.”
And hopefully Jessica will be too
. “I can live with that. Can you?”

Brady didn’t know if he’d ever seen such a desolate expression.

“I guess I’ll have to.”

HER HUSBAND—HOW ODD THAT SOUNDED—WAS ASLEEP when Molly returned with a bowl of broth. Not wanting to wake him, she set it on the bedside table then stood for a moment, undecided. She needed to check on the children but was hesitant to leave Hank alone in the empty house. Then she heard voices at the front door—Brady Wilkins and a woman with an English accent.

Slipping back into the kitchen, she waited until they passed down the hall to the room where Hank lay, then ducked out the side door. Cowardly, to be sure, but after a near-sleepless night, she was desperate for a wash and change of clothes, and after that wretched confrontation earlier, she had no desire to talk to Brady Wilkins or make chatty conversation with his precious “Her Ladyship.”

The Beckworths had everything in hand. Effie had a picnic planned then a visit to the blacksmith’s, and later in the afternoon, Thaddeus was taking the children fishing at a creek north of town. Grateful for their continued help and a blessed moment of privacy, Molly tended to her needs. An hour later, washed, coiffed, and dressed in her second best—only because everything else was wrinkled or soiled, and certainly not out of any desire to impress anyone—she returned to the infirmary.

As she hung her coat on the peg by the side door, she heard raised voices coming from the sickroom. Alarmed that Brady Wilkins might be badgering his sick brother, she rushed down the hall.

Instead, she found Hank struggling to ward off a sturdily built middle-aged woman armed with a dripping rag. “Get away from me,” he rasped, swatting at her with his pillow.

Dodging the pillow, the woman deftly yanked back the covers—revealing that the nightshirt was even less adequate than Molly had thought—and slapped the wet cloth on Hank’s bare thigh.

Hank yelped, then the wrestling began in earnest as he struggled to pull up the covers and push down the nightshirt at the same time—which was quite impossible with only one hand. “Get off me!”

Ignoring him, the woman scrubbed with alarming enthusiasm, slinging soap and invectives in equal measure. “I was hired to clean you up, you stinking, overgrown goat herder, and bigod, I will. Now lift your leg.”

Battling both shock and amusement, Molly stepped into the room. “Enough!”

Hank sagged back. “Thank God.”

The woman whipped around. “Who are you?”

“I’m Molly, his wife. Who are you?”

“Agnes Meecham, but people calls me Bunny.”

Molly couldn’t begin to fathom why. “Who hired you?”

“The other one.”

“Brady Wilkins?”

The woman nodded. “Said he smelled like a pig farmer, but my daddy was a pig farmer, and I have to say he smelled worse. This one’s just musty and sour smelling. But Pa, whew! When he—”

“Thank you,” Molly cut in, trying not to laugh. She took the rag from Bunny’s rather large hand. “I can take it from here.”

The woman planted beefy fists on beefier hips. “What about my money?”

“Oh, Mr. Wilkins will pay you. In fact, you should receive a bonus for your efforts.” She smiled, liking the idea. “Double, I think. Tell him I insist upon it.”

After the grateful woman left, Molly turned to Hank, who had the covers clutched to his chin and was looking at her as if she had grown a second set of ears.

“
Wife
? You’re my
wife
?”

Heat rushed into her face. “Apparently you don’t remember me,” she said with a weak smile.

He just stared at her.

Fearing he was about to launch into questions she wasn’t yet prepared to answer, she thrust the dripping rag in his direction. “Will you finish? Or shall I?”

He blinked at the rag, then up at her. “How long have we been married?”

“Awhile.” Grabbing his right hand, she stuffed the rag into his fingers, then turned toward the door. “There’s rinse water in the bowl on the bedside table,” she called back as she fled through the doorway. “Call when you’re done. I’ll bring a fresh dress—er, nightshirt.”

 

 

HE DIDN’T CALL.

Setting a pot of oatmeal aside to cool, she tasted the fresh batch of broth—less salt this time—then collected the largest clean nightshirt she could find in the examination room and went back down the hall to the sickroom.

She found Hank in his soiled nightshirt, perched on the edge of the bed, his head hanging, his breath coming in shallow bursts. He held his injured arm cradled against his chest and his right hand clutched to his bound ribs. His face was as white as the bed linens.

“What are you doing?” she cried, dropping the clean nightshirt onto the chair and rushing toward the bed, looking for signs of fresh blood, renewed swelling. She should never have left him alone. Or left him at the mercy of his horrid brother and that brutish woman, Bunny. “Are you hurt?”

“I need . . . to relieve . . . myself,” he gasped, struggling to breathe against the constrictive bandages.

She stumbled to a stop beside the bed, still rattled but also relieved he was uninjured. “But you can’t get up. You’ll fall and hurt your arm.”

“Then step aside.”

“What?”

“Move.”

Molly gaped. Surely he didn’t intend to relieve himself on the floor? When he reached for the hem of his nightshirt, she blurted out, “Use the chamber pot,” and pointed at the door in the bottom of the nightstand.

He shifted, then groaned. “I can’t . . . bend.”

“Oh. Of course.” Stooping to open the door, she realized his feet were in the way. Swiveling to tell him to move, she found herself nose to knee with his hairy leg. She also noted that the undersized nightshirt had risen halfway up his thighs. For a moment she bridled, thinking he had done it on purpose to shock her, but one look at his face told her he was in too much pain to be thinking of her.

After asking him to move his feet aside, she quickly retrieved the metal chamber pot. When she straightened, the nightshirt was higher yet. She didn’t know why the sight unnerved her. She had seen thighs before. Dozens of thighs. Dozens of pairs of thighs, even. Although few had been quite so . . . well, substantial.

“Plan on watching?” he asked, his breathing a little less labored.

She jerked her gaze from his lower limbs. “I am a trained nurse, Mr. Wilkins,” she said in her most professional voice. “And quite accustomed to aiding—”