Open Country (30 page)

It was Melanie all over again. And Brady’s lies about Sam’s death. And the hundred deceptions his father had spun when he had allowed the feud ravaging his family to continue because he’d fallen in love with his enemy’s wife.

The red mist churned and swirled as he looked from one face to another. His family. His whole goddamn family. “You did this,” he choked out. “On purpose. Why?”

They stared silently back, tintype figures frozen in place, their stricken expressions telling him the truth. They’d all been in on it, and that knowledge—that
betrayal
—was like a bullet to his chest. For a moment it hurt so bad he could hardly breathe.

He turned to Molly—his wife
—
his lying, treacherous wife—and felt something dark take hold of his soul. Moving his hand along the back of the couch, he gripped her neck, not hard enough to hurt but enough to keep her from moving. He felt her rapid pulse beat against his thumb and was glad she was afraid.

Bending close, he put his mouth next to her ear. “Tell me why.
Wife.
” He gave her neck a quick, hard squeeze. “Now!”

Tendons flexed under his fingers as her head came around until her lying almost-green eyes looked directly into his. He saw fear, regret, then a flash of anger that was so unexpected his mind couldn’t even accept it.

“Not in front of the others, Hank.”

He was astounded. Didn’t she know how precarious her position was? How easily he could crush her throat? Didn’t she realize how furious he was?

Hearing movement, he looked over to see Brady rising from his chair. “Hank, it’s my fault. I—”

“Go to hell.”

From outside came the whinny of a horse. But inside, it was as still as a tomb where they sat like mute, immobile statues trapped in rigor for all time. Hank remained so intently focused on his wife, he could hear her rapid breathing, see the tremble of her lips, almost taste her fear. He wanted to shout at her, demand she tell him the doubts weren’t real. But he couldn’t form the words, couldn’t give voice to the questions careening through his mind.

Distant voices seemed to crack her frozen shell. Her gaze flitted about the room as if seeking escape, then paused on Brady. Hank sensed silent communication between the two, but when Brady opened his mouth to speak, Molly gave an almost-imperceptible shake of her head before turning back to Hank.

The fear was gone. In its place was an expression of resignation and dread.

Mentally bracing himself, Hank waited for more pain to come.

“I have done you a terrible wrong, Hank,” she said.

“Christ,” Brady muttered.

Jessica made a soft sound of distress.

Molly’s head whipped toward her. With a falsely bright smile, she said, “It’ll be all right, Jessica. You mustn’t worry. Brady, make her rest.” Abruptly, she rose, a fist clenched to her stomach. “Now, if you will excuse us, Hank and I need to talk.”

“Molly, you don’t need to do this,” Brady said, frowning at her.

“Yes. I do.” Head high, she turned and walked stiffly from the room.

A part of Hank admired her for her courage. A darker part hated her for not being afraid.

DON’T CRY, DON’T CRY
, SHE CHANTED IN SILENT TEMPO WITH each step she took up the stairs. It was an effort not to run. Not to give in to the anguish burning in her chest. She felt Hank looming behind her, a dark, furious mass, his rage so intense it pressed against her back like a shoving hand.

Oddly, she wasn’t afraid. At least, not of Hank. The worst had happened. What more could he do to her?

It was over, her idyllic dream life, her sham of a marriage, her hope of something more than endless years of tending other women’s husbands, other women’s children, other lives less barren than her own.

The bleak injustice of it rocked her, sent a blast of anger through her mind. She wanted to whip around and strike the man behind her, shake him until his eyes bounced from their sockets, force him to understand.

Yes
, she had done a terrible thing.

Yes
, she had lied.

But she’d also saved his life. Didn’t that account for something?

Loud voices drifted up from the entry. Fearing Brady and Jessica might come to intervene and cause an even greater scene, Molly increased her speed. Flinging open the door into the bedroom with enough force to bounce it against the logs, she whirled to face her husband as he slammed the door shut behind him.

“You weren’t supposed to survive the night,” she blurted out before he could speak. “The railroad was offering widows’ portions to the wives of men killed in the derailment. I was desperate for money, so I married you to get it.”

He stopped before her, his chest heaving, his clenched teeth a white slash against his flushed skin. “How disappointing for you that I didn’t die.”

She slapped him. Tried to slap him again, but he grabbed her wrist to stop her. “Don’t ever say that!” she cried, wrenching from his grip. “Don’t even think it! I saved your life! Your arm! I did everything I could to—”

The door crashed open. Brady stood on the threshold, his face stark and white.

“We have to go. There’s been a cave-in at the mine.”

 

 

“WHERE DO YOU THINK YOU’RE GOING?” BRADY ASKED WHEN

Molly rushed into the kitchen a few minutes later. He was stuffing provisions into his saddlebags and was dressed for travel in a heavy shearling jacket and long oiled duster. A muffler covered his ears and neck, and over it he wore his Stetson. Hank stood beside him, filling his own saddlebags. Other than a quick glance, he ignored her.

Molly plunked her valise and medicine basket on the table. “With you.”

“No you’re not,” Brady said.

“There will be injuries,” she argued. “I can help. It’s what I do.”

“We have a doctor.”

“The Irishman?” Molly had heard about O’Grady, who had a better reputation as a drinker than a doctor. “And what if there are more injuries than he can handle?”

Brady’s scowl deepened. “I didn’t drag you here to tend miners.”

Hank looked up. “You dragged her here?”

Ignoring him, she tried to reassure Brady. “I’ve spoken with Jessica. I checked her yesterday and everything is proceeding well. Consuelo is making her an herbal tonic, and Iantha will see that she eats properly. She’s fine.”

“Why’d you have to drag her here?” Hank persisted. “She didn’t want to come?”

“Later, Hank,” Brady snapped.

Molly watched fury flash across Hank’s face. Fearing an eruption, she laid a hand on his good arm. “Hank—”

He jerked away as if her touch burned him. Or disgusted him. With a last glare at his brother, he picked up his saddlebags and stalked out the back door.

Molly pressed a hand to her chest, stunned at how badly his rejection hurt.

“Jesus, what a mess,” Brady muttered.

“Don’t sound so surprised.” Blinking back tears, Molly picked up her valise and basket. “We knew this day would come.” Even so, she wasn’t prepared for the pain that closed like a fist around her heart. She started for the door.

Brady snagged her arm. “If you’re coming with us, you’ll have to wear more than that,” he said, eyeing her worn wool coat. “Come into the entry. We’ll see what we can find.”

Five minutes later, dressed in wooly boots, a scarf, a hat, another scarf over the hat, fur mittens, an oversized shearling jacket that reached past her knees, and an oiled duster buttoned to her chin, she was ready to go. Bundled as she was, she needed Brady’s assistance to get down the porch steps to where Hank sat atop a tall bay, the reins of two saddled horses in his mittened hand. In the yard, three other mounted men waited. As soon as Brady hoisted her onto her horse, they were off.

Molly still couldn’t believe they were traveling at night with a storm brewing. Apparently these people were so accustomed to treacherous weather, nothing held them back. Luckily there was a near full moon rising out of the clouds to the east, and if the weather held, they would have good visibility at least through the same pass she had crossed only weeks ago when she had first come to the ranch.

Brady led, setting a hard pace. Molly rode behind him, sandwiched between two outriders she recognized from their jaunt into Val Rosa, while Hank and the other man brought up the rear. She was soon glad for all the extra padding. She wasn’t that accomplished a rider, and certainly had never attempted it under these conditions. Fortunately the gelding Hank had chosen for her seemed well trained and even-tempered and moved with a smooth, mile-eating gait.

They rode in silence except for the jangle of harnesses and the sounds of the horses’ hooves crunching through the icy crust on the road. Since riders traveled between Redemption and the ranch several times a week, the snow was packed down and the horses didn’t have to slog through deep drifts. But still it was hard going.

An hour out, Molly’s horse began to limp. Hank called to Brady to stop, then dismounted and tossed his reins to the rider beside him. Without a word, he wrapped his good arm around Molly and pulled her from the saddle, then bent to check the gelding’s hooves. Molly could see that the underside of the right front was clogged with a hard ball of icy snow. Hank knocked it loose, then taking off his glove, retrieved a tin from his pocket, opened it, and scooped out a gob of what looked like axle grease. He smeared it on the underside of the hoof. After wiping his fingers clean on the horse’s shaggy belly, he tossed the tin to the waiting rider, pulled on his glove, and motioned for Molly to remount.

She tried, but with so many clothes, she couldn’t lift her leg high enough to reach the stirrup. Hank hoisted her into the saddle, handed her the reins, and walked back to his own horse.

Not a word. He never even looked directly at her. It was as if, as far as he was concerned, she had ceased to exist.

One hour bled into two. The wind rose and the temperature dropped. Barely staying ahead of the clouds crowding behind it, the moon arced across the dark blue dome of the sky, casting ghostly white light on the rolling snow-covered valley. It was odd riding through a world with no color, no sound or movement except for the six riders cutting a dark trail through the snow. An hour later they left the valley, heading up through a piney canyon where snow-laden trees bordered the road like hooded, white-caped sentinels.

Molly burrowed deeper into her scarf, wishing she could still move her hands enough to retie it. But she’d lost feeling in her fingers, her feet ached, and her cheeks were so cold they burned. She tried to remember what Papa’s medical books said about frostbite, but her mind was as numb as her body. By the time they cleared the pass and started down the other side, she was so chilled she was beyond shivering. Just staying in the saddle took all her concentration. Every breath she took made the walls of her throat ache. She was so weary she could scarcely keep her eyes open, and the urge to just let go and sink into the snow was almost overpowering. The analytical part of her mind knew she was in trouble. The rest of her didn’t care. If she could only stop for a moment, just close her eyes and—

“Molly. Molly! We’re here.”

She opened her eyes to find Hank standing beside her horse, scowling up at her. His cheeks were as red as apples, and the muffler over the lower half of his face was crusted with ice and snow. She wanted to ask him when it had started snowing, and why he wouldn’t talk to her, and tell him she was sorry, so very, very sorry . . .

“Lean toward me,” Hank ordered, peeling her hands from the saddle horn.

She tried, but ended up falling against his chest instead. He scooped her up with his right arm and slid his bent left arm with the hard cast under her knees. Pressing her face against the scarf around his neck, she tried to draw in his heat as he carried her up steps, then through a door.

Sudden bright light, then a blast of heat that was so intense it made her eyes hurt. Dimly, she heard a woman’s voice as he carried her down a darkened hall into another brightly lit room that smelled like roses. Roses in winter. How could that be?

He lowered her onto a bench and began unwinding the scarf around her face, making her flinch when the frozen folds scraped against her chaffed chin. The warm, rough palm of his right hand cupped her cheek.

“She’s too cold,” he said to someone behind her. “Get a basin of warm water—not hot—and some cloths. Hurry. If we don’t get her blood moving, she’ll start losing fingers and toes.” Kneeling before her, he began yanking off her gloves.

As the heat penetrated her chilled body, she shivered harder, her teeth chattering so uncontrollably she bit her tongue. But that discomfort was mild compared to the pain that shot through her fingers when Hank began rubbing her hand with his. It felt like needles jabbing into her flesh and grew even more painful when he thrust her hands into a bowl of boiling water.