Open Country (34 page)

Then something began to change, nothing she could pinpoint at first, but a subtle shifting. Or perhaps it was a growing awareness within herself. Even though they were as physically close as two people could be, he wasn’t truly with her. He didn’t kiss her. Or speak to her. Despite the closeness of their bodies, there was no intimacy at all.

“Hank,” she whispered, trying to reach out to him, to slow him down, to bring him back to her. But he wouldn’t allow even that, pinning her hands at her shoulders so she couldn’t touch him.

Ardor instantly cooled. She stiffened beneath him in confusion. “Hank?”

His dark gaze never left her face as he rose above her and, in one quick motion, thrust inside her.

Her body recoiled. Her mind splintered in panic. This wasn’t a joining, or a chance for them to overcome the pain they’d caused one another. This was a cold, loveless coupling. Anguish swept through her, burned against the back of her eyes. Old feelings of inadequacy crowded into her mind, driving her back into the shadows, back into that safe sepia world where she could observe without feeling and drift without pain. Dry-eyed and detached, she looked up at him looking down at her and felt something wither inside. This wasn’t even passion. This was punishment.

As if from a distance, she watched sweat bead at his temples and roll down his straining neck to drip onto her breasts. She watched muscles flex in his chest, felt the tremble of tension in his braced arms, saw the flash of his clenched teeth as spasms shook his big body. And through it all, his gaze never left her face.

Never a word, a kiss. Not even a look of regret.

Somewhere in her mind she stood on a hilltop and screamed.

Then finally it was over, and he rolled away from her and onto his back. His breathing sounded harsh and ragged in the stillness. Cold air prickled skin that was slick with his sweat. His scent cloaked her, choked her. Unable to move, she lay as he had left her, staring blindly up at the ceiling, too numb to cover herself. After a while, without his heat, she began to shiver.

He leaned over, pulled up the blanket, then lay back. “Why are you crying?”

She wasn’t aware that she was. She turned her head to find him watching her.

He was stretched on his back, nude. His hair clung to his forehead. Damp skin gleamed through the faint dusting of dark hair on his chest. She wanted to hit him, claw him, mar his perfect beauty. “I don’t know,” she answered and turned her face to the ceiling again.

“Did I hurt you?”

“No.” At least not in the way he meant. He hadn’t raped her. She had come to him willingly. She had wanted this joining and had no one to blame but herself. But to be used so dispassionately . . .

God.
She wished he would go so she could wash.

Abruptly he rolled away from her to sit on the edge of the bed, fists planted on the mattress by his hips. His head drooped and firelight gilded his shoulders and the long sloping curve of his back with gold. “Why, Molly? Why did you marry me, then lie about it?”

For a moment she hated him, wanted him to suffer as he had made her suffer. But she hadn’t the energy or the will to sustain such a strong emotion, so it quickly faded, leaving her feeling drained and empty. “I told you. For the money.”

He didn’t respond. For a long time he sat staring at the far wall. Finally, “I didn’t mean to hurt you. Earlier. That wasn’t . . . I’m not usually so . . .” His voice trailed off.

“Selfish?” she snapped, anger coiling in her chest.

He turned his head and looked at her.

“Distant? Cold? Uninvolved?”

“Damnit, Molly.”

Damn you
she wanted to shout back at him.
How could you do this to me? To us? How do we go on from here?

He rose, pulled on his unions, then sat back down on the edge of the mattress, as if undecided what to do next.

Molly watched firelight shadows dance across his broad back and felt some of her anger ease. He wasn’t a bad man, although he’d treated her badly. Nor was she bad because she’d withheld the truth. They both deserved a second chance. But she was still too angry to allow him that.

“Why didn’t you tell me truth?” he said after a while. “Why did you string me along and make me think we were a family? That we cared for each other?” He looked back at her over his shoulder. She could see the hurt in his eyes.

Because we do care for each other and we can still be a family.
But she wasn’t sure she still wanted that. Suddenly impatient with her own confused emotions, and desperate for this to be over, she said in clipped impatient tones, “At first I didn’t tell you because Brady asked me to wait until you were stronger. Then later, I was afraid of what would happen when I did. I felt safe, and the children were happy. It was . . . nice. I didn’t want it to end.”

He looked at her, silent and brooding.

What did he see when he looked at her that way? What thoughts did he hide behind that expressionless mask? Resentment eddied through her. How long was she to pay for that sin? Wasn’t what just happened punishment enough?

“Has Brady never lied to you?” she asked.

“Once. He had his reasons.”

“We all have our reasons, Hank.”

He bent and fumbled with the tab closures on his unions, then sat facing the wall, his hands resting on his thighs.

“You’ve forgiven him,” Molly persisted. “Why not me?”

“It’s not about forgiveness, Molly. It’s about faith. I trusted you.”

“And once broken, that trust can never mend. Is that what you’re saying?”

“No, that’s not what I’m saying.” He swiveled to look at her.

He looked drawn and defeated. A man trapped between his implacable nature and his own desires. She sensed a battle raging inside him, could almost feel his indecision and confusion.

“But it’ll take time, Molly.”

“Take all the time you need, Hank,” she said wearily. “But don’t come to me again like you did tonight. There’s no place for anger or distrust in my bed.”

“Molly . . .”

“Good night, Hank.” Rolling away from him onto her side, she stared at the fire, waiting, hoping for . . . something. Instead, she felt the mattress shift as he rose, then heard the sound of his footfalls across the floor. A moment later the door closed.

Pressing her face into the pillow, she let the tears come.

MOLLY WAITED UNTIL SUNLIGHT CREPT ACROSS THE FLOOR, then rose and washed. She studied her reflection in the mirror above the bureau, expecting changes, evidence of the emotional seesaw she had been on over the last days.

She looked tired and pale and worn around the edges. But the greatest change was in her eyes. She had seen that expression of weary resignation in Andersonville and more recently in Martha Burnett’s eyes. Had she fallen to a point where just to endure was the most she could hope for?

She had dreamed of so much more.

Hearing no movement from the other part of the house, she assumed Hank had left. She hoped so. She didn’t know if she could bear facing him this morning. That scene last night had left her heartsick and angry, and she was too edgy right now to hash it out with him.

And hash it out they would. He would give her a just reason for his treatment of her. She would allow no stony silence this time. By heaven, she would make him talk to her.

Then she would decide what she must do.

Meanwhile, she would somehow get through Christmas and see that Jessica’s babies were safely delivered. Then she would gather her strength for whatever lay ahead. She couldn’t leave now if she wanted to, not in the dead of winter with two children in tow. She still had no money and no place to go. And Fletcher’s men were still out there. Besides, she wasn’t ready to give up on Hank. On them. On all those lovely dreams.

After dressing and setting the room to rights, she wandered through the empty house, wondering if anyone would come to take her back to the church or if she should strike out on her own. She wasn’t sure she knew where it was, having come and gone in the middle of the night. She supposed if she walked through town, she would eventually find it. She certainly wasn’t going to sit in Hank’s house like a dutiful little wife and wait for him to come home. She would rather perform surgery on herself. With a rusty penknife. Resolved to bring some order to the mess she’d made of things, she donned one of Hank’s spare jackets—her borrowed shearling was still at the church—and left the house.

The day was crisp and bright, a cloudless sky above and a dazzling blanket of pristine snow below. As she walked, she breathed deep, enjoying the bite of cold in her throat, feeling her spirits lift with every lungful of clean mountain air. She would get through this. She would find a way to heal the wounds they had dealt each other. After all, that was what she did best, wasn’t it?

 

 

“WHAT DO YOU MEAN IT WAS DELIBERATE?” HANK DEMANDED.

Brady shoved a piece of wood across the foreman’s desk in the mine shack. “This is from the main crossbeam over the entrance to the new shaft. Those are saw marks.”

Hank studied the markings, ran his thumb over the edge. Wood never broke that clean on its own. He returned it to the desk. “But why?”

“Hell if I know.”

“Blake.” Franklin Blake had been nosing around the Wilkins holdings for months. He had a reputation for shady deals and brutality toward his workers, which was why Hank and Brady had refused to consider his offers to buy the mines or the ranch water rights. But this was too blatant, too obvious, even for Blake.

“It’s not your fault,” Brady said.

Hank looked up and met his brother’s eyes—the right one anyway. The left was nearly swollen shut. His top lip was swollen as well, with a nice split disappearing under his mustache. Hank took some satisfaction in that. “You ought to have Molly tend that cut.”

“Is that an apology?”

“Hell, no.” Movement caught his eye, and Hank looked through the window behind his brother at a figure moving along the boardwalk. Molly. He would recognize that stride anywhere. The woman didn’t walk. She marched. Chin first, head high, like she had a brass band playing in her head and her footsteps were the drumbeat. A woman of purpose. A hollow feeling opened in his chest. How could he have used her so badly? What kind of man had he become?

“She’d try to stitch it,” Brady muttered, fingering the cut. “And that would mean shaving my mustache, which I won’t do, of course.”

Hank watched Molly step into the alley between the boot shop and O’Hara’s Apothecary. A moment later she came back out and stood for a moment, looking down the street in one direction, then the other. Probably looking for the church. He ought to go help her, but the thought of facing her made his head hurt. Last night had been disastrous. He hadn’t meant to be so . . . what had she called it? Selfish and cold. He’d been that and more.
Christ.
It seemed whenever he was around her lately he humiliated himself.

He didn’t like it—that feeling of regret—of loss—of missed chances. He wasn’t accustomed to such uncertainty, and the emotional turmoil she had brought into his carefully ordered life was intolerable to him. It would be best for both of them if he let her go. Ended it. Got the annulment, gave her enough money to salve his bruised conscience and set her and the children up in California, then sent her on her way.

But as soon as that idea formed, a sudden image of himself filled his mind—alone, still living in Brady’s shadow, still in turmoil over these same regrets and missed chances.
Damn her.
For one unreasonable moment he almost hated her for exposing the lonely sterility of his old life. Because now, after these weeks with Molly and Penny and Charlie, he could never go back.

“I see you’re still shaving.”

Hank glanced at his brother.

“I half expected you to start growing the beard again.”

“Why?”

“Usual reason.” Brady tried to sneer, then winced at the pull on his lip. “To hide behind.”

“You want another black eye?”

“You’re welcome to try. Now that you don’t have your cast as an excuse, I’ll feel better about beating the hell out of you.”

“Best bring a friend then.”

Looking back to the window, Hank saw Molly hesitate outside the livery. She seemed ridiculously small in his jacket. And why wasn’t she wearing gloves or a hat? Didn’t she know she had a low tolerance to cold? He’d have to remind her . . . if they ever spoke to each other again.

A man in a slouch hat approached her. From this distance Hank couldn’t tell who he was, but there was something about the way he moved. A lot of hand flapping. A weak sister. Molly didn’t seem to like him either and tried to back away. But when he leaned down to say something to her, then took her arm to lead her in the direction of the church behind the livery, she went with him.