Open Country (36 page)

Ignoring the well-aimed barb, Hank scanned the street. “She went by here a minute ago. I figured she was headed to the church, but Doc hasn’t seen her.” He thought of Fletcher and felt a prickle of unease. “I saw her talking to a man outside the livery, but no one’s there now.” Which was odd, now that he thought about it. Ezra Cooper all but slept with his horses.

Brady must have read his concern. Setting the report aside, he pushed back his chair and rose. “You’re really worried, aren’t you?”

Hank turned and headed back down the street.

A few seconds later Brady fell into stride beside him. “She couldn’t be far. Redemption’s only two streets wide and a quarter-mile long. Did Ezra see her?”

“I didn’t talk to him. I called out, but he didn’t answer.”

“Strange.”

“That’s what I’m thinking. Let’s look there first.”

They saw her as they passed the alley on the south side of the livery. She was heading toward the church, bent like an old woman, her steps halting and uneven. Hank hurried toward her. “Molly?” he said, laying his hand on her shoulder.

She cried out, wrenching away so forcefully she almost lost her balance.

Hank froze, stunned by the rejection. Then he realized she had turned away out of pain, not anger. “Molly?” He stepped in front of her, careful not to touch her, then sucked in his breath when he saw her bruised face and swollen hands.

“Holy Christ,” Brady said, moving up beside him. “What happened?”

“Take me to Dr. O’Grady,” Molly said in a hoarse whisper.

Hank started to pick her up, but she pulled away again. He turned to his brother. “Get a wagon.”

“A wagon? But the church is right there.”

“No,” Molly choked out. “I’ll walk.”

Hank and Brady hovered on either side of her, wanting to do something but not sure what. The fifty yards to the church stretched like a mile in Hank’s mind.

What happened? Had she fallen on the ice? In the livery? Did one of Ezra’s horses kick her? Is that why she had straw stuck in her clothes and hair?

Brady went ahead to alert Doc, and by the time Molly made it up the steps and through the door, the doctor was coming toward them down the center aisle. One look at her hands and he reached for the laudanum. Molly protested, but after Doc explained he would have to palpate the thumb joints to check the damage and that would be painful, she took a goodly dose.

Hank helped her stretch out on the altar/surgery table then stood silently by while they waited for the drug to take effect. The place smelled of chemicals and sickness. An occasional moan came from one of the pews where the injured lay, but it was a lot calmer than it had been when he’d come looking for Molly the previous night. Not wanting to think about the fiasco that followed, Hank watched Doc settle Brady in one of the empty pews and set to work on his split lip. A dozen questions bounced through his mind. Who was that man outside the livery? And how could she injure both thumbs at the same time in the same way? And where was Ezra?

“Hank?”

He glanced down to see Molly looking up at him. The pupils of her eyes were dilated and the lines of strain around her mouth had lessened, so he knew the drug was starting to work.

“I need to go back,” she said in a slurred voice that made her soft Southern accent even more pronounced. “I need to be with the children.”

And away from me,
he thought grimly. Not that he blamed her. He’d proven he wasn’t fit to be around her right now. “All right. Soon as Doc says it’s okay.”

“No. Today.” She blinked sluggishly up at him. “I need to go today.”

He nodded, wondering how he would manage that, since she couldn’t hold on to reins or a saddle horn with those hands. “I’ll borrow a buggy.” It would have to be covered and well sprung, and he’d need to load it with blankets and warming bricks, and bring along extra horses in case the wheels got bogged down and they had to ride partway. He should bring extra riders too. And maybe figure a way to refit the seats into a reclining bench so she—

“I’m sorry,” she said, cutting into his thoughts.

He looked down at her, feeling that bitter regret that had hounded him all day. He was the one who had made a mess of things . . . although some might argue that since she started it all in the first place with her lies, it wasn’t completely his fault. But he decided not to mention that. He might be a fool but he wasn’t stupid.

“When this is over, Molly, we need to talk.” He had apologies to make too.

“I know. Just . . . be careful.” Then before he could ask her what she was worried about, her lids fluttered closed and she was out.

He motioned Doc over, then stood back as he set to work.

Her thumbs weren’t broken, nor were they as dislocated as they could be, which Doc explained meant the ligaments hadn’t been torn loose, so she wouldn’t need surgery. She would have to wear splints for a month, but if she allowed the joints to heal properly, Doc didn’t think she would suffer any lasting damage. Meanwhile, until she got the hang of eating and dressing and tending herself without use of her thumbs, she would need a lot of help.

Hank, having already sunk lower than a snake’s belly in his own estimation, wasn’t surprised that his whole body tensed up at the prospect of helping his wife with those personal chores. He really was a sonofabitch.

Judging by the warning frown his brother sent his way, Brady had reached the same conclusion. “I’ll hire another Garcia sister to look out for her.”

“Stay out of it,” Hank said with soft menace. “It’s my wife, my problem.” He could almost see his brother choking on words he was holding back, but eventually he nodded.

“I just hope you know what you’re doing.”

Hank did too.

IT WAS LATE AFTERNOON WHEN MOLLY AWOKE.

She felt awful. Her head hurt, her mouth was so dry her tongue felt like a brick, and her hands throbbed with demonic persistence. Squinting against bright sunlight, she carefully raised her arms to assess the damage.

Her hands were in plaster half-casts stretching past her wrists, with gauze strips holding her thumbs in fixed positions. No incisions, so the ulnar collateral ligaments hadn’t been ruptured.

She was grateful for that, at least. As she lowered her hands, she thought of the poor man in the stall at the livery. Ezra-something. She didn’t even know his full name, yet he had probably died because of her.

A sick feeling washed over her. If she had what Fletcher wanted, she would gladly hand it over. But neither she nor the children had packed any books, so how could she return something she didn’t have?

A month. That’s all she had before the monster came back. A month of lies to Hank while a killer tracked his family? She couldn’t do that. The brothers had a right to know what they were up against—what she had brought into their midst.

Turning her head to the left, she saw Hank standing in the fourth pew, talking with Dr. O’Grady and one of the injured men. Sunlight edged his hair in gold and brought out the strong curves of his jaw and cheekbones. He stood with his weight on one foot, shoulders relaxed, his big hands planted low on his hips.

Those hands.

Images of the previous night drifted through her mind. She had felt the power in those hands. She had tasted the salty texture of his skin and learned the breadth and strength of that body. And despite the pain they had caused each other, as she watched him standing in the sunlight, she longed to touch him again.

“You look like hell,” a male voice said.

She turned her head to the right and saw Brady sprawled in the pastor’s chair, watching her. How long had he been there? Her gaze took in his black eye, the bruised chin and bandaged lip. “As do you,” she countered.

“We found Ezra Cooper. Appears he was kicked in the head by one of his horses. Know anything about that, Molly?” He wore that same distrustful expression she had seen on Hank’s face since he’d learned the truth about their marriage.

She didn’t answer.

“Strange, though,” he went on in his husky voice. “Ezra’s horses are as gentle as lambs. Never even threatened another horse, much less a human. Then you show up with two busted hands and a bruised face. Makes me wonder if the two aren’t connected somehow.”

“I had nothing to do with his death.”

“Probably not. But maybe you could tell me who did.”

She opened her mouth, then closed it. The scarred man could be out there watching right now, waiting to see if she said anything. He would know if she did, because the Wilkins brothers would immediately ride after him, and he would see them and draw them into a trap. But if she could get them all back to the ranch, where they would be safe, then she could tell them and they could decide what to do. But she had to get them to the ranch first.

“I want to go home, Brady. I want to get back to the children.”

“Hank’s taking you tomorrow.”

“You come with us.”

He shook his head. “We still have the cave-in—”

“No,” she cut in sharply. “You come too.”

He frowned, his gaze boring into hers. “What aren’t you telling me, Molly?”

“Get me—all of us—to the ranch. Then I’ll tell you everything.”

He studied her for a moment more, then stood. “All right.”

“And, Brady,” she added before he walked away. “Bring all the men you can.”

 

 

THE WEATHER HELD, AND THEY MADE IT TO THE PASS WITH out incident. Hank had sent ahead to have a ranch wagon with a canvas top and bench seats there to meet them, and once he’d transferred Molly from the borrowed buggy into the wagon, he climbed in after her. As the buggy headed back the way they’d come, Hank signaled the wagon driver to go on, and they continued the long ride down into the valley. Brady and the three riders who had gone with them to Redemption rode alongside on horseback.

She and Hank had hardly spoken since leaving Redemption. Molly was relieved. She wasn’t yet ready to discuss what happened with the scarred man in the livery, and Hank didn’t seem that anxious to open the subject of his harsh treatment of her two nights earlier. It was as if a silent truce had been called, allowing them both time to sort through what happened.

The wagon wasn’t as well sprung as the buggy, and Molly had a time of it trying to keep her balance without being able to hold on. Hank, seeing her problem, moved across to her bench. Sitting with his shoulders against the side rails, he pulled her back against his chest and, mindful of her injured hands, anchored her with an arm across her waist. He wasn’t as soft as the padded buggy seat, but he was a great deal warmer, and before too many miles she drifted to sleep.

It was late evening when they reached the ranch. Apparently the rider Hank had sent back for the wagon had told Jessica of Molly’s “accident,” but rather than flooding them with questions as might be expected, she took one look at Molly, standing exhausted and shivering in the entry, and rushed her straight up to a warm bath.

“Your poor hands,” she said, helping Molly out of her clothes. “A fall, was it? Ice is so treacherous. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve almost had my feet fly out from under me.”

Molly let her run on, so weary she could hardly move, much less think up plausible excuses for her injuries. After helping her into the tub to soak, Jessica went back downstairs to tend to the men, promising to have a tray sent up later.

Molly had stepped out of the tub and was pulling on the robe Jessica had left for her when Hank came through the connecting door. She froze, fear flitting through her mind.

He saw it and frowned. “You needn’t be afraid of me.”

“I—I’m not.” Which was almost true. “You startled me is all.”

“Need help?” He gestured toward the robe she struggled to hold closed with her forearms. Before she could answer, he walked over, pulled the robe closed with a snap, then tied the sash in a double knot. He stepped back. “Hope that’ll do. I’m not so good with bows.”

Still rattled, she looked down at the huge knot, wondering how she would ever get it undone without the use of her thumbs. “Thank you.”

“Jessica sent food.” Turning away, he walked back through the dressing area and into her bedroom, speaking over his shoulder as he went. “I set the tray here by the fire. Come eat before it gets cold.”

She tried, but with him sitting in the other chair watching, plus the awkwardness of holding the fork between her splinted hands, she was so clumsy she made a mess of it.

“You’re worse than Ben,” he muttered, taking the fork from her hand. He speared a bite of carrot, and held it out. She took it, but before she could swallow it down, he had a forkful of green beans dangling in front of her face.

“Demoralizing, isn’t it?” he said, shoving a slab of roast beef into her mouth. “Not being able to feed yourself . . . having to rely on another person for all your needs . . . feeling so helpless . . .”