Open Country (37 page)

“You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?” she mumbled through bulging cheeks.

“I am. If only Bunny were here. How’d you hurt your hands?”

She choked on a green bean. Then coughed to clear it. Then burst into tears.

The fork clattered to the tray. He jumped up and started pounding her back. “Jesus, are you all right?”

No, she wasn’t all right. She’d had to amputate a child’s leg then watch him die. She’d been treated like a whore by her husband. She’d been terrorized by a murderous deviant who had threatened everyone she cared about and left her so battered she couldn’t even feed herself. Of course, she wasn’t all right!

Dragging a sleeve over her eyes, she took a deep, hitching breath and tried to gather what shreds remained of her tattered dignity. “I’m fine.”

“You don’t look fine.”

If her hands hadn’t been bandaged, she might have struck him. “It’s been a difficult few days.” She sent him a pointed look. By his expression—or lack thereof—it missed its mark. “I think I’ll retire now,” she said wearily.

By his hesitation, she guessed he had questions to ask. But she was in no mood for an interrogation. “I’m very tired.”

“There’s still food left.”

“I don’t want it.”
Just go. Please.

“You’re sure?”

“I’m sure.”

He carried the tray to the hall table then came back. “Anything else?”

Dear God.
Did she have to drive him out with a pitchfork? “My brush,” she said in desperation. “It’s on the bureau.”

He brought it to her. But when she tried to take it from his hand, it slipped from her thumbless grip and clattered to the floor. She blinked at it in defeat, a new wave of tears stinging her eyes.

He picked it up and, before she could stop him, dragged the bristles through her hair, sending hairpins flying and pain burning across her scalp.

“Ouch!” she cried, raising an arm to ward him off.

He stepped back, the hairbrush gripped in his hand like a stick of firewood. “Sorry.”

When he started forward again, she vigorously shook her head. “No. It’s all right. Really. I think I’ll leave it as is for tonight.”

“If you’re sure.”

“I am.”

He started toward the door, paused, then turned back. “Molly, you needn’t be afraid of me,” he said again. “I just want to help.”

She gave a wan smile. “I know.”

“You’ll call if you need me?” He nodded toward the connecting door that led through the dressing room and water closet into his bedroom. “I’ll leave my door open so I can hear you.”

“Yes. Thank you.” Oddly, even after his treatment of her the other night, it was a comfort knowing he would be nearby.

His gaze sharpened into that probing stare. “Maybe tomorrow, after you’re rested, we can talk.”

“Yes. Tomorrow.” And she dreaded it.

After he finally exited the room, Molly sank onto the edge of the bed, exhausted, in pain, and wondering how she would ever get to sleep with a double knot the size of a billiard ball digging into her stomach and two-dozen hairpins poking into her head.

 

 

“I KNOW YOU’RE AWAKE, PAPA-HANK.”

Hank flinched as a tiny finger that had been God-knows-where pried up his eyelid. “I can see you seeing me.”

He turned his head away. “Don’t poke my eye. Or my ear or nose or anything else,” he quickly added, trying to cover all the pertinent areas. He really did have to get a lock on the door. And maybe a tin-can alarm system. Or a bucket of ice water over the door. That would send her running.

“Why don’t you want us anymore?” Her voice sounded wet and wobbly.

Coming fully awake, Hank looked up at the face peering down at his. Tear tracks scored her cheeks, more tears were on the way, and her nose was running. Alarmed, he edged out of dripping range. “Who said I didn’t want you anymore?”

“Charlie. He says you’re nothing but a big fat liar and now we have to leave.” Lifting a wad of blanket, she wiped her nose.

“Why?”

“ ’Cause Aunt Molly’s hurt, and the monster will get us next.”

“No, why am I a big fat liar? And don’t wipe your nose—or anything else—on my blanket.”

She sighed heavily. “ ’Cause you
lied
, Papa-Hank.”

“About what?”

Splaying her tiny hands in the universal gesture of female impatience, she explained with careful enunciation as if he was the dumb one in the room, which he was pretty sure he wasn’t, “Because Aunt Molly’s hurt and you said you would keep us safe and now we aren’t.” She let her hands fall to the bed and glared at him. “But I’m not leaving until I get my kitty. You promised.”

“No one’s going anywhere, and you’ll get your kitty. Where’s Molly?”

“Getting dressed.”

“By herself?” Thinking he might help with that, he sat up, the blanket clutched at his waist. It felt damp and sticky. He shifted his grip.

“She said Maria Garcia would help her.”

“Oh. Well, run along so I can dress.”

“I wanna stay.”

“Go.”

“But—”

“Now.”

After he dressed, he went to Charlie’s room first. He found the boy sitting on the foot of his bed with a battered wooden box open on his knees. When he saw Hank in the doorway, he slammed the lid shut and thrust the box behind him. Something that looked a lot like a dog scurried under the bed. “What do you want?” Charlie asked in a surly tone.

Hank looked at him and kept looking at him until the boy’s ears turned red and his gaze slid away. It was an effort to keep from shaking the sass out of the kid. And even more of an effort to keep his voice from betraying how badly he wanted to do it.

“You’re safe,” he said in clipped tones. “As long as you’re under this roof and under my protection, you’re safe.”

“But Aunt Molly—”

“Aunt Molly’s
accident
has nothing to do with you, and I don’t want you worrying her about it. She’s safe. You’re safe. Penny’s safe. And no one is going anywhere. You understand?”

Some of the color left Charlie’s face. His lips trembled.

Hardening himself to sympathy, Hank went on. “And if you ever speak to me or your Aunt Molly in that tone again, you and I are going to the woodshed. I won’t tolerate disrespect. Do you understand
that
?”

Blinking hard, Charlie stared down at his hands as if they were something new and interesting. “Yes, sir.”

“Now get that dog out of here before your Aunt Jessica finds him and bathes him again.” Without waiting for a response, Hank left the room and crossed the hall.

Molly was standing fully dressed by the bureau when he swung open the door. Startled, she whirled, her hairbrush slipping from her bandaged hands to clatter on the wood floor. “Drat,” she muttered.

The anger went out of him. “Need help?” he asked, walking toward her.

“Like you helped last night? My scalp still hurts.” He thought she might have smiled at him, but the swelling on her face made it look more like a grimace.

He picked up the brush. “You should have told me about the hairpins.”

“You thought my hair just curled up on top of my head all by itself?”

“Don’t be pert. Turn around.”

After first checking for stray hairpins, he pulled the brush through her long, glossy hair as gently as he could. It felt smooth and warm and smelled like lemons, and made him want to wrap it around his hands so he could bind her to him forever.

Seeing her hurt had shaken him like nothing ever had. The instant he saw her injured hands, all his closely held anger had shattered at his feet, and he realized he no longer cared how the marriage had come about, or that she’d withheld the truth of it from him. He just wanted to keep her safe. That was all that mattered. And she did save his life, after all. He owed her for that.

Hearing a soft sigh, he looked past her head to her reflection in the mirror. Her eyes were closed, and she wore a faint smile, and even with the bruises, she was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen. How could he have ever treated her so badly? Fearing he might do something to weaken this brittle trust growing between them, he set the brush on the bureau and stepped back. “There. All done.”

She opened her eyes and smiled at him in the mirror, then winced at the pull of muscles across her bruised cheek. Studying her reflection, she shook her head. “I look a sight.” She turned to face him, that imp in her eyes coming awake with a twinkle. “But not as bad as Brady. Should I feel bad about that?”

“He deserved it.”

“No doubt. But I wouldn’t want to be the cause of friction between you.”

“There’s always friction. We’re brothers.” He motioned toward her shirtfront. “You missed some buttons.”

She looked down and sighed. “Penny.”

“That explains the smudges. Want me to fix it?”

Her gaze flew up to his, then away again. That telltale flush inched across her cheeks. Still afraid, he guessed. Nonetheless, she nodded, which surprised him.

While she stared stoically at his chest, he undid and redid the mismatched buttons and buttonholes. He took his time, and only allowed his knuckles to brush across those soft, bouncy bosoms a couple of times. Maybe three. “I thought one of the Garcias was helping you,” he said to distract her from wondering why he was taking so long.

“She had to leave. Ben got into some mischief with the Christmas tree.”

“Climbed it. Brady was supposed to rope it to the wall so it won’t tip over on him like it did last year.”

“That’ll go nicely with Jessica’s imported tinsel.”

“Sometimes Jessica outfancies herself. Christmas is for kids. There.” Regretfully he let his hands drop to his sides. It was nice being able to talk to her again, to put the anger aside and forget for a few minutes there was unfinished business between them. He wished they could skip all the “I’m sorries” and just start over again. But there was too much still left unsaid, and too many questions waiting for answers. If they were ever to wash the slate clean, they’d have to deal with that.

“Molly, we need to talk.”

“Yes. I suppose we do.” Molly wondered if this was to be the beginning of the end. If he would send her away, or tell her he was dissolving the marriage. She wondered how she could convince him they each deserved a second chance.

“Brady told me you saved my life. Twice. I owe you for that. And I understand why you did what you did. I don’t like it, but I understand. So I’m willing to let bygones be bygones and start over.”

“Are you?”

He nodded. “I think we can get past this. But you’ll have to promise you won’t lie to me or keep secrets from me. I have a low tolerance for that.”

“I see.” Molly crossed her arms over her chest, lest she reinjure her hands by striking him.
The nitwit.
Did he think to dump it all on her? What about what
he
had done? But in the interest of peace, she decided to meet him halfway. “And what will you promise me?”

“Me? Well . . . I’ll keep you safe.”

She smiled sweetly. “From yourself too?”

She watched confusion then understanding flit across his face. At least he had the grace to blush.

“That . . .” Hank suddenly felt like a wad of cotton had gotten lodged in his throat. He coughed to clear it and started again. “What I mean is . . . what happened the other night . . . that’s not who I am.”

She tilted her head to study him. “And who are you?”

“For one thing, I’m not a man who hurts women. Especially women I care about.”
Jesus, that didn’t come out right.
“I mean, a
woman
I care about.
You
, that is.”

“So why did you?”

Damn her for wanting her pound of flesh
. Hank sighed and studied his boots. He wasn’t used to being in the wrong and having to explain himself. He didn’t like it. He liked even less talking about personal things. But he owed her, so he would.

“All my life I’ve felt like the odd man out, but with you . . .” He shrugged. “It was different. Then I found out it wasn’t real. And I thought you’d just been using me, playing me for a fool, like I was the butt of a joke everybody was in on but me. It made me feel stupid.” He forced a laugh. “Hell, I feel even stupider admitting it out loud. But I just . . . just . . .”

“I forgive you.”

He lifted his head.

She was smiling up at him—well, as best she could with the swelling—and her beautiful eyes were shiny with tears. Relief clogged his throat. He breathed deep to clear it, then nodded several times, wondering what to say. “Well. All right then.”

“Do you forgive me?” she asked, still watching him. “Do you think you’ll be able to trust me again?”

He didn’t want to lie to her. “In time.” When he saw the light in her eyes fade, he quickly added, “I’m trying, Molly. Can’t we just leave it at that for now?”

She studied him for so long his nerves started to fray. Finally she nodded.

“No more secrets?” he pressed.

“No more secrets.”

“Good. Then start by telling me how you hurt your hands.”

 

 

“ACTUALLY, I DIDN’T HURT THEM,” MOLLY TOLD HIM ONCE she’d settled in the chair across from his by the hearth in the bedroom. “Fletcher’s man did. After he killed Ezra Cooper.”

As dispassionately as she could, she related everything, from Papa’s death, which she now knew for certain wasn’t a suicide but murder, to her suspicions that Fletcher had sent trackers after them, to the horrible things the scarred man had done and said to her in the livery.

Through it all, Hank had remained motionless and silent, his gaze never leaving her face, his hands gripping the armrests so tightly she could see the indent of his fingers in the woven upholstery. The only other reaction he gave was a grim tightening of his jaw and the return of that hard, implacable look in his eyes.