Open Country (49 page)

The room was a mess, as if a strong wind had blown through. Or an overwrought man. Even that nasty stuffed bear was tipped onto its side. Brady sat hunched over, hands gripping his head, his long fingers threaded through his dark hair. He didn’t look up when she entered.

Closing the door behind her, she stood for a moment, waiting for him to notice her. When he finally lifted his head, she was shocked by the anguish on his face.

“She’s dead, isn’t she?” he asked in a ragged voice.

“No.” She walked toward him. “No, Brady, she’s not. She’s fine.”

He blinked at her.

“If you hadn’t run off so quickly, you would have seen that.” She stopped before him, overwhelmed with affection for this outrageous, foolish, distraught man. “You really are the big dolt she says you are, aren’t you?”

He let his hands fall to his thighs and slowly sat back. “But—But I—you were crying—she was so still, and her eyes were closed and—”

“Resting. That’s all.” Seeing the sudden paleness of his face, she knelt beside his chair and put her hand on his arm to keep him from trying to stand. “She’s fine, Brady. Tired, but fine.”

She felt tremors move through his arm, heard the rush of air as he took in great gulping breaths. “S-She’s all right?”

“Yes. I swear it.”

He seemed to deflate into the chair. “Jesus—I thought—” More tremors. He tipped his head back and blinked up at the ceiling. “Sweet Jesus.”

Molly continued to hold his arm while she waited for him to pull himself together. It was both unsettling and touching to see him in such a distraught state. Men like Brady rarely showed such emotion. Or love.

After a moment, he lowered his gaze from the rafters and gave her the piercing stare that had once chilled the marrow in her bones. “Tell me again,” he said in a shaky voice. “Tell me she’s all right.”

“She’s all right.”

She saw the words penetrate. It was like watching him reinflate until relief burst out of him in an eruption of emotion.

“Jesus Christ, Molly! Why the hell didn’t you say so? I look in there and see her—Jesus—you were crying—all that blood—sonofabitch!” He took a deep breath, let it out, took another. “Why the hell were you crying if everything was all right?”

“I was happy for her. For you. For your sons.”

“Women. Jesus.” He dragged a shaking hand over his face, took another deep breath, and let it out in a huff. His face regained some of its color. “Don’t ever do that to me again. No more crying without good reason.”

“I had reason.”

Bluster dissolved in a wobbly grin. “Sons? Two of them?”

“Two. Both beautiful and healthy.”

His gaze settled on hers, and in that instant all his masks fell away, and Molly saw past the taunting sneers, the chilling glares, and the outraged ranting to the vulnerable man beneath. In all the years of her life she had never seen such a look of love and relief and humble joy. “You helped her. I owe you for that.”

“You owe me nothing. She’s my friend.”

“A horse. Maybe one of High Roller’s foals out of Her Ladyship. A filly.”

Molly refrained from rolling her eyes. “Hank’s already given me a horse.” But a baby would be nice, she thought. Hank’s, not Brady’s, of course. With dark chocolate eyes and a smile to melt hearts and—

“I have to go.” Brady stood so abruptly, he almost knocked her over. He took two steps toward the door, stopped, and whipped around. “It’s okay? I can see her now?”

Pushing herself to her feet, Molly made a shooing motion. “Go. She’s asking for you.”

After he’d left, she sank into the chair he had vacated, feeling suddenly exhausted and empty and unaccountably alone.

She wanted Hank.

She wanted his arms around her.

She wanted him to love her the way Brady loved Jessica.

 

 

MOVING QUIETLY SO HE WOULDN’T DISTURB THE BABIES, Brady stepped into the dimly lit room.

Jessica was asleep and Consuelo sat in a rocker in the corner, holding one of his sons. When she heard Brady, she looked up with a wide, gap-toothed grin and held the infant out.

Brady gently took his child into his arms. He looked like a wizened old man who had cooked in the sun too long. “Which one?” he asked in a whisper.

Consuelo held up two fingers.

Brady smiled down at his youngest son. “Hello, Thomas Jefferson.”

Thomas Jefferson stuck out his tongue and made a smacking noise.

“You think it’s too big a name to carry around? Then how about we call you TJ for short? Is that better?”

TJ yawned.

“All right then.” Returning the infant to Consuelo, Brady bent over the cradle where his oldest son slept. “And hello to you, too, Samuel Thornton.”

Sam made no response.

Feeling an embarrassing surge of emotion, Brady straightened and glanced at Consuelo. He tipped his head toward his wife and raised his brows in question.

Consuelo smiled and nodded in understanding. She placed TJ in the cradle beside his older brother, then tiptoed quietly from the room. After the door closed behind her, Brady walked to the bed.

Jessica was asleep, curled on her side like a child. Despite the purple shadows beneath her eyes, she was as beautiful as he’d ever seen her. Love swelled inside him—too much for his chest to hold—too much for his mind to comprehend. He felt raw and ragged and diminished by the force of it. Easing quietly into the chair beside the bed, he studied his wife’s face. A sense of peace and contentment washed over him, a gentle grace that he had never known until Jessica had blundered into his turbulent life. “Thank you,” he whispered to God, to Jessica, to Molly.

Her eyes blinked open. “Brady?”

“I’m here.”

Her lips trembled on a half-smile. “But I want you here.” She reached behind her hip and patted the coverlet at her back. “I want you close.”

Needing no further encouragement, he quickly pulled off his boots and moved around to slide in on the other side of the narrow bed. Slipping one arm beneath her neck, he looped the other around her waist and gently tucked her against his chest.

The feel of her heart beating beneath his hand brought tears to his eyes. “I love you, Jessica,” he whispered into her hair.

“I love you too.”

“But I’m never touching you again.”

“You’re touching me now.”

“Don’t be sassy. I’m never touching you, you know, that way.”

She tipped her head back to study him over her shoulder. “Why not?”

He kissed the tip of her freckled nose. “I can’t go through this again.”

She turned back. “Poor dear.”

He heard her smile. “I mean it, Jessica. I almost lost you with Abigail and then again today. I can’t do it. The little ones depend on me. They need me. And if I lost you, I couldn’t go on. I couldn’t do what I have to for them.”

“It would be rather inconvenient for you, I suppose.”

“Don’t mock me, Jessica. That’s not what I meant and you know it.”

She patted his arm. “I know. But I assure you I have no intention of dying anytime soon.”

“You better not.”

They lay quietly for a time. Jessica relaxed against him, comforted by his warmth, his heartbeat against her back, his breath against her hair. She wondered if now would be the time to tell him there would be no more babies. It was a private pain, one she needed to come to terms with on her own before she shared it with her husband. But he seemed to need peace, and if this would give it to him, she would speak now.

“I don’t think it will be a problem, Brady,” she finally said. “Molly told me there was some tearing, some damage to the womb.”

She felt his body tense. “Are you all right?”

“Yes,” she quickly assured him. “But she doesn’t think there will be any more babies.” She felt him go still, then the tension slowly eased from his arms. But he didn’t speak, which was wise of him, for how could a man ever know the loss a woman felt when something as elemental as her ability to bear children was suddenly taken away. Not that she yearned to have more children—especially after today—but knowing she couldn’t even if she wanted to . . . well, it changed her, diminished her in some subtle, indefinable way. “It’s quite sad, really,” she said after a while. Sad for her, for him, for the babies who would never be.

His arms tightened around her. She felt his lips move against her hair. “I’m sorry, Jessica.”

She closed her eyes against a sudden sting of tears. “I’m sorry too.”

Just hearing and saying those words, and acknowledging this change in their lives, somehow eased her feeling of loss. “I so love the babies you’ve given me,” she murmured as her eyes fluttered closed.

“Not as much as I loved giving them to you.”

Smiling, she drifted into sleep.

 

 

THAT EVENING, ONCE SHE HAD ASSURED HERSELF THAT THE new mother was doing well and there would be no immediate complications—and hopefully none later either—Molly allowed Brady to move Jessica from the birthing room to the comfort of her own bedroom. Once she was settled in and had partaken of a light meal, Jessica left her in Brady’s care while she supervised setting up the nursery in the adjoining bedroom.

Consuelo, bless her, had already arranged for another Garcia—Pilar, this one was named, and cousin to Lupe and Maria—to be available as a wet nurse. She also introduced Molly to Grandmother Oona, an ex-slave who had a gift with infants and who would be delighted to stay with the babies as long as she was needed.

Satisfied everything was in hand, Molly helped Lupe and Maria put the other children down for the night, then called Buddy and went down to her own room.

She was utterly exhausted. But in a wonderful way. As she relaxed in a steaming bath, she thought about what an exciting, hectic, rewarding day it had been. And surprisingly, not once had she felt queasy or panicky about what she was doing. She hadn’t doubted herself or her skills, and was proud of what she had accomplished. Perhaps she was becoming a healer after all.

To stave off the loneliness of sleeping another night in her empty, oversized bed, Molly allowed Buddy to share it. Yawning, she closed her eyes, and with Buddy tucked tight against her back, and thoughts of Hank drifting through her mind, she sank into a deep, dreamless sleep.

Later—she didn’t know how long—she awoke to an odd sound. She lay listening for a moment, then realized it was Buddy, whining and clawing at the French door onto the balcony porch. “You can’t go out there,” she muttered around a yawn as she rose and pulled on her robe. “You have to go downstairs.”

As soon as she opened the bedroom door, the dog raced down the hall, his nails clicking on the wood floor. Molly went downstairs to let him out the entry door, but found him scratching frantically at the door by the fireplace instead.

“All right, all right,” she told the whining dog as she crossed into the great room to let him out onto the back porch. The moment she opened the door, he was off like a shot. Almost immediately, she heard his frenzied barking along the back corner of the house. Realizing this wouldn’t be a quick trip to relieve himself, and unwilling to stand at the door until he vanquished whatever mouse or stray cat had distracted him, she decided to go check on Jessica.

Brady answered the door in his unions. He looked disoriented and groggy, his dark hair poking out every which way, as if he’d been caught in a stiff wind.

“I came to check on Jessica.”

He blinked at her.

“Your wife.”

He dragged a hand over his face, then frowned. “What’s all that racket?”

“Buddy. How’s Jessica?”

“Asleep.”

“Has she been restless? Feverish? Experiencing pain?”

“Ah . . .” That befuddled look again.

Molly wondered how long the man had gone without sleep before tonight. Pushing past him, she went to the bed and studied Jessica.

She seemed to be resting peacefully. There was no flush of fever and her brow felt cool to the touch. “Has she taken any water?” she asked quietly when Brady came to stand beside her.

“Twice.”

“Has she used the chamber pot?”

“Once, I think. Maybe twice. Check with Consuelo.”

“Have either of you noticed any excessive bleeding?”

His befuddled look became one of alarm. “Bleeding?”

Realizing he was near useless, she patted his arm. “Call me if you notice anything unusual.”

“Why would she be bleeding?”

“It’s normal. But if it’s excessive, call me. Good night, Brady.”

“Jesus.”

After letting Buddy back in at the front door, she went up to her bedroom.

The dog still seemed agitated, and ran around the room several times as if trying to flush out his adversary. After checking the French door, the dressing room, the water closet, and the French door again, he finally came back to bed. But he didn’t settle in as calmly as before, and when Molly drifted to sleep, he was still awake, sitting vigil at the foot of the bed.

 

 

HANK COULDN’T WAIT FOR FIRST LIGHT, AND A FULL HOUR before dawn, he and Charlie and the three RosaRoja ranch hands rode out of Val Rosa.

He hadn’t slept at all, alternately berating himself for leaving Molly without knowing for sure Hennessey wouldn’t show up, and pacing impatiently as he waited for enough light so they could leave.

Now that they were on their way, he worked hard to hold himself in check so he didn’t wear out the horses before they were halfway there. Dawn came with low clouds looming behind them that hinted at a snow squall moving up fast. Hank exchanged a glance with Langley, and they both pushed the horses a little harder, hoping to outrun the storm.

Hank was proud of the way Charlie held up to the fast pace. After that grisly scene in the shed, he’d been worried about the boy. But Charlie seemed to have handled it well, and had slept through the night without any night terrors, so maybe he would be able to put this behind him as Molly hoped.