Open Country (12 page)

While the Englishwoman cleaned her hand, Molly studied her, feeling more inadequate and awkward by the moment.

She felt hopelessly inept in social situations. She had no flair, no interest in small talk, and no inclination to flirt. Most Southern women burst from the womb with all the correct phrases and mannerisms etched into their memories. They knew instinctively how to coo, and bat their eyelashes, and flit through life like dainty butterflies. And what they weren’t born knowing, they were taught by their mothers.

But after the age of twelve Molly had no mother and no one to teach her but Papa—energetic, flamboyant, charismatic Papa. What did it matter if his shoes didn’t match or the buttons on his vest didn’t line up or his hair needed a trim? He was a genius and so far above such banal considerations it wasn’t worth notice. Much like his awkward, too-serious daughter, his shadow in the shadows.

While other fifteen-year-olds went to finishing school, Molly went to the surgical wing of Our Lady of Mercy Hospital. While other girls painted watercolors and stitched samplers, Molly mopped blood and stitched torn flesh. While they flirted with handsome young men, Molly watched them die. From the Battle of Atlanta to the horror of Andersonville, she had seen too much, endured too much to remain unchanged. Such harsh experience had separated her forever from what she was supposed to be, and now after so many years the gap was too wide to bridge. And never did Molly feel that sense of alienation and isolation more keenly than when faced with a woman as feminine and gracious as Her Ladyship.

The woman was striking. Exceptionally tall, regal, and graceful—despite the slight evidence of her pregnancy—with curly red-gold hair; wide, intelligent eyes; and a smile that rivaled her husband’s. Taken separately, her features were unexceptional. But together, and set off by that vibrant hair and her commanding height, she was easily one of the most attractive women Molly had ever seen.

Or she might have been had she not been crying recently. Not only was her nose red and her skin splotchy, her eyes were puffy and her top lip seemed double the size of the bottom.

Oddly, evidence of such honest emotion made Molly admire her all the more.

After wiping her hand, Jessica carefully folded the cloth and set it on the counter. They stood in silence until the need to unburden herself forced Molly to speak. “He remembers the machinery he was bringing back. It means he’s starting to remember.”

“Is he? How wonderful!”

“Yes. But—”

“But he’s a long way from full recovery,” Jessica cut in before Molly could make her confession . . . almost as if she knew what was coming and had intentionally headed it off. Perhaps Brady had told her of his suspicions. Another innocent drawn into this deception.

“It’s most vexing.” Jessica made a fluttery gesture with one graceful hand. “Hank has always been the steady one. Invincible, it seemed. It’s difficult seeing him so . . .” Her voice faltered. She cleared her throat then met Molly’s gaze, her expression fiercely determined. “I know circumstances hastened your marriage and that you probably would have preferred to wait. But it’s done. And even if Hank doesn’t fully remember you now, he soon will, and then all will be put to rights. But until then, he needs you.”

Did Jessica truly not know the marriage was a sham? Or was she pretending, for propriety’s sake? Molly couldn’t tell. Things had gone so far beyond her control now she hardly knew what was real anymore.

“Will you help us, Molly? Will you see Hank through this? We couldn’t bear to lose him.”

Did she really have a choice? What had changed over the last two days—other than marrying a dying man, who didn’t die, and finding herself under the thumb of Satan’s sidekick? She still needed money. She still had two children to protect. And she still had Fletcher’s men tracking her every move.

And then, of course, there was Hank. Beautiful, quirky, funny Hank. He needed her.

Jessica must have read her hesitation. Words came out in a rush, as if by talking fast she could overcome Molly’s reluctance. “Brady said you were in difficult circumstances, that you were low on funds and had two children in your care. I understand you must do what is best for them. Believe me, I do. But we can help you, Molly. Money, a place to stay, whatever you need.” She must have realized she was twisting her hands because she abruptly stopped and laced them tightly at her waist. “Help us. Please, Molly. Hank is my friend, and Brady, well . . . Brady has lost too many brothers as it is.”

Molly felt that tug of sympathy that always got her into trouble. A good nurse couldn’t afford that emotion. It would crush her. So she hardened herself against it by mentally stepping back. “So you want this marriage to continue? You want me to come to the ranch?”

“I want you to make him well again, no matter what it takes. And I would be so grateful if you came to the ranch. It would be lovely having another woman to talk to. Brady, well . . .” She smiled, wryly. “Although I adore him to distraction, he can be such a dolt.”

Tactfully, Molly didn’t agree. “But surely there’s a doctor you can call.”

“O’Grady.” Jessica made a dismissive gesture. “A bit of a tippler, I’m sorry to say. Besides”—she gave Molly a sly smile—“I have no doubt Hank would prefer being nursed by you than O’Grady.”

Molly doubted that. But again, what choice did she really have? “Well . . .”

“Oh, thank you,” Jessica cried, taking Molly’s hand in her own. “You have such a kind face, I knew you would help us.” Tucking Molly’s hand into the crook of her elbow, she pulled her gently but determinedly toward the door. “I vow we shall be great friends. I knew it the moment Brady told me you hit him with a spoon. I daresay he deserved it. He always does. And while we get that skirt changed, I’ll tell you all about my first meeting with Brady and how I almost gelded him with a parasol. It’s a charming story.”

Pulled along in the Englishwoman’s wake, Molly wondered if she’d just been manipulated again. If so, at least this time it had been done with a gentler touch.

 

 

THE WOMAN WAS A FORCE OF NATURE. BEFORE THE DAY WAS done, Jessica had everyone organized for the overnight trip to Redemption. They would travel in the accommodations Jessica had borrowed from the railroad owner, which consisted of a locomotive and tender, a caboose, and a forty-foot-long sleeping and parlor car. The two ranch hands she’d brought with her would bunk in the caboose, which also served as quarters for the brakeman, engineer, fireman, and conductor.

Coupled behind the caboose was the parlor-sleeping car, which was divided into four compartments. The small forward section contained fold-down bunks for the owner’s personal staff. Molly and the children would sleep there. Next was a compact galley kitchen, and behind that, the parlor, with plush seats and a small dining area. Hank would travel there on a makeshift bed that would better accommodate his size. There was a tiny water closet that dumped directly onto the tracks, and at the end of the car, the owner’s sleeping quarters, which was where Brady and Jessica would sleep.

They loaded Hank last. Because he was still dizzy from the head wound and weakened by his other injuries, Jessica didn’t want him subjected to the jarring of a wagon down the rutted and rapidly thawing street, so over his strenuous objections, she had the two ranch hands, Brady, and three men she conscripted from the hotel strap him on a door they’d also conscripted from the hotel and carry him through town to the depot. Molly and the children followed with baskets of medical supplies.

The Beckworths saw them off, the reverend presenting Molly a box filled with food and Effie struggling not to cry as she bent down to hug Penny and Charlie.

Molly made a vow to come back someday and thank them properly.

By nightfall they were on their way to Redemption, the mining town that served the Wilkins silver mines. Once there, they would transfer to wagons and continue over another pass to RosaRoja Valley, the home of their high mountain ranch.

“WE OUGHT TO KEEP HER. MOLLY, I MEAN.”

Jessica’s gaze met Brady’s in the mirror over the vanity in the owner’s private car. One copper brow rose. “Of course we’ll keep her. She’s Hank’s wife.”

Bracing his legs against the swaying of the rail car, Brady slipped off his shirt and tossed it onto a chair, enjoying the way her whiskey brown eyes pored over his chest. “I just meant she’s a hell of a nurse. Better than O’Grady. It might be nice having her around the place. You know, just in case.” He tried not to flex too much as he unbuckled his belt. The woman was pregnant, after all, and she’d had a long day. Still . . . the rocking motion of the car brought up some interesting possibilities.

Or not, judging by the way she swiveled on the stool and planted her hands on her hips. Always a bad sign.

“Is that what this is about, Brady? Why you forced her to come to the ranch?”

Avoiding her gaze, he climbed into bed. “It was her choice.” Which, without going into the particulars, was mostly true.

“Oh, Brady.” With a sigh, she rose from the stool, grabbing the bedpost for balance as the rail car swayed and rocked. “Just because there was some difficulty with my last confinement, there is no need to think it will happen again.”

Some difficulty
? Brady still broke into a sweat when he thought of those harrowing hours when she struggled to bring Abigail into the world. It had been a breech birth, and he had nearly lost them both. Now, eight months later, she was pregnant again. The woman was killing him.

Hanging her robe on the bedpost, she got into bed and began rooting around like she did every night, fluffing the pillows, pulling the covers just so, then neatly folding over the top and smoothing out every wrinkle.

Brady watched, arms tucked behind his head. He loved the way she fussed around. He loved that she was his, and he knew without her he’d die. It was that simple and that pathetic. Ever since she’d told him she was pregnant again, he’d been in a blind panic—how could nursing mothers even get pregnant? But with Molly coming to the ranch, maybe he wouldn’t have to worry so much. He hoped so. He’d already had to tighten his belt a notch and Jessica was barely even showing.

“All done?” he asked when she had finally settled down, arms on top of the covers straight against her sides.

“All done.”

“Good.” He turned down the wick on the lamp bolted to the wall beside the bed, then rolled over, messing up her perfect arrangement, and pulled her back against his chest. “I missed you,” he said against the crown of her head.

“It’s only been two days.” She sent him a look over her shoulder.

“Do you know what Ben said yesterday?”

“Mmm, what?” Closing his eyes, he ran his hand over her breasts, down her belly to skim the arch of her hip, learning by feel the daily changes her pregnancy brought. It was a chore he never tired of.

“He said, ‘Hellfire.’ He finally speaks and the first word he says is profanity.”

Brady grinned into the darkness. Ben was his son by intent, if not blood, and he loved him fiercely. From the minute Jessica had blundered into his life, pregnant and on the run, he had taken her and her unborn child into his heart. They never spoke of the bastard who had fathered Ben—Jessica’s brother-in-law and rapist—the sonofabitch was dead anyway—and even though his brothers and Jessica’s sister knew the truth, Brady never thought of Ben as anything but his son. He was past his second birthday now and a redheaded terror like his mama. Abigail, though still a crawler, looked to be an early walker. And now they had another on the way. He would have considered himself the luckiest man in the world if he hadn’t been so worried.

She pinched his roving hand to regain his attention. “The point,” she said in that starchy high-toned voice he found so amusing, “is that he used profanity. Where do you suppose he learned that?”

Brady avoided another pinch by moving his hand up to cup her breast. Which by rights should be his breast, since he was a lot fonder of it than she seemed to be, a claim he was willing to restake every chance he got. “Probably from Dougal.”

“As if. Dougal knows better after I threatened to send him back to Scotland if he continued to misbehave with the children.”

“Speaking of children,” Brady said, adroitly changing the subject as he ran his palm over her rounded belly. “How’s little Thomas Jefferson today?”

“Nigel is fine.”

“And you?”

“Tired. Relieved to be going home. Grateful Hank is better.”

“You’re sure? No pains?”

“I’m fine.” She reached up to pat his cheek. “You must stop this incessant worrying, you sweet, silly man.”

Sweet? Silly?
“All I did was ask how you were. How is that worrying?”

She lifted his hand to kiss his open palm then pulled his arm tighter around her. “I missed you too.”

They lay in silence, lulled by the rocking motion of the car and the clickety-clack of the wheels as they rolled over the joints in the track. “I was scared, Jessica,” he said after a while. “I thought we were going to lose him. After Sam, then Jack—”