Echoes (34 page)

Her limbs felt like lead and she sank to the floor, letting the past have her again. The images began to form, taking shape, taking over. From a distance Tess realized the phone was ringing, but it was too late, she couldn't cross back when she was almost there.

The answering machine picked up. A woman's voice spoke. "I need to see you. It's urgent. This is..." The woman made a sound that carried through to Tess. Frustration? Fear? She heard a click, and then a brief burst of dial tone finalized the call.

Still, Tess couldn't move. The feeling of both worlds layering over her cemented the certainty that the past and the present were connected by more than Tess and Molly. That more than Tess's own destiny hinged on the turn of Molly's fate.

A small ticking noise drew her gaze to the wall. It shimmered like oil on water, the eggshell paint fading and brightening at once and the ticking became the steady clank of pots and pans as the wagon wheels turned. Tess forced herself to focus on that sound, to race towards it, to make the leap.

Chapter Thirty-Three

Molly exhaled, looking across the Wyoming landscape as she approached Independence Rock. The distinctive outcropping of earth rose like a massive round beast from the sandy banks of the riverside. It was named for the day Frémont and his men had first explored it. For Molly it underscored how far they had come and how much they had sacrificed to get there. That the Hanson party was passing it on the twenty-eighth of July rather than the fourth was a matter of much concern because Independence Rock represented only the halfway point where they would leave behind the Platte in exchange for the Sweetwater River. They still had miles and miles to go.

For the first time in days, she'd been free to walk alone. Arlie had been so needy since Rosie's death that she hadn't been able to put him down for an instant without him crying for her to hold him again. Only today had he agreed to lay down in the wagon without Molly beside him. She'd been hesitant to leave him, even in the competent and nurturing care of Mrs. Imogene Tate, but her words had convinced Molly to go.

"Miss Molly, you look like you've been carrying the worries of all the world around with you," Mrs. Imogene had said as she shoed Molly away. "That's our Lord's job, child. You go on and put some peace to your mind. I'll watch Arlie and comfort him when he wakes. Go on with you."

But each step she took toward the milestone seemed only to push it farther away. Or perhaps her perception had nothing to do with Independence Rock. She turned and searched for Adam riding far behind her, near the last of the wagons. She'd seen little of him since they'd buried Rosie. Unconsciously she wanted to put her own distance between herself and the object of her hurt and confusion.

Neither of them knew what to do next. If Mrs. Imogene hadn't stepped forward and taken charge after Rosie's death, Molly didn't know how she would have survived. With her rich auburn hair and stern beak of a nose, Mrs. Imogene could scare the scalp off an Indian, as Mr. Tate was apt to put it. But she had compassionate brown eyes set evenly beneath her smooth brow and a smile that could coax flowers from the sun. Her chin was as weak as her Louisiana bred morals were strong and her knowledge of scripture would have humbled even the Reverend.

Gratefully Molly acquiesced when the older woman declared, "I'd not be able to hold my head up in church if I didn't intervene on your behalf, child. Living with two unmarried men is like asking the devil to Sunday supper. Temptation is a powerful sin and as a servant to the Lord Jesus, I must stand against it."

The devil to Sunday supper.
Mrs. Imogene had had no idea just how accurate an appraisal she'd made.

Molly had not spoken of Rosie's dying words, not to Adam and certainly not to Brodie who had no doubt heard them himself. At first, it was the sheer grief of her loss that had kept Molly silent. She couldn't bring herself to bear accusations against Brodie based on Rosie's dying confession. To do so would have been a betrayal of the beloved woman. But there were many times in the dark days following that Molly had been overcome with the need to point at Brodie and condemn him for what he was. The only thing holding her back was the realization that if she did so, Adam would be the one to pay the price.

Rosie had not kept her secret from Adam on a whim. She had known that it would destroy him to learn what his brother had done. In her heart, Molly believed that Rosie felt Brodie's crime a mishap. An unfortunate accident that would never be repeated. She'd blamed Vanessa for pushing him to it, not Brodie for carrying out the unforgivable deed. If she'd told Adam, it would have ripped her family in two. So she'd carried her dark secret across all the miles, but she couldn't take the burden with her to the beyond.

Now it was Molly who bore the burden on her shoulders. She cared not what happened to Brodie. He deserved every punishment that might be his. But Adam... What would he do if she told him? Cast out his brother? Relinquish him to whatever fate awaited him, when it was Adam who had brought him here, who'd brought Vanessa home in the first place?

And that left her with the most painful thought of all. What about Vanessa who had been murdered by Brodie Weston and then buried under the guise of an accident? What justice was there for Molly's sister? Who, but Molly, could avenge her death?

Lost in her troubled thoughts, Molly at last reached the enormous rock formation. When she turned to look back at the wagons lumbering behind, she was surprised to find how much distance she'd put between herself and the rest of them. Placing a hand on the rough stone, she took a deep breath and stared at the hundreds of names carved or painted on its sides. She read the messages left by those who had come before her for those who would come after and for the go-backs who might tell home that VD Moody or Miss Mary Zachary had been there.

She let her fingers trail over the carvings as she made her way around, losing herself in the brief messages and tidings. So many people had passed this way, so many had not been fortunate enough to survive thus far. The brief passages inscribed here struck her with the sheer impossibility of their quest. Why had they all felt the need to make this journey? How many more would follow? Could they actually achieve their destination, or would it all be in vain? All the suffering, the loss of loved ones, the sacrifices....

Feeling like another step might be too much to take, she leaned against the stone and stared heavenward. She'd thought herself alone, but the sound of boots on the loose gravel forewarned the appearance of a shadow from the other side of the rock. An instant later, Adam materialized like a vision hued from the hot sun and savage land.

The anguish of Rosie's death had drawn haggard shadows beneath his eyes and etched lines of strain on the strong plains of his face. He shaved every Sunday, but the weekly grooming could not combat the stubble that darkened his cheeks and made him look as rough and untamed as the rugged wilderness surrounding them. His hat was pulled down, but his eyes glimmered with a translucent light from below the brim.

She stood motionless as his quicksilver gaze traveled over her face, no doubt making the same assessments as she had. The time they'd spent apart had not been kind to either of them.

"I left Brodie in charge of the wagon," he said, as if in answer to a query. "I'm thinking I'll probably find them both in Mexico, but I needed the break." He gave her a half hearted grin that looked as tired and forced as the one she tried to muster in return. "Arlie's with Mrs. Imogene?" he asked.

Molly nodded.

"Looks like we're the first ones here," he said, taking off his hat to run his fingers through his hair.

She was struck anew by how tall and broad shouldered he was. The buttons on his shirt strained with the movement of his arms and the muscles beneath his skin bunched and tautened. The sun had browned his forearms and the soft springy hairs glittered with tawny shades of ochre and auburn baked in by the exposure to its rays. Like a cat with a lure, Molly watched each flexing with fascination.

He wore the ordinary dress of the emigrants, but on Adam nothing appeared common. Was it the breadth of him or the person within that made him stand out like a vein of gold in the depths of granite? There was a small, triangular tear in his shirt just at his ribs and she felt a pang of guilt at the sight of it. When Rosie had been alive, the two had managed to keep them all in clean and mended clothes. Without her, Molly was lucky to keep up with the washing alone. There wasn't time or energy to tend to the stitching as well.

Seeing the direction of her stare, Adam poked a rueful finger at the hole. "Caught it on a corner."

He stared at Molly again, turning her into a mass of confusion. She looked down, hiding her face beneath the brim of her bonnet. She wanted to say something to him, but her emotions had somehow caught up in her throat and she couldn't manage a sound.

"I heard someone say you can climb to the top of it," Adam said, looking up.

Molly followed his gaze. Independence Rock looked much like a giant buffalo crouched down to slumber. One side was relatively smooth and rounded, but the other had irregular ledges that jutted out.

"Why would one care to climb after so much walking?" she said, her voice shaky but clear.

He shrugged. "Must feel like being on the top of the world once you make it up."

They stared at one another again as everything else fell away. This time her smile felt whole and right and the answering glimmer in Adam's eyes burned like a flame beneath the iceberg that had become her heart. He reached out and touched her face with his work worn hands. She knew they were rough, but against her skin his fingers felt like warmed silk.

"What do you say, city girl?"

The ascent was not so difficult as she'd first thought, but she'd had to hike her skirts and knot them at the side to give her freedom to move. The knowledge that Adam was just below her, settling his large hands in the places where hers had just been brought a sense of uncanny connection, as if she were leaving pieces of herself behind for him to gather and carry up.

When she reached the top, she was out of breath and the muscles in her arms and shoulders were pulled and sore, but the tight, locked up agony in her soul took flight as she stepped onto the plateau. Adam followed, winded as well with a fine sheen of sweat on his face. This high, the teasing breeze held a gust of coolness that blew like heaven's breath over their heated skin.

"It
is
like being on top of the world," she said.

For miles in any direction they could see the unbroken terrain stretching out like a quilt of scrub, dirt and rock, seamed by a river down the center. To the east the winding snake of the Hanson wagons forged on. Far off in the west, the tail end of another party of emigrants curled into the distance. They looked like toys, moved by the invisible hands of God.

Adam unscrewed the lid to his canteen and offered her a drink. The water was tepid and brackish, but her throat was dry and its wetness was as welcome as a fresh stream.

"Thank you," she murmured, handing it back. She watched him place his mouth where hers had been and drink. He tipped his head back, as if in worship to the sun and the muscles of his throat moved with sinewy grace as he swallowed. Just watching him, being near him, was like having a part of herself replaced.

They sat quietly for a moment, looking out over the land like a king and queen surveying their kingdom. Molly thought longingly of all the times when they'd found conversation without awkward pauses or stumbling words. Now the space between them was as filled with the unspoken as it was the tiny dust particles that danced in the air.

He shook his head and turned to watch the wagons lumbering closer. "Sometimes it doesn't feel like we're ever going to get through this. I keep thinking what a fool I was to drag everyone out here. Now Ma's dead. You're living with strangers. I don't hardly see my son and I want to wring my brother's neck every time I look at him."

What could she say to that? They'd all made their own decisions to come, but who could have foreseen what would happen?

"I've missed you, Molly." He looked at her then, his eyes like thunder, swirling and clashing with the feelings that he didn't try to conceal. He opened his hand and held it out to her. She placed her own inside, watching with bemusement as his fingers closed and her hand was engulfed in the gentle strength of him.

She had imagined moments like this so many times that now she doubted it was real. Had she conjured it from her shattered desires? The breeze teased between them, like a kindly spirit urging them closer. It was all the invitation Molly needed. She leaned toward him and Adam met her half way, gathering her up against the hard muscles of his chest and kissing her with a hunger that echoed in her heart. It seemed that here, on top of the world, they were at last free to explore the shape and taste of one another.

The trail had worn them both to leanness, but it had not diminished the solid feel of him. Her hands roamed the thick muscles of his shoulders and back, moving restlessly to the rough beard on his cheeks and silky strands of hair that brushed his collar.

His skin smelled warm and faintly of soap and sweat and he tasted of willow bark and the honey mint drops that Mrs. Imogene seemed to have in endless supply. They kissed for all the days of separation. They kissed for the promise of the future. For past, for present, for the aching losses they had shared.