Montana (24 page)

When he could tolerate it no longer, he had his cousin set the appointment for him—the same way he had that first time. He was prompt, ringing her doorbell at precisely the arranged hour.

It did his ego good to see the surprise in her eyes when she opened the door. “Don't worry, I'm not going to make trouble with your john,” he muttered, “because we're one and the same.”

Her eyes were only a little puffy now and the bruises had faded. The gash on her lip had healed or, if it hadn't, was cleverly disguised with bright lipstick. She wore black hose and a sexy leather skirt that rode halfway up her thighs. The spike heels added a good four inches to her height. Her breasts spilled out of the halter top, which had to be two sizes too small.

She looked as if she wasn't sure what to do, as if the shock was too much for her.

“I decided to take you up on your offer.”

She cast him a puzzled glance. “Offer?”

“I'm here for your specialty,” he announced.

Her eyes widened as though he'd slapped her. A stunned silence followed his words.

“I—”

He pulled out his wallet and extracted a one-hundred-dollar bill. “My money's good, isn't it?” He'd practiced what he'd wanted to say for days, but now that the time had come, he realized he couldn't do it, couldn't humiliate and degrade her, because in doing so, he degraded himself.

He stuffed the bill back into his wallet. “Forget it,” he whispered.

“Russell…”

Not wanting to hear what she had to say, he pushed past her and escaped, accompanied by the sound of her sobs.

 

Cleaning out Gramps's bedroom was like reliving the night of his death. Molly knew she had to do it; it was part of coping with grief. And she and Sam had decided to move into Gramps's downstairs bedroom; somehow the prospect was a comforting one.

Each drawer Molly opened revealed more evidence of his love for her and the children. She discovered her letters tucked away inside books and shirt pockets, reread so many times the edges had frayed.

Pictures of her and of Tom and Clay in various stages of their childhood were all over his room. He'd saved everything she'd ever mailed him. Every photo, every note, every drawing the boys had made. But it was reading his journal that tore her apart.

From the day his Molly had been laid to rest, he'd written his journal as a series of letters to his dead wife. He'd poured out his heart, described his loneliness, his hopes and his doubts. He wrote about how much he loved Molly and her boys, and his fear that his love might suffocate her if she decided to live with him. He spelled out his pain when she decided to stay in California.

Sitting on the edge of the bed, she started to weep and couldn't seem to stop. She wept over the wasted years, when all she'd done was write, instead of making the effort to visit. Not once had he chastised her. Not once had he asked her to come. He'd loved her unselfishly, completely. She broke into renewed sobbing as she realized that his run-down ranch and his one granddaughter were all he had to show for seventy-five years of living. His granddaughter and her sons.

“Mom.” Tom walked into the bedroom.

She shook her head, telling him without words that she needed to be alone.

“Are you all right?”

She covered her mouth with her hand and nodded.

Tom hesitated, then took off at a run, hollering, “Sam! Sam, come quick!”

Knowing that her husband would be equally unnerved by this sudden attack of emotion, Molly made a concerted effort to curtail her sobs—and discovered it was impossible.

“She's gonna be sick if she doesn't stop crying,” Tom said when Sam came rushing in through the living room.

Sam entered the bedroom slowly. “She'll be all right,” he said as he sat down next to Molly. He gathered her in his arms, and she rested her face against his shoulder, letting him absorb her pain and loss.

“It's all right, honey, let it out.” Gently he patted her back. “You've been holding it inside for two weeks now. Have a good cry.”

Tom looked worried. “Should I get her something?”

“Like what?” Sam asked.

“I don't know. Tissue? Aspirin? If she doesn't stop soon, you're gonna need a dry shirt.”

“Will you two kindly shut up?” Molly said through her tears.

“Gramps wouldn't want you to cry like this, Mom.”

“Then he shouldn't have left his journal for me to read,” she blubbered, scrubbing her cheeks with both hands.

“What's for dinner?” Clay said, walking into the room. He stopped abruptly and looked at his older brother. “Are Mom and Sam kissing again?”

“Of course not,” Molly said, straightening. She drew in several deep breaths and squared her shoulders. “I'm all right now.”

“Then what's for dinner?” Clay asked again.

“Food,” Tom said, and ushered his brother out of the bedroom.

Molly gazed up at her husband, knowing her love shone from her eyes. She no longer felt she had to hide it. In a way, Sam was Gramps's final gift to her, and she knew without question that she loved him.

“When did Clay find us kissing?” he asked.

She blushed. “Probably the other morning.” The first day of school, and her youngest son had awakened early. He'd stumbled into the kitchen to find Molly sitting in Sam's lap, the two them deeply involved in each other. Muttering under his breath, Clay had ignored them and popped bread in the toaster.

Sam had headed for the barn almost immediately afterward, but he'd snuck back into the house before he rode out for the day and stolen one last kiss. He was more openly affectionate these days, as they grew more comfortable with each other.

Sam followed her into the kitchen now. “I've got something to ask you, Clay,” he said, clearing his throat. “Do you have a problem with me kissing your mother?”

Clay shrugged. “Not really.”

“You, Tom?”

“It doesn't bother me. You can kiss her all you like. You're the one who married her.”

Her son certainly had an eloquent way of putting things, Molly thought, rolling her eyes.

“When you asked us how we felt about you marrying Mom, you said, you know…” Clay looked from Molly to Sam, then back to Molly.

“You talked to the boys before we got married?” Molly asked him after dinner. Tom had cleared the table and Sam was helping her put leftovers away.

“Yeah. I figured they should have some say about me being their stepfather.”

“Really. And how did they answer you?”

Sam chuckled and reached for the dish towel. “Tom said he was grateful someone was willing to marry you. He'd about given up hope.”

Molly didn't believe him for a minute. Lifting her hands out of the soapy water, she flicked suds at him and laughed when they landed square in the middle of his chest.

He was about to retaliate when the phone rang. Sam glanced regretfully at the wall, then grabbed the receiver. “Hello,” he said, still laughing as he flung the suds in Molly's direction.

Molly watched as the laughter abruptly left his eyes and he slammed the receiver back on the hook.

“Who was that?” she asked.

Sam was already halfway out the door. He turned toward her, his jaw taut. “Ginny. We've got a grass fire,” he said. “We could lose everything. Get the boys and follow me.”

M
olly wondered what had started the fire—until Sam found a discarded gas can by the side of the road. He was convinced it had been deliberately set. From what he could determine, the blaze had started in some dry grass and spread within minutes. Thankfully, a shift in the wind had saved the house and barn from certain disaster. Using the tractor and shovels and beating out the flames with blankets, Sam, Molly, Ginny, Fred and the boys, plus members of the volunteer fire department, had stopped it before it roared toward the pasture where the herd grazed.

Exhausted from fighting the fire, smelling of smoke, her clothes and skin covered with soot and ashes, Molly trudged back to the house. The boys followed, too tired to squabble, and dragged their shovels behind them. The volunteer firefighters had already left, and so had Ginny and her cousin. The family had stayed in the field, checking to make sure there were no smoldering patches. When they reached the yard, Sam jumped down from the tractor, and placed his arm around her shoulder.

“You okay?” he asked, searching her face.

His concern and love gave her the energy to smile and offer him the reassurance he needed.

“I think it's time you called the sheriff, don't you?” Molly asked as they sat at the kitchen table. The fire had frightened her. She'd thought…hoped…that they'd seen the end of this harassment. The other so-called incidents, while disastrous, hadn't been life-threatening. A fire was serious business, and as far as she was concerned it was time to bring in the authorities.

“Fine,” Sam said. His mouth tightened. “Not that I expect Maynard to do anything.”

“Why not?” Molly knew that for some reason the two men disliked each other, but she didn't want to believe the sheriff would allow his personal feelings to interfere with law enforcement.

“I just don't,” was all Sam would say.

After they'd showered and changed clothes, Sam made the call.

Sheriff Maynard was apparently out of town on business; he didn't show up until the following evening. Molly was standing at the sink, washing the supper dishes, when she heard his car. She hurried over to hold open the screen door for him. “Thank you for coming, Sheriff.”

“So you had some trouble out here yesterday?”

“We did. Clay, get Sam for me, would you?”

Her son nodded and hurried toward the barn.

“I took the liberty of contacting Chief Layman of the fire department. He'll want to question you and your…husband himself.”

He hesitated over the word
husband
in a manner that suggested disapproval. Molly pretended not to notice. “Could I get you a cup of coffee while we talk?” she offered.

“That'd be real nice.” He followed her to the kitchen, sat down at the table and took a small notepad from his shirt pocket.

When Sam came into the house, he chose to lean against the counter, rather than sit at the table with Sheriff Maynard. They eyed each other malevolently.

Molly poured three mugs of coffee and carried the first two to Sam and the sheriff. Both men continued to stare each other down, behaving like junkyard dogs looking for an excuse to fight.

To his credit Sheriff Maynard remained civil. Molly couldn't say the same for Sam.

“You suspect the fire was purposely started?” the sheriff asked, directing the question to Molly.

Sam responded. “I don't think. I know.”

“How's that?”

Sam folded his arms. “It doesn't take a genius to figure it out, seeing that it started at the road.”

“It could've been an accident,” Sheriff Maynard said. “People can be thoughtless and stupid. Someone could have tossed a cigarette out the window. What makes you think this was intentional? I find that hard to believe.”

“Believe what you want,” Sam returned stiffly, “but the fire wasn't started by any cigarette. Whoever did this left behind a gas can.”

The sheriff made a notation on the pad. “No real harm done, though, was there?”

“As a matter of fact there was.” Sam's voice grew harder. “I'm getting ready to sell off my herd. If the winds hadn't shifted when they did, we could have lost everything. So I'm telling you right now—”

“Don't raise your voice to me, Dakota, because it wouldn't take much for me to haul your sorry ass to jail.” The threat was as shocking as it was real.

“What Sam means, Sheriff,” Molly said, intervening quickly, “is that yesterday wasn't the first time something like this has happened. The fire is the latest in a series of such incidents.”

“Have you reported everything else that happened?”

Sam looked away, his eyes as dark as a thundercloud.

“I phoned about the cut fence lines,” Molly answered.

Sheriff Maynard nodded, studying Sam, regarding him with the same cautious distrust he might give a rattlesnake. When he spoke again, it was directly to Sam. “As I explained to your wife, Dakota, Chief Layman will be out to ask a few questions in the morning. I'll take the evidence back with me for possible prints.”

“Whoever did this wouldn't be stupid enough to leave fingerprints. He left the can so we'd know the fire was deliberate.”

“As I said, Chief Layman will look things over in the morning. I'm sorry about the fire, but let's just be grateful no one was hurt.” The sheriff took a last swallow of coffee and stood, pushing his chair away from the table.

With no thank-you or word of farewell, Sam reached for his hat and headed out the back door. It slammed in his wake.

Molly resisted the urge to apologize for Sam's behavior. She didn't particularly like Sheriff Maynard, either, but he represented the law. Despite personality differences he was a professional, duly elected, and probably a good lawman.

Molly followed him out to his patrol car. “I'm sorry you and my husband don't see eye to eye,” she said.

The sheriff opened his door and paused. “Sam and I seem to have gotten off on the wrong foot.”

“Do you mind telling me why?” Sam was a lot of things, but unreasonable wasn't usually one of them. And she had to assume that Sheriff Maynard was a rational man, too.

“I think you'd best discuss that with your husband. I can tell you it started the day he arrived in Sweetgrass looking for a fight. With an attitude like that it didn't take him long to find one.” He appeared to regret having said this much. “Molly, I wish you'd never married a—” He snapped his mouth closed. “I beg your pardon, it's none of my business.”

A
what?

“Sheriff, please, I need to hear this.” Whatever he had to say might help her understand the animosity between the two men. If Sam was going to be part of the Sweetgrass community, he had to learn to put aside differences and make an effort to get along with everyone. The longer she was married, the more Sam reminded her of her grandfather, with his frequently uncompromising beliefs.

“Gramps was fond of Sam, you know,” she felt obliged to tell him. “He was delighted when Sam and I got married.”

Sheriff Maynard frowned. “That makes me wonder if Walter was aware of all the facts.”

“What facts?”

The sheriff studied her long and hard before he spoke again. “Dakota didn't tell you, did he?”

“Tell me what?”

“That son of a bitch,” the sheriff snarled.

“Sheriff, whatever it is, tell me!”

He hesitated long enough for her to know this wasn't going to be good news. “It'd be better if your husband had the common decency to tell you this himself before he married you. But seeing that he didn't, I don't trust him to tell you now, so…”

Molly braced herself.

Sheriff Maynard's eyes avoided hers. “Your husband has a prison record, Mrs. Dakota. He served two years in a Washington-state prison for second-degree assault, and left the state as soon as he was released from parole.”

A gasp of shock slid involuntarily from the back of her throat. Molly reached blindly for something to support her.

“I'm terribly sorry, Molly. I don't know if Walt ever knew.”

Her knees felt as if they were melting. She had to find somewhere to sit before they completely gave out on her.

“Thank you for telling me.” Somehow she managed to get the words out.

“Are you going to be all right?” He placed a supportive hand at her elbow.

“Fine. I'm fine.” Turning around, she slowly climbed the steps, feeling exhausted by the time she reached the door. She stumbled into the house and sank into a chair at the table, gripping the edge with both hands.

She'd been married twice. The first marriage had nearly destroyed her, and the second was threatening to do the same. Two husbands, years apart, and somehow she'd managed to marry two…criminals.

 

The anger and resentment toward Sheriff Maynard galvanized Sam. Sweat poured down his forehead as he pitched hay into the stall, working hard, ignoring his aching muscles.

When Molly suggested they phone the sheriff, Sam knew he was making a mistake. With another man, Sam might have put forth some effort to clear the air. But once Maynard made up his mind about someone, his opinion didn't change.

Sam realized his own anger was a form of self-defense. Sheriff Maynard didn't like or trust him, so Sam was unwilling to offer the hand of friendship. Sure as hell, the lawman would slap a handcuff around it.

The interview had gone poorly, and Sam wasn't sure who to blame. The sheriff appeared to be suggesting that the entire episode with the fire was accidental when anyone with a lick of sense could tell it wasn't. Even asking about the earlier incidents, he didn't reveal any real interest. Nor had he bothered to write down pertinent details, other than what Sam had told him about finding the gas can.

The poisoned water hole could have resulted in disaster; so could the damaged windmill. The pasture near Custer Hills was without a running stream, and the windmill pumped drinking water for the herd. Which was no small thing. Luckily Sam had been able to repair it quickly. He didn't want to consider what would have happened if he hadn't discovered it when he did. There'd been too many incidents like this over the summer. Too many not to believe foul play wasn't involved. The fact that there was already a buyer for the land on the off chance Molly wanted to sell made him even more suspicious.

The old man had been smarter than he realized in deeding Sam those five hundred acres. His section sat squarely in the middle of the property. Not until after the funeral did Russell Letson get the final papers to Sam, and only then did he realize what Walt had done. Molly could sell the land, if worse came to worst, but her two sides of the property would be cut off from each other unless his land was included in the sale. Come hell or high water, Sam wouldn't relinquish those acres. In any event, he was prohibited from doing so by the terms of the agreement.

Setting the pitchfork aside, he left the barn and headed back to the house, fully expecting to get an earful from Molly. He wasn't blind to the looks she'd sent him when they'd spoken to Sheriff Maynard. She hadn't been pleased by his attitude. Well, he wasn't going to apologize. The sheriff was equally at fault.

Halfway between the barn and the house, Sam paused. He stood in the middle of the yard and surveyed the grounds, and even in the waning light he saw that the grass was charred and black. He shuddered; he could only be grateful that this latest disaster had passed them by.

He'd purposely delayed going back into the house, giving Molly time to cool down before he showed his face. The burns on his hands still throbbed, his back ached, and he wanted to be with his wife.

When Gramps had first suggested the marriage, Sam had been interested. The promise of land and cattle was one hell of an inducement. Molly could have resembled one of Cinderella's stepsisters and he still would've been tempted. What he hadn't understood at the time was how damn much he'd enjoy married life.

Sometimes when he woke in the middle of the night with Molly lying at his side, he was overcome with a sense of humility. Much of his life had been hard, devoid of tenderness. He'd served time in prison, although he tried to push that memory to the farthest reaches of his mind. In the years since, he'd drifted from one town to the next. One job to the next, until one ranch had looked much like another.

Then he'd met Walter Wheaton, a sick old man about to lose everything. The rancher had offered him a job when no one else wanted him. As it turned out, they'd needed each other. While he'd gratefully accepted Walt's proposal, Sam had suspected this would be the hardest he'd ever work for anyone, and he'd been right.

But he'd gained so much—a home, a wife, a family. His heart seemed to expand in his chest. He'd given up on love, readily admitting that he'd never understood it or experienced it. Until Molly…This was supposed to be a marriage of convenience, not of love. He and Molly had never said the word to each other, had never discussed how their feelings had changed. It didn't matter. He knew they had.