Open Country (15 page)

“A couple of days if you have no fever and you’re up to it.”

Real clothes. Real food. Thank you, Jesus.
“I’ll be up to it.”

 

 

THEY LEFT BY CARRIAGE TWO DAYS LATER, BUNDLED IN THEIR warmest clothes and flanked by the outriders Brady insisted accompany his family whenever they were away from the ranch. Jessica, anxious to return to her children, had left the day before. Brady planned to follow later that day, after tending to mine issues his brother wasn’t up to yet—apparently Hank ran the mining business, while Brady oversaw the ranching and cattle interests. So it was just she and Hank and the children riding in the large, well-sprung closed carriage, which, judging by the garish décor, Brady must have borrowed from the madam at the local brothel—how did he explain
that
to his wife?

With so many people inside, the coach stayed fairly warm despite the gusty November wind that rattled the small glass windows from time to time. It was no longer snowing, but the higher they rode into the mountains, the lower the temperature dropped until the muddy track gave way to frozen ruts.

Molly could see that the constant jarring bothered Hank. To distract him as well as introduce the children to the place where they would reside for the indeterminate future, she asked what the name “RosaRoja Rancho” meant.

“Red Rose Ranch,” he explained. “It was named that in ’39 when the previous owners planted a hundred rosebushes along the foundation of the house to commemorate the birth of Sancho, their son.”

“How lovely.”

“Not really,” he said dryly. “They were destroyed by that same son when he burned the ranch to the ground thirty years later. Jessica planted yellow roses when we rebuilt.”

“Then why isn’t it called Yellow Rose Ranch?”

This time he almost smiled. “We changed the name to Wilkins Cattle and Mining to make a new start. But everybody still calls it RosaRoja.”

“Why did he burn it?”

He shifted and resituated his injured arm. “It’s a long story.”

“You’d rather I recite poetry? Or sing?”

Even in their short acquaintance, Molly had learned Hank wasn’t much of a talker. In fact, he volunteered as little information as possible. But rather than attribute it to shyness, as Brady did, she had decided Hank was just naturally reticent. When he had something to say, he spoke. When he didn’t, he didn’t.

But she had no intention of traveling for several hours in silence, or worse, listening to children squabble over the least little thing to relieve their boredom. Either Hank would talk, or she would. And since she’d already heard everything she had to say, she preferred to listen to him.

“Tell us why he burned it,” she prodded.

“Yeah, tell us, Papa-Hank,” Penny seconded. She loved stories.

With reluctance, he did. “It was all part of a feud that started years ago,” he began, “over a tract of land granted a century earlier to the Ramirez family by Charles the Second of Spain. Not a big grant. Eighty-eight thousand six hundred and forty acres—or one hundred thirty-eight-and-a-half square miles, to be precise.”

And Molly had noted that Hank was markedly precise whenever numbers were involved. In fact, during his crisis, when his temperature had risen so high it had brought on feverish dreams, she had heard him mumble numbers several times. When she had asked Brady about it, he had told her his brother often did sums in his sleep—sort of Hank’s way of calming his mind whenever something preyed on him.

“He can do all kinds of calculations in his head,” Brady had expounded, then had gone on to add, “Besides being a looker with a talent for growing hair and a gift for numbers, he also has a magical touch when it came to fixing things or gentling horses or knocking a fractious mule to its knees with a single punch. Helluva thing.”

She had thought he was joking. He wasn’t. The man had the oddest sense of humor, which was definitely a family trait.

As was their love for their land. As Hank described his ranch to her and the children, his eyes sparkled and the words flew, proving her supposition that he could be quite talkative when the subject was important to him.

“It’s got good water and grass, which is a rarity for this country,” he continued. “Which makes RosaRoja more valuable than a lot of the larger grants, especially now that it has two silver mines and its own spur line to the transcontinental.”

Two mines
and
a spur line? No wonder Brady assumed she’d been after Hank’s money. “How long have you owned it?” she asked.

“More than twenty years.” He turned to look out the window.

“Our pa first saw the RosaRoja Valley back in ’48 when he joined up with the Missouri Volunteers and left Saint Joseph to fight in the Mexican War. It was all he talked about in his letters home . . . the high emerald valley where a man could be his own king.” His expression hardened. “We didn’t know at the time that he’d set his sights on more than just the land.”

He frowned at the distant mountains for a moment, as if lost in thought, then with a sigh, resumed his story. “After Mexico lost the war, the Hildalgo Treaty required the owners of all the old grants to refile their patents with the provisional government in Santa Fe and pay their taxes. But Pa figured the owner of the valley, Don Ramon Ramirez, wouldn’t do it. Too proud. The old man considered himself Spanish, not Mexican. He didn’t think he should be bound by any treaty between Mexico and the United States. But he was wrong. When the deadline passed and Don Ramon didn’t reregister, Pa filed a claim, paid the back taxes, and that was that. RosaRoja became Wilkins land, free and clear. And that was when all the trouble started.”

“Did he fight your papa?” Penny asked.

“Don Ramon? Not much.” Hank looked at the child for a moment, although Molly sensed he was focused not on her, but on his newly found memories. By his expression, she guessed they weren’t pleasant ones. “But his son, Sancho, did.”

Penny frowned and stuck a twist of hair into her mouth. “Was he mean?”

“He was. Crazy too.”

Charlie turned from the window and looked at Hank, but said nothing.

“Did he kick kitties?” Penny asked.

“Mostly he kicked his sister, Elena.” Hank must have seen Penny’s fear because he quickly added, “But she’s fine. In fact, we think she married our brother.”

Hoping to turn the conversation to more pleasant thoughts, Molly asked how many brothers there were in the family.

Hank seemed surprised by the question. “Four. Brady, then me, then Jack. Jack is the one who followed Elena when she went to California to have her hip operated on. Haven’t heard from them since. Sam was the youngest.” His tone suggested she should already know that, which if they had truly courted and married, she would have.

Molly met his gaze without wavering or offering explanations. She was through lying to this man. If asked, she would tell him the truth. If not . . . well, until he figured it out on his own, she would, as he suggested, let it ride.

“Is Sam at your ranch?” Penny asked.

“He is.” Hank turned back to the window. Molly watched his breath fog the thin glass, and wondered what memories plagued him now. “He’s buried there.”

They rode in silence for a time, then Penny said, “I almost had a kitty once.”

“Sugar.” Hank turned to smile at his stepdaughter. “With the pink nose.”

“He went dead.”

“I remember.”

“Did the bad man hurt Sam?” Penny was chewing her hair again.

“He did.”

Molly didn’t like where this conversation was going, but before she could steer it to a less upsetting subject, Charlie blurted out, “Did you hurt him back?”

She looked at him in surprise. Those were the first words he had uttered since the initial bickering with Penny when they had boarded. For the last two hours he had huddled against the door beside her, staring out the window, his face set in that perpetually worried scowl.

If Hank was surprised, he didn’t show it. “If I’d had the chance, I would have.”

The boy’s face paled. “He’s still out there?”

“No. He’s dead. Your Aunt Jessica killed him.”

Molly was appalled.

The hair slid out of Penny’s gaping mouth. “Aunt Jessica killed him?”

“I bet she shot him,” Charlie said savagely. “I bet she stuck a gun in his mouth and pulled the trigger and shot him dead. That would have killed him good.”

Molly was too shocked to speak. Why had Charlie said such a horrible thing? Didn’t he know that’s how his grandfather died? Anger blasted through her—anger at Charlie for being so unfeeling—anger at all those who so readily believed her father would take his own life—anger at Papa for leaving her.

“Molly?” Hank touched her arm. “Are you all right?”

Anger faded so abruptly she felt shaky and disoriented. She saw faces staring at her and forced a smile. “I—I’m fine. A bit weary. The rocking motion—”

“I’ll have them stop.” He turned toward the small door above his seat that opened into the driver’s box.

“Don’t.” Leaning forward, she pressed her fingertips on his knee. “It’s not necessary. Let’s go a bit farther, then have the lunch Jessica had the hotel prepare.” Removing her hand, she sat back. She was flattered by his concern. But also a bit troubled. She didn’t want him to take his husbandly duties too seriously.

“Meanwhile,” she said brightly to her niece and nephew in an attempt to dispel the gloomy mood, “you two should try to nap. We’ve a long way to go, and if there is any daylight left when we arrive, I know you’ll want to play in the snow.” Glancing at Hank, she explained that, being from Atlanta, they didn’t often see snow. “Penny’s been talking about building a snowman since the first flake fell.”

“Maybe we can have a snowball fight,” Hank suggested.

Penny pressed against Molly’s side. “I don’t like fighting.” She stuck her thumb into her mouth. “It hurth.”

Hank regarded her for a moment. Then he leaned forward and said quietly, “I’ll watch out for you, Penny. I’ll make sure it doesn’t hurt.”

The child met his gaze solemnly, her cheeks working. “You promith?” she asked without taking the thumb from her mouth.

“I promise.”

“Okay.” Snuggling closer to Molly, she closed her eyes.

And as simply as that he won over a worried, fearful child. Molly wondered why it was so difficult for her to do the same. She loved these children. She was desperate to keep them safe. Why couldn’t they see that?

An hour later, when the sun was high overhead, reflecting off the snow in blinding sparkles, they stopped for the picnic. Molly encouraged the children to play in the snow to wear off excess energy, but the cold soon chased them back into the coach. A half-hour later, they resumed their journey. Lulled by the rocking coach and their full stomachs, the children finally slept, Penny tilted against her right side, Charlie sitting on her left as far away from her as he could get. Hank sat across from them, lost in thoughts as he watched the snowy landscape bounce past the window.

With a nurse’s eye, she studied him, checking for the flush of fever, swelling in the fingers of his bandaged arm, signs of increased pain. When she detected none, she studied him as a woman—more than a nurse, but not quite a wife. He was so big his shoulders spanned more than half the bench seat. His long legs and big feet took up most of the narrow space between the benches, and his dark hair almost brushed against the tufted ceiling. Even weakened by illness and rendered virtually immobile by his injuries, he seemed capable of handling any crisis.

What was it Jessica had called him? The steady one.

The beautiful one
. With his size and stern demeanor, he should have been overpowering. Instead, with just a few words, he had gained a wary child’s trust.

With sudden and frightening clarity, Molly realized she had come to care for Hank in ways that would only bring her pain. If she allowed herself to, she could become deeply attached to this man, and that would never do.

As if sensing the direction of her thoughts, Hank turned from the window and looked directly into her eyes.

She froze, pinned by that sharply focused gaze. It felt like he was seeing into her mind, as if he were trying to read a message written on the back wall of her skull. What did he see when he looked at her that way? A wife he didn’t remember? Or another woman he couldn’t trust, just like the one who had betrayed him at the fort by running off with another man?

I’m not like that
, she told him silently.
I wouldn’t betray you.

But she already had, hadn’t she?

“I didn’t mean to upset them.” He spoke softly in deference to the sleeping children.

“I know.”

“But I won’t lie to them.”

She held back a bitter smile. No, Hank would never lie. He would never feel the need to deceive or manipulate or coddle to achieve his ends. Life would never hand him more than he could handle.

“This is hard country,” he said when she didn’t respond. “And sometimes we have to make hard choices. It’s not civilized like in the city. The rules are different here. If a dog goes bad, you shoot it. No vote, no trying to make it better, no calling someone else to take care of it. You do what you have to, then you move on.”

Molly watched, unable to look away as his expression became brutally cold. It was in the eyes, his beautiful, warm, chocolate brown eyes. They seemed to darken until she couldn’t tell pupil from iris, until they looked as hard and unfeeling as dark polished stones. They held no softness. No forgiveness or mercy.

And it terrified her to know that someday when he realized how she’d deceived him, that implacable expression would be directed at her.

He leaned forward. “Sancho killed a lot of people, including his parents,” he said in a low, clipped voice. “He tortured Sam and left him in the desert to die. He tied Brady in the burning barn. When he stole Jessica away, she realized she couldn’t wait for someone to come rescue her. She had to take care of herself. So she hit him with a lit lantern and set him on fire. Harsh times call for hard choices, Molly. And sugar-coated half-truths won’t change that.” He sat back.