Open Country (19 page)

Hank sighed. “I wish I could remember what I did the first time. Doesn’t seem fair to have to go through it all again.”

Brady studied him, his expression troubled. “You don’t remember any of it?”

Hank shook his head. “Seems odd, but I don’t.” And the harder he puzzled on it, the more confused he became. Nothing about his marriage—or his wife—made sense.

“If you want,” Brady said in a hesitant voice, “we could settle some money on her and cut her loose. No use staying married if you don’t want to.”

Hank frowned. “Cut her loose? Why would I do that? And who said I didn’t want to stay married?”

“Whoa,” Brady said, raising a palm in a placating gesture. “Don’t get yourself worked up.”

“I’m not worked up.” Regretting his outburst, Hank studied the glass in his hands. “All I’m saying is she’s a decent woman. She doesn’t deserve to be cast off just because my memory’s confused.”

“So you like her.”

Hank thought back to the times she’d surprised him with her wit and her earnestness and those blushes that brought out the sparkle in her almost-green eyes. The woman definitely had him interested, and to his way of thinking, that was a step past “liking.” “Why wouldn’t I like her?”

“Well, for one thing, she hit me in the face with a spoon.”

Hank grinned. “Why? What’d you do?”

“Nothing. We were just talking.” Brady studied his fingernails then shrugged. “Maybe I said something about you she took exception to.”

“See? Pretty
and
smart.”

“You like her.”

“She’s my wife.”

“But you like her.”

Swirling the amber liquid in his near-empty glass, Hank debated answering, then thought, why not? He must have liked her at one time if he’d gone to all the trouble of marrying her. “Yeah. I guess.”

His brother tugged at his mustache with his thumb and forefinger, a thoughtful look on his face. It was an expression Hank had seen often, and it never boded well.

“Well, I don’t trust her,” Brady finally announced. “There’s something she’s not telling us.”

Anger sparked in Hank’s mind. “
Us?
Now she’s your wife too?” Why did Brady have to elbow his way in, then try to take charge of everybody else’s business? “She’s
my
wife. If there’s any telling to be done, it’ll be to
me
.”

“I’m just saying there’s something not right about all this.”

“Goddamnit, Brady,” Hank warned.

“Okay, okay.” His brother made a hands-off gesture. “But don’t come crying to me when everything goes to hell.”

“Believe me, I won’t.” It struck Hank as odd that he was defending a marriage he had no memory of, and protecting a woman he hardly knew. But she was his wife, so he must have known her well at one time.
Damn that Brady.
Now his head was starting to hurt again.

“Well, if you’re so insistent on going through with this courting thing,” Brady said after a lengthy silence, “I figure you’ve got three things going for you. First”—he held up his index finger—“you’re hurt. I know it’s a bother, but women seem to like fussing over a man when he’s hurt. And what woman wouldn’t like a big strapping fellow like yourself at her mercy? Especially if he’s feeling weak.”

“I’m not weak.”

“Second”—he held up another finger—“you’ve got the Wilkins smile. Of course, you’ll have to keep your hair cut and the beard shaved so she can see it, but if you use it wisely, it’ll get you a long way. Remember the Norton twins.”

Hank would rather not. He’d felt like a lone pork chop caught between two starving dogs.

“And third . . .” This time it was the finger sporting the wedding band Jessica had given him, which he proudly wore even though it drove him crazy.

Hank frowned, realizing neither he nor Molly wore a wedding band. Why was that? He didn’t care so much about himself, but why didn’t she wear one? Had she removed it? Or had he never given her one?

“Since you’re already married—or so she says,” Brady went on, regaining Hank’s attention, “even if this second courtship is a complete failure, there’s nothing she can do about it. She’s stuck with you.” He showed his teeth in that big grin that always made Hank wary. “In fact, when you think about it, little brother, this is the perfect way to court a woman because nothing you say or do matters in the least since you’re already married. I wish I’d thought of it with Jessica. Could have saved me a lot of pain. What do you think?”

Hank shook his head. “I think I’m not surprised you got hit in the face with a spoon.”

“GOOD MORNING, DOUGAL,” MOLLY SAID AS SHE WALKED into the kitchen. The room was empty but for the old Scotsman, who sat at the long center worktable, which also served as a family dining area on less formal occasions.

“Morning? ’Tis nigh afternoon, lass. I dinna ken if ye’d died in the night.”

Smiling, she plucked a muffin from a plate on the warming shelf above the stove. “I haven’t slept so well in weeks. Where is everyone?”

Before Dougal could answer, Brady came in behind her, tracking snow and carrying a protesting bundle that sounded like Abigail—it was difficult to tell under the wooly scarf and hat.

“Finally up,” he said when he saw Molly. “You better get out there. You’re missing all the fun.” Depositing Abigail on the counter, he anchored her with one gloved hand and grabbed a rag from a peg with the other.

“What’s going on?” Molly mumbled around a bite of muffin.

“Snowball fight.” He unwrapped the scarf enough to expose Abigail’s red cheeks and runny nose. “Blow,” he said, holding the rag to her face. While his daughter wiggled and squirmed and made snorting noises against the cloth, Brady grinned at Molly. “Hank’s team is losing. They could use your help.”

“You have teams?”

“Hank and Penny versus me and Ben and Abigail.”

“What about Charlie?”

Brady shook his head. “He’s just watching.” Having cleaned up his daughter, he tucked the towel in his jacket pocket, then began rewrapping the squirming infant. “You and Dougal ought to come out. It’s a beautiful day.”

“Tae cold,” Dougal protested. “Colder than a well digger’s donkey, I’ll warrant.”

“Ass,” Brady said, adjusting Abigail’s wool cap. “Colder than a well digger’s ass in the middle of winter in the Yukon. Can’t you get anything right?”

Dougal glared up at him from beneath his bushy eyebrows. “That’s what I said, ye great lummox. Ass, donkey, ’tis the same.”

“Arse then.”

“Och, mon, have ye nae sense at all? There’s a lass and wee bairn present.” He turned to Molly with a sigh. “My apologies tae the tew o’ ye. The bumble-headed maundrel wed above himself and doesna ken how tae behave wie the lassies.”

Brady smirked. “Strong words for a man who wears a dress.” Holding his daughter under one arm like a squirming bundle of laundry, he left the room.

“It’s no’ a dress,” Dougal yelled after him. “It’s a kilt.”

Fighting a smile, Molly asked, “Are you sure you won’t come out with me?”

“Nae, lass. The cold makes me bones ache.” He made a show of looking around. “Dae ye ken where that bonnie lassie, Consuelo, might be?”

Bonnie lassie?
By Molly’s reckoning, Consuelo must be fifty years old—long past the “lassie” age—and although she had a kind face and lovely eyes, the missing teeth kept her from being what might strictly be called “bonnie.” But then, Dougal, with his contentious nature and more hair in his ears than on his head, was no blue-ribbon catch, himself. “Isn’t she married, Dougal?”

The Scotsman gave a dramatic sigh. “A widow, more’s the pity. A puir lonely widow wie a need for the companionship of a fine braw lad.”

“Like yourself, perhaps?” Molly teased.

“I’ll nae turn me back on a puir soul in need, lass. ’Tis no’ the Scots way.”

Relenting, Molly said, “I think I saw her go into the pantry.”

Moving with surprising spryness for a man of his years, Dougal trotted from the room.

After donning her coat, mittens, and a scarf, Molly went onto the front porch.

Jessica sat in a rocker, holding a steaming mug in both mittened hands while directing the fracas between bouts of laughter. Charlie leaned against a post by the steps, watching, his sullen expression softened by a look of longing. The outsider looking on. Molly knew the feeling.

In the yard, the battle lines were drawn, with Hank and Penny half-hidden behind a mound of snow, lobbing snowballs at their opponents, Brady and Ben, who crouched behind another mound of snow. Abigail wallowed in the drifts between the warring camps, giggling and flailing at the snow, unperturbed by the snowballs flying over her head. Deep male laughter and children’s squeals filled the crisp air.

After exchanging words of greeting with Jessica, Molly went to stand beside Charlie at the top of the steps. “Why aren’t you helping Hank and Penny?”

“I don’t want to.”

Aware that Jessica was watching and that the fight in the yard had slowed, which meant Hank was probably watching, too, she forced a smile. “It might be fun, Charlie.”

“I don’t care.”

Determined to get the child involved, she scooped a handful of snow off the railing, shaped it into a ball, and held it out. “Here, try it.”

“I don’t want to. Just leave me alone!” Spinning, he stalked away.

From the corner of her eye, Molly saw Hank shoot up from behind his snow bank, arm swinging. A moment later a fat snowball spattered between Charlie’s shoulder blades.

He whirled, a scowl on his face.

“What do you say to that, Charlie?” Hank challenged.

The boy glared at him, his mouth pressed in a tight, grim line.

Molly fought the urge to rush to his defense, sensing he wouldn’t appreciate her interference. Instead, she sent Hank a warning look.

He responded by loosening another snowball.

Charlie ducked, but it still caught his shoulder, showering his face with snow. Furiously, he wiped it off. “You better stop that,” he yelled.

“Says who?” Hank fired again.

Charlie threw an arm over his face as the snowball smacked against the post beside him.

Needing to do something to help the boy, Molly quickly grabbed a handful of snow and thrust it into his hand. “Actions speak louder than words.”

Charlie threw. The snowball went wide, but before it landed, Molly had another waiting. Within moments, amid laughter and shrieks, the fight was on, with only Charlie taking it as anything other than a game. He seemed oblivious to the snowballs plopping all around him, but retaliated with a single-minded determination. Soon he was down the steps and into the yard, scooping snow with both hands, firing a constant barrage as he crossed to where Penny and Hank huddled. By the time he’d reached them, he was covered with snow and grinning as he hadn’t in months.

“Get him, Charlie!” Penny shouted, loyally switching sides in favor of her big brother.

With a whoop, Ben scrambled out from behind his hill and joined the attack, while Brady stood safely out of range shouting encouragement.

Laughing, Hank fell backward, all but disappearing under a cloud of snow as Charlie and Ben breached the wall and landed on top of him. With a squeal that could have ruptured eardrums, Penny leaped into the fray.

“Molly, help me,” Hank called, his voice muffled by thrashing children and flying snow. “They’re hurting me.”

Laughter instantly forgotten, Molly shot down the steps. “Brady, get the children!” she cried, slipping and sliding through the snow to get to Hank. “Penny! Charlie! Get off! Now!” Dragging the children from the heap, she flung them toward Brady, who stood laughing over his brother. By the time she got Hank uncovered, she was panting with exertion and fear.

If he reinjured that arm, she might not be able to save it a second time. She might never be able to restore circulation, or the damage to the torn tissue might be so severe she would have no choice but to amputate. Why had she relied so long on wrapped splints, rather than putting on a hard plaster cast?

“Be still, Hank,” she said, trying to keep her voice from betraying her alarm as she ran shaking hands over his arm. But with the heavy jacket and the bandages, she couldn’t tell if he had rebroken it. “Where does it hurt? Here? Here? Can you move your fingers? Oh, I knew I should have put on the hard cast. Why did I—”

“Molly, Molly,” Hank choked out, his voice vibrating with laughter. “Calm down. I’m all right. They didn’t hurt me.”

“We didn’t hurt him, Aunt Molly,” Penny defended. “Did we, Charlie?”

Molly froze as the words penetrated. She reared back to find Hank grinning up at her.

“See? I’m fine.” He lifted his bandaged arm and wiggled the tips of his fingers to prove it. Drawing back her fist, she punched him on the shoulder. Then burst into tears.

“Come on, kids,” Brady said, hastily. “Let’s see if Consuelo will fix you some warm milk.”