Open Country (2 page)

Recognizing encroaching death when she saw it, Molly sank weakly onto the edge of the mattress.
Dear God,
she cried in silent desperation
, don’t take Nellie from me too.
“Oh, Sister,” she choked out as tears flooded her eyes. “Why didn’t you send for me?”

“Daniel . . . wouldn’t . . . let me.”

To cover her shock, Molly brushed a lock of lank auburn hair from her sister’s hot forehead. “Well, I’m here now, dearest. And I won’t leave you.”

“You must.” Reaching out, Nellie grasped Molly’s shoulder and pulled her closer. Her breath stank of the infection in her lungs. Her eyes glittered in her gaunt face—but with desperation, not madness.

“Take my . . . babies,” she gasped. “Before it’s . . . too late.”

Molly struggled to understand. “Take them where?”

“Away . . .”

“From Daniel?”

“He’s up to . . . something. Bombs. A new . . . war.” Her voice was so weak Molly had to lean close to hear. Every word was a wheezing struggle. “Thinks children . . . took papers. Hurt . . . them.” A coughing fit gripped her and Nellie writhed, eyes scrunched tight, fingers clawing at the bedclothes as she struggled to drag air into her flooded lungs. Once the spasm passed, she opened her eyes and Molly saw that desperation had given way to grim determination. “Promise me . . . take them away before . . . too late.”

“But, Nellie—”

“Must hide them . . . keep safe.” Nellie was panting now, her eyes frantic. “Now. Tonight.”

“I c-can’t just leave you.”

“You must.” Tears coursed down Nellie’s temples to soak into the filthy bedding. “Keep babies . . . safe. Promise me . . . Sister.”

Weeping in despair, Molly nodded. “I promise.”

 

 

A WEEK LATER, IN A DARKENED ROOM IN JEANERETTE, GEORgia, two hundred miles west of Savannah, Daniel Fletcher peered nervously through the shadows at the man seated in a wheeled chair behind the wide cherrywood desk.

It irritated him that Rustin didn’t have the lamps lit. Even if the old man didn’t need light, the rest of them did. He looked around, sensing other people in the room. Probably the artillery expert, maybe the Professor.

“Well?” Rustin demanded in his papery voice. “Have you found it?”

“Not yet,” Fletcher answered, hoping his voice didn’t betray his growing alarm. Why hadn’t any of the others spoken? And why hadn’t Rustin offered him a chair? He felt like a fool standing there in the dark talking to a disembodied voice.

He had never liked Rustin. Even though the old man was the glue that held them all together, Fletcher thought it hypocritical that after stealing all that gold from the Confederate coffers, Rustin would use it to foment another rebellion a decade later. But this wasn’t about breathing new life into the wounded South. It was about money. And power. “I’ve literally torn the place apart,” Fletcher said nervously. “If my wife hid it somewhere before she died, it’s gone now.”

“Who else could have taken it?”

“No one was in the house but me, my wife, and her children. Occasionally the doctor came by, and near the end, Nellie’s sister came, but the book had disappeared long before that.”

“Could your father-in-law, Matthew McFarlane, have taken it? He must have known something if he came all the way from Atlanta to confront you about it.”

Fletcher felt that quiver of guilt move through his stomach.
Poor, stupid Matthew.
His wife’s father had always had an overblown sense of integrity. “He had heard rumors. That’s all. He knew nothing about the book when he—when I questioned him.”

“And now he’s dead.” It was a moment before Rustin spoke again. “How old are your children?”

“Stepchildren. Eight and six, I believe.”

“Have you questioned them?”

Battling the urge to wipe his clammy palms on his coat, Fletcher glanced around, wondering again why the others hadn’t spoken. This was beginning to feel like an inquisition. Turning back to Rustin, he said stiffly, “The children are no longer at the house.”
And good riddance.
Always underfoot, poking into things they shouldn’t. He was glad to be shut of them.

“Where are they?”

“I—I’m not sure.”

Finally a voice erupted from a darkened corner. The Professor’s. “Christ, man! They could have taken it and might even now be showing it to the authorities!”

Fletcher could hear whispering in the shadows, a furtive, hushed sound, like rats skittering behind walls.

“They wouldn’t have left on their own,” Rustin said. “Who is with them?”

“Their aunt, my wife’s sister. Molly McFarlane.”

“Why did she take them from your care?”

That dry, choking feeling returned to Fletcher’s throat. He coughed to clear it. “I d-don’t know.”

Anger swirled in the closed room like coils of greasy smoke.

“She must have taken it,” a voice accused.

Fletcher shook his head. “How could she have even known about it?”

“Maybe your wife told her.”

“You imbecile!” Rustin cut in with such an explosion of vehemence Fletcher flinched. “You idiot!” Leaning forward in his chair and into a pale slant of light penetrating the edge of the drawn drape, Rustin spread his bloated hands on the desktop. His milky eyes seemed to stare into Fletcher, although Fletcher knew that was impossible. “You go find them, you bumbling fool! You find that woman and those children and get that book back! Now!”

“Y-Yes. All right.” Fletcher edged toward the exit. As he swung open the door to the blinding brightness of the hallway, Rustin’s voice drifted out behind him.

“Send for Hennessey. Just in case.”

 

“THAT OLD MAN LOOKS LIKE A BEAR, DOESN’T HE, AUNT Molly?”

Blinking out of her reverie, Molly glanced at her niece, Penny, who was leaning to the side of her aisle seat so she could see down the narrow walkway of the railroad passenger car. “He’s so big and hairy.”

Following her line of vision, Molly saw that the bearded man slouched on the rear-facing bench at the front was staring at her again.

Pursing her lips, she shifted her gaze to the shoulders of the woman seated ahead of her. Men didn’t usually study her so intently—healthy men anyway—and it made her acutely uncomfortable. But Penny was right. He did look a bit like a bear with his great size and all that dark hair, although it could only be from a six-year-old’s perspective that he be considered old.

“He isn’t scary like the other one,” Penny added, sending a shy grin in the man’s direction.

Molly gently pulled the curious child back in her seat. “What other one?” she asked, trying to sound unconcerned.

“The ugly one. He was watching us too.”

Watching us?
Skin prickling, Molly looked around. “When? Here, on the train?”

“By the kitty in the window. ’Member the kitty in the window?” Penny bounced her heels against the front of the bench seat and smiled. “I like kitties.”

Molly vaguely recalled a tabby dozing in the display window of a general store in . . . where was that? Omaha? But she hadn’t noticed anyone watching them. “Is that the only time you’ve seen him?”

“He was in the town with the pretty red rocks too. He waved at me, but I didn’t wave back.”

“I didn’t like him.” Reaching up, Penny twisted a curl around her finger as she often did when she was anxious. “He looked like a candle.”

“A candle?”

“His face was all melted. He was scary.”

Melted?
Was he old? Did he have a burn scar? Molly thought of all the faces she’d seen in the last weeks, but none stuck out. She had tried to be vigilant in case Fletcher had come after them, but what if he had sent trackers instead? The thought was so unsettling it was a moment before she could draw in a full breath.

“I had a kitty once, but he went dead.” Penny peered up through her flyaway blond hair. “Can I have another one, Aunt Molly? I promise I won’t sneeze.”

“Perhaps. We’ll see.”

What if someone had followed them this far? What if he was on the train even now? Nervously Molly glanced at the other passengers then froze when she found the bearded man staring at her again. Suspicion blossomed in her mind.

Several times that morning she had looked up to find his assessing gaze on her. At first, she had thought nothing of it. They sat facing each other, after all. Since the man was apparently too large to fit comfortably into the narrow forward-facing passenger seats, he had taken the bench at the front of the car. It was natural that their gazes might cross occasionally. But after years of being invisible and for the last three weeks trying desperately to attract as little notice as possible, Molly found it disconcerting to be the object of such interest, idle though it might be. Could he be a tracker sent by Fletcher?

The man looked away, but Molly continued to study him.

He wore a thick shearling jacket, so she couldn’t see if he wore a gun. But those work-worn hands resting on his knees hinted that he earned his living doing more than just waving a pistol about. And his face, despite the low hat and concealing beard, didn’t seem particularly threatening, although that dark stare was a bit unnerving.

Turning her attention to the window, she tried to remember what she knew about him. She had first seen him that morning when the train had stopped in Sierra Blanca to fill the tender with water, and she and the children had gotten out to stretch their legs. He had been supervising the loading of some sort of machinery onto a flat car. The men assisting seemed to know him, as did the conductor, who had stopped to chat with him when he’d passed through the coach earlier. That meant the bearded man had reason to be here other than to track her and the children. It was simply coincidence that they were on the same train. That, and nothing more.

Letting out a breath of relief, she glanced at the children. On her left, wearing his usual scowl and chewing his thumbnail, Charlie stared morosely out at the west Texas landscape bouncing by. On her right, Penny dozed, her thumb stuck in her mouth. It was a habit she had resumed of late and indicated she battled the same troubling fears that Charlie did. That they all did.

Hopefully, soon it would be over and they would be starting a new life in California. She would find employment—either as an assistant to one of her father’s medical colleagues, or in a clinic or hospital—and then they could cease this erratic flight. If she only knew what it was they were running from and why, maybe she could find a better way to protect them. But Nellie had been so weak and distraught the night Molly had spirited the children away from Savannah, Molly hadn’t questioned her. Now she wished she had.

Feeling the weight of exhaustion pulling her down, Molly tipped her head back against the seat and closed her eyes. How long had they been traveling? Two weeks? Three?

The children had hardly spoken at first. Confused and terrified, they hadn’t understood why they’d had to depart in such a hurry or why they’d had to leave their mother behind. Penny still didn’t understand, but Charlie did. He had lost so much in his eight years, it made him fearful of what might be taken from him next. Because of it, he trusted no one. Not even her.

When she opened her eyes, Molly’s gaze fell on her nephew. She had no experience with children. She didn’t know what Penny and Charlie wanted or needed or expected, and her inadequacy terrified her. But she loved them with all her heart and hoped to find a way to reach them and gain their trust. They were all that was left of her family now—probably the only children she would ever have—and she was the only thing that stood between them and Fletcher and whatever threat he posed. She was resolved to protect them at any cost.

Moved by concern for her troubled nephew, Molly reached over to stroke the fall of auburn hair from Charlie’s furrowed brow.

He jerked away.

Molly let her hand fall back to her lap. “Charlie,” she said, and waited for him to look at her. When he did, she saw fear in his eyes, and more anger than any child should ever carry. “Why are you so angry?”

He stared silently at the back of the bench in front of him, his lips pressed in a tight, thin line.

“I know you’re upset about your mother.”

His head whipped toward her. “Why didn’t you save her? You’re supposed to be a nurse. You should have made her better.”

“I tried, Charlie. I wanted to help her. More than anything in the world.”

He glared at her for a moment more, then the fight seemed to drain out of him. “It doesn’t matter,” he said and turned toward the window. “The monster would have gotten her anyway.”

The monster again
.
Molly sighed. How often over the last weeks had she awakened to her nephew’s screaming night terrors? “There is no monster, Charlie,” she told him as she had so many times. “It’s just a bad dream.”