Open Country (54 page)

Hank read the note. Then read it again, not wanting to believe what his eyes were seeing. “He was in the house? In our room?”

“And in Penny’s. He cut off the hands of her new doll and brought them here for me to find. A reminder, I think, of what he would do if I didn’t bring what he wanted.”

“He was in the goddamn house?” That same choking rage that had gripped him when he was in the shed with Fletcher burned through Hank’s chest. His hand shook as he thrust the note toward her. “Did you show this to Brady?”

“Why? So he would ride out and get himself killed? Hennessey was obviously watching the house. He would have seen him or anyone else coming and would have disappeared or even doubled back to harm the children. The only one who could get close enough to stop him was me.”

Hank stared down at her, seeing the logic in her assessment, but wanting to believe there was a better way. “Brady isn’t stupid. He would have thought of something.”

“He would have tried. But I couldn’t risk his being killed. I brought this upon all of you, and I—”

“All of
you
? Have you forgotten you’re a part of this family too? And it wasn’t your risk to take. It was Brady’s. Or mine. That’s our job—to look out for the people in our care—to protect you from butchers like Hennessey.” Hank was so furious he could hardly get the words out. When would she understand that, as part of the family now, a threat to her was a threat to all of them? “Don’t do to me what your father did to you, Molly. Don’t take away my choices and try to run my life by your design. I get enough of that from Brady. I won’t tolerate it from you.”

“B-But I wouldn’t—”

“You already have! From the very beginning. The marriage. Covering it up. Not telling me about Hennessey. Now this. I’m not an idiot!”

He could see his words had hurt her, but they needed to be said. He just hoped she understood what he was trying to say. He loved this woman. He needed her. But he didn’t know if he would ever understand her.

He could almost see his words circling in her head and knew the instant they all fell into place. “Oh my God. You’re right.” She looked up with brimming eyes. “How could I have not seen that? From the moment I found you in Murray’s infirmary, I’ve run roughshod over you, taken all of your choices away. How could I have done that to you?” She laughed, a broken, bitter sound of disgust. “All these years I’ve worked so hard to fix everybody else, I never realized I was the one broken.”

“Not broken,” Hank said, his own anger fading. “Confused. I blame your father for that. He might have taught you how to save a life, but he damn sure never showed you how to live one.”

“I was just trying to protect you.”

“And who protects you, Molly?”

She was crying in earnest now, hands pressed to her face. “I was so afraid. If I lost you, I don’t think I could go on.”

Hunkering beside her chair, he pulled her hands from her face. “And you don’t think I feel the same way? That it wouldn’t hurt me just as bad if I lost you?”

She looked at him, eyes swimming. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry . . .” Then suddenly she threw herself against him, her arms wrapping around his neck so tightly he almost choked. “Don’t send me away. I’ll do better. I promise I will.”

Send her away?
Pulling her arms loose, he trapped her head so he could look into her face. “Why would I send you away?”

She cried harder, her body shaking with tremors.

And suddenly he understood. “Look at me,” he said, giving her a gentle shake. When she did, he lowered his head until their faces were inches apart. He looked hard into her eyes. “You have nothing to prove to me, Molly. I’m not your father. I’ll never send you away.”

Her breath came in tiny little gasps. Her tears burned hot against his hands.

But he saw the wobbly beginnings of a smile. “You won’t?”

“I love you, Molly. I’d never send you away. I need you too much.”

“You need me. You.” She made a pitiful attempt at a laugh, as if the notion was too ridiculous to be believed.

“Like I need the next breath.” He set her back into the chair then leaned over her, his hands braced on the armrests so she couldn’t escape. Tilting his head, he kissed her bruised cheek. “Like the moon needs the stars.” He kissed her other cheek. “And the oceans need sand.” He pressed his lips to hers then drew back to see how he was doing.

Her eyes glittered wetly. Her lips trembled.

Entranced already, and he was just getting started. Pushing his jacket off her shoulder, he slipped a hand inside her robe. “I need you like the desert needs sun,” he said as he stroked her breast. “And birds need sky.”

“And horses need oats?” she asked in a tremulous voice.

He stopped stroking.

“And toads need stagnant ponds and flies?”

Not entranced. Laughing. He drew back to scowl at her. “You’re mocking me.” He tried to sound severe, but it was difficult with her hands busily unbuckling his belt and her round, bouncy bosom nestled in his palm.

“Oh, Hank. I love you, too, and I’m sorry I treated you so badly.” Reaching up, she looped an arm around his neck and pulled his head down to sweep his face with feathery kisses. After a moment, she released him and began loosening the buttons down the front of his trousers. “Did you make up all those lovely thoughts yourself?” When he didn’t answer, she looked up with a grin. “Or did you read them somewhere?”

“I read some,” he admitted, trying to stay focused.

Laughter danced in her eyes. “Some?”

“Most. All.” Realizing he’d lost ground, he redoubled his efforts on her breast, hoping to encourage her to hurry up with his trousers. “I thought that was what women wanted to hear.”

“Some women perhaps.”

“But not you.”

She smiled.

“Stand up,” he said.

When she did, he shoved his jacket the rest of the way off her shoulders, then tried to push the robe aside, too, but it was tied.
Christ.
“Then what would you like to hear, sweet Molly?” he murmured against her neck as he worked at the knot. “What do you want me to say?”

“That you love me—”

“I just did.”
Goddamn knot.

“And that you want to marry me.”

He lifted his head and grinned down at her, thinking she was joking.

Her expression said she wasn’t.

“But we’re already married,” he reminded her, fumbling with the knot again. He hated knots.

“
I
am. But you’re not.” At his look of confusion, she gently stroked his cheek. “I married
you
, but you never got a chance to marry me. I took that choice away from you.”

“And now you’re giving it back?”

“And now I’m giving it back.”

“Hmmm.” He finally got the belt of her robe loose. “When do you need an answer?” he asked, pushing it aside.

Laughing that sexy, throaty laugh that made him forget everything but getting her on her back, she leaned forward and pressed her body against his. “Soon.”

Enough talk
. “Okay. I want to marry you. Now strip.”

“Truly? You’ll marry me?”

“Sure. Here, let me help you get that robe off.”

A smile of delight split her face. “When?”

“Tomorrow. Whenever.” Tossing the robe aside, he started on the ribbon tabs of her gown.

“Oh, Hank.” She laughed and clapped her hands like a child.

Which interfered with his removal of her gown, but he managed. He paused to admire her fine body, then started tugging loose the buttons on his shirt.

“We’ll have a real wedding this time,” she expounded as he quickly divested himself of his garments, then swept her up and carried her to the bed.

“With bunches and bunches of flowers.” She wiggled down under the covers. “And everybody will be there, and Penny bombarding us with flower petals, and Charlie the proud ring bearer. Oh, I know! We’ll invite Reverend and Effie Beckworth . . . let him do the ceremony. Legally, this time. What do you think?”

“Fine. Whatever.” Sliding in beside her, he set about reacquainting himself with her fine, soft body.

“But if we’re going to have flowers, we’ll have to wait until spring.”

“Spring’s nice,” he said, slipping his head beneath the covers.

“If we do wait until spring, we could have it outside and . . .” She lifted the quilt. “What are you doing under there?”

“Practicing.”

“For what?”

“Our honeymoon.”

“A honeymoon too? Oh, Hank! Where? California. No, New Orleans. I’ve always wanted to go to—Oh my . . .”

And finally she shut up.

ANGUS FOLEY, EX-DEPUTY UNITED STATES MARSHAL AND now interim sheriff of Val Rosa since Sheriff Rikker died in his sleep two months ago, watched a group of buzzards dipping and soaring in the crisp April sky. He’d been watching them ever since he’d started down into the RosaRoja Valley and was pondering what might have brought in so many.

Maybe a cow or an elk. Even a griz. Something big. He reined his horse over to find out.

Knowing he was on Wilkins land and wanting to maintain some level of friendly concourse with the most powerful and influential family in the area—despite their hardheaded, high-handed ways—he figured reporting the carcass to the landowners would be the neighborly thing to do.

Besides, he was already headed out to the house.

He hadn’t been to the ranch since that meeting after Christmas, almost four months ago. And he hadn’t come face-to-face with either brother since the day he found Hank Wilkins standing over Daniel Fletcher’s crumpled body with his stepson in his arms. The older brother was a hard, ruthless sonofabitch. But Hank was downright frightening. Definitely not a man to cross.

Angus drew close enough to smell whatever the buzzards were after. It was pretty rank. Probably something in the gully he’d been following. It had been a slow melt this year, and there hadn’t been the normal rush of water coming down out of the canyons to wash these dry creeks clean. Might even be something that had lain frozen all winter and was just now thawing out.

As he neared, buzzards burst out of the ravine like black feathers thrown into the wind, making his horse sidestep and snort. Once he had calmed him, Angus reined him over to the rim of the gully and looked down.

A man, by damn. And a horse wearing a saddle with a rifle still in the scabbard. From this distance, Angus couldn’t tell what had killed the rider, but it was apparent the horse had a broken neck. Probably fell. As far as he could see, no obvious bullet wounds on either. Odd.

After securing his horse’s reins to a sturdy sapling, Angus tied his kerchief over his mouth and nose against the stench, then worked his way down into the gully.

The buzzards had been busy, as had various other scavengers. Most of the damage was recent, and from the look of it, the man had died some time ago before being covered over with snow until spring. Probably that three-day blizzard that had come through a day or so after Fletcher was killed. But there was enough of his scarred face left to give Angus an idea of the man’s identity.

Gordon Hennessey.

Other than a twisted leg, he had no noticeable wounds except for the damage done by predators after his death. Angus found several gold pieces in his pocket, so if Hennessey had died by foul means, it hadn’t been motivated by robbery. Then what?

Sitting back on his heels, Angus scanned the area, trying to piece together what had happened. At first glance, it looked as if both Hennessey and his horse had died when they’d fallen down into the gully. But two things struck Angus as odd.

There was no gun in Hennessey’s holster, or anywhere around his body.

And there was a glass medical syringe by his neck.

He knew of only two people in the area who would have medical paraphernalia—Doc O’Grady, who, along with him and Mr. Jones, had been stranded in Val Rosa during the same storm that had probably covered over Hennessey’s carcass—and Molly Wilkins, the woman Hennessey had been tracking.

Why had she been out here with Hennessey? And if she had killed him in self-defense—although the syringe hinted at a planned attack, rather than a defensive move—why hadn’t Wilkins reported it?

And finally, what was Angus going to do about it?

He thought for a while, trying to satisfy both his sense of duty and his need for justice. In the end, he decided to do the only thing he could do.

Wait and see.

After detaching the needle, he slipped it point first into the empty syringe, wrapped the syringe in his kerchief, and slipped it into his pocket. For now he wouldn’t do anything. Maybe he never would. But the syringe would be there, just in case.

The sun was starting its downward slide as he climbed out of the gully and mounted his horse. Realizing he’d dallied long enough, he kicked his gelding into a mile-eating lope, leaving the buzzards to do what they do.