Open Country (18 page)

His face showed nothing, but she could see amusement in his eyes. “I already know who you are. You’re Molly. My
wife
.”

She waved a hand in dismissal. “That’s a name and a title. It’s not
me.
” Suddenly inspired, she covered her eyes. “What color are my eyes?”

He hesitated. “Green, sort of. Or maybe brownish-something.”

“See?” Dropping her hand, she looked up with a smirk. “You don’t even know the color of my eyes, or what color I prefer, or what I do in my spare time, or if I have a favorite food. In fact, you know nothing about me at all.”

He gave that some thought. “I know you’re a good nurse, you’re smart, you’re trying to do well by your niece and nephew, and you’re . . . earnest.”

Earnest?
Good Lord, she sounded like a yapping terrier. And wasn’t
earnest
somewhere between “well-meaning” and “desperate”? What woman wanted to be thought of as
earnest,
for heaven’s sake?

“Beets,” he said, interrupting her mental rant.

She blinked at him.

“Me, neither,” he went on, taking her silence for consensus. “Blue.”

“My favorite color?” Molly was having trouble keeping up. “No.”

“Orange. Purple. Yellow.”

“No to all three.” Biting back a smile, she shook her head. “It’s not going to be that easy,
husband.
You’ll have to do more than list colors. You’ll have to get to know me, and then maybe we can talk about . . . the other.”

One corner of his mouth quirked. “My husbandly rights.”

“Exactly. Now please leave, so I can take my bath.”

His expressive eyes lit up at that. “If I helped, I could get to know you faster.”

“Go,” she ordered, hoping he didn’t see the laughter she was barely able to hold in check.

But instead of moving away, he leaned closer. Then closer still, until his face was mere inches from hers and her eyes lost focus and started to cross.

Oh, Lord,
she thought, frozen somewhere between shock and anticipation.
He’s going to kiss me
. Just an inch more and—

“Almost green,” he said and straightened. “So I was almost right.”

Molly swayed, disoriented and oddly off balance.

With a nod of satisfaction he turned toward the door, then stopped and turned back. He was frowning again. “At least tell me you can add and subtract.”

“Y-Yes, of course I can.”

“Well, there’s that then.” With a sigh, he turned and walked out, closing the door behind him. Which somehow made the room seem suddenly quite a bit larger.

By the time Molly had left her room an hour later, bathed, dressed, and ravenously hungry, she had come to the conclusion that being courted by her husband might not be a bad thing.

At one time she had dreamed of being courted, of having a husband and children of her own. Then somewhere between pinafores and a surgical smock, that dream, much less the opportunity to make it into a reality, had simply withered away. But the instant Hank had planted that idea into her mind, all those hopes and fantasies had come roaring back. Suddenly, she had another chance—probably a
last
chance—to experience the merry chase other women whispered about and authors of romantic novels described in such eloquent detail.

Plus, she thought as she headed downstairs, it had the added bonus of keeping her husband at arm’s length until she decided what to do about this sham marriage.

Courting. What did that mean, exactly? What was she supposed to do? Did she even have the proper clothes? It was ludicrous, really, that at the spinsterish age of twenty-six all those adolescent yearnings and doubts should grip her so strongly.

Would he recite poetry? Tell her she was beautiful?

The notion almost made her laugh. Romantic words from the man who had wrestled her over a chamber pot? Not likely.

As she stepped across the entry into the main room, Molly found it teeming with children and an odd assortment of people. Seeing them interact, she decided the Wilkins family was every bit as unorthodox as any Southern household with its mishmash of relatives, friends, hangers-on, and beloved servants.

In addition to Brady’s family of four, and now Hank’s family of four, there were seven other people who either lived in the house or spent so much time there they might as well: the Mexican house-keeper, Consuelo; the Garcia sisters, who tended the nursery; two young Mexican girls, who did a bit of everything—all of whom spoke limited English with such strong accents Molly had difficulty following them—an ancient Negro woman named Iantha, who supervised the kitchen; and Dougal, an elderly Scotsman who did little but argue with Brady, sleep sprawled out on the couches, and harass the children, to their utter delight. None of these seven was actually family, but all were treated as such.

“There you are.” Smiling at Molly, Jessica hitched the toddler she carried higher on her hip, then shot a warning look at a small boy dangling upside down off the arm of a chair. With reluctance, he righted himself and came to stand dutifully beside his mother. “Children, this is your Aunt Molly,” Jessica said, then beaming proudly at the children, added, “And this is Abigail and Ben.”

“Hello,” Molly said, which apparently was the release signal for Ben because he immediately ducked beneath Jessica’s arm and climbed back into the chair.

Jessica’s smile became strained. “He’s still in his twos,” she explained, as if that might mean something to Molly, which it didn’t. “And Abby, here, is getting ready to walk. Saints preserve us.”

Molly smiled tentatively at the infant in Jessica’s arms. The child was already a beauty, with her mother’s ready smile and her father’s striking eyes and dark hair. She would be a heartbreaker someday. Ben took more after Jessica in appearance, with dark auburn hair and intelligent brown eyes, but in temperament he seemed all Brady—boisterous, stubborn, and fearless. And apparently quite a climber.

“Well then. I see supper is served,” Jessica said, setting off a stampede toward the dining area.

Supper was a lively affair, with Dougal arguing with Brady, Brady teasing the children, and Jessica striving in good-humored exasperation to maintain a semblance of polite discourse. Hank said little, ate enormous amounts of food to make up for his sickroom fare, and spent far too much of his time watching Molly. Penny was in such delight to have so many people to entertain, she was either giggling or shouting, and Charlie was his usual quiet self.

After the meal, the family gathered by the fireplace for cakes served with coffee, tea, or hot chocolate. While Jessica read aloud to the children and the brothers discussed how the dissolution of the silver standard in favor of the greenback might impact their silver mines, Molly watched thick, white snowflakes drift past the mullioned windows. Already the porch railing held an inch of new snow. If it snowed through the night, the roads would be impassable, which meant they wouldn’t be able to leave until spring. But that also meant Fletcher couldn’t come after them until spring either. They would be safe for a while, at least.

Molly’s gaze drifted across to Hank. He was still talking to his brother, slouched in a leather chair beside the fireplace, long legs stretched out toward the crackling logs, his booted heels propped on the hearth. Firelight played over his face, softening the sharper angles and highlighting the strong arc of his jaw.

My husband
, she thought, still amazed. A feeling of contentment stole over her, and she smiled, thinking if she and the children had to be snowed in somewhere for several months, this was a lovely place to be.

Abruptly Hank turned his head and looked at her.

Molly’s smile faltered. Trapped by those eyes, she stared back. A heaviness seemed to settle against her chest. One moment. Three. Then five. When finally he turned back to his brother, she almost gasped for air, feeling suddenly so weightless, she might have floated up to the beams.

 

 

“YOU’RE STILL UP,” HANK SAID FROM THE DOORWAY OF HIS brother’s office.

Brady looked up from the booklet spread open on his desk. His gaze dropped to the apple in Hank’s hand, and he shook his head. “Do you ever quit eating?”

“I went a week without. I’m just making up.”

Brady went back to his booklet.

Hank wandered over to the French doors opening onto the back porch. It was still snowing. The children had long been in bed, and Molly and Jessica had retired about an hour ago. A light from the other end of the house, probably Dougal’s room off the kitchen, cast a yellow wash over the gentle drift of snow. Dropping the apple core into a trash basket, he wiped his hand on the grizzly then settled into one of the leather chairs in front of the desk. “What are you reading?”

Brady held up the pamphlet for Hank to see. “
The Causes and Prevention of Screw Worm Infestations North of the Rio Grande
.”

“Sounds exciting,” Hank said dryly.

“It is. Did you know the fly that lays the screw worm larvae mates once, lays its eggs, then dies?”

“That would sure take the fun out of it.” Hank didn’t want to think about mating. Yet lately, ever since he found out he was married, that seemed to be all he did think about. Picking up the letter opener Jessica thought would look nice on Brady’s desk, he scratched an itchy place under the bandage on his arm.

“But if they can figure a way to sterilize it,” Brady went on, “then it won’t lay any eggs and there won’t be any larvae. What do you think of that?”

Hank tossed the opener back on the desk. “I think the cows will be glad.”

Brady returned to his reading.

“It’s snowing.”

“I saw.”

“Six, maybe eight inches so far.”

Brady turned the page.

Hank propped his ankle across his knee, picked up the letter opener again, and dug at a crust of dirt in the seam between the leather and sole of his boot. “Buck says it won’t last long, since the flakes are so big and the wind is out of the east.” Buck was Iantha’s husband. Both were runaway slaves who had been with the family for over twenty years. He had been a gifted carpenter until rheumatism crippled his hands. Now he was the ranch barometer. He read clouds the way a cartographer read maps, and by Hank’s recollection, he’d never missed a blizzard. “He figures it’ll be done by morning. Still ought to be enough for a snowman.”

His brother glanced up.

Hank returned the opener to the desk and lowered his foot to the floor, wincing at the pull of muscles across his sore ribs. “Penny wants to build a snowman.”

Brady continued to watch him, a thoughtful frown on his face.

“They’re from Atlanta,” Hank reminded him. “Not much snow in Atlanta.”

Closing the booklet, Brady sat back.

Hank tucked a loose end back under his bandage, then scratched the mostly healed cut on his temple. “Charlie doesn’t seem to care, but Penny’s real excited about it. I told her maybe we’ll have a snowball fight.”

“What’s wrong with you?”

Hank quit scratching and looked at him.

“Why are you talking so much?”

“I’m practicing.”

“Practicing talking? I thought you already knew how.”

“I need a drink.” Hank wasn’t sure how much he wanted to reveal to his brother. Brady had an annoying habit of sticking his nose in where it didn’t belong, and Hank had learned years ago the best weapon against his interference was silence. But this had him baffled, and he didn’t know who else to ask.

His brother rose and went to the crystal decanters and glassware artfully arranged on a silver tray atop a dainty claw foot table by the bookcase. Another of Jessica’s additions. Now, instead of sharing a jug of Buck’s potent home brew, he and Brady were treated to fine Scotch sipping whiskey in cut crystal glasses.

Neither of them complained. But if something stronger was needed, there was always a jug in the barn and another in the loafing shed. Hank thought he might be heading out there fairly frequently in the days to come.

After pouring an inch of whiskey into each glass, Brady handed one to Hank, then returned to his chair. “So what’s going on, Hank?”

Leaning back, Hank propped his boots on the corner of Brady’s desk. He figured with Jessica asleep, he was safe enough. “She wants me to court her.”

Brady stared at him for a moment then shook his head. “Hell.”

“I know.”

They drank in silence for a time then Hank said, “I’m not so good at courting. I only did it that once—other than Molly—and we know how that turned out.”

“You talking about Melanie Kinderly? You never told me what happened.”

Hank stared silently out at the snow.

Brady sighed. “And I guess you’re not going to.”

“How’d you go about it with Jessica?” Hank asked after a while.

“Whatever you did seems to have worked.” And Hank was still amazed that it had. Brady was a rough cob, and Jessica, well . . . Jessica was all starch and fancy hats. And rules. Lots of rules.

“It’s a confusing process,” Brady admitted. “Not at all what you’d expect.”

Studying his brother over the rim of his glass, Hank waited.

Brady spread his hands in a helpless gesture. “I went to save her from tripping over my saddle, and she tries to geld me with a ruffly umbrella. I grab her before she falls down a cliff, and she gouges my arm bloody. I tell her I’m going for help, and she nearly knocks out my tooth. And that was just the first day. A dangerous undertaking, courting is. Like juggling porcupines.”

Hank gave it some thought. “I don’t think I’m up to that. Not with this arm.” On top of which, his ribs were still pretty sore and headaches plagued him from time to time. He didn’t need to be beat up any worse. Besides, he shouldn’t have to do any courting anyway. He was already married, for crissakes.

“Women do tend to complicate things,” Brady agreed.