Open Country (53 page)

“WHY AREN’T YOU UPSTAIRS WITH YOUR WIFE?”

Turning from his perusal of the moonlit stretches beyond his office window, Hank saw his brother leaning against the doorframe, a pair of cut-glass tumblers in one hand, a crystal decanter in the other. “Why aren’t you with yours?” he countered.

“Consuelo’s tending her.” Crossing to Hank’s desk, Brady used the bottle to clear a spot amid the parts strewn across the top, then set down the glasses. “Women things,” he added, pouring an inch of Scotch whiskey into each glass. “Things I’d just as soon not know about.” He held out a glass to Hank. “What’s your excuse?”

Hank didn’t answer. What could he say? That his wife was keeping secrets from him again and he didn’t know why, and he was afraid to bring it up for fear of damaging the trust they’d worked so hard to rebuild between them?

“She’s talking to the children,” he said instead. “I told her about Fletcher, and she wanted to make sure Charlie was all right.”

Brady dropped into one of the chairs by the desk. “She tell you why she ran off?”

Hank looked at him over the rim of his glass.

“That’d be a ‘no,’ I’m guessing.” Brady took a swallow then sucked air against his teeth. “Give it time. Silence and time are intolerable to women. She’ll come around.”

Hank settled in his chair behind the desk. He considered Brady’s words, then discounted them. Molly wasn’t like other women. Bold one minute, blushing the next. Eyes crackling fire, then dancing with laughter. She was smarter, more headstrong, more complicated than any other woman he knew. And far too self-reliant.

He blamed her father for that. In forcing her to be so independent, he’d taught her not to ask for help. And in keeping her so isolated by her work—his work, really—he’d taught her that her wants and worries weren’t as important as those of the people she served. She didn’t seem to understand that she was part of something bigger than herself now—a family—and her actions impacted them all.

So how was he to counter that? How was he to convince her that he was there to support her and that she was no longer alone? Didn’t she realize that keeping secrets from him and the rest of the family was just a subtle way of saying she still didn’t trust them to take care of her? That she didn’t really need them? Or need him?

Hank sighed and studied the pistol and medicine vial sitting in the center of his desk. He could guess what she’d done. He even had an idea why she’d done it. Probably thought in going after Hennessey she was protecting her family, not realizing that by putting herself in harm’s way rather than turning to them for help, she’d insulted them—insulted him. It was an insane, courageous, foolish thing she’d done, and the thought of her facing Hennessey alone was so terrifying to Hank it made his head pound and his hands shake.

He didn’t like what she’d done. But he understood why she’d done it. What he didn’t understand was why she hadn’t turned to him for help. He needed her to explain that to him, to look him in the eye and tell him why, at the most frightening and dangerous moment of her life, she hadn’t wanted or felt she’d needed him by her side. Hard words for her to say, harder for him to hear.

Which was his excuse for why he wasn’t upstairs with his wife, instead of sitting here drinking with his brother.

“Where’d you get that?’ Brady asked, nodding toward the pistol on the desk. “That’s not one of yours, is it?”

Hank shook his head. “Hennessey’s, I think.”

“Hennessey’s? How’d you get it?”

“Molly had it. Fell out of her coat when I hung it up.”

Hank watched that sink in, wondering if his brother’s reaction would be similar to his.

“She went out there to meet him?”

“I think so.”

“On her own?”

Hank nodded.

“Why didn’t she tell me?”

Confusion to shock to outrage. A predictable sequence of emotions. Hank wasn’t surprised, although he was a little disturbed, that he and his brother thought so much alike.

“Hell, Hank. She could have gotten herself killed.”

“I know.”

“You better talk to her.”

“I intend to.”

Outside, the coyotes started up again, heading west by the sound of it.

“Let’s see if I have this right,” Brady said after a while. “She rides out all by herself, into unfamiliar country, during a snowstorm, armed with what?—a bottle of medicine?—to confront a murderous sonofabitch.”

Put that way, it did sound pretty unbelievable. And stupid.

“At which time she takes his gun,” his brother went on, “presumably kills him, loses her horse, then comes strolling home like a virgin after a church social.”

Hank looked down at his glass, surprised to see it was empty. “She wasn’t exactly strolling.” In fact, she’d been in near hysteria when he’d found her. “And she’s damn sure not a virgin. And it was definitely not a church social. But otherwise, yeah, that’s what she did. I think.”

“Damn.”

“I know.” Despite his irritation with his wife right then, Hank couldn’t help feeling proud. Who would have guessed that beneath his sweet Molly’s round, bouncy bosom beat a warrior’s heart. He reminded himself to remember to watch himself. This was not a woman to cross.

“She should have come to me,” Brady said.

Or me
, Hank thought.
She should have trusted me to take care of her.

“Jessica did the same thing, you know, when she went after Sancho.”

“She didn’t go after Sancho,” Hank reminded him. “He dragged her off.”

“There I go,” Brady expounded as if Hank hadn’t spoken, “riding to the rescue only to find the deed was already done. After twenty years of fighting the bastard, she ups and does him in with a damn kerosene lamp. Kind of makes a man feel . . .”

“Superfluous?”

“Yeah. Useless. Makes a man feel damned useless.”

Hank liked superfluous better. Useless was so . . . deflating.

“You have to talk to her. Explain to her that women don’t go around doing things like that.” Brady grinned. “And hope she doesn’t come after you with a roll of gauze or maybe one of those tongue sticks.”

“Depressors.”

“Yeah, it is. Damned depressing.”

Hank never knew if his brother was really as stupid as he sometimes pretended to be. Probably not. It was a ploy both his brothers used from time to time, although with Jack it had risen to the level of art. And for some unfathomable reason, women seemed to eat it up. Molly wouldn’t, of course. Molly was too smart to fall for Jack’s foolishness . . . if Jack ever got himself home. At least he hoped she was.

Knowing he had put it off as long as he could, Hank gathered up the pistol and medicine bottle, and rose.

“You tell her I’m disappointed she didn’t come to me first,” Brady said.

“I’m sure she’ll be upset to hear it.”

Brady laughed. “Better hope that gun’s not loaded,” he warned as Hank stepped into the hall.

“It isn’t.”

 

 

MOLLY WAS STANDING AT THE OPEN DOOR ONTO THE BALCONY when he came into the bedroom. Even though she wore one of his spare jackets over her robe and a fire was roaring in the hearth, he could see she was shivering.

“What are you doing?” he asked from the doorway.

She whirled, fear showing on her face. When she saw him, she gave a shaky smile, which quickly faded when she saw the pistol and medicine bottle in his hands. “Where did you get those?”

“Fell out of your coat when I hung it up.” He didn’t want her to think he’d been going through her things. Although what would it matter if she had nothing to hide? “Were you ever going to tell me what happened?” he asked, moving toward the bureau. “Or were you going to let me worry that he was still out there?”

“I—I was going to tell you.”

He set the bottle and pistol on the bureau, then turned to face her.

“When?”

Her face reddened. She gripped the collar of his jacket tight at her throat.

Shielding herself. Shutting him out.

“When I felt strong enough to think about it,” she said. “To talk about it.”

He waited.

“It’s so ugly, Hank. I—”

She flinched as a coyote yodeled somewhere on the hill behind the house. From the west came an answering bark, then a chorus. He could see it worried her that they were so close.

“They’re just coyotes. They won’t bother you.” Crossing past her to pull the French door closed, he added, “If it’ll make you feel better, I’ll go out tomorrow and see what they’ve been up to.”

“No! No, it’s all right.” She gripped the coat tighter—a gesture that spoke of turmoil within.

“We don’t like them bothering the stock,” he said, watching her.

She opened her mouth, closed it, then shook her head. “Oh, Hank.” She seemed to shrink into herself. Sinking into one of the chairs before the fire, she dropped her head into her hands. “It’s not the stock they’re after.”

Hank blinked at her, the words slow to make sense. When they finally did, he couldn’t hide his shock. “Hennessey?”

Palms still pressed at her temples, she nodded.

“He’s still alive?”

“I don’t know.”

He stared at her bent head in mingled horror and disbelief. She’d left a wounded man to scavengers?

People thought the West was a lawless, violent place. In many ways it was. But there were still codes that men lived by. You don’t take a man’s horse or his food. If you come across a deserted cabin, use what you need, leave behind what you don’t, and replace what you can. Share your campfire or your roof with any pilgrim who comes by, unless he gives you reason not to. And never leave an injured man with no way to defend himself against predators or hostiles, or a way to end his life, if that’s his choice.

“Molly, what did you do?”

“What I had to. What you told me to do.”

He frowned in confusion. “I don’t understand.”

Dropping her hands, she sat back. He could see tear tracks on her cheeks. Wearily, she motioned to the chair across from hers. “Come sit down and I’ll try to explain.”

Once he’d settled into the other chair, she said, “Remember the day the children and I first came to RosaRoja? We were in the coach, riding out of Redemption. The children were asleep, and you were telling me about Sancho Ramirez and your brother, Sam, and Jessica.”

“I remember.”

Leaning forward again, she rested her elbows on her thighs and clasped her hands tightly at her knees. “You said Jessica was prepared. She was willing to do what she had to do, and that’s why she survived. Harsh times call for hard choices. That’s what you said.”

The room was so still he could hear the soft scrape of her palms brushing against each other as she clasped and unclasped her hands. “So that’s what I did.” She lifted her head. In her eyes he saw both defiance and a haunting sadness. “I made a terrible, awful choice. Because that’s what I had to do to protect myself, and the children, and you, and—” Her voice cracked. She swallowed hard. “And I don’t regret any of it.”

In the fireplace, a log collapsed, sending up a burst of sparks like startled fireflies. In the flare of light, Hank saw the glitter of tears and the beginnings of a bruise under her eye. “What happened, Molly?”

She sank back in the chair as if she no longer had the strength to sit upright. “I didn’t go there to kill him. I hoped once he knew Fletcher had been arrested, he would let it go. But he wouldn’t.”

In a halting voice she told him how she threw the caustic solution in the medicine bottle into his face, and how his horse reared and fell backward, killing itself and breaking Hennessey’s back.

“He wasn’t in pain, but he couldn’t move. And he was fully conscious. I knew the predators would come for him. I thought what a perfect punishment for the butcher to be awake for his own butchering.”

Hank was repelled by the images her words evoked. To be eaten alive—without pain, but with the full awareness of it happening. But as horrible as it was, there was an element of poetic justice to it. “You had his gun. Why didn’t you shoot him?”

“I should have, I guess. But after my father . . . well, I couldn’t. I just couldn’t. Besides, I took an oath.
Do no harm
.” She gave a bitter laugh. “But there’s the dilemma, you see. Which was the greater ‘harm’? Killing him by my own hand, or walking away and leaving him to God and the coyotes?”

Hank had no answers, and the idea of his gentle wife being forced to make such a choice sickened him. Why hadn’t she gone to Brady? Or waited for him? Why did she think she always had to face everything all on her own?

Because that was what her father had taught her. That was what he’d expected of her.

Desperate to relieve the tension building inside him, Hank rose and stirred the coals with the poker, then tossed more wood onto the fire. Standing with one hand braced on the mantle, he stared into the flames. “So you left him?”

“I wanted to. Lord, how I wanted to. I wanted him to be aware when the coyotes and other predators came to do what I couldn’t. I wanted him to suffer for all the suffering he had caused.”

He turned his head and looked at her.

“But I couldn’t.” She seemed upset by that.

Hank was relieved. “So what did you do?”

“I gave him a syringe full of laudanum and stayed with him until the drug took effect. After he lost consciousness, I left. I don’t know if it killed him or not.”

Hank thought about all that she’d told him. He understood why she did what she did. But there was still one question he needed answered. “Why didn’t you tell Brady? Or wait for me?”

Instead of answering, she rose and went to the table by the bed. Retrieving a piece of paper from the drawer, she came back and handed it to him. “I found that on the bureau this morning,” she said, sinking into the chair again as if she feared her legs wouldn’t support her.