Montana (13 page)

She heard Sam leave and her grandfather shuffle into the living room again. She closed her eyes in gratitude that they'd both left her in peace. Bracing her hands on the edge of the sink, she inhaled a deep breath and continued washing the pans, fighting back the emotion that threatened to choke her.

Men were not to be trusted; Molly had learned that painful lesson years earlier. But Sam Dakota, with his gruff gentleness toward her grandfather and his patient encouragement to her sons, had somehow worked his way into her stubborn heart. She hadn't wanted that to happen! Then there was that kiss in the barn…. It mortified her to remember how she'd worried about him the past three days, waited for him, even missed him.

Sam wasn't the problem, she decided, as she banged the frying pan onto the drainer.
She
was. Her hand trembled, and she paused, closing her eyes once again.

After cleaning up the kitchen, Molly headed back outside to work. It was already dark, but the yard light was turned on. Hard physical labor might help her deal with her anger.

In all honesty, she had to acknowledge that Sam had no reason to continue working on the ranch without Gramps. She'd
assumed
he'd be willing to stay on—but then, that was the way of assumptions.

The hoe was where she'd left it, and she picked it up and started hacking away at the base of the wild blackberry vines that had tangled in the lower limbs of the apple trees. Her grandmother's six-tree orchard sported two each of plum, pear and apple. The orchard was as badly run-down as the garden had been.

Venting her frustration as she chopped at the stubborn vines and yanked them away with gloved hands, Molly realized that the letter addressed to Sam must have been a response to a job inquiry.

Not that it mattered. Not really. Why should Sam Dakota be any different from Daniel or any other man she'd ever known? With the exception of Gramps, of course. She ignored the small faint voice that said maybe she wasn't being fair. This was her reward for giving a damn, she raged. This was her reward for allowing herself to hope and care! What hurt most was that she'd actually started to
like
Sam. He'd shown more interest in her boys in the past two weeks than their father had their whole lives.

He'd made friends with her children, and all the while he'd been planning to leave, to walk out on them. It was heartless and cruel. Dammit, he'd made her believe he cared—cared not only about Gramps but about the ranch…and the boys. Despite Russell Letson's warnings, she'd given him her trust.

“Mom! Mom!” Clay came racing out of the barn, screeching with excitement.

Molly leaned against the hoe.

Clay carried a small bundle in his arms. “Look!” he cried, holding out the puppy for her to examine.

The brown-and-black collie was so young his eyes had yet to open.

“Remember I told you Natasha had her litter? Well, guess what?” Clay could barely contain himself. “Sam says I can pick one of them as my own! I've never had a dog before, and now I can choose one myself. Sam says I'll need to train him and take care of him and everything. Sam says—”

One more
Sam says
and Molly swore she was going to explode. “He gave you the puppy?” she cut in sharply.

Clay nodded. The excitement emptied from her son's dark eyes, replaced with the sober look of a child knowing he was about to hear something disappointing. He held the tiny newborn pup tight against his middle, as though he feared she was about to jerk it from his arms.

Molly threw down the hoe and with quick steps headed toward the barn. She wanted to confront Sam now. She wouldn't rest, wouldn't sleep, until she'd settled this.

“Mom…Mom, what are you gonna do?” Clay asked, catching up with her. “I'm old enough to take care of a puppy, honest I am! I'll do everything, I promise. I'll feed him and brush his coat and train him to work with the cattle the same way Natasha does.”

Of all the nerve. Sam had given Clay the puppy without asking her first. He'd promised he wouldn't do things like that! Not only was he abandoning her and the children, he was complicating her life before he left. She'd had enough.

Tired though he was, Sam hadn't gone directly to bed the way he probably should have. He met her outside the barn, and his posture, his very stance, spoke of defiance.

“I warned you about this sort of thing before,” she snapped.

“Warned me?”

“I specifically asked you to check with me first before doing anything like this again.”

Sam stared at her as if he didn't know what she was talking about. “Listen, Molly, if you're talking about the puppy—”

“What else could it be?” Even as she spoke, she realized her reaction was out of all proportion, but she couldn't help herself. Anger and resentment fused in her mind.

“Mom, I'm old enough. I am!” Clay insisted, close to tears. “I'll take good care of him, I promise.” His pleas were breaking her heart.

“This isn't about the puppy, and you know it,” Sam said quietly.

He was right.

“This is about the phone call Walt took for me, isn't it? And that letter.” He wiped his hand across his brow. “A man needs to eat, Molly.”

“You might have asked me what I plan to do with the ranch first!”

He frowned. “Perhaps, but at the time the situation didn't look all that promising.”

“Mom, Mom.” Clay tugged at her shirttail in an effort to get her attention.

She glanced guiltily down at her son. “You can keep him,” she said softly, feeling wretched for the way she'd treated him. Before she could say another word, she heard Gramps calling her and Sam. She turned to see him standing on the top step leading from the house.

Thinking something might be wrong, Molly raced toward her grandfather. Sam was right behind her.

Gramps leaned weakly against the doorjamb. “I need to talk to you both,” he said.

“Now might not be the best time,” Molly advised. Sam was exhausted, and she…so was she. Emotionally and physically exhausted.

“Now seems as good a time as any,” Gramps said. Without waiting for an argument, he led the way back to the kitchen, giving them no choice but to follow.

“I've come up with a solution,” Gramps announced, grinning broadly.

“Solution to
what?
” Sam asked. He sounded as impatient as Molly felt.

“You two and the ranch,” Gramps explained. His smile grew even wider as he gazed first at his granddaughter and then at Sam. He chuckled in real amusement. “You two already squabble like you're married. What I figure is, you should make it official.”

P
earl was tired. It'd been a busy night and her regular clients had been more demanding than usual. She found it increasingly difficult to dredge up enthusiasm—or the pretense of it—for her trade. She was good. One of the best. Guys had been telling her that since she was sixteen years old. She'd never had a chance to be like normal teenagers. Her uncle had stolen her virginity when she was barely old enough to know what had happened, and later he'd introduced her to his friends. By the time she was in high school she'd learned how to use her body to get anything she wanted. Every emotion was expressed through sex. Happiness. Grief. Pain. Anger. It was all she knew. The ever-present need to be needed, loved. Used.

She'd never intended to become a prostitute, but pleasing men in bed was the only talent she possessed that earned her a decent wage. In the beginning, when she was young and still pretty enough to attract a lot of attention, it'd actually been fun. It hadn't been just sex back then. There were restaurant dinners and bottles of champagne, and for a few hours she could make believe she was on a date. The pretending had come a lot easier, too. The soft sighs and shallow pants had been effortless, and when her john was finished, she clung to him and smiled secretly to herself. Each one laid claim to her body, which she gave for a fee, but no one had ever touched her heart.

Until Russell.

With him it was different. It'd always been different. The first time he'd visited her he'd been nervous and even a little shy. Surprisingly, a lot of men were. Some sought her out because they had certain “problems” and felt she might help. Others were nervous because they feared discovery—although the fear often heightened their pleasure.

Pearl controlled these eager but reluctant lovers, tempted them and teased them and encouraged their fears. Just when they were ready to turn tail and run, she'd calm them, satisfying their every need. Inevitably they returned. The fear brought them back. The fear and the pleasure.

Then Russell had walked into her life. She was his birthday gift, and the instructions Monroe gave her had been specific. She was Russell's reward for doing a favor and she was to keep him happy all night. In exchange for her services she would be handsomely reimbursed. Pearl had willingly accepted the offer. Keep one man content for the night and she'd earn more than she normally would with five or six.

When he'd first arrived, Pearl had been surprised. She'd anticipated a man who had trouble attracting women, but that clearly wasn't the case. Russell was good-looking enough to have any woman he wanted. He certainly didn't need her when plenty of women would eagerly have slept with him for free.

Because he was nervous and struggling not to show it, and because she had plenty of time to fill, Pearl had suggested they have a glass of wine first. Russell had started talking to fill the awkward silence. He spoke to her as if she were a friend, as if she were a real date. Not a hooker. More importantly he treated her with respect.

They quickly learned they enjoyed the same movies and listened to the same kind of music, New Orleans-style jazz. Normally she was the one responsible for putting a client at ease, but it was Russell who'd gotten her to lower her guard and relax.

Soon she was laughing and joking with him as though she'd known him all her life. Russell was wonderful, with his interesting conversation and dry sense of humor. After a while he'd removed his shoes and propped his feet on her coffee table. Next he loosened his tie. He hadn't eaten dinner and suggested they order pizza. It was the first time a customer had dinner delivered to her house.

While they ate, he'd found the listing for a favorite movie and asked if he could turn on the television. They'd cuddled on the sofa like high-school sweethearts, and Pearl had rested her head against his shoulder.

She'd never experienced this kind of tenderness as a teenager. She'd never sat on a sofa with a man and not had his hands crawling all over her. Not until that first night with Russell.

The ironic thing was that she'd been paid more to entertain him than to service a bachelor party, and in the end all they'd done was kiss. Gently. Slowly. And with such sweetness it brought tears to her eyes every time she thought about it. He could have taken her at any time and she would have welcomed his body. But he hadn't.

If she'd told anyone what had happened that night—or more precisely,
hadn't
happened—she knew people would get the wrong idea about him. Some would suggest he was gay. Or that he was impotent. Or asexual. But he wasn't any of those. Pearl had a sixth sense about such things, and she knew better. He was all man, but more than that, Russell Letson was a gentleman.

Sweetgrass being a small town, it didn't take her long to inadvertently run into him again. She'd been in the grocery store, and her heart, the one she'd assumed had shriveled up and died, had nearly leaped out of her chest when she saw him. A hooker, however, knew her place, and one thing she never did was greet a customer in public.

Avoiding eye contact, she'd walked past him without a word. It was one of the hardest things she'd ever done. By the time she was in the parking lot she wanted to cry. But whores didn't cry. It was the first rule. Never care. Never reveal any genuine feeling. The mind was hollow, and the body was…something to be used.

Russell had followed her out of the Safeway store, and she'd explained that it wasn't a good idea for him to be seen with her. People would talk. He insisted he didn't care. He wanted to see her again, even if it meant paying for her services. For the first time in her life Pearl turned down a paying customer.

But Russell wouldn't leave it at that. Because she was afraid of hurting his reputation, she refused to let him visit her. It was then that Russell told her about his cabin on Lake Giles, fifty miles outside town. He simply set a time on Sunday afternoon and gave her directions.

Pearl couldn't have stayed away to save her soul. When she arrived, he'd stepped onto the porch and smiled as if her coming meant more to him than anything in the world. After that she drove out to Russell's cabin every Sunday, and with each visit Pearl changed a little more. When she was with him, she didn't need makeup or sexy clothes. He loved her best with her hair pulled back in a ponytail, wearing tight jeans and a loose cotton shirt.

Eventually, because she trusted him, Pearl told him her most shameful secret—that she'd never learned to read. Pearl had never written a check, never become engrossed in a good book or followed a recipe. She'd wept and hidden her face after he learned the truth. Unlike others who'd snickered and called her stupid, Russell had kissed away her tears and said he'd teach her himself. That was the day her entire world changed.

They had become lovers, but not right away. Not for several weeks. He was a considerate lover, passionate and caring. It was with him that Pearl
made love
for the first time in her life. Afterward she wept in his arms and he'd held her against him and wept with her.

They never talked about what she did at night. The subject was as taboo as the future.

Pearl didn't know if this was love. All she knew was that she felt something for Russell she'd never felt for anyone else. She lived for Sundays, for their time together. Although she'd never been much of a housekeeper, she discovered how much she enjoyed cooking. Each week she tried out new recipes, cooking and serving him gourmet meals. Pearl liked to pretend this was her real life, these few stolen hours away from Sweetgrass, and everything else a bad dream from which she would eventually awake.

Two a.m. Friday, after she'd finished for the night, Pearl heard the back door open. Adrenaline shot through her blood, and she stiffened. Only one person had a key to her back door; only one person would dare to come to her this late. The man she hated. Monroe, Russell's cousin. How could any two men be less alike? Monroe controlled her and a dozen other women in a number of small towns across northwestern Montana. He kept her customers in line, supplied her with condoms at a discount and made frequent use of her body himself.

“Pearl.” He slurred her name, his voice demanding and impatient.

She closed her eyes and cringed. He'd been drinking. Sometimes he was a mean drunk, and it often took a week for the bruises to fade. Other times he was like a child. A few months earlier, when he'd been drunk, he'd tied her to the bed, and by the time he'd finished with her, she'd been frantic, certain he intended to kill her.

“Pearl.” He called for her again, sounding now like a little boy who'd had his toy taken away. A little boy in need of his mother. Pearl's shoulders sagged with relief. The little boy she could handle; the mean drunk frightened her.

“I'm here, baby,” she replied softly, slipping into character.

She heard him make his way down the dark hallway and forced herself to smile when he stood in her doorway looking lost and forlorn in the soft haze of her bedside lamp.

“Do you want Mama to make it all better for you?” she murmured sympathetically.

He unhitched his belt buckle and nodded.

“I've been waiting all night for you.” She said the well-practiced line as she untied the sash to her silk robe. “You know how very special you are to me. Come to Mama, and let me make it all better for you.”

“That's why I'm here. Make it better, Pearl. Make it better.”

She managed a smile—more of a grimace—as he crossed the room and fell on top of her, crushing her with his weight. He smelled of hard liquor and cigarettes. She barely had time to fit him with a condom before he was gasping and moaning, his head thrown back and his teeth clenched.

Pearl closed her eyes and turned her head away, praying he'd finish soon. With her eyes shut she could dream of the day she'd be free of him and all the other men like him.

 

Walt smiled slightly at the identical looks of shock on Molly's face and Sam's. If he hadn't been serious, he might have laughed outright. But the suggestion that they get married made sense to him. A lot of sense. To be fair it had only occurred to him recently, so he couldn't blame Molly or Sam for overlooking the obvious when the idea was almost as new to him as it was to them.

Sam stared at Walt in a way that implied there was more wrong with him than a bum heart. Molly's eyes were the most telling; they snapped like fire on wood too green to burn properly.

“Gramps.”

“Walt.”

“Let's sit on the porch a spell,” Walt said. He'd always loved the peacefulness of a summer evening. He liked to imagine his Molly rocking at his side, and in a spiritual way he believed she'd never really left him. He felt her presence far more than her absence these days, and suspected that was because he'd be joining her soon. No doctor needed to tell him his days were numbered. Walt felt it himself, and difficult as it was to leave his granddaughter and her boys, he was ready to go.

Easing himself into the rocking chair, he waited for one or other of the pair to raise the first objection. He chuckled softly when he realized they were still too dumbfounded to speak.

“You think this is funny, old man?” Sam asked in a hard voice.

His foreman generally didn't use that tone with him, but Walt forgave him, considering that Sam had spent most of the past three days in the saddle, chasing cattle.

“Gramps, I don't think you understand what you're saying,” Molly offered next in gentler tones.

“You think I'm senile, girl, is that what you mean? I realize this is something of a shock, but let's be realistic. I'm not going to be around much longer and—”

“Don't say that,” Molly interrupted, more comfortable with her denials than facing her fears.

A sigh rumbled through Sam's chest. “You're talking nonsense, old man.”

Walt's amusement didn't fade. He hadn't expected either of them to take to his idea right off. The first time it had popped into his mind he'd immediately assumed it wouldn't work, either; on closer examination, however, the wisdom of it became apparent. He sincerely hoped these two had enough common sense to recognize that. To see the advantages.

“You takin' that job offer?” Walt asked, pinning Sam with narrowed eyes.

“I already explained. I don't hand out charity and I don't expect any, either.” Sam's expression was as unyielding as his voice.

“Molly can't manage this place on her own,” Walt continued. “What I'm asking you, Sam, is this: are you planning on walking out on her and the boys the minute I'm six feet under?”

Sam didn't respond, not that Walt blamed him.

“I don't need him,” Molly said defiantly.

“That pride of yours is going to get you into nothing but trouble, girl,” Walt said. “Without the right kind of help you'd lose the ranch inside a month. Are you ready to wipe out four generations of history because you're too damn proud to admit you need Sam?”

“I need someone to manage the place, I'll admit that, but a
husband
I can live without.”

“I'm not looking for a wife, either,” Sam snarled. He crossed his arms, leaned against the porch railing and stared down at the newly painted wood-plank floor.